How does one know what he just lived was a dream? Jaime was still panting in his bed, his heart pounding violently in his rib cage. Sweat was going down his forehead and his body was shivering in the dark. He felt helpless and alone, and yet what he had just lived seemed so real. He looked around him, trying to decipher a shape despite the darkness of his room.
Nothing.
Nobody was here.
He felt like a fool, again. He could still feel the presence of his hallucination. Even when he was fully awoken, Cersei was with him, haunting him constantly. He could see her in any situation, her beautiful face laughing at him. He had decided to retire to his apartments early, for his leg had started to pain him unbearably. But as he dozed off, he had just dreamt of Cersei coming in his room, observing him viciously.
"How can you sleep at night?" she had asked.
He wanted to move but felt trapped in his bed, incapable to move. She was sitting in front of him, her blond hair glinting under the slight candlelight.
"What do you want?" he whispered.
"You know what I want. You know why I'm here."
Did he?
"I left this world without you, Jaime. You took my life knowing we were both supposed to die together. We arrived in this life together, we had to die the same way, my love."
His heart started to burn him. She was right. For all his life, Cersei's promises had been his only motivations. He had believed all of her lies, all of her statements. He had been convinced by the fact that dying aside with the woman he loved was the best death he would receive. And now he had been his sister's executioner and had to face life on his own.
"You know why I did what I did," he spat.
"Of course, Jaime. You've convinced yourself I was the bad guy of your story. I'm glad to see it helps you. But let me ask you this: would things have been different if you had not betrayed me in the first place?"
"I never betrayed you."
"Oh, that's what you think. Or rather what you've convinced yourself of."
Cersei stood and slowly made her way towards the bed. She was as beautiful as he remembered her. Beautifully dangerous. She continued to walk slowly as she added:
"But we both know you lied to me. You left me when I needed you the most. You left our baby. And see what happened because of you."
"You're the one who killed our child, Cersei. You're the only one to blame."
"Am I?"
He shivered.
"Tell me the truth, brother. Why did you leave me in the first place?"
"Because you had gone crazy. Because you threatened me when I was the only one to stay at your side. I stayed at your side all my life, no matter what, and you almost asked the Mountain to end my life."
"You're such a good liar. No wonder you're my brother. You've even managed to lie to yourself."
She sat next to him on the bed and gently caressed his hand. Her touch made him jump, but it felt strangely good to feel her skin against his. To feel her presence was torture. She had become his persecutor now.
"You've betrayed me, Jaime. You've betrayed me the moment you fell in love with her."
She had not mentioned any name, and yet her sentence made Jaime's blood boil. She noticed it:
"I can see you're still in love with her. You wouldn't have touched her body if she was nothing but a fling – am I right?"
He could not look at her, understanding that her words were nothing but the truth. He had fallen in love with Ser Brienne of Tarth. Deeply in love. This had been the only reason he had turned his back on Cersei.
"My dear brother. Once you were the most powerful knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Every girl would have killed her mother just to receive your affection, and yet you've given it to the ugliest woman in Westeros."
"Is this jealousy I can deduce from your words?"
She paused, her green eyes full of indignation and anger.
"You've lost me, Cersei, and you cannot bear it."
Jaime could tell he had got back on top – although his satisfaction automatically disappeared as Cersei caught his cheeks with her right hand:
"Laugh at me as long as you want. I'll still be here, Jaime. I'll watch you destroy what's left of your life, I'll wait until you can see the emptiness of your thoughts. It won't last long. You won't last long, Jaime. I'll be here when you end your days. You know you cannot fight me. You know it, Jaime."
The moment after, Jaime was sitting on his bed, trembling like a leaf, trying to find out if all of this had been nothing but the result of his imagination, or Cersei's ghost coming to him for revenge.
He processed her sentences. Was it true? Had he betrayed her by falling in love with Brienne? Now even Brienne could not look at him in the eye. Cersei was right, he was nothing but emptiness. A man without honour.
He felt a tear go down his cheek, and a bittersweet pain took possession of his heart.
Cersei.
He wanted her gone from his life for good, and yet he missed her more than anyone else. How does one grieve his soulmate?
He looked around as the coldness of the night caught his shoulders. He had always hated the Red Keep, and now he was forced to remain in it and to serve for another King, despite all the memories he had in these walls. Maybe it was King Bran's revenge. It was only fair.
I cannot stay here.
