Author's Note: A huge thank you to my beta, Underthenorthernlights.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I'm amazed this story still has your attention. As important as your comments are for me, I didn't follow your suggestions when I wrote this chapter and I stuck to my guns. This is the story of a man who thinks he's unable to commit: the plot might seem tenuous but that's the one I chose since day one. There's no big revelation in this chapter, no gunfire nor high-speed car chase, just a man facing his weaknesses.

Writing this chapter was very difficult for… reasons, so this chapter is rather short. I don't expect this to be everyone's cup of tea but if you have any criticism to voice out, remember it's probably the most personal chapter I ever wrote and please be kind...

Six months later - January the 4th

The shoe organizer had been Sansa's Christmas present to herself - her whim, he had said to provoke her. That remark had made her nudge him in the ribs; it didn't stop him from bringing his toolbox to Sansa's apartment, though.

It was Sunday: they had started putting the piece of furniture together after lunch and now that it was done, the largest part of the wall at the end of Sansa's bedroom disappeared behind the damn thing. The hammer, the screwdriver and his other tools returned to the toolbox with repeated clangs; he finally stood up with a grunt and caught her expression as she stared at the shoe organizer, biting her lower lip. The childish glee in her eyes amused him. If he was being honest, it even distracted him from the heaviness he had felt since he had woken up. He hated the fourth of January. It happened twenty-six years ago, he tried to convince himself. It's all in the fucking past. I should be able to move on.

"Shouldn't you fill this shoe organizer, instead of looking at it?" he asked her, making an effort to focus on Sansa instead of dwelling on his memories.

"Spoilsport," she mouthed with a grin, before heading to the entrance hall closet where shoes of all styles and colors piled up.

When she brought back a storage box full of shoes, he suppressed a fit of laughter. "Are you sure they will all fit in?"

"I counted, Mr. Sarcasm. Well, let me think… The high-heeled shoes I don't wear that much go on the top row and the black ones should be within easy reach-"

"Wait a minute. Don't tell me you're trying to decide where each pair of shoes goes?"

Sansa turned to him, tilted her head and told him in a most patient tone : "This is called a shoe organizer, Sandor. It means you're not supposed to put your shoes inside the cubicles haphazardly, you organize them so that you quickly find the exact pair you need. Besides, it's more pleasant-looking this way."

He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her close. "I always learn new things from you, woman." Her laughter filled the room before she wriggled away from him. Slightly disappointed, he bent over the storage box containing her shoes and rummaged in it until he found the pair he was looking for. High-heeled black pumps. These ones were a nice distraction, even when memories weighed him down. Their nubuck leather was velvety under his fingers; Sansa had worn them for New Year's Eve. He raised to his full height and brandished them with a grin.

"What?" she said. She must have anticipated one of his jokes for a smile pulled the corners of her lips.

"I want you to wear these shoes next time we fuck."

Sansa shook her head. "You know I can really hurt you with these if I decide to be a bad girl?"

"I'm not afraid. Do I look afraid?" He took a step forward and pinned her against the shoe organizer. "So, what do you say?"

Biting her lip not to laugh, she held his gaze for long seconds before replying: "Maybe I'll consider your… suggestion if you help me organize all my shoes…"

"Always ready to take advantage of an old dog." Sansa rubbed the tip of her nose against his cheek.

He thus stayed to help her tidy up her shoes, hoping he would forget why this time of year was so difficult for him. "How is it possible for a woman to have so many pairs of shoes?" he asked her when the top row was full.

Sansa spun on her heels and heaved a sigh. "You didn't see all those I left at Harry's when I ran away. I think my ex-husband could have started his own business with all the clothes and shoes-"

He didn't listen to the rest. His brain had stopped functioning when he had heard 'ex-husband'. If he was being honest, it wasn't because the mere evocation of Harry Hardyng made his hackles rise; he didn't give a fuck about Harry. It was because the word 'husband' reminded him Harry had been able to propose when he was unable to do so. His shoulders sagged.

Six months after Rickon had asked him if he planned to marry Sansa, nothing really changed. Sandor had many occasions to tell Sansa he loved her, yet he never found the courage to do it. People sometimes asked him about an upcoming wedding, a large grin on their faces, and he didn't reply. Cheesy advertising posters for wedding rings made him cringe as he drove past them. Days went by, happy and carefree, or so it seemed, and whenever something reminded him that he was unable to commit, he buried the thoughts away. Well, he tried to. If it was difficult to dispose of a corpse - something his violent past had taught him - getting rid of an inconvenient idea and of all the emotions it stirred within him was way more complicated.

