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I don't have to die like this.
The thought occurred to him the second he launched against his brother.
I don't want to die like this.
His whole life he had wanted revenge, he had wanted to kill his brother for what he did to him. It had been what made him get out of bed every day, it had been what fed him when he went hungry and what warmed him when he got cold. Revenge had been the reason he had trained so hard he had become one of the best. Revenge had been the reason he had left Winterfell, and the only thing that could have resembled a family. Revenge had been what had moved him to launch against his brother with all his being, and just now he realized that dying with Gregor would not be a victory, it would be the final form of defeat. It would mean that Gregor won, that after all those years he was still the little brother with his head full of songs and dreams. What the fuck had he been thinking? That it was better to die with Gregor than to let someone else, something else, kill him? The fucking Dragon Queen was already setting fire to the whole damn city.
As he felt his shoulder hit the monster who embodied his brother, Sandor extended his arms as much as he could hoping, maybe praying, that he'd be able to grab onto something that wasn't crumbling. He felt the resistance of the wall and dug his heels on the ground for whatever good it might be. A part of him longed to continue pushing Gregor, another part of him wished that what he did would do the job, one moment he was driving his brother and the other he was throwing himself backward with all the force he could. Then everything happened in slow motion. He felt Gregor clawing at the air, instantly he knew that his brother was not trying to save himself, but instead trying to pull him down, Gregor got a hold of his right foot and began pulling him, Sandor's ass sliding down as he kicked and turned. For once in his life he was glad he was poor, the boots he had stolen from some dead fucker were too bing on him and after some vicious kicking, he felt the shoe slide off and with it, Gregor's hang on him.
So there he was, hanging to a crumbled ledge for his life; his arms hurt from the fight, his vision blurred from the blood and sweat in his eyes, he felt like giving up, everything in his body ached and he was unsure if he would even have the strength to pull himself up.
You wanted a second chance, don't be a cunt now, he chastised himself before taking a deep breath that he wasn't sure if hurt him or helped him. In the distance, he heard a dragon screeching and then felt an unnatural wave of heat, and he knew that if he didn't get moving, he might have as well let Gregor drag him down.
It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours, and if someone asked him, he wouldn't be able to tell, but he made it out of the Red Keep and then out of the crowded and crumbling streets of King's Landing. Limping, half blind and bone tired, Sandor walked until he couldn't move anymore, until he reached the beach and then, when he was almost sure that nothing could fall on him and no dragon would burn him, he fell down and didn't try to get up, letting darkness embrace him like an old friend.
He woke up feeling like he was drowning, the salt in the water seared his wounds and he cursed loudly.
"Good, you're alive."
The voice was unmistakable, but he still forced himself to open his eyes. There was a dark spot on the line of vision of his right eye, but Arya Stark stood before him, covered in dust and with dried blood on her brow.
"Aye", he said and then the little thing launched at him just as he had launched at his brother, only that she wasn't out to kill him. He felt thin and strong arms wrap around his neck, a knobby knee hit his tender ribs, but he said nothing; instead, he draped one big arm around her little frame and allowed himself to enjoy the moment. "What the fuck are you still doing here? How did you find me?"
"I was on my way out when I saw him," she said throwing her head to the side and Sandor saw Jaime Lannister leaning against a rock, "He seemed rather determined to go in and I wondered why…"
"You tried to save her," Sandor said plainly and remembered the terror on Cersei's face when he last saw her.
"I didn't know what I was going to do, save her or kill her, I still don't know." Jaime Lannister said between teeth, only then Sandor noticed the red stains on the Kingslayer's side, "Didn't have the chance to figure it out either, this one here pushed me out of the way before the building collapsed… I might have seen her head, might have caught her eyes, but I don't know."
"Enough whining," Arya said as she walked ankle deep into the ocean and washed the ashes and blood away, "we need to go, we need to find Jon or Davos or someone, and we need to go north. Fuck the south, fuck King's Landing."
