A/N: Beta-read by Underthenorthernlights: thank you, dear!

First off, I apologize for not posting in a very long time. This final chapter is so long I had to split it in two…

If the last update offended anyone, I am truly sorry and I hope they'll accept my apologies; when I wrote it, I never meant to hurt my readers but only tried to stay true to the story I imagined months ago.

I was very grateful for all the positive reviews I received. I was also amazed by some readers' open-mindedness when they explained why they were disappointed by the outcome of the update but nonetheless started exchanging views with me: this is probably why writing fanfiction is so important to me. I am aware this kind of story, favoring realism and a certain amount of darkness over fluff is not everyone's cup of tea; I only regret that not everyone has the open-mindedness I mentioned above. One bad review kept me away from my keyboard for a while, but it didn't change one iota of the ending: 'Recovery' was one of the first tags I added on AO3 when I posted this and it's true, this is the story of a man's recovery.

January 10th

The neons in the hotel bar somewhat dazzled him, but after a few shots his eyes became accustomed to the lights.

The headache remained though - or did it grew more painful? The buzzing around Sandor brought him back to the years he had spent there, in King's Landing, going on a pub crawl after the Lannisters dismissed him at the end of the day. The pubs where he used to drown his misery and his anger a few years ago weren't as prim and proper as this hotel bar though. The rancid smell he couldn't miss whenever he came in reminded him of the vicious circle of benders: you drink, you throw up, but you keep coming night after night because you don't know how to tolerate yourself otherwise.

With its white and pink neons and slick decoration, the hotel bar was very different yet Sandor wondered if the days of heavy drinking were behind him; nothing was clear in his head since he had broken up with Sansa. Sansa… She was a wound that would never heal, because he had wronged her. Guilt reopened the wound, rubbed it in, until he sank into the oblivion of sleep. Hunched over the bar counter, he played with the coaster where his glass had left a wet ring. There was a woman observing him on his left; tall, blonde with darker roots, hiding her late thirties under a much too short dress. Obviously looking for a man and ogling his biceps underneath the white fabric of his shirt.

It would be easy and a welcome distraction at that. Except he wasn't interested.

The smell of vetiver filled his nostrils and Brienne materialized herself next to him. He swiveled his head, sat up straight and took in her still damp hair and fresh clothes - a somewhat masculine, baby blue buttoned-down shirt which matched her eyes and a pair of navy chino pants. By her own standards, Brienne was dressed to the nines. If he wasn't half-drunk already, he would ask himself why a woman who didn't give two fucks about her looks had made such a big effort.

Brienne's eyes went from Sandor's face to the blonde woman further on his left then drifted back to Sandor again, before frowning ever so slightly: "What are you doing?" she asked him in an undertone. She sounded reproachful. Fuck you, Brienne.

Instead of answering, he lifted his empty glass which bottom was stained with whisky. Brienne's frown deepened as she considered the amber liquid remaining in the glass.

"Let's swallow something solid, for a change," she told him. It was not a suggestion but a command.

He reluctantly pushed himself from his seat and let the tall woman lead him inside the restaurant; he had lost his appetite since his breakup, but if it was what that den mother named Brienne Tarth expected of him, he'd follow her like a lapdog and eat what she would order for him. The waiter, a little runt seemingly ill-at-ease with the odd couple they formed, gave them a quiet table next to the window before Brienne asked for another one, much more central. What is she doing? Brienne's counter demand briefly made him frown, before he slipped back into his drunken haze.

Brienne skimmed through the menu and heaved a sigh. "I'll have the Roasted Filet of Beef Tenderloin," she said.

"What about your diet?" he slurred, by reflex.

"Fuck my diet, I made it to the finale, but I lost. Remember? You were somewhere behind me, next to the boxing ring, but you looked absent."

Sandor could never forget the last boxing match of the competition; he remembered the spectators yelling in the arena, the look of distress on Brienne's face until some blond jerk Sandor had known years ago had told them she had fought bravely and she should be proud of herself. The fucker thought it made things easier… For now bitterness prevailed. "Are you going to rebuke me for this until your last fucking breath?"

"Some people say I should." Her tone was curt; despite his inebriation, he perceived the underlying weariness in her words. "You told me once an athlete wins alone and loses alone. Very Clegane, this motto."