Jaime groped around his bed looking for his crutches. Once he got one, he managed to leave his bed painfully. He felt even older than his father in this crippled body. He needed to see a friendly face, the only one he had in this empty life.
He opened the door of his room and followed a small corridor that led to Tyrion's bedroom. They had both chosen their room because of their specificity: two places linked by a secret passageway. If there was something good in this bloody situation, it was definitely the relation Jaime shared with his brother.
He found himself in front of the door, and entered without knocking, knowing a night spent joking around was not something that would bother Tyrion. After all, it was better than crying alone in his bed. But his wishes to change his mind off all of this vanished as he noticed nobody was there.
"Your Grace?"
Sansa jumped out of her sleep. It took her a moment to see where she was and to realise she had fallen asleep. She was still in Sandor's tent, sitting on the only chair she had found. She lifted her head and observed the man who had woken her. Recognising Maester Ilmon, she stood quickly and waited for him to bow.
"Pardon me, Your Grace," the man said after a curtsy. "People were looking for you this evening."
"I was here."
It was obvious, but nonetheless the only sentence she had found. What time was it? She could tell it was the middle of the night according to the darkness of the place, and to the coldness of the air around her.
"I see...", Ilmon answered, "I came to see how the wounded was."
Sansa looked at Sandor. He was asleep and seemed appeased. She had managed to calm the fever. The sight of him chained had broken her heart. He had called for her in his turmoil, she had unchained him and looked after him.
She had even kissed him and found peace in his embrace.
It had been a stolen moment, and yet a wonderful one, although Sansa could not clearly define how she felt about it.
"He had a strong fever. I thought it would never stop," Sansa declared as the Maester approached his patient.
He put two fingers on Sandor's throat, trying to find a pulse.
"His cloth has been changed –"
"I did it," she interrupted.
"You did well. His pulse is regular. I need to inject some medicines to ease his pain."
"Do you need help?"
"I thank you for your concern, Your Grace, but I am certain there are plenty more things that need your attention at the moment. It is very late, you should rest."
He was completely right, and yet Sansa could not leave the tent. She could not leave Sandor.
Why was she acting like that? She had fallen asleep like a foolish girl, not taking care of all the things she had to manage. She was about to be a Queen now. Everyone in King's Landing was calling her with her new title, then why was she incapable to truly behave like a ruler?
Her feelings had blinded her will to reign over her people. But people needed to be guided, not abandoned on any occasion.
"I must leave you now," she declared.
"Of course, Your Grace."
She turned over and made a small step before stopping abruptly. A question was burning her lips:
"Will he recover?"
Maester Ilmon lifted his head, surprised to see she was still in the tent. Sansa turned her head on her left, waiting for an answer.
"Well, his right eye has been harshly injured. It is a miracle it did not pierce despite the impact. It is still infected. Hopefully, the pomade I made will be efficient and fasten the recovery. But…"
There is always a "but".
"… The nerves have been severely damaged, I fear the eye may never recover. The injury led to a violent infection that reached the left eye…"
"Thank you, Maester Ilmon."
She heard him curtsy again and left.
The moon was now high in the sky, and as she made her way through the camp, she could feel her shoulders become heavier and heavier. Perhaps it was the weight of power crawling down her back. She internally processed Maester Ilmon's sentences over and over again. Sandor might lose his eyesight. She knew he would die rather than live a life as a blind person. Life had been unfair to him since his childhood, he could not bear another torment.
He was strong, she knew he was. He had fought many battles, whether they were real or psychological. Sansa tried to convince herself that the Hound would recover. He had to.
It took her a few minutes to realise she was alone. Everything around her was silent. She had been asleep for many hours. Surely her time spent with Sandor had allowed her to relax. It was a chance Maester Ilmon did not find her in the Hound's arms. They had embraced each other for a long moment, then Sansa had felt Sandor's unconsciousness and left his arms. Too afraid to lave him entirely, she had stayed in the tent to keep an eye on him, hoping he would not have another crisis.
She felt like an idiot. Was she starting to have feelings for Sandor? She had kissed him in the first place, in the cell first, then here, in the tent, while he was asleep. while he was asleep. Why was she acting like this? Feelings were never good in politics. With them came weakness, and Sansa hated to appear weak. But Sandor… how had he managed to muddle her thoughts so rapidly?
