First of all, I'm really sorry to post this late. I hope I didn't disappoint you guys, I preferred to wait and be sure I like the story I'm writing rather than writing quickly without any second thoughts. Sorry again.
I want to thank all of you for your reviews. Although I had many problems that kept me from updating (life, you know…), your comments considerably helped me to hold on to this SanSan story.
THANK YOU !
Sam did not know what to do at the moment. Sansa quickly stood up, her eyes never leaving his surprised face. The coldness of her blue and piercing eyes made him shiver. She lifted her chin and frowned. There was something in her perfect manners that made her intimidating despite of her young age.
"Maester Tarly", Sansa said with a stolid tone. "I assume you're here to serve as Maester Ilmon's substitute."
He took care of clearing his throat before answering:
"Indeed, Your Grace. Maester Ilmon is resting. I was on my way back from your brother's cell when some of your soldiers came to me."
"Is Jon alright?"
"He is, Your Grace. Quite tired, but alright. He asked for you."
"I shall visit him soon. Thank you."
Sam smiled before focusing on the man in the bed. The Hound was breathing loudly, apparently asleep. As he approached the wounded, he realised the extent of the injuries. The right eye was covered with dry blood. He could see the infection was starting to reach the other eye. If nothing was done, the man could lose his entire sight.
Sam started to get his tools out of the big bag he had taken before coming here. The wounds needed to be cleaned. He noticed the cloth on the Hound's forehead and touched it. It was wet and smelled of oils.
"Well, I guess I'll be able to calm the fever thanks to this cloth," the boy declared. "I wonder, did you…"
As he turned around, he realised the Queen in the North had already left without a sound.
Sansa was walking fast, tired of her own incomprehension. Feelings were a weakness. She knew they were. All her life, people had told her so. Petyr, Cersei, Sandor…
Once again, she missed her father. She wanted him to be here, right next to her, so she could ask him what was wrong with her. But Ned Stark was long gone. She internally swore against herself. She sounded like the little girl who could not learn. She had thought about the Hound many times after their last goodbye during the battle of the Blackwater. She had wondered where he was, with whom. She had wondered what her life would have been if she had chosen to follow him instead of staying in King's Landing. She would not have married Tyrion. She would not have married Ramsay.
She would not have grown up to be the Queen.
Sandor had guided her little sister. He had almost lost his life fighting Brienne just to protect Arya. She could see the relationship they both shared. It was something unique, something out of this world. She stopped and looked at the moon. It was full, tonight. Perhaps it was the reason everyone was still up.
As she was about to go back to her walk, she jumped in surprise. Arya was in front of her, observing her in silence.
"Still awake?" the girl asked.
"I need to talk," Sansa admitted.
"So do I."
Tyrion could not focus anymore. But he could not sleep either. He was still suffering from his wounds. The punch he had received by one of the Unsullied soldiers during their riot was still fresh; it considerably pained his flesh.
He observed Bronn and Davos as they both talked to each other, feeling weary of all of these unsolvable questions. He could tell that being the Hand of King Bran would be one of the most difficult things he had ever done in his life. After his daily meeting with his King – which had occurred quite late, this day –, Tyrion had bumped into Ser Davos. The man had given him some pieces of information about the different camps outside the city and the consequences of the last battle against Daenerys' army. They had finally discussed some other diplomatic matters in Tyrion's office before Bronn's arrival, and now, after hours of conversation, the debate relied on the possibility to reopen Jon Snow's case for another trial.
"Well, excuse us, my dear," exclaimed Bronn as Tyrion let out a loud exhalation. "Would you like me to fetch you a blanket so you can sleep a little?"
Tyrion rolled his eyes.
"What is it?" inquired Bronn.
"The thing is I'm tired of these endless trials. We've all faced a war that has lasted far too long."
"I agree," stated Davos, "but now that the Unsullied have finally left the capital, maybe it is time for our King to reconsider his brother's fate."
"Do you think King Bran is a fool?" Tyrion asked.
"I think not, Lord Hand," answered Davos, "on the contrary. I know about our King's… capacities. I'm just saying he might have chosen to send Jon Snow to the Wall knowing what it would trigger next."
"Of course he knew what it would trigger! All of his decisions are made for the same purpose, it doesn't mean we have to put them in doubt," stated Tyrion. "Jon Snow will be sent to the Wall, end of the story."
Davos and Bronn shared a silent glance as Tyrion left the table.
"Now, I'm sorry, but it is late, and I have plenty of thoughts I'd like to clear."
He opened the door and the two others stood up.
"Good night to you, my dear knights."
He disappeared into the hall.
Perhaps these guys will get along well in my absence.
In fact, he did not care. He hurried in one of the remaining stairs that led to the Keep's gardens. The moon was high in the sky, full and so bright it felt like it was daylight that illuminated each flower and tree. He sat on one of the several stone benches and observed the sky.