His elbows on the table, he leaned forward, expecting her to sit back because of his breath. "I say lots of bullshit…"

She rolled her eyes and gave the waiter a perfunctory smile when he stopped by their table. "Have you ordered yet?"

"I'll have the Roasted Filet of Beef Tenderloin," she answered.

"Sir?" the waiter asked, addressing Sandor.

He cleared his throat but it didn't make his tongue any less furred when he finally replied: "Not hungry."

"Two Roasted Filets of Beef," Brienne intervened.

The waiter nodded approvingly and gave a faint smile. "Have you chosen what you want to drink? We have an excellent-"

"Water," Brienne cut him off, glaring at Sandor whose smile infuriated her, most likely. "Bring us two bottles of sparkling water. Please." With that, she held out the menu for the waiter to take it. Sparkling water? This crap is usually salty: I guess she really gave up on her diet.

"Satisfied?" he asked once the waiter was gone. "You made sure I wouldn't drink anymore tonight, you ordered food for me…"

Brienne leaned forward slightly, the electric light bringing out her freckles. "I'm considering… Maybe I'll empty the minibar in your hotel room before going to bed," she confessed.

"Don't you dare…"

"You'll thank me one day." Silence stretched, only disturbed by the sound of silverware and the muffled, polite conversations of the other customers. "Did you call her, Sandor?"

There was no need to precise who she was talking about. "She doesn't want to hear from me. I'm the shit who broke up with her, after all."

The waiter was back with the bottles of water, offering him a short respite.

"Do as I tell you. For once, listen to other people." Brienne sounded adamant yet she couldn't force him to call Sansa.

There was nothing she could do, he told himself to set his mind at rest. He looked at Brienne straight in the eye and shrugged ostensibly.

"Day after day, you're perfecting your part of the disillusioned asshole. Keep up the good job and someday you'll win an Oscar." Brienne Tarth might be a pain in the ass and a know-it-all, but she had a disarming way to put him in his place. He almost liked it, although he would never admit it in front of her.

The waiter came back with their food and they ate silently; as he wasn't hungry at all. Sandor noticed how Brienne kept glancing at the restaurant main entrance, somewhere behind him. What is she doing? Between two mouthfuls, she observed their surroundings, always silent, with something akin to reluctance in her eyes. He stopped eating, put his fork down on the tablecloth and watched her every move. Brienne tried to pull the wool over his eyes by eating heartily and looking relaxed, but her carefully chosen clothes and her glances couldn't fool him. A realization dawned upon him and he snorted, thus drawing Brienne's attention on his lopsided smile.

"What?" she asked after dabbing her mouth with a white damask napkin.

"You're expecting to see Jaime Lannister." It wasn't a question. As Brienne's shoulders sagged imperceptibly, his smile broadened.

Jaime had been the one who had tried to comfort Brienne after she had lost. Sandor had lost touch with him after leaving King's Landing and so had Brienne, from what he had gathered. He remembered Jaime's exasperating smirk and the casual haughtiness that was his trademark, but the blond man had lost his glory, along with his right hand. Sandor had been too busy trying to forget the Lannisters and his cumbersome past to pay attention to the news coming from King's Landing: he knew Cersei was in prison, he knew Joffrey and Tywin had been murdered because it was difficult to ignore crimes that made the headlines, but he had no idea Jaime had lost his hand until he saw his stump. How the ladykiller had met Brienne Tarth and what they had done together remained a mystery but Sandor would stake his life on it: she had a crush on Jaime Lannister. She intended to talk to him that night.

"After all, we're leaving the day after tomorrow," he added, lifting his glass full of sparkling water with a playful smile. "You only live once."

Brienne had turned bright red. "I hate you," she mouthed. The people who organized the competition had booked plane tickets for them and when Brienne had asked why they had to stay in King's Landing three more days after the finale, instead of going back to Quiet Isle, a prick with a fancy suit and a cheap and strong cologne had told her they had obligations, whether she won or not, like meeting sponsors and giving interviews to two different sports magazines. The day after Brienne and the winner had a photoshoot for one of these magazines.

She ran her fingers through her flaxen hair and heaved a sigh before folding her arms.

"What makes you think he will come here?" Sandor asked. Imagining a woman like Brienne with Jaime Lannister had somewhat sobered him up.

