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A happy and blessed New Year 2014 to everyone.

xxxxx

Chapter 13

The Crossroads

Where different characters go different ways in the end

Sandor

Others take me, thought Sandor Clegane when he woke up and realized that what he did the night before had not been a haze brought upon him by Dornish sour.

It was nothing to him, to kiss a woman's neck. He was a man grown and he had done much more than that. He'd always pitied the women whose lot was to lie with him for whatever reason so he'd very rarely kissed them. He would only submit a woman to that when he would be too drunk or too angry to care. The Hound's rage was part of the legends in the Seven Kingdoms yet he was seldom that angry.

Killing women was fine, when it was necessary, but rape was never his thing. That would be Gregor, Ser Gregor, not the Hound, never, never the second son.

He carefully lifted the bandage off his shoulder. The scarring was almost complete. Trust the Elder Brother to fix me again, he thought, and what for? To die in good health? He still put the soft tissue carefully back in its place, unable as ever to tell himself why he had always stubbornly clung to life. It would be best if the boy died, the women in the keep whispered to the Maester, but since his father told everyone how his bedding had caught fire, the boy never seemed to do what the others expected. As much as he loathed his own face, he wasn't going to hide and he wasn't going to die. He'd hide from Gregor, a bit, so that he could survive and kill him one day and that was it. Let them all watch, he had thought, let them see, he'd say in his head, finding wicked pleasure in fear and disgust he sowed in his wake.

But that was then.

Covering his ugly face with a cloak, Sandor Clegane went to check on his latest master, and the very first one who had almost become his friend.

It was nothing to him, he had to remind himself when he got a good eyeful of her from afar, packing her scarce belongings, avoiding Littlefinger who was prancing around her like an overgrown foal, trying to make conversation.

The Hound soon reached the top of the hill where the ugly small woman stooped above the Elder Brother, but the bony monk did not look any more alive, or dead, than he did the day before. The Kingslayer and Daven already lurked nearby, victims of morbid curiosity, as far as he could guess.

The singer was probably still asleep, the Hound noticed with envy, jealous of the ability he observed in Mance, to sleep like a log in the most adverse of circumstances until the last possible moment, only to wake up with the first real sign of danger, swift as a deer. Sandor Clegane knew rest, or what passed for it, only when dead drunk. It meant that he didn't sleep properly since he regained his wits on the Quiet Isle.

The Elder Brother tried to feed him calming herbs but none helped. He could simply bet whether he would experience the familiar nightmares featuring Gregor, or harm coming to his little bird by his sworn brothers of the Kingsguard while he was forced to watch, or if he would dream of an unknown vastness of sea and flames where his burned face was dipped in the fire again and again and again, and he could never stop burning. The Hound talked to the Elder Brother about the last dream because it was the only one he could describe without sacrificing his pride. The monk had seen it as a will of the Seven yet to be revealed, but the Hound found that their will was vague at best, or simply led to no good, no good at all, in the world as it was.

The new singer, a sorry bastard with a sweet face and a sickly sweet voice, probably supported by silly women for most of his miserable life, bowed before the dwarf woman as if she was about to foretell the future of the Seven Kingdoms in truth. Then, slowly, he reverently backed down the hill, disappearing from the Hound's sight. Sandor Clegane snorted at the undeserved respect she was awarded, thinking of the utmost foolishness she had shown by tossing at him as a kind of prophecy the words of the faith of the Drowned God, of the ironborn and the House Greyjoy. Every child in Westeros knew those. Every child who could read, he corrected himself, even a second son of a minor house like I.

"My dreams have been many and I cannot begin to tell them all. You," she pointed at Jaime, "have seen them and you will come back to me when you need to know more." The lion looked curious but did not reply.

Sansa approached slowly with Baelish in tow. Littlefinger wouldn't stop stalking her ever since she got off Stranger the night before, preventing Sandor Clegane to do exactly the same without causing undue attention. He doesn't want to give a chance to an old septon to spoil his merchandise, thought the Hound. As if there was anything left to spoil after the Imp.

You're not old, suggested the little frightened voice of a boy inside his head, but he dismissed it as a jug of water set next to wine on the tavern table. Kissing Sansa was still nothing to him when the ugly old woman started rambling, her eyes red like the slits around the bloody mask he now carried in his pocket.