In fact, he had always muddled her thoughts, even back when she was Joffrey's captive. He had cared for her in his way, even offering to bring her to Winterfell. He had been always behind her, annoying her with his barbed words. He had been the man who had saved her during a riot just after Myrcella's departure for Dorne. She owed him so much.
She realised a smile had grown on her mouth as the memories she had of the Hound came out in her mind. All the harsh declarations he had made here were nothing but warnings. It seemed like Sandor had been the first one to see Sansa was not just the pretty girl people automatically saw in her.
Sansa reached her tent and entered slowly. She almost jumped at the sight of a human shape near the bed. The tent was illuminated by several candles, and it took her only a few moments to recognise the features of the person sitting in front of her.
Ser Jaime Lannister.
"What are you doing here?" Sansa asked, panting.
"I'm sorry. I did not mean to frighten you…"
The man looked embarrassed. Sansa's eyes fixed upon her bed, where Brienne was still sleeping. Her eyes then focused on Jaime, and the man noticed glint in her pale eyes. Was it comprehension?
"It's alright," Sansa assured.
She approached the bed and silently observed Brienne. She was glad to know Ser Jaime had finally come to see her. Although she did not truly know what linked him to Brienne, she had quickly noticed the bound they shared. How could a man such as Jaime Lannister fall for someone as pure, loyal, and righteous as Brienne of Tarth?
"How did you manage to enter?" she asked.
"Nobody was guarding the tent."
Weird.
"I arrived just a few moments before you came, Your Grace." Jaime took his crutches in his hand and started to stand. Sansa noticed his wobbly movements. Was he drunk?
"You can stay," Sansa declared.
"Thank you, but I don't want to bother you any longer. You must be exhausted."
In fact, she had no wish to sleep. Her mind was too troubled to relax.
"Stay, Ser Jaime."
Her order surprised both of them.
As Maester Ilmon left the Hound's tent, he let out a loud yawn. His condition forced him to be always on his toes, and in these troubled times, he could barely sleep at night. He followed one of the main paths that crossed the camp, his tiredness making crawl.
Arya observed the man until he disappeared in the darkness of the night. Incapable to find sleep, she had left her bed and spent some time wandering around the camp. The night was quiet and cold, just like the night the Unsullied had rebelled. She could not erase Grey Worm's face from her mind. As she reached the camp, she had seen Maester Ilmon enter Sandor's tent. Waiting like a statue in the night, she had waited for the man to leave, surprised to see her sister go out of it.
Now, Sandor seemed alone.
The moment after, Arya was in the tent, silently walking towards the bed. She could hear the Hound's loud breathing. The white cloth on his eyes was the only thing she could decipher in the dark. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she wanted to do.
Tonight, she had shared another moment with Gendry. To her, he was not Lord Gendry Baratheon, the only remaining one of a long line, just Gendry, the boy she had met on the King's Road. The man who had deflowered her, the man who had asked her to be his Lady.
Although she had told him she could not be his Lady – her! A Lady! –, the man still had a singular place in her heart.
Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes, she started to speak:
"I've never thought I'd become a killer."
No answer. Sandor's breathing was still regular.
Good.
She chuckled:
"I mean, I never thought I'd become who I am right now. It's not that I'm disappointed by what I've become, it's just that I can't change it. It became my nature. To be always on the run, always fighting someone or something. I've waited all these years to find my family, to go back to Winterfell, to fight for the Starks. But now that I've managed to find them, I've realised I'm not made for that. I don't fit. I've never fitted."
Could Sandor hear her? She had no idea, but the words had started to go out of her mouth in the most natural way.
"You've done what you've always wanted to do. You've killed the Mountain. Now you have your revenge."
Will it be enough for you? she wondered.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all those stupid things. Probably because I know you're completely passed out and thus you won't remember."
Or perhaps because you know what it feels like to be an outcast, wherever you go.
"I want to leave. To disappear. You're the first one I tell this, I hope you get that's something to be proud of."
How foolish she sounded!
"I just can't stay here. I'm getting tired of Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms, knights, soldiers, and Kings. It's not my thing. It's not who I am. Jon is made to be a ruler. So is Sansa. And Bran. So was Robb. I've never wanted to be a Lady, to have my own soldiers to protect my person and my territory. I don't care where I sleep, or who appear to be. If I stay here, I become Lady Arya Stark again, Queen Sansa's sister, the first in line if anything ever happens to her."