With time, it only became harder, because after eight months together people started to see them as an 'old couple' and expected them to marry or to get engaged; in this regard, the festive season had given him a hard time. His friends at the gym had teased him about his plans and Lem had even asked if Sandor thought of replacing his truck with a station wagon. Sansa's family reacted the same way, although they didn't voice out their interrogations; Brynden Tully's gaze had been heavy on their fingers intertwined when Sandor and Sansa had visited him for Christmas. The notion he was a disappointment, to the closest thing Sansa had to a father, for his friends and above all for her, was unbearable. But that's exactly what I am.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Sansa's voice raised him from his thoughts.

Sandor did what he was becoming good at: he gave her his most reassuring smile and said it was nothing.

"You look distracted today," she observed. "Is it because you're going to that boxing match with Brienne in King's Landing?"

After her success in Harrenhal last summer, Brienne had kept fighting amateur boxers; she had defeated her opponents one after the other and won her ticket to King's Landing for the finale. Sandor was to accompany her, while Barristan would keep an eye on the gym.

"I guess that's it," he replied.

"When do you leave?"

"Tuesday morning. All the information is on your fridge."

He couldn't shake the feeling he had reached a dead end but making her worry was the last thing he wanted. For the same reason he had not told her this day was special for him in a mournful sort of way: twenty-six years ago, he had found his sister dead. Sansa hummed: she didn't have a single clue. Is it stupid to wish she could guess what's going on without having to tell her?

When he had woken up that morning, Sansa was in his arms. For a few seconds he had been caught between half-sleep and waking; he didn't even knew what was the date. He nonetheless sensed there was something amiss, something he couldn't put his finger on. Then, as he laid staring at the ceiling, he had remembered; a flood of images had made him snap his eyes closed for a second. Happy moments clashed with his memories of his sister's small body on the floor; he even remembered how the blue and red lights of the local police car parked in front of his parents' house cast strange hues on the kitchen wall. As his stomach pulled into a tight knot, Sansa was still asleep, her face buried in the crook of his neck; the notion she could be so close to him yet know nothing about his torments had struck him. His thoughts had turned to his sister and he had secretly hoped spending the day with Sansa would chase away nightmares and ghosts. He was wrong: the feeling of loss was still there, after all these years. And in the end, you're on your own. That was what he repeated himself when his sister, then his father had died. He gritted his teeth.

"The cone heels, please," Sansa whispered. He now knew that cone heels were not like regular pumps: focusing on Sansa's shoes hardly helped, though.

When the storage box was empty, he stood up, wincing as his thigh reminded him of his old wound. Her back to him and her hands on her hips, Sansa was admiring her shoe organizer, clueless about his melancholy. I need you, he thought. He needed her warmth and the way she reassured him: he contemplated stepping forward and taking her in his arms but he didn't move. You don't want to startle her, do you? You don't want to ruin the moment.

"Did you ever consider-" His voice was gravelly, with a hint of hesitation that made her turn around at once. "Did you ever consider you could, you know, move into my place?" He didn't know why he was saying this. A fucking impulse, he would tell himself later.

Sansa's eyebrow arched and she almost gasped at his question. "What?" she finally said. "Move in with you?" Her eyes drifted away from him and he wondered why he had even asked her as silence stretched. She finally bored into his eyes. "Is it a subtle way to propose, Sandor?" A half-smile played about her lips.

It was his turn to remain silent. What the fuck? Why? I asked her if she thought we could live in the same house and she brings up marriage? The trust he read in her eyes confirmed his intuition. She's been waiting for this. Feeling trapped, he swallowed hard and her shy smile froze.

Three months earlier, Sansa had whispered in his ear a convincing 'I love you' after sex; it was clear she expected him to answer. He had tightened his grip on her and let the words die on his lips; never had Sansa confessed her feelings for him afterward. Tension and unease had lingered between them for a few days, then it had disappeared but they had never talked about it. He had tried to convince himself some things were better left unsaid and he shook away the memory every time something reminded him of that moment. Fuck. Do it now. This is the moment you propose… Sansa, I-

The words never came. He stood rooted to the spot, watching Sansa's discomfited expression under her mask of bravery. It's too late, a little voice whispered in his head. You screwed it up. He had missed out on this chance and no matter what he would say or do afterward, something about Sansa's features convinced him he could never make up for it.

