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"I was not at Sherrer, nor at Mummer's Ford. Lay your dead children at some other door." Sandor Clegane the Hound, Asoiaf.
Seventeen
Light sneaked lazily into the darkness of the chamber; the faintest touch of white caressing the floor.
The Hound did not know if he had slept or not. His muscles were clenched, tense; his spine stiff, tight. His eyes burned, irritated from the hangover. His scars weighed on him more than ever; uncomfortable and itching, more faithful than the Stranger in keeping him company.
The large puckered crater above the visible jaw bone dripped yellow, repulsive liquid, uglier than blood. This occurred at times, he never knew why, when he was skittish, like now, or when he drank in earnest. He hadn't drunk that much though… nor that little. His leg hurt and he was not young, but neither was Gregor; older than him by many years.
He was what he was, no more, no less; the only man in Westeros almost as tall, almost as strong as his big brother. The Hound needed a good sword. With steel in hand, he could win. He was skilled enough. Fortune would count for less than in bloody jousting, though his leg would still put him at a disadvantage…
Gregor was not crippled.
The Hound rose in bed, dark of heart. He stood up, naked to the waist, and punched the nearest wall with his sword arm to feel better. His knuckles hurt pleasantly from the violent action. He would bang his head against the masonry to lose the tension if he didn't need it intact. He wished he could have another head placed on his shoulders, a prettier one, and hated himself for the uselessness and cowardice of his wish.
He hit the wall again, with his shield arm now, growling deeply like a wounded animal. He would be bruised, cut, maybe break a bone, in the coming fight. Best if he was bloodied and accustomed to pain.
Small pain was nothing to him, who had known a much greater one.
He was thirsty like seven hells, for water and not for wine. He wanted to rip the scars off his face and then maybe he would feel better. Not even the undeniable presence of an incredible, sweet-smelling lady in his bed brought any measure of relief.
So it is today.
He would challenge Gregor and kill him.
If he could.
There was always that other possibility if he was honest with himself.
A very nervous calm came over him at the thought of his own death; a distracted and shy sensation of peace. Timidness was new. The last time he felt it he must have been a boy of five. He let it wash over him. It was better than fruitless anger.
It is today.
Today it will be over.
At least one of the two brothers would die.
And Sandor was more determined than ever that the first one to fall would be Gregor.
Sansa stirred in bed. Her empty hand wandered over the blanket, her body stiffened, became alert.
Why? Do I frighten you still? His guts tightened from gnawing worry that they went back to the beginning.
"Sandor," she murmured tenderly, searching the crumpled, sweaty sheets, not finding.
Or do you miss me?
Could she possibly long for the feel of him, the stink of him…?
Unbelievable as this seemed, the Hound gave himself over to the latter assumption. He sat gingerly back on bed, allowing Sansa's hand to roam to his clothed, scarred thigh. Her fingers lingered there, trapping him. Her little nails scratched the fabric with tentative knowledge; a recent one.
He expected Sansa to rouse, to chirp, to say something, but soon realised she had merely spoken in her sleep.
The Hound should not plague her dreams. They should be pleasant and collected, like herself. Yet the notion that he might be in her pretty head, like she was in his, elated him; nourished him.
Sansa rolled languidly towards him, coming closer, until her face skirted his bad thigh. Her body curled slowly around his back. Her legs folded to hug him more completely; slim, bare feet reaching the kneecaps of his good leg.
"So warm," she murmured, absent-minded, drowsy, drifting back into peaceful silence.
She is sleeping, dog. Let her be. Go. Do what you must. She won't notice.
Then again, she might.
He needed to part ways with her for the day. Surely she could see it. He should leave her, go to the armoury, then to the yard to train with anyone willing to cross swords with the buggering Winged Knight... Grab some food in the kitchens to eat on foot, not too much, nor too little… Fetch Stranger and lurk on the margins of the last tilts of the tourney until the moment came to challenge Gregor… And go back to Sansa when the day was done.
If he could.
If he departed now, he would be ready for Gregor, less tense, less… in love. He would have more chance to defeat him.
It would be so much easier to leave Sansa, but this morning he could not. She had been terribly upset by it the previous day, prone to rash decisions. Endearing as that was… he had to smile when he remembered her wish to go on her own… he didn't want her to fret again, nor to keep her in the dark about his intentions.
