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Chapter Text

"Don't worry mother, father. It's a great honor, one I'm grateful to be chosen for. I will try and do District 3 proud. I promise," she squeezed her parents' hands. "Take care."

The peacekeepers dragged them away, too soon. She barely got a look at Bran and Rickon. 

"I love you," she whispered to the empty room. 

*

She sat in the train alone, the telescreen blaring out the names of the tributes over and over. Everytime it played, her heart stopped at her name. Sansa Stark, District 3. 

She knew it was going to happen. She knew her sister's actions weren't without consequence. Hoodwinking the Capitol itself wasn't something they took lightly but a public punishment meant admitting that hoodwinking the Capitol was possible, so all suffering meted out to the Starks was private. 

Removal of her father from the Mayor's position, public shaming of her mother at the school she taught in, Bran's accident, the subtle but noticeable decrease in ration of the entire District and the most blatantly, yet undetectable, Robb's reaping during last year's hunger games. 

She pushed the images away from her head willing the tears to die down. 

What had father said? "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives." Allies. I need allies, if I even want to have a chance to win.

So far, all the other tributes had either scared her or made her weep for them. 

District one, two and four - this year's careers seemed deadlier than usual - or was it that they were like this every year, and it was only her turn to face them? 

Her mind rejected all attempts to calm down, and think rationally. The headshots of the same few people kept replaying in her head - the long faced boy from district 1 with his sinister eyes, the beastly boy from 2 with half his face burned off, her cousin Robin who sat in the compartment next to hers, the stunning - almost angelic looking twins from 4, the little girl with greyscale marks from 8, the dark skinned boy from 11, and the tall, homely girl from 12. 

Sleep didn't come easy. Everytime she closed her eyes she felt them closing in on her, the boy from 2 scowled like he did in his picture as he held her down while the other found things to finish her off. Wolves took centre stage in her nightmares, accompanied by crossbows, swords and that monstrous drum that played in last year's finale. 

"Robb," she whimpered, crying. "How did you do this?"

*

"Right here, chop chop!" Margeary Tyrell, her escort, clapped her hands. 

Sansa nodded and settled on the small bed in the centre of the room. They'd had her stripped and waxed and marinated in lotions and oils. 

She resisted the urge to hide herself and weep as her stylist looked her over. She found herself looking over him trying to distract herself. He had soft brown eyes rimmed in green liner with gold flecks, his brown hair curled away from his face and pinned with matching green butterflies. 

He had kind eyes, that's all Sansa really registered about him. 

"Oh, you are beautiful, my dear," he said, taking her hand. "We'll be sure to show it to 'em, won't we? You will be unforgettable !"

I'm going to end up naked at the tribute parade, she wailed internally. 

***

He finished his third set of pushups and took a turn around the empty white room. No windows, no doors, just a bed in the center of it. 

He felt his scars and nakedness more acutely than ever before, which was in itself no small feat. 

An old lady swooped in, hair dyed green and wrinkles filled out so her skin was unnaturally taut. She was small and frail but her demeanor meant business. 

He straightened out unconsciously as she entered taking stock of him like he was a pile of weapons to be exported or a bag of rice to be weighed - completely analytically. 

"Hmm… hmm… hm. Tsk. Okay so, boy, what's your name again?" 

"Sandor Clegane."

"Olenna.  Cleg-ane," she repeated slowly, then snapped her fingers. "That was your brother who won five years ago wasn't it?" 

"Yes."

"Didn't have to do much to make them remember him. Did all that by himself," she said matter of factly. "You will too. Face like that." 

For the first time in his life, it didn't sound like a bad thing. 

"Tall, not as tall but you'll do. District 2… Masonry and weapons. We'll forgo the builder's uniform. Focus on the weapons."

"They train bloodhounds near where I live," he offered, uncertain. 

"Hounds! Yes, of course…" he could almost see the wheels turning in her head. 

 "I'm thinking armour, weapons, helms!" She gasped. "Maybe even a cape. No shirt, though. And we need to do something about that god awful hair."

His eyes widened for a second before he reigned in his features. 

They plopped him back into the dressing chair. Olenna came out with an electric razor and a small blade. 

She cut half his hair off at the nape of his neck in one swift movement. The rest was combed back, hanging limply behind his exposed face.

He knew what he looked like, but sitting in that hairdresser's chair, he thought there was never a time where he looked uglier.  

She sectioned off a long chunk that served to fall over his scars, to save it. The rest she cut short on the sides, leaving some length at the top. 

Once it was done, he almost looked nice. Only on the good side. The new, shorter hair almost lifted up his visage, emphasising the sharpness of his features. 

Olenna tsked approvingly as she left to get the rest of his costume ready. 

There wasn't much of a costume to speak of. He wore dark leather boots and matching pants that hung - 'fashionably' unlaced -dangerously low on his hips. She'd given him vambraces, rerebraces and pauldrons.  No shirt, as promised. 

An elaborate headpiece was the supposed master stroke. It was fashioned in the shape of a snarling dog, after one of his district's jobs to train bloodhounds. The dog snarled around his head like a lion's mane and where it met the pauldrons, a cloak was clipped on it - garish yellow and black. 

They covered his bare chest with something shiny bringing out his muscles. 

"Unforgettable," Olenna said. 

He looked in the mirror and could only agree. 

***

She was older now, sombre and scared but some childish part of her wanted to gush over her outfit. 

She wasn't as she had feared, naked for the tribute parade. 

Her two piece set was made with small lights, for the electronics of district 3. The top barely covered her, but the skirt! 

It had a metre long train, lights in soft versions of every colour imaginable sown into it. 

Matching lights were woven into her hair, half of which was piled high on her head while the rest flowed freely down her back. 

The only makeup they had done was darken her lashes and natural lip colour. "We need them to recognise you, Sansa," Garlan explained. 

Robin wore a suit of a similar material. All their makeup couldn't completely hide the puffiness of his eyes. 

The tributes lined up before their chariots. 

District 1 went before she could fully take in the surroundings. 

District 12 tributes were dressed as coal miners, ashes smeared on their faces. 

The girl was tall, much taller than she had initially thought. If it came to a physical combat, Sansa knew she'd be toast. 

2s stood in front of her. The girl - tall and sculpted - wore metal garments. They covered only the bare minimum, and a gold and black bow was strung across her body. 

Her gaze fixed on the boy, the one with the horrible face.

His stylist had done a good job, she had to admit. 

His helm hid the ugliest part of his scarring but still showed enough for him to be recognised. His chest, perfect and bare, and cape flying behind him, shimmering black and every shade of yellow and gold there was. 

For some reason she found it hard to take her eyes off him. 

After they called for district 2, Sansa was again on high alert. She was next after all. 

Behind her the beautiful boy from 4 stood smirking and waving, like this was all a joke. He wore only body glitter and only on his lower body. 

She blushed and hastily turned away. His sister was dressed the same way. 

The chariot ride ended as soon as it began and at the same time, took an forever. Cheers and roses rained down as her train fluttered behind the chariot, like she was a beacon of silver light in the dark. 

Her eyes involuntarily sought out the fluttering yellow-gold cape and the absolute mayhem he created.  

Behind her the cheers rang just as loud for Jaime and Cersei. He grabbed the roses thrown his way and blew kisses out to the audience. 

Sansa followed his lead. 

Her chariot was one of the first to finish the round. She stood directly next to the boy from 2 some distance apart. The cheer died down considerably as the outlining district costumes got more and more plain. 

In an effort to rally the crowds she saw them pan over the tributes from the top, lingering too long on and circling back, so the she and the boy from 2 were in the same frame. 

She shrank inwardly as he scowled into the camera. He could kill her with his eyes closed and hands tied if he wanted to. 

After the President's speech, the tributes were taken to their tower. She saw the boy from 2 linger back with the horses before someone dragged him away. 

***

"Focus on the survival skills - finding shelter, water, food, making fires, setting snares. You both don't have time or frankly even the strength to master any weapons. Try to learn the basics of daggers and bows. You don't have to be good, just so that if you come across one, you won't be useless with it," Sansa's mentor Petyr intoned. 

"Make allies. Getting in with the careers is your best shot but I doubt they'll let you in. Do as I did, make allies with everyone and kill them off, one by one. Either stay at the forefront or completely below the radar. Got it?"

She nodded absorbing every word. She couldn't look at Robin. Not after she knew that ultimately it was every person for themself. 

Sansa woke up with a start at the knock on her door. She pulled a shawl over quickly and peeked through the door. 

"Yes, Petyr?" 

"A word to the wise, my love. Won't you let me in?" She stepped outside instead. 

"You know what this is right?" He eyed the bare skin of her shoulder peeking through the folds of her shawl. 

She hugged herself tighter and shook her head, suddenly alert. 

"It's a television show. All the fighting, and the skills, all it is is entertainment. You give them a good show, you make yourself invaluable and they -" he delicately picked the strap of her top, stroking the skin beneath with the back of his fingers, "- they won't be able to resist you. You'll make it to the end. Give them what they want. You've got your own weapon, you know, your mother's beauty. You could use it, make it out of the games… life would be so easy then. For you, for me," he stepped closer. "You get my drift? Listen to me, won't you?" 

"Yes, I will," she stepped back into her room, already barring her door, "thank you, Petyr."

Her heart raced. She rushed into the shower and scrubbed her skin raw, feeling slimy and dirty for some reason. Pulling over the baggiest clothes she could find, she snuck out, guiltily hopping past Robin's room. 

Someone should have volunteered, he's only twelve.

The cameras followed her as she went to the elevator, but no one came to stop her. She pressed the button and, still no movement. 

She heard someone walking towards the lift and almost thought herself done for, when finally the door opened and she slipped in. 

It was dark, except for the lights of the Capitol hundreds of feet below her. 

A hand grabbed her from the back and pinned her to the glass. Another hand clamped her mouth shut stifling her cry and gasp. 

"Keep your mouth shut, 3, or you're the first one I'll kill," he rasped. She smelt the alcohol on his mouth. 

She nodded and mumbled out a surrender. 

He pulled his hand away and slammed the stop button on the lift. 

She almost gasped but shut her mouth with her hands. 

"Planning to run away are you? Jump off the top floor? The lift won't go up there. Save yourself the trouble, get a dagger," he laughed. 

"No! I only…" his eyes were boring into her so intensely, she couldn't match him. She glanced away focusing on a distant light in a Capitol building. 

"You only what?" He spat.

"I only wanted to see the Capitol at night," she racked her brain for the pathetic excuse. "I've heard tales of its beauty. My floor is quite low, I couldn't really see anything from there. I didn't mean to disturb you," she said. 

" Not meant to disturb me ," he mocked.  "What are you doing here, girl? They can hang you for this. Or cut out your tongue and make you an avox. How will you chirp without that tongue of yours? " 

"Chirp?" 

"Yes, chirp. Like an empty headed bird."

"What are you doing here? They could… do the same to you…" she said, somehow not being able to repeat his exact words. 

"Aye, but it'll be much more interesting making me fight in the games, wouldn't it? Makes for good tv. Setting a dog on rats."

"You volunteered," she almost spat. "They didn't make you do anything!"

"They did nothing! That's the thing isn't it? They did nothing when my brother burnt half my face off! They did nothing when my father blew up testing his own shit bomb! They did nothing while my sister lay dying! Nothing, at all!"

He was shaking, real bad. 

All the air was knocked out of her.She felt afraid again, but for once, not for herself. 

She laid her own shaky hand on his shoulder, "They should have done something." 

He seemed to only just realise she was there. He threw back his head and howled. She'd have stumbled but she was already pressed against the glass. 

"Yes," he growled, "little bird, they should have."

He pressed the stop button again and the lift started moving. She took in as much of the scene as she could. It really was quite beautiful, the clusters of light in the black, almost like a galaxy. 

The elevator dinged open, and just as she was about to step out, he grabbed her arm, " If you tell anyone what I told you here, repeat it anywhere in the games, the show, I'll kill you and I'll make it slow."

Chapter Text

Focus on the survival skills , she revised.  Shelter, water, food, making fires. I'm forgetting something! Oh! what did he say?!  As much as Sansa was loathe to have been under Petyr's mentorship, he was her best shot at actually making it home. No one else from district 3 had ever won the games. 

Everytime her resolve faltered and she tried to weasel away from him, a memory would flash. Of home and her family. How he was her only chance. 

Shelter, water, fire, food . What else, what else?

She and Robin were dressed in the uniforms given - plasticy grey and red shirt and leggings with combat boots. It was a far cry from all the flowing skirts she favored, emphasising just how out of her depth she truly was, another thing threatening to choke her volition. 

In the training room, a handler took their attendance and gave them the instructions. 

They had two days to train before the scoring, then interviews and then the Games. 

Sansa stifled her sobs at the look of her competitors. The gamemakers watched from the balcony, some leering some vaguely interested. 

You give them a good show, you make yourself invaluable… what does that mean? A good show? She wasn't skilled enough to be able to make it on her own like Brienne. She didn't have any connections like the twins from 4 or sheer brute strength like Sandor. 

You have your mother's beauty, Petyr had said.  What he was hinting at?  Using her body to make some kind of ally in the games made her feel slimy. Almost as slimy as Petyr. 

As she was lost in her thoughts, a knife whirred past her and lodged itself to the wall behind her. She gasped and stumbled to the ground, frightened, tears flowing out with no signs of stopping. 

Jamie Lannister sauntered to her, smirking. He bent down and gave her a hand which she reluctantly took. His mouth hovered dangerously close to hers as he retrieved the knife. 

"My pardons, sweet lady," he said, huskily. She nodded furiously all the words gone from her memory. 

"My sister doesn't usually miss," he whispered close to her ears, an evil glint in his eyes. 

Suddenly terrified, Sansa looked around for Sweetrobin - Robert. He is not my cousin Sweetrobin anymore. He is my fellow tribute from district 3 and only one can go home. I just hope I don't have to do it. Or anything. 

He was huddled next to the other 12 and 13 year olds - Shireen, Missandei and Winona - Weasel as everyone had started calling her. 

The instructor was teaching them how to make fires, something Sansa realised she didn't know how to do. Back in three, everyone had electric appliances. No one so much as saw fire unless there was an accident. 

She shuffled forward and waited in the back. It seemed fairly simply and she got to practising. There were stones, wood, and matches.

Start with the hardest to master. Wood, it is. 

She took a log and made a small hole in it with a small knife. The found a stick and stuck it in. She began rolling it the way the instructor had done. 

"You should keep some straw ready," a soft voice alerted her. "So that you don't lose the spark. I… I can show you, if you want."

"Yes, please. Thank you… Brienne," Sansa smiled. 

The tall girl knelt down and picked up some bits of dry wood and husk. She clumped them together and set to word on the stick. 

"You should move your hands down as you roll," she said, lost in concentration. 

Sansa watched fascinated as the spark caught and a small fire danced around. She her hands moved seemingly of their own accord as she clapped giddily.

"Thank you. Oh! This is marvelous!" 

Suddenly the room got quiet. Brienne flushed, embarrassed but gave her a small smile, her eyes still sad. 

Realising her folly, Sansa lifted her head and saw everyone staring at her. 

Cersei said something to her brother and they snickered. 

No one looked more wroth with her than Sandor. He pointed his steely gaze at her, filled with anger, she looked away.

She walked around a bit trying to commit the medicinal plants to memory and the poisonous ones when a hand yanked her into the tree stump enclosure for camoflouge training. 

"What the fuck was that? Do you really think this is a fucking game?" He hissed at her. "Are you really this daft or is this your game? Be so stupid everyone else forgets you're here," his nails dug into her wrist so hard she felt the familiar numbness of having the blood circulation cut off. "That's how your mentor won, I know. Well I won't."

"No, no, I never meant to -"

"Shut your trap!" He snarled. His scars were painted grey and brown, matching the tree barks so well he almost disappeared in them. His eyes glittered like the moon at night. 

"They'll kill you anyways, little bird. Doesn't matter that you are harmless, in fact they'll kill you first. They should. If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of the ones who can. Maybe I'll do it myself." His thumb traced her jawline and pressed on her pulse softly.  "Dogs have birds for breakfast after all." 

"I'm not a bird! You're hurting me! Let me go! Let. Me. Go!" She wrenched free. "I don't have to talk to you," she turned to leave. 

He grabbed her arms and pinned her against the tree. "You'll get hurt plenty worse than this. This is a slaughter house you're in now and I'm the butcher."

The words squeezed the air out of her. Her breathing became more and more strained as he looked over her. Her chest was heaving and she felt faint. His eyes travelled down her body resting above her heart.  

"Please," she whimpered in his arms, trapped like a bird for true. "It hurts."

He backed off suddenly. "Kill or die, little bird. It's every man for themselves. Might as well fight," he let her go abruptly and disappeared into the false forest. 

She leaned heavily against the tree, trying to catch her breath. 

*

Snare should be next now, she told herself. I have only two days to train. Best to make the most of it.   

She went to the traps but with no instructor to help her, she had to fend for herself. She had deliberately waited till all the others were done with the snares so that no one could see how utterly useless she was at all this. 

Some moments, she felt weaker even than Robin, even at her sixteen years. 

I'm good at sewing, though. The new mayor's wife always gets her dresses embroidered by me. How different can this be?

She tried to read the manual and do the simplest snare she could find. It was one that would constrict the animal's throat when caught. She shuddered at the thought, but it seemed less bloody than the deadfall trap and other more elaborate snares designed to capture the animal alive. It'll be a quick death. That's the least it can do.

She set to work with the cord but it never worked right. With every try all she succeeded was in making knots in the cord or unravelling it completely. 

Almost ready to pull her hair out in frustration, Sansa looked around. 

Maybe I could try and find an ally. Make a pack, like father said to. They'll need me, as much as I need them. She pushed the thought of having to eventually turn against her pack or they on her, hastily out of her mind. 

She looked around for the perfect ally - for her and Robin - in her head, they were still a unit. 

She found her cousin by the bows and arrows, abysmally trying to just string it. 

"Robin, how is it going? You learn anything new?" She touched his shoulder gently but he jumped, startled. 

"Oh! Sansa, it's you," he breathed out. "I thought it was that horrible boy from 1. He is scary, he said he is going to cut off everyone's hands before he kills them." Robin looked terrified, unshed tears swimming in her eyes. 

She hugged him close and muttered comforting lies. "Petyr said we should find allies," she told him at lunch. Everyone sat next to their district mates, except the careers who all sat together. Somehow seeing Sandor sit by Vargo Hoat and Cersei Lannister chilled her. She glared at him, unintentionally, watching him turn away from the group with every bite. He kept wiping his mouth, the scarred side. 

He caught her eye and she glanced away again.   

"Okay, so who do you think we should ask?" 

"Um… Brienne, maybe," she looked at the tall, skeletal girl in the corner. She sat alone, her eyes flicking to Renly who was with Loras Tyrell. 

An involuntary shudder passed Sansa. Renly and Loras. Renly was well built, anyone could see that.  And Loras - District 7, Lumber. Sansa had seen him practising with axes and scythes. He looked like some beautiful version of death from her grandfather's books, from the darkest days. 

She'd chanced on the picture when she was still a little kid, and it gave her nightmares for days. That was around the time she'd learnt what the hunger games truly meant.  

If Renly and Loras team up… they could be almost as good as the careers. 

"Your mother's beauty…" yes, well, they're both handsome. And Loras is also sixteen, like me. Maybe we could be allies. It'd certainly be better than only Brienne- assuming she says yes. Lone wolf, that one. 

Sansa was a pack wolf, the much she knew. 

"Or Loras and Renly, how about them?" Sansa said. 

"I… I would rather we ask Brienne. Or Shireen, she's nice, Sansa. She's good with making fire too. Better than me, at least."

"Not Shireen," she said, perhaps a little too soon. Having saddled herself with Robin was bad as it is. Adding another helpless twelve year old was too much for her. 

"We need someone strong. And brave. To protect us, at least for sometime."

"Well, then I don't know, ask that boy from 2, he keeps staring at you anyway!" Robin huffed. 

"Sandor...?" Her eyes flitted to him again. He looked away this time. She wanted to, the souls of the dead knew she wanted to. He'd be an ideal ally - strong, maybe the strongest one here, and she knew he was brave, he had volunteered - if he didn't kill her himself. 

"I'll try to talk to him tomorrow," she said, allowing the hope to remain for the time being. For Robin's sake or her own, she didn't know. 

By the time she went back to her room, every muscle in her body hurt. 

She eased herself into the warm water and let it take away the pain, at least the one in her body. 

"So," Petyr said, crossing his fork and spoon down on his empty plate. "Allies."

The tributes exchanged glances. Sansa cleared her throat, "Brienne from 12." 

"Shireen from 8," Robin followed. 

Petyr looked absolutely disgusted. Only for a second but the look was unmistakable. He schooled his features back into their false pleasantness and motioned for the desert. 

"Raspberry fondue, with mint infused chocolate ganache," he said proudly, as if he had made it himself. 

A tall avox boy brought the tray. His brown hair artfully fell onto his forehead covering some of his eyes. A flicker of recognition passed through her and she turned away. In Panem asking questions meant death. 

She ate a spoonful of the desert. It's disgusting. "It's delicious, Petyr," she said politely. 

He smiled. 

After an awkward silence during which he stared at her, she finally asked, "how about Renly and Loras? I haven't spoken to them yet but it might work. They are both -" 

"Yes," Petyr said, snapping his fingers. "Yes, of course! And imagine the ratings, if they both fall for you, Sansa, the Gamemakers will want that kind of story. Love triangles are all the rage in the Capitol. Let them do all the work and when it's down to you three, we'll find a way to finish them off," he said cheerfully. 

Sansa shifted uncomfortably. She hated the idea. But it was about time she made her peace with the way things were. Kill or die. Might as well fight. She was a Stark and she would fight. 

Sleep didn't come easy. She kept waking up from nightmares of fires and birds in cages. 

Another thing was Petyr. He pretty much pretended that Robin didn't exist, or had already died. He gave him no advice, no help - nothing. 

Sansa was pretty sure Robin wouldn't get any sponsorships either. 

If she felt the stain of fear on her heart grow larger. 

Every man for themself. She repeated his words and fell into a fitful sleep. 

*

Weapons, today. 

Maybe someone  had the same idea as most of the weapons were gone. The shiny metal racks lay exceptionally empty. 

"Where's all the swords?" She heard Davos ask. 

"More will be right out," an instructor said in a prim Capitol accent. "You could practise your plants or have some refreshments for now," she smiled. 

Rage flared inside Sansa. "Excuse me! We have been given only two days to train. How can we do that with nothing to train with? It's highly irresponsible on your part!" She said, trying to keep her voice level. 

"She's right! We are not here for refreshments, we are here to learn to survive this death game," Daenerys added her voice, hesitantly. 

The commotion caught some of the Gamemakers' attention. 

The instructor huffed indignantly. "Well it's not our fault you outlining districts don't prepare! The Games are no secret. You should have started training back home, like 1, 2 and 4!" The instructor reminder Sansa of Mrs. Mordane chastising her when she forgot her homework that one time. 

"We would if we weren't too busy starving!" Daenerys said, voice flaring. She was usually so timid, it was alarming where this was coming from.  

"Why?! Uh! That is not to be blamed on the Capitol! It's not our fault you are lazy -" 

Daenerys' hand swung, almost like it moved before she could stop it. The sound of the slap echoed through the pristine white walls. 

The instructor began to huff and cry, genuinely wounded. She started bleeding. 

Daenerys looked scared now. She backed up. "I didn't hit her that hard! I swear it!" She looked around frantically for support. 

"My new teeth," the instructor cried. "I just had them done in diamond. Oh! It hurts," Another instructor rushed in to help her up, glaring at Daenerys, while an Avox scrubbed the floors. 

"Daenerys Targaryen, as punishment for assaulting a staff member, you have been hereby banned from all further practice sessions. You shall be escorted back to your floor by our peacekeepers. This is your final warning," Gamemaker Frey called down. 

Sansa had wished she was brave so many times. That she could stand for what is right, the way Arya always had done. 

When they had whipped Gendry and Jon, or during the questioning of her family after the three had run away. 

She had made a resolve to be brave. To taken Arya's secret to the grave but she'd gotten scared. She had told the truth... Well half of it, at least.   

She wanted to be brave. She had tried. No one believed her but she had but it seemed, the only time Sansa could lie, was to save her own hide. 

Daenerys looked around for support. "I swear, I didn't hit her so hard, Gamemaker! Tell him someone!" 

She turned to Sansa. Be brave. "Yes," Sansa whispered. "She didn't hit her that hard."

"Quiet. Unless you want to be banned too." 

"Sorry, instructor." It was a reflex for the ever scared and ever cautious Sansa Stark.

Daenerys was escorted by the peacekeepers. She tried to keep her head high, something Sansa admired.

They might as well have signed her death sentence. No training, no scores, no sponsors. 

Sansa could only hope Daenerys was pretty enough to get some sponsors despite a low score. She immediately kicked herself. Won't hope for that when she's got her blade stuck in your throat, a voice reminded her. Somehow it wasn't her voice, it was his she knew. As were the words, even though he hadn't said them. 

She roamed listlessly, trying to find more allies. Davos? He's nice but he doesn't even have fingers! Besides, that means he's a thief. I don't want a thief for an ally. 

Daenerys? No she has no training.

Besides Petyr has approved Renly and Loras. 

She found them by the weapons. Loras was teaching Renly how to use a scythe. He stood close behind him and adjusted Renly's hands on the handle. 

"Here, like this," Loras whispered, lips almost touching Renly's ears. "better for balance." 

Renly nodded, seemingly unable to say anything more. 

Oh! They are such good friends! How am I too start a love triangle?! How do I even make one of them like me, forget about both?! Besides, it's vile. This whole trickery. Considering they'd be dumb enough to fall for it. 

"Hi Loras," here we go. "Could you help me too? With the scythe?" 

Stupid! We are tributes, he's not going to help me! Stupid stupid stupid! 

Loras tore away from Renly and shifted from one foot to another. Sansa flashed him another dazzling smile. 

"Eh… 3, right? I think I saw an instructor there," he pointed somewhere far away. 

"No… but I was hoping… you'd be much better with a scythe. This has a much longer rod than the ones I've seen at home," she weasled in taking Renly's place. She put her hand on his and smiled up at him, feeling wormy the whole time. 

"Oh, uh" Loras gave out a shuddering breath. He glanced between Renly and her. 

They stood there awkwardly till a deep sound cut through the tension. Like the sound of snarling dogs. 

She turned to see Sandor Clegane manhandling a Warhammer like it was a butter knife, laughing. 

"Barking up the wrong tree, little bird. If you wanna learn how to hold a rod, I'll teach you," he chuckled darkly. 

Sansa almost wept in relief. "Oh! That's wonderful! Thank you!" She said. "Oh, and thank you too Loras," she smiled as she slipped away to Sandor. The sun had set on his face, all the mirth gone. 

"So um… I don't think I'm strong enough to wield a warhammer, but I don't know, maybe a sword?" 

"Sword?"

"Yes, do you have one? I know you careers stashed the weapons. Petyr told me they often do that."

"Aye, I have a sword. Wanna hold it?"

"Sure! I've never really -" she wanted to tell him she'd never held a sword before but then she remembered that he still was a competitor. And that it wouldn't do to be absolutely helpless in front of him. He might refuse to be her ally then, or worse, take her for easy prey. "I mean I have held a sword of course, but they were small really," a blatant lie. 

He looked stunned. Then she remembered he was from 2, where all the weapons were made. 

"We have smaller swords in district 3," she smiled up at him. Truthfully, they had no swords in District 3. No more than they had food, or fire, or trees. The closest she got to a sword was when one was featured on the Games. 

"What are you playing at?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Excuse me… You said you'd teach me."

"To hold a rod, I said."

"Yes… I'll get the scythes if that's what you prefer… any weapon would be fine… I just want to-"

"Fucking- look this might be news to you but you can't get everything by batting your lashes and pressing your tight little ass against someone's prick. Especially not in the Games. I'm not going to give up my life on the off chance I get to fuck you once," he said, scars twisting as if he swallowed bile. 

She felt tears trickle down her cheeks. No one had ever spoken to her like that. Even on the road to death, it stung. 

She wanted to deny him, to say she didn't always get what she want! She never had! No more than any other kid in District 3, even if she was the Mayor's daughter. 

Her mouth had turned to sawdust and someone might as well have replaced her brain with a potato for all the good it did her. 

This wasn't going according to Petyr's plan… she could try again... It wasn't as if he wasn't openly leering at her every chance he got,   but that felt like quite strangling a part of herself she couldn't do without. Besides he just said it wouldn't work on him. Even if it did... It seemed wrong... to do that to him... When she didn't mean it.  

"I just want to learn," she said, putting her hand on his gently.

"You want to win," he said, exasperated, "ditch the runt and hide till it's over. That's what I'd do if I were as useless as you."

