Fic: Cut it out and then Restart 13/?
Title: Cut it out and then Restart 13/?
Fandom: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 3300
Warnings: Swearing and Violence
Disclaimer: I shall forever worship GRRM for this wonderful universe he's created and the boffins at HBO for bringing it to the screen.
“I wonder where the Hound is now,” Arya muses glumly as their plod north on Kingsroad, five days after they’ve left Darry. “Do you think that he’s found them and killed them all yet?”
Sansa has to force herself to keep her expression calm, where Sandor might be and what he might be doing is the only thing that’s been on her mind since he rode off to seek his brother.
When she closes her eyes she can still picture him as he left her, an almost smile upon his face. That is how she wishes to remember him until he returns, with a hope for what someday may be. Until she sees him again she can only remember, recall the feel of his hands upon her waist and in her hair, the pressure of his lips on hers as he deepened the kiss she’d initiated. Others might think her wanton for her actions in the sept, but Sansa is glad that she has this one memory to cling to until he comes back again, a secret that she might hold close to her like warmth on a cold night.
“I don’t know,” she replies to Arya, “It depends on how long it takes for him to track them down. That alone could take awhile.”
Arya nods before shrugging, “He’ll kill them all for sure.” She tells Sansa confidently, “I just hope that he manages to bring back Needle for me.”
Sansa bites back a retort, Arya does not truly realize exactly how much is at stake here, she cannot. While her sister has abandoned her hatred of Sandor she has no real attachment to him, there is no way that she can be expected to understand the depths of Sansa’s worry.
“I just pray that he returns safely,” Sansa murmurs instead, unable to hide the worry from her voice. “That all of them do. It will not be a simple deed for them to defeat the Mountain and his men.”
Arya appears slightly more contrite at that, glancing over at Sansa suddenly to peer intently at her face.
She has not slept properly since he left, unable to gain any peace or rest while she wonders where he is and what he is doing, whether the confrontation has taken place yet and what the outcome might be. It may take weeks for them to hear anything even after Sandor manages to track his brother down.
“You really are worried for him aren’t you?” Arya comments, “You… care for him.” The last part is said almost with a tone of shock, as if Arya has only now discerned it, as if the very idea of anybody being attached to the man known as The Hound is alien.
Sansa looks over at her sister and wonders how much she should reveal. Arya has proven that she is able to keep secrets, but somehow Sansa knows that she is not yet ready for this one. Her sister’s shock at the very idea of Sansa caring for Sandor’s wellbeing only confirms this.
“We have been through much together,” Sansa tells her instead, “You do not know him as I do. Nobody does.” The last part is said with more vehemence than Sansa had intended, but she cannot help it. She is worn down and anxious and she dearly wishes that she had somebody to confide in. There is nobody whom she may share her feelings with in her brother’s battle host. She does not know Talisa well enough and while she respects her brother’s wife they have not grown close. Her mother would never understand, would insist on Sandor being sent away when he returns and Arya… Arya is perhaps too young to understand what it is to love.
Arya is silent, but Sansa can feel her staring even though she refuses to acknowledge it. She wonders if she has revealed too much but she cannot make herself regret it. She does not know when, or if, she might see him again and she desperately wishes that there was somebody that she could speak to about how she feels. Perhaps if Arya was older…
“I do not really understand,” Arya finally says, keeping her voice low so that their conversation may remain private from the knights that guard them. “But I know that he’s not such a bad man as I thought him to be. I used to wish that he would die, that I could kill him along with all the others, but I don’t anymore. Ihope for your sake that he lives.”
Sansa wonders if she should be thankful for the fact that her sister is no longer praying for her sworn shield’s death. Certainly it cannot hurt, just as she hopes that her own prayers for his success and safety might be answered by the gods.
“You made him into a member of your pack, didn’t you?” Arya muses, “Just like I did with Gendry and Hot Pie.”
Sansa can’t help but smile at the way that Arya has phrased it, her younger sister has always reveled in the sigil of their house, even more so since they found the direwolf pups. She and Arya have both suffered the trauma of losing their wolves, have had to survive without that bond. Even now whenever Sansa sees Grey Wind by Robb’s side she still suffers a pang, a grief at the loss.
“Yes, I suppose that he is a member of my pack.” Sansa agrees, “The question is, whether you’ll accept him as a member of yours as well.”
Arya seems to think on it, “If he brings back my sword than I might.” She finally replies, “He’s a fierce fighter so I’m glad that he’s on our side. He isn’t so very bad, and he doesn’t treat me like a little girl… at least he’s more amusing than these ones.”
Arya gestures to the knights that surround them, knights who for the past few days have remained silent and aloof after their initial attempts to win Sansa over with flattery failed. She has been less forgiving of their efforts than she would normally be. Sansa finds herself short of courtesies with Sandor away, she cannot find it within herself to smile prettily or respond politely as she once would have. As a result their guard is now only courteous and respectful rather than friendly, there is nobody to talk to or for Arya to trade insults with now.