Silence, at last. The sky was peaceful, quiet, totally indifferent concerning what was happening here. Like each time he found himself alone, his thoughts brought him back to Daenerys. The guilt in his heart made him wince. The guilt of his own betrayal. The guilt to have given his whole trust. But most of all, the most painful thing was her absence. A tear caressed his cheek and he wiped it off. He hated her for what she had done to this city. To these innocent people. But despite that, he missed her.
Then, he thought about Sansa. He could see the girl hated this place. She would soon go back to her beloved North, where she belonged. He was proud of the woman she had become. No. He was more than proud of her. He had always found her beautiful. She was tall, thin, he features were soft and perfect, and her hair was the Gods' fire.
He chuckled. Was he falling for this girl? To be correct, she had been his wife, once. Was she still his despite her wedding with the Bolton scum?
"I want to leave."
Sansa frowned a little but remained silent. Arya was standing in front of her. She had felt the urge to talk to her older sister after all the things she had said to Sandor.
Although Sansa felt sad to hear this, she knew Arya's mind was made, and therefore internally accepted her choice. They had walked near the shore before stopping near some rocks. Sansa was sitting on one of them, looking up to her sister. The sea gave an appeasing background sound. Arya continued:
"I'm not done for this. You know it. You were born to rule, you deserve the North after what you've come through, but I cannot live this life. I'm… I'm not like you. I'm not a lady, I'll never be one."
"I understand."
Arya looked at her and lifted her brows a little, silently expecting her sister was not upset with her.
"I respect your choice. You deserve to live the life you want. We all deserve that," Sansa declared. "I simply wish you would have stayed a little longer."
"I'll stay beside you as long as you need me," Arya said as she sat next to her. "I'm not saying I'll leave forever. I need to see what's West of Westeros. All of the maps stop there. My life has been an adventure since we left Winterfell for the first time."
Sansa smiled. She recognised her Arya. Always on the run, never staying still.
"Are you mad at me?"
"I'm not mad at you, Arya. I love you."
The time stopped as she declared it. Sansa feel her heart bump in joy as her sister embraced her:
"I love you too, Sansa."
They hugged each other, smiling. Arya felt something deep and warm comforting her heart. Nothing could replace the relationship she shared with her sister. If they had quarrelled as children, now they completed one another.
"I'll be there for your coronation," said Arya as she let go of Sansa.
It made her smile.
"You can tell Lord Gendry he's welcome to join us."
Arya looked at her with an annoyed eye. Sansa felt the urge to declare:
"Sorry. I simply can tell you seem to appreciate him."
As an answer, her little sister simple bit her lip. She then turned her head towards the sea, silently listening to the peacefulness of the waves.
"I went to see the Hound," she declared finally.
Sansa's shoulders automatically rose. Arya observed her, and as she was waiting for an answer, Sansa could tell her mention of the Hound was a way to retaliate from her previous observation about Gendry Baratheon.
A fair move.
But as she was about to say something, she remembered Sandor's words.
"The girl's gone."
"Did you…" she frowned, "did you tell him something about leaving?"
"I did. I simply explained to him I was not like the rest of you all. He was unconscious. It was like talking to a dead body."
Sansa shivered.
"Why?" asked Arya.
"Because… I think your words triggered something in him. I think he heard you, Arya."
She then explained the events with ser Darran.
Everything seemed so quiet now. Although he could hear some Stark soldiers talking and walking around outside the tent, Jaime felt quite appeased. Everything seemed so strange and yet, at the same time, normal. He had just spent some time drinking with Sansa Stark, talking about everything and nothing. She seemed to enjoy his company, weirdly enough. Her eyes still looked at him with some restraint; he could tell she was dubious at the idea of giving him all of her trust.
Therefore, why had she asked him to stay?
His leg was starting to ache, again. Would he ever manage to get rid of this insufferable pain? He did not know. In fact, he knew this pain was nothing compared to all the things he had done in his life, to all the sadness he had caused. After all, he was still alive. Crippled, but alive.
That was his real sanction: to live with himself instead of the love of his life.
Sounds only fair.
A noise brought him out of his thoughts. He turned his head and looked at the woman sleeping in the bed right next to him. He had done his best to avoid her sight, for he could not bear to see her that way. The image of her covered with blood, her shoulder dislocated had marked his brain. Yet, she was making a weird noise now, a kind of growl, as if she was dreaming.
Jaime slowly approached his head towards her. Although her eyes were still closed, she was frowning. He noticed the sweat on her forehead. Her golden hair was all around her head, softly caressing the pillow. It only enhanced her features.
Suddenly, Jaime's heart missed a bit.
Her eyes were now halfway opened.
He could not move. There was a glint in her glance; was it because of the fever? Another smothered growl came out of her mouth as if she was trying to say something. After finally managing to find his strength, Jaime stood up. The pain in his leg made him wince, but he hurried towards one of the wooden tables. He poured some freshwater into the first empty glass he saw and gently brought it to her.