He stalked off and returned with a small sword with a pointed blade, a serrated dagger and a flail. 

He dumped them at her feet told her to "fuck off before he was tempted to use her as target practice."

She gathered her weapons and found an empty corner. The manual lay open before her as started with the stance. 

"Where did you find those?" An incredulous voice called. 

"I found them hidden behind  the camoflouge paints," she said, the corners of her lips tilting up.

"Can I have them once you are done?" 

"Sur- Only if you teach me what you know."

The girl scuffed her toe on the floor, flushed from embarrassment. 

"I know you are stronger than you let on, Brienne. District 12 folks looked hopeful for once when you were reaped. I remember." It was a shot in the dark but after striking out twice already, what was one more?

"I know how to hunt, and fish. I can make a fire, you already know that," Brienne said, looking over her shoulder like someone was about to jump out and grab her.

She said it like she was ashamed that that's all she knew. It rubbed Sansa, who couldn't even gut a fish properly, the wrong way. "I'd kill to be able to do all that! I can't even make a snare!" She cried, losing her wits for a moment.  "You want to practise with the weapons, you have to help me too."

Brienne steeled herself upto her full (impressive) height and nodded. 

She taught Sansa how to make a few knots and snares, how to wield the sword - Braavos blade, Brienne had told her it was - Sandor had given her and how to gut game. 

In return, Sansa allowed her to practise with the sword, flail and practise her aim throwing sticks around. Brienne wouldn't practise throwing knives. She's keeping something to herself. How does she even know that's a Braavos blade?

By lunch both girls were exhausted. They took their trays and settled on the table Sansa had claimed yesterday. Davos, Shireen and Sweetrobin joined them soon enough.

This is my pack for now, I suppose. She smiled to herself, it could be worse. 

Shireen was a sweet girl, she found soon. Her elder brother was friends with Davos. Davos had lost his fingers when his side business of smuggling cigars and sweets in uniform trolleys was captured. Eventually the peacekeepers became his main customers and he was allowed to continue. 

It's admirable, he stuck with Shireen. It'd be easier to go without. I'll stick with Sweetrobin too, nevermind what Sandor says. 

The careers threw disgusted looks at them except the 2s. Sandor not paying any attention and Lolly's staring emptily at the ceiling. 

*

"Any progress?"

"Tonnes!" Sweetrobin cried. 

Petyr raised his eyebrows. 

"We found allies," Sansa said, proudly. 

"Do tell." 

Robin answered for her. "We got Shireen and Brienne. Davos too."

Petyr almost groaned. His eye twitched a little. 

"That's lovely, Robin," he said sweetly, abruptly. "You did well. Now go on, upto bed. Tomorrow is the scoring."

"Any tips, Petyr?" 

"You don't need any, champ! Show 'em what you got!" Petyr pat Robin on the back and the boy ran up. 

"You... Any tips for me, Petyr?" Sansa asked, eager to be dismissed but terrified of tomorrow at he same time. "I… I think you should help him more. He is a little scared." That was a colossal understatement if there ever was one, she should've kept her mouth shut, she knew. It wouldn't do to go around telling her mentor how to do his job. What if he took it as a slight and didn't help her in the games? A bad mentor meant no sponsors, no sponsors meant you were all on your own in the arena. With a decided disadvantage. Every kid knew how important sponsors were. 

The interviews and sponsors... Oh! I never should've said anything! But what was left of her conscience was making itself known.  She couldn't bring herself to regret it, not truly. 

"Sansa…" he breathed, shaking his head. "Sansa Sansa Sansa, look. You and I both know he's not making it out of there." He sat on the seat next to her and slid his hand around her shoulders. 

"And those allies you made, they're not going to help you. Now if you had listened to me and -" 

"I tried Petyr!" Sansa protested. "I tried with Loras and Sandor. It didn't work at all with Loras. And with Sandor… well he gave me a few daggers to practise with. But I don't think he'll be my ally." 

"Sandor Clegane? Oh, yes! If we get you in with the careers, Sansa you'd be set! If you survive the first two days the odds of you winning rise exponentially!" His 'exponentially' had a certain Capitol accent to it, one she was certain, he hadn't picked up naturally. She'd seen him hanging around her mother most of the time of the year for him to do so. Even that small bit of falsehood needled her now.

"Till they kill me on day three," she countered. 

"If you make it past day one, you have a shot. Do you trust me?"

She nodded, gulping down her truths and her conscience. 

"I'll speak to Gregor then."

"Wh- who?" 

"Gregor Clegane. He's Sandor's mentor." 

Chapter Text

Sansa still had no idea what to do for her scoring. She was hopeless with a bow, knew nothing about swords or hammers. Her saving grace would have to be snares and traps. 

She was good at sewing, which was useless. As was her knowledge with technology. Where would she find cell towers and live wires in the arena. 

She racked her brains for the better part of the night before settling on a half baked plan. It would have to do for now. Her mind wandered, as it inevitably had done since the reaping, to Sandor Clegane. He had told her that day, in the lift, that his brother had given him the scars. They looked painful, raw and ripe. With a mentor like that, she suspected he wouldn't get any help in the arena, even if someone wanted to sponsor him. 

Her nightmares that night were of them both. It was Robb's arena, a riverside plain with wolf - lion mutts and two ruins of towers joined by a bridge, the only refuge from them. The tributes had to survive the pack in the open or fight the careers in the towers. 

But this night, it was Gregor Clegane chasing her with that terrible woodsaw which had won him the games several years ago. She ran down one tower and out onto the bridge. On the other end Sandor screamed for her to run faster. The bridge started to crumble before her trapping her away from him and with Gregor. She screamed for help, but a hand whipped her around and it was President Bolton holding the saw. He said to her, in that soft voice of his, "may the odds be ever in your favor," before easing the saw, gently into her stomach.She woke up with a start.  

* 

The boy from one went first. It had been barely ten minutes before the call came for the next tribute. 

The scoring was a rain cloud looming over her head. 

"Sansa, Robin," Davos came over to them. The resolve in his voice sunk her heart. She knew what was coming. "I fear yesterday might have given you a wrong impression. We cannot be allies. I have Shireen to help and I can't -" 

Sansa lifted her hand. "Thank you, Davos. We shall be fine." 

He smiled sadly. "I hope so, Sansa. May the odds be ever in your favor." She smothered a shudder. 

Robin was rattled to say the least. She tried to comfort him. Then she remembered Petyr had not told him at all what to do. 

"What will you do, Robin?"

He was shaking, wiping his nose with the back of his hands. "I'll… I.. I don't know, Sansa," he whimpered. "I don't want to die."

"Shhhh… don't think about that, not now. Just… you know about the plants and you learnt how to make a fire right? Do that. It'll be fine," she lied, blinking away tears. 

"District 2, Sandor Clegane!" The speakers boomed. 

Sandor got up and left, but not before turning once. Their eyes met and Sansa smiled at him. "Good luck," she said, earnestly. 

He grunted as he left. 

Maybe it was that Sansa was acutely aware of how long he took or it was the nerves about being the next District but he took entirely too long. 

When they finally called Lollys, the entire room realised a shaky breath. 

"What did he do in there? Raise the dead?" Cersei whispered. 

"What's it matter what he did? Think of you and me, sister," Jamie shot back, his voice faltering at the end. 

"This is your fault Jamie, why did you have to volunteer? You knew I was coming here too!"

"You know why! I couldn't… I couldn't let them… Tyrion wouldn't have made it Cersei, I had to."

The swift sound of something being snatched away swiped behind her and Sansa tried to recall the district 4 reaping. She had been too rattled by her own, to pay attention then. 

"And for you… why did you have to volunteer? This was our last reaping. We could've made it without -" 

"Living in that dingy house? Never leaving, never living?"

"This isn't some vacation, woman are you daft?" 

"District 3, Robert Arryn!" 

That snapped Sansa out of her eavesdropping. 

"Good luck, Robin," she said, sounding more confident than she felt. 

He nodded as he waddled out. She wanted to cry for him. She recalled the District 4 reaping to distract herself. There was another boy called before, a dwarf. He had waddled halfway down the aisle before Jaime had volunteered. She remembered the fear branded on the boy's face and the guilt that followed. Tyrion Lannister. Their family must have been targeted by the Capitol too. 

"Sansa Stark!"

She got up, suddenly numb. 

The weapons were all laid out, polished and sharpened. 

She greeted the Gamemakers and shuffled about trying to find a cord to set snares. 

"Hurry up, there, we have many more tributes waiting!" 

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry," Sansa flustered. She hastily picked up the first thing she could get her hands on in her confusion. An arrow? Oh! Father help me.

"I'll… I'll now -"

"No need to explain, just do it."

"Yes.. yes of course." Her clothes were suddenly choking the air out of her and she frantically turned trying to look purposeful.

Something gleamed golden on the bottom rack. She scampered to it, the sight of it breathing some life back into her. 

Spark wire. And the good kind! Now all I need is - aha! She grabbed her supplies, her sudden speed intrigued the Gamemakers.  

She found a large branch, pronged in two. She wrapped the wire in an infinity shape across the adjacent ends. She lit a small fire how Brienne had taught her and charged the sparker - a blue luminescent cylinder attached to the spark wire - with the heat, how Jon had figured out some years ago. 

"The heat from the fire will charge the sparker connected to the wire and then the wire becomes live," she explained. No one shut her up this time. 

She took her shirt off, only her short tank top covering her and wrapped the sparker in it, then to her waist. "The cloth will help keep it warm and prolong the charge."

She went to the practice dummies firmly planted to the ground with metal stands.

She smirked, for once confident of her abilities. She may not know about swords and snares, but no one could beat her when it came to sparkers and shocks. 

Several knife and arrow dents covered the target on its chest. 

Her aim was abysmal, only flaw in an otherwise good plan, but luckily she didn't need an aim for this. She traced her path with her foot so she was exactly in front of the dummy. She pulled the entire arrow rack and faced it such that the arrows pointed towards it.. 

Then she stepped back and crouched behind  a short weapon rack. As fast as she dared she touched the live wire to the metal of the rack and with a deafening screeching noise, all the arrows flew out at once impaling themselves on the dummy in one neat line. Head, neck, breastbone, navel, groin. The dummy swayed from impact before falling backwards. 

Pleased with her efforts she looked up to the Gamemakers. They stared down in shock, eyes wide.

She waited but nobody said anything. 

"Thank you for your consideration," she said, sweetly, and bowed. If only I find a spark wire in the arena, I'd zap everyone. I won't even need an ally.

Her feet were shaky as she entered the other room where everyone who was done was waiting, all the bravado gone with the adrenaline. 

Sandor Clegane greeted her with a raised eyebrow and half smirk, looking perplexed but not in a bad way. 

"What wath that noith?" Vargo Hoat lumbered towards her. 

"Pardon me," she said, instinctively backing away. 

"He asks what that noise was? We heard a crash," Melisandre said walking over. 

Sansa retreated to where Robin sat - beside Sandor? The small boy looked like he wanted to disappear. 

"Oh, that! Uh, I dropped the arrow rack. I was trying to find a - a -" a what?!? "- a morning star but I bumped it from behind." She began chewing the inside of her cheek and fidgeting with her hair.

"So much junk in the trunk, she doesn't know where to put it," Sandor said and Vargo laughed. Lollys followed but she wasn't listening, not really. Melisandre narrowed her eyes and went back to her corner. 

She took her place by her cousin and his small hand in hers. 

"Next time you lie, don't fidget," Sandor whispered to her, trying to sound bored.

"I'm not lying! I was-," she started.

He snorted. "Yeah right? Think I'm as dumb as the rest of 'em? Besides little bird, that doesn't explain why you aren't wearing a shirt," he smirked, leering unabashedly at her chest. "Not a bad thing, girl. Being pretty might just get you some presents from some ancient sot."

It was her own damn fault that she sat half naked in a room full of people who hated her. Even Robin. His scoring had gone bad because of, in his words, "Sansa hogging up all of Petyr's time."

That stung, she covered herself best as she could and crumpled over trying to hide behind Sandor. 

The remarks flew from every direction. They were hushed till Daenerys stormed in and pointed at her. 

"We all want allies, 3, but no one's desperate enough to whore themself out to the Hound. He'll kill you too, you know. There's only one winner." Her usual soft voice was blazed with contempt. "If I knew getting naked would get you points, I'd have given it a go. Would have gotten more than you, at least," she sneered, utterly unlike what Sansa had come to know about her. 

Sansa recoiled even more if possible. "Hound?" She asked him, softly. 

He could have been made out of stone for all the emotion he showed. "Because of the parade," he murmured. 

"Oh."

Finally it was over when Brienne came in. Instead of sitting down, she came over to Sansa. 

"Sansa, can I talk to you, for a minute," she said, tugging her away from Sandor. She handed her a cloth. 

"My shirt! Oh thank you, you are a life saver!" She cried, immediately putting it on. 

"Sansa… I have a brother back home. And my father is old. They both are sick, a lot of the time and I…" she looked like she was going to cry. "I'm the only one who takes care of them. I have to go back home." Sansa took Brienne's hands in her own and rubbed them softly. 

"I'm sorry, Brienne, I truly am." 

"No… that's not what I… I have to go alone. I cannot partner with you and Robin… I must try to win… I promised Galladon," she pulled back her hands sniffling. 

Once during school labs, a small rat had gotten stuck in the cables. Sansa had snuck out of class to help it, but her hands were wet. As soon as she touched the wire, a jolt went through her so fast she flew backwards. Her teeth chattered for hours afterwards.

It felt like that now. Chattering teeth and all. 

Everyone told me getting allies is how I'd win and now I don't have a single one. Not even Robin wants anything to do with me. She'd never felt so alone. 

I don't need them, I don't! She tried to tell herself but it wasn't true. Not really. 

She sat back down, willing the gnawing void in her chest to go away. 

"Slut," someone whispered behind her. "She tried to cosy upto Tyrell yesterday."

"No, to Renly!"

"The Hound, actually," someone else said. 

A pained sound escaped her throat. She was determined to not show any more weakness than she already had. I'm done hoping for allies. I hope there is spark wire. 

*

The hosts - Ramsay and Reek - went on about the history of Panem and the customary highlights of the past Hunger Games where Gregor Clegane seemed to be heavily featured. Panem used to be a country of seven parts named Westeros before the fall of the monarchy. During the war, families had gotten separated and the result was a mixture of people from the same kingdom spread out thought-out the lands, which were then divided into Districts. Then the dark days followed, resulting in the obliteration of District 13 and formation of the hunger games.  

"So, Reek what do you say about this year's tributes?" 

"Why, Ramsay, I'm glad you asked! Think we have a good lot this time! Strong able bodied fighters!"

"Can't wait to see who wins! Any guesses?" Ramsay asked and the camera panned to the audience. Different answers sprang up, but unfortunately none of them sounded even remotely like Sansa. 

Jamie was a crowd favourite, naturally. As was Melisandre. There were some cries of Sandor and Cersei. Few even said Loras. 

Petyr squeezed her hand. She squeezed Robin's who immediately shook it off. Margeary, their escort, Garlan, and Yohn, Robert's stylist all of them huddled on the sofa awaiting scores. 

Vargo Hoat and Melisandre both got a nine. 

Sansa's breath hitched as Sandor's name came up. The numbers fluttered in front of his name before settling on a Ten. Point. Five.

Sansa gasped.

"Might be the highest one ever," Petyr murmured. He had gotten a seven, if Sansa remembered correctly. She made a mental note to ask him how it went with Sandor's mentor.

Lollys too, got a seven.  

Robin! His name flashed and the score of 5. 

Robin looked around, unable to guage the reaction. 

"T'is okay Robin, good. Best not to be noticed easily. Low profile," Garlan said kindly, trying to calm the boy. 

"Next up is the lovely Sansa Stark, with a score of -" the numbers scrambled and then blazed a nine! Sansa jumped. Her heart soared and flew. A nine! A nine! Oh was there ever a more perfect number?! Oh, beautiful! 

Petyr laughed along with her, Garlan and Margeary congratulated her. Yohn nodded his appreciation and Robin ran away to his rooms. 

Jamie got a nine, while Cersei got an eight.

Podrick got an eight. Shireen got a 6. Davos, 8. Loras pulled a ten.

"It seems our Sandor is to be the highest scorer of this night," Reek said. 

"No no, Reek, you mustn't discount our outlining districts just yet," Ramsay pulled a face in mock horror. 

The audience laughed. 

"Daenerys Targaryen, with a score of," Ramsay blew out a soft whistle, "3."

It's only because they didn't let her train. It's not fair. She thought, despite how Daenerys behaved this morning. I'd be angry too if they did that to me. 

"Renly Baratheon with a score of 7!" Well this is surprising, Sansa thought. With Renly's build and attractive persona, she had somehow come to expect more. She had to remind himself of how bad life was supposedly in District 12. Can't erase a lifetime of scraping by with two days of training.  

"Last but not the least, Brienne Tarth!" 

Tears pricked Sansa's eyes. She didn't even know what to hope - for Brienne to do well or badly.

"Oh hoo ho hoo," Ramsay hooted. 

"What, what is it?!" Reek hollered at him to press the button.  

"Brienne Tarth, ladies and gentlemen, with a score of Eleven!"

Chapter Text

"Right. So you did well in the scoring, obviously." That was the nicest thing Olena had said to Sandor since last night when the scores were revealed. 

It should've made him happy that he was the second highest but it didn't. All he felt was guilt at being so much better than the others. It was no great feat given how he had trained almost all his life for this. It was that girl's three and Robert's five that had kept him up. 

He had spent the night riding the lift up and down as had become his custom. 

Anything to avoid his mentor. 

It irked him that he kept waiting for her to show up, maybe he could yell at her some more and let off some steam. Needless to say, she hadn't.  

Hope was the worst feeling in the world, he had concluded long ago. Worst because it made it slower, whatever he was going through. Some type of quiet resignation to his situation would surely have made time go by faster. An almost meditative wave of constant sorrow. Then he'd ride it out in peace. 

It was hope that kept him from settling in. He would adapt, like he had to his scars and taking care of his sister but then he'd somehow always hope for things to get better. 

That's why he'd volunteered in the first place. 

Once he won he'd be able to feed El and buy her medicines. He would get the surgery to fix his face, maybe some girl would love him then. He'd move from his house in the group home to a house in the Victor's Village, as far from his brother's as possible.  

All his problems would disappear in a Capitol scented puff of smoke. 

That had been the plan since he was thirteen and Gregor had won and Hugor had died. 

The problem he faced now were the faces of the people he had to kill. He had tried to ignore them, convince himself he did not care. They'd be willing to kill him just as fast as the reverse. But that no longer seemed strictly accurate. 

The kids - for they were kids - were harmless. And he hated that. His only real competition in his eyes were the careers and 12s. 

The rest would manage to die all on their own. 

He didn't want to join the Careers, but it was better to be with them while they fought others than to have them gang up on him right from the get go. 

So he'd swallowed his protests when Cersei, Melisandre and Hoat hid the weapons and when Hoat terrorised the younger tributes. He and Jaime had stood by spinelessly, watching as Daenerys got kicked out. 

It was cheap play, he knew. 

The other thing was Lollys and her stupid baby. That was too much, even for him. 

He shook the thoughts off and focused on what Olena was saying - something about his abs. 

"We'll stick with the mediaeval theme. My headpiece is in vogue now," Olena bragged, but on her it seemed fitting.  

"Medieval?" He asked just because he had been silent for way too long. 

"Glad you asked," she gave him a sly grin and snapped her fingers. 

Olena was a magician, he was convinced. Standing in front of him was a boy - almost a man - he had known forever but hardly recognised. 

He gawked at himself, struggling to keep his jaw shut. 

The pants carried on the theme of the parade with the deep grey. It was a thick, sturdy fabric which hugged his legs like second skin. 

Over that he wore a jacket - Olena called it a slashed doublet.  It matched the pants but was accented with deep green silk and silver and emeralds. (No shirt, of course.) She added a cape of the same fabric as well as a silver circlet studded with emeralds around his forehead which kept the hair on the scars. She finished off with something black to line his eyes. 

Lollys and him matched not at all. She had on a pale blue dress with golden jewellery. 

The interviews should have made him nervous but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had given up any hopes of sponsors long ago so what did it matter what the shitheads in the Capitol thought - assuming they could think. 

*

She had it all planned. Meticulously. If there was ever something Sansa knew, it was courtesy. She grew up in the rich part of town with a school teacher mother and a Mayor father. 

She had been there to greet the victors on their tour every year, save the last few. She met the head peacekeepers and judges. She knew almost all the important folks of District 3, if not by name then by face. 

She learned to be polite, courteous and gentle, almost to a fault. 

If there was one thing Sansa was, it was likeable. 

So she didn't understand exactly why she was being coached for the interviews to this degree. Petyr had asked her to up her "sex appeal" to appease the audience. 

That would've been fine if she knew how. Or if she had any in the first place.

Sansa was pretty but it was an innocent sort of pretty. Sex appeal - Cersei has it, she probably has at least four normal people's share of it. Even Daenerys does to some extent.

She tried to watch them as they waited backstage. Tried to imbibe some of that salaciousness that came so naturally to them. 

She tried to puff out her chest unnaturally as Cersei did, but her purple gown severely constricted her movements.

 The ruching on her dress gave her a striking contrast between her bust and waist. The skirt flowed out prettily with a slit on the left side. Her bare leg was adorned with a long silver chain. A similar chain was braided into her bun such that amethysts gleamed through the red curls. 

The dress covered her pretty well, almost modest by comparison to the others. 

Jaime and Loras wore as little as possible to just make the definition of clothed. Jaime decked in gold and yellow, Loras all in white.

Cersei's crimson and gold outfit was a ruby covered leotard with some flowing scraps of gold netting around the waist. Her hair was tied sleekly in a ponytail, two braids pulling the hair away from her face. 

Daenerys wore a bold black and red dress which left one breast uncovered but for an artfully placed ruby accent. Her silver hair was fashioned into intricate braids. 

The anthem blared. Spotlights danced on the darkened stage till they merged into one white light and found the host sitting in a chair. 

The chair swivelled and the drum roll echoed. Daario leapt forth and took a bow as the lights fanned out again in a rainbow.

He had yellow hair and beard this year, with his ever present blue moustache. He had a suit in the same colours to match.  

He greeted and danced and went on with his routine which Sansa knew by heart at this point. It was the same, year after year. Some jokes about the weather or his look for that year, praising the President, a history lesson and some highlights of the games. 

Sansa was prepared. She had her mannerisms and basic answers memorised. She even remembered to sit on her right hip and extend her left leg discreetly. 

She forgot all that when they showed the highlight reel. 

The ending of last year's hunger games. Robb and Dacey, both from three and Dagmer from four were the finalists. The mutts were coming in from the plains, something they hadn't done before. Robb and Dacey fought them with anything they could get their hands on chairs, tables, arrows but they just kept coming and coming. Dagmer climbed up a hidden ladder and reached a low ledge. Dacey followed while Robb held back the mutts. She pulled Robb up after as the mutts screeched and clawed, barely avoiding the ones rising on their hind legs. Some were big enough to get in a few scratches. Robb was injured by one when Dagmer threw Dacey over. He grappled with Robb, who in grief and rage, fought clumsily and fell over. The mutts descended on him. 

Sansa never even heard the cannon blast. It was drowned out by Catelyn's screaming.     

Suddenly her mind was erased. She stood unseeing and unfeeling till someone pushed her forward and told her she was up next.  

She peeked from the wings and listened to Sandor's interview. 

He had just made his entry and she was suddenly disappointed she hadn't paid attention when he stood in front of her in the line up. 

The crowd hooted as he entered. There were some hoots for him to take off his jacket, some for him to strip completely. 

She watched him, entranced. She pulled her eyes away from his chest long enough to see his face. From her vantage point, she could see only his profile, the unburnt one. As could the audience. He is handsome! She realised with a shock. Green suits him well. 

Daario made a big show of comparing their heights before settling down. 

"So, Sandor, you make quite a striking vision. Tell me, how tall are you?" Daario began, flashing his dazzling smile.

"Save it. You're too old for me," Sandor deadpanned. 

The audience went silent for a second then burst out laughing. Daario looked around fake scandalised, hand on his chest and mouth open. That pulled in more laughs. 

Sandor's lips curved up in the smallest smile, and Sansa's breath hitched. 

His eyes softened as he took in the scene.

"Fine, fine, you had your laugh, but I'll have you know, I prefer women. Ladies," he pointed both index fingers to the audience and swung them. 

"I'm six six," Sandor said, shifting around now, mildly uncomfortable. 

"Your brother," Daario started. Sandor stiffened. "He holds the record for the tallest person in Panem, doesn't he?" 

"If you say so. Haven't seen every person in Panem."

Daario chuckled, "how tall is he though?" 

"You're too old for him too, Naharis," Sandor rolled his eyes. 

The audience laughed and chuckled as one big machine. 

Daario shot him a mock chastising look. "He is your mentor, isn't that right? Must be nice having a family member see you shine."

Sandor looked like he was going to say what he thought about that but he took a small breath and said, "not really. He hogs all the wine."

"Ah, yes. The wine here is unparalleled! Which do you prefer - sweet or sour?" 

"Sour."

"You would, you dog," Daario smirked.

Sandor smiled again, a genuine smile. "So who else is in your family?"

"My sister and my mom."

"They must be proud of you!"

"I hope so," he said. It was such a soft answer, utterly unexpected from him. The audience gave a longing 'aww.'

"They must be! A ten point five!" Daario whistled. "A little birdy told me, you were in there for almost half an hour! What did you do in there?" 

Sandor grinned, in a way she knew would make his scars twist, and looked over the Gamemakers. "If I told you Daario, I'd have to kill you."

"Well I'd rather not know then! I'm not done living yet." 

Sandor said nothing to that. The silence bordered on uncomfortable when Daario opened another much loved topic of discussion. "Do you have a girl back home, Sandor? A girlfriend?"

He blushed! He actually blushed! Sansa wanted to shake someone to show them, even though almost every person in Panem already saw. 

"Wellllll…" Daario pressed, his eyebrows flipping up and down. 

"No. No girlfriend." 

"Oh come on! I don't believe that for one minute! Strapping young lad like you."

Sandor made a growly noise. A nervous chuckle?

He shook his head and lowered it, like it was a reflex. 

"Well you'll find plenty once you go back, I bet!"

The interview was nearing an end but the crowd protested. 

"Our audience isn't done with you yet, Sandor Clegane! Okay let's play a game.

Rank in order of the prettiest from all our lovely female tributes."

Sandor barked out a laugh. "For real?" 

The audience cheered.

"Absolutely! The nation has spoken!" 

"Sansa, Melisandre, Daenerys, Cersei, Brienne," he said plainly. "Rest are all like twelve."

His eyes suddenly became hard and he squared his jaw. The change was so sudden, she didn't even get to dwell on the fact that he named her first. 

"Well you've certainly given it a lot of thought," Daario teased. Sandor blushed some more. The audience went crazy. "Have a thing for redheads have you?" 

"You have your hair colour for next year then," Sandor smirked. 

"Definitely! And I hope to see you here next year, as a mentor. Give it up again ladies and gentlemen, for Sandor Clegane!" 

He bowed and exited on the other end of the stage, applause following long after he left. 

She tried to focus on her breathing like her mother had told her to do when she was overwhelmed. 

She climbed up the stairs to the stage on shaky feet. The lights blinded her for a second before her vision cleared. 

The auditorium was huge. Much bigger than she had thought backstage. Thousands of people watched eagerly as the screens changed colour from his green to her lavender. 

They played a song and Sansa pulled in Daario for a dance. There was more cheering and hooting.

They settled in the chairs. Sansa extended her leg as commanded but it felt wrong. She felt naked suddenly. All her charm flew out of the window as she shifted on the chair, back unnaturally straight. 

"There there," Daario said, "get comfortable, love." 

"Thank you, Daario. This is a beautiful stage, and such a lovely audience. Thank you for having me here," she smiled trying to salvage the situation. 

I do chirp like a bird, she thought resentfully but managed to keep the smile intact. 

"A beautiful host too, I hope!" Daario joked. 

"Though not nearly as lovely as you," he gestured to all of her. Then he cupped his hand around his mouth as if telling a secret. "According to Sandor at least." 

Laughter rang throughout the hall and Sansa flushed. Her heart had started fluttering in her chest at his name. 

"So Sansa, I believe it was your brother who was in the finals last year…" he ventured. 

"Yes. Robb," she said swallowing the lump in her throat. "My big brother." An errant tear fell over her cheek and she wiped it off hastily. 

The audience released a sad sigh and murmurs as one. 

They'd merged into one mob before her. A nameless entity that wanted her death to laugh at it. 

Hate leeched into her heart instead of blood and it was only fear that made her hold her tongue. 