She didn't answer and he was about to repeat his question when he noticed the look of panic on her face; as her eyes followed something moving behind Sandor, she swallowed hard. "Don't turn around," she muttered, but it was already too late; Sandor glanced over his shoulder and saw Jaime Lannister striding toward their table, a large grin on his face. As Jaime walked, Sandor spotted at least two women and a waiter doing a double take on him. Cersei's beloved twin stopped next to them and the charm offensive began.

"So… what do we have here? A former lout who's now walking the straight and narrow and my favorite wench."

Wench? Sandor almost choked on his water.

"You know you two form the most intriguing team I ever met?" Jaime went on. "What have you been eating? Their filet of beef? I didn't remember you were such a big eater, wench…" he trailed off, glancing at Brienne's empty plate. She turned crimson. "I didn't remember Sandor lacked appetite, that being said."

"Long time no see, Jaime," Sandor rasped. Jaime had almost ignored him the day before, in the aftermath of Brienne's defeat. "Why don't you join us?"

The waiter brought another plate and silverware for Jaime, calling him 'Mister Lannister'; on the evidence of the waiter's obsequious smile and servile manners, there were places where the Lannisters weren't completely forgotten.

For the rest of the evening, Jaime made conversation and told them what he had been doing for the last couple of years while eating his sole meunière. After the legal proceedings which had led Cersei in jail and ruined the Lannisters, Jaime was broke. His stump and his family name weren't exactly the best assets to get himself a job, so he had turned to sports betting to make a living. He had used his connections among gamblers and small-time crooks to get good tips; that was how he had survived and why he was in the boxing arena the night before as Brienne faced Obara Sand.

When Jaime and Brienne started alluding to their common past, a mysterious trip to King's Landing they had made years before, Sandor felt he was in the way. There was something different about Brienne that night, a gleam in her big blue eyes and a hint of nervousness in her gestures too. Sandor knew he could have been angry at her and at Jaime for being so obviously flirting before the eyes of a man who had just broken up, yet he wasn't. The world didn't stop turning the moment he had left Sansa crying in front of her brand-new shoe-organizer. People around him kept moving in on others and having sex and being happy. They would continue falling in love and breaking up. Such is life… Sandor was past anger; a sort of resignation had taken over him. He realized it as he watched Jaime Lannister leaning forward to get closer to a somewhat intimidated Brienne.

All of a sudden, he made his chair creak and got on his feet: "I'd better leave you two and go to bed." He grabbed his wallet, took two twenty-dollar bills and told himself it would be enough for a roasted filet and a bottle of that damn sparkling water.

"Wait a minute," Brienne said. "I don't want you to go back to the bar…"

Jaime's eyes went from her to Sandor and a quizzical look appeared on his face. "What is this all about?"

Sandor sighed. "I broke up."

"Meaning, you had a girlfriend? You, Clegane?"

Sandor chuckled darkly at that. "Brienne is concerned about my… ability to stay away from bars and places selling liquor. I'm not going to get plastered, Brienne," he said softly, looking at her straight in the eyes. "I don't feel like it. I'd rather go to bed and leave you two talking or… whatever."

Brienne pushed herself from her seat. "I'd better go with you and-"

"And make sure the minibar of my room is empty? It already is. I didn't eat the peanuts but…"

Brienne bit her lip; his remark had not swept away her doubts. "I should-"

"Leave him be, Brienne," Jaime whispered, placing his valid hand on Brienne's arm. "I'm sure Sandor will behave." There was something tender about his gesture and for Sandor it brought back the memory of his own hand around Sansa's wrist, of their first tentative touches and later, of their heated couplings, when he pinned her hands high above her head. Why does a friend's chance of happiness make me so sad?

"Good night," he said, for lack of anything wittier, and he left the restaurant.

A hot shower didn't wipe out his melancholy; it did help him relax, though. He was anything but enthusiastic when he opened his suitcase and tried to find the clothes he would wear for the interview the morning after. Brienne would be the centre of the attention, with the perpetually scowling Obara Sand, yet he didn't want to embarrass her. Brienne had been a sort of guardian angel for him since they had left Pod at the airport; she had tried to make him talk, to cheer him up when she could, to keep him out of trouble. She's here for me. I don't want to disappoint her.

A buttoned-down shirt and a pair of jeans would do; he placed them on the back of the only chair in his room and collapsed on the bed after putting on a pair boxer shorts. He had just turned on the TV when his phone rang. Sandor looked at it suspiciously, but as he didn't recognize the number, he picked up. "Yes?"