"Well, that was awkward!" she commented, trying to sound cheerful. Watching her as she pretended to shrug off the incident although she was hurt was too much for him, so he stared at the shoe organizer behind her, then at the window. She exhaled deeply and in the periphery of his vision, he saw her tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and taking a step forward to close the distance between them. "Hey, look at me, Sandor!"

He didn't and he kept his eyes on the stuff Sansa stored under the window of her bedroom: a yoga mat, a pile of books, her guitar case. With their non matching covers, the books looked a little messy. The things belonging to her used to reassure him but that day it reminded him of another pile of mismatched books stored under a window in another bedroom. His sister's. He had stood in his sister's bedroom after her death and he had stared at her stuff, not knowing why, just hoping she would come back. I'm losing her. I'm losing Sansa and I don't even realize it. It's already too late.

"Sandor, look, I'm sorry I brought this up. I know…" She intended to sound reassuring but her voice was tinged with hurt. When she brushed his arm, he took a step back.

"No. You don't know anything."

Her eyes widened; speechless, she dropped her arm and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She doesn't understand it's too late.

"We fuck, we laugh, we have fun together… But in the end- In the end I'm not the man you need. I can't give you what you need."

"Sandor, don't- Don't do that." Sansa wiped her wet cheek and held his gaze.

I fooled myself for too long. And I fooled her. He took a sharp intake of breath, grabbed her upper arms and said: "What you said was very clear. You want to marry. You were married twice, but apparently that wasn't enough."

"How dare you?" she hissed.

"You want a white dress, a fancy cake, a big party and big, fake smiles on the pictures. Well, you can have all that. Not with me, though. Pick someone else." He stared at her and somehow he was the Hound again, the man who didn't let anyone near him.

Her mouth dangled open before she started sobbing. Under his fingers, her muscles tensed then her whole body shook. Look what you've done. She wriggled away from him and her back hit the stupid shoe organizer in the process. "If I ever did something that hurt you, tell me, Sandor… Tell me what it is."

His voice was awfully cold when he answered: "You didn't do anything. Thought I could pretend and be the one you wanted me to become… I just realized I can't. I fucking can't, Sansa."

"I never wanted you to become-"

"This is over." As he cut her off, he took a step back and mentally estimated how many steps separated him from the entrance door. "There's nothing else to add. I'm sorry."

She pointed at him, angrily wiping her tears. "No, it's not over! You can't leave like this! We have to talk-"

"We had plenty of time to talk. And this isn't working. Let's face it-"

"You never talk to me about important things!" she shouted. "I swear I tried to talk about the future with you, but you don't listen, you avoid every occasion we have to speak about what we want, about us. Look at yourself!" She sniffed. "I say one little thing and you blow a fuse… Now you want to leave... You're a fucking coward!" she spat.

Before walking out, he glanced at her one last time. She was shaking wildly, holding herself to her ridiculous shoe organizer. "We had good moments. But don't fool yourself, girl. You bloody knew what kind of man I was the day you saw me in that elevator. You knew what I was capable of."

He heard her sob because, as Sansa had just told him, he was too much of a coward to look at her. With his heartbeat loud in his ears, he headed to the entrance door, slammed it behind him and walked like a damn zombie to his truck.

A whiskey-induced haze blurred the rest of the day. He had locked himself in his house, lowered the blinds, and he kept his cellphone by his side, in case Sansa rang him. Not that he regretted anything and wanted to take her call to apologize if she ever tried to reach him; it was too late for apologies. He just wanted to make sure he'd quickly block her calls. Half a dozen times, he heard the distinctive ringtone he associated with Sansa and half a dozen times he chose not to answer. She needed to know it was over: the slightest doubt about the end of their relationship could turn into hope and hope was dangerous. Breaking off all ties was the only thing to do. Stick to your guns. This is the only way.

Whiskey soothed him - up to a certain point - yet the day couldn't go fast enough for his liking. He suddenly wished he could leave Quiet Isle at once and go to King's Landing for the grand finale Brienne took part in. Out there, he would be able to focus on something else than his failures. A change of scene and some distraction: that was what he needed.

Brienne called him later that night to sort things out about their trip. He was already half-drunk at that time: he wasn't used to drinking so much anymore in such a short amount of time. Brienne asked him what was wrong because she was a nosey bitch who stuck her nose into other people's business. Giving her a piece of his mind gave him a short-lived satisfaction. Her offended silence made him snort a bitter laugh.