Daario patted her hand, offering condolences she didn't hear. He tried to redirect the conversation and she was grateful for that at least. 

"Win some, you lose some, right people. So let's talk about your stunning look at the parade…"

*

Sleep. Sleep damn it. Sleep or else you'll be groggy tomorrow. You can't afford to be groggy tomorrow. Sansa tossed and turned. She had filled up on as much roast chicken and lemon cake as she could. 

She tried not to dwell on her interview but the embarrassment wouldn't leave her be. She cringed under her blanket. 

He had made it look so easy, she wailed. He hadn't even tried. He wasn't nice or sexy or anything… well maybe he looked sexy but he wasn't answering any differently. He was kinda snarky like he always was. 

Cersei pulled off the sexy thing. Even Daenerys. Her and Sansa were only one year apart but the way the audience reacted to both was miles apart. They treated Sansa like a little girl while Dany was a vixen. 

She turned on the telescreen in an attempt to soothe herself with some background noise. Some hum drum that reminded her of home. Instead, they played the highlights of the interviews. 

She was featured twice, when she danced with Daario and another time when she told them how she wanted to win to honor Robb. 

Almost the entirety of Jaime's interview was aired in the highlights. His quick wit, flirting and golden looks fetching sighs and kisses from the audience.

Brienne wore a garish pink satin gown trimmed with brown vair. Her short hair was pinned with small pink butterflies. She looked desperately uncomfortable even though hers was the only dress more covered up than Sansa's. 

She was featured only once but for a long time when she showed Daario how to land a 'correct' twist n' kick. In a dress and all. The audience had cheered wildly as she pulled up her gown to reveal brown pants underneath. 

Cersei and Daario had played a game called 'Pop the Cherry" where he would read out names of different 'positions' and their descriptions, and if they had done them, they ate a cherry. Cersei's were gone before Daario was halfway through his. 

Sansa had felt only longing at that. I've never even kissed anyone. 

Jaime looked rattled for the first half of his interview. If she didn't know better, she'd say he was fighting back tears. Then he bounded back up, somehow with a more dangerous aura than before. 

Loras had been a sweeter version of Jaime. 

Davos had impeccable timing, the only one pulling in laughs as often as Sandor. 

And Sandor - 

 She tossed again and turned it off. Now wasn't the time to dwell on the fluttering in her tummy whenever they flashed his little smile on the screen. 

She went out to get some water. The loft was dark except for some dim yellow lights in the false ceiling. 

A figure dressed all in red stepped from the shadows, eyes empty. Startled, she clamped a hand on her mouth to stifle a cry. 

"It's all right. I just want some water," she said, hoping he would go away. 

She knew him. He knows me too. The thought sent a shudder up her spine. 

He ignored her protest and filled up a tumbler with water and handed it to her. They stood in silence as she drank. It was growing heavy. 

This close to death's door,  she couldn't find caution enough to prolong the silence.  

"I know you," she blurted out. His eyes widened in alarm and he retreated quickly, eyes lowered. 

"Please," she said, grabbing his sleeve. "I'm scared. I just - I want to talk - no I mean, sorry you're an Avox. I'm sorry. I -"

He pressed a finger to his lips as she rambled on. He shook his head and looked behind him, as if expecting someone to grab him from the dark. 

"What is your name?" 

He took her hand and wrote in it with his finger: R-E-E-K. 

"No!" She said, a bit too loudly. He backed away. "No that's not it. I know you. I know you."

She gasped. "You are Robb's friend, are you not?"

He went rigid as though her words were a spell that froze him. "Theon…" she said, softly. She reached out and placed her hands on his shoulders and pulled him close. 

"I saw you in school some years ago… you came to our house for Robb's birthday. Theon Greyjoy." 

He made a sound, something from deep within his chest that didn't need a tongue to form. She squeezed him tighter. He melted finally and hugged her back. When they pulled apart, she remembered him clearly. Some of that defiance had returned in his eyes. 

He inhaled deeply and knelt before her. He removed a small pin from the inside of the hem of his pants where it was hidden. He rose and pressed it in her palm with a small smile. 

A direwolf pin. It gave her strength somehow. 

* 

The red spot on her arm itched, underneath the woolen sweater she wore. She resisted the urge to claw the tracker out of her body with her bare hands. Instead she pulled the sleeve lower and hugged herself. 

Robin sat stiffly, as far away from her as the space allowed. Guess I don't have any allies at all. The thought didn't trouble her as it should've. This meant that she'd retain some part of her at least. No betrayal, no treachery. 

They stopped hovercraft someways before an open field. Her heart started beating madly in her chest as she realised they were landing. Her teeth felt loose in her gums, like they'd fall off any second. She had to check with her fingers to confirm they were still attached. 

They took her to a sterile looking grey room where her outfit for the games was placed neatly beside a large plastic tube. 

She changed into the garments slowly as Garlan tried to decipher the materials. 

"This is meant to insulate, Sansa, expect some cold nights," he said feeling the thick leggings and plasticy jacket. 

She put on the bra and white tank top, followed by the navy shirt and dark grey leggings. They each had a stripe of blue running up the sides. 

Garlan helped her braid her auburn hair back and wrapped it in a bun on her crown. 

Finally she pulled on the black jacket. 

"What's that?" Garlan asked softly. 

"It's my token. A friend gave it to me." 

He pinned it in place inside the jacket and zipped it up. 

"I hope you win, dear Sansa," he said, tears shining in his eyes.

Lost for words, she pressed her lips to his cheek. "Thank you, Garlan. For everything."

A voice informed her it was time and she stepped onto the metal circle as the glass tube descended from the ceiling. It closed around her. 

Garlan placed his hand on the tube and she matched his with hers. He mouthed his best wishes and prayers but she only nodded. 

The platform ascended and she deepened her breathing, trying to stop the panic from setting in. 

Sunlight streamed in from a rapidly expanding slit above her. The platform halted with a click in place. 

She blinked, her eyes trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. Ramsay's voice boomed all around her:

"Ladies and gentlemenet, let the Twenty Fourth Annual Hunger Games begin!"   

Chapter Text

Sandor recalled his training. In the first fifteen seconds he took in the arena. A forest - apparently dense. That wasn't good. It meant many opportunities to find food and water and more places to hide. 

The tree cover started directly across him, behind the Cornucopia. To his left was a lake, everywhere else - a field of grass. That was worse. It was unfamiliar terrain. He'd refrain from going there as much as possible. 

The next ten seconds were to see the placements of the tributes. Immediately on one side of him was one of the younger girls, the one with the fucked up face and on the other was Jaime. 

They locked eyes for a second and exchanged nods of assurance. They were a team, at least until only ten tributes remained. 

He couldn't see Sansa which meant she was opposite him, hidden by the Cornucopia. He couldn't spot the boy from 8 who was hanging around his district partner, which meant he was on the other end too. 

He hoped 3 had the good sense to heed his advice and dart to the forest and hide. He wasn't lying when he had told her it was her best chance. Why he hoped so, he didn't know and now was not the time to analyse. 

He quickly spotted Brienne a few tributes down towards the lake and Loras sandwiched between Hoat and Melisandre. The Gamemakers really want a show.

Next he eyed the weapons. They were the usual culprits except for two cylinders - one sparkling blue, the other shiny and gold standing on a short pedestal around which other more common weapons were heaped. 

He spotted the large sword that was his gleaming above a heap of dark grey metal. 

With only ten seconds remaining he had to decide what to do with the girl - kill her or not?

she looked around scared, probably trying to find her ally. 

"Five!"

"Four!" 

Something inside him snapped as he caught Cersei's snake green eyes glittering.

"Three!" 

He was still deciding how to best angle himself. Towards the cornucopia, taking the supplies he already knew were to be his anyway or towards the girl and take down one easy opponent? It would be a kindness really - he'd make it quick rather than whatever sadistic end the Gamemakers had planned. 

"Two!"

"One!"

He ran to the Cornucopia, again hoping despite himself, that the kid had run away.

 It was almost too easy. No one stopped him, no one got in his way till he grabbed the sword he wanted and a heavy wooden shield. 

 He whipped around to see Jaime catch up to him. He took a spear. The two stood back to back as tributes piled in in seconds. 

Renly was upon him first - war hammer in hand. He brought it down with all his might as Sandor blocked the blow with his shield. The vibrations ran through his arms and breastbone to his core. He felt Renly swing again and again each impact pushing him back. 

 Suddenly the onslaught stopped. Sandor twisted out of reach and sprung to his feet. 

The sharp end of Jaime's spear was lodged in Renly's shoulder. 

Sandor rose to his feet, sword poised to make a killing stroke when something barreled into him. 

He spat out a mouthful of blood and pushed Loras off him. He rounded back and got him in a headlock.

He grabbed a fistful of brown hair, ready to ring his neck when something stopped him. He faltered only for a second but it was a second too long. 

Loras kicked back into his knee and slammed his head back into Sandor's nose. 

He staggered back and saw Tyrell running towards the grass field through sweat and tears. 

Renly was gone too. 

He got his bearings back and darted out, frustrated to have done nothing noteworthy so far. He let out a feral roar just as he caught a glimpse of some white hair dart into the forest. A few bodies lay strewn about, puddles of blood trailing every which way. 

Not three feet away from him, a boy - lay whimpering in a pool of blood. his leg was broken, it seemed. Sandor inched towards him. 

He saw himself then as how the boy must have. Six and a half feet of pure muscle with burning eyes and a seared face, armed with a bloody sword.. 

No wonder the boy screamed. Sandor almost smelt the fear on him. 

The boy screamed and shrieked... until he didn't. 

_

Cersei sat on her throne of tents, blankets and casks of food. She had propped her bare feet into Jaime's lap and picked meat from her teeth with a slim pointed knife. 

"How many was that?" 

"I counted ten," Melisandre said. 

"Eleven," Jaime said, his mouth twisted at the number. 

Sandor laughed drily. "You need to let it go. Can't keep seeing eleven everywhere. I counted ten too."

"I know but... how in the Seven hells did that beggar bitch get an eleven," Jaime muttered. 

"Thatth twelve," Hoat said. 

"What?" everyone asked together. 

"Ten too. Thath twelve. Tho which is it - ten, eleven or twelve?"

"Ten," Melisandre said and that was that. 

"Thirteen more to go," Cersei said, unbothered that Jaime would count as one of those too. 

He pushed her legs off and scrambled to his feet. 

Cersei frowned but quickly recovered as she too sprang to her feet and snapped up a Braavos blade. "Let's hunt!" she said, cheerfully, her eyes cold. 

"Yes, lets," Sandor said, his voice sounding achingly hollow to his own ears. But he had never been one to sit around idly.

***

Hours of jogging and sprinting had taken their toll. Sansa panted, falling to her knees to catch her breath. She sucked in air and cursed the Gamemakers for leaving that waterskin empty. She lifted it up for the millionth time even though she knew it was as empty as when she had found it. 

She trudged forwards aimlessly, keeping an eye out for water. There were small animals in the woods - squirrels, mockingjays, rabbits and even some deer with queer blue eyes. They'd be good for food. 

So far she hadn't seen any signs of animals that would think that about her. 

Her throat cried out for water after exertion. Her stamina was pitiful. She had never been the outdoorsy type. If it were upto her, she'd be content to work in one of the factories for the rest of her days. Maybe marry someone her father chose for her, someone nice, and safe. 

That's all she had ever wanted. Home and safety. 

Her current situation was as far away from that as one could possibly get. 

The thirst was chipping away at her mind and soon it was all that remained. The earth everywhere was painfully dry. The sun indicated that it was late afternoon by now. 

There were noises getting louder by the second. Talking. People.

Hands of terror closed around her throat. She looked around frantically for somewhere to hide. 

She pulled up her hood and climbed a giant tree. The leaves would keep her hidden as long as she curled up her legs tight and ducked her head. 

She grabbed handfuls of leaves and some dry twigs and stuck them in the pockets, slapped the chewed up leaves on her face hoping to dull the contrast. 

The footsteps grew louder then suddenly went quiet. An arrow darted and lodged itself in the eye socket of a rabbit she hadn't even seen. Sansa pulled over her sleeves and pushed the balled up fabric in her mouth to stifle any noise she might make. 

Brienne walked up the hill, slowly, cautiously and retrieved the rabbit. She nodded towards whoever was waiting at the foot of the hill as she climbed down. 

Please don't make camp here, please, Sansa prayed. 

She had stayed still for what felt like hours when a spasm shot through her leg. She moved it to relieve the cramp and a dry branch snapped. It got caught a few feet below in a tangle of branches. 

She gasped and held her breath.

Nothing happened for a long time. 

The wait was torturous. She was almost relieved when someone called, "I heard it. Why would I lie?"

Jaime. 

She balled up further, collapsing in on herself. Sounds of crushing leaves came now, directly below where she was. 

Through the branches she saw a shock of gold hair and steel. 

"It wath nothing. Muth be the wind," Vargo Hoat said.

"Shhh!" Someone said. Someone new. 

The whole career pack, right at my heels!  She looked around for an escape but only found a camera lodged in the bark a foot above her head. The other trees were close by but not sturdy enough to hold her weight should she even try to jump over. Not that she was agile enough to try.  

Camera. Camera, camera, camera. Could I open it up?  

Her father had been given books to study the technology once, after he was drafted to the factories again. 

She'd seen cameras around her house and tinkered with them some to know what was within. But those had been much cruder, only for surveillance in the town squares. These would be much more sophisticated. 

At the lack of a better plan she inched up slowly till she faced it.

Below the careers we're discussing or arguing, not caring in the least about making too much noise. If the previous Games were anything to go by, they'd be the most dangerous things around the first few days. The mutts would come later. 

It was lodged firmly but she could pry it out with the rock. It was probably against the rules but what else could they do to her? The thought of them hurting her family stayed her hand for a second… but then, she was given a nine for her brains. 

She touched it gently. It made soft buzzing noises as the lens zoomed in and out, focusing.

Wedging the stone in the space where wood met metal she pushed lightly. She built up a slow rhythm. The camera was almost out when she recklessly pushed the rock too hard. 

The tiny snap it made was thunder to Sansa.  

She froze and peered down to see if they had noticed. 

She scanned the scene. Melisandre's blood red head was stooped over something on the ground, deep in thought. Cersei and Jaime stood together some ways back while Lollys leaned against the trunk of Sansa's tree. 

No one heard. Thank - oh no!

He was looking up. Right at her, into her eyes. Grey and cold. 

He was holding a dagger in one hand and a sword in the other. 

The burnt corner of his mouth twitched. There was a look of shock - only for a second, then replaced again by a look of careful indifference. 

He looked away. 

She trembled and hugged the bark, trying to still her body, stone digging painfully into her palm. 

"You done, Lannister? Nothing here. Let's get on with it," Sandor's raspy voice carried. She could have kissed him, burnt lips, visible jaw bone and all. 

"Guess you're right," Jaime mumbled. "Let's move." 

"To the lake by the Cornucopia or to the streams two hills down?" Sandor asked.

Streams two hills down! 

The top of Jaime's head tilted as he looked at Sandor, "I was thinking we should search for others."

"You mean your girlfriend?" Sandor said. It was followed by the whack! and laughter. 

They act as if this is the backyard of their house, Sansa thought as she struggled to keep her breathing quiet. 

"Yeth, we thood," Vargo said. "I agree with the kingthlayer."

"Just because he says that's what they called him back home doesn't make it true," Sandor said, rolling his eyes. 

"Tith better than hith name. Jaime… Thounds thupid."

"Sure, Jaime thounds thupid ," Jaime mocked. 

"You'll pay for that Kingthlayer," Vargo promised. "I don't forget.".

Their voices were receding already. 

She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes a second. 

He saved me, she realised. He saved me! 

Once she was fairly certain the Careers were out of earshot, she untangled herself and gathered her megre supplies she had gathered at the Cornucopia.

A waterskin, some rope and a tiny pocket knife. 

She hobbled down gracelessly and set out uphill. Away from the Careers.

Chapter Text

Sansa 

Initially, she'd wanted to wait a few hours and head to the streams he had mentioned but now, after thinking it over, she wasn't sure if she should trust him. 

She trusted too easily, Arya had always said. And the evidence wasn't likely to be in Sansa's favor either. 

What if it was a plan to lure her to the streams? Sandor didn't seem like the scheming type but he was a Career; trained to kill, and a volunteer at that. That was enough reason to squash what little faith she had developed in him. 

Another thing was, maybe he knew something she didn't. It wouldn't be the first time that happened. Maybe that place was booby trapped in some way and he wanted to get out of there? There could be any number of reasons why this boy who almost wrung someone's neck in the Cornucopia would help her, except out of the goodness of his heart.

The first day would televise all the deaths at the Cornucopia. They'd show enough of me to let people know I'm alive. 

Doubt the Gamemakers would plan more for a few hours at least, she thought, slowing her pace to a steady but brisk walk. 

The forest of her mother's stories was exactly what was before her but that didn't stop the dread from setting in. 

It never got better, the further she went. It would have been beautiful in any other situation, calm, fresh and serene.

But now, every snap, swish and rustle made her jump. She saw bugs where there weren't any and shadows of trees became hunters. She kept seeing Sweetrobin as she saw him last, terrified and sprinting off towards the grass. 

No crying. Not here, not while the whole country watches. No crying. Not while the bets are placed. If no one bets on me, no one will sponsor me, she told herself. 

Her supplies, scant as they were, barely fit in her many pockets. She had the empty waterskin folded and squeezed into the inside jacket compartment, the tiny knife in her trousers, but she had no choice but to carry around the camera in her hand. It was about the size of an apple. 

Not having her hands free made her feel vulnerable. 

The rope was actually three ropes of differing thickness twisted together, strung across her body. The largest was as wide as her braid, the thinnest, no thicker than a noodle. She recognised the material. Strong. It would be able to lift several times her weight. 

The other hand held the bamboo shaft - at least she thought it was bamboo - she'd chanced on a few kilometres back. I'll carve it into a spear. If only I can find someplace to rest for the night. 

Sansa had been walking for hours without reaching anything. The woods seemed to stretch on and on without ever changing. She made herself look, really look at the trees. To remember her sorry excuse for training, and find food. 

The most surprising thing was how much she'd come to loathe those from other districts. The ones from 7, 9, 10, 11, who worked in fields. Who had seen trees before. Who knew how to live by the earth. 

District 3 was set up for failure. Their security was as tight as those in 1, 2, but they were as poor as the outlying districts. The Games were always natural habitats, and District 3 was almost completely concrete and metal. Her people lived and died under a sun corrupted by the thick black smog that perpetually tinged the sky grey. 

But they were intelligent. If she were a braver, more ambitious person, she'd have tried to get her hands on the spark wire and charger at the Cornucopia. How prettily they'd displayed them . She recalled the pedestal they were placed on, gleaming gold and blue, just out of reach. 

For a second she had been tempted to go get them, but every thought, every advice had fled from her mind except his . "Run and hide till it's over," he'd said and she planned on listening. 

Twilight was nearing. The sun was a flourescent orange in the sky, mocking her hunger. She'd seen no fruit trees, but there had been some unfamiliar berry bushes. She'd decided it best to leave them alone. 

The air was chillier and the plants were queer. some had almost changed hue to a bluer version of whatever green they were, others had their colours swallowed by indigo and purple. 

But it was the giant white trees that scared her most. They had rust coloured leaves and dripped blood red sap from what could only be faces carved in the trunks. 

They made her feel like she wasn't alone. A prospect both terrifying and comforting to a tribute on the march to death. 

There had been no sign of water yet. If she got desperate enough, she'd have to double back to the streams he'd mentioned. 

At dusk's door, she decided to find somewhere to settle in. Maybe tinker with the camera and see what came up. 

She found another white tree which had a hollow part in where it's gigantic trunk met the more aerial roots. The space was cavernous but well placed. It offered protection from the elements without deafening and blinding her to the surroundings.

She cut off the branches of some bushes and made bundles to block more of the entrance. As long as one didn't look too hard, it would appear fairly natural. A big tree with shrubs around. 

Finally, she thought, as she settled in. Now for the camera. 

 The lens came off first, then a few plastic contraptions. She laid them in her lap as carefully as possible. Next came the circuit board. There were small magnets at the edges but the main triumph seemed to be the wire. It wasn't the same as spark wire; it was thin as hair and made of some copper alloy. 

She unwound it delicately, tugging at the stuck parts and sacrificing the offending parts without compromising the wire. The magnets might help charge it?  

The lens could be used to make a crude periscope to help her see above and beyond her line of sight. It would be an invaluable advantage. 

Elated, she moved on to carving the spear. It was hard to do so with the pocket knife, but even a crude weapon would be better than nothing. The process went painfully slowly. Bamboo was  supposed to be especially tough, from what she'd read. She almost broke the knife a few times but persevered. 

She caught the glint of another camera not too far off, high up in the tree across her. 

She missed her family. They'd be glued to the screen, as afraid as I am . She imagined none of them would have gotten any sleep since she had left. Her mother's third child to be taken away and her father's fourth. 

I won't leave them, she decided. I won't. I will win and go back to them. No matter the odds. I will see my mother smile and hear my father's voice, I will plant trees with Bran in the Victor's Village and teach Rickon all the songs. I will win. 

*** 

Sandor 

The anthem blared, startling him out of sleep. Riding the lift at night and half snatched naps during the days had finally taken their toll. 

He slept more often than not, and felt sluggish the whole time around. 

Once the anthem ended, the faces started. There had been ten casualties on the first day. 

Both from 5. 

He snorted. Good for 3, he thought despite himself. 

Both from 6... The boy he'd finished off. He chose not to dwell.

The girl from 7, 9, boy from ten, both from eleven. 

The girl from eight has made it then after all. He wasn't sure if he regretted not killing her.  Jaime's girlfriend made it too. That's what they'd taken to calling the girl from twelve. 

Her eleven bothered everyone, Sandor included but none so much as Jaime.

He was used to being the best at everything, the Mayor's prodigal son. Demoted to third rank and sharing that with what he thought was a dimwitted, blubbering mess of a girl wasn't something he'd taken to kindly. 

Hoat and Mel were busy tending the fire. It burnt loud and proud before the Cornucopia inside which the rest of them dwelled for now. 

Jaime snacked on potato chips and Cersei sharpened the gold plated spear she had taken from her brother. Not that it needed any sharpening. The thing could pierce steel armour without getting a scratch. 

But giving yourself something to do so you didn't go crazy was not new to Sandor.

 He'd run off to meet the dog breeders and help them with the mutts right after school.

 He used to take El a few years ago, to cheer her up. She'd play with the puppies all afternoon and he'd buy her toffee sometimes from the money he saved up from his odd jobs. 

That was as close as he got to being happy, after he got his scars. El's health, money to scrape by, toffee and puppies and above all, no Gregor. 

A pang of longing passed through him. He shook off the thoughts like a dog shakes off water. 

Lollys sat huddled at the mouth of the horn. She trembled and stared up at the sky. He, like everyone else had heard the rumours about why Lollys was reaped even though she was nowhere near the top in terms of skill. 

The head peacekeeper had knocked her up and was now looking to get rid of her. Sandor wasn't sure if she was pregnant or not, but everytime he saw her, something about her reminded him of every other innocent and helpless creature he'd seen. 

Though they looked nothing alike, in her he saw his sister and that girl from eight, Daenerys and Sansa and her cousin, Brienne, Davos, and sometimes, even Jaime. 

Suddenly more troubled than he'd ever been and more sober than he ever wanted to be, he staggered out towards where the lake met the forest. 

The moon glimmered unnaturally bright in the lake. The forest had its own light. Some leaves glowed purple and blue, mimicking the tunnels in the mountains of District 2 he had seen on school trips. Unwanted memories clouded his mind and he hastened his pace, almost trying to run from them. 

The scattered light scared him more than he cared to admit. Way deeper into the forest, the light was brighter. Even the ground glowed cerulean, it seemed. 

There was a soft noise. He darted around on instinct, spooked. 

 Something pale white descended from the sky - a parachute. 

His breath caught in his throat. A donation? He looked for other tributes, sword at the ready but there was no one else around. 

He inched towards it, expecting it to 

explode any minute. 

The parachute had landed amongst the bigger rocks on the lake shore. His shoes squelched as he went to retrieve it.   It was a sizable metal box. After a final, paranoid glance around, he lifted it. 

Doubts were getting the best of him. He briefly considered leaving it there and bolting. He did have all the supplies already, ranging from tents to feasts. 

Maybe someone really rich bet on me, he thought. They must've bribed Gregor to send it. Or threatened him! Even he can't get away with bending rules made by the Capitol.

The box was lighter than it looked. The lock opened with a snap and inside were two shoes. Two unmatched shoes. 

One was large, left shoe, big enough to fit him easily. It was a high quality black combat boot with a mustard yellow leather strip around the ankle that could be hidden by his pants. 

The second was much smaller, of the right side. The outside matched his perfectly, the inside was lined with soft orange and blue striped fabric. 

He stared at it dumbfounded. It seemed like a cruel joke... but sponsor gifts were expensive. Even if Gregor had this much money to blow, he wouldn't have the brains to come up with a plan like this. 

Capitol citizens were filthy rich, it was known but who would be wasteful enough to send him unpaired shoes? 

Not a joke, he decided. A message, maybe? 

***

The joy of knowing Sweetrobin was alive was short lived. 

Sansa remembered little Missandei from training whose picture they had shown.

The whole truth of death crashed upon her like a pile of boulders. She had cried, in spite of scolding herself and pinching her arms. 

She even gave herself five minutes to sob and then she'd go back to being a Stark. You can only be brave when you are afraid, she recalled her father's words. She hadn't understood them at the time but now they were clear as day. 

Being fearless was different from being brave. Being fearless meant you were never afraid but being brave meant you looked fear in the eyes and still held your own. 

She mulled over that as she fell asleep. The faces of the fallen tributes had drained her entirely. 

Sansa awoke to the sound of something rustling. She had fallen asleep in the same position, her gear still on her person.  

Immediately alert, she grabbed her spear and peaked out once the rustling stopped. A large metal box was dangling from a low branch of the white tree, a few feet above her. The parachute was stuck in branches.  

Petyr! "Thank you," she whispered towards the sky. She looked around for anyone else, but the hope of the box holding food and water was making her careless. 

She crawled out of the tree cave and tried to find the best path upwards. 

Then there was another noise. Like the snarling of dogs. 

"Sandor?" she muttered, recklessly. It sounded like he was laughing. 

The noise grew louder. She turned to locate it but it kept coming from all sides at once. One of the bushes rustled and a pair of gleaming white orbs stared at her through the leaves. 

She stilled, not knowing where to run or how to fight. 

The mutt crouched and took a careful step towards her. 

A dog , she thought, but seemed to be lacking fur. And it had a much longer snout than any dog she'd seen. 

It was completely black but for the glowing yellow eyes.

Chapter Text

One after the other each of the mutts crept out of the bushes. Six in total. All identical to one another, uncannily so. 

Sansa shifted and shuffled to see them all but they had her surrounded. The yellow eyes were eerily bright. The skin, leathery. It reflected the blues and purples of the forest around. 

First signs of dawn leached into the black sky. Some birds chirped but the sound grated her ears. 

The mutts had bared their teeth. Growling, one took a step towards her. Reflexly, she backed away. It took that for aggression and launched. The rest looked ready to follow suit.   

With a snarl, it leapt at her. Screaming, she stumbled back and thrust her spear towards him. Her eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. And a weight pushed down on her arms. 

The snarling turned to a yelp as something wet and warm ran down her sleeves. 

She fluttered her eyes open to see the mutt impaled upon her spear. Thrashing and wailing she wrenched the spear free. 

More mutts pounced on her. 

One bit clawed at her, but her garments got the worst of it. She fell in an attempt to push it away. Another went for her throat. But she rolled out at the last second and his teeth scraped her collarbone.  

Blood drenched her clothes. She called for her mother, called for her father. They'll have to watch this. 

Adrenaline had taken over. She thrust her spear into the mutts eye. Howling in pain, it jumped back, biting the air and pawing its eye.

She scrambled to her feet and ran downhill. 

The branches slapped and clawed. One almost took out her eye. The wound in her waist hurt the most. She felt the blood seeping out of it. 

Pressing down on it, she stifled a sob and ran down the hill. She had no notion of which directions we're heading in, just forward. 

The terrain changed and the ground became slick. 

Her foot slipped and she rolled down the rest of the way. 

Two of the mutts were pursuing her. Somewhere out of sight, someone else was screaming. The remaining must have gone after them. 

She kept running, not wanting to acknowledge the momentary relief she felt when she felt better another than herself. 

 Tears and sweat had impaired her vision significantly. Branches and rocks became green and brown blurs as she ran and stumbled. 

Neither could she use her blood-stained arms to wipe her eyes. 