He slowly sat next to her, trying his best not to give too much attention to her moans, for they really sounded like something hurtful. Her eyes were opened, and yet, she did not seem to see him.
"Brienne, it's me."
No answer.
Carefully, he lifted her head with his golden hand and made her drink. To his greatest relief, she drank. He then let go of her neck as she closed her eyes.
He stayed right next to her for a long moment, studying her, listening to every of her breath to make sure she was fine. That was all he wanted. For her to be fine. He had caused many torments throughout his life, but it was nothing compared to what he had done to this woman. He had always thought love was a complicated thing. With Cersei, it was. They had to live their romance hidden, for nobody could understand their bond. Cersei had managed to make him believe love was troublesome. He had sacrificed himself for her, he had done everything for her, and yet nothing had happened in return.
With Brienne of Tarth, things had been different. He had hated her at first. He had once thought she was the most repulsive woman of the Seven Kingdoms. What a cunt he had been. She was fierce, good, loyal. He had admired her, not for the same reasons he admired his twin sister, for Cersei was beautiful, gracious, cunning. Brienne was a soldier, a knight without any title, but she also was gracious. In her own way. To save her honour, he had lost his hand.
Gods, he loved her. And by loving her, he had broken her heart.
He kissed her sweating forehead and disappeared into the darkness, feeling something sharp hurt his heart. Before leaving the Stark camp, he made sure a Maester would come to Queen Sansa's tent in order to ease Brienne's pain.
Hours later.
When Sandor opened his eyes, his full body was covered with his sweat. Something was burning his right eye. It took him a few moments to realise he could not see at all. But strangely enough, it did not startle him, for it was one of the first times he felt conscious.
This time, it did not seem to be a nightmare nor a hallucination.
This time, it felt real.
He could still feel the bloody cloth on his eyes. He took it away – finding himself free to move his arms, luckily – and tried to process all the things he had lived.
Why was he here?
Moreover, where was he?
He was in a bed. His whole body was hurting him, but it was nothing compared to the pain that was torturing his fucking right eye. Who had done that to him?
He shivered.
Gregor.
Everything came back in a flash: the cell in the Red Keep, the Unsullied soldiers, his fight against his brother. Brienne of Tarth's screams echoed in his mind. She had fought aside him. She had helped him kill the Mountain.
Another shiver crossed his body as a voice rang in his head. A soft voice, as clear as water:
"The Mountain's dead, Sandor."
Sansa's voice.
Was it real? Had she come to him? He remembered some caresses, an embrace.
A kiss.
Clegane, you bloody fool!
Years spent in battles, many injuries and wounds, and yet a fever had made him dream about the Stark girl. Like she would go to him willingly, after all the things he had done to her.
He took away the sheets that were covering him and tried to stand, but he almost fell in the process. Something was hampering every of his moves.
Chains.
His ankles were chained to the bed. It made him chuckle. He was a dog, after all.
He heard something and stopped moving.
"Who's this?" he growled, trying to decipher the shade in the night.
All he saw through the darkness was a massive figure approaching him.
"Maester Tarly", the voice answered.
Maester? Tarly?
What was Jon Snow's puppet doing in here?
"How do you feel, Sir?" the boy asked.
Sandor almost jumped as he realised the man was right next to him. He could not see a thing in this darkness.
"I'm fine," he barked. "I'll be better if you ask your men to unleash these fucking chains."
"Wait, I need you to stay still for now."
"Did you not hear what I said?"
"I heard you, I simply…"
Sandor tried to catch the man by the neck, but the shade was far more distant than he had expected. He lost his balance.
"Where are you?" he yelled.
He could hear Samwell Tarly's worried breaths. The man seemed startled. Good.
"Where are you, you damn twat?"
"Please, I need you to calm down so I can clean your wound…"
Sandor jumped again, surprised to hear the voice right behind him while he was certain the man was standing right in front of him.
"Bring some light, will ya? I can't see anything in all that shitty night."
"My apologies, Hound, but we're not in the middle of the night. It's daytime."
Sansa was eating with Arya and Ser Davos in her tent. The night had been short, but she had managed to find some sleep after all. She had watched over Brienne after her discussion with Arya, and it brought her a lot of comforts to look after one of the persons she cared about the most. She still felt embarrassed at the idea that Samwell Tarly, her brother's best friend, had found her sleeping right next to the Hound. What would he think of all this? Again, she had let her feelings for Sandor betray her real nature. It was as her reunion with Clegane had brought back the girl she had been years before all of this. She hated to feel this vulnerable and yet, there was something that brought her towards Sandor, something she could not define. She cared about him.
As Arya was explaining her will to leave Westeros to Ser Davos, a loud growl made them all jump from their seat. Sansa felt her heart race in her chest.
Gods, she knew that sound.
It was a human cry, vivid, full of anger and fury. She had heard that kind of noise many times now.
Sandor.
Please Review, let me know what you'd like to see in the next Chapters (although I know you'll want more SanSan!)
XOXO