A/N: So...this was a tough chapter for me to write. Which is why it's shorter than it might've been otherwise. I just couldn't bring myself to go into any more detail about what happens in this chapter. You'll understand soon. So...no notes. Just some terrible stuff. Many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.

Rating: M for strong language, violence, and character death.

"Bring him out."

The order was harsh and loud in the stillness of the dungeon. There had been a clamor from the prisoners on the upper floors when Sandor had first been dragged in, but now that the novelty of sharing a dungeon with the Hound had faded, all had gone silent once more.

Sandor snarled at the guards who dragged him from his cell, not yet ready to give up the name he had fought so hard to receive, and it took little effort to throw them off of him. A well-aimed headbutt sent the smaller of the two men crashing against the bars of his cell door and the larger stumbled backward to avoid the flailing attacks of the manacled ex-soldier. Neither moved to recapture him once he was free from their grasp, eyeing him warily as Ulfric stepped forward.

"So I was wrong. The Hound hasn't yet been tamed." Ulfric's sneer nearly sent Sandor back into a rage, but he thought that was what Stormcloak would want, and so he stayed still.

"Fuck you."

Stormcloak laughed, the sound echoing grotesquely against the stone walls. "Look at him, men. A gods damned filthy deserter, who thinks that he can walk right into my palace, demand to be married to my bride, and expect to walk out of the city with his head still on his shoulders." The Jarl raised his eyebrows at Sandor's sudden change in demeanor and he smirked. "Oh, you hadn't heard yet? Yes...Loredas afternoon, the very day after your execution, I'm going to be married to Sansa Stark. It will be the wedding of her dreams, I imagine. A white gown...the wedding held in the Temple of Talos...a handsome and brave man waiting for her at the end of the aisle...oh yes. So much more than she could've ever had if she had married you." A malicious gleam entered his eyes as he held Sandor's gaze and he grinned mirthlessly. "And the wedding night...oh, that'll be something she'll never forget. I do hope you can hear it from the grave when I fuck her and it's my name that's torn from those pretty lips of hers."

With a roar, Sandor lunged toward the older man, but the chains around his ankles sent him stumbling and Ulfric's fist connected sharply with his stomach as he doubled over in pain.

Stormcloak offered him a look of complete, albeit feigned, surprise before looking over at the two guards who were still standing warily beside the open cell. "Did you see that? This prisoner just attacked your Jarl. The future High King of Skyrim. I think you know what to do with men like this, don't you?"

As Sandor turned to face his two would-be attackers, Ulfric grabbed his arms and held them tightly behind his back, holding him securely in place as the blows from the two armored soldiers fell heavily against his large and unprotected frame.

It wasn't until he was bloodied from head to toe and barely able to stand that Sandor was shoved roughly back into his cell and chained to the wall beside the door, just close enough so that he could see the door to the stairs beyond which lay his only hope of escape.

Beaten and ashamed, Sandor turned his head away when Ulfric looked toward him, but the Jarl stepped forward and forced him to meet his gaze.

"I think I'll enjoy watching you die," he hissed, his face inches from Sandor's, normally handsome features twisted with rage. "Though it would rather dampen the mood if your bitch is still crying when I take her in my chambers."

With that, he grabbed a handful of Sandor's hair and slammed his head back against the wall of his cell, grinning at the audible crack and Sandor's cry of pain. "You've been a good dog, Clegane. I just hope that you're ready to die."

The dungeon's only light flickered from the torches along the walls and danced with twisting shadows across the metals bars of the cells, illuminating the dirty and bloodied faces of the dozens of prisoners held beneath the great city of Windhelm. At the very end of the lowest level, a single prisoner sat in complete darkness, partnered with a self-imposed silence. It was there that Sandor Clegane waited for his death, hardly conscious as he slumped against the cold stone of his cell, in far too much pain to try and take any comfort from the meager pile of straw set aside for a bed.

"Sandor!"

The sound of his name made him raise his head, and he strained to hear the familiar sound again, hoping against all hope that his ears had not deceived him.

"Sandor..."

It was a barely audible whisper, but he heard it, and mustering what little strength he had, he dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the harsh clang of chains that threatened to tear apart his already throbbing skull. He moved to the bars and the woman outside his cell stepped back to retrieve a torch, lifting it up when she returned. Sandor flinched back from the flame and squinted in the sudden light.