A young voice answered. "Hey buddy." Rickon. He snapped his eyes shut, wondering if he should hang up or not.

"Hi, Rickon." He let out a sigh and turned off the TV.

"So… I heard you and Sansa split."

"I did… I made the decision," Sandor explained. "I can't give her what she wants. She's better off without me."

"Says who?" Rickon protested. "She loves you. I barely recognized her voice when she called me…"

Sandor ran his hand down his face and sat up. "Listen, Rickon, you have every right to be mad at me because I hurt your sister. Now if you called to tell me how she suffers and to make me feel guilty, you're wasting your time. I can't possibly feel worse for what I did to her."

There was a silence. "I don't want to make you feel guilty. I know you already feel bad. I guess I just wanted to convince you to talk to her…"

Why does everybody seems to know better than myself what I should do? He let out a sigh. "Talking to her would only make her suffer more than she already does and reopen fresh wounds. Silence is a mercy in this case."

Sandor waited for Rickon's answer then started wondering what the boy had in mind when nothing came. Is he going to hang up?

"But do you want to talk to her?" Rickon asked. "I mean… you're talking about how you should keep silent so you don't hurt her again and all this bullshit, but this silence, is it what you want?"

He opened his mouth to answer but words were stuck in his throat. For more than a couple of days now, people had been telling him what he ought to do and why, people had scolded him, made him feel guilty and perhaps he deserved it - although he kept asking himself in the name of what people judged his actions. Nobody had asked him what he really wanted. Peace. No, it's not peace I want. I want her back. The only reason I don't call her is because it's too late.

"Why?" Rickon finally asked. "Why did you decide to leave her, like this, out of the blue?" He sounded a bit angry now.

Sandor snorted; he suddenly remembered how Rickon and he had lunch on the bench outside the gym, on a sunny day, and how the boy's question had triggered something in him…

"Why?" he replied. "You wanna know why, Rickon? You asked me what was my next move, back in July. You asked if I was going to propose. I didn't stop thinking about it since that day. Your question fucked me up, boy, because I knew I couldn't find the courage to do it. Hell no, I couldn't. You can call me a coward, you can fucking laugh at me, for all I care: your question was the first domino."

He heard Rickon's breathing on the other end, then a throat clearing. "It was just a joke, Sandor. It was months ago…" Since he had left Sansa on that Sunday afternoon, some people who didn't give two shits about his own feelings had implied it was time he'd stop finding excuses for what he had done to Sansa; now it was Rickon who was desperately looking for excuses.

"You see, Rickon, people keep blaming me for what I did, and it's fine, I deserve it. They don't see the bigger picture though. A couple is not two persons living on a desert island; they're in the middle of a crowd and the people around influence them, whether they like it or not, whether they realize it or not. Sometimes the crowd pushes one of them into the other's arms, sometimes the crowd tears them apart. I wonder if those people telling me what I should do are aware of the part they played in this, by saying things, by asking questions. By making innocent jokes."

He was harsh; maybe he was being a bastard with the kid yet he couldn't say he regretted it. For the first time since he had stormed out of Sansa's apartment, he had told someone what had truly weighing on him. The way people had looked at him, expected things of him that had consequences they perhaps didn't suspect. It didn't mean he didn't take full responsibility for what he had done, just that he was aware of whatever influence others had on his actions. Only fools think they're immune from the way other people look at them. Only fools think their decisions are only theirs.

"Look…" Rickon said timidly. "I had no idea you would be hurt. I'm… I'm sorry, man."

"It doesn't matter, now."

"What are you going to do? You know, when you come back from King's Landing."

It was also the first time in days someone asked him what he intended to do instead of telling him what was best. "Don't know yet." As he uttered these words, he briefly saw himself knocking at Sansa's door before remembering it was too late. Or is it?

He stayed for a long time lying on the covers that night, eyes open, the cool air of the hotel room eliciting goosebumps on his bare chest and legs. And when he finally sank into sleep he was too tired to know if he was in King's Landing or Quiet Isle, single or still in a relationship with a woman he had loved for years.

The annoying ring of his phone woke him up at six. He growled, reached for his phone and picked up.

"Sandor Clegane?" an unknown feminine voice asked him.

"Yes, speaking."

He heard a rustle of papers as if the woman talking to him was busy doing something else, then she said, visibly to another person. "No Ma'am, you have to stay here and wait. Dr. Campanella will be here in a minute… Sorry about that, Sir," she told him finally.

