Days had followed the riot of Daenerys Targaryen's army. The wounded were numerous in the tents, the Maesters were always solicited.

Ser Jaime stopped as he observed the Stark camp. The Northmen still looked proud despite their losses; some of them glanced at him viciously, but he was used to those kinds of looks now. He was not afraid of Stark men, he could tell how happy they were to see him limp. He was far from the powerful knight he had once been.

He reached Queen Sansa's tent. The young woman left it at the moment he arrived.

"Ser Jaime," she said.

"Your Grace," he curtsied.

"Would you like to see her?"

"I… I do not think this would be a good idea. Is she awake?"

"More or less. Her fight considerably weakened her. But she'll be back soon, I hope."

Jaime hoped it too. He still had the image of her on a stretcher, blood covering her blond hair, wincing in pain as her blue eyes were crying. She had been so proud facing the Mountain. He still wanted to see her, but he knew it was not reciprocal at all. Ser Brienne despised him more than anything else, and he could understand why. He had left her for Cersei, believing it was the right thing to do, feeling the urge to reach his twin, his lover, and to protect her. Only to realise she had killed their last child in her own womb, just for revenge. He remembered the last words he had told Brienne as she was trying to convince him:

"You think I'm a good man? I've pushed a boy out of a tower window, crippled him for life, for Cersei. I strangled my cousin with my own hands, just to get back to Cersei. I would have murdered every man, woman, and child in Riverrun for Cersei. She's hateful, and so am I."

He had meant each of his words, despite the powerful ache troubling his heart as he watched Brienne cry. The pain in her eyes... The shout she had let out of her throat as he was leaving her, tears blurring his vision. He had forced himself not to look back, for he was convinced this was the best thing to do. To reach Cersei, to save her from Daenerys' madness. He did not care who was right or wrong in this bloody conflict; he had done his duty, now all he wanted was to reach his soulmate.

What a bloody fool.

Queen Sansa was still silently observing him. He knew she could sense his sadness. She finally curtsied and left him in front of the tent. As he thoughtfully studied the entrance, he heard her voice behind him:

"You know, Ser, I am convinced she'd be happy to see you. You're her saviour, after all."

Jaime did not answer but processed her words. When Jon Snow had been brought to the Red Keep in haste just after his attempted execution on the beach, Jaime had stayed outside with Tyrion. Although his brother had been badly hurt, he had asked for quick treatment, surely wishing to let the Maesters take care of the previous King in the North.

Therefore, the Lannister brothers had waited in one of the rare remaining courtyards of the castle. As Tyrion was pressing ice against his cheek while telling some jokes about his "ruined face", they both could feel the atmosphere soften around them. The ambient roar of soldiers fighting for their life had eased off a little bit, with the sun about to come up.

Suddenly, Jaime had heard a noise near one of the passageways leading to the yard. He had shushed Tyrion and slowly made his way towards the noise. He could not tell how he had recognized Brienne, but it was her, standing against the wall, her blood staining its stones. She was covered with dirt, and her left arm had seemed completely dislocated. Jaime had seen her hurt many times after a battle. But he had felt sadness break his lungs at the sight of her at this moment. She had a horrible glint in her eyes. The glint of death.

"Brienne," he had gasped.

She had lifted her head. Her breath was loud and irregular. She had approached him slowly, still leaning against the wall.

"Jaime…"

He had reached her with all the quickness his atrophied leg could give him and managed to enroll her with his arms.

"Where's Sansa?" she asked.

He did not hear her the first time, probably too moved by the sight of her. She was deeply bleeding, he could fill her blood staining his clothes, but he could not tell where the hemorrhage came from.

"Where is Sansa?" Brienne yelled at him, blood going out of her nostrils.

"She's safe," Jaime answered in haste. "She's with Jon Snow. She's safe, Brienne."

He saw the relief in her face. She let out a loud exhalation and closed her eyes.

"Brienne? Brienne!"

As Tyrion reached his brother, he saw Jaime let down his crutches and lift the woman in his arms. He was calling her name, desolation in his eyes as he witnessed her unconsciousness. How he had managed to carry her despite his leg, Tyrion could not tell. But Jaime had yelled to him to fetch a Maester, and he had even managed to hold her against him until the help arrived.