"I have dreamed of a daughter of the river standing in the Great Sept of Baelor, receiving justice. And I have seen a kind young man with silver hair and purple eyes of a dragon kneeling before a dead maiden, and a new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms sailing home across the sea, a silver queen on a black beast spurting fire. But when the cold winds rise in the north, with my eyes open I dream of another who will come forth to call all the banners, those of the living, and those of the dead. The hidden to find the hidden. The reborn to stand against the tide. Lest the doom take us all, like the Valyria of old."

Sandor Clegane noticed the slightest tremble of Sansa's hands at the mention of the Great Sept of Baelor and a sinister forecast that a daughter of the river could be punished there for her crimes. She believes in such nonsense, the little bird does, he thought and fought the urge to snatch her in front of everyone, load her on Stranger and ride with her far, far west, kissing her as they went. Even if it was all nothing to him.

Might be that Gregor didn't ruin our father's keep completely before the viper prince did the world a favour to send him to seven hells, the Hound considered a possibility. Sansa's hair was down after a night's rest, even more coppery than when it shone in the firepit, or maybe it was a trick of his tired eyes, still getting used to the first light of the day.

You fool, he told himself, Stranger is only a horse, he could not carry both of you that far. He was acutely aware of the great risk he took the day before when he picked her from the ground riding fast, using one of his jousting tricks to unhorse the opponent. If the move was wrongly executed both contenders would hit the ground, and hit it hard. They could have landed together among wights and the things wouldn't have been pretty at all.

Yet you were victorious, the little voice said, and she leaned into you just like the other day when you changed behind the wagon. The Hound thought nothing of it, men changed on campaigns without a second thought, and he only asked her to turn around to spare her the sight of him and be done faster. But his sharpened senses of the warrior told him that even in the small space they shared there had been no absolute need for her to lean into him before he put his tunic back on. A vulgar thought that she may have wanted to feel a body of a bigger man after her marriage to the Imp crossed his mind, but it was not a believable one. If there was one thing he knew about himself, it was that he was no woman's dream.

The Hound forced himself to follow the matters at hand, willing his thoughts away. It was all nothing to him.

"Pray, what about this prince that was promised, were you the one who foretold to poor Aegon V Targaryen that this legendary saviour would ensue from the now extinct male line of his grandson Aerys, the second of his name, commonly known as the Mad King?" Littlefinger asked, amused.

"I cannot answer for all my dreams in the past," the woman replied as if she could not grasp the mockery in his voice. "But I have long dreamed about a bird who secretly clawed others to their death for years, to soothe the wounds of its heart. Until, somewhere on the way, its heart was lost. Dreams change, like life, unlike death. No one can be certain of what tomorrow will bring. And no one is smart enough."

"I am, in part, a daughter of the river," said Sansa in a tremulous voice. "Please, was it me in your dream?"

"Daughter," the old woman said avoiding the answer, "for you I have a parting gift: a set of stones given by the river, brought here for safe keeping before you were born. Take them with you. I dare say they would go well with your hair."

"Last time I accepted a token of stones, I was carrying death," Sansa dared a reply.

Littlefinger went pale like a corpse at Sansa's words. And Sandor Clegane took the mocking bird's expression and stored it in the corner of his mind where he guarded the deeds committed by more skilled killers than the Hound, those who did it without bloodying their hands. In that place Baelish was still holding a dagger at the throat of Ned Stark, and a younger Lord Tywin Lannister whistled joyfully the Rains of Castamere after the sack of King's Landing.

"Daughter, fear not. I am but an old foolish woman with her head full of odd dreams, who enjoyed your company and your play last night. Do not offend me by rejecting what little I have to give."

At that she produced a string of irregular dark red stones. Their shape was very roughly circular and they looked like murky glass, with their edges blunt as if the water had thousands of years time to erode all the sharpness and leave them perfectly smooth to the touch.

"Thank you," Sansa said, ever the polite lady, accepting the gift with grace. "If our singer was here, we could play some more for you. Ser Jaime, Brother Gravedigger, maybe we could read the next scene without him? Lord Baelish, would your help us, please? I believe you had the latest piece of parchment with you."

The Hound's legs took him forward against his will and the white mask found its way to his ruined face. For some reason it has always felt right on his features, since the first time he tried it on. It was all nothing, nothing to him: her blue eyes wide open staring in the distance when she let him devour her neck as much as he wanted to, before they unavoidably arrived and the moment was over.

Littlefinger's whispering reminded him he had a bloody role to play, a dragon prince, no less. His mouth twitched wildly but he still managed to speak: "I'd hoped to find you here, my lady."

"My prince," Sansa said in icy voice, which was not hers, but of a wolf girl long dead. "Is it a custom in the south for a man wed to play a foreign maiden for a fool?"