Sandor's heart skipped a bit. Dr. Campanella? Campanella was a female surgeon who worked in the E.R at Quiet Isle General. Why in Hell does the E.R. call me at 6:00? Sansa...

"Sir, I'm calling you about Dr. Knight. You know him, right? The Elder Brother… I mean, Dr. Knight had a heart attack during his night shift. You're the first name on his list of persons we need to call in case of accident."

"How is he?" He could barely breathe; the image of the Elder Brother collapsing in the hallways of the hospital superimposed with his old and recent memories of the good doctor; his knowing look when he had first seen Sandor with Sansa after they had spent an hour in that damn elevator, his ashen face and his bitter words the last time they had met, his smiling eyes when Sandor had woken up in a hospital room, years ago. 'Am I dead?' he had asked the Elder Brother that day, making him laugh. 'Not yet. You're in a bad shape, but I don't think we'd get rid of you easily.'

I don't want him to die.

"He's in intensive care for now, sir, but the doctors are optimistic. Had he had this heart attack at his place, things would have been different, but as it happened here we took good care of him."

Sandor stood up, ran his hand down his face and opened his suitcase with no need to think over it for more than a split second. "Huh… OK. I'm not in Quiet Isle right now, I'm in King's Landing but I'm going to take the first flight to see him. Thanks."

He hung up. It was obvious. Quiet Isle was the place where he needed to be right now. He hurried to the shower, hardly dried off then got dressed quickly. It took him two minutes to pack and two more to call a cab. Once it was done, he closed his door and walked to Brienne's room. He had to tell her why he was leaving so abruptly. The first knock at her door didn't seem to wake her up so he knocked again, harder this time. Sighing as he looked at the peephole, he told himself Brienne was probably the kind of woman who slept with flannelette pyjamas and earplugs: in all likelihood she had not heard him at first. Fuck, Brienne, open up, or I'll have to bang on this door and wake up everyone.

Finally, he heard the clicking sound announcing Brienne was unlocking the door and she cracked the door open. Sandor couldn't tell if he was surprised to see her frown at his early visit, yet there was something about her appearance that disturbed him: was it her dishevelled blond hair or the sheet she had hastily wrapped around her body before opening to him? Suddenly she didn't look like a woman who wore flannelette pyjamas and slept with earplugs. Her reluctance to open puzzled him too, but he was in such a hurry he kept his thoughts for himself.

"Sorry to disturb your sleep, B. I just had a call from Quiet Isle: the Elder Brother had a heart attack and… I don't know how he is exactly but I want to be there when he wakes up. I'm going to the airport."

Brienne was speechless. She looked even less comely with her mouth dangling open. "What?" she asked, holding the sheet tightly against her flat chest. "A heart attack? Of course I understand but… the interview today?"

"I didn't do a very good job at coaching you since we arrived here and by the way, you're the one they want to talk to. You don't need me. I think the Elder Brother does." He tried to smile encouragingly. "Look Brienne, I'm sorry I was such a bad coach. And a bad friend. Hope you can forgive me."

As Brienne was visibly looking for something to reply, Sandor heard a noise behind her and suddenly the dishevelled hair, the sheet wrapped around her made sense. She's not alone. Under the dim light of the hallway, Brienne glanced over her shoulder while her cheeks turned crimson.

"I believe there's a sign you can put on your door handle," Sandor teased her. "It says 'do not disturb'."

"Very funny. What am I to do with your airplane ticket?" she retorted, trying to change the subject.

"Give it to Jaime fucking Lannister." When Brienne's jaw dropped in shock, he suppressed a smile. He had broken Sansa's heart and his at the same time, his friend was in intensive care but somehow the idea of Brienne getting laid lifted his spirits. The fact she had had sex with no other than Jaime Lannister was kind of amusing. The fashion-plate and the tomboy. Quite a couple.

A muffled laugh coming from inside the hotel room confirmed his theory; Sandor smiled at Brienne who still stood there goggling, he turned around and hurried to the elevator.

The flight was a short one but he was unable to sit still; his leg kept moving up and down, earning Sandor glares from his two neighbors. Later, after he hired a car at the airport as he had left his truck in his garage, on the road to Quiet Isle General Hospital he fulminated against the slow coach who delayed him. As if that pouring rain wasn't fucking enough.