So she wasn't sure if she was seeing the world turn grey or not but the air had definitely gotten hotter. 

She panted as she turned. Her breath heaved and she gulped air, but her lungs found no respite. 

The mutts had gone quiet. Expecting more, she whirled around to spot them but none were there. 

A low, sad whimper caught her attention. She turned to where it came from, her left. Her eyes went wide. She couldn't have been imagining the giant wall of wildfire descending towards her. 

A mutt, one of the dogs, was limping towards her, teeth bared and eyes full of panic.

She staggered back and tripped over a log. In her defenseless position, the mutt loomed above. The fire colouring everything a ghastly green. 

Her eyes watered even more, clearing her vision some. The mutt was getting too close. She fought to get up but the pain in her side was crippling. It yelped and hissed as it tried to attack. Miscalculating, it tried to jump over the log but fell short and fell over to the far side. 

She held her spear with both hands and unfolded herself upright. She limped away but the yelping was haunting. 

The fire was descending at a more or less steady pace, but stll ways off. Against her better judgement she peeped over the log to the mutt. It lay on its side whimpering, half of its snout and shoulder burnt on the right side. 

She straightened up and thrust the pointed end of the spear into its throat. With one last loud whine, and a twitch, it went still. 

***

SANDOR

Dawn was lavender. Sandor snorted. It was just the sort of syrupy thing El would say. She loved to watch sunrise on the mountains. When he was younger, they'd go up to the foothills on Sundays with mother while father took Gregor to the training grounds. Once Sandor was eleven, he had to go with his father too. 

The hunt begins, he thought to himself. He'd stashed the sponsor box by the lake, not wanting to have to explain the fuckery that was his lot in life to his current allies. The shoes were useless at the time and they had enough utensils at the Cornucopia. 

Pink streaks were cutting through the purple sky. Sandor kicked Jaime's side lightly to rouse him. 

"Up," he said. 

Jaime grunted as he rose up and stretched. The two had built up a rapport. 

 Sandor was loathed to admit but amongst the careers, killing Jaime would hurt the most. Only because he had no intention of going within a mile of Lollys once the pack broke off, he'd be happy enough to dispose of Hoat, and Cersei and if he didnt go for her, Mel would probably do for him.

They divided up the food amongst themselves, bringing only bare essentials. Armed with the grey metal pieces he and Jaime had divided (they didn't fit anyone else, Vargo was bulkier than even Sandor, though not nearly as tall.) 

He clasped on the forearm and calf parts of the armour - hell, Olena would probably know what they were called - and strung his sword to his hip, and belted the carved ivory hilted dagger he'd fought Hoat over. Dog motifs were his thing after all. He pulled on the lucky shield on his left arm and stepped out. 

Jaime grabbed a smaller sword and the trident he'd gotten as a sponsor gift. 

Sandor watched Cersei with mild interest as she bent over to get her belt of gold plated throwing stars (sponsor donation.) She saw him look, still bent over and flashed a cunning smile. 

He looked away embarrassed, but tried to tell himself that she was probably used to it.  

Mel was doing whatever Mel did. She counted the arrows in her quiver - twelve - and checked and rechecked the bow string. 

Lollys and Hoat were to stand watch. 

"How long will you take?" Hoat asked.

"Three canons at least," Cersei smirked. 

"Me and Cers will be back by noon and you both can switch. Sandor and Mel will be back by late afternoon," Jaime said. 

"On with it. The audience will be bored by now," Sandor rasped. Mel followed. He was certain with his sword and her bow, they'd be invincible.

With last parting jokes, and pointed ignoring of Lollys on Sandor's part, they set out towards the north side of the arena, away from the lake. He caught the last few bits of Jaime and Hoat going at it again. 

"... Don't you dare mock me, you worthleth bag of thith!" 

"I wasn't mocking you, Vargie baby. I only wanted to know how you managed to tell your head from your arth - arse - if you can't even tell when it'll be noon…"

Sandor shook off the queer feeling that had settled in his stomach. The air had gotten hotter than yesterday. If each day got hotter than the last… Well I'll just have to cut the games short and kill everyone faster. He had always preferred the cold.  

Melisandre creeped him out. In her own way, she was almost as scary as Gregor. She stared at - into - the flames all the times. She claimed to see things in them, Vargo had told them. One the day of the parade, she'd said she saw swirls of blue and green rising from the coals to get him. 

More than once in the one day they'd spent together, Sandor had found her hunched over the fire, feeding it dead leaves and sometimes even charring her food before eating it. 

Blaming the goosebumps on nerves, he palmed his dagger. So far there hadn't been any sign of other tributes. The air got hotter as they went deeper. 

He smelt it before anything else. "Fire!" He sprung back two steps. 

"Yes," she said. "Fire. It's alright, Sandor," she stroked his forearm and slid her hand down to hold his. Sahn-der, she said. 

"We ought to head back," he urged, unable to stand still. 

"No. Forward." 

"I'm going back. With or without you," he warned. 

"Turning your back on me wouldn't be the smartest decision you'd make. "But suit yourself," she shrugged, took of her jacket, tied them by her waist and disappeared behind a tree. 

He was loathe to go anywhere near fire but somehow Melisandre's confidence made him bolder. There wasn't any fire in sight, and it could just as easily have been a tribute's campfire nearby. 

Fully aware of his weakness and fear, he steeled himself and followed the girl. 

She had trekked quite far in the few seconds he had spent trying bring up his nerve, meandering about by the bushes of the foothills. 

"What do you see in the flames about yourself?" Sandor asked. The branches were tougher in these parts, the vines thicker than his forearms.

Her steps faltered for a second. He bit down a smirk at having caught her off guard once. "Why aren't you more interested about what I see about you?" 

"Don't wanna know. Can't be nothing good if you see it in fire."

"I see myself in a field of white."

"Snow?" 

"Or ashes."

"That's it?"

She only smiled. "For you I see -"

"Uh uh. Don't want to know. You shove your funfair tricks down someone else's gullet."

"You don't believe what I see is real?"

"I know what you're saying is load of shit."

"Don't you ever think there's something beyond all this?" She waved her hand, encompassing their surroundings.

The trees had gotten much larger too. The fallen logs forming a bridge of sorts between the low hills. 

"I know there is," he snorted. "A big, giant house in the Victor's Village and a big, giant bag of money every year."

"Beyond that, idiot."

He bristled, not for the insult but for what she implied. That there be something more than what the best case scenario of his life was. "What do you mean?" He sneered, turning around to block her path. 

"I can't explain the visions, but I know they are real."

"Where I'm from that's called losing your mind. You're crazy, bitch. Nothing more to it."

She grabbed his arm, fabric bunching up in her fist. "I am not crazy. I've been chosen."

"By who, pray the fu-"

"By whoever made this!"

"The Capitol?" It wasn't what she meant, he knew but what else was there? They controlled everything. They could unmake something so easily, stood to reason, they'd be the ones to make it too. 

"The Capitol didn't create this! Powerful they may be, but they are still people. And people can't create something that isn't already there."

"What's it matter?" 

"If that doesn't matter what does? What else am I allowed to care about?" 

"If that's all that you have to care about - your visions and your delusions, you shou-" 

Mel opened her mouth to shut him up but all that escaped her mouth was a pained cry. 

The flash that blinded him struck her in the chest. He saw it happen before he heard her. 

Smoke filled up his lungs completely. He lost his bearings, fear choking him far more than the smoke. He stumbled backwards, trying to call her name. Every sound he emitted dissolved in coughs. 

Another ball of fire rained down, so bright, it looked like a star falling. It landed some feet to his right. The path back to the camp was blocked for as far he could see. 

The forest caught fire faster than he thought possible, orange flames snaking their way up the branches. But the fire on the ground burned green. He darted through the woods, dodging and clawing before him, sword in hand, forgotten. The further he went, the hotter it got. But retreat wasn't an option. 

His sword almost slipped from his hands dozens of times. It was only years of training drilled into him that enabled him to hold on to it.  He heard a scream - a girl's.  The sound sent a shudder up his spine.

The fire balls were falling more numerously on his right. 

Fuck me, he cursed, veering left. 

One struck the tree he was crossing, just as he made it past it. The explosion flung him away. He crashed into a white trunk, staining it red. 

His head wrung, and left leg throbbed. It had gotten the worst of the impact. 

The fire got closer. He whimpered and begged. Too afraid to even look at his limb, he dragged himself away on his hands. The knuckles of his sword hand were chafed raw from the gravel. 

He saw an opening between some of the bushes. The light filtering through was yellow. The burning trees behind him were beginning to crumble. They fell with a sound rivaling thunder, throwing sparks of green and white everywhere. 

Every thought, every dream, every hope he ever had was gone from memory. Only thing remained was the ache in his bones and the single minded doggedness to survive. 

He crawled and dragged himself towards the bushes ignoring everything else. The earth was dry and hot. It stuck to his blood and sweat. He spat out the mud that kept getting in his mouth. Just a little more, he told himself. It had been a while since he cared much about what happened to him. Any death would be acceptable except fire. 

There was another thundering sound, the sickening crunch of a life being uprooted and snapped down the middle. 

Panic stilled him for a second before he managed to scramble together his resolve and pulled himself forward. One of his hands clutched the dirt of the opening like it was sunlight itself. One more push. The rumbling grew louder and louder. Before he could understand, Sandor found himself half buried under a thousand leaves. 

He howled and gasped, as he tried to wrangle out of the weight but it was too much for him. One heavy branch collapsed on his leg trapping him there. 

He wept, hoping for someone else to kill him before the fire did. He wriggled his leg in one last ditch effort to pull it out but instead, he heard a snap. Agony shot up his leg to his core. A scream escaped him just as a blackness took him under. 

*

SANSA

Breathless she ran towards the wail. Every ounce of reason in her body begged her to run away, to escape, to save herself but in the end the part of her, the most buried part of her knew, knew that it was him who called. That it was him who was in need of help. 

She didn't pause to consider exactly what help she could offer him. What in her utter uselessness would be valuable to him? In the instant there were only two possibilities: to go to him or to not. She'd made her choice long before her mind caught upto it. 

Her injuries slowed her down considerably. The screaming had stopped, but there was no canon heard. 

Just hold on a little longer, she urged him. Hold on, I'm coming.  The fire had singed off the bottom of her hair, a bit of her jacket. Her palms were covered in scratches. They stung as she pulled herself over giant fallen logs, moss covered boulders and cleaved thorn bushes. 

The wall had receded. It stood now about fifty feet from her, and steadily retreating. The light was near blinding. She inched towards the growling, her makeshift spear poised. 

The sound alternated between growling, coughing and what could only be sobbing. As she reached the edge of the woods, beyond which lay a small meadow, she knew she'd made it. 

He was propped up against the remaining trunk of a fallen tree. 

Sandor was bleeding. His scars and hands were covered in blood. The front of his shirt was a shade darker than the rest of him. One of his knees was bent as he clutched the other thigh and tugged at it. 

It made her tremble, to see him reduced to this. This boy who had threatened her and saved her. Who she dreamt of everyday since she first saw him. This boy who killed and saved, who was at the same time the strongest person she had ever met and the most vulnerable. 

She rustled the branch before her deliberately, to announce her presence. 

His head jerked up. He spat out the piece of wood that he had been biting down on. His eyes still had that iron and silver in them that often left her so breathless. But the anger was quelled for once. He seemed almost relieved to see her. Still, he grabbed his sword. 

She didn't understand him. it was no surprise since she felt as though she barely knew herself at this point. 

Spear still pointed towards him, she stepped into the clearing. His outstretched leg disappeared under a heavy limb of the tree fallen before him.He's stuck, she realised. Stuck and burned and wounded. Her heart squeezed painfully. 

It must've shown on her face for he loosened his grip on his sword, relaxing visibly. He sighed deeply and pawed at his eyes. "I… I...," she knew not what to say, only that something must be said. 

"You're hurt," she stated. 

"Where?"   

"You're stuck," she stated. Her mind could barely form a single coherent thought but that she try to lift the weight off him. 

She stepped forward, lunging gracelessly, spear thrust forward as if she were scaring away a rat. 

He shifted his weight, swaying a little and she jumped back two feet. 

He laughed his snarling, grating laugh. She inched closer and nearly stepped on a lizard, which scuttered away into the leaves. She squeaked involuntarily, and his laughter renewed. His shoulders shook as he wiped tears and clutched his belly. 

He seemed like he was at his wits end. The thought pushed out all else and she straightened up. 

"Are you in pain?" she asked, knowing the answer, but it had never been easy for her to talk to him. 

"Are you here to finish me off?"

"No."

"Why are you here?"

She wanted to say she didn't know, but that was a lie. And just then, she didn't want to lie. "I heard you."

"And what? you came to rescue me?" he laughed some more but this was a bitter laugh, nothing like the one seconds before. "My knight I'm shining armour."

"You saved me," she said, her voice cracking. She'd never felt this helpless - no, this impotent. "And now you're hurt..." tears blurred her vision and she shook her head, willing them to fall. They tickled as they dripped around her nose and traced their way to her chin. 

"You feel like you owe me something?" he asked, voice for once devoid of any malice. 

She nodded. It wasn't the whole truth, but it was the simplest part of it. 

"Finish me off then. Make an end," he said and tossed a dagger at her feet. It fell some distance short. He looked more tired then than she'd ever seen him. 

Her gaze darted from the steel of the blade to the steel of his eyes. "I can't kill you," she choked out. 

"I'm already dead. you'll spare me a few hours of pain," he winced, like it was an effort to talk. "My leg is broken, my arm is burnt. Do you remember last year? Those mutts?"

She didn't know whether to back off or lunge forward. "Stop it! I don't want to hear it," she screamed instead, transfixed to the earth. 

"Those lions or dogs or whatever they were -"

"I said shut up!" 

"I don't want to die like that," he whispered. "Take the knife and make an end." He lifted a blood stained finger and drew a cross on his chest. "Here, where the heart is."

She shook her head vehemently and started towards him. That's when she saw the sword still clutched in his hands. And she froze. 

He saw the fear in her eyes, perhaps, for the next thing he did was toss towards her too. He snickered, "half dead, half buried and I still manage to scare the little bird." 

She lowered her spear and let one hand fall, freeing it. 

"Take the dagger," he said. "You won't know what to do with a sword. Too big for you anyway. They have smaller swords in district three, you know?" 

She felt the corners of her mouth lifting but she stopped herself. It wasn't the time. 

"Don't. Don't do that. Smile. Let me see something pretty before I die," he said, somehow alert and drunk at the same time. 

"Now's not the time for humour!" she scolded. 

"Fuck you on about? It's always time for humour," he said. "Now hurry up. Dagger, chest, canon."

She didn't pick it up. She couldn't. Instead Sansa made her way to him, stepping between the branches and leaves like some weird dance. He watched her the whole way, his gaze travelling up and down like a lift, from the tips of her boots to the crown of her head. 

"If you're gonna stab me with it, you better know how to use that spear," Sandor said.  

Barely two feet from him, her courage faltered. He could kill her. Even now, it wouldn't take much for him to snap her neck if she couldn't run from him. 

She looked at the jagged, spear and decided he deserved better. If she was going to do it, it would have to be as clean as possible. She turned around. 

"Sansa! No! Don't leave me here!" He called, his voice pained and panicked. 

"I'm not," she called back, unable to look at him. 

She felt a million eyes on her at the moment and yet more alone than she'd ever felt. 

Sansa scrambled to retrieve the dagger. Once she found it, she steeled herself. But stilled yet again. 

I don't have to kill him, she thought. But she couldn't just leave. She could try and help him and then what? Only one of them could go home. 

Somehow she knew that she wouldn't be going home. Robb had been the strongest, bravest and more intelligent than all his competitors - far more than her - and he'd still died. The Gamemakers didn't want him to win and so he hadn't. 

Arya, Gendry and Jon had run away two years ago. Gendry's parents were prominent leaders during the rebellion. They had openly supported thirteen and tried to rally three as well. His mother had been caught and executed, when Sansa was too young to remember but Gendry's father had escaped. He had been a friend of her father's. 

A few weeks later there had been a district wide announcement to gather in the town square. The peacekeepers brought out a man, his head covered with bag who they claimed was Robert Baratheon. They hung him that afternoon. Later, Gendry had come to live with them. His blue eyes never shone anymore, except sometimes when he was with Arya. After they'd ran away the investigations had began. And the torment.

Sansa knew somewhere that even if she had every sponsor in the Capitol send her a feast everyday, even if she fought every tribute, they wouldn't let her win. Perhaps that's why she wanted to keep Robin safe. Save at least some of her family. But she hadn't seen him since the games began. She shook away thoughts of him and Arya and home. 

She could try to save Sandor, that much she could do. 

With a new purpose she turned around. He was still watching her, enchanted. Sansa took a step towards him to take a better look at the stuck leg but he grabbed her wrist and yanked her to him.  She stumbled to her knees with a gasp and he pulled her by the arms. He pressed his lips against her, almost painfully. She gasped again but it got lost under his mouth. 

He was hot and soft and rough all at once. His hands dug into her wrist and she droped the dagger she had forgotten she still had. He backed away giving her space to breathe. 

"I had to," he murmured, words bleeding into one another. "I had to know what it feels like." 

She didn't reply. She didn't move. 

"Here, little bird," he said, gently, as he placed the dagger in her palm and curled her fingers around it. He lifted it and placed the tip against his heart. 

She gaped at him, open mouthed. Then, pulled her hand away. Tiny shocks burst on her skin every where he had touched her. 

The dagger fell from his hands and she threw it away. He opened his mouth to say something but she pressed it shut. 

"Hush," she told him, lifting her hands to cup his face. She wiped his tears, stroking feather light touches on both sides of him, soft and rough. "There, that's how you do it," she told him. "Softly... not pawing at your eyes."

He looked at her like she had lost her mind. She laughed then, a short sad laugh. It was the first time in her life she felt completely sane.

Chapter Text

Sandor –

Just by the looks of it, Sansa seemed to have gone mad. She was more intelligent than most in some ways and dafter than most in others. 

Presently, she tried to find sturdy but slender logs and tied them together with one of her many ropes. 

The plan was to make a lever of some sort with which to free his trapped leg.

“Enough, girl,” he groaned, eyes stinging with sweat and tears. “Put me out of my misery, how many times do I have to beg?!” 

At that point, he'd do it himself, but the bastard dagger lay uselessly far, at Sansa's feet.

“Let me try this,” her voice trembled with conviction, shaking as she made knot after knot.

“Wastage of time, wastage of tears,” he muttered, but shut his eyes and tried to relieve their kiss. 

His first. Possibly, his last. 

“Alright,” Sansa exhaled deeply. 

He cracked an eye open. 

She had strengthened the slender logs by tying them together, and then wedged one end under the trunk next to his leg. 

“It'll hurt when the blood rushes down,” she turned to him with sorry eyes. 

 Gripping the dirt in his fists, he prepared to bite down on the piece of wood between his teeth to muffle his cry. 

She pushed down with all her might, knuckles white from the pressure. Her grunts echoed in his ears, pained cries and the shifting of leaves beneath their bodies. 

Sansa forced the makeshift lever down again and again, until the log finally gave an inch. 

A queer jolt of warmth shot up his leg and he cried out in pain. It only got worse, burning hotter by the second, pain enveloping his entire existence. It was Sansa's voice that brought him back to reality. 

He grabbed his leg with both his hands and dragged it away from underneath the log. 

Sansa let go, and slumped down next to him. They both heaved sighs of relief, a moment to catch their breaths. 

“It worked,” Sansa said, incredulous. “It worked! “

“I’ll be damned,” a laugh broke through his pain. 

*

The pair hobbled down the barest path they could see, the last of the Gamemaker’s fire dying a slow death behind them. Sandor had water in his bag, along with dried meat that could last them a couple days at most, if they ate barely enough to stay alive. 

A clearing with a reed thin stream flowing through the shallow cracks in the rocks, was suddenly the most beautiful sight they’d ever seen. Feeling much to exposed, Sansa insisted the trek further down until they could find a cave or at least more tree cover. 

The days of him covering had been so long ago, it felt foreign, almost degrading to think he was again a creature of prey. Somehow after all his training and all his efforts, he ended up at the mercy of a delicate girl, and her sky blue eyes. 

He leaned against a thick trunk, panting and bleeding from the gash on his leg, while he watched the little bird silently fashion out a nest in some brambleand a hollow tree. 

“That’ll have to do,” she whispered, more to herself than anything. It wasn’t much for cover, but he supposed they'd be sufficiently covered from a reasonable distance. 

Sandor fell with a thud as he tried to sit. He tied one of Sansa’s ropes as a tourniquet above the wound and pressed down on it to stop the bleeding. 

He groaned, trying to remember everything he had learnt about healing. It wasn’t nearly as much as he knew about killing.

From his pack, he removed some pills and a tube of ointment. Barely enough for one proper dressing, but it could mean the difference between life and death for him. 

He shuffled out of his pants to bare the flesh wound while Sansa gathered water in his now empty bottle. 

She tried to fight off the maiden blush at seeing him in such undress. 

He'd noticed the same blush in her cheeks at the tribute parade. A part of him felt pride as he recalled that evening. 

Sansa rearranged some branches around him. Then, added some mud to her braid to dull its lustre, and somehow that was the thing that hurt him in the softest parts of him. 

The girl who saved his life, covering herself so no one could hunt her down easily. So she could have a few more moments of foolishness while she played nurse maid. 

If it were only his life, he’d happily die right that instant, but where would that leave Elinor? The great barren heartless mountains of District 2 would swallow her whole. 

And yet, if he lived, it meant Sansa would die. 

It escaped before he could even fathom its existence, that mangled cry that scratched against his throat. “Why did you save me?” He screamed, tears, blood and mud mixing on his weakened flesh. 

“Don’t! Please,” she pled, eyes wide and brimming with tears. “Someone will find us. Please!” 

He clamped a heavy palm down on his mouth and smothered the rest of his cries. He did this while some giant thing inside him came down as if the ground beneath had itself shattered. She collected more water from the stream in his bottle, and cleaned the wound as much as she could, applying ointments and bandages over a gash almost as big as her forearm. 

That’s when he saw it. “Little bird,” he raised a trembling finger and barely touched the red stain on her waist. “When–”

She squeezed his hand and put it away. “Little more than a scratch. It stings, but doesn’t bleed.” 

“Who did –” 

“You mustn’t talk,” she said, “you’re hurting too much. There were some mutts.” 

He stifled another cry. “You’re hurting too. Why did you save me?” 

She stilled. “I don’t think I can save myself. I know I will never leave here,” she said, carefully dabbing at his wound with the cloth she’d cut from her own jacket. “But I can do this. I can do everything to make sure you do.” 

“That’s not true,” he ground out. “You have as much a chance as anyone if you weren’t this daft.” 

To his surprise, she huffed a little laugh. “I don’t know what they teach you in 2, but in 3, when someone saves our life, we say ‘thank you.’” 

He let the matter go, trusting her to not kill him in his sleep. If she wanted him dead, there were plenty of opportunities in her lap. 

As the last of the smoke dissipated, the birds returned, their sounds eerie as the night fell. There wasn’t much to do except wait out the night and hope everyone else somehow perished overnight. 

There weren’t many rules, but they were simple. Win or die. 

The sky blared the anthem of Panem and showed the pictures of those who had died. 

Only one: Melisandre. 

He counted down the tributes in his mind. 12 others left. 

All he could do was trying and talk some sense into Sansa. Or worse came to worse, ensure that it wouldn't come down to having to hurt her. 

It was the last bit of humanity left in him. And he had no intention to part with it. 

Chapter Text

Sansa 

Sansa stared up at the now blank sky and for a second, wondered if she had imagined it. Melisandre? With Sandor on her side, would it be too much to hope that all the other careers fought amongst themselves and ended the game short? It would. 

Sandor had been clutching her arm, and when she turned to look at him, his eyes burned with a million questions.

When she looked away, suddenly sombre, he nudged her softly. “Change your mind about saving me?” He joked, but the sharp voice reminded her of snarling dogs. “Might be, you're wishing you'd saved pretty little Loras Tyrell, huh? Makes no difference to me, girl.” 

“Strange how you keep talking so much and none of the words are thank you.”

He chuckled, seemingly unsure of where they were supposed to go from here.

There was after all only one victor. 

The gloom of reality cast over her a darkness like a shroud. He couldn't make sense of it, and she could feel his unease permeating the air. 

“What is it, girl? Tell me true. I'd rather you look me in the eye when you end my life.” He asked again, after a time, all his earlier mirth gone. “Do yourself a favour,” he offered, “stick that dagger here,” he made a small cross on his chest. “Because, once this leg stops killing me, you'll be sorry you didn't. Better now than later. You've had your fill playing nursemaid. No need to make it any worse.”  

Sansa recoiled, from his anger, from his words, from her own thoughts that flooded her mind. 

She couldn't tell him the truth with all the cameras trained on them. So she pulled the good of her jacket up and huddled close to him, such that her face was buried in the crook of his neck. “I don't think I'll make it out of here,” she whispered. 

“Wh–” 

“Shh. Keep it down. I don't want anyone else to hear.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, pulling up his hood so that most of his hair fell over his face. “What's going on? And you better not hide shit from me?” 

“I told you, I'm not going to make it.” 

“I should be the last person saying this but you have as much shot as anybody. There's pessimism, and there's a death wish. Look, how many tributes remain –”

“It won't matter how many remain,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “It didn't matter that Robb was going to be the Victor. He was the strongest, and the smartest. He played the game and played it well, and they still killed him.” Sansa’s voice caught in her throat and she trembled from the sudden horror that her own words brought on. 

“Last year?” He held her tighter, as she tried to even her breathing with his jacket. “You knew him?” 

“He was my brother,” she said. “I know it. Every year they'll reap one of us, until there are no more left. Next year it'll be Bran. And when he's old enough, Rickon.”

“Wh-why? What did you all do?” 

Her grief won over her caution as she tried to hide her face to speak the forbidden truth of her life. “My sister, she and a few others from our school showed promise in the technology fairs. They impressed the judges, and were being sent to the Capitol to work on future arenas. 

They – Arya, Gendry and Jon – they didn't want to but it didn't matter. The judges said, they'd never be reaped again, that they'd become Capitol citizens and would have the best life they could imagine. 

No wasn't an option, so they said their goodbyes and boarded the train. 

We heard it had reached the outskirts of 3 when there was a blast. Some managed to escape. They showed us three bodies to prove that they had died, but we knew the truth. 

I knew, they're still out there, alive. 

My father was arrested but the people were mad. They knew if they hurt him, they'd have a riot at the very least on their hands. 

The people of 3 aren't as helpless as the rest. We can create weapons no else has even heard of. 

The peacekeepers decided to let him go. 

The next year, they send Robb to the Games. He was eighteen. It was his last year. 

This year, me. 

I don't want to think about what'll happen next year.” 

“Sansa,” he whispered, holding her tighter to his heart, the edges of hisnscars brushing against her head. 

The gentleness in his voice surprised her. 

“Sandor,” she whispered, “My brothers, I don't know how to save them. I think if I somehow surrender here, now… maybe they'll let them go? I think when Robb almost won, it made the Capitol angry, how well he was doing. Maybe, if I don't do well…”

“You think if you die easily, they'll let your family go?” He took a sharp breath. “It won't matter what you do where. When they want to make an example of someone, they will. It won't matter what you do. A bird in a cage can only fly so far.”  

“How I wish I wasn't a little bird,” she found herself saying. “I'd rather be something powerful. Like a lion, or a wolf.” 

He laughed, sawdust and steel. “There's lions in cages and wolf pelts as carpets. Monsters don't spare anything.” 

Hours passed with a strange listlessness. It was quiet. Too quiet. 

“Get some sleep,” Sandor rasped. “I'll take first watch.” 

“I don't think I can sleep here.” 

“This here is the safest you'll be in this arena, that much I can promise you,” he said. “Sleep and wake me up in a few hours.” 

She nodded, but couldn't help the weight of the eerie silence. All sounds seemed amplified. The cold rustle of dead leaves, strange insects flapping their wings, the shrill cries of owls. Or at least what she thought were owls.” 

“You know,” she said, clearing her throat, “I got a sponsor gift.”

“What was it?” He asked. 

“You don't sound surprised.” She peeked a look at him. 

“All I know is, if I were one of those Capitol richlings, I'd be tripping over myself to sponsor you, on the off chance you make it and I get to fu –” he cut himself off. “No, I'm not surprised.” 

“Why are you always this awful!” She hugged herself closer, putting some distance between them. 

He tightened his grip, unwilling to let her go. “I'm honest. Its the world that's awful.” 

She didn't know what to say to that. His words echoed what she'd come to learn. Denial didn't have a leg to stand on. 

“Tell me, little bird, about this gift of yours,” he said. “I got one too.” 

“What?” She snapped up to look at him. It wouldve been helpful to know. “What was in it?” 