"What is it?" she insisted, sounding like the pain in the ass who claimed to be his English teacher in eighth grade.

"I'm not with Sansa anymore." It felt real now that he had told someone.

"Wh-What?" she stammered. "Is this a joke or something?"

"If it's a joke, it's a cruel one. We broke up. I split up, I should say."

"But why? Is it something Sansa did? Is it about her past?" Brienne inquired.

He chuckled darkly. "Why would it be about her? Why do you think it has something to do with her past? It's about me. Not her fault, but my own. My fucking fault."

Brienne remained silent for a second or two before going on: "So why don't you call her and tell her you're sorry?"

"Did I ask you for advice?" It seemed to Sandor, alcohol made him suddenly more eloquent than he usually was. "I don't think I did, so shut the fuck up. I'm sorry if I hurt her feelings, but it was the only thing to do. We're not on the same wave-length, Sansa and I. I should have seen this before."

"What are you talking about?"

"A wedding, that's what I'm talking about. Sansa wants a big, fat wedding with all the damn folklore. I don't want any of this. She thought she wanted me but I'm not the man she needs."

There was a silence and at some point Sandor asked himself if Brienne had hung up. When she finally spoke, her words were laced with disbelief. "So… She tells you she wants a traditional wedding and suddenly you lose it and you tell her it's over? What kind of jerk dumps a girl for such a petty reason?"

"Spare me. I'm done with lectures." He sounded self-confident but deep down he didn't know how to answer to that. "This relationship wasn't going anywhere. I ended it." Don't listen to her. Don't fucking listen to Brienne.

"In my world, people call it a fight, not a break up." He could feel the tension in her voice as if she was quavering a bit. "Call Sansa. You've got to make this right."

"Yeah… Nice try, Brienne. I wonder what entitles you to give me unsolicited advice. Your non existent love life, maybe?"

A silence again. "You're a jerk, Sandor. You're so convinced you ought to be unhappy it's pathetic. Everyone can see you belong with her, but no, you have to wallow in grief and make people around you sad. I really hope for you it's not too late-"

"Shut up, will you?" He heard his own voice trembling. He ran his hand over his forehead: his fingers were damp with sweat when he removed them. When was the last time I felt this bad?

Brienne heaved a sigh. "I'll see you on Tuesday morning, then, when we'll leave."

"Wait a second, Brienne. Can you pick me up at my place and take me to the airport?"

She snorted. "Let me guess. Sansa was supposed to take you there? Well, Podrick offered to drive me to the airport: I guess I can ask him to make a detour and pick you up. Good night, Sandor."

The morning after he was a mess. A mess who limped along in the gym, barked instead of talking and looked like death warmed over. People avoided him. Some whispered behind his back, he could tell.

Things are just going back to normal. I've spent most of my adult life without a woman, so why should it feel strange? Being with someone is strange, not the other way around.

He had almost convinced himself he had done the right thing when the Elder Brother showed up. Ashen-faced and sporting dark rings under his eyes, the doctor had obviously got out of the bed on the wrong side.

"Can we talk?" he asked Sandor who swept the floor by the threadmills.

Sandor cast him a wary glance. "I guess we can."

The Elder Brother followed him to his office and closed the door behind him. "So, how are you?" he asked Sandor.

"Never felt better," Sandor replied with a sarcastic grin. "What about you?"

"I'm OK, I guess. But that's not why I'm here. I've been talking to Sansa. What the hell did you think when you dumped her?"

"So what? She shows up at the hospital, she cries and suddenly you ask her what's going on?"

Instead of answering, the Elder Brother remained silent and smiled at him: it was one of the old tricks he had used many times after Sandor's arrival in Quiet Isle General Hospital: he smiled without uttering a word. As if he knew something you didn't. After all these years, it still drove Sandor out of his mind and the doctor knew it.

"I bet she told you what an asshole I am," Sandor went on, trying to sound unimpressed. "Guess what: she's right. It took her six months to realize what kind of asshole I am. A surprisingly long period for a smart girl like her."

"Are you done, here?" the Elder Brother asked, his smile fading. "Sansa is too dedicated to her job to show up crying at the hospital; she waited the end of her shift and asked me if I had heard about you. She told me a lot of things before I sent her home. As we are talking, she's probably crying her eyes out. I'm her boss and I wonder for how long she can go on without sleeping or eating. As a friend, I want to know why you made such a crazy decision."