"Couldn't have said it better, little wolf," Sandor said and forced himself to get up and walk towards the water, he hadn't died back there so he might as well live. With that thought fresh in his head, he turned around to a distraught Jaime Lannister, "You're alive, she's dead. If you want to die here, go ahead, but if you'd rather live then wash the fucking dirt off your pretty face and let's go."
The look on Jon Snow's face when his little sister walked up to him was such pure love and relieve that Sandor had to turn away, feeling like he was intruding in some kind of intimate moment or whatever. The King in the North mended their wounds, fed and clothed them, provided horses and a small pouch to buy them passage if need be. When the Kingslayer told Jon Snow that his queen would likely have his head for letting him go north, Jon Snow simply shrugged and mumbled something about the queen probably wanting his head already and so their journey began.
They left the Stark camp in the middle of the night and rode through back roads as hard as their horses would take them, with every gallop Sandor felt pain in his entire body, Snow had ordered a healer to wrap his ribs as tight as humanly possible but there were some things that only rest could heal. Still, he did not complain; neither did Arya, whose eyes were a deep shade of blue and purple, nor Jaime Lannister who was so stitched up that they might as well have made a pretty dress with all that threat. They put as many leagues them and the capital as they could, they weren't precisely fleeing the city, but they were not going to stay and drink tea with the Dragon Queen either. After a few nights of hard riding, the adrenaline wore off, and a fresh wave of hurt and pain overtook their bodies, which had probably never recovered from the battle against the dead.
After one week on the road, Jaime Lannister eased himself into the comfortable routine that only came from traveling long and often with someone. Each day, when the night fell, Arya would disappear to fish or hunt something, Sandor would make camp and Jaime had taken it upon him to start the fire. The long night might have been over, but as they got closer to Winterfell, the air grew colder and the nights longer, winter had arrived, and it seemed it would be a while before it left. During their second week on the road, Jaime developed a fever, the maester had told them that while the Kingslayer had been stitched up, some of his inner wounds still needed mending and that they had to watch out for any signs of infection. Surprisingly, it was Arya who said they should stay in the camp and allow Jaime to recover, she sent Sandor for wood and water to boil and tended to the weak knight. That evening, in between feverish delusions, he and Arya learned that Jaime Lannister might have had more honor than all the fucking knights of King's Landing. They learned that almost as much as Jaime's heart had constricted when his twin died, it had also broken as he saw the city that had cost him his honor finally becoming what he had so hard tried to avoid.
We must be quite the sight, Sandor thought one afternoon as they cruised along a stream; apparently, neither of them was in a hurry to get back North. Not him, since he didn't know why he was going back to Winterfell, not Arya, who had refused to marry the Baratheon bastard, and definitely not Jaime, who seemed more scared of the idea of facing Brienne of fucking Tarth than the wrath of any king or queen. He didn't blame him, though, if it was true that the Maid of Tarth was no longer a maid then it was going to be one awkward encounter that he wished he'd be able to witness.
On their third week on the road, the week they should have arrived but they were all too focused on their own shit, and no one was in a hurry, they finally started talking. They were gathered around the fire, Arya had her shirt held up to her ribs, her arm pressing against her chest and covering her breasts as he tried his best to apply salve and cover the deep cuts that were almost healed from the battle against the dead, the new bruises from King's Landing almost gone now.
"Stop being such a blushing maiden, Lannister, it's not like you haven't seen a woman's back before," Arya said in a friendly and mocking tone.
"You two have a fucking weird relationship," Jaime said as he turned the fish over the fire.
"Says the man who used to fuck his sister," Sandor mumbled, and there was silence for a second, silence that was later broken by roaring laughter.
"What will you do?" Arya asked as she lowered her shirt and sat by the fire, "When we get back, if the doors are open, what will you do?"