“You first.” 

“I couldn't get to it,” Sansa admitted shamefully. “Some mutts attacked me. What was yours? Medicines?” 

He shook his head. “Gregor wouldn't send me anything like that. I think it was from your mentor. Two shoes, unmatched. One big, one small. One lined with yellow and black, the other with orange and blue.” 

Her jaw dropped in surprise. 

“How much do you want to bet you got the other pair?” he asked. 

Petyr! Even if he sometimes made her uncomfortable, she had to admit he was effective. Could he have convinced the Gamemakers? 

Sansa felt a lightness that she hadn't since the train station. This was a chance. A real chance, and she'd be a fool not to take it. 

Besides, there was sparkwire at the cornucopia. Why would they have that if it weren't for her? It was unlikely any of the other districts could even tell what it was. 

Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance? Maybe Sandor was right and the Capitol citizens wanted her to win? 

At any rate, no one could fault her for trying to save her life, could they? 

“We need to make a plan,” she said. 

He thought about it. “We can survive on the water from the streams but we need food. I'll set some snares up where the stream starts. Where there's water there's prey.” 

The wording made her uneasy. “you make the snares, I'll go set them. You need to rest your leg.”  

“If they come up empty, I've hidden some food in the shoe box by the lake near the cornucopia. Not much, but it'll do for a couple days if we're careful.” 

“I'll go get it,” she said, getting up. 

“In the middle of the night?! No. Just stay put, we'll get it tomorrow morning –”

“By morning, the careers will be all rested and on the hunt.” She shuddered at the thought of Cersei, Vargo and Jaime closing in on her. 

“What makes you think they aren't on the hunt now?” Came the reply. 

“I… don't know.” Sansa's resolve faltered. “But I can't just sit here, and wait for the snares to catch something, Sandor. I'll go mad. We need the medicines, and the food. I'll get them”

“Not the medicines–” he grabbed her wrist. “They're hidden too far inside. Just the box, if you won't listen to me, girl, I swear –”

“Alright,” she held his hand, softening his iron grip on her pale skin. “Just the box.” She didn’t reveal the sparkwire, not knowing how to explain it to him. 

Reluctantly, he let go of her wrist.

Sansa rearranged the nearby twigs, bushes, and her foliage she found, their rustle thunderous in the dead of the night, around Sandor to hide him from plain view. It wasn't perfect, but as close as it could be. His scars worked to dull the contrast and their texture helped him blend further in the tree bark so long as he didn't turn his face. 

Then they carefully divided their meagre possessions. 

Two knifes – the bigger one with Sansa – her makeshift spear, with Sandor, and the water bottle she forced him to sip from. 

He'd taken the pills in the small kit he'd been carrying and applied the ointment twice now. The wound was deep, but Capitol medicines would make him better in a day or two at most. Sansa had promised Sandor, but going so close and returning with scraps wasn't something she agreed with. 

All she had to do was not get caught.

Chapter Text

Sandor

His leg throbbed as if it has grown a heart of its own. A strong pulsating pain that seared up to his spine.

The wait was relentless. She had only been gone a few minutes but it felt like an eternity. 

His breath came in ragged pants, like a dog for true. 

A little sliver of hope, perhaps for the first time in his life, and he'd let her talk him into slipping away in enemy territory. Not that the world they lived in wasn't all enemy territory. 

Strong as he might be, or might have been, there were only so many things and so long that you could protect her, unless it meant his own demise. He chose not to dwell on it and let the excruciating seconds tick by. 

A faint rustling of leaves startled him. It wasn't Sansa, he'd learnt to recognise her footfall, soft, all things considered, and yet, thunderous to his trained ear. The clumsy rhythm of one who had never hunted. 

This one was different. This was a hunter's tread. Careful, methodical. Almost inaudible, unless one knew how to listen. 

For the first time since Gregor, he hid from the sound. He crouched in the bramble and hoped whoever or whatever it was would just pass him by. 

Through the bushes, a tall pale figure stepped into the moonlight. 

12, he thought. She was alert, lanky now that she seemed to have lost even more weight. The clothes fell off her, collarbones jutted up, but most alarmingly, her cheek bled.

She swiped the blood from her neck, as if wiping away errant tears and moved forward.

She hasn't seen me, he thought. I could kill her now. Couldn't I? 

She looked weak, but she had scored an eleven. And with his leg unusable… there was a good chance he couldn't fight her off. 

He decided waiting it out was his best bet. 

Brienne looked around, then walked forward, stopping a few feet from where he was hidden. 

He wiped the sweat off his palms, and gripped the spear tight in both of his trembling hands, ready to attack if she set a foot too close. 

He had somehow missed the quiver of makeshift arrows at her back, which she drew now. 

Bow poised, arrows notched, she looked right in his direction. 

Sandor tried to gather his scattered mind. Should he attack? Should he move? Maybe, the girl was just paranoid from whatever had chewed off her face? 

A canon shot boomed in the distance. 

Sandor didn't dare move. He forced himself to forget the world and freeze, just like he had done for many years to get away from his elder brother. Brienne was even more on edge and even the softest rustle would send her arrow barrelling right at his eye. 

It didn't take long for another canon to echo through the sky. This one seemed further away. 

Brienne scrambled around, looking in every direction before deciding to cut her losses and run the same way she'd come from. 

A hovercraft materialised soon, something slightly odd about it, now that he had peeled back his eyes to look at it. He'd seen a fair few in the past few days but this one was smaller but faster. 

His heart thumped louder and louder. He didn't want to think about it. 

About who it could be. 

Not her, he begged, tears streaming down his face, scars twitching madly. Not Sansa. 

The hovercraft flew to the cornucopia. As the body was lifted, he caught a glimpse of faint yellow hair. 

Whether it was a trick of his mind, or not, he couldn't tell. But for now, it was all he had. 

He forced himself to believe it wasn't Sansa. Anyone but her. 

***

Sansa 

Sansa staggered back to their stream hideout with a kind of callous carelessness that came with witnessing something you didn't have the capacity to imagine. 

She tried to shake off the feeling that settled like a layer of grime over her heart. Her cries, her fear, it seemed to permeate through the air and douse Sansa from within with each breathe. 

Was Sandor one of them too? He was a career but she couldn't imagine him being quite so heartless. 

Maybe it was her own foolishness that she'd chosen to lend her aid a killer. 

A predator in this world of prey. 

Maybe the best thing one in her position could do was find Sweetrobin and save the only person in her family she could. If she even knew where to begin to find him in this arena.

Her heart sank with each step. 

Is he just like them? She thought. Like Vargo and Cersei? Is he really so cruel? 

Needless to say, Sansa had never killed anyone. Nor could she imagine taking a life with her own two hands. 

As she trudged onward empty handed, the booming canons echoed in her mind. 

When the tree beneath which he was hidden came into sight, she couldn't help rush to it. 

All her apprehensions and thoughts dissolving in a mist of desperation to weep before someone she knew. 

It was a terrible thing, loneliness, even in circumstances as dire as this. 

She hated him, and loved him and feared him. But when she met his worried gaze, she let herself take his outstretched hand and collapsed beside him. 

“They killed her,” she whispered. 

He was talking to her, frantic yet cautious, the ever poised dagger clutched in his arm. 

“I thought …” 

“It wasn't me,” she wiped her eyes with the back of her palms, bony knuckles digging into her brows. “The girl from your district. I saw it happen and I froze. I – I couldn't bring the box, I couldn't do anything. I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I'm sorry.” 

His arms tightened around her. “Who did her in?” He asked, voice dry as sawdust. It would seem heartless to one who heard his voice but she was close enough to feel his heart hammering against his ribs, like never before. “Who was it?” 

“Vargo and Cersei. She – 2– she was just sitting there staring up at the sky. I don't think she was even looking at anything. Cersei came from behind, and sliced her throat, Vargo just watched. She bled out…” her voice cracked. Sansa shuddered collapsing in on herself wishing she could somehow disappear. “I'm sorry,” she said to no one, maybe to that girl who she watched frozen. “I didn't do anything… I just let her die.” 

“There wasn't anything you could have done. There's one less tribute to worry about.” 

She shrugged him off, disgusted. “How can you be so cold? She was from your district.” 

He levelled a steely gaze at her. “What would you have me do? Cry? Would that make you feel better.” He hissed. “I knew she had no chance of making it back. I just hope it was quick.” 

Who the second canon was for, would be revealed tomorrow.

“The second one,” Sansa thought about it. “It couldn't be Jaime, I don't think. He wouldn't wander too far away by himself.”

Sandor grunted an affirmation. “Not the girl from 12. She dropped by here a few hours ago.” 

“What?” Sansa gasped. 

“It's fine. The canons spooked her and she ran off. Doubt she'll get very far. Was bleeding something wicked, right from her face.” 

Sansa scrunched her face trying to block the image from her mind. 

“Who does that leave?” She asked, dreading the answer. She looked up at him, so the cameras could see them planning to see she hadn't given up. 

He thought over it. 

“Sweetrobin!” She exclaimed, louder than would be wise, dreading being right. 

He shook his head ever so slightly, sad for her. “Sweetrobin,” he agreed.  

“Shireen, Davos, Loras, Danaerys, Renly,” he ticked off the remaining tributes. 

“Are we missing someone?” She wracked her brains. 

“Can't think with all this pain. You've had your little trip, now get some sleep. It'll be a long day tomorrow.” 

Sansa took his advice and fearfully shut her eyes. It didn't matter that she hadn't managed to bring any food back. Neither of them had the appetite for it anyway. 

When Sandor woke her up from a fitful, exhausted sleep, she hadn't expected the sky to flash the emblem of Panem. Instead of the dead tributes, the sky rang with the clear voice of Gamemaker Aerys: 

“Attention Tributes, in a never before done twist on the games, two victors may be crowned if they belong to different districts. Find your Ally, make your district proud. Choose wisely. 

May the odds be ever in your favor.”

Chapter Text

** HIGH STAKES HIGHLIGHTS WITH DAARIO **

Daario: Welcome, citizens of Panem! Every year the tributes put on quite a show for us. They fight bravely for the honour of their Districts, and we love them for it! 

Love them! 

But I have to say, and dare I presume, you agree, that this year's bunch is a particularly spirited one! 

I hear your cheers, here in the studio. 

The Capitol had spoken! Aha! Love it! 

In an exciting new twist, for the first time in the 24 year history of the Hunger Games, we will have not one but two victors!

Double the winners, double the fun! 

And also, double the intensity of the Hunger Games. 

Let's review the highlights of the Games so far– 

Ohh, tsk, tsk, tsk. The first day. 

Always an eventful one! We like to start out strong here, now don't we, Panem? Give us a cheer. 

Here we see Sandor Clegane lunge straight for the sword, but look who's caught up? Renly Baratheon! 

A force to be reckoned with. 

He wrestles with Sandor, but is caught in the shoulder by Jaime's spear. 

An injury like that could prove fatal in the games. But we haven't seen the last of him yet. Not by a long shot. 

And on the other end, Brienne making a beeline for a backpack. She dodges Cersei's knife, and makes off like a bandit in the woods! 

Two formidable tributes from District 12, this year! District 12, be proud! They have proved it. They are not ashamed of coming from 12. They will not be overlooked. 

And as the fighting ranges on, we see an alliance forming. And dare I say, something a little more than that…” 

The camera pans off Daario and the screen is filled with trees from the arena. 

Loras gnaws on the inside of his cheek, axe slung over his shoulder, as he guides Renly further away from the bloodbath. 

Renly: If you keep chewing like that, you'll draw blood. Give that mouth of yours a little rest. 

Loras, fuming, ignores his ally. 

Renly: No words for the wounded? 

Loras: You could have died! And you want to make jokes? Why would you go after 2 of all people? You could have died.” Loras’s voice breaks. 

Renly stops in his tracks, squeezes his eyes shut as if to block the pain from his injured shoulder. “Loras,” he reaches out and pulls him close to his chest. “I am not dying on you,” he promises. “I've only begun living once I met you.” 

Daario: sighs. Young love. Beautiful, isn't it? We've all felt that now haven't we? First love. 

And let me tell you, the sponsors also remember. Look at this–” 

The screen pans to Renly and Loras huddled against a thick tree trunk. Renly sleeps, and Loras takes first watch. 

Loras: Ren? Ren, wake up! Look. We have a gift! We have a gift from the Capitol! 

He scrambles to gather the parachute. 

“It's medicine,” he smells and announces. “For you. For your arm! Thank you!” 

Renly: Thank you! You have saved my life! Thank you.”

Daario: Exciting! Our very first sponsor present. Now, remember, the longer the games go on, the more expensive the presents get. 

So don't forget to send something for your favourite tribute! 

Next we have, the talented Miss Brienne. Now, there's a girl with a Victor's spirit.” 

Some cheer, some boo. 

Daario: “Now, now. Let's review her journey. 

We see her trek down the arena for hours on end. That's stamina. 

Me? I'd want to take a nap ten minutes into the walk! Haha! 

She is careful to stay off the road. A quiet day, for Brienne, all things considered, but not for long! 

She's barely settled in a tree but oh, no, a gang of tributes is close! 

The careers, as they are called in some of the outlier districts. 

Brienne must be careful to not make a sound. She is defenceless in the tree. As we've seen, her only weapon is a paring knife. 

The careers are under her tree. They are suspicious. Cautious. They can sense someone around. 

Marvellous thing, isn't it? The sixth sense. You can just tell, sometimes, when someone's around.  

They look around. They're getting impatient. 

We can see Vargo is beginning to lose his temper. He lets out a scream of frustration, then begins a brawl with Melisandre. 

But wait– whats this? Jaime Lannister, looking straight into the eyes of Brienne Tarth. 

I must tell you, this is the moment my heart stopped. For her. 

His gaze bore into her eyes. She stifled her scream with her jacket, and yet you can see how her chest heaves. You can almost feels her heart race. Feel every emotion. All the fear in those exquisitely expressive blue eyes. 

Perhaps, Jaime feels it too. 

Jaime: I don't think anyone's around here. Let's turn around. We better look down by the river.”

Daario: I still have goosebumps. Everytime, everytime, i see their eyes meet. It is out of this world, isn't it? How thrilling! 

Now let's turn to our pretty little Sansa. She is consistent, we must give her that. 

She decided to forge her way by herself. No, I don't need, anyone else, she decided and how courageously she fashioned a spear from wood. Clever, clever, girl. 

And now, the moment we were all thrilled by – a Capitol creation. Gamemaker Aerys’ very own mutations. 

They are agile, they are swift, and they are lethal. 

Watch Sansa fight six of them together. 

And just when she was about to receive a gift! Talk about the Gamemaker's keeping us all on our toes! 

Moving on to her counterpart from 3, Robyn Arryn. Sweetrobin, as he is commonly known. And sweet he is. 

He has managed to secure some dried apples and an extra jacket. No small feat for one so young. 

That jacket might be just what he needs to rest at night in this chilly, chilly arena. 

He maintains a low profile, hidden in the grass patch. 

A similar strategy is adopted by Shireen and Davos who chose not to take anything from the Cornucopia. They have prioritised putting distance between themselves and other tributes, but little do they know, that Renly and Loras are still close.” 

The camera pans out to show the two pairs separated by only a couple kilometres, hoping to not run into each other. 

Daario: Next we find our silver haired beauty in close to the cornucopia. Daenerys Stormborn is not one to run away from a fight. 

We see her hide in the tree cover, changing places frequently to avoid detection. 

The careers think they have the perimeter secured, but we know not to underestimate Daenerys. She's never too far behind. 

Coming back to another who's never too far behind, Brienne.”

The screen plays a recording of the mutt attack on Brienne. A humanoid creature with teeth filed to sharp points. It lunges at her from behind while she is setting snares. 

It catches her in the face. A deep bite, a horrified scream and blood everywhere. 

When suddenly, the mutt whimpers, and collapses over Brienne. 

She struggles to push it off and escape from underneath it. 

She catches a glimpse of black hair retreating back into the tree cover. 

“Renly?” She calls, delirious from the pain. “Renly, was it you?” 

But the figure is gone. 

Another camera catches Loras waiting for Renly to catch up with him, questions in his eyes. 

“We look out for each other in 12,” Renly says. 

Loras is still to horrified to say anything besides ask, “what the hell was that thing?” 

Daario: Shivers. Literal shivers. What indeed was it? The Gamemaker's have chosen to call them “Biters.” Simple, efficient, and deadly. 

Dare I say, we haven't seen the last of those. 

In a change of pace from this violence, let's look at another young couple. 

Sandor and Sansa. How pleasantly even their names flow with each other's? You wouldn't think it first, but Sansa's mentor certainly did. 

For the first time , we see a mentor send a gift to someone else's district! Such showmanship from Petyr Baelish. 

They don't call him the master of chaos for nothing! 

Who knew shoes are how pairs are made? Maybe, that's what I should try next? What do you think? 

I'm still single, you know. Haha! 

Now, that's a cheer! 

With that folks, we end this screening of high stakes highlights. Stay tuned for more! And I'll meet you soon.

With the new twist, the games have gotten even more exciting! Which team will win? Which new alliances will form? 

Vote for your favourite team and don't forget to let your generosity speak for you! 

Capitol citizens only: Dial 121 followed by your chosen tributes District number to donate or bet! 

May the odds be ever in your favour! 

**----------** 

Chapter Text

SANDOR

The energy emanating from him had shifted. 

Sandor had already begun planning. The words had ignited something inside him. A determination that was soldered sevenfold instantly.

“We’re going home,” he told Sansa, squeezing her delicate hand in his, desparate for a response from her. 

She’d grown pale in the moonlight, from shock, the blue under her eyes making them look larger than they were. “Sansa?” he asked, his harsh whisper grating the soft breeze of the night. 

“Y-yes,” she nodded, eagerly, her eyes more exhausted than ever. 

Something sank in his chest. Why wasn't she relieved? This was the only real chance he'd ever gotten at a life. 

One that didn't involve him sullying his spirit for scraps. A chance to not only win for Elinor but also a possibility of something he never thought he'd get. Something an awful lot like love. 

The word sent a queer thrill in his chest. 

“Get some rest,” he said, adjusting the jacket around her carefully. “From tomorrow, the real games will begin.” 

She fell silent, ever obedient, then shuddered. “What do you mean the real games?” 

“Everyone will scramble to pair up," he said. "They've all but asked us to form teams."

"But why? Why now, suddenly?" 

Sandor breathed sharply as he wracked his brains. "What's it matter? Maybe they're bored of violence, maybe they want strategy? Maybe, the Capitol wants something new and exciting? All that matters is that you and me, we're going home."

She looked as uncertain as he was confident. When did he become the flagbearer of optimism between the two of them? Regardless, they had to think and think fast.  

"The ones who'd trekked far, they might try to move towards the Cornucopia trying to find allies. Or supplies. There's still half of us left. We’ll need to get a move on before light or we're going to be sitting ducks. Might as well have a "kill me now" sign.” 

Sansa picked at the hem of her jacket, shivering lightly. “We can’t leave without medicines,” she said. “I- I tried but… Vargo and Cersei, they were visicous. I couldn’t get close enough,” tears shone in her eyes. 

“You did good. Any closer and it’d be a hovercraft in your name.” 

“I have to try again. In the morning, I’ll sneak around the side and–”

“No. There's no medicine in the Cornucopia that can fix this leg. It's not use. You’re not going back there–”

“I have to!” She insisted, as though she'd already made up her mind. 

Sandor set his jaw tight, trying to make her see reason. “They’ll be frenzied tomorrow. There’s no telling what the careers might do. It’ll be too dangerous.”

“Then what? We just hide here? How far do you think you’ll get with that leg? And me with this pain in my side?”

His scars began to twitch. She was right. He knew she was right, but what was the alternative? He couldn’t protect her in such a state. He was dead weight. “I’m slowing you down,” he said, voice hollow from the sudden affront to his mind.

“What?” she blinked, confused. “What’s this now?” 

“How far do you think we’ll get with my bum leg? This--" he pointed to the two of them, "this has to end now. It's my leg that's slowing us both down. Best run off, girl–”

“Sandor,” she said, levelling a stern gaze up at him. 

“What?”

“Shut up.” She looked exhausted. “Please no more of this. Let me sleep. I can’t think two words straight.”

For once, he didn’t argue, feeling guilt like a band around his chest that made it hard to breathe.

He distracted himself by pulling his complete attention towards keeping watch, and yet could pinpoint the exact moment she fell asleep. The second her breathing evened out, her gentle weight on him heavier than before. The tension leaving her body, soft and slack. 

He looked blankly in front of him. Nothing stirred. 

The first rays of the morning were pale as they tinged the sky a light grey-ish blue. 

“Sansa?” he nudged her gently, and she jolted awake with a start. 

“Is it my turn to keep watch?” 

“It’s morning.” 

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, restless. “Already? Why didn’t you wake me? Have you slept at all?” 

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

She gave him a weak push. “Don’t talk like that.” 

He rasped a laugh. “Not anytime soon, little bird. Hope you slept well. We need to start early.” 

“I did,” she said, contemplating something. “I have a plan.”

“Do tell," he asked, more to humour her than anything else. 

“I need to go back to the Corn–”

“No. Are you daft? How many times do I have to --" and then she'd complain about his temper. His nostrils flared. "Do you have a death wish, girl?"

“Sandor, listen,” she pleaded. “There’s sparkwire there. If I could just get that… you don’t know how effective it would be. I would be. We need it." 

“Sparkwire? What’s that?” 

“Its a big coil of a copper alloy wire. I saw it, in the middle of that big pile of things.” 

“You want to use it for what?” He watched her carefully. 

“I can charge it with fire. And if I can find a metal rod, a spear anything, trust me, we’ll have the most dangerous weapon in this arena.” 

District 3, electronics. Inspite of it all, a slow smile spread across his face as realisation dawned. "Have to hand it to you, 3," he shook his head, impressed. "You've got some tricks up your sleeve." 

“And how do you plan on getting this sparkwire?” He wasn’t one to get excited fast up but the conviction in her voice compelled him. “I will still need at least a day before i can put any weight on this leg.” 

“You just stay put here. I’ll go get it.” She said. “I have to at least try.” 

He clenched his jaw, cursing the damn fire and the damn tree and his damn leg. If it weren’t for that, he’d have cut down anyone in his path to the Cornucopia. “I’m sorry I am such a useless fucking –” the pain in her eyes made him stop in his tracks. 

She had much to deal with than try to dig him out of whatever hateful hole he’d managed to crawl in soon enough. 

He'd seen the toll his attempts to send her away took on her. For whatever mad reason, the girl wanted him for an ally. 

Not even two days ago, he'd have been the best person to watch out for her, but even that little birdling from 3 would've done her more good. 

“I’m trying to think of alternatives,” he told her, fighting even himself to stay on track. She wasn't always stubborn, but this was something she needed. 

“Like what?” she asked. 

“Maybe... maybe we need to find more allies,” he found himself saying. “We need someone to watch your back. You can’t take Vargo, Cersei and Jaime by yourself. Hell, I can’t.” 

She considered it. “But who? And how will we even find someone? That’s assuming they don’t kill us on sight.” 

He had an answer ready. “12. I saw her yesterday, but she didn’t see me. She was bleeding from her face. Bet you she's hoping an ally finds her right about now.”

Sansa's brows furrowed. “where could she have gone?” 

“Somewhere she knows, I think. The river maybe. There's not many water sources around. And she'll need plenty for that face wound. Looks worse than mine, if you can believe it.” Sandor laughed drily. 

Sansa winced. “As good place as any to start.” 

“She had a bow though. And she scored an 11. You've got to be careful.” 

“She'll be a powerful ally,” Sansa said. “But just as dangerous if she refuses. What if she says no?” 

Sandor unsheathed the sword and handed it over to Sansa. “No isn't an option.”  

**

SANSA  

They divided the supplies in case they got separated, both choosing not to dwell on that possibility.

He began to put all the medical supplies in his pack on her side. 

"You need them more," she said, not wanting to look a the red purple sickening bruise that claimed most of his thigh. 

"Our new ally needs them most." 

She chewed her lip but ultimately had to agree. The bandaids, tube of ointment, guaze and cotton, basic sutures, valuable as they were,  would not actually help Sandor's leg. They simply weren't of the caliber she needed. 

She had to hope something in the Cornucopia might fare better. 

They hadn't much food left. Only the pack of dried meat, a packet of bread rolls and some berries they'd collected.

It was another thing 12 might be able to help with. Neither of them were proficient when it came to living off the earth.

She was quickly realising that even though he was a career and absolutely dangerous, he was trained in a very narrow skill set of weaponry. 

Sandor would probably never have thought he'd have to forage for berries, or light a fire with rocks.

Not that she knew these things either, but she kept circling back to the training days where Brienne had proven exactly how self sufficient she was. 

And if she had a bow... 

Sansa wasn't sure if she were as good as Brienne, she'd want to bother with allies. 

Not everyone could win, after all. 

The dread coiled in thick in her belly as she made her way down the forest towards the river. 

The rapidly rising sun made her feel more and more exposed with each passing second. Every little sound set her on edge, as she expected the enemy to attack from every direction. 

It was getting colder day by day. The arena was temperature controlled by the Gamemakers. 

She peered up at the sky, trying to find the “chinks” in the armour she was taught to look for. 

A little glare here, a glassy shine there. The transparent forcefield that caged them.

The thought made her claustrophobic. The air felt stale, the sky unnatural. Even the sun and moon here belonged to the Gamemakers. 

Her footfall sounded thunderous to her own ears but she pushed the thought aside. 

Never too cautious, she searched for a vaguely rectangular piece of bark to hold as a shield. 

Even the psychological comfort of having such a device would be well worth any trouble she'd go through finding it. 

Or even if it was of any effectiveness at all. 

She heard the river before she saw it. The clear water sloshing against the rocks, a faintly mossy smell that permeated the surroundings. 

She took a moment to wipe her palms on her thighs before trudging ahead. 

A fair few trees had fallen, broken trunks and branches alike littered the ground, the first dark green layer of slimy moss beginning to form on it. 

Sansa ducked under one the logs for safety and scanned the area in her vicinity. 

There were no signs of life save the occasional hopping frog. 

She waited for as long as she could bear, hunched over and finally crept to a different tree. From there, she had a clearer view of the river rapids. 

Down the tree line, in one of the lower hanging convoluted branches, she spotted movement. A slight turn of a blackness, that could be someone's foot. Could be nothing. 

Could be a mutt, for all she knew. 

Holding her shield up, she crept downstream until she faced the source of the movement on the other side of the river. 

There was a soft rustle of fabric, and Sansa knew she had her! 

Uncertain about her strategy, she decided to first at least initiate contact. 

She maintained her distance, crouching behind a tree and her makeshift shield for good measure, she picked a few stems of white flowers that grew by the riverside. 

Next she went back to the place she thought Brienne could most clearly see her and waved them like a hello. 

When there was no response, she ducked her head out and saw that where she had seen black fabric earlier, now held a notched arrow and flash of white skin. 

“Brienne?” She called, her voice barely making itself known. “Brienne, I've come to ask you to join me. It's Sansa. From district 3–” 

“Shh,” came a hiss, and a swift rustle of leaves. 

“I– I need help,” Sansa tried again. “I know you do too. Maybe we can help each other?” 

A few painful minutes later, a tall shadow fell on her white flowers. 

Sansa looked around the tree and found Brienne standing on the other side, her notched arrow pointing at Sansa's heart. 

She drew up her shield, but kept the sword lowered. 

“How'd you find me?” Brienne asked, eyes darting towards the forest behind Sansa. “Who else is there?” 

“No one else,” Sansa said. “Just me.” She hesitated, which Brienne caught. 

“Don't lie,” she warned, drawing her bow higher. 

“There's Sandor but he's not here,” Sansa swallowed. 

The name set Brienne even more on edge, still half hidden by the tree. Sansa took a deep breath, worried that it might potentially be her last, and set the sword on the ground slowly. 

She stepped out completely in Brienne’s line of sight, only her thin wooden plank for cover. 

Brienne's hood had begun falling backwards, revealing the wound Sandor had described. 

Sansa shuddered at the sight. One thing was true, he wasn't exaggerating. 

The blood on her face had dried in a thick brown jagged layer, where the inflamed skin covered most of the right side of her face. But the worst of it were the dregs of skin and muscle hanging off her cheek in shreds. 

“Brienne,” Sansa whispered, pointing at the wound when her words failed her. “How– how?”

“Mutt,” she said, tears pooling in her big blue eyes. 

Carefully, Sansa reached in her pocket, but it sent Brienne even more on edge. 

“Stop that,” she commanded. 

Sansa looked up at her, pity unmistakable in her eyes. “It's medicine,” she said. “Just medicine.” 

She pulled out a small white tube and held it with trembling hands out at Brienne. 

