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They stood in the courtyard, dust starting to settle and the smoke clearing. Their breath an icy fog in front of them as the sun began to set. Sandor noticed none of this though, all he saw was him . The irony of this moment was not lost on him - just earlier he was lamenting that loyalty and family meant nothing all of these past years. He was a dog and he was treated like a dog. He was alone even when surrounded by people. Knights shunned him, other soldiers stayed a distance from him, his brother wanted nothing more than to see him dead, the Lannisters only used him and wanted his head. There was a hint of camaraderie with the Brotherhood, going on the fool's errand with Jon Snow, and even here at Winterfell - but it didn't seem like enough. The threat loomed heavily these weeks since arriving...no time for sentiment, forging friendships, or caring. This was their lives, all of their lives. And of course, that mad bitch had to show up with the undead freak that was his brother.
He moved forward, gripping his sword. He felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins. There was no room for fear. The was no room for hatred either. Only one Clegane could survive, and it had to be him.
The swords swung at each other and crashed together. A jolt went through Sandor, he's strong. Stronger than he should be. His thought was interrupted by the swing of his brother's sword again and he moved just in time. He swung his weapon again and was met again, repeatedly. Under that power though, he could feel Gregor was slow. Sandor knew he had more speed than him and moved his feet quickly to try to gain an advantage. Even with his sore leg, he was more fluid than his lumbering brother. He attacked the legs as best he could. He was able to hit the mark a few times, but nothing was weakening Gregor. He kept at it, moving quickly, jabbing and slicing at legs and arms. Gregor kept coming. Sandor's chest hurt, he hasn't moved so much for a long time. But this wasn't a tourney, the minute he showed weakness, he would be dead. He managed to cut across the backs of Gregor's legs and The Mountain faltered just a bit. Sandor spun and stabbed at his opponent's forearm next. He heard a roar and then a burning pain at his side. He may have hit his mark but he knew he was sliced open and blood soaked his black gambeson. He grit his teeth through the pain and continued to fight. He could have sworn he heard screaming, but he pushed it from his mind. The edges of his field of vision were starting to turn gray. He had to keep going - he had to win. He had to win, not because he hated his brother. His brother ceased to exist. Before him was a reanimated monster using his brother's body as a weapon. Gregor needed to die completely. Ironically, the word mercy flitted through Sandor’s thoughts. He also had to win because he didn't want to die just yet. There was more for him beyond this. At that point, his leg buckled a bit and he stumbled to the side. That stumble was a Godssend as the blade whizzed past his face.
Suddenly, there was a form to his right and he heard a deafening clang of metal. He glanced over as he was swinging at his brother's legs again and noticed it was Brienne. She was swinging with the strength that his endurance no longer had. Another form appeared as Arya wielded Needle with blinding speed. Sandor felt renewed energy as he went after a small gap between Gregor's helmet and cuirass. The three of them kept up their attack circling and hacking as a team. Suddenly Gregor buckled and fell to his knees dropping his sword. “Finish him!” Arya screamed over the buzz in Sandor’s ears. He gripped the sword with both hands and swung with all of his might at the bloodied area at the base of his opponent's helmet. After a hitch in the swing, he realized he had swung all the way around. The cheers and growing pool of blood at his feet confirmed that Gregor was finally dead for real. It was hard for him to see and he started to fall forward. Arms grasped him and he heard screams for a Maester. Within moments he was on his back and his clothes were being cut away from his side, only Arya had that skill. He blinked and saw her frowning at his side as Brienne stood by his legs screaming for Sam to bloody well hurry up. Another figure dropped to his side and small hand tilted his chin. He looked into bright blue eyes, “stay with us.” He nodded slightly, he couldn't speak. For once he felt something other than the pain of battle, other than the sweetness of a kill. This was something more, something that was taking his breath away. He looked over at Brienne shouting and looked over at Arya pulling out her dagger. He noticed more people gathering; not because of curiosity and not because they wanted to watch him suffer, they were concerned. This was home. This was family.
His head was turned back toward Sansa, “look at me. Stay with us.” Her hand stayed on his chin when he felt the sting of wine being poured on his wound, she wouldn't let him turn his head. “Look at me, Sandor.”
That's when he knew. He knew what Arya was going to do with that knife. It was what she tried to do so long ago when he tried to stave off the infection from the bite. He struggled to move. No fire! Brienne was down on the ground next, holding his other arm. He felt hands on his legs and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jaime and the imp. He looked back over at Sansa who seemed to be closer than ever and she was shifting a bit to pull her cloak up towards the side of his head. “You look at me, Sandor. No one else will see,” her eyes were kind.
“You won't hurt me.”
“No, my Lord,” she smiled, “I won't hurt you.” She nodded and the burning hot blade met his wound. He bit on his lip to not cry out, but the effort was futile. He felt the tears fall and he closed his eyes. Sansa's cool hand was on his cheek, “it's ok. She's done.”
He opened his eyes and took a shaking breath, “you might not have hurt me, but she certainly did.” He tried to give her his best smile, but he was so tired. Soon he felt hands on him to get him to a room to recover. It was comforting for once. Gentle hands bandaging his side, wiping his brow, giving him a bit of milk of the poppy, and sitting at his side. His last thoughts as he gripped a hand in the low light was of the feeling of family.