"Duck and cover from the arrows that will no doubt come flying down for me," Jaime said wholeheartedly, and Sandor shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"I doubt that," Arya said, "We probably don't have enough arrows. What about you, Sandor?"
"Sandor?", Jaime Lannister asked mockingly, and for a second there, he was back to being the golden lion of Lannister, "Since when do you call him Sandor?"
"Since I finally understood why the lone wolf dies and the pack survives," Arya said nonchalantly, "Maybe one day you'll understand too."
They arrived at Winter Town as the sun came up on their thirtieth day on the road, the small town was recovering from the war, but the buildings were still standing, the market buzzed with activity and people, though thin and tired, looked rather content. A young boy recognized one of them and let out a cheer, if it was the hero of Winterfell, the Hound or the Kingslayer who he recognized, Sandor wouldn't have been able to tell. Arya's words from when they rode south rang in his ears, she wasn't one for crowds, neither was he, but Arya endured the greetings and the praise, the thank you's and the blessings and all that a lady should endure from her people. Word about them must have traveled fast because by the time they reached the castle, the doors were open, and the Lady of Winterfell stood in the middle of the courtyard patiently waiting for them.
This time, as the sisters reunited in a tight hug, Sandor didn't look away; his heart skipped a beat, and something warmed up inside him as he saw the two people in the world that he would gladly lay his life for finally back together and relatively safe at home. He remembered a time when they were younger, when Sansa Stark and Arya Stark had looked more like distant cousins than sisters, one tall and delicate, the other one small and rough. Now, so many years later, there was no doubt in him that those two were cut from the same fabric. Fighters, the both of them, survivors, wolves, resilient; one of them the perfect definition of a lady, the other one could have been a knight if not for the fact that she was fucking crazy. Both Stark girls held his heart, the heart he thought had died with his sister all those years ago.
"They deserved better than what they got," Jaime Lannister's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"When has anyone ever gotten what they deserve?", he countered, and given the fact that no one was trying to kill him or arrest him, he decided to go and see to his horse and leave the Starks alone.
He had planned on sleeping in the stables when a small boy tugged on his sleeve and told him that the Lady said that his chambers were ready. In the past, he would have growled at the boy, tried to scare him off, maybe he was growing old or perhaps the Hound had died with Gregor, but this time Sandor simply nodded and followed the boy around. Soon he found himself in his newly assigned chambers, not far away from the family wing, from the Lord's and Lady's chambers where he had a thousand years ago seen Eddard and Catelyn Stark retire as he stood guard on the cunt Joffrey's door. Only then did he remember about Jaime Lannister and how he hadn't seen the man since they arrived, he doubted Jaime would be harmed, the worst that could happen would be for him to be imprisoned, but that didn't sound like the Starks either, Arya wouldn't allow it.
Once the boy was gone, he considered sitting down but quickly decided against it, knowing for sure that once he sat, he would not be able to stand up for at least two days. His ribs had not properly healed, all the moving around and galloping kept the bone form mending, his whole body ached, the missing piece of muscle in his left leg hurt like a bitch due to the cold weather and Sandor decided that a bath would do him good. He found Jaime Lannister sunken into the hot springs, the once golden hair on his head now looked almost brown and not because of the dirt. The one handed knight nodded at him and he nodded back, the unwritten rule of no talking while naked in a bath with another man still present even after something similar to friendship had started between them. A few minutes later, Jaime Lannister stepped out of the bath and dried himself off with what must have been a tunic, only then did Sandor noticed how thin he man was, how fragile he looked.
"I am to stand trial in the Great Hall in the morrow", Jaime announced without any sign of worry in his voice. "I'm not sure under what charges, but maybe I am to die in this freezing place after all."
For the first time in forever, Sandor Clegane was speechless. He didn't think Jaime Lannister would die in the morrow, but he hadn't been the one to break the Lady of Winterfell's sworn shield's heart, a sworn shield that was doing shit at shielding as he hadn't seen her ginourmos frame in the entire time he had been in the castle. He was so lost in thought that when the door opened, he paid no attention, not until the smooth sound of skirts against polished stone was close enough for him to hear.