She softened at the sight, finally lowering her bow and softly putting away the arrow. 

They settled in a clearing by the water and decided to deal with the worst of it, the face wound before anything else. 

Sansa had seen her mother tend to several electrical burns, even a fair few whipping injuries, but never a bite like this. 

The sight made her stomach turn but she kept her face neutral for Brienne's sake. 

She cleaned the rag Brienne had been using as a bandage in the fresh river water and used it to dab away the dried blood. 

The taller girl winced in pain, and held her breath but persevered better than even Sandor had. 

Admiring her strength, Sansa could do little more than gawk and try to dress the wound. 

A chunk of flesh was missing, and nothing short of Capitol surgeons would be able to actually heal the gap. 

Still, in an attempt to salvage the situation, Sansa readied the last suture they had in Sandor’s emergency pack. 

A small open vein sprouted gushes of blood in a dark clot. 

It's not different than sewing clothes, Sansa told herself. No different at all. 

She mumbled affirmations to herself, praying desperately to at the very least not make the wound any worse. 

Brienne stifled her screams and let Sansa work diligently. 

It wasn't pretty, but it would have to do. 

It wasn't her best work, Sansa had to admit, but it wasn't by any stretch the worst. 

The deep gash closed, uneven yet well approximated sutures, in a crooked line down her cheek. 

Brienne wept silently, the pain unbearable. Sansa generously slathered on the ointment, and gave her the last of the white painkillers.

Once it was done, Brienne breathed heavily, her blue eyes overflowing with gratitude. 

“Thank you,” she said, her voice heavy with tears. 

In response, Sansa could only wipe her tears and offer a small smile. 

“Just through here,” Sansa guided Brienne. It was almost miraculous how much relief she felt with someone walking beside her. 

“I walked through here yesterday,” Brienne said. 

“We know,” came Sandor's rasp from where he was hidden in their spot. 

Brienne jumped, clutching her bow but was met with Sandor's raspy laugh.

“Can never be too quiet here 12.” 

She finally caught sight of him and her brow shot up, half in fear, half in admiration. 

“You're good at camouflage,” she observed. 

“It's the scars,” he quipped. “I blend right in with the trees. You'll blend too soon enough, I suppose.” 

Sansa clicked her tongue. Brienne seemed much to gentle to deal with Sandor's meanness, but she surprised Sansa. 

“You best hope we're on the same team by then,” she straightened up to her full height, the thinly veiled warning not lost on any of them. 

“Let me make one thing clear so we can sleep a little easier: this alliance exists until there's exactly four tributes left,” Sandor said, matter of factly. “Not a tribute sooner, not a tribute later. Deal?” 

The gears seemed to turn in Brienne's mind as she weighed his words and nodded at last. “Until the final four. Deal.” 

They shook on it, and seemed to breath out for the first time in days.

Flimsy though it seemed on the surface, the integrity of their word was all they had.

That and blind trust in each other, at least for now. 

Chapter Text

Sansa 

From the looks of it, Brienne probably had not slept in days. 

She trembled with fever and tried to hide it but her faltering gait and the beads of sweat over her brow and lip give her away. 

“Just a little further,” Sansa said, doing her best to haul Sandor up hill towards the hollow white tree she'd taken shelter in what felt like a lifetime ago. 

It had water close at hand and was higher up than their surroundings that would give Brienne’s arrows a distinct advantage were they to be attacked. 

It took everything in her to support him, heavy as he was, and although he had fashioned a makeshift cane from the plethora of sticks they had at their disposal, his leg refused to take any weight. 

As a pack they were slow and loud. 

With Sandor's heavy thumping footfall, and Sansa's occasional groans. 

She could imagine they mustn't look very impressive to the audience, hobbling about like a herd of sheep. 

This year they had plenty of capable, attractive tributes to sponsor instead. The thought made her uneasy. 

Last year Robb had been a clear favourite from the start – right from the tribute parade where he'd been given a futuristic looking white and grey suit that made his hair look even redder.

She recalled his interview almost word for word, where he'd flashed his smile and charmed everyone, coming across his humble but decidedly brilliant self. The screens often panned to gaggles of blushing, giggling Capitol girls every few minutes. 

He had a score of 10, formed an alliance with Dacey, his district partner, avoided the bloodshed at the Cornucopia and still managed to snag a lance and some survival supplies. 

All promising endeavours. 

He'd outsmarted the careers, fought off mutts, and saved Dacey's life at least once every two days. 

He'd also received gifts aplenty – food at dire times, matches, a bottle of water, even a new overcoat when his own jacket had been used as a tourniquet for a gash on Dacey’s arm. 

He'd won everyone a million times over and in the end it hadn't mattered. 

She felt tears come on, and revisited her previous musings about giving up easily so the Capitol might spare Bran and Rickon. 

It seemed unlikely they would. 

On the contrary, she had a different thought. Reapings were supposed to be random. 

There wasn't supposed to be a way to rig them. 

It was supposedly in direct contradiction of the “sanctity” of the Games. 

If she did well in these games, the audience would remember her, the way they still remembered Robb. 

And if for the second year in a row a Stark was reaped, and in spite of good performance, not allowed to win, surely the audience would notice. 

Surely, someone might object or at least it would dissuade them from reaping Bran. 

The thought of Bran in his wheelchair, making his way down the aisle to the podium – it made her almost wretch. An all encompassing fury set her ablaze from the inside. 

All for what? Because Arya wouldn't agree to making more weapons for them? 

They wanted to punish everyone related to her? Not for the first time, Sansa felt nothing but anger at Arya. She was to blame for their lives getting destroyed. 

Mother and father losing their jobs, their whole family starving in the slums of District 3 and worst of all, she was to be blamed for Robb.

Why couldn't she have thought even for a second about what the consequences of her actions would be? 

Wherever she was, Sansa cruelly hoped that Arya had to watch the Games. Had to witness what Robb had to endure because of her. 

What Sansa endured now. 

“Hey,” Sandor rubbed her arm. “What happened? Do you need to take a break?” 

Tears obscured her vision and she refused to let them fall. 

What would her brother think if he could see her now? A weakling. 

No, she had to be brave. Brave like Robb, she told herself. 

She thought back to the gifts he'd received. Even the people of District 3 had pooled money to send him medicines before the final battle. 

She had his jungle arena burned into her memory. Snakes, scorpions and poisonous berries. Almost everything was deadly immediately. 

Sansa needed sponsors too. And she knew Petyr wanted to keep her alive. 

She knew he was her mother's friend. And he'd tried for Robb too. He really had. 

Sansa refused to think of what came next and took a deep breath. 

All she really needed was to give Petyr something to work with. Instead of giving up herself. 

One day at a time, she told herself. It was useless to think about whether or not the Gamemakers already had a sadistic end planned for her. 

She couldn't do anything but kept fighting to live. 

And that's what she planned to do. 

First order of business might be to look strong on the screen. To look unfazed by anything they threw at her.

No one would bother to take notice of a snivelling tribute, even one with a decent score that had made absolutely no other impression. 

“I'm fine,” she said, clearing her throat.

Brienne had stopped a few feet away and looked back questioningly. 

“I'm alright. Let's keep moving. It's not far from here,” she nodded ahead. “Come on.” 

Loathe to waste any time, they trudged ahead, glacially, while one by one the tribute’s faces flashed in her mind. 

Even in their own alliance, Sandor and Brienne were much better matched size and strength wise. But they were both badly injured. 

The careers pack was down to half, and the audience, just like Sansa, had seen them kill one of their own in cold blood.  

Even though the Capitol people were largely hair brained, she didn't think the act would go down well in their eyes. 

Not now while there was no reason to. The careers pack usually broke off when there were tributes in the single digits left. 

Maybe they had taken in Lollys expecting her to be like the usual fighter from 2 only to find that she was mediocre or worse. Sansa couldn't remember her score or her interview. Nothing had made a lasting impression. 

On second thought, maybe the Capitol would applaud the careers for getting rid of dead weight. Who could say with them?  

But if Sansa herself was a sponsor, she honestly wouldn't have bet on herself, at least as she imagined she appeared on the screen. Perpetually hungry and running. So scatterbrained she couldn't even decide whether or not she wanted to save her own life. 

She had none of Robb's bravery or determination. She'd not given anyone anything to root for. 

Another thought scared her: that she might die and it wouldn't have any consequence at all. What if, like Lollys, she made no impression at all?

She'd be just one of the 22 dead giving only her family more tears. 

And nothing for anyone else. 

Her only redeeming act so far had been helping Sandor and even that would appear a questionable decision to anyone watching in the Capitol. 

He was the strongest career, but she'd allied with him at his weakest. 

Truth be told had she any money at all, she'd not want to sponsor even Sandor -- mainly because of how aloof and heartless he came across most of the time. Not only that, he'd volunteered, something noone outside the Capitol and the Career districts respected. 

She shuddered. Were it not for the fact that he'd spared her life, she wouldn't have trusted him in a million years.

She had to admit, were she from the Capitol, she'd want to sponsor someone exceptional. Someone inspiring. Someone good. 

Exceptional Brienne with her exceptional score of 11 maybe. 

Only, so far she hadn't seemed to received any gifts either. She had injuries enough to warrant some, and capabilities to make it worthwhile to save her. Somehow Sansa felt it was her less than stunning looks that had kept the sponsors at bay. 

The Hunger Games weren't a beauty pageant, but it was no secret that the most attractive tributes received the most gifts. 

Even Robb wasn't an exception to that, exemplified by the several gifts he'd received, right upto the very end. 

By that metric, she mused that Cersei and Daenerys might be swimming in presents.

Sandor must know. She turned to ask him but he was already looking down at her confused. 

“What are you so lost in your head for?” Sandor huffed lightly as he leaned against a tree for some rest. They were on higher ground but Sansa's white tree was still a long way off. 

She shook her head with a small smile and decided to ask at the right moment. 

“Let's take a few minutes,” Brienne breathed deeply and set her backpack down. “Do you have any water?” 

He pulled out one of their two bottles and handed it over to her. “We'll have to ration it,” he said. “Till we can find another source.” 

Brienne took it gratefully and tried to drink slowly but the thirst won out. She tipped her head back, the muscles of her throat working hard, until the bottle was nearly empty. When she came back for air, her chest heaved, a smile taking over her features. 

Sandor grinned, then shot a look at Sansa. “Not too bad having allies is it, 12?” 

She didn't answer, but kept her smile and drank more water. 

Sansa couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Yes, they'd patched up Brienne's wound and given her some medicine and water, but what they needed from her was far more than either of these acts justified. 

They needed her to not only hunt, but also to go pay a potentially lethal visit to the Cornucopia. 

And they still hadn't been sure of how much to reveal about their plan. If Brienne had any sense, it would take a whole lot of convincing to get her on board. 

“You guys make camp. I'll stake the place out a bit,” Sansa said, looking around. Maybe she could find another hollow tree nearby. 

Brienne and Sandor exchanged an amused look and she bristled. “What?” 

“You want to stake the place by yourself?” He smirked a little. “And pray tell what will you do if you run into Hoat or Seaworth on your little stroll? No. We stick together.” 

“Seaworth?” Sansa cocked her head to the side. She couldn't remember. 

“District 8,” Brienne said, her voice carefully neutral. “The boy.” 

“Oh, Davos,” Sansa mumbled. “He seemed nice.” 

She could feel the temperature drop a fair few degrees as Sandor appeared to physically bite his tongue to not chastise her. 

He did seem nice, she thought, but realised that were she to run into him now, he'd probably not be so nice anymore. 

“He could be dead,” Brienne said, steering the conversation elsewhere. “There were two cannons last night. There was one hovercraft near the Cornucopia, I didn't even see the other one. Do you know who it was?” 

“One was for Lollys, the girl from 2,” Sansa said, the name dredging up anxiety. “I don't know the other.” 

Brienne gave Sandor a sympathetic look. 

“I didn't know her from Jeyne,” Sandor rasped. “Enough talking. We have to get a move on.” 

They never did reach the white tree, with Sandor's leg and Brienne's fever making it intolerable to keep walking. 

“Set up camp here?” Sansa asked, looking around. It was as good a place as any in their vicinity. Everything looked the same – green and tangled to her untrained eye. 

With their new alliance, Sansa had long since begun to feel like the weakest link even though she was in the best physical shape, insofar that she wasn't injured or sick. 

She hadn't a mind for strategy so far. Nor had she any prowess with any sort of weapon. 

The best she'd done in the Games was when she'd dismantled a camera for parts, fashioned a wooden spear and then promptly lost both while running from those wretched dog mutts. 

But wait… she paused. There were cameras around everywhere! The whole damn thing was a show. 

If she could find another, she could tinker with it to make another periscope. 

And now that they had an archer, it would be an invaluable advantage.  

While Sandor and Brienne discussed the merits and demerits of their potential camp site, Sansa scanned the tree barks for cameras. 

She ought to show the audience that she was someone worth betting on. To make an impression. If not for herself, then for Bran. 

Sansa was confident once she had the sparkwire, it would get even easier. 

She'd be just as, if not more powerful than Brienne with her electrified spear. 

She could even set traps or electrify the water sources. And then she could sit back as no could get in a foot close to the river. 

The thought was as despicable as it was effective. And without the proper insulation, anyone and anything wet would feel the jolt. Tributes, mutts, prey animals. Even the fish. 

Sparkwire, a little fire, and a few pieces of metal, were all she needed. 

Sansa hugged herself closer, unease building at these thoughts. But weren't these the very people that would kill her just as easily if the tables were turned? 

She pushed her moral dilemmas aside and focussed on the now. Not much seemed to matter when it was her literal life hanging in the balance. 

Brienne had fashioned a cave of sorts under a banyan tree with some strategically placed rocks and curtain vines. 

It wasn't perfect, but it was well concealed. 

“2,” she said, “get in there.” 

Sandor’s scars twitched, as he deliberated the decision but ultimately obliged. 

“This the best we've got, huh?” He grumbled, as Sansa and Brienne lowered him into the hideout and covered the mouth with more leaves so it looked like a patch of bushes growing under a big tree. “Bit snug for three though.” 

“I'll sleep in the tree,” Brienne clarified. “Better shot.” 

Both Sansa and Sandor nodded, suspicious but seeing the merit in it. 

“Sansa?” Brienne asked, awkwardly broaching the topic as they settled in for the time being. 

“I don't think I'll be able to fall asleep in a tree,” Sansa bit her lip as he looked up in the canopy. She felt a blush creeping up to her cheeks. 

“Alright,” Brienne shrugged but there was a knowing smile playing on her lips as her eyes flitted to Sandor and then turned away. 

It's not like that! Sansa wanted to clarify, but maybe it was a little bit like that. She fretted for a few minutes whether Brienne might tease her but she said nothing. 

Sandor caught the whole scene, of course, and smirked, giving Brienne a raised brow. “In case you get any ideas about offing me, remember, she likes me more than you.” 

Brienne rolled her eyes. “If I wanted to, you'd never seen it coming.” 

“Last night sure proved who couldn't see who coming,” he shot back, sneering. “I could've taken you out.”

Brienne actually laughed. “Let's not pretend you know how to do anything other than hacking everything with that giant sword.” 

Sansa watched them bicker in amusement, the whole exchange strangely reminiscent of the arguments Arya and Robb would frequently get into, though the subject matter couldn't be more different. 

A pang of sadness hit her square in the chest and she decided to turn her attention towards finding a damn camera. 

They were fairly easy to spot once you knew what to look for, but the real trouble was getting them out. 

Most, if not all, were well wedged into slender trees with no way to reach them. The more convoluted trees held lots of nests and white hives of some sort, with hundreds of papery thin layers. 

“What are those white things?” Sansa asked, pointing to one. 

“Tracker jacker nests,” Brienne said. “The wasps will hunt you down if you disturb them. Best stay away from them.”  

A shiver ran up her spine and she decided to take Brienne at her word. 

A couple hours passed with Brienne settling in her tree and Sansa and Sandor in the hideout under it. 

They each took a few fever pills, and Sansa chewed on a stick of dried meat. 

They'd need to hunt soon. 

“I'll set some snares,” Sansa offered. 

“With what?” Brienne asked, her voice floating down from the branch she was perched on. 

“I have some rope,” Sansa said.

The rustle of leaves signalled Brienne's otherwise quiet descent. “I'll come with,” she said, and though Sansa wanted to refuse, she held her tongue.

Turned out it was a good call, because Sansa was next to useless at setting snares. 

She'd practised the knots in the training centre but there was a definite learning curve she'd not yet mastered.

As she saw Brienne expertly fix her shabby knots and bare bones camouflage, most of her bravado left her body. 

She kept her eyes peeled for another stick she could fashion into a spear and also easily accessible cameras. 

She found one at last stuck on a climbable branch on a tree a little far off from their camp. 

“As good as any,” she mumbled, relieved when she couldn't see any wasp nests around it for several feet. 

“What are you doing?” Brienne asked, immediately on edge as Sansa wiped her palms on her pants and began to climb. 

“Cover me.” 

“What in the –” Brienne had an arrow loaded, as she crept closer to the tree and crouched to keep watch. “You're too loud,” she hissed at Sansa when the soft hammering started. 

“Sorry,” Sansa whispered back. “Will take a minute.” But it took longer. 

Sansa balanced herself, tightly hugging the trunk and pushing the dagger in the crack to get the camera out. She was rewarded for her efforts with an apple sized white sphere, it's wires broken where she'd pulled them out. 

It looked eerily like an eyeball, and Sansa couldn't help but shudder at the thought of hundreds of these eyes staring at her. 

“What's that?” Brienne asked, perplexed, a couple of dead birds hanging from her waist. 

“When did you catch those?” Sansa's mouth fell open. And while she had always loved animals, even if we're just the mice she occasionally found caught in wires, it was hard to ignore the grumbling in her stomach at the sight. 

“A few minutes ago,” Brienne replied, a little proud at the admiration she inspired in Sansa's voice. “Too easy to pass up. I think these see better at night maybe, that's why they're so easy to catch during the day. What's that?” She pointed with her arrow. 

“A camera,” Sansa smiled mischievously. “I have an idea.”

Sandor watched them both return with his jaw basically unhinged. “Wha– How’d you catch them so fast?" 

“Brienne shot them,” Sansa had to admit. “The snares are still empty.” 

“We need to give it a few hours,” Brienne said. “We were shuffling around there. Will take a while for the animals to deem it safe again.” 

Sansa nodded wordlessly, and got to studying her camera. 

The general hum of activity took over while Sandor readied a small fire and Brienne gutted and cleaned the birds. 

They fashioned two small spits to roast the birds – ducks, was Sansa's best guess. District 3 didn't have a lot of birds.

Brienne had also gathered some thick roots which she washed with their now dwindling water, wrapped them in leaves and thrust in the kindling to cook. 

“What will you do with that?” Sandor asked, as he got to work carving a point into Sansa's stick. 

“I have a couple ideas, but I'm not sure,” Sansa said, examining the parts. The lenses, the sensors, the shutter. 

And various other bits and bobs. 

Sandor dropped the subject, perhaps deciding that he wouldn't understand what she was saying anyway.

There were three different lenses in the camera, two of which she planned for a periscope. 

She handed her allies a branch each that would fit the circle lens. “Hollow these out,” she instructed. “Carefully.” 

They wordlessly got to work, trusting in her brains more than their own apparent fears that it wouldn't work. 

When Brienne said they were ready, they set to eat. The birds and the roots made a good meal. The meat was juicy and sense, the roots earthy and filling. 

None of them spoke until the food was almost finished. 

It had been a couple days since they'd had anything but dried meat sticks. 

To finish off the meal, Brienne produced a handful of sweet berries and mint leaves. 

Sansa smiled gratefully as the sweet tartness exploded on her tongue. 

For the first time in days, she wasn't starving. 

“This is beyond what I'd dared hope for,” she said, settling against the tree, full for the first time in days. “Brienne, you're a miracle.” 

Sandor's mouth twitched, but he grunted in agreement. 

The tall girl flushed at the praise. 

They both looked like they could eat more, but decided to save a part of the second bird and a three of the starchy roots for later. 

“I have to check the snares before sunfall,” Brienne said. “With any luck, they'll catch.” 

“Maybe you could check 'em a bit later too,” Sansa winked, as she straightened up. 

It was almost done, but there was no way to tell how well it would work until night. 

Sansa attached the black tinged night lens to a thin vine, using the wire to connect a button battery to the back, and managed to wrangle the prism to the side, so it could do its work of converging the scant moonlight. 

It's rudimentary at best and will only cover one eye once worn as a headband. 

Father or even Arya could've made a much better version, Sansa's sure of it, but it's infinitely better than what they had before which was nothing. 

And it would be something of a superpower, being able to see at night in the arena. 

“What do you mean?” Brienne's head tilted to the left in confusion and Sansa gave her a knowing smile. 

The snares caught a fat rabbit and Brienne quickly shot two more squirrels. Awed, Sandor and Sansa did little more than exchange a few impressed and envious glances while their ally made quick work of gutting the animals and skewering them onto wooden spits. 

They had maybe an hour before dusk settled in well and good. 

All things considered, it had been a slow day but a necessary one. 

The ointments and medicines had given Brienne some much needed respite from some of the pain and none of the terror. Every little sound sent gooseflesh running up her arms and her bow poised to attack. 

Though she never said it, Sansa suspected she expected whatever had bit her face would come barreling towards her again.

She shuddered and tried not to think back to her own dog mutts. A part of her couldn’t help wondering if they were brought on by Sandor naming her the prettiest tribute. A harmless enough statement by itself, but perhaps a joke too funny to pass up for the Gamemakers.

Surprised at how quickly she grew hungry again after their heavy afternoon meal, Sansa gorged on whatever Brienne produced before her. Half a squirrel, a rabbit thigh and plenty of Katniss roots. 

Sandor evidently had more trouble first eating and then keeping the food down. They’d need to speed up their trip to the Cornucopia. 

“How’d you get the bow?” Sandor asked, the effort of trying to keep his voice down, made it all the more rougher. 

Brienne paused, as if to consider the merits of lying but from what Sansa could tell, decided against it. “I found it.” 

Sansa’s gaze flitted to Sandor to see if he believed it.

He didn’t. His scars twitched. “Where?”

“In the ashes,” Brienne said and he turned away. 

“Melisandre had them last,”he said finally. 

Last meaning before she was vaporised by a fireball, to hear Sandor tell it. “Some raw fucking luck you’ve got, 12.” 

Her mouth curled in what could only be disgust. “Yes, I’m real lucky.”

As the sun dipped lower, the last embers of the fire were snuffed out to avoid detection by anyone who’d be hunting. 

Sansa imagined they’re new alliance would be heavily featured, unless there was some or another spectacular attack somewhere else. It’s time, she decided, and before Brienne could climb up the tree, she beckoned them both closer. 

She placed the night lens in her palm and showed it to her allies, who simply stared at it, then each other perplexed. 

"It was something Brienne said that got me thinking,” she said. 

“Me?” Brienne shuffled closer to see, her bandaged cheek hovering over Sansa's head. 

“Yes, about how those birds you caught see better at night.” 

Sandor and Brienne exchanged a confused look.

“I mean,” Sansa pressed. “So does the camera. It records at night just as well as it does in the morning. I thought maybe it has a special lens, or a prism. Something I can repurpose. Help us see at night." 

Brienne's mouth fell open, impressed. “See at night? Does it really do that?” 

"We'll find out,” Sansa smiled. Then added somewhat ashamed, “only from one eye though.” 

“What?” Sandor blurted in disbelief. 

“The camera only had on night vision lens. But I’ll make a periscope from the normal lenses tomorrow.” Though she suspected it wasn't the "one eye" news he was reacting to. 

“Put it on,” Brienne said, barely able to contain her excitement. 

Sansa did, tying the vine around her head and adjusting the lens over her eye. Then shut the other. The woods came alive in shades of grey. The big clump of black forest separated into individual trees and shrubs hiding rabbits, nests and the odd hopping frog. 

Pleased with her efforts, Sansa allowed the smile to take over her features. 

“It works?” Sandor asked, impatient and full of anticipation, but trying to keep his voice level. 

“It works,” she grinned, triumphant, taking it off. “You try it.” 

She put it on and let him fine tune the placement. Then watched his features transform from cautious skepticism to wild glee. It was quite possibly the first real smile she’d seen of his. “And here I thought you were making flower crowns,” he mumbled. “You mad genius. You absolute genius.” 

Sansa blushed at the praise, so genuine it seemed to surprise even its giver. It’s strange giver who had surprised her many times over. She was only too glad to return the favour.  

“Show me too,” Brienne said, trying to wait her turn but failing as she watched Sandor’s gaze dart around, turning this way and that way to fully study their surroundings.  

“One minute,” he said. “There’s something there. About ten trees down,” he pointed in the general direction, that looked like a black void to Sansa. Was the moon dimmer somehow? Or could it just be blamed on the dense woods. They’d not ventured in this part of the arena before. 

Now, that she thought about it, Sansa wasn’t entirely sure this was the path to the hollow tree. 

She shook off the thoughts before further doubt crept in. For whatever it was worth, this was the spot they’d be stuck in till the morning, unless Brienne was up for a little night time excursion. 

Sandor removed the lens with that same gentleness that had surprised her in the Training Centre, and handed it over.

“How do I turn it on?” Brienne mumbled, as she tried to knot it behind her head, overly careful around the injured side of her face. 

“What in the everloving –” a gasp escaped her lips, too loud for comfort, as she bolted upright. 

She alternated opening and closing each eye to compare the vision in both and gave a hoot of disbelief. 

To see her usually dour companions in the highest spirits she’d ever seen them, spread a warmth within her. She let it hang, batting away reality. The nights here were so chilly after all. 

"Go and check," Sandor pointed again in the same direction. "Near the trunk--" 

"I see it," Brienne said, and went to examine it. 

When she came back, her eyes looked more alert than ever. "The vines are weaved into some kind of covering. Like a mat. Someone was camping here. Maybe we scared them off, maybe something else did." She looked around, as if expecting something to jump out any second. 

"Who could it be?" Sansa whispered. "Not the Careers. They're by the Cornucopia." 

"I don't think they could make something like that anyway. It was delicate work," Brienne said. 

"None taken," Sandor grumbled. "Probably from 8. They'd know about the knitting and the weaving." 

It's the best theory they've got. And it's probably true. 

"Should we move?" Sansa asks, peering around the woods. She'd find more cameras at day break. Clearly more night lenses there are, the better. 

"Couldn't get me out of here if you hauled me by head," he said, as though ashamed of his injury. "The leg. I think they've left for good. And if they come back, well there's more of us than them." 

Sansa's mind immediately conjured up ten scenarios where they could be hurt but decided to listen to Sandor. He had better instincts than her about these things usually. 

Plus, another thing weighed on her mind. She allowed the darkness to settle before voicing it. 

“Brienne,” Sansa started, not wanting to waste any more time. Everytime she thought of the sparkwire sitting under a pile of more ‘useful’ supplies, her muscles pulsed to get her hands on it. “We have to go to the Cornucopia. If we leave now, we can get there in a few hours. Night is our best chance, and you have the lens and the arrows.”

In response two pairs of eyebrows were raised. 

“We need medicine and other supplies,” Sansa explained. “Sandor needs it for his leg. That’s the most important.” 

Brienne eyed the wound, now bandaged in now soaked through gauze with rust coloured stains, visible through the gash in his pants.

“It could get infected if we don’t get it soon,” she pressed, looking to Sandor for support but finding none for he had his eyes trained on the dirt. He had always been less than thrilled about this plan. “And we’re running low on the ointment.” 

Brienne carefully examined her words. “Where is it kept?” She turned to Sandor. “How do they guard it?” 

Sansa felt the weight on her chest lessen as Brienne hadn’t immediately vetoed the idea. Were she to refuse, there wasn’t much they could do, without turning her into an adversary. 

And if their so far pleasant day was any indication, she’d have the upper hand on both of them, at least at the moment.

“All the stuff is deep inside the horn, right where the tail comes up.”

Sansa recalled the vaguely scorpion-esque tail of the horn that curved to the sky. 

“We used to take turns guarding it. Teams of two, but there were more of us then…” he trails off. 

“How many left?” 

“Three. Hoat, and the twins,” he said, flatly, having composed himself in the hard exterior again. “They’ll have one guard at all times, that you can bet on. The other two won’t be far.” 

“What’s the plan?” She turned to Sansa, blue eyes glinting in the now stronger moonlight. 

There wasn’t a plan except sneaking up to the Cornucopia and stealing sparkwire and whatever else she could get her hands on. Sansa fumbled with words, fidgeting with a dead leaf. She’d had to fight so hard to get Sandor on board, she hadn’t given much thought to actually executing the plan. 

“Uh… I thought we’ll go there and see. We need to find a moment when the guard falls asleep and… we’ll sneak in maybe…”

Brienne looked utterly unimpressed. “You realise if they so much as see us, we're dead.”