Sansa gives a short laugh at Arya’s derision of their guard, and brings her horse closer so that she can reach out to muss her sister’s hair. It is already growing, their mother insists upon Arya regaining a length proper for a lady. Arya has complained about that point just as she’s complained about every other stipulation their mother has made that concerns her being ladylike.
Meanwhile Sansa has tried to mask her growing anxiety from her family, and to stop it from overcoming her. To pass the long hours of night when she cannot sleep, she has begun to work on a new surcoat for Sandor, in the colours of his house with his family’s sigil. She had acquired the materials before they left Riverrun but never found the time to start it before he left. Now she attacks her task with a vengeance every night after arriving back from dinner, often sewing for hours by candlelight. Arya has not asked what she is doing, her little sister goes off to sleep easily enough though she seems to suffer from nightmares far too often.
Once Sansa has finished the surcoat she will find something else to occupy her, a cloak perhaps, and she will ensure that they are ready to present to him when he comes back, because he will come back, he will…
It is then that Arya reaches over to touch Sansa’s arm, having noticed her sister’s preoccupation for once.
“He will be back.” She tells Sansa sincerely, “You don’t need to worry.”
Worry, Sansa will, but she gives Arya a small smile to reassure her anyway.
**
It has been a long seven days on the road, following the trail of Gregor and his men. It is not difficult to trace them, every village they come to seems to have a tale of their cruelty, each fresher than the last. They have already fought two skirmishes with straggling Lannister men, and lost one of their number. Somehow now aware that Sandor is on his trail, Gregor has burned the last two villages, charred corpses hung for them to see.
Now as they prepare to enter the latest burnt out village, Sandor knows that the time has finally come. His brother is here, and after decades of wondering, he will finally find out how the enmity between them will end.
In what must have once been the village square, Gregor waits for them along with his men, a cruel smirk upon his face.
“Keep your wits about you,” Sandor rasps to his own men before they come into hearing range, “Gregor is mine, but the rest of them are fierce fighters, don’t allow them to provoke you into acting rashly. If I should fail, then do your best to finish him.”
If he should fail… but there is nothing more that he can instruct them to do in that case, no messages he can ask them to take back. If he should fail then they will probably bury him here itself, and better that she never has to look upon his corpse after whatever Gregor will do to him.
The men that have accompanied him are brave and on the road here he has come to respect them, for what little that is worth. He hopes that they will survive but that is their own problem to handle, he can only think of his own fight.
As they approach he points one man out to them. “That one there is Polliver,” he tells them, “He should have the little she-wolf’s sword, a thin blade. No matter what, make sure one of you gets it back from him.”
A few of the men grin, Arya has quickly become a favourite around camp, seemingly underfoot everywhere, always with a question or a comment.
“Little brother!” Gregor’s voice booms out as they approach, “Would’ve kept the fires burning to welcome you if I’d known you were so close. Come to die, have you?”
“We’ll just have to see which fucker it is that dies today, won’t we?” Sandor rasps back.
Gregor laughs mockingly, “Do you really think that you’re up for the challenge? Half a dog, up against a mountain? Sure you’re not going to piss yourself and run away like you did at the Battle of the Blackwater?” he pretends to peer closer at Sandor, “Or have you fooled yourself into thinking you’re a wolf these days?”
Sandor only grunts, he knows that Gregor is trying to rile him up before the fight, distract him from his concentration. “I’ve found that wolves suit dogs far better than lions do.” He replies shortly.
Gregor laughs again, shakes his head with a sneer. “So that’s why you turned craven and left the battle is it, so you could run with the wolves? Took their little bitch with you, didn’t you? Well I hope that her cunt was sweet enough to make up for what you’ll get from me now. Maybe once I’ve finished you, I’ll go show her what it is that real dogs can do to wolves.”
Sandor forces himself to remain calm, even as his grip tightens on his sword. He makes a gesture to stop one of the Stark’s loyal bannermen from darting forward in anger at the remark about his King’s sister. Sandor realizes the danger in his brother’s words, if Gregor escapes alive today then he will seek to harm her, simply to spite Sandor. Whatever happens to him, he will ensure that Gregor is finished, that he can never come anywhere near Sansa Stark. He hopes that that resolve alone will be enough to give him the strength to win this fight.
“I’m no longer a pup that you can hold down, Gregor.” He tells his brother with false calmness, “You might not find it so easy to have your way when you’re evenly matched for once. Now are you ready to stop boring me with all your fucking whining and fight instead, or are you too craven to try me now that I’m grown? Maybe it’s only little boys you can win against.”