When Sandor finally arrived at the hospital, he felt a constriction in his chest: despite the rather reassuring news he had received, he didn't know what to expect when he'd see his friend. Please, I don't want him to die. Was this silent prayer addressed to a God he had never believed in? Fuck, I don't know. The all-too-familiar smell of disinfectant sickened him as he strode the hallways after a brief stop at the information desk to inquire if his friend was still in intensive care: he wasn't and that was good news. I didn't know I needed him so much. Sandor stopped in front of the door that led to where the Elder Brother was lying on a bed and he closed his eyes for a second, restraining himself from knocking too hard. Then he waited. No answer came but he decided to push the door open nonetheless.

The Elder Brother was there, on a bed that seemed too small for his tall frame. Sandor immediately noticed his waxy complexion and the pointless effort his friend made to sit up.

"No, no," Sandor muttered, walking to the bedside. Overcome by fatigue, the Elder Brother had hardly lifted his head when he gave up, sinking into the bed again. With the drip and the other tubes tying him to the medical devices around his bed every attempt to move was doomed to failure.

Bending over his old friend, Sandor smiled at him. The Elder Brother gave him a long look before whispering: "Am I dead?"

His words echoed those Sandor had uttered years ago, in the same hospital, after Arya had left him for dead by the roadside. The man who was now lying in bed, struck down with a heart attack, had been towering over him that day and Sandor still remembered his mental roll of eyes when he had spotted the preordained name of his savior on the immaculate coat he wore. 'Doctor Knight. Great. So who am I? A hairy kind of damsel in distress?'

There was something ironic about the role reversal and Sandor suspected the Elder Brother remembered their very first exchange; he had chosen these words on purpose.

"You, dead? Not yet," Sandor replied.

"What are you doing here? You were supposed to stay in King's Landing for a couple of days more…"

Sandor shifted from foot to foot. "Thought you'd need me more than Brienne does. The lady who called me said something about my name being on top on your list… You know, the list of persons the hospital staff calls in case of accident." There was an embarrassed silence, then he added: "If I still was on your list, I told myself I had to be here with you."

The Elder Brother stared at him and for a split second, Sandor wondered if what he saw in the corner of his friend's eye was a tear; on an impulse, he took the doctor's hand, squeezed it gently and through the wordless look they exchanged, he knew that the one-way ticket he had bought a couple of hours before had been the best decision he had made in a while. He also realized everything was forgotten.

"I'm not going anywhere. You won't get rid of me so easily," he told the Elder Brother, trying to sound cheerful. "My turn to take care of you."

"You're not exactly the nurse of my dreams, Sandor." His acerbic tone brought a smile on Sandor's lips.

"A pair of tits making your heart race is the last thing you need, right now," he countered.

The doctor sighed: "You have a point."

An intern came in to check on the Elder Brother, then sneaked out of the room, as if he feared to disturb the patient; it was one of the things that had always surprised Sandor: the way nurses, interns and even his fellow doctors almost worshipped the Elder Brother, who never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed.

"You told me the other day you had never been better, according to your colleagues," Sandor said once they were alone. "What happened?"

"My cardiologist wasn't as… optimistic as the others. He told me not to overestimate my strength. He was the only one who sounded a bit worried so..."

Sandor shook his head slowly, exhaling a deep breath. "... so you chose to ignore his warning."

The Elder Brother shrugged tentatively. When someone knocked at the door again, Sandor expected to see the intern coming back with his apologetical look, but instead of the young man he saw red locks framing an oval face. Sansa. She didn't wear her usual coat but a pair of black jeans and a loose sweater; her hair was damp because of the rain outside. He remembered from the schedule she had left on his fridge she didn't work that day.

She looked just as surprised when she spotted him, the sight of her ex boyfriend making her freeze mid-stride. Sansa swallowed hard; maybe she considered running away before the situation became even more embarrassing.

"I should probably leave," he whispered, addressing the Elder Brother. "I'll come back to see you later and-" When he tried to remove his hand, the doctor prevented him from doing so by holding it tighter.

"Stay here with me." Saying 'no' to the Elder Brother had never been easy.

In the meanwhile, Sansa had regained her composure, walked around the bed and she now stood opposite to Sandor, the hospital bed being the only thing that separated them. It was the first time they were in the same room since he had left her and obviously she intended to ignore him the best she could since she couldn't get rid of him.