Yet he could not bring himself to wake her. So he gazed at her, not touching, imagining kissing her, knowing she would welcome it, well, on most places; she had not appreciated it between her legs.
After a few more quiet moments, Sansa woke of her own accord, let go of Sandor and stretched to lie on her side in their bed, studying him, eyes raking over his bloodied hands and bare chest. In the end she met his gaze, as always these days.
"You are still here," she told him melodiously. It was not a complaint. A small surprise, maybe, if he could read her as well as he gave himself credit for.
"You wish I weren't?" he inquired recklessly, teasing her. His lips twitched into a burned smile. "Maybe you do."
"I always wish for things I can't have," Sansa reacted gloomily, rubbing her eyes. "That at least has never changed. I was counting on waking up alone," she added. Her lips stretched in a pretty smile for him and he yearned to kiss her.
"Well guess what, you didn't," he said. Tension began leaving him from simple conversation. He could talk to her forever. Correct her, be corrected by her. Grin. Be ugly from it. Not care.
Or maybe he could not.
The unmade dress Sansa had slept in revealed the most beautiful teats in existence when she changed position. He was… she invited him to kiss them mere hours ago. If he allowed himself to truly look her over, he-...
He had to move.
Now.
"Come with me to see the smith," he said rapidly. Women did not belong in smithies and armouries. He supposed he could take her there nonetheless. Ladies did not belong in dungeons either, nor should they be beaten or taken to see heads on spikes.
"Oh," Sansa exhaled, pleased by his invitation. "I thought you stayed to receive my favour for today."
"Why only a favour if I can have you?" he rebelled.
"Now, yes," Sansa bursted, sitting up as if he stung her, rearranging her dress. "But what of tomorrow?"
"There may be no tomorrow. Not for me." There, he said it. The reason he had stayed. To say farewell in person. Not to her sleeping form.
Sansa's face paled, her lips trembled. She could not speak. She was daft at times. Not stupid. Never stupid. She got him alright.
"Try not to worry," he said dryly. "I am taking him down for you before I go."
A high-pitched sob escaped Sansa, a single one.
She stifled it and became very still.
What more could she want from him than to die for her? It was what the dogs did best.
Sandor grunted on, not allowing himself to be distracted. "Marry that prince if he comes here for you on his dragon. Most pretty boys are a tad better than Joff."
"You know about Lord Varys' offer?" she exclaimed, insulted.
"Yes," he said, "I suppose you agreed."
Sansa began to sob. "You know nothing about me," she said helplessly. "And you never bothered to find out. You just assume who I am, what I want, like everyone else."
That was unjust.
"Do I?" he challenged her. "Is that why I'm here?"
He had always been trying to peek behind the wall of her perfection, before and now, wondering if that was all there was. He admired and adored the magnificently polished façade, but more so the stubborn, passionate mess of a girl with stiff spine he discovered behind it.
And he was utterly amazed and defeated by how Sansa showed him her love.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Stop it," she admonished him through her tears, never cowed by his manners or the extreme lack of them. "I would not … I would not waste this morning on your mockery."
He wouldn't either.
So he found his tunic and pulled it over his head in silence, watching Sansa readjust her dress to meet the demands of propriety. She had fallen asleep in it, pondering leaving on her own, without him. And maybe she would survive that too, like she did everything else.
She would live longer than him… Now or many years later if he could stay at her side.
Sansa wrapped a long travelling cloak over her straight shoulders, ready to go. Sandor still had to look for pieces of his armour where he'd left them, returning drunk to her quarters.
Later.
At least the helm was in front of the privy, the last thing he took off. He hid his mug in case they encountered an early bird of a servant on their way. He caught a poignant look on Sansa's face when he did that.
Later.
He could not think now of what Sansa thought of him and his actions.
Later.
The armoury was empty when they entered it. Few swords were left in the racks, none of quality, nor heavy enough. The armourer, who was also the smith, was nowhere in evidence. The Gates of the Moon had one office for both, just like it had only one spacious, drafty hall near the stables that served as both the smithy and the armoury. The tourney had emptied the stocks. The brave knights must have purchased or simply taken the weapons of any value. The melée was scheduled for the day after the tourney, but Sandor bet that it would not take place. Not after the bloodshed of today.