Sandor has managed to provoke him and there is a burning rage in Gregor’s eyes as he pulls his sword out with a roar, whipping his horse forward.
If Sandor had believed in any gods then he would prayed to them right then, but instead for a moment he allows himself to think of Sansa as he had left her, her lips warm under his. If it is to be his last proper thought before he dies, then he might be able to do so with some measure of peace.
Then there is no time to think of anything but the battle at hand as Sandor urges Stranger forward, his own sword raised. Around him he is dimly aware of the other soldiers engaging but he blocks it out, focusing only upon Gregor’s approach, swinging himself to the side and raising his shield to avoid a cut even as he seeks to make his own.
He cannot say how long their battle rages, even as around him he hears his own group claim their victories one by one. All Sandor is aware of is the clash of steel on steel, as he twists and turns to avoid his brother’s blows and make his own. Gregor is bigger and stronger, but Sandor is faster and more agile, escaping the worst of his brother’s cuts through skill. There is a cold cruelty in his Gregor’s eyes as they engage and Sandor does not doubt that if he is overcome, his brother will burn him before he finishes him off. As Gregor makes his own moves in anger and haste, cutting wildly and with more strength than thought, Sandor remains calm, deflecting blows and waiting for the right moments to strike.
He is tiring though, and he can feel blood flowing from a cut on his temple, as well as a dampness running down one leg. As Gregor swings forward, Sandor realizes that there is a gap has appeared in his brother’s armour, come loose from their maneuvers. For a moment it is unguarded, and Sandor makes one desperate movement, stabbing his sword through and into the flesh as hard as he can. He feels a sharp pain at his own side as Gregor’s sword slices into him, but he refuses to let go, twisting his own sword up so that it guts his brother, pulling out and then stabbing in again.
Gregor looks at him as if in amazement, staring down at the sword in his belly before he raises his own once more to try and finish Sandor. He is too slow, and Sandor pulls his own sword out instead, smashing into Gregor’s sword hand with a resounding clash and knocking his brother’s sword to the ground.
Gregor stands there for a moment as if he might wish to charge at Sandor, but there is blood gushing from his wound and Sandor suspects that the only thing keeping his guts in is the armour. He removes his helmet instead, spitting blood on the ground.
“Killed me after all have you, you fucking bastard?” his brother laughs, even as blood seeps from his mouth “Killed me for your fucking wolf king and your little bitch? Is that what you were waiting for all these years, someone to give you the order so you could roll over and do it? Think you’ll ever be anything other than a loyal dog to them? Think you’ll get anything for it? You won’t even get Clegane Keep, the Lannisters will take it away from you. You’ll lose everything one day, pup, the Starks will eventually spit on you, don’t think that your little cunt won’t eventually tire of seeing your ugly face either. You’ll have no joy of my death, brother.”
Once these words would have affected Sandor but he feels oddly detached at that moment, Gregor can no longer harm him. He has gained too much in the past few months, a surety of love and a confidence in himself that even his brother’s venom cannot remove.
“Maybe, but you’ll be dead, and that’s enough for me.” Sandor replies simply, “If there are any gods, Gregor, then you’ll burn in all seven hells, and our father and sister will be glad to see it. As for my ugly face, it’s the last fucking sight you’ll ever see, so take a good long last look.”
Gregor opens his mouth to retort but Sandor is keen to finish it, rather than bandy words with his dying brother. He raises his sword and swings it at Gregor’s head, cleaving into the neck. Gregor’s neck is too thick for the sword to completely cut through but it is done, and his brother is finally dead.
And it is over.
Looking down at the body, Sandor wonders what it is that he is supposed to feel. A sense of justice done? Relief at his brother’s death? Guilt that he is now a kinslayer?
All he feels is tired. Exhausted and weak, and he realizes finally that he is bleeding like a fucking pig and if he continues to stand there he’ll probably be falling over himself before he knows it.
Turning to survey his men he sees that two are dead, and a further four are injured, one so badly that he might not make the night. They are watching him, having already finished their own fights, their expressions a mixture of incredulousness and respect.
He is not certain that he wants it. Not for this, which he should have done years ago if he’d ever truly had the courage before now.
“Did anyone get the girl’s sword?” he rasps instead, his lips twisting into an almost smile when one of them holds it up. Maybe that’ll stop the little she-wolf sniping at him, maybe it’ll help stop the nightmares he guesses she must have after whatever she’s witnessed. A weapon by his side certainly helps him sleep better at night.
“We’ll camp here tonight, bury our own dead. We’ll burn theirs.” He announces, looks down at his brother’s body once more, lifeless eyes now staring up at the sky, devoid of whatever terror he spread while he was alive. He shall have no further hold over Sandor, never again. Let his body perish in the flames and be done with it, there’ll be no grave to mark Gregor Clegane’s passing.