The Elder Brother's question was met with silence, he therefore added: "She... called you a coward, out of anger, apparently. She's sorry and at the same time she wonders if she wasn't right when she called you that."

"It takes guts to end a relationship which is not going anywhere." Sandor's tone was even, as if he was past the point of caring. He sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms.

"Says who? Tell me who's the bravest person: the man who breaks up because he doesn't feel comfortable in the relationship he's in, or the one who stays and does his best to make it work?"

Sandor snorted. "You've not been in a steady relationship in years and now you're a sort of marriage counselor?"

"Touché. It doesn't mean I can't see what you're doing right now. I know you better than most people do - Sansa aside."

Silence stretched, but none of them tried to put an end to it; it was part of their conversations, since they had met. The Elder Brother always gave him time to ponder over what they discussed and he sometimes said long silences spoke for themselves. Sandor stared at the sunburst wall clock. At some point, the Elder Brother pulled an armchair and sat down heavily.

"How are you?" Sandor asked him all of a sudden. "I mean, you look... tired."

The Elder Brother ensconced himself in his seat and gave him a long look before answering: "When was the last time you asked me how I was- I'm not talking about some perfunctory 'How are you?' When was the last time you asked about me and really meant your words?"

Sandor swallowed hard: bitterness was palpable in his friend's tone. He tried to fight his pang of guilt by answering on the same tone, but no matter how hard he racked his brains, he didn't find anything.

"When I said I came here as a friend, I meant I came as Sansa's friend. I don't know if we're friends anymore, you and I."

"Listen, I'm sorry..." Sandor began.

"It takes more than small talk to call yourself friends with someone," the doctor went on. "What do you know about the choices I had to make during the last six months? About what makes me stay up all night? I tried to talk to you but it's never the right time. I wonder how you can explain that."

A lump in his throat, Sandor locked eyes with him. I'm such an asshole. "I'm sorry. I guess there's no explanation."

The Elder Brother shook his head slowly. "At first, I told myself you were so in love with Sansa and it was so exciting for you, you needed some time to adjust yourself. Then I thought you didn't need me because you had Sansa. Old friends can't compete with lovers, right? It wouldn't make sense. I waited. I told myself you would turn to me again… You never did." With a snort, he pushed himself from his seat.

"Are you sick?" Sandor inquired suddenly, wondering if his friend discerned the hint of apprehension in his tone. He hoped the reason why the Elder Brother couldn't sleep at night wasn't some sort of illness. I can't afford to lose him too.

"I'm not. Sorry to disappoint you if you were thinking I had Cancer," the Elder Brother said bitterly. "Never been better, according to my colleagues. This job is what drives me mad. I've been thinking about retiring for months and a conversation with my friend would have helped, I guess, but I've taken my decision. I'll leave Quiet Isle General before next summer."

Ill-at-ease, Sandor struggled to hold his gaze. "I'm sorry. Seems like everybody sees me as a big-league asshole, these days."

The Elder Brother snorted. "Self-pity, again. I thought you were done with this, but I guess I was wrong. As long as you wallow into self-pity, your apologies are worthless."

Sandor wanted to react, to yell perhaps, but no words came.

His hand to the door handle, the Elder Brother added: "Tell Brienne I hope she comes back from King's Landing with a medal or whatever it is they give to the champion. Good bye, Sandor."

Since the moment they had entered the airport, Pod had been sending texts back and forth; whenever a text flashed up on his screen, he hurriedly answered something back. By the way he kept looking around in the hall as if he was waiting for someone Sandor could tell Pod had something on his mind: the kid nevertheless insisted on staying with them.

"Let me guess," Sandor growled, leaning forward in his seat, his elbows digging in his thighs. "You met some hot air hostess at the restaurant you're working at and you hope to see her again."

Pod was sitting next to him and he turned to Sandor at once, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He stammered as he always did whenever someone saw through him. "N- no, Sandor, it's not some air hostess."

His embarrassed chuckle made Sandor's brow furrow. "You'd better tell us who it is, then."

"Well, it's rather awkward-"

"Pod, don't," Brienne cut him off. Sandor turned to the tall and muscular blonde sitting next to him. So she knows what's going on and I'm the only one who doesn't know what this is about. What is it?

On his left, Pod's leg was jumping. "Don't bullshit me, kid. Tell me what's going on," Sandor demanded.