"Only when a man wed is but a fool himself," he replied, sinking into his role, determined to ignore who he was while the farce lasted. It was easier that way.

"I heard that honour had no value in the south, only base treachery. But I did not believe it until I discovered who you were," she spoke with resentment.

"My lady, I find that honour and treason go hand in hand in all the lands I have seen. And I may have travelled further and lived a bit longer than you did," Rhaegar had said to Lyanna with unfeigned kindness, on the highest wall of the Darry castle at night, the prompter muttered to all the players the circumstance of the scene. "Please, believe that I had not known who you were either."

"Had you known, would you have acted differently?" she continued her slash and parry.

"Would you?" he caught the blow of her question with one of his own, and that infuriated her further.

"Did you bring your friend to help you have your way with me? I will not go down meekly," Lyanna Stark warned the dragon prince, revealing a dagger in her hands, the prompter instructed from the back.

"Ser Arthur Dayne is Kingsguard, my lady. They always accompany the heir to the Iron Throne."

"Always?" she asked and backed off slightly, attempting to take her leave.

"Just like septas always escort the highborn ladies, the daughters of the high lords of the great houses, is that not so?" he called after her.

Ser Arthur's voice rang high and clear: "Please, stay, my lady. On the honour of the House Dayne. Your brother Brandon had been our dear guest a fortnight ago when I briefly visited Starfall. He bid me say hello to his little sister if I met her in the north. He is now on his way to Riverrun for the betrothal ceremony of the both of you."

"Thank you for your kind words, Ser Arthur," Lyanna acknowledged him but refused to look at Rhaegar. "I should now like to return to my rooms, as it is only proper for a maiden soon to be not only promised but formally betrothed."

"Lyanna," Rhaegar pleaded and she froze in her steps when she heard him pronounce her first name. "The way you spoke to my father today. Don't ever do it again. Please. Avoid him! Stay with your brothers, stay with your betrothed, keep your head down at the tourney in Harrenhal, Please, I beg this of you. Don't let him notice you ever again."

"King Aerys is Rhaegar's father. He knows him best, my lady," added the Sword of the Morning, his tone shrill and so sharp that it hurt, as the voice of reason often did.

"And if I so desire to fight in the tourney, what will you do? I can wield the lance and the sword as good as any of you," Lyana said full of mischief and bravery before Rhaegar could answer in all seriousness.

"If you do a foolish thing like that," he said, "my lady, I would have to match your deed with mine, and perform an outrage of such proportions that the Seven Kingdoms will talk about it for years to come. You may have wolf in your blood, but black fire stirs in mine, even if it is not plain for all to see. Think about it when you travel to Harrenhal. Stay safe, I beg you. Let me take my leave of you in peace, knowing that you will heed my warning, and I shall never bother you again for as long as we both live."

"Ser Arthur," she said, furtively, "do me this kindness and inform the heir to the Iron Throne that I will consider his words. It is all I can give him now."

A deep clear voice sliced the chill morning air from behind the players, a voice they haven't heard since the firepit, the voice of the Elder Brother: "It would be fitting, now, if the prince kissed her hands in gratitude. I believe it was customary among Targaryens. But Dayne will take his leave first and the prince will then slightly overstep the boundaries of propriety, I think, and cover her arms with kisses from her wrists to her elbows. She will then run away from him and she should probably forget her dagger. Even a man's courage would falter somewhat in the end, when faced with the crown prince and his most renowned knight."

"I was assured that this play was innocent!" yelled the prompter for all to hear.

The Elder Brother was seated on the ground and he refuted the mocking bird, before it could protest any louder: "No, I beg to disagree, Lord Protector, this is still innocent enough, the arms are blessed by the Seven as a means of doing good in their name."

The Hound woke up from his role and did not think. He did not halt to rejoice because the Elder Brother was awake. He grabbed her hands before she could say anything, change her mind about playing with him, or just leave, and obeyed the order like a good dog. Her skin tasted sweet and he wondered if she would ever let him do such a thing as Sansa, when he would not be wearing the mask that spared her the contact with the ruin of his face.

But your face brushed hers and she allowed it, staying you with her hand, the voice said in his mind and the Hound wanted to hush it but he could not.

It was all nothing to him, to the little boy who had refused to die.

Yet as much as a man grown strove to stick to that belief, it evaded him, evaporating in the fluttering mist. Her hands were warm and moist, and her breath unsteady when he let her go. The Hound straightened up and gave her a long look.