"I came as fast as I could," she told the Elder Brother, "but I left the hospital last night and no one called to tell me what had happened. If it wasn't for one of the girls who called me about something else I wouldn't even know you had a heart attack."

"It's OK," the doctor replied, giving a hint of a smile. "Had you arrived earlier you would have found me asleep. I woke up only minutes before Sandor's arrival. He took the first flight when he got the news, apparently."

Sansa grabbed the doctor's free hand, thus mirroring her ex boyfriend's gesture. At that very moment, Sandor's eyes fell on his own hand, wrapped around the Elder Brother's fingers, then they followed the older man's arm up to his shoulder covered by a blueish hospital gown; his eyes lingered on the white lining of the gown, then resumed their wandering: his friend's shoulder, the arm emerging from the covers and at the end of it, Sansa's fingers gently squeezing the Elder Brother's. The ashen-faced, sick doctor was the only link between them and this idea struck Sandor. A heart attack had been necessary to bring them back in the same room, face to face. A heart attack, isn't it ironic?

Sansa kept her eyes on the Elder Brother's face with a sort of obstination about her that reminded Sandor of why she used to exasperate him when they met and why he had cherished her afterward. He could see the dark circles under her eyes; he knew he was the one to blame if she didn't sleep at night. All of a sudden, he wished he could wrap his arms around her and comfort her. That was stupid: by rejecting her he had willingly given up the right to wipe her tears away. The extent of the damage was there, before his eyes, unmistakable; he had ruined the best thing he had ever had, trampled on her feelings and on his, just because he felt unworthy of her. Years ago, the Elder Brother had called his addiction to alcohol and violence his 'self-destructive tendencies': he had laughed at that, but that day, as his friend's pale hand rested in his, he understood what the Elder Brother meant and he recognized his break-up with Sansa as the last avatar of his self-destructive behavior.

Sansa asked the Elder Brother how it had happened and what the doctors had told him but as the concerned party didn't have much detail to share, the conversation quickly wound down, and they stayed silent for a while before a nurse came in and told Sansa and Sandor to wait outside. Tight-lipped, Sansa obeyed and he followed her in the hallway; she made sure of keeping her distance with him. With her arms folded about her chest and her eyes downcast, she looked both angry and nervous; he couldn't blame her.

"Sansa," he called softly, moving closer.

She instantly stepped aside. "What?" she said, after a long silence exuding hostility. "You thought you just had to show up and I'd throw myself in your arms? I thought you were done with all this. I thought you weren't interested in a girl whose dreams include a big wedding party and kids." Further in the corridor, two nurses apparently disturbed in their chattering swiveled their head; all of a sudden, Sansa shut up and bit her lip.

Sandor remained silent, taking the blow.

"I'm not talking to you," she added, lower this time.

You are. Had she understood what he wanted before he knew it? In all likelihood, Sansa suspected the Elder Brother's heart attack wasn't the only reason Sandor had come back so fast from King's Landing. It was true: the call he had received at daybreak had been the trigger but before that, the notion he had to head back home and make amends was there. Only had he managed to push that thought down into the recesses of his mind for a moment.

The nurse who was inside with the Elder Brother opened the door again and told them to come in; Sansa bombarded her with questions about the doctor's health but the only answer she got was that the cardiologist would visit Doctor Knight the day after and tell the patient what awaited him.

"Sandor, do you think you can be here when my colleague stops in?" the Elder Brother asked.

Forestalling her ex boyfriend, Sansa announced: "I can be here. I'm more qualified…" She stopped short from saying more. "I'll ask one of the girls to take my shift-"

"You won't do that," the Elder Brother cut her off. "Sandor will take care of it. Right, Sandor?"

Under the two men's scrutiny, the redhead frowned deeply but the Elder Brother sounded so adamant she finally agreed with reluctance. Although he couldn't blame her for being on the defensive, it was clear Sansa's attitude had changed the atmosphere. He wondered how much the tension between them affected the Elder Brother, and if Sansa realized it. She acted as if she didn't want to give ground, as if she intended to stay until Sandor yielded and left first. I am the reason she's so angry. In the end, Sandor asked the Elder Brother if he needed anything and took his leave. He hardly had taken a few steps in the hallway when he heard the door opening, then closing behind him. Sansa had followed him, but when he turned to glance at her, she ignored him and lengthened her stride, easily overtaking Sandor.