"Sansa?" His voice was hoarse from disuse.

She nodded mutely.

His lover looked at him with nearly as much pain as he knew was mirrored in his own eyes and he bitterly thought of the man she must see before him. He was still favoring his right leg due to the arrow wound he had received on their journey, he had the scars of both new and old wounds across his bare chest and his stormy grey eyes lacked their usual fire, only gleaming wetly in the flickering light of the torch. As if that didn't leave her a frightening enough sight, his hair had moved back to its proper place and he was sure that the burnt side of his face was especially hideous in the harsh glow of the flame.

Sansa lifted her hand to cradle his ruined cheek and he instinctively moved into the touch, nuzzling his face against the smooth skin of her palm. When she felt his tears leaking through her fingers she choked back a sob of her own.

Sandor's hand reached out toward hers, but his wrist irons clanged against the bars and his jaw clenched in frustration. Sansa silently dropped her torch and slipped her free hand through the bars to find his, twining their fingers together as the flame sputtered and died.

"Little bird...you can't be here."

Her thin fingers traced the line of his jaw then stopped on his lips, effectively silencing him. His forehead dropped to rest against the bars as Sansa stood up on her toes and by some miracle, they found each other's lips in the darkness. It was a short, clumsy kiss, but somehow held more emotion than any of their others ever had. The simple gesture tore a sob from Sansa's throat and her blue eyes welled up with tears. Perhaps they knew, somewhere beneath the anger and denial, that it would be last kiss they would ever share.

"I waited until Ulfric was asleep before coming down here, and I only barely managed to sneak in when the guards were changing posts. But it..." She sniffed quietly. "It won't be long before they find me." She hesitated for a moment, trying and failing to gain her composure before she let out another sob. "Oh, Sandor! Ulfric...he...he's a monster! He's forcing me to marry him and—and I don't want to!"

Sandor instinctively moved to hold her, but settled with groping blindly for her other hand when he remembered where he was. When he found it he twined his fingers through hers and planted his lips against what he hoped was her nose. She continued quietly crying and rested her head against the bars, holding his large hands tightly in her own.

"Shh...I know little bird, I know. But you mustn't cry."

The soothing words did little to calm her and she moved one of her hands to his face before whispering into the darkness between them.

"Don't leave me, Sandor. Please...You can't. I can't live without you."

Even as she spoke, he could hear the sound of iron boots on the floor above, and faint voices whispering along the walls. Just as she had predicted, Lord Stormcloak had discovered that his prize was missing and sent his guards after her.

His breath escaped in a sigh and when he spoke he sounded as weary as he felt. "Can you do me a favor, little bird?" Her hand gripped his more tightly in her own, though she showed no other sign of hearing the men who sought her and she nodded. "Don't mourn for me."

Sansa lifted her head and looked at him in confusion. "Sandor...what are you saying?"

Reaching for her, he gripped her chin tightly between his thumb and forefinger as he had so often before and forced her gaze to his. "Sansa. Promise me."

The voices grew louder as the guards came down the last flight of stairs.

"Sansa!" He held her jaw tightly in his hand and stared down at her. "Promise me. I love you, but you have to move on. Be happy. Please." As much as he wanted to fight to remain at Sansa's side, he knew the world too well to think the idea anything other than impossible.

"Sandor, wait..."

"Lady Stark!" The jailer strode swiftly down the shadowed corridor, seized her arm, and wrenched her away from Sandor's grasp.

"No!" She wailed and squirmed in his iron grip, her body wracked with heaving sobs. "No! SANDOR!" Her foot came down hard on the jailer's and he swore loudly, but maintained his hold, getting another guard to help drag her away.

"You can't do this!" Her voice rose in pitch and she flailed to get away.

Sandor's voice reached her, quiet and broken. "Don't fight, little bird."

She grew still and limp in their arms, whimpering quietly as she was dragged away toward the future that awaited her. "No...Sandor, I love you. I love you..."

It was that admission—so often taken for granted—more than anything else, even as he looked toward his imminent death, that broke his heart.

The sound of footsteps roused Sandor from his fitful sleep and he dragged himself up to sit against the back of his cell, his entire body complaining as the motion aggravated his wounds. Strangely, the footsteps were accompanied by a heavy and uncanny silence. Instead of the usual banter of the guards and jangle of their keys to keep time with the pounding of steel on stone, it was more of a whisper, barely audible even in the stillness of the dungeon.