So much for finding the smith.
Sansa saw the deception written on his face and filled his vision by herself. She seemed older, not only because of her curves, but because of her grim expression. Her tears had almost dried.
"You are late," she said quietly. "You should have come here on the first day, when they put me in a dungeon."
"Yes," he admitted.
He could only have a decent blade now if he forged it himself. And he was about as gifted for that as he was for singing.
The Stranger was not the Smith.
The Hound hit the wall hard. His knuckles bled again.
"Others take me!" Sansa cursed softly and stayed his hand from further self-hurt. "Are you mad?"
"Might be I am," he spat out and went to the rack, drawing the first remaining sword. It was as good as any, light like a knife. Maybe it would serve for the Knight of Flowers. Next he found a sword belt and a scabbard. It all looked ridiculous, but at least he was armed. He still had to find that armour.
Of the buggering Winged Knight.
Later.
Sansa suddenly came an inch away from him and waited. Trembling and nervous, she sought his proximity. He didn't put the belt on yet so he dropped it. Rashly, he tossed his helm to the ground.
His arms encircled her waist, giving in to her unspoken demand for closeness. Her scent drifted to his nostrils, enchanting him.
"I want to kiss you and I don't want to," she whispered, looking down.
"How is that?" he had to know.
"If I do, how can I let you go fight your brother?" she answered, looking up, crying softly. "And how can I not kiss you?"
"Same here," he rasped. It was so good when they could simply agree.
"I wish… I wish I didn't love you," she breathed out.
"Why is that?" he asked timidly, not really wanting to know the reasons. At the same time he basked in knowledge that she loved him, even after he'd left her for the better part of the night to drown his anger and stumbled into her bed drunk.
"I would not pray for you to be victorious. You would… you would not die."
"Anyone can die," the Hound reacted violently. "Why not Gregor? The chances are the same."
"Because in life the monsters always win," Sansa said hysterically, mopping her nose in his tunic. "Not the heroes, like in the songs."
"I lived this long," he protested. "I should be evil enough. And the last time I looked in a mirror I saw a monster."
Sansa laughed through her tears and backed to the smithy wall, dragging him with her because he allowed it.
"Gods," she said when his body bumped into hers with all his weight. Standing, he didn't have the reflex to put it elsewhere as when bedding a woman.
Sansa grasped his face, carefully avoiding contact with the dripping scar above his jaw. Years ago, he would have thought she skipped it because she was clearly disgusted. Now he surmised she might have done it so as to not cause him pain. She had been reluctant to kiss him hard even when he demanded it. Her legs took a short flight, circling his waist. His hands followed suit, ending up under her buttocks for support. Her hair hung loose, silky, glossy, curled.
So dark.
The heat between them was absolute when she began kissing him tenderly. There was no anger she wanted to pass on to him this morning.
Only love.
"I know that you will do your best," she said with conviction.
"Why?"
"It's what you do. You don't hesitate. Not even to kill the butcher's boy," she sounded defeated from the memory.
And he did, but many times the best he was capable of was far too little.
"I… I do what I can, when I can," she offered.
"Isn't that good?" he asked. "Most people do nothing. Not even what they should." Sansa did more for him with her half-actions of understanding in the past than Lord Tywin with all his gold and authority.
"Will you cry for me?" he rasped all of a sudden, surprising himself by his outburst.
If I die.
No one mourned the Stranger.
"Will I?" Sansa exclaimed. "You dare ask! I have lost everyone I ever held dear. I… I counted you among my losses! And then I dared hope… If the gods take you from me, do you think that I'll ever stop crying?"
She buried her face in his shoulder. "And since you so obviously read Lord Varys' letter, I would have you know that I said neither yes or no to the offer to marry Prince Aegon. I thanked them for their kindness to consider the match and said I was captive and thus in no position to give any answer-"
"You demanded they come and get you, if they want to-"
"-I implied they had that choice, though I didn't dare mention it, yes," Sansa hammered. "And I wished in my heart as I wrote that I would never be obliged to accept this offer. Nor anyone else's," she pointed out bluntly.
What of me? The Hound thought and kept silent.
"The letter from the capital was not the only thing I read," he ventured.
Sansa blushed prettily. "Oh. You… you… you are incorrigible!" Her fists hit his chest; butterflies wishing to fight off a bear.