The idea made her shiver.
"I'm afraid to tell her all this. She wouldn't understand. We've both struggled so much to find each other, and now I want to leave her again. I can't… I can't leave her again."
She bit her lips as she felt tears form in her eyes; now was not the time to cry, but the time to be honest.
Arya looked at Sandor. Taking his hand, she pursued:
"I know you care about Sansa. I can see the way you look at her. You've always had something for her. You told me once she was pretty, although the words you said after were worthy of a soak. I hope you'll recover; although I fear you'll find life useless now that your only goal is achieved."
She let go of his hand and started to make her way out of the tent. Before leaving it, she turned around and declared:
"Please take care of Sansa for me. If there's someone I trust here, it's you."
She then disappeared.
"You said nobody was guarding the tent?"
Sansa observed Ser Jaime who was sitting in front of her, trying to decipher his thoughts. This was a game she was excellent at. He had come to see Brienne, obviously. Nonetheless, he seemed troubled. His hands were shaky and his eyes glassy. Probably a bad dream.
"I… I lied to you."
I knew that.
"Two men were guarding the tent when I arrived. I told them you were in the Red Keep and you had asked for an escort. Weirdly enough, they believed me."
Of course. You're a Lannister, lying is what you do.
"I'll make sure these guards will be replaced," she replied coldly. Looking at Brienne, she added: "I guess nobody will be as good as Brienne."
"You've no need to replace her. She's a fighter, she'll recover."
"I know she will. But she might be in demand elsewhere."
Jaime frowned.
"My brother told me earlier he wanted her to be the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
"Can he ask this of you?"
Why would King Bran steal his sister's personal guard? Would Brienne accept to remain in King's Landing and serve another ruler? All her life had been nothing but orders and pledged of loyalty… would she accept to leave Sansa, the girl she had fought for all these years?
"Of course he can. He's the King of the Six Kingdoms," Sansa declared.
"But you're the Queen in the North."
She loved to be called that way. The North had been all she had fought for, her father's North, that was now hers. She turned and moved one of the chairs of the tent to bring it right in front of the footboard.
"Do you think Brienne would accept?" Jaime asked.
She felt the concern in his voice. For a reason she could not tell, the man seemed to care for Brienne. Was it love she could notice in his manners?
"I have no idea," Sansa's eyes were fixed upon Brienne. She seemed appeased and well. "I'm just waiting for her recovery."
"You've given her your bed."
Sansa turned her head, frowning. Jaime felt the need to add:
"You gave her your bed without any hesitation. I wonder which monarch would have done the same thing with his bodyguard."
"Brienne is far more than a vulgar bodyguard. She's the one who saved me."
"I know. She would have never let you down. I was here when she swore, she would bring you and your sister back to your mother."
Many years had passed since then. Jaime was nothing but a cunt waiting to see his sister again, while Sansa was just an innocent girl captive, surrounded by the people who had got her father dead.
Sansa thought of her mother. Even while helping Robb to defeat Tywin Lannister, her mother had never stopped fighting for her, for Arya, and for Bran. Lady Catlyn Stark had met Brienne and trusted her with her life, given her the mission to find her daughters and bring them back to her. Now, Sansa trusted Brienne with her life too. She observed the bed, feeling relieved to see that Brienne was still asleep. She seemed at peace.
"The first time I met Ser Brienne, I was traveling with Lord Baelish. She told me she wanted to bring me back to my mother, but I did not trust her. Trust is something very complicated to get from me since… Well, I bet you know since when. Brienne offered me to protect me, but Petyr convinced me not to trust her."
"You called him Petyr?"
"Sometimes, yes. He managed to convince me he was the only one I could trust. It only led me to the Boltons. Littlefinger got me married to Ramsay Snow. Another man. Another torturer."
She was telling all of this with quickness and yet, her voice was cold, as if she had not suffered at all. Once again, Jaime found himself astonished by the young woman, the same way he had once admired her mother. Sansa's life had escaped her once, but she had managed to get it back, and more.
"Brienne did not let me down," Sansa pursued as she looked at Jaime. "She came for me. She came to Winterfell and saved me. She brought me to the Wall, back to Jon. She's my saviour. So yes, I gave her my bed so she could rest properly."
Jaime smiled:
"She's lucky to have you."
This sentence made Sansa smile too. She then stood up before asking:
"Are you thirsty?"