“We’ll be careful of course,” she said, but her own resolve was faltering. Although it was Vargo Hoat’s narrow eyes that scared her most, it could just as easily be Cersei’s knife or Jaime’s spear that could kill her. 

Suddenly, the promise of sparkwire didn’t seem so terribly tempting.

“Tell us about how they fight,” Brienne said, turning to Sandor, having decided that Sansa’s bumbling wasn’t of any use to her. Not that she could be blamed. 

Not for the first time, she felt astutely aware of her inadequacies as a tribute. 

He swallowed silently then straightened up. “Hoat uses a sword. Don’t let him get too close to you, you can’t beat him at close range. Cer–”

“I need more. About Hoat,” Brienne pressed. “Does he go for the kill immediately? Or…”

These questions had never formed in Sansa’s mind. She’d never have asked beyond their weapons, but apparently there were a choice few ways to kill another person. 

Sandor looked away, guilt branded on his face, the unscarred side and the scarred one. “He likes to cut off hands and foots. He didn’t get a chance to do much of that the first day since it was all so fast.”

Sansa found herself shuffling away from him, a fact that was not lost on him. She put a stop to her imagination as it conjured up images of the Careers doing what they volunteered to do. Knowing what she knew about Sandor and his brother, wasn’t enough to make her ignore them. 

“So if we get caught,” Brienne shuddered. 

“He’ll take his time,” Sandor said. He chose not to linger, moving on immediately. “Cersei knows how to use just about everything, but she favours throwing knives.” He seemed to recall something and nearly jumped. “She’s got stars now, throwing stars with blades. More accurate than knives.”

“I don’t recall seeing any in the Training Centre,” she said. 

“They were used a few years ago in the Games but none of the tributes could throw them well enough for it to be entertaining. But they came as a gift. Guess someone in the Capitol missed them in action. It was a sponsor gift. Speciality item.”

A shiver ran down Sansa’s spine, which she unsuccessfully tried to suppress. He thought of her own sponsor present that she’d been forced to leave behind and felt tears come on. Who would even consider sending her something now when she couldn’t even get ahold of it. 

“You lot got sponsors already?” Brienne asked, an accusation hidden in there. “What else came?”

When neither of them mention the shoes, an unspoken treaty seems to be made. There could only be two Victors after all. Good thing Petyr has decided for me, Sansa thought bitterly. 

Sandor worked around her words. “Melisandre got some red arrows. Haven’t seen them since she blew up. Maybe you got them,” he throws the accusation back. 

Brienne silently shakes her head. 

“Go on,” Sansa brought them back to the most important topic at hand. “About the Careers.” 

Sandor’s scars twitched at the words but continued in his flat rasp. “Cersei’s got her stars and knives. Her strength is her ability to maintain distance. She’s fast, and tricky. But she gets cocky. Let’s her guard down too soon.”

Brienne nodded. Sansa suppressed more shivers. Every once in a while Brienne lowered the night lens and did a sweep of their surroundings. 

Sansa found herself grateful for it, having forgotten herself. 

“Jaime,” Sandor starts, his voice scratchy. Brienne startled, her attention immediately back on his words. “He’s…” Sandor squeezed his eyes shut as though fighting something inside him to get the words out. “He can fight well.” 

Sansa huffed. “We know that.” 

When Sandor hesitated more, she placed her hand on the back of his. “He’s your friend.” It wasn’t a question, though it beckoned an answer. An acknowledgment. Anything. 

“There’s no friends in the Hunger Games,” Sandor snapped his hand back. “He’d off me if it came down to it. And I’d do the same.” 

The whole conversation seemed to put Brienne even further on edge. “Of course you would,” she said with disgust. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He narrowed his eyes, though Sansa suspected it was a rhetorical question. 

“You volunteered,” Brienne accused. “You wanted this. I didn’t. I’m not like you,” she spat. Then trembled. "I -- I don't know if I can do it. Go there and... Hunt. I don't know--" 

"Well you're a hot target for them, 12," Sandor shot back. "Be good for you to know that." 

"Because of my score?" She asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"They're out for your blood," he said, again, angry again. 

"I don't care! I'm not like you!" She hissed. "I'm not one of you." 

Before Sandor could reply Sansa cut in. “We’re a team now." 

“A team,” they both scoffed at the same time, then refused to meet each other’s eyes. 

“We are,” she pressed. “Like it or not, it’s us three now. And you both need the medicine. So you’d better get over your… misgivings about each other and start thinking about how this plan might work.”

The plan being potentially fighting the Careers to death. She tried to not dwell on it. 

It seemed to do the trick, though whipping them back into shape like chastised children.

Somehow as a young girl when Sansa had imagined her life, she’d never have thought herself capable of the actions she was now discussing. 

Her girlhood dreams had been about working in the Justice building, or maybe as a supervisor in one of the factories. She hadn’t imagined being an innovator like Arya or a device installer like Robb wanted to be, so he could see the world outside 3. 

She’d be happy with a quiet life like her mother had led for many years before Arya ruined it. Marrying someone like Harry, handsome, mild mannered and from the good part of town and be assigned quarters near her childhood home. 

She’d never dared think beyond that. Never let herself wonder what her life might look like if she ever had children, though a part of her had wanted them for as long as she could remember. The terror she’d feel day in and day out worrying about them being Reaped. 

What she’d never in her wildest dreams thought was devising the deaths of young people – strangers – she’d never met. 

Sandor sighed. The sound had a finality to it. “Jaime is well trained in spear and sword. He prefers the spear – throwing or fighting with it. And his aim is good. If you run into him, you’re dead at any distance.”

When Brienne didn't probe further, Sansa did. “Any weaknesses?”

He thought about it, and a slow, cold smile curled the unscarred half of his lips upward. “Cersei.”

The girls exchanged a look but he went on. 

“He’s always got one eye on her. If he thinks she’s in danger, he gets careless. Doesn't watch where he's going, doesn't watch his back. If he's distracted, that's you're best -- no, you're only shot.”

Brienne nodded, absorbing this information. It was a while before any on them spoke. It was her who broke the silence to address Sansa. “Say… we just go get the medicine. We don't try to fight them. We don’t engage at all… I think if we time it right, we can manage.” 

Sansa considered it, but Sandor cut in rolling his eyes. “Won't that be a fucking peach. Listen, 12, this is the Hunger Games. You better get off your high horse, and you better do it quick. Or there's a canon out there with your name on it.

They’re not going to leave their big pile of life saving gear unattended. You’ve got arrows, you’ve got the fucking owl vision. It won’t get much better than this." 

It was harsh, but Sansa had to agree.

Brienne didn't. “Well, maybe they might. You said so yourself, I’ve got some raw fucking luck.” Despite her protests, Sansa could see, some of his words had affected her. 

Before they could say more, the seal of Panem blazed in the sky and the national anthem began to play. 

All three turned to the sky, waiting, eager and hating it. 

There had been two canons since last night. 

Two pictures would appear any moment now. 

One, she expected, but couldn't help biting her nails to keep her teeth from chattering, the girl's gurgling echoing in her ears. 

District 2: Lollys Stokeworth. 

The next picture knocked the remaining wind out of Sansa.

District 3: Robert Arryn.

Chapter Text

Sandor 

Sansa wept for hours, hugging her knees, making herself as small as she could. Like if she tried hard enough, she'd slip through the cracks of reality. 

He couldn't even guess who'd done the kid in. Careers? Gamemakers? Hunger? Someone, or something else?

In lieu of answers or comforting words, Sandor wrapped his arms around her, hiding her in his chest, rubbing her back.

Hoping he could keep her there. Safe from the world. 

Wishful thinking.

Brienne had offered to take first watch, pitying them both for losing their District partners. 

“Didn't know her from Jeyne,” was all Sandor gave for an explanation. It was true enough. 

He wasn't like Sansa, tripping over herself to fall in love with every little birdling and rabbit that crossed her path. It was bad enough he'd grown… attached to a fellow tribute in the arena. 

Gregor would laugh himself sick. 

Sandor was a lot of things, but he wasn't his brother. One of the only things in life that gave him some respite. 

And yet… maybe there was something in him that was. 

Something that had made him volunteer for a chance at a better life. Wanted to terrify Sansa in the training centre. Made him finish off that injured boy.  

But then there was also something else. Something of his own that stopped him from wringing Loras Tyrell’s skinny neck at the bloodbath. 

He still hadn't decided if he fully regretted it or not. But there were things he couldn't forget. 

The way Sansa shuffled away from him. The accusations in Brienne's eyes. 

Volunteer. Career. Murderer. 

He wasn't though. He wasn't. It wasn't the same, killing someone in the arena and killing someone in real life. No, this was a… game. 

The thought chilled him. How different was it really? Killing someone inside, and killing someone in real life. Maybe, it wasn't. Maybe it was the exact same. Dead was dead, inside the arena or outside. 

That would mean Brienne was right. He was a murderer. 

The last word knocked over something deep inside. He pretended he hadn't in the last few hours given a careful analysis of his former allies to his current ones. 

He didn't think it was possible to feel more despicable than he did that moment. 

Why was Sansa so bent on saving him? Because he'd spared her once? 

She'd spared him many times over. Saved his life. 

She really shouldn't have bothered. 

The night stretched on endlessly, and nothing much happened. Sandor insisted on the first shift, knowing he wouldn't get a wink of sleep that night.

The pain in his leg had dulled considerably, something he didn't know was a good sign or bad. Was his wound healing or we're his nerves dying? 

It weighed on him, being left completely at the mercy and kindness of two girls who had no business saving him. One of whom, he didn't even consider a friend. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, blaming himself, Gregor, and in the back of his mind, even the Capitol, for forcing this on him.  

“Do you know your District partner?” Sansa whispered, looking at Brienne with her red rimmed eyes. 

“Uh… yes, I know him,” Brienne hesitantly answered.

“Were you in school together?” Sansa asked. 

Brienne looked like she wanted to leave, but something in Sansa's tear streaked face made her speak. “We were. He's a year older than me.” 

“Renly,” Sansa recalled. 

Sandor's mouth twitched, the memory of blows from Renly's hammer reverberating in his arms, fresh in his mind. He stayed silent, letting the girls get their gabbing in. 

“Yes,” Brienne looked away, her shyness evident in the dim moonlight. 

This intrigued him. “Sounds like you know him well.” 

“Not well,” Brienne shook her head. “We spoke sometimes.” 

Sandor snorted. “Not a very good liar are you.” 

“I'm not lying!” She began rearranging her arrows. Then softer. “I'm not lying. He didn't ever notice me. But he was kind.” 

“Kind? How?” Sansa asked. 

Brienne licked her lips and swallowed. This wasn't something she wanted to reveal. "He just was. Even when others weren't. He still is." 

Once Sansa was all cried out, she fell into a fitful slumber. Her weight pressed against him reassuringly, as her breathing evened out. 

She mumbled soft no’s and please’s. She called for Robb to run. She tossed and turned in the limited space they had, and all the while he patted her back and hoped it would help at least a little.  

She cried in her sleep and he only realised when he felt the wetness seep through his clothes. 

A few hours passed, and the night deepened. The moon appeared, a glinting silver curve of a scythe. 

Sandor spotted a few more of those 

mats he'd seen before. 

He couldn't decide if they were supposed to be nets of some kind to catch food, or something like discarded blankets. 

A couple more were strewn on branches hanging like clothes out to dry. It didn't make sense until it suddenly all fell into place. 

Something shifted in the ground, pine needles and a covering of sorts. A small figure burrowed out. 

It would be impossible to see if it weren't for Sansa's owl lens, and he found himself absolutely in awe of her yet again. 

His hand tightened around his sword expecting a mutt, but then it spoke. Just a little squeak. “Now?” 

Sandor didn't see who answered, only that the small figure received the necessary encouragement to stand and pull over the vine mats. 

They transformed from a few scattered rectangles into a cloak, and a head cover, and he knew he was right about District 8. 

The figure he gauged to be the girl with the Greyscale marks zig zaged down the trees from where she'd retrieved the “clothes” and climbed it carefully. 

A maimed hand covered in something that dulled the contrast of skin even in moonlight handed her something. From the motion of her shadow, Sandor could tell she was eating. Nuts, maybe, or berries. 

It didn't take a District 3 genius to come to the conclusion that Davos Seaworth was her ally. Or rather, her protector. Davos, the thief who'd lost most of his fingers. Who'd have a better chance of making it back home had he not chosen to take his district partner under his wing. 

Watching him care for the little girl, Sandor had never felt so small in his life. Turns out it was possible to feel even more despicable than he already did. Selfish. Callous. He was no better than the men and women in the Capitol placing bets on someone's life. Watching them die for their entertainment. 

They were murderers and so was he. 

Hunter's instinct maybe, or years of training, but he honed in on absorbing as much information as he could. He strained to hear any conversation, but he only had one good ear – the other working only half as good on the best days. 

Sandor had been arrogant enough to assume he'd make it even without the full functionality of his burnt ear. 

When the girl was done eating, the hand offered her some kind of woven bowl, and she lifted it to her mouth to drink. 

They sat motionless for a few minutes when the hand ruffled her hair and fixed the head cover that began to fall off. She flung herself around him, and a shadow detached from the trunk to return her embrace. 

Together they climbed down the tree, in what appeared to be an overly cautious manner, if ever such a thing existed in the Games, and headed away. He followed their silhouettes – large rectangles, not really something that would register as a person to anyone who didn't have an owl’s vision, until they were out of sight. His heart ached something awful. 

All his mind seemed to register was that in another world, that could have been him and Elinor. The thought made him shudder so violently, Sansa roused from her sorry excuse of a sleep and looked up at him questioningly. Now that she was not actively running in her mind, her guileless eyes focused on one thing: him. Called him murderer without saying a word. Without the hint of an accusation. 

Davos? Her sweet voice echoed in his mind. He was nice.

Suddenly, Sandor wanted to cry. Weep really, the way she had a few hours ago. For Davos. For the greyscale girl. For Lollys. 

I'm not like you, Brienne’s voice reminded him. Murderer. 

But Sansa was fully awake now, and it would be foolish to make a single sound with other tributes so close by, who knew how many more were there. He pressed his index finger to his lips, and fear flashed in her eyes. 

He shook his head lightly, to calm her, and hugged her tighter. The only good thing he could do. 

Perplexed, she did as she was told. Silently resting her pretty head against his thumping heartbeat, loud as a drum to his own ears. 

The woods came alive with chirping insects and hooting owls, the breeze rustling branches and leaves and woven mats alike. Sansa fell back into slumber. It was almost as if she forced herself to sleep to forget reality. 

After what felt like an eternity, he tossed a small, calculated pebble up at Brienne, not having the heart to pull Sansa away from her temporary escape. It took three tries before her eyes snapped open, her hand reaching for her bow. 

She saw him staring up at her and automatically frowned. Nodding once, she climbed down until she could reach down and get the lens from him, still in the tree. 

Once secured, she climbed all the way up, shuffled in her pack and took a pill. Maybe her fever was back. Then, notched an arrow in her bow. With a guard like that, Sandor felt the safest that he had in the arena so far. 

With the Careers, it was a matter of always looking over your back, expecting to find a knife in it. But Brienne… There was something about her that made it crystal clear she'd keep her word. Though clearly, she didn't think the same about him. 

Had it not meant his death, he realised, he would want a number of people to live. Sansa. Brienne. Davos. The little girl. Lollys. Robin. 

His head began to pound, as his heart raced. He tried to stay still while breathes came in ragged bursts. 

Brienne shuffled down the branches and was crouched before him in seconds. 

“Did something happen? Are we in danger?” she asked. 

Given that they were tributes, this registered as a somewhat stupid question, but he answered her anyway. “Saw the 8's walk down that way. Not dangerous, I don't think. They hide, not hurt.” 

Brienne immediately stared down the path he'd pointed to. “You were right about the mats,” she conceded. 

He had no response to it except, “wish I weren't.” 

Her lips parted in confusion but she let it go. “Should we get a move on?” 

She deferred the big decisions to him, he realised. Her and Sansa both. “Don't need to. I think they're more scared of us than we need to be of them.”

When he finally reached the edge of unconsciousness, his mind conjured up the image of two silhouettes walking away, one bigger, one little.  

One big, one small, both hiding from Gregor. Sneaking around like mice in their own home. Disguising themselves in their father's old Peacekeeper uniform, trying to feel strong. Trying to be anyone but themselves. Eli and Sandy, Peacekeepers of District 2, protectors of Panem. Eli and Sandy, the tallest in their classes. 

One last coherent thought formed before sleep or something like it, took him under.

Eli and Sandy, don't get caught. 

***

Sansa 

The sun was well up in the sky when she finally woke up. First lazily, then with a start. 

Sandor sat unmoving, his mouth a tense line. 

The previous night caught up to Sansa fast. The pain hit her in the chest again, and she hated that she was no longer asleep and out of the arena at least for a moment. 

Seconds later, her gaze travelled up to find Brienne but she was not there. 

She turned to Sandor but decided talking is too much work for her. And really it didn't matter where Brienne was, because why should it? 

Something collapsed inwards and the little resolve she'd mustered up crumbled to dust. 

She understood what Sandor had meant finally. About mercy. About wanting to go on your own terms. 

Sansa had expected nightmares but perhaps her brain was too exhausted to even form those. The sleep that she'd woken from, left her the most tired she'd ever felt inside the arena. A weight deep in her bones pressed her down. Leaden. Sunken. 

Somehow she knew, she knew that no amount of sleep, no amount of food or water, nothing would make her feel any less heavy. 

The day passed slowly. Dreadfully. For her, at least. 

For Sandor and Brienne, it was a much needed chance to get their strength up. 

She circled her thoughts back to her father whose eyes would be glued to the screen. 

To Aunt Lysa, whom mother would be holding right now in a futile attempt to comfort. 

Would she hate Sansa? For not sticking with Sweetrobin? For abandoning him? 

Were she Lysa, she would. 

How could Sansa explain? How could she tell her it was Robin who'd gone. Robin who could barely do his homework without help. Who had a hard time keeping track of his napkins and pencils. 

Sansa hadn't realised she'd begun to cry again. Sandor and Brienne let her cry herself out. 

By late morning she pulled herself together enough to change their bandages. 

Tending to them was the only thing that gave her any purpose. That made her feel like she hadn't lost her mind. 

First Brienne, because her wound was more manageable now. 

Sansa cleaned her hands, and put on the ointment, frugally.

Then sparingly used a bandage to wrap around it completely. There limited supplies were dwindling fast. 

Next came Sandor's turn. He'd grown quieter and Sansa feared it was from an infection but he had no fever. 

Just a listless look in his eyes. 

Maybe seeing Lollys’ picture in the sky was catching up to him finally. Maybe it was everything. 

Brienne helped. She trekked down towards the river to refill the water. They only had two bottles amongst them. Not a lot, but no one complained. 

When Brienne was back with the water, Sansa helped tug down Sandor's pants until he was in his underclothes, embarrassed but silent. “What, no snarky comments?” Brienne asked. 

“You really want some?” He snapped, irritated. “Peace and quiet not suiting you.” 

“It is quiet, I'll give you that,” she replied, solemnly. Sansa understood what she meant. There was no place for peace here. 

Together they removed the bandages. It smelt horrible, but both had the decency to be discrete. 

Sandor, not so much. “Get away from me,” he all but swatted them away.  

“Stinks! How far is the river? Just haul me in it.” He grit his teeth. 

The wound was inflamed, angry and red, with purpling bruises where the tree had fallen on him. 

Brienne got to work. She'd gathered some leaves in the morning that leeched poison, and told her how to apply them. Sansa had cleaned the wound thoroughly, so she focussed on slathering on her herbal concoctions. 

Brienne had spent all morning looking for medicinal plants while Sansa had been wallowing. Her cheeks burned with shame, and she tried to be of more use to her allies as the hours passed. 

“Do you ever think about ditching us?” Sansa asked her as they went to set snares. 

Brienne knit her brows with a look, and got back to work. 

“I'm serious,” Sansa said, angry at Brienne for some reason. “You're so good, you could make it on your own. You're the one who knows how to get food, how to make medicine, how to shoot arrows. You're strong

You're resourceful. We're holding you back.”

Brienne sighed deeply. She turned and there wasn't a hint of doubt in her eyes as she spoke. “You looked for me, patched up my face. You gave me water and medicine and stood guard while I slept. That's more than anyone else has ever done,” she said. “You gave me the ability to see at night. I'd be a fool to leave now. Besides, we have a deal.” 

“Final four,” Sansa muttered, half heartedly. 

“I'm dreading it coming to that,” Brienne allowed.  

Sansa had been as well. “Can’t think about it too much. We're still a long way off.” 

“I suppose,” she replied. “At first I wondered why he didn't say final three, but then I was glad he didn't.”

“Four is also cutting it too close for my taste,” Sansa found herself saying. 

“Deal is a deal.” 

“Deal is a deal,” Sansa echoed. 

Meal time proved less bountiful than yesterday, but it was just as well. No one really felt like eating. 

They still had a few roasted tubers and half a rabbit leftover. 

The new kills ended up being a squirrel and a skinny bird no bigger than a pigeon. 

Once gutted and skewered, it made little difference. 

Sansa’s appetite was lost anyway. She nibbled on some roots and sipped water to keep her stomach from rumbling. 

Brienne trekked lower to set more snares, and changed Sandor's leaves in the evening. 

“Think we're getting the better end of this deal,” he stated when Brienne was out of earshot. 

“I know. I told she could leave if she wanted,” Sansa admitted. 

Sandor's mouth twitched. “Guess she'd rather stay. Who knows why.” 

“Guess so.” 

In the afternoon, Sandor brought up the District 8 tributes nearby. 

Under Sandor's instruction, they found the spot the girl had been hiding in. Sansa examined the burrow. 

It's not very large, but quite deep, its mouth concealed with a plank of wood and some pine needles. 

“They definitely saw us here. We'd best move on,” Sansa said.

“If they did, they must be far away now. They won't fight us,” Sandor said. “They evade, not attack.” 

Another day passed without any canons. It sent a wave of discomfort over the three, knowing that by now the Capitol citizens would be getting restless for some action. 

Sansa would’ve liked to leave Sandor out of the planning altogether, it becoming increasingly obvious how much he hated being “useless” as he put it while sending two girls off to do his dirty work. 

She reminded him that it was also her and Brienne’s dirty work, not that it had any comforting effect on him. 

They shifted Sandor a bit higher on the hill and wheedled out more information about the supplies. Tent packs, lots of food, weapons. Even fishing rods and salts for dehydration. 

A lot could have changed since the last time he’d been with them, no doubt, but all information was useful information. 

They waited till late afternoon to begin their trek. The owl lens would help tremendously but since Sansa had failed to locate any more accessible cameras, they still had only one. 

It was ultimately decided Brienne would wear it and take cover in the foliage, poised to shoot, while Sansa armed only with a dagger, would sneak into the Cornucopia. It wasn't ideal, but the sword would prove more of a hassle than it was worth in her inexperienced hands. 

As they passed some of the more shallow streams, more of Sandor’s advice rang in her ears. 

She covered her exposed skin and hair with a thin layer of mud to dull the contrast and stuck a few leaves in her braid for good measure. Despite his brutish looks, it was impossible to ignore that he had a sharp mind, and sharper wit. 

Brienne couldn't disguise nearly as much, afraid to get dirt in her wound and risk infection.

They passed a giant fallen tree with moss growing on it, mushrooms under it. Even horizontal, it was taller than Brienne and the girls had to climb it to get to the other side. 

Finally, the thinning of the trees started and they hid under the log to better stake out the surroundings.

Dread bubbled up inside her as worst case scenarios replayed in her mind’s eye. The thought that not only could she die, but be tortured before for entertainment sent bile rising in her throat. 

Brienne was determined, quiet and the very picture of stealth as she advanced forward one tree at a time. 

Dusk had barely begun to fall, but it was almost as if the Gamemakers kept the sky light for longer. 

They inched forward painstakingly slowly, keeping an eye behind on the easiest escape path, a natural mud track that led away from the lake. 

There weren’t any sounds coming from the cornucopia, although Brienne recognised a few mud marks on the higher branches. 

“Someone’s been climbing trees here,” Sansa said, in a hushed tone. “Couldn’t be 1, I don't think.”

“Me neither. But I wouldn’t rule out the others.” 

Tense, they found a passable tree with low hanging branches and wasp nests high up, and climbed it – Brienne surefooted; Sansa suppressing a squeak with every little slip. 

She nodded for Brienne to go up without her, so she had a better vantage point, while Sansa kept an eye out for whoever else it was that was scaling the trees like them. 

She recalled the remaining tributes but doubted that it was anyone other than Cersei maybe, climbing trees to get a better look at potential targets. 

Brienne returned and in a hushed whisper told Sansa. “I see the horn. The mouth faces a little left from here, but, like he said, the supplies are deep inside, away from both openings. They're piled in two big heaps next to each other.”

“Guard?” Sansa asked, gnawing her nails. 

She nodded, tensed. “The boy with the spear. No one else is around. At least not that I saw. But I don't think they’d go too far.” 

“How do we do this? Go further left so we’ll be at the mouth of the horn?”

“Then he’d see us easily. And the back opening is on the other side, where the grass fields are.”

Sansa chewed the inside of her cheek. “Then this place is as good as any. Could you shoot him from here? If it comes to that?” 

A cloud of doubt formed over Brienne's features. She didn't have an answer. 

“Brienne?” 

“I… can. But I don't think I'll be able to,” she said, at last. 

Sansa’s heart fell into her stomach. “What do you mean?” She hissed. “We came all this way! We left Sandor by himself!” 

An apologetic smile is what she got in return. Then a resolve that could've been paper thin. “If I absolutely must, I will. A deal is a deal.” 

It wasn't much of a commitment, but it had to be good enough. Not that there were any alternatives. 

“Let's move ahead while the others aren't around,” Brienne said, already beginning her descent down the tree. 

Sansa followed, double checking her dagger and the empty backpack covered in now dried mud. 

They picked a tall tree with dense foliage at the very edge of the tree line to climb and wait for the correct moment. 

It was exposed, much too exposed with the large field in front of them. The platforms which had brought them into the arena stood stout and proud in a circle around the great horn. 

The mouth was angled away but the back wouldn't be impossible to reach without detection, provided no one surprised her from the grass fields. 

It wasn't ideal, far from it, but she suddenly felt grateful for Brienne's protection. For the first time, Sansa felt foolish she ever wanted to come here by herself, blinded by the lure of sparkwire. A rat going for a rat trap. She recalled how prominently the spark wire had been displayed, on a pedestal, gleaming gold. Taunting her. 

Brienne poised her arrow at Jaime's hunched over form, and released a shaky breath. For the first time since their alliance was made, her hands trembled.

Under the orange pink sky, a pretty sight on any other day, they waited for the sun to go down. 

The guard sat on what looked to be an overturned barrel of some kind. No doubt something precious. Life saving. 

He had a spear in his hand and a belt of knives at his hip. Half of his head was obscured by his hood but the unmistakable gleam of his golden hair brushing over forehead branded his identity. Sansa hated that even now, she had to admit he looked handsome, if somewhat feral. 

Sansa felt a rush of fear at the weapons in his hand and a mixture of disappointment and relief at finding him guard. 

Relief because she'd much rather never see the bloodthirsty faces of Vargo Hoat and Cersei, two people who had joined in to torment her in her nightmares. 

And disappointment, for perhaps the same reason. If they, meaning her and Brienne, were to be responsible for someone's death, she'd much rather it be one of the other two. 

Unmoving, they studied him for a while. 

Every few minutes his shoulders heaved and the hand gripping the spear went white with added pressure. Although absolutely nothing changed, he would jolt up and frantically swat at the air in front of him, as if warding off something. 

Then, shaking himself out of it, he'd sweep his gaze over the treeline and the lake and finding everything in order, retake his place on the barrel. 

He neglected to watch the fields, which made Sansa think he knew what to expect from there. 

Perhaps that's where the others would have gone. 

She couldn't tell how tall the grass was, or if the ground sloped downwards. If it didn't, anyone there would have a good view of her running the distance down to the Cornucopia. 

Brienne nudged her slightly, and nodded to the right.  

In the trees, much higher than the two of them, a pair of small white hands gripped the trunk. 

Sansa wracked her brains for who it could be, since she didn't match Cersei's complexion, but came up short. It was hard to keep track of who all were still alive. 

Their unspoken question was answered when the figure made its way down, still obscured and a flash of silver hair caught Sansa's eye. 

She almost gasped softly, turning to Brienne who still looked confused. 

“Daenerys,” she mouthed, careful not to make a sound. 

Her ally’s lips formed a small ‘o,’ and the arrow slowly, carefully shifted from Jaime to point at Daenerys. 