Three days had passed, and he had not managed to visit her. Her face covered with blood was still haunting him. He had cried as she was fading in his arms. He had thought she would die there, against him, her eyes closed as if she was waiting for the Warrior to take her in His arms.

He loved her. He had deceived her. He observed the tent, but could not move an inch, paralysed by the fear to face the anger in Brienne's eyes.

The turned away and left, internally swearing against himself.

"How is he?"

Sansa started to get used to this question. She had inquired about many people since her arrival in King's Landing. She was still marked by the Unsullied riot, but it had made her remember one of Littlefinger's most important lessons: to never drop her guard.

"He's better, Your Grace," answered Samwell Tarly. "We managed to cauterise the cuts. He'll be able to walk in a few days."

She looked at Jon as Sam answered her. He was awake and seemed conscious, but still looked a little pale.

"After all, we both know how hardy Jon is," Sam declared in an amused tone.

"Indeed, we both know it," Sansa agreed as she shared a smile with her brother.

"Could you give us a moment, Sam?" Jon asked his friend.

"Of course. Your Grace," the boy curtsied.

"You're lucky to have him," Sansa affirmed as they found themselves alone. "He has stayed by your side all night."

"I know. Sam is a loyal friend."

In fact, he was the only friend Jon had, except for his family.

"How do you feel?" Sansa asked.

"Better. I feel… relieved, but I don't know if it's a good thing or not."

"Of course it is a good thing, Jon. You're alive and well, you survived another betrayal."

"I was the first one to betray them by killing their Queen."

His voice broke at the word "Queen". Sansa knew Daenerys Targaryen was still in his heart, and despite all her attempts to make him realise this woman was a tyrant, she knew her brother had deeply loved her. Love was not something you could change nor fight.

"Are you sure they accepted to leave?" Jon inquired softly.

"After what Bran has done, I'm convinced they'll leave us. Arya killed their last leader."

"I can't believe Bran has managed to control Drogon."

Sansa could not believe it either, and yet, it had happened. During the battle, a powerful roar had been heard, coming from the sky. Everyone was able to know what this noise meant. Ser Davos had seen Daenerys' dragon split the air, as majestic as a divine apparition. Everyone had stopped, waiting for a moment that seemed endless, internally praying for their life. Who knew what a free dragon could do in those horrendous times?

But nothing happened. The beast had slowly landed on the ground and waited.

But nothing came.

Instead, the beast had powerfully roared, lifting its head towards the sky. Davos had felt his spine shudder as the dragon stopped its undecipherable calling. It remained still as all of the soldiers fighting for the Dragon Queen dropped their weapons before kneeling before the creature.

Ser Davos had observed the scene, completely agog. Were they surrendering?

He then saw the dragon spread its wing before an Unsullied soldier yelled:

"Āeksio hen jēdar!"

The assembly repeated this sentence that almost no man in Westeros could understand. Āeksio hen jēdar! Āeksio hen jēdar!

This event, as unexpected as it was, had marked the end of the fight.

After the battle, Sansa had found Arya, who had told her she had sit next to Bran while he was having a sort of a vision. After a brief moment Bran had shared with his Hand, Tyrion declared the King had managed to control Drogon and to put the riot to an end. It was spectacular, and yet it proved that King Bran Stark was by far one of the most powerful monarchs to ever rule the Seven Kingdoms.

"I know," Sansa finally answered. "I guess our brother is stronger than what everyone thought."

"Do you still think he is our brother?"

This question had not been told in a mean way, and yet it made Sansa shiver. Jon was right. The man in Bran's body was not the young boy who was always adventuring himself on the roofs of Winterfell.

"I… I like to think that deep down, our Bran is still here," she confessed.

Jon smiled and approached his hand so that Sansa could take it. She smiled in return.

Weirdly enough, they could feel in their hearts that the worst was behind them.

Gendry found Arya in one of the smallest tents of what was left of the Stark camp. He knew the Hound was in there. He had heard some soldiers saying that he would never recover from his fight. Others said that the Cleganes were tough men, incredibly strong and that Sandor would be standing in a few days. He had seen Ser Brienne and witnessed how weak she was now because of what the Mountain had done to her.

As he entered the tent, he found Arya standing next to Sandor's bed, her arms crossed between her back. Had she been observing him in silence that long?