Then and there, with the weirwood stumps as witnesses, he knew. He'd not lie to himself.

To kiss Sansa, it was everything.

Brienne

A great commotion in the camp brusquely ended the play, and any further recollections of dreams, past or present.

"The boy is gone!" the young monk came shouting. It was the one everyone started calling Benjen after the character he read in the play. The northern signer seemed to hate it, but there was nothing to be done when a name was picked up by the mouth of the people. After a short time in the new company even Brienne understood that he was not named that way by his mother. I wonder what the men would call me if I read a part. Would they start calling me Nymeria if I played the role of the warrior queen? Would they forget the truth of what I am? The truth I had seen in the mirror since Septa Roelle taught me where to look for it?

"The boy squire! And the ugly red-haired sellsword! And the singer which is not ours, the one they call Sevenstrings! Ser Lynn Corbray cannot find them and he's looking for the boy everywhere," Benjen was unstoppable.

"I saw them when they left," Brienne turned back to face the singer from the north speaking, climbing fast up the hill from the outskirts of the camp. It made her tear her gaze away from the mummers she'd been watching just like about everyone else until the yelling started.

"The boy went of his own accord," Mance said firmly.

"Lord Commander," Brienne turned again to listen to Lord Baelish addressing Ser Jaime. "You do not presume that this bard knows more of the matter than an honourable knight from the Vale. The boy as the holy brother had called him is no other but young Lord Robert Arryn, son of late Lord Jon Arryn and his only heir. We were returning to the capital for the winter. We thought it would be safer. The Vale can be completely cut off from the rest of Westeros by the snows."

"And Lady Stark has also been traveling with you as I can see. How kind of you to help a ward of the crown return to the capital, Lord Baelish," said Jaime in a tone that would fool most people as serious, but Brienne knew it for a cruel taunt.

"Lysa granted Lady Sansa refuge in the Vale. I had no choice but to follow the will of my late lady wife in that matter. Although I let her know, before she met her tragic end, that the will of the King Tommen was above our own. I intend to seek his wisdom on what is to be done with Lady Sansa."

Brienne thought that she didn't even need to know Lord Baelish to be completely convinced of the falsity of his words. It was widely known he was a member of the small council and a master of coin for very long. Twisting the truth to fit the needs of running a kingdom must have been a requirement to serve the crown in such distinguished offices.

Jaime was an image of nobility and sweet courtesy, spoiled only by the prominent visibility of his stump in the bleak daylight, an essential piece of knighthood cut out and gone for good: "I am sure that you will do as you say, Lord Baelish, but it seems that now we have to organise a search party for young Lord Arryn, unless you sent him away on purpose with the sellsword. I propose to lead it myself."

"I could not presume to demand such a thing from you, Lord Commander, but I still thank you for your kindness," the master of coin sounded pleased.

"Not at all, my Lord. Ser Daven will accompany you further south and I hope to join you again very soon. Should any trouble arise while I am gone, he will endeavour to assist you. Cousin, I will take five men, who know about tracking. And I was hoping that my lady would join us as well?"

Brienne turned toward Lady Sansa wondering why Jaime would take her on such a dangerous mission, back into the cold, but she was no longer there, so the only lady whom he could have addressed was herself. Even if she wore the title of the lady with the same grace as the gowns and the hair styles that went with it in the south.

"My lord," she muttered. "In the light of our previous acquaintance, I don't think that would be wise."

"My lady, I do not require your wisdom, only your company. And you know these lands as well as I do if my memory serves me well. Or have you forgotten already how we travelled from Riverrun to King's Landing?" there was a hidden reproach in Jaime's voice.

Brienne looked into a pair of commanding green eyes and lost the nerve to go against their will, if only for a second: "My lord, the memory of our journey through these lands is indeed still fresh in my mind. If you will not be swayed in your opinion, then I will gladly help you."

"I intend to make it to Harrenhal, Lord Commander," Lord Baelish interrupted her as if she was too unimportant to be left to speak with her betters. "I would very much like to take possession of my new seat before continuing to the capital. I hear that some faithful soldiers of the crown are now guarding the place."

"Faithful is a most excellent word to describe Ser Bonifer Hasty and his men," said Jaime. "I wish my own faith in the Seven was as fervent as theirs. You will find no fault with their actions."

"Harrenhal is a cursed place," said the singer from the north, even if no one asked for his opinion. "We should head straight for the kingswood and for King's Landing while we still can. The winter is after us. Or have you all forgotten the terror of the cold?"