It wouldn't take a second to set that arrow loose, but Brienne held her ground. The blazing determination in her face just daring Sansa to ask this of her. 

She didn't. She couldn't. 

Two statues in the tree, they simply followed Daenerys with their eyes until she took a turn and killing her was no longer an option. 

Still obscured by the trees, Sansa caught her clutching something in her palm, but couldn't identify the object. 

The sky was still streaked with bright oranges and yellows, the sun a soldering red like hot iron. 

Provided nothing changed, Sansa had an idea. It would be the easiest to make their move when the others were distracted. She nudged and mouthed to Brienne, “National anthem.” 

She understood quickly, nodding assent and pointing the tip of her arrow back on Jaime. 

Daenerys crept back into their sight as she snuck out the treeline with quick, quiet movements towards the horn.

Sansa watched flummoxed, afraid of coming so close and losing the sparkwire to Daenerys, who was no doubt going to steal something. 

She turned to Brienne but found the other girl had her lips pursed and brows knit in concentration as the silver haired girl successfully disappeared in the Cornucopia. 

Jaime was too late to catch on. He shuffled to his feet looking this way and that way, staring down the direction of Daenerys's exit but unable to catch anything. 

His hood fell backwards to reveal a big swelling on his neck, and another on the back of his hand, both the size of plums. They glistened with ointment but looked as inflamed as wounds could be. 

He kicked a rock in frustration and sat back down, pawing at the lumps and itching around them. 

It gave her some small satisfaction that the careers weren't unscathed either. It levelled the playing field a little, so to speak. 

Daenerys is taking too long, she thought. The others could be back any moment. 

Then she saw it. Puffs of smoke rising out of the gold weaving of the great horn. That's when the smell of burning oil hit them.

Sansa and Brienne exchanged quick panicked looks as they realised what Daenerys had done. 

The wire! Sansa was paralysed. Impotent. Unable to do anything but watch. The fire wouldn't damage it. On the contrary, it would charge it. Something she herself had wanted to do. But with a fire of this magnitude… anyone who touched it would be electrocuted in seconds.

Still there was no sign of the girl, still hidden in the Cornucopia. 

Jaime fell into a coughing fit, doubling over as he spat and tried to catch his breath. He ran inside towards the supplies and came out just as empty handed. 

Cursing and wailing he dropped his spear and lifted his shirt to cover his nose. He tried again to rescue some of their items. Whatever he had been pawing at seemed to make a reappearance and he staggered back with a pained cry. 

His voice echoed loudly. Having momentarily overcome the vision he'd been fighting, he ran the perimeter of the horn to capture the assailant. 

While he looked the other way, Daenerys ran out, a silvery mask made of sponsor parachute covering her nose and mouth. She began to run the length back to the tree line. 

He turned around the corner just in time to catch a glimpse. “You!” He hollered, eyes wide. As if it was a reflex, he sent his spear flying at her body. 

She fell with a cry as it caught in her stomach, going through and through her body. 

If you run into him, Sandor's rasp came to mind, you're dead at any distance. 

He must have made a sound as he caught up to her. He must have, but Sansa's ears were ringing with her own blood and panic. She clutched Brienne, unable to watch yet another death at the hands of the Career pack, but the girl shrugged her off with one firm tug. She readjusted her aim that Sansa had disturbed. 

“No! No– get up, get up, Dany,” Daenerys was saying to herself, clutching her stomach. Desperately crawling, hobbling to get to her feet. Small stones abraded her palms and chin and she still tried to get up. 

Jaime cursed incessantly, catching up to her easily and grabbed the handle of the spear that jutted from her back. He pulled it with all his might, and she let out a visceral scream before collapsing. 

The Cornucopia burned in the back, the flames licked the sides and up the horn. 

Everything in it would be destroyed, save for the wire, which would be deadly. 

Brienne poised her arrow at his head but made no move to release it. 

Sansa couldn't completely fault her. Had she been the one with the bow and arrow, she wasn't sure she could have done it either. 

Besides, Daenerys was as good as dead. 

They couldn't save her even if they wanted to.

Jaime flipped her around, while she hurled her own curses at him. He looked down at her, almost with pity, and eased the point of his spear into her heart. 

She gurgled her last words, completely incoherent. And a cannon fired. 

The scene playing out like so many other Hunger Games she'd watched on television, only this time she was a few metres away from the violence. She could be next. 

They just had to trust their camouflage was good enough, because if he chanced even a casual look in the treeline, he'd see two pairs of blue eyes glaring down at him. 

And even if Brienne took him down, Sansa felt certain they'd not leave unscathed. 

He didn't look though. He simply wiped his spear on Daenerys's pant leg and ran back to his post. 

The fire burned fiercely with no signs of stopping, blinding against the rapidly blackening sky. 

Jaime got to work, hurriedly trying to save anything he could from it. 

“JAIME!” Someone hollered, aghast. A girl. Cersei. It came from further left. 

Sansa stiffened. So they weren't in the grass fields. No, they were right on her heels. 

Cersei ran faster, Vargo a few places behind her. 

“What the fuck?!” She cried, the flames colouring her green eyes yellow. She slammed both her palms in his chest and he fell backwards, startled, in the ashes at the mouth of the horn. 

He shook his head, mumbling a reply but his voice did not carry. He pointed towards Daenerys's body, eyes wild, face pale.  

Vargo let out a visceral groan, as he thumped closer and gave a useless kick to Daenerys's leg. 

Can't hurt her now, Sansa thought, clamping her mouth shut. They were too close. Too close to make a sound. 

If there had ever been an opportunity to take out even one career, it had passed. It had passed because Brienne had frozen with a notched arrow ready in her fingers. 

“Ith hith fault!” Vargo fumed, his voice as heavy as Sansa's was light. He was huge, bulkier even than Sandor, with a strange musky smell that she could remember from their days in the Training Centre. 

Cersei stalked towards the body, lithe and catlike, to see for herself. 

She looked around. 

Right at their tree. Sansa slammed her lids shut, heart thumping like Vargo’s heavy footfall. 

When nothing happened for a few seconds she opened them carefully. Cersei had already turned her attention towards the grass fields. 

“Jaime, get over here,” she spat. “Explain.” 

“I – I don't know, Cers,” he fumbled, none of the cold blooded killer in him showing. Only a whimpering teenager, scared of a scolding. “It's those bees, I'm telling you. Ever since they stung me, I can't see shit sometimes,” he blurted out. “It's all fuzzy and then I forget where I am. It's like nothing's real, Cersei –” he gripped her arms, tears streaming down the side of his face. “I don't know what's happening to me.” 

When neither answered him, he pressed on.

“I was on guard the whole time, I swear. The damn thing is huge, I only have two eyes. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, alright?! I'm sorry!” 

“Two useless eyes.” Cersei dropped her knife, defeated, and put her hands on her head. She looked up to the sky as if for answers. “Move,” she ordered, “they need to take the body.” 

Sansa turned her own gaze upwards where the forcefield in the sky formed a hole wide enough to let in the hovercraft. She caught a glimpse of the real sky behind it, very much the same indigo, but a tinge darker. 

It would seem the Gamemakers had in fact prolonged the sunset to give the audience a nice view of the action. 

Somehow this is when it hit her the most. Not the dying screams and the raging fire but this. An orange sky to see a red death better. A game.  

The three moved away a few feet and the metal claw descended to take what was left of Daenerys. 

Sansa couldn't remember her District, nor her eyes.  

Only that she'd worn a black dress to the interview, and called her a whore once. Or a slut. Something of the sort. For being… nice to Sandor. 

She found she didn't hate Daenerys. Or wish her dead. She only felt numb.

We should leave, she wanted to tell Brienne. I can't touch the wire even if I were to go inside to get it. And the medicines must be destroyed by now. And the bandages. Nothing can withstand fire. She wanted to speak, but it was still too dangerous to make a sound. So she simply watched. 

Brienne hadn't moved an eyelash, her hunter's eyes trained on the remaining careers. 

This was yet another fundamental difference between them. Sansa wasn't nearly as alert, not nearly as observant. 

Sansa wasn't a hunter. She was the Mayor's obedient daughter. 

The three figures, small next to the raging fires, watched helplessly. Sweat terribly from the heat of the fire.

Jaime ran down a few times to fill some water from the lake in a big container but it was like trying… well like trying to douse a fifteen foot fire with a bucket of water. 

Cersei slumped down on the ground, head between her knees. Vargo threw rocks at his precious Cornucopia, cursing loudly in spite of his lisp. 

“You left your pothth.” Vargo jammed a finger in Jaime's breastbone. “I knew you were uthleth! I knew it!” 

Jaime's mouth twisted in a cruel sneer. “No, I did not ‘leave my pothth,’” he mocked. “I was–” 

Vargo smacked him across the face with the back of his hand, mouth contorting in hate. 

Jaime fell on the ground, mouth agape, hand pressing on his ear which was no doubt ringing. 

“I’ve had enough of you! You make fun of me!” He landed a solid kick on the fallen boys ribs.

Jaime groaned in pain, curling inwards to stop the pain.  

Besides Sansa, Brienne shifted in her position for the first time in hours. Bow and arrow trembling in her grasp.

“You alwayth make fun of me!” Vargo sounded like he was on the verge of tears. He descended on Jaime with a new onslaught of fists and curses. “Uthleth bath-tard! You make fun of me! Ath-hole!” His eyes reflected the fire, but also burned with unbridled rage of their own. 

Sansa could only watch helplessly. 

“Vargo Hoat,” Cersei snapped at him without looking, unbothered by the spectacle. “That's enough.” She made no other move to haul him away from her twin. 

“But Ther-thie,” Vargo lisped, almost petulantly, as he rubbed his sore knuckles, still sitting on Jaime's stomach, knees on either side of him. “He alwayth doeth thith.” 

“I know Vargie baby. He's an idiot. But lay off him,” she said, taking off her jacket and t-shirt and lying down in her underclothes to cool off. “Come here. Sit by me.” 

Vargo shuffled away. He looked back at the groaning boy as if considering landing one last solid kick, but thought better of it at last. 

He took his place next to Cersei and began to whisper something in her ear. 

They spoke in hushed tones, glancing back at the fire and their ally every once in a while. 

Jaime flailed on the ground. His nose and mouth, bleeding, doubled over in pain. Clutching his stomach, much like Daenerys had. Something oozed from the lump on his neck, the wetness shining a sickening green in the fire and moonlight. 

Cersei got up finally, her belt of golden stars hanging low on her hips, below her bare stomach. 

They towered over Jaime who looked up at them and reached out a hand to her. 

She was meant to take it. To lift him up and dab away the blood. Forgive him, and get on with their planning. 

But she didn't. 

She stared at him, her expression strangely cold. “Get up, Jaime.” 

He took his hand back, somewhat alarmed, and crawled up his body with effort till he was standing. 

“Hoat, look,” he started, “I'm sorry, I just –” 

“Save it,” Cersei huffed. “I'm giving you this one last chance because you're my brother.” 

His eyes flooded with relief, shoulders releasing the immense tension they built up. “I know. I know, I fucked up. It won't happen again. Really. Both of you, I –” 

She raised a hand to silence him. “One last chance to live.” 

The full meaning of her words didn't come to him until she landed her own death blow. 

“Run.” 

Chapter Text

Sansa

Jaime ran. All his knives clattering against each other like a sickening wind chime while he fled into the woods, clutching his belly, wincing in pain. 

It felt almost like a play to her. Impossible. Unreal. Sansa, who couldn’t have ever imagined her brothers or sisters ever leaving her like this, nor she, them. 

Even Arya. What she’d done was wrong, without regard but she hadn’t actively condemned Sansa to die. 

Stupidly, she realised she felt bad for him. For Jaime. It had been heartbreaking, the trembling of his chin, the tears in his green eyes, the way his mouth opened and closed but his throat couldn’t form any words. She was all too familiar with that feeling. 

But then she remembered his spear piercing Daenerys’s body and pushed all thoughts of pity out of her mind. 

Her thoughts circled back to Sandor and how day after day, all his awful words rang truer than ever before. 

Perhaps, she should thank Cersei and Vargo for getting a dangerous competitor out of it. 

Alone and hallucinating, it was unlikely that he’d live long. Anytime now a cannon would sound, announcing his demise. His face would flash in the sky with that little knowing smirk, and Jaime Lannister would be history. 

It should have been a comforting thought, after all, any way to avoid death by his spears. Why then could she only feel numb?

Brienne hadn’t moved in a while. The fire was still going strong. 

Cersei and Vargo talked in hushed tones, glancing back in Jaime’s direction where he’d disappeared in the forest. 

Finally, Vargo stood up, gauged the familiar weight of his sword and with a firm nod towards his partner, headed into the forest. 

He means to hunt Jaime down, Sansa shuddered. Even in such a state, they thought him too dangerous to leave to chance.

Brienne nudged her, eyes huge with worry. 

“Now’s our chance,” Sansa broke the spell with their first whisper in hours. “I’ll go see if anything is left.” 

The last few embers of the fire had begun dying out. Cersei was the most vulnerable they would most likely ever find her. 

Only, she was on the other side of the Cornucopia. “I’ll cover you.” Brienne readjusted her position. “But I can’t get a good shot right now.” 

Was it that Cersei was intentionally keeping away from the woods? Maybe because of Jaime and Vargo… No, but, she had her vigilant gaze trained on a particular patch of forest, further right of where the girls were hiding, before sweeping it all throughout. 

Sneaking in wouldn’t be as easy as she’d initially thought. Not only that, to add insult to injury, a silver parachute was descending down the sky, with a small box. 

“Now, while she’ll be distracted,” Sansa hissed and without waiting for answer, hastily climbed down. Her knees wobbled once she was on the ground. More exposed, on the same level as her formidable adversaries.  

Daenerys’s blood seeped and formed a patch of mud a few feet before her. 

Sansa crouched in the trees. Cersei had her lips parted in anticipation, eyes bright with hope as she reached up to grab her gift from the sky. 

She had her back to Sansa, deeply engrossed in whatever she’d recieved.

Gravel crunching underfoot, she took a few steps out of the tree cover. As the first of the breeze hit her, she retreated, heart thumping wildly. 

She pressed her palm on her chest, willing it to calm down. Her mouth had gone bone dry. The wire would still be untouchable for a few hours. 

Medicine, I need the medicine, she forced herself to think of Sandor’s wound. The bruises, the pained cries. She forced herself to remember Brienne's ravaged cheek. 

It worked. She’d come too far, seen too much to return empty handed now. She grabbed a sturdy footlong stick to poke at the remains and waited for an opening. 

The moment Cersei began to untie the strings on the parachute, Sansa made a mad dash to the other end of the horn, and hid behind the smoking remains of one of the heap. 

Unlike what she’d imagined, it was not reduced to a big pile of ash, although everything looked too burnt to be of any use. 

If she’d made a sound, hopefully, it called Cersei straight into Brienne’s eyeline. 

She poked at the heap, pulling her shirt up to keep from coughing, but the smoke made her eyes water terribly. 

It was near impossible to see, suffocating and dark. Without seeing, she grabbed whatever she could get her hands on in and stuffed it in her pack. They’d sort them out later. 

The items clinked against each other, and Sansa suspected she heard some footsteps. Terrified, she took in a deep breath and against all her instincts went towards the smoke, hoping it would cover her. 

Sure enough, she caught Cersei’s golden hair catching the scant moonlight. Her eyes shone like a cat’s as she kept strictly to the grassfield side of the Cornucopia. 

She took was terrified, of something that lurked in the woods. Woods that Sansa had to return to. 

Her lungs burned, vision blurred. Unless she got out now, she’d suffocate right there in the horn. 

Turning around in spot, she went deeper in, hoping to come out the other side that opened towards the forest. 

With the first of the treeline in sight, she sprinted down the length, zig zagging for good measure, lest a knife catch her in the back.

Cersei’s startled cry pierced the sky. A knife lodged itself a foot left to Sansa's head as she reached the first of the trees. 

Not daring to stop or look back, she kept going hoping she’d not run headlong into Vargo Hoat. 

Would it be too much to ask that him and Jaime take care of each other? 

Eventually, she had to stop to catch her breath. The smoke still scratched her throat, raw and burning. The ache in her chest as though someone were sitting on it, mad either difficult to move. 

She fell on the ground, on all fours. Trying to catch her breath. 

Is this it? She thought. No, please, not like this… not like this. 

Her vision clouded, not unlike the way it did in the smoke. 

The best she could hope was Brienne would find her before the hovercraft and take the few supplies she'd tried to save. 

“Ma… Pa… Robb,” she croaked out, as if calling them would make them magically appear to hold her. The sounds made no sense, had no form. 

For a few precious moments, she was back in District 3, in their grey, squat little house, with all their childish drawings stuck on the walls, made by five little artists. Her room with its pink bedspreads, a rare luxury, and hand crocheted animals. 

Toys that had made their way down the line all the way from Robb to Rickon. 

Little Rickon, with his brown curls and toothless giggles. Still not old enough to be reaped. Safe for a few more years. Safe… 

She'd die happier with that vision in mind. The time they had all been together. 

As her vision blurred, she was back in the arena, but Sandor grinning at her as they sat around their little campfire, teasing Brienne while she tried not to blush. Was that only two days ago? 

*

When she came to, she wasn't home, or at camp. 

She was lying in a ditch she didn't remember crawling into and the forest was still pitch black.

Her head pounded but at least the soreness in her throat had somewhat reduced. 

She dreaded it would swell up and close, strangling her so long after her escape. 

She'd not even run towards Brienne… Brienne! Was she alive? Did they find her? 

The thought sparked something inside her. She scrambled up. Or at least try to. When a hiss came from a branch right above her. “Stay down. They're still close.” 

Relief flooded her. Brienne. Her ally. Her friend. She'd found her after all. 

Sansa collapsed on the floor, this time from relief. She tried hard to keep her breathing quiet, save a few strangled sobs. For whatever it was worth, she was still alive. 

She could fall asleep here, exhausted as she was. 

She could. Brienne's arrows would keep her safe… unless… she remembered suddenly. 

“There's something here,” Sansa tried to whisper but her voice cracked terribly, like the snarl of a dog. 

“What?” Brienne shuffled down, arrows poised as usual. 

Absently Sansa marvelled at her stamina. Weren't her arms sore? She felt her mind begin to slip into unconsciousness again but Brienne shook her. “What's here?” 

“Scared of… forest. Something bad… here. Go!” she managed to force out before the blackness took over her again.  

Dawn streaked the sky with pinks and oranges. Sansa trembled, the beautiful colours tainted for her now. 

She looked around. Still in a ditch. Still sore. But alive. Alive and breathing better. 

“You're up.” The relief in Brienne's voice was palpable. 

Sansa let a soft smile take over her. The moment her eyes matched Brienne, she was certain she'd never seen anything more beautiful. Both girls gave an incredulous huff of laughter. 

“Almost thought I was done for there,” she said, sitting up slowly. 

Brienne gave her a grin. “Not on my watch.” 

“What happened?” 

“I saw you run into the forest. Cersei saw you too late, but she threw a knife. I shot at her, but she dodged. She ran after you and I followed. 

She was calling the boy – Vargo. I shot a few more arrows. Lost one, the other caught her in the shoulder and she ran off. 

I managed to drag you out here and dug this hole.” She paused, then added. “The Eight’s gave me the idea.” 

“Thank you,” Sansa said, the words entirely too inadequate for someone risking their life to save hers, and reached out to squeeze her ally's hand. 

Brienne smiled, lopsided, the injured cheek unmoving. “You'd have done the same for me.” 

Brienne found her a stick she thought she wouldn't need but ended up being grateful for, as they made their way towards Sandor. 

While Sansa had been too preoccupied yesterday, Brienne had made small marks on tree trunks to guide their way back. 

The pack, now slung across Brienne's back, gave her a start. “Did I manage to get anything useful? I couldn't see, so I just grabbed whatever I could.” 

“I didn't get a chance to check. We'll see it once we get back to the camp. You did good, Sansa,” she said, then cleared her throat and looked away, shy.  

Only when the giant log they'd seen the night before came into view, could Sansa orient herself to the arena. Camp was a few hours uphill. Elated, she picked up pace, almost matching Brienne's. 

The forest came alive with sound, insects and birds and who knew what else. The sky was growing overcast and after last night, Sansa thought some rain might not be such a bad idea, though she could do without the darkness making shadow figures out of branches and vines. Even the air was colder. 

The chill reached Brienne too. “You know, you woke up for a few minutes there. And then scared the living daylight out of me,” she said, with a small huff. 

“Me? How?” 

“You mumbled the most ominous thing I've ever heard, then passed out. You said there's something bad in the forest. I thought you meant mutts… “ she shuddered. “Put me on edge, even more than I already was. I waited and waited but nothing happened.”

Sansa remembered. “It was Cersei. She kept away from the forest. Even when she wanted to check inside the Cornucopia, she walked all the way around to the grassfield. 

And Jaime, he kept his eyes on the woods. 

Whatever, they were afraid of, it was here.” 

“Maybe it's because they've got the grassfield covered. They know what to expect from there. But the woods, I mean, we're here. Maybe, it's us they're afraid of. 

They must know Two is alive. But he hasn't gotten back to join them. Maybe they're afraid of him.” 

The theory relaxed both of them. It made perfect sense. 

Suddenly, a smile plastered itself on her place. 

“Daenerys did us a favour,” Sansa said. “They'll have to come into the forest now. For food. And, alright, we don’t have many supplies, but neither do they.”

“Thank you, Daenerys,” Brienne grinned, almost laughing when something stopped her in her tracks. 

“What is it?” Sansa almost ran into her. 

Wedged deep under their giant log was the unconscious form of Jaime Lannister. His arm lay over the handle of his spear, as if to protect it from anyone taking it. There was dried blood on his mouth and nose, and now that they were closer to him, more stings on his back and ankle. 

He bled from slashes on his forearms. 

The girls exchanged a look. Brienne turned to him, as if taken aback by his unexpected vulnerability. 

“Was there a cannon while I was out?” Sansa asked. 

Brienne only shook her head. “Look, he's breathing.” 

Sansa hugged her jacket close. “Should we kill him?” She hated how small her voice sounded. A girl's voice. For all purposes, an innocent voice. Asking such despicable questions. 

“I can't do it,” Brienne replied after a pause. She avoided meeting Sansa's eyes. 

“You didn't last night either.” He had been mere feet away, driving a spear into another person. “Vargo and Cersei weren't around. You had the chance –”

“Well, now you have the chance,” she shot back, all their prior camaraderie gone. “You have your knife. Or take the bow, if you want. He's three feet away, lying unconscious. Surely, you can manage.” 

There was a challenge in her voice that Sansa failed to meet. Her eyes lowered in what could only be shame. “Let's just get out of here.” 

“Yes,” Brienne said. “Let's.” Only, before walking away she dragged a big broken branch full of leaves over to the log, essentially hiding Jaime from clear view. 

It wasn't much, but it seemed she'd be incapable of leaving him there. 

Sansa bit back the questions that were aching to be voiced and kept going back. She was on edge again. Unable to stop her mind from cooking up all sorts of theories about Brienne and Jaime having some secret alliance, or that she was waiting for the right time to do away with Sansa and Sandor. 

She needed the cornucopia medicine just as much –well, almost as much – as he did. 

The best course of action would be to keep a firm grasp on her dagger and get back to Sandor as quickly as possible. 

As if the woods had changed clothes. Dark, musty, cold robes that sent shivers running down her spine. 

“Did you get a good look at the grassfield?” Brienne asked, turning, her bow still poised. 

Sansa jumped two feet back, then cleared her throat to try and keep her wits about her. “N-no.” 

“Sansa?” Brienne tilted her head to the side, as if not understanding. She was a better actress than Sansa had initially given her credit for. 

And she'd scored an eleven. 

Now, Sansa, being the idiot Harry had always suspected her to be (though, unlike Sandor, he’d never said as much), had gone and given her a night vision lens that currently dangled around her neck. 

“Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just thirsty,” she said, standing up taller, making herself look more confident than she felt. Because really, she felt she'd melt into a puddle any moment. 

“We can get water from the river–”

“Let's just go back,” she said, beads of sweat rolling down her spine as she kept her voice level. 

A flash of hurt clouded Brienne's eyes but she did as asked. 

The trek back felt endless but soon the trees began to look more and more familiar. 

As they got closer, she lost all her self control and ran towards their hideout. Sandor startled in spot, but the corner of his lips turned up as he caught the sight of her. 

She ran to him and clumsy put her arms around his neck before breaking into a sob. She hadn't felt it building up but she wept and wept. 

His arms wrapped around her, warm, strong and gentle. 

“Sandor,” she mewled, her own voice a harsh rasp now, not knowing how to explain to him all that had happened. Not knowing if she could. “I saw you. I thought I was going to die.”

“Hush, Little Bird,” he rasped. 

He let her cry herself out on his chest and made her drink sips of water. He tugged at her braid, playing with the ends of it, and pressed a kiss on her temple. 

“It was awful,” she said. “All these horrible things happened and then I woke up in a ditch.” 

When he didn't reply, she looked up at him. His raised eyebrows were directed questioningly at Brienne who seemed hellbent on avoiding his gaze. 

“What happened?” He asked, all the softness in his voice gone just as quickly as it had appeared. 

“Daenerys set the cornucopia on fire. Four was on guard. He killed her. The Career alliance broke off. It's just the girl twin and One now.” 

Sandor froze, his heart hammering, like how it did when Lollys had died. 

“I didn't hear a cannon,” he said, carefully. But his twitching mouth and trembling hands betrayed him. 

“There wasn't. He's not dead. Just injured. We saw him on the way back,” Sansa found herself saying. In the relative safety of their camp, with Sandor's arm wrapped around her, it didn't seem as though Brienne had some secret partnership with Jaime. 

Maybe she, like Sansa, simply couldn't bring herself to kill another person. 

Brienne rummaged through their meagre store of roots and a leftover squirrel leg. “Can I?” She asked, looking afraid and ashamed, even though she'd caught all of it. 

“Of course,” Sansa urged, guilty over her immediate distrust of Brienne in the forest. “Please have it.”

The placating smile she offered proved to be little concession, as a guilty looking Brienne took her food and climbed high up on her tree to eat it. 

“Where'd she even learn to climb like that?” Sandor muttered under his breath. “Fuck that. Where'd she learn all of it?” 

“She is a mystery, Mr. Clegane,” Sansa bit back a smile at his awe. “Too complex for the likes of you.” 

He snorted. “You've got that right. I'd have to sleep with one eye open.” 

“You plan on sleeping?” Sansa couldn't help the sharp edge to her voice. “She didn't kill him. She could have. Twice. But then, so could I… And I didn't either.” 

Sandor heaved a long sigh. 

“Can we trust her? I feel bad for even asking that,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “She saved my life.” 

“You shouldn't trust anyone,” he rasped. “That's what I've been trying to tell you, but you won't get it through your thick skull.” 

She felt nothing but sadness at that. Not at his harsh words, but the truth in them. “Even you?” 

She didn't wait for an answer, instead, pressed her lips against his daring him to stop her. 

He didn't. 

His hands travelled up her back to her neck as he held her as close to him as humanly possible. “If it ever comes down to me and you, I'll always choose you,” he said, and kissed her again. 

Brienne descended from her tree once they called her to take stock of all the things they'd risked their lives to get. 

The supplies turned out to be mostly ash, and a few packets of food that were two steps away from being coal. But they did find a fairly preserved box with bandages, cleaning solution, tablets, ointments and an injection of some sort that looked like it meant business. 

All of her mother's knowledge sprung to the forefront of her mind and she got to work cutting away the old bandages and dressing the wound properly, now that they finally had the supplies. 

“It looks much better already,” Sansa gasped, feeling an overwhelming sense of delight that he'd be fine. His leg would be fixed and he'd be fine. He had to be, after everything she'd done. He had to be. “What are they feeding you lot in District Two?” She joked. 

He huffed a laugh, his sharp eyes shining with tentative hope. 

Sansa plunged the injection in his injured thigh and breathed a sigh of relief. He groaned, and clutched at his newly bandaged leg but she simply patted his hand and gave him a soft kiss on his cheek. The scarred one.  

“Little bird.” He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. 

Brienne blushed and turned away, fumbling with her bandages when Sansa came to her rescue. 

“Sansa,” she whispered, looking back to where Sandor was distractedly rubbing his thigh. “I'm sorry… I – “

“I know,” Sansa patted her hand, not wanting her to go through the pain of explaining why she couldn't kill a defenceless, unconscious boy. 

“No, it's–” she clutched her hand, begging her to listen. "He spared me once. He spared my life. I couldn't take his. I couldn't do it. I can't do it.” Two fat tears fell down her cheeks, the salt water no doubt stinging in her wound. 

“I'm sorry,” was the only reply she had. She held her softly, while it was Brienne's turn to cry.