The girl lifted her head and her pale eyes pierced his mind, as always.

Gendry looked at the man in the bed. He was unconscious, but his rib cage was still moving. He was still alive. A drenched cloth covered the Hound's eyes, and Gendry realised the man's wrists were chained to his bed.

"Is he a prisoner?" he asked.

"No. The Maesters said he didn't react well to the medicines they gave him. When he woke up, he almost killed one of the guards. So they intensified their potions and chained him."

Arya was not surprised. After all, the Hound had an apposite name.

"Do you think he'll be alright?"

Arya looked at Gendry. The boy noticed the admiration in her voice as she said:

"I saw him dead, once. When I was still traveling with him, Ser Brienne found me and offered to bring me back to my mother. I did not trust her for she was wearing a Lannister armour, probably the one Ser Jaime gave her. The Hound defended me. They fought each other to death, and she won. I saw him dying on the ground, blood covering his face. He begged me to kill him, he told me he knew I wanted to. But I did not end his life; I simply couldn't. I left him there, knowing he would die anyway. But he did not die."

Gendry smiled as he listened to her story. This girl was definitely unique, by far the strongest woman he had ever seen, and he loved her so much it consumed him. She had been alone for so many years, fighting like a wild wolf, ready to get her revenge. He understood her perfectly, for her loneliness massively mirrored his own.

"He did not die," Arya repeated loudly as she turned her attention back to Sandor. "I guess he got his revenge after all. He killed the Mountain. Now I don't know if he'll survive, but the choice is only his."

"I saw him fight with Ser Brienne," Gendry affirmed. "They looked like two knights fighting a giant, like in the stories people told us when we were kids."

Arya reached him and gave him a sweet kiss.

"I know you fought bravely that night," she declared.

She smiled, and left the tent. Gendry processed what had just happened – was it her way to compliment him? He went out of the tent as well, but she had vanished, as always.

Sandor could not move. Where was he? He could not see a thing, all he could hear was his heart pounding in his ears. Was he dead? No. He could still feel the pain tearing his whole body, a violent ache torturing his eyes. Perhaps he was in the Seven Hells. Perhaps this would be his damnation: an eternal and blinding pain.

Then, he heard something. Or rather someone.

"The Hound was there. He defended me."

Arya? What was the girl doing here? Was he alive, after all? He could not move. All he could do was try to hear something despite the loud buzzing in his ears. He wanted to move, to yell, to do anything. Arya was here… He wanted to see the girl. To see if she was well.

"He begged me to kill him, he told me he knew I wanted to. But I did not end his life; I simply couldn't."

Was she referring to the time he had fought Brienne of Tarth? He had been such a cunt to underestimate a woman. Brienne of Tarth was the one who had almost tear him down for good.

He wanted to open his eyes, but he simply could not, for a torturous burn tormented his left lid. He wanted to yell, to punch something, to get rid of this unbearable cloth he could feel on his face, but he found himself motionless, speechless.

The voice he had heard suddenly vanished, and he felt his heart pound again in his rib cage. Why was he reacting like this?

Suddenly, he felt his strength leave his entire body. Incapable to control it, Sandor felt a strong shiver and tried to move an inch, but rapidly his consciousness collapsed into something dark and deep.

This day had seemed endless. Sansa wished her torture would stop. She missed Winterfell and could not bear to see the Red Keep. King's Landing was, once more, full of death, cries and complaints. As she crossed the Stark camp, she could not help but feel sorry for the men sitting near the tents, trying to recover from the battle they just had faced. Again.

More than ever, she felt guilty. These men had almost given their life to protect a capital that had once belonged to the Starks' worst enemies. They had been there to protect her – had she been there to protect them? Nobody had thought that the Dothraki and the Unsullied would lead such a riot. Grey Worm had been a loyal man who had fought with her brother, and yet he had tried to execute Jon without any hesitation.

Nobody had predicted all of it. Not even Tyrion, nor Brienne, nor Davos.

Not even her.

And now, again, people were dead. She was weary of all these deaths. She suddenly felt the urge to leave the camp, to escape from these atrocious images that would now never leave her head.

As she went along one of the paths that allowed her to leave the camp, she thought of her father. What would he have done? He was the most honourable man of the Seven Kingdoms, a trustworthy man, and yet he had been killed as a traitor.