"Wasn't it about me?" he fought not to show amusement with her anger.
"That doesn't mean I gave you permission to read it!" Sansa was seething.
Sandor realised he had doubted many things she said, but never her poem. It was so much like her. It rang so true. Did you not mean it?
"How empty-headed you must have found it," she complained bitterly. "To be invoked in verses when all you ever wanted from a stupid girl was what men desire and never a simple song-"
"I loved it," he stopped her.
"You did?" she sounded completely incredulous.
"I loved it," he repeated sternly. "It was pretty. And it prevented me from wishing to cut Aegon's cock off and feed it to the goats. Made me wish to show you what love is. If I could figure out how."
Sansa's face, wrinkled in disgust at first, suddenly glowed from within.
Before she could say another word, a rooster crowed. Stridently. Rudely.
Unafraid, the harbinger of the morning.
Sandor parted slightly from Sansa, realising she was holding on to his bleeding hands, silent like the walls around them, and yet warm like the life he might be leaving behind.
He drew her closer again, pinched her chin, tilted it upward, not ungently.
"Look at me," he said, used the moment to look at her with love. "It will be alright."
With that he turned brusquely away, picked up the sword belt, cinched it, covered his face, and fell behind Sansa, shadowing her, letting her lead the way back to the castle.
Her chamber bustled with serving girls when they returned, accompanied by the Lady Myranda Royce.
"The tourney will restart immediately after we break our fast," the plump, normally cheerful woman informed nervously. She was far less timid about showing her huge turnips on display in a tight purple dress.
So Gregor won't wait.
Good.
The sooner the better.
"If I may have a moment to armour myself," Sandor rasped like a good dog. "I shall return on time to accompany you to the lord's solar, my lady."
"By all means, good ser," Sansa retorted pleasantly, not revealing any trace of perturbation on the porcelain perfection of her features.
The Hound couldn't help himself. His anger returned. She called him ser. And he hated her for her sudden composure, though he knew that his face had also become deceivingly expressionless, almost bored, by the force of a superior habit, built up in court over the years.
"I shall use the time of your absence as an opportunity to change," she added and the Hound almost snarled at her. I might die and you are thinking about gowns.
Why did he ever think Sansa different than any other lady?
Because she let him bed her? Well, she wasn't the only one.
He avoided thinking he was the first man she allowed between her sheets and wallowed in his hatred of her until he remembered…
Gregor.
The Hound stormed out of the room and let his anger abate, directing his rage into collecting the scattered pieces of his mail and leather and donning it.
Content to be armoured and armed, as calm as he could make himself, he was back at Sansa's door when it opened.
Sansa exited, with her cloak closed tightly under her chin, and her hood up, on Lady Royce's arm. He could not see the dress she chose nor how she did her hair. He found he wanted to, cursed himself for needing to. Spying on the attire of the traitor's daughter had become his favourite, sick amusement in court, for all that her fineries were often spiced with the long streaks of her tears...
Now she stole a glance at him and smiled shyly. He hated himself for holding against her that she wished to show her beauty. He would help her choose dresses if she asked it of him with that smile. Maybe he would discover a talent for sewing.
The Hound stomped after the ladies, conflicted as ever, looking forward to what the day would bring.
In the solar, Little Lord Arryn, two Royces, their maesters, peacock Harry, the lady his aunt, Qyburn and Gregor were already at the table, drinking milk from large bowls. The Hound yearned for water of which there was none to be found, unless he turned to drinking melting snow.
"Cousin Sansa, good morning," little lord said placidly. "We shall know sooner than we intended if the gods favour Ser Robert and if the brave knight should be granted my leave to escort you to the capital."
In response, Gregor slammed his empty bowl on the table.
The Hound wondered if he added poppy to it or not. If he did, that could work to Sandor's advantage. It could slow him down.
Wine or strongwine was never enough for Gregor, who claimed to suffer from headaches, or just needed something stronger to get drunk than normal men.
"The gods will be the judges if Ser Robert is a true knight," Sansa replied courteously, lowering the hood of her cloak and unclasping it, letting the garment slide over the back of her chair.
She wore a gown of yellow silk with three thick black ribbons stitched to her bodice, partially loose, waving with every movement of her body. If you squinted, it was not that hard to imagine the dogs. Her hair was up, in Southron style, prettier than Cersei ever made it, just too bloody dark.