Whether it was because of the Elder Brother's heart attack worried him sick or because of the tension when he had seen Sansa, he felt worn out and stopped at the cafeteria before going back to the parking lot. He didn't feel hungry enough to eat but he found comfort in the appalling quality of coffee at the hospital cafeteria: at least there were things that would never change, like the weak, bitter taste of this dishwater they brewed.

On his way to the parking lot, he thought of the things he needed to do: call Brienne, apologize again and ask how the interview had gone; swing by the gym and see if Barristan could work so he could go to the hospital the day after to hear whatever the Elder Brother's cardiologist had to say; find someone to accompany him to the car rental agency in Quiet Isle to return the sedan he had hired at the airport. I'll ask one of the guys at the gym. Lem, maybe?

It was still raining and although it was the early afternoon, dark clouds filled the sky, forcing drivers to use their headlights in the middle of the day. When he saw Sansa, she had her back to him and she was visibly overwrought; he heard her curse as she opened the hood of her car.

"Got trouble with your car?" he asked, making her turn around.

She was soaked to the skin and it only made her look fiercer. "I'm going to call a repair shop. I'll be fine," she snapped, slamming the hood.

Ignoring her glare, Sandor came closer. "Let me guess. You forgot to turn off your headlights before leaving your car and the battery ran out?"

There was a silence as she hung her head, her damp hair partly concealing her face. "I don't need your help, Sandor," she first whispered. Without any other warning, she raised her eyes and almost barked: "I'm fine! I know what you're doing and I don't want your charity."

"Who talked about charity? If you call a garage, the guy will charge you and he'll probably try to make you buy a new battery you don't need. I have cables at my place-"

"I told you I didn't want-"

"Sansa, you need a favor, I need one too. I hired a car at the airport because I didn't want to waste time and now I need someone to accompany me to my place, take my car and drive with me to the car rental in Quiet Isle. You help me, I help you. We'll be square."

She chewed her lip, then pushed aside her wet locks with exasperation. "I guess I could seize the opportunity to take the things I left at your place," she finally said, avoiding his gaze.

It felt like a slap in the face, yet he said nothing and let the raindrops run down his forehead and cheeks. Sansa took her purse, locked her car and followed him to the sedan he had hired.

The short drive to Sandor's house was a quiet one; only did she break the awkward silence after they left the town. "I heard Brienne lost her boxing match."

"Bad coach," he explained. "I take all the blame."

"That's what you keep doing, taking all the blame. Does it make you feel any better?"

He didn't answer and asked her instead: "Why didn't you go to my place when I was in King's Landing if you wanted your things back ? You have the key. I wouldn't have been there to bother you. "

In the periphery of his vision, he saw her shrug. "I don't know." After her glares and her cutting answers, her sudden hesitation unsettled him. In King's Landing, he had had a dream about her going to his house during his absence, removing her clothes, her beauty products and leaving the key inside his mailbox. This key, he had feared to find it when he got home.

Once he parked the car in his driveway, he told her he would check on his truck and take all he needed to recharge the battery of her car. Watching her go inside the house to get back her belongings would be like witnessing the final act of their relationship, so he hurried to his garage and looked for cables to fix Sansa's battery. It took him a couple of minutes, as he didn't remember where he had last seen the cables. He made sure he had his toolbox in his truck and finally, he headed to the car parked in his driveway, imagining Sansa had packed her things in the meantime. If she had not have enough time to do so, he would wait.

The rain had stopped. Sandor heaved a sigh and gazed at the hired car; behind the windshield still shining with raindrops, he could see Sansa, staring into space, still sitting on the passenger seat. She had not moved since he had switched off the ignition. A realization dawned upon him. She had the opportunity to go inside, take her stuff and put an end to our relationship. She didn't.

She probably felt his eyes on her for she turned slightly to face him; he stepped closer, opened the car door and asked softly: "Are you ready to go?" She nodded. Why didn't she take her things? He buried the thought away yet something had changed in Sansa's eyes. I know she didn't take her things and she realized it. Perhaps this question was best avoided. "Do you know where the car rental agency is?" She nodded again. "Good. I'll follow you then."

As Sansa settled herself in the driver's seat, then maneuvered to exit his driveway, he observed her, wondering about her sudden turnaround. Had she simply forgotten she wanted to get her belongings back as she waited in the car? The explanation didn't satisfy him, and once again, he found himself dissecting her every move, knowing well it would bring more questions than answers.