Being honourable, in this world, was by far one of the most dangerous quality. Honour could get you killed.

That was what she had learned from her numerous conversations with Lord Baelish and Queen Cersei. People were predictable by nature, the real thing was to be always prepared.

They were not prepared at all when the Unsullied attacked them, and because of this lack of attention, people had died.

A tear reached here eye at the thought, but she managed to wipe it away. Now was not the time to cry. She had to fix this situation. To focus on every man crossing her path. To decipher any thought around her. To be prepared.

Ser Davos had told her the Unsullied had agreed to leave Westeros for good. Tomorrow would be their departure in presence of the King, his Hand, and of the most important people in Westeros – at least, the remaining ones. The Onion Knight had asked for her presence. Although she hated to see the Unsullied, she had accepted. She had to be there, for her men, to show the North had stood against oppression, and had won.

At what cost?

She continued to walk and realised the sun was about to disappear from the sky. She went along the camp a little bit more before finally reaching it.

A tent caught her eye. It was a small one, dark and plain, standing apart from the other ones. She knew who was in it.

Sandor.

She had not seen him since the night he had yelled at her, just before the attack. She had seen the rage in his eyes, it had almost made her cry. Of course she had hidden her emotions and left the cell without looking back. She had understood his anger, knowing all he wanted was to face Gregor and end his life. But King Bran had decided otherwise.

Now, she knew Sandor had fought against the Mountain aside with Ser Brienne. Had Brienne chosen to help him voluntarily, or was it just to protect the other people present? She did not know yet.

Sansa felt the urge to see him. She had sent several men to his tent in order to be aware of his state at any moment. Her pride had forbidden her to come and see him in person, but now this pride was gone. She wanted to see him, to be sure he was okay. She suddenly stopped, realising what one of her men told her earlier in the afternoon: Sandor had almost killed a man and, before doing so, he had pronounced her name...

She found herself in front of the tent. Before entering, she made sure no one would notice her presence; she was not afraid to be seen with Sandor, but she knew she would not be able to give a good explanation for it. In fact, she was uncapable to define how she felt about the Hound. But she could not be blind to the fact that Sandor Clegane's life was the reflect of hers. Her life had been nothing but awfulness, violence and sadness since the moment she became a teenager. Sandor had been mocked by many for his scars and had become the man he was only because of that. People had made him just like he was, and it was the same for Sansa.

She entered and found the two men she had sent to guard the tent. They curtsied in front of the Queen in the North.

"Did anything happen?" she inquired.

"No, Your Grace," answered the oldest. "Only your sister came to see him."

This made her smile a little. At least, Sandor had not been entirely alone in his turmoil.

"Anyone else?" she asked.

"Lord Gendry Baratheon was with her, Your Grace."

Why was this man always with Arya? He seemed to follow her since their reunion in Winterfell. Arya had told Sansa she knew Gendry after the battle of Winterfell, just before Daenerys Targaryen made it publicly known he was King Robert's bastard son. The man had been on the King's Road when Arya had tried to reach Winterfell after Ned's death. From what Arya had shown, the man seemed to be just an acquaintance – therefore why could Sansa feel a special bound linking Gendry and her little sister?

She stopped to wonder about it as her eyes fixed upon the bed. Sandor was there, his eyes covered with a white cloth, his jaw clenched. Her heart almost stopped as she noticed the chains hindering each of his wrists. She could not help but think:

He has been chained like a dog.

"Leave," she ordered.

They both complied in silence. She could not look away from Sandor. He seemed so weak, so fragile, although his body was nothing but strength and power.

As she approached, she realised he was trembling. Some sweat drops were visible on his cheeks.

Fever.

She sat next to him and slowly lifted the cloth. She held a gasp at the sight of Sandor's right eye. It was covered with dried blood and what she assumed was an unguent made by the Maesters. The cloth was hot and almost dried too. It needed to be changed.

Sandor felt something lift from his eyes. He was so cold, as if everything surrounding him was made of ice. The pain was unbearable. He wanted to yell again, but nothing could come from his dried mouth.

He slowly turned his head as he realised someone was here again. Was it Arya? He tried to call for her but only a growl came out of his mouth. All he could see was nothing but pale lights and shapes. He realised his poor eyes had lost their sight. Now he was blind. He could not even open them properly.