Sandor could not believe what he had just heard. Arya wanted to leave. Was she about to leave right now? Why did she have to talk to him, did he look like a fucking nanny?
Her voice had swiftly woken him up, but he had found himself incapable to make a move, too focused on her words. He knew Arya was not good at opening up – just like him.
He still could not see, but felt relieved to notice his wrists were now freed. As he tried to move, the pain came back, tearing his body apart. He had to get up and search for Arya; she could not leave, not now!
Everything was so distorted, Sandor started to wonder if he had not been dreaming again. For the first time of his life, he felt completely empty, as if all the strength he once possessed had left his body.
Get up, you bloody twat!
Although it came from nowhere, Sandor managed to take away the cloth that was pressing against his eyes. If it firstly eased his suffering, a powerful burn ailed his eyes, provoking a harrowing headache. Sandor let out a loud cry of pain before the darkness took him again.
Sansa could feel relieved to know she would not spend the night all by herself. She had spent the other ones taking care of Brienne, trying to sleep on the only fine armchair she had in her possession. After what she had just done with Sandor, she needed to think about something else, perfectly knowing she would be incapable to find sleep.
To meet Ser Jaime in her tent had been – weirdly enough – a relief. For a reason she could not tell, she felt as if she could read in the man's mind. In fact, she knew Ser Jaime's thoughts were as blurred as hers. She knew the man cared for Brienne in a way he could not clearly describe, the looks he was giving her were not the ones of a friend, and yet there were too shy to be the ones of a lover.
Between love, admiration and concern, Jaime's feelings for Brienne were nothing but an indescribable whirl. The same whirl Sansa could feel in her heart while thinking about the Hound.
And now, there she was, drinking wine with Cersei's twin. It was full of nonsense, and yet, she did not feel in danger at all. In fact, the man's manners made her thought of Tyrion's. It was the same sharp words, the same jokes, the same bitterness concerning the eventualities of life. How could a man like that be Joffrey's father?
As she tried to process all of this, Ser Jaime started to chuckle.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Nothing, pardon me. It's just…"
His chuckle came back.
"It's just funny. This situation, I mean. I cannot help but think I'm having a drink with Lord Eddard Stark's daughter."
It made a smile.
"Indeed, that's a funny situation," she said, trying not to laugh as well.
"And to think I've never liked your father!"
Sansa observed her glass, frowning a little.
"He never liked you either, I think," she declared. "Starks and Lannisters aren't made to enjoy each other."
"That is what I was convinced of, and yet here we are."
She lifted her eyes and looked at Jaime. Silence came slowly as they observed each other, as if the time had stopped a little. It was definitely a funny moment she would not easily forget. Ser Jaime was not so different than her. He had just fought for his family, becoming her family's enemy in the process. Now too many years had passed. He had changed, so had she.
Sansa jumped as she heard a cry broke through the night. It was a human cry in the distance, and yet full of pain and loneliness. As Ser Jaime tried to stand, the girl had already left her tent, fearing for an attack.
"Your Grace!"
Three soldiers reached her after she emerged from the tent. She recognised Ser Darran Klaever, one of her lieutenants.
"What happened?" she inquired, lifting her head. "Are we attacked?"
"We're not, Your Grace," answered the man. "The cry came from one of our tents, probably a soldier in pain. I sent two men to go and check. You can go and rest."
"Keep an eye open," she ordered. "I want two men guarding my tent; the previous ones disappeared."
Sansa heard some agitation on her right and turned her head. A young squire hurried to them, the pale light of the moon intensifying his concerned features.
"Well, boy?" said the knight. "What's the meaning of this?"
"My apologies, Ser Darran," the boy said, panting. He then realised Sansa was here and curtsied: "Your Grace… the Hound is conscious."
"What?" spat the lieutenant.
"He has been unchained, Ser. The cry was his. He smashed Ser Sadlyn in the face."
"I thought the bloody man was blind! Soldiers!"
Fucking leg!
Jaime hated to feel useless, and yet his gammy led had paralysed him again. Sansa had disappeared in the night and he had been incapable to escort her. He could hear people talking outside the tent. Something was happening.
Trying to fetch his crutches, he bit his cheek as the pain struck down his back. Cursing against his inefficiency, Jaime finally managed to stand up.
As was about to reach the tent's exit, Sansa appeared.
"What are you doing?" she asked with a surprised voice.
"I was about to follow you."