"And why would anyone take counsel from a vagabond minstrel, whose word means nothing in the Seven Kingdoms?" said Baelish, his practical face of a prompter replaced by one of vehement hatred.

"The minstrel brought you here from the Quiet Isle with your life intact. Or did your brave knights lead your defences in the woods, and later, in Pennytree?"

"My lords," said Lady Sansa who suddenly returned from wherever she had been. "Perhaps refreshing our supplies in Harrenhal would be of help. The war has not let many inns in business from here to King's Landing. We all need sustenance."

"Thank you, Alayne… I meant to say, my lady. This was also Lysa's idea, of course, to present Lady Sansa as my natural daughter in the Vale," Baelish spoke very fast and he appeared to be extremely satisfied with himself.

"Daven, you know my orders," Jaime said to his cousin, "Let's make haste to depart. The singer is right about the winter and we should find Lord Arryn as soon as we can. He may not last a night in the wild. Lord Baelish, where would the sellsword take him in your opinion?"

"Back to the Vale, my Lord. Alas, Lord Yohn Royce of the Runestone never took kindly to my marriage to Lysa and I suspect that he might want to seize Lord Arryn to rebel against me being the Lord Protector of the Vale, or perhaps even against His Grace King Tommen, as the traitor Robb Stark had done."

"An interesting theory," said Jaime, "I will question the sellsword about this before justice is served."

"Whatever you deem suitable, my Lord. He was in my service, but it seems that he has just taken his leave," said Baelish, calm as a statue.

"Until we meet again, then," said the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and stepped fast down the hill, away from the ring of weirwood and the protection it brought.

Brienne hurried to gather her things and one of the Lannister soldiers brought her a horse, a much better one than the animal she rode before. She recognised it for what it was, a gift from Jaime. It stirred the smouldering shame about leading him to his death, and made it burning hot again, even if she could not leave Ser Hyle and Podrick to die, she could not… She was startled by a tiny hand on her shoulder.

"Lady Brienne," Lady Sansa said softly. "You have sworn an oath to my lady mother to bring my sister Arya and me safely back to her."

"Well, it was Ser Jaime who-"

"-Forgive me if I do not put my faith in the Lannisters, even if I know too little about the Lord Commander in person to judge his true intentions. Please, Lady Brienne, when you go and look for Sweetrobin, could you do me a favour. Seek out the outlaws who captured you, those who followed Lady Stoneheart, and ask if there is one among them who witnessed when Gendry came to the Riverlands. Ask if he'd been travelling with a girl and what she looked like. Gendry just admitted to me that he was with Arya when those men caught them, but he doubts my love for my sister and refuses to tell me more. Please. I need to know if he's telling the truth.

"I sw-"

"Don't swear anything, my lady. Just do as you are bid. If you help me, I will not forget it. And I will be your friend, for what that is worth. My life may no longer be my own once I am back in the capital."

"As I will be yours, if you accept my friendship in return, unworthy as it may be of a great lady of your stature. Nothing would please me more," Brienne said with naïve sincerity men mocked her for, causing Sansa to offer her a small sad smile in return.

"One more thing, my lady," Sansa reached inside her travelling gown and presented Brienne with a sharp looking black pendant on a leather string. "Take this. You might find a use for it where you're headed. It's a talisman that belongs to the Elder Brother. Ser Jaime already borrowed his dagger and I believe you should have this until your return."

Sansa stepped up on a flat stone to be of a height with Brienne and tied the pendant around her neck: "If you meet a foe you have never encountered before, an enemy more terrible than you can imagine, use this before you waste precious time trying to fight it off with steel. Go now, with the blessing of the old gods and the new, and bring me tidings of my sister."

With that, Lady Sansa was gone as fast as a breeze or running water, and Brienne started to wonder if there was any truth to the stories that the Starks were only part human and part beasts, hunting in the woods of the north at night, wearing the skin and the body of a direwolf, but with sad human eyes. She supposed that in a world where an evil shadow of Stannis Baratheon could wander inside the camp full of armed men and kill his brother Renly in cold blood, anything was possible.

There was nothing left to do but to follow Jaime.

He had looked painfully handsome reading the short part of Ser Arthur Dayne. Brienne could imagine the Sword of the Morning exhaling the same air of quiet confidence as Jaime did, against the background of the dry white weirwoods and the pale blue sky.

A true knight ready to die for the king he was sworn to protect.

xxxx

Author's note: Yes, the intention is for Sansa to actually do something in this story. Hopefully with acceptable results.