Gods, he wanted this to end!

Something slowly caressed his shoulder. A hand. He jumped.

Who's this?

His heart was pounding in his chest, all he could hear was its beats ravaging his ears. But, slowly, he started to decipher a voice.

"Stay calm, I won't hurt you."

It was the softest voice he had ever heard. A Goddess's voice. Was it the Mother welcoming him in her compassion? He had never really believed in the Seven Gods, and here he was, praying them to free him!

He tried to open his eyes but felt something fresh and wet cover them all of a sudden. It eased the pain and thus appeased his mind. But everything became black again. He had to focus on the only thing that could give him a clue of what was happening: his ears.

The voice was feminine and pleasant. He could feel another hand gently caress his forearm, before going to his cheek. A soft skin, a gentle presence. Now he knew who was there.

Sansa.

He tried to pronounce her name despite his broken voice. A rasp came out of his throat:

"San..sa…"

"Shhhh, I'm here. You're not alone, Sandor. I'm here."

She was here. Was it real? Why would she be here with him? Why would she try to heal him, knowing how mean he had been to her? He had insulted her the night before the fight, he had shown his desire to kill Gregor was everything he wanted. He had chosen to sacrifice his entire life just to be sure the Mountain would die, scorning all the feelings he had for Sansa.

She was the only one. The only one. And yet, he had been awful with her, remaining the beast he was.

"You'll be alright, Sandor. I'm here."

She's here.

Sansa Stark. He had known her like a foolish girl dreaming of golden knights, and now she was a powerful woman – a Queen! – taking care of him as if he was nothing but a babe. And yet, he did not feel ashamed of such situation, he was not ashamed to be weak in her presence, for it was her and only her.

Was Gregor dead? What had happened? He could not tell if it was a dream nor real, but he did not want it to stop.

He felt her sit next to him. He wanted to see her, to touch her, to feel her. She caressed his cheek again, bringing a thousand shivers on his skin. Gods, it felt like a blessing.

"Sansa, I…"

I'm sorry. He could not say the words. He simply could not say how he felt right now. The shame grew in him as he realised he had been a fool all along. Too proud to even notice the woman Sansa had become. Too selfish to consider her. He had played with her as if she was a vulgar toy, just a doll without feelings. He had yelled at her, despised her, insulted her, only to kiss her without her consent the moment after.

He had hated her and loved her in the only way he knew: his. With violence, tactlessness and savagery. But Gods, he had loved her.

And he loved her still.

The sentences were coming in his heads, running like a river.

I'm so, so sorry, Sansa. I've been nothing but a cunt. A bloody cunt. You've been nothing but yourself: beautiful, superb, proud and fierce. I've been so fool…

Nothing of these words came from his mouth. He could not say this to her. What would she think of him?

What would she even answer?

"You've fought bravely," he heard her say.

Was she aware he could hear her, or did she say this thinking he was unconscious? He could not tell. Her hand was still on his cheek, her thumb slowly caressing his burning skin. He suddenly heard a sob. Was she crying?

No, Sansa. Don't cry for me.

"Let me take this away."

The moment after, the weight he had felt on his wrists was gone. He knew he could move his arms again, but did not move. Although he could still feel the fever burning him, he felt better. Her presence – whether it was real or dreamt – had the best effect on him.

She sat again near him, he could feel her close to him. A soft kiss burnt his cheek. Her lips eased his troubled mind. He knew this was a dream now; Sansa would never behave this way with him. He wished to never wake up again. He wanted to kiss her.

His prayers were granted. Her lips crushed on his, making him growl. It was a gentle kiss, but a long one. He could feel her tear on his neck and slowly lifted his hands to grasp her tiny shoulders.

The kiss stopped as Sandor brought Sansa against his chest. Although he knew it was a hallucination, it felt real, as if Sansa was really against him, resting in his arms, like the little bird she was.

Sandor did not move, realising he felt complete. But the dream rapidly came to an end as the darkness called him again, taking him away from this sweet moment only to bring him to the hell he belonged to.

I'm so glad to post this! Chapter Eleven already!
Thank you so much for your Reviews, they're highly appreciated, it gives me enough energy to write.

Please Review!