"No. You stay here. Something needs to be fixed. I want you to stay with Ser Brienne."
"But I –"
"It's an order."
Before he could retaliate, the girl was gone.
Tyrion's right: the girl loves to rule.
Sansa brought the hood of her dark cloak over her head. She had to be quick and quiet. Sandor had left his tent, and it was her fault. Why did she have to unchain him? Now her men were chasing him. She had to find him first. She remembered the cry she had just heard a few moments ago, and it turned her blood to ice.
Going along the camp, she managed to run unseen and finally reached the tent. Some lights were in there, allowing her to spot four shadows. She could hear Sandor's growls as the three other men caught him, forcing him to remain on his bed.
"Let go of me you fucking bastards!" yelled the Hound.
He was fighting them fiercely, struggling like a captive animal. But he seemed too weak to face the three other men.
"Put the chains back on his wrists."
Sansa recognised Ser Darran's voice. The soldiers followed the orders, and Sandor was chained again.
"Fetch a Maester," ordered Ser Darran after Sandor stopped moving, "the bloody moron only worsened his wound."
He could not feel his face anymore. The only thing his eyes could bring him was darkness. The shapes he had managed to detect until then were now gone, but not the images of his memory. He could now see it all. The ghosts of his past, the men he had fought and killed.
All of his life.
Gregor.
King Joffrey.
Illyn Payne.
Tyrion Lannister.
Eddard Stark.
Queen Cersei.
Sansa Stark.
Arya.
He had woken up to find the girl. Arya… She was in danger. He had to protect her.
The fever was still torturing his body. He knew he was in a trance, but everything around him felt so real!
He could feel weight hobbling his forearms again, he could feel the pain and the fever. Why could not he see?
"Queen Sansa…"
The voices seemed to swirl around his ears, and yet they were clear. Someone had called Sansa's name. Was she here? Had she come to see him again? He wanted to feel her against him, to see her spectre again.
"I've come to see him."
Her voice was silk. He shivered. She seemed far away from him, too far…
"He attacked a knight, Your Grace, maybe you should wait for…"
"He won't hurt me. I thank you for your concern and your duty, Ser Darran. Stay here if it reassures you."
Sansa entered the tent. Two torches had been lit, allowing her to see the Hound fully. Once again, he was trembling like a leaf. The fever was troubling his respiration. But as Sansa approached him, she let out a gasp at the sight of his eyes.
His right eye was full of blood. The dark iris had turned into a pale colour, almost white. The other eye was also opened, but she could tell Sandor could not see a thing.
"Who's there?"
His voice was a broken rasp. She had never seen him like this, so weak, so uncertain. He looked like a child. His breathing fastened, as if he was afraid to notice a presence.
She caressed his cheek and he closed his eyes, calming himself a little.
"Arya," he whispered. "I need to see Arya."
Sansa frowned. What was the meaning of this?
Looking around her, she tried to find another cloth. She had to tend his wounds. She slowly lifted the long and dark shirt he was wearing, being careful not to startle him with his touches. His torso was covered with stitches here and there. She bit her lip at the sight. The Mountain had broken him.
"Arya," Sandor called again.
"It's me, Sandor. It's Sansa. I'm here, I'm with you."
"The girl's gone."
What did he mean? She chose not to give too much attention. His fever had climbed again, she had to take care of this before anything else.
Sansa had never been good at healing people, but she knew how to ease someone's pain. For years she had been hit and therefore, she had learnt what kind of herbs could stop her suffering, which broth could calm her nausea, what type of oils could stop her bleedings and reduce her bruises.
She had learned how to survive, in the end.
Fortunately, Maester Ilmon let many of the medicines he used on a table right next to the bed. Sansa took some sage and mixed it with some water. She soon brought the mixing to Sandor, asking him to drink slowly. He swallowed and winced; Sansa could not look away from his eyes. Could he notice his vision was almost gone despite the fever?
As she was about to try to change the cloth, the Hound called her name. She turned and noticed the concern on his face as he pronounced her name. As if he was afraid to lose her.
She hurried, deciding to focus on oils. She knew some essential oils would be strong enough to diminish such a sudden fever. She tried all the vials she found on the table, sniffing their sents to define what type of agents were in it. She managed to recognise two oils: thyme and ravintsara.