The neck of the dress was chaste. On the contrary, the length was too short, not reaching her ankles. As a result, her high boots were fully visible under the table. It must have been one of Lady Royce's gowns, adapted in haste to fit a new wearer…
Sandor's heart nearly stopped at the sight.
She did it for him.
Like a… like a lady wife.
Strangely, the Hound was not the only dog affected by Sansa's appearance.
Gregor growled savagely. He grabbed Qyburn's head and plunged it into a bowl full of milk. His pet twitched, resisting drowning. This annoyed Gregor, who squashed Qyburn's head until the victim dropped immobile under the table.
The old aunt of Ser Peacock fainted. Lady Royce retched.
Gregor strode towards Sansa. Sandor and both Royces barred the way. The maesters ran to Qyburn to check if he died.
The boy attacked Gregor with chivalrous nonsense.
"Ser Robert," Robin scorned Gregor in a fake fatherly tone, sounding almost like Littlefinger. "A true knight has to prove his valour in tourneys and battles, not kidnap a lady by force."
Sandor wished fervently that the knightly crap would help again. He did not want to fight his brother this close to Sansa.
Gregor… cried shrilly, and ran out of the solar, which had windows on both sides of the castle. Sandor could watch him storming through the yard and out of the gates to where his army was camped.
This time, Gregor seemed to have heard the word battle, and not the word tourney. Or perhaps he was himself now – loving killing better than jousting.
Yohn Royce shouted "Close the gates!" - the first man to act with the new odds in mind. Some serving gnats relayed his order.
Gregor forced his army to form ranks with fierce, inarticulate cries. At least the enemy was outside now, and not feasting in the castle as the night before. The defenders were outnumbered until reinforcements arrived, but the walls would work in their favour.
Sansa looked pale by Sandor's side.
"Why did he do that?" she asked.
"He must have thought you were one of his two late wives," Sandor explained. "Or maybe the third one he was planning to marry when Tywin sent him to burn the riverlands. Or the fourth one, I wouldn't know. I never much followed Gregor's life. He is… I don't know what Cersei did to him this time. He looks mad. More mad than usual, that is. He is both himself and some knight he had never been. I don't know what to make of him half of the time."
"How do you know all that?" Yohn Royce asked rabidly.
The Hound pulled off the helm of the buggering Winged Knight and slammed it on the table. Milk spilled all over, trickled down the sides. At least he didn't drown anyone in their bowls. "What do you think, Royce?" he snarled. "Don't tell me you didn't fathom the truth."
"He needs to be trialled," Nestor declared solemnly, "for Saltpans."
"Why didn't you put me on a trial yesterday, when I stopped Gregor from choking you?" the Hound wondered. "I haven't been to Saltpans. I am not responsible of all killing in this land."
"Why should we trust you?" Bronze Yohn wondered, looking as if he wanted to believe Sandor, at least until the battle ended. The Gates of the Moon could use the Hound in their ranks.
"I have a wound," the Hound said darkly, seizing the opportunity to be heard. "And you have two maesters. They will be able to tell you how old it is and how bad it was. If they are honest in their trade, they will confirm that I wasn't able to stand, and much less ride or wield a sword at the time of the sack."
Yohn Royce nodded, but Nestor continued nagging haughtily. "But, Lady Stark, why did you choose yellow? Isn't grey your house colour?"
The Hound thought how he should kill him right after he did for Gregor.
"Why not? Is wearing yellow a crime?" Sansa appeared mildly surprised by the lord's remark. Her eyes fluttered to Sandor and she gave him the slightest, most gracious nod in existence.
I love you too, the Hound thought irresistibly.
"A lady can favour her champion by her appearance," Sansa lectured the lords present in a softest voice she could muster. "In case you forgot, he saved your lord, my cousin, and myself from certain death in the Eyrie."
She approached the Hound and stood before him with her shoulders very straight.
He wondered what insipid thing she would say or if she'd shed tears again. He both wanted and dreaded it.
She took a black ribbon she had hidden in her too-dark hair, leaving the three on her bodice intact. His lady wife.
"A lady has never had a truer champion of her cause," she told him in all honesty. Her hand was clammy but steady when she pressed the fabric into his palm.