"I told you it was a fucking mistake, Pod," Brienne hissed.

Pod gaped at that and seemingly forgot about Sandor's presence. "No! You've got it all wrong. You'll see. She's going to come."

She's going to come? What- No. They didn't set me up...

Brienne rolled her eyes. "Congratulations, Pod. If you relied on the element of surprise, it can't work anymore, obviously. Remind me of never trusting you with a secret."

"What the fuck is this all about?" Sandor spat. People around them turned to look at him. As soon as they caught a glimpse at his scars, they looked away though.

Brienne and Pod exchanged a long look; she repaid Pod's begging eyes with exasperation. In the end, she seemed to yield and sighed. "Pod had the brilliant idea to try to convince Sansa to come here before we go."

"Never sleep on an argument, as they say," Pod offered with a shrug.

In this case, he had already spent two nights tossing and turning on their argument - which isn't just an argument, he told himself. It's a break up. "What made you think this is what I want?" he asked, addressing Pod.

Speechless, the boy stared at Sandor's features: there was a hint of wariness in his narrowed eyes, as if he expected Sandor to go berserk any minute. Seemingly realizing the man was more detached than angry, he gulped before answering: "You know…" No, I don't. "This whole story… it's crazy to think you two broke. It can't be the end of it."

"You don't give me or Sansa much credit, do you?" he asked Pod. Sandor's words were now laced with bitterness. "You think we broke up by accident? You think I did it on an impulse? I've been thinking about it for a long time." It wasn't completely true; it wasn't a lie either. The notion they might break up someday had been there since the start, because, no matter what happened to him, Sandor always considered the worst-case scenario.

Podrick shook his head. He doesn't believe me. There was something downright annoying in the boy who looked down at his cellphone, stubbornly clinging to the false hope Sansa might come to the airport before their plane took off.

And what if she comes? Sandor's heart skipped a beat. If Sansa did show up he had no idea how he would react; if he was being honest, he missed her too much not to run to her and squeeze her in his arms. He was weak and Pod knew it. And what then? The old routine he and Sansa had was cozy but they couldn't spend another six months avoiding serious discussions…

Staring at the flap board announcing departures, he was already making plans when Pod shifted nervously and accidentally nudged him in the ribs. Swiveling his head, he saw the boy sending some text before releasing a sigh. He knows she doesn't have much time if she wants to see me before we leave.

Never had he seen Pod so jittery; as they waited for the answer with bated breath, the young man couldn't stop fidgeting in his seat.

When the phone buzzed again, Sandor took a sharp intake of breath. On his right, Brienne stood still; she nonetheless squeezed her eyes shut at some point, revealing her outward indifference was a lie. Pod looked down at his phone, read the answer but remained silent.

"Tell us," Sandor managed to ask.

"She can't make it." Pod nervously rubbed the stye beneath his eye.

At that moment, Sandor felt like a part of him had fallen to the ground and broken into pieces. No matter how hard it was, he had to know. "Don't lie to me."

"She's not coming, Sandor. I'm sorry. I thought..." His voice exuded vulnerability although there was no reason for him to take it to heart. Podrick had met Sansa only a few times; Sandor valued his opinion and enjoyed his company but he didn't know if he could call him a friend. Or could I?

Brienne stood up and shouldered her satchel bag. "We should go. It's already late. Thank you, Podrick..." Her voice seemed far away, like the announcement at the microphone and the rest. She's not coming. His shoulders sagged. So this is the end. For real.

Brienne's hand on his shoulder roused him from his thoughts. "Come on, Sandor, let's go." For the first time since he had met her, Sandor noticed how reassuring she sounded, how caring too. Brienne was a rock for those who got past her less than seductive looks. He had a feeling she was the one who would take care of him during this trip to King's Landing, not the other way around.

Responding to Brienne's gentle touch, he got on his feet like a fucking sleepwalker and turned to Pod. "Thanks for the drive."

Pod shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled his goofy smile. "Forget it. I wish-" he stopped short from saying more, then went on: "I'm going to try again-"

"No," Sandor replied, adamant. "You won't do anything, Pod, because… Someday I'll be able to thank you for what you tried to do this morning, but right now, it looks like pouring fuel on the fire." His tone was all but angry: there was just an unusual hint of resignation in his voice that made Podrick's eyes widen. "If you want to help, don't do anything."

Next chapter is the last one...