The moment after, she was sitting on the bed near Sandor rubbing her soaked hands. She slowly brought her hands on both sides of the Hound's head, gently massaging his temples. If he jumped at her touched, he relaxed rapidly, and his eyes started to focus on her. As she continued her moves, she noticed the consciousness return in Sandor's glance.
"Sansa…"
"I'm here. The Maester is on his way."
She smiled to him as she realised he could now fully respond to her touches and sentences. His eyes were half-opened, and the light around them intensified the difference of both irises. The right one was white, the left one completely dark. It only highlighted the burn that had defigured Sandor since his childhood. Sansa felt heartache as she realised his eyes were glassy, drained of all sign of attention.
"Can you see me?"
She had to ask. He shook his head as an answer. She heard the chains jingle and realised he was trying to touch her. Too afraid to take away the chains again, she slowly entwined her hand in his. She knew he needed to feel in the absence of his sight.
"I can see your hair," he growled in a rasp. "That's all I can see."
"That's a start," she smiled.
"Am I dead?"
"You're not. I'm here. We're in a tent."
He frowned as incomprehension invaded his mind. Sansa understood he was completely lost, feeling to weak to even separate fact from fiction.
"Do you remember anything?" she inquired.
"Gregor…"
He jumped all of a sudden, as if he had seen his brother's ghost:
"Is he dead?" he asked, panting, as Sansa tried to put his head back on the pillow.
"He is. You fought him aside with Ser Brienne."
Sandor closed his eyes and winced, as if he could not realise what was happening. He looked like a lost child waking up from a nightmare.
"The Mountain's dead, Sandor," Sansa added.
After a brief moment, he let out a loud exhalation and started to heave. Sansa had never seen him like that, and quickly understood all of this was the fruit of fear, nothing else.
His fear, the fear he had grown up with, the fear that had mixed up with hatred and angst, all of this was now leaving his body as Sandor started to realise his worst nightmare was now gone forever.
She noticed a tear going down the Hound's face side. She urged herself to wipe it away, trying in the process to get his attention back to her.
"It's alright," she whispered, trying to soothe him by using her softest voice. "I'm here, I'm here."
She brought her lips against his burning forehead.
"Why are you here?"
His question caught her off guard. It was full of incertitude, as if Sandor was still not sure whether all of this was real or the result of his imagination.
"I came to see you," she answered. "I was with you earlier."
"Why?"
She could not give him a proper explanation. The words were stuck in her throat.
Because a part of me is convinced you would have done the same if I was the one in this bed.
How foolish she sounded!
"Because I want to," she simply admitted.
He was nothing but a trembling leaf in her arms. She put her forehead against his, hushing him quietly. His eyes were still closed, the wet blood surrounding them emphasizing his scarred face. Even like this, she found him attractive.
She gently put her lips on his, knowing it was only a matter of time before the arrival of a Maester. They kissed softly, quietly, as if there was nothing else but them in this tent, as if the time had stopped to let them find each other. Sansa could not help but think this moment could be the last time she would share with the Hound. Deep down, it felt like an adieu.
She kissed him without thinking straight for a few moments more, feeling his spirit fade under her touches. It was as if he slipped out of her hands despite all the efforts she made to keep him conscious.
Sandor's mouth stopped responding to her lips, and the sound of his breathing diminished greatly. She knew the announcement of his brother's death would be the end of him. Killing Gregor had been the meaning of his life. In a way, it made sense. Sandor had fought his last battle, and now he needed to leave.
She hurried against his chest and felt a huge relief as she noticed his pulse. She wanted him to stay, to stay with her, for a reason she was incapable to point out. She had never thought she would feel this way about Sandor, nor any other man in her life. Men had been her downfall, and yet here she was, hugging one of them, kissing him, as if he had been her lover for years.
What was wrong with her?
She felt comfort as she listened to the Hound's heartbeats. It lulled her. She closed her eyes and let go of her thoughts for a moment.
"Queen Sansa?"
She heard a man's voice but frowned, refusing to open her eyes.
"Your Grace?"
The voice was placid yet full of uneasiness. She opened her eyes and slowly lifted her head from Sandor's chest. It was like waking up from a dreamless sleep.
But all of her relaxed sensations left her body as she found herself face to face with the last person she had expected to see.
Samwell Tarly.
Hope you've enjoyed this! Please tell me what you'd like to see in the next chapter.
Your Reviews are always appreciated and I feel very happy to notice more and more people reading this fic. I truly thank you guys 3