"My sister tells me you saved her life… yet again"
Her voice was smoother than the worn stone where he sat, her cheeks were flushed either from the warmth from the bathhouse or the fact that there was no denying he was naked before her. Before him stood Lady Stark, blue eyes sharp as steel and porcelain skin to match the snow of her home, her face looked more angular, she looked thinner too, but she looked strong, just like her family home, she had been worn from battle but she still stood.
"She saved my life too," he said and tried to hold her eyes but failed miserably. He could have been fully clothed or standing naked before her and he wouldn't have been able to hold her eyes, not after their last conversation, not after the way he had talked to her, not after the way she had brushed his hand with her delicate thumb.
"Did you do it?", she asked and took a seat in the bench near the bath, she was no longer that girl who blushed when a man handed her a rose, she was far from it as she sat alone with a naked man in a bathroom. "You said only one thing could make you happy and you rode south, you are back here but you don't look much happier."
He was silent for a moment, for once in his life trying to organize his words before speaking, he hadn't done that in the great hall all those moons ago and he had regretted it. That night he had sworn there was something different in the way Sansa Stark looked at him, something that he would have loved to explore but didn't allow himself to, not when he was leaving in the morning to what he was sure would be his death.
"It turns out I was wrong," he admitted, and it felt as if the water wasn't just cleaning his body but also cleaning his soul, "The one thing I thought that would make me happy almost killed me."
"Well, if it matters to you, I am glad you're alive, and I am glad you are here." Her voice was barely a whisper then, her eyes, which had been holding his, lowered at her confession. There was a moment of silence, a moment that stretched too long before he realized he should say something, a moment in which she looked at him, and her eyes pierced his soul before standing up to leave.
"Little bird," he said and stood up, the water luckily covering his lower half, and a heartbeat later Sansa turned to face him, "I was wrong about the thing that would make me happy. Killing my brother hasn't made me happy, though it has given me some strange sort of peace. What would make me happy… what makes me happy… is seeing you and your sister safe at home, I hope you know that I would do anything to keep you and your sister safe."
Sansa's face remained the unreadable mask of indifference that he had come to hate since he saw her again but her eyes softened, and Sandor knew he must have finally said something right. Quietly, slowly, Sansa crunched down until she was eye to eye with him; when was the last time he had been granted such close sight of her beautiful face? Probably never.
"Would you like to know what would make me happy?"
She asked slowly, maybe even sensually? No, it couldn't be, he was imagining things, reading too much into a simple question. Not trusting his voice to say anything, he just nodded his head, knowing that if she wished him to fall on his sword, he would do so without complaining.
"It would make me happy to see my sister accept the love she deserves, it would make me happy to see my sworn shield smile like she was smiling during the feast… and it would make me immensely happy to get to know Sandor Clegane a little better. I'm sure Arya is having an interesting conversation in the smithy, and I don't know about Brienne, but what do you think about that last thing I mentioned?"
It took him a second, a split of a second even, to realize that she was asking for his permission, that she was asking if he was willing to give Sandor Clegane a second chance at life. He wanted to tell her that there was no one else he'd rather have a second chance at life with, that when he closed his eyes every time he thought he was going to die it was her face he saw, that he would give her everything and anything she wanted because he was an old dog with no bite left in him. But he still wasn't a knight from a song and he still wasn't a good man and he still was just the second son of a gods damned minor house, a house that he would have no problem seeing extinct.
"I would like that," he said mumbling like a green boy, "Aye, I would like that."
Then, in the middle of winter, Sansa Stark smiled at him, and he felt as if he were standing in the coast of Dorne with the sun shining upon him, only that this was better, because her smile was all for him, even when he didn't quite deserve it.