The door at the end of the corridor creaked open and he barely dared to hope that Sansa had somehow managed to change Stormcloak's mind. It wasn't that he was afraid to die, he just didn't want her to suffer after his execution as he knew she would.

As the iron door clanged shut against the cold stone walls of the dungeon, the shapes of two men appeared, both heavily cloaked in shadow. One was tall and though it looked as if he carried an innate air of command, he appeared subservient to his companion, a slight man who seemed to hold an aura of power about him despite his stature. Neither was recognizable in the dark with one eye swollen shut and crusted with blood. The voice on the other hand, he knew.

"Get up, prisoner. Come with us."

The second man opened the lock with ease and the bars swung aside without a sound. When Sandor remained still on the ground, the first man stepped forward and yanked him to his feet. "I said get up, Hound. Follow us and do as we say. Your time here is at its end."

The sky above was clear, a brilliant cloudless blue. The air was crisp and cool, the kind that each breath beckons like an old friend. The birds sang a song that had been all but forgotten in the midst of war and the sunlight that filtered through the bare branches of the trees shone down to illuminate the dark stone block that sat solitary on a platform of wood long since stained a deep, rich crimson. A crowd had already begun to gather. Old, young, and every age in between. All eager to witness the justice of their lord.

Ulfric stood atop the platform with Robb Stark at his right and Ralof to his left, the latter wearing the dark hood of an executioner and holding a long-handled axe. Sansa stood beside her brother, under close watch of the Jarl. Her expression was haunted, her eyes glazed over and unresponsive.

The voice of the jailer broke the almost reverent silence. "Make way for the prisoner!" The crowd parted as though the man being brought before them carried the plague and all eyes turned to see him: the man whose execution they were so eagerly awaiting.

If one had asked those who stood there that day, they would say that the once fierce and sorely feared Hound of the Imperial Legion was not the man they saw before them. Between two guards, being all but dragged through the throng of people, was the man they called Sandor Clegane, as evidenced by his imposing size and stature, but where he once would have scowled and spat at those who sought to forsake him, he now stared sullenly through glassy eyes. He was but a shell of the man he had once been. A few faces in the crowd turned away, realizing with dawning unease that this execution was more a mercy than a punishment.

He was shoved up onto the scaffold and left to his own devices from there. His head moved slowly downward to where the executioner's block sat, then rose again to meet the gaze of the Lady Stark, strikingly beautiful even in her grief. One of her pale hands moved as though to reach for those that hung loosely at his sides, but a savage look from Lord Stormcloak stopped her mid-motion. Those nearest the scaffold say she cried: sweet, silent tears that fell just for him.

After wrenching his stare from the woman before him, the soldier who had once been called 'Hound', stepped forward, standing in the center of the scaffold, just behind the block, so that all eyes could see him in his final moments. Though the sight of such a monster was supposed to bring hate to the black eyes of those who silently condemned him, the man that stood before them garnered nothing more than pity.

"I, Lord Ulfric of House Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and future High King of Skyrim, condemn Sandor of House Clegane to death for the crime of high treason. The man you see before you here today fought for the Empire, the very entity which seeks to ravage our great country and tear her asunder with its army of Imperials. He claims to have left their ranks, in order to seek repentance, but the only witness to this claim is yonder maiden: a delicate flower of the Stark family that the Hound stole away from safety and..." Ulfric paused and sent a deeply troubled and sympathetic look to the woman in mention. "...took advantage of."

The crowd stirred uneasily and murmurs of disbelief rose up as they regarded the criminal and the young lady who stood broken behind him. Smiling grimly, Ulfric stepped forward, and, obscured by the mid-morning shadows that surrounded him, raised his arms to the people below—his people.

"Executioner...let the Jarl's Justice be done."

Ralof, a young and well-liked commander of the Stormcloak forces, unsuited to the task he had been given, forced the prisoner to his knees and took his place beside the block.

"Any last words?"

A hush fell over the crowd, and stayed there, heavy and oppressive, as the eyes of the condemned stared into their midst. Once it was clear that no words would be spoken, the executioner, taking his cue from the lord of Windhelm, stepped up, raised the axe above his head, and then, with a practiced and precise movement, swung down as the world went black.