Brave. You are being brave.
"May you continue to defend it for many years," Sansa finished.
"I do not mean to stop, my lady," he tried to respond nobly, for her sake. "But the Stranger may differ from me."
Everyone was stunned to silence except the boy.
"We should climb back to the Eyrie," the little falcon said with nervous, childish passion. "With all mules we have and men to clear the tunnel. The winch is broken. Lord Nestor should go with me this time instead of sending me to die. He has broad shoulders. He can dig. The Eyrie is impregnable."
The lesser Royce did not even bother to deny his attempted crime. The Hound wondered whether to mention that his lordship should stand a trial.
What for?
Bronze Yohn would probably never punish his cousin and Lord Arryn was too weak to sentence a man to death.
"The idea has merit," Bronze Yohn thought aloud. "If we begin losing the Gates of the Moon, the survivors could hide in the woods, climb the Giant's Lance in small groups and join you. The enemy doesn't know the way. They won't find it easy to follow without a guide and we won't leave any here. They will lose men and horses."
"We have to take food," Sansa put in, forward thinking. "There are quite some weapons and armour up there, but nothing to eat."
Nestor Royce made himself scarce and began to bark orders to his household.
"Sansa," the little lord begged of his pretty cousin. "Will you help me get ready please? And to ride up without shame? I will try not to shake, I promise." As he said that, spasms conquered his body, inevitable as sunrise.
"Come," Sansa said and ushered him towards the door. "I shall pray for your victory," she said to the remaining men at the exit, pale like snow, and dragged her shaking cousin out.
Her last look was for Sandor, before she disappeared.
"Shall we?" Bronze Yohn addressed impatiently the two maesters, the Hound and Ser Peacock. "There is an army under our walls."
A quick look through the window revealed that Gregor's men had formed those ranks. Gregor rode in front, waving his greatsword like a madman.
The Hound was accepted among the men of the Vale for the time being, as long as fighting lasted.
Later, they would call him dog again.
The men hurried down the stairs, to intone the song of steel.
The Hound thought of his many years of wanting revenge and then of his last years, last days, last moments with Sansa.
He was a fool. He could have challenged Gregor much sooner, when King Robert was still alive, if he hadn't lost faith in the world. He could have told the truth about his burns, about the accidents in his family… Robert was not a diligent defender of the poor and the infirm, but neither was he cruel by nature, and he had never let Cersei do everything she wanted. He could be swayed to a good cause, once in a while. Especially if it didn't have to include admitting his own fault for accepting the corpses of Rhaegar's children from Tywin, with gratitude.
Sandor was by no means an innocent. He knew very well that he could have applied himself less in the service of the Lannisters, instead of just telling himself that the world was awful and nothing mattered, except killing Gregor, someday.
He should have let the Stranger do his work himself.
Sandor was always meticulous about his killing. Maybe he should have been… sloppy when circumstances allowed. Let the victims keep their worthless lives. He should have done more, when he could...
But Gregor, Gregor was much more than thorough. He had to be stopped. Not only because of the little dragons in their golden shrouds and their poor mother… Not only for killing Father. Not only because he burned Sandor and laughed, nor to sate the Hound's endless longing for revenge.
Not only to rescue Sansa. Not even to avenge the murder of Sandor's little, innocent sister that the Hound tried very hard never to think about.
He thought about his dead sister now, and saw clearly what he sought all his life, for as much as he convinced himself that it didn't exist.
Unlike Sandor who had been unjustly accused for it by the poxy, lying bunch calling themselves the Brotherhood without Banners, Gregor had been at Sherrer and at Mummer's Ford. And at many other places. To some of them he went on his own, when Tywin looked away. Many dead children lay at his door.
Too many butchered children…
"I will challenge Ser Gregor in a single combat," Ser Peacock claimed loudly when they reached the gates. The sword on his hip was even more ridiculous than the one Sandor was wearing.
The Hound chuckled mockingly. He would have loved to see that if the situation was less dire. "You won't challenge anyone, boy," he informed the empty-headed would-be knight. "I will," he underlined. "And not for some chivalry horseshit."
"Then why?" the peacock dared ask.
"For the sole reason I should have done it years ago, as soon as I was strong enough to try," the Hound declared calmly.
"In the name of justice."
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