“Claim anything you wish from the bodies before you burn them.” He barks out names, gives those who are either uninjured or only mildly so their tasks before he half collapses onto a nearby rock.
“Now would someone come over here and fucking well sew me up before I have to join my brother in hell?” he rasps finally, loosening his armour as one of them scrambles to a saddlebag, intent on producing medical supplies.
Gregor is dead.
He is alive.
He had never believed that this would be the outcome. Never, not before…
He is alive and he bloody well intends to stay that way, to make it back to Robb Stark’s battle host, claim another kiss from his little bird and see her smile at him just so, every fucking day for the rest of his fucking life.
He’ll be back with her soon, returning to her alive and well just as he thinks she must have prayed. He’ll be back with her and hear what she wishes to say, tell her a few things himself if he can find the courage.
He’ll ride swiftly to be with her again, not give her a day’s more worry than is necessary.
He might have just killed his brother, might have lost all hope of a claim to his childhood home, might not have anything to offer to her at except himself all but he knows she’ll not reject him when he says the words.
He’ll ride to join her as fast as possible, and he knows that when he sees her again it will be as if after the longest time, he’s finally come home.
Fandom: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 3300
Warnings: Swearing and Violence
Disclaimer: I shall forever worship GRRM for this wonderful universe he's created and the boffins at HBO for bringing it to the screen.
“I wonder where the Hound is now,” Arya muses glumly as their plod north on Kingsroad, five days after they’ve left Darry. “Do you think that he’s found them and killed them all yet?”
Sansa has to force herself to keep her expression calm, where Sandor might be and what he might be doing is the only thing that’s been on her mind since he rode off to seek his brother.
When she closes her eyes she can still picture him as he left her, an almost smile upon his face. That is how she wishes to remember him until he returns, with a hope for what someday may be. Until she sees him again she can only remember, recall the feel of his hands upon her waist and in her hair, the pressure of his lips on hers as he deepened the kiss she’d initiated. Others might think her wanton for her actions in the sept, but Sansa is glad that she has this one memory to cling to until he comes back again, a secret that she might hold close to her like warmth on a cold night.
“I don’t know,” she replies to Arya, “It depends on how long it takes for him to track them down. That alone could take awhile.”
Arya nods before shrugging, “He’ll kill them all for sure.” She tells Sansa confidently, “I just hope that he manages to bring back Needle for me.”
Sansa bites back a retort, Arya does not truly realize exactly how much is at stake here, she cannot. While her sister has abandoned her hatred of Sandor she has no real attachment to him, there is no way that she can be expected to understand the depths of Sansa’s worry.
“I just pray that he returns safely,” Sansa murmurs instead, unable to hide the worry from her voice. “That all of them do. It will not be a simple deed for them to defeat the Mountain and his men.”
Arya appears slightly more contrite at that, glancing over at Sansa suddenly to peer intently at her face.
She has not slept properly since he left, unable to gain any peace or rest while she wonders where he is and what he is doing, whether the confrontation has taken place yet and what the outcome might be. It may take weeks for them to hear anything even after Sandor manages to track his brother down.
“You really are worried for him aren’t you?” Arya comments, “You… care for him.” The last part is said almost with a tone of shock, as if Arya has only now discerned it, as if the very idea of anybody being attached to the man known as The Hound is alien.
Sansa looks over at her sister and wonders how much she should reveal. Arya has proven that she is able to keep secrets, but somehow Sansa knows that she is not yet ready for this one. Her sister’s shock at the very idea of Sansa caring for Sandor’s wellbeing only confirms this.
“We have been through much together,” Sansa tells her instead, “You do not know him as I do. Nobody does.” The last part is said with more vehemence than Sansa had intended, but she cannot help it. She is worn down and anxious and she dearly wishes that she had somebody to confide in. There is nobody whom she may share her feelings with in her brother’s battle host. She does not know Talisa well enough and while she respects her brother’s wife they have not grown close. Her mother would never understand, would insist on Sandor being sent away when he returns and Arya… Arya is perhaps too young to understand what it is to love.
Arya is silent, but Sansa can feel her staring even though she refuses to acknowledge it. She wonders if she has revealed too much but she cannot make herself regret it. She does not know when, or if, she might see him again and she desperately wishes that there was somebody that she could speak to about how she feels. Perhaps if Arya was older…
“I do not really understand,” Arya finally says, keeping her voice low so that their conversation may remain private from the knights that guard them. “But I know that he’s not such a bad man as I thought him to be. I used to wish that he would die, that I could kill him along with all the others, but I don’t anymore. Ihope for your sake that he lives.”
Sansa wonders if she should be thankful for the fact that her sister is no longer praying for her sworn shield’s death. Certainly it cannot hurt, just as she hopes that her own prayers for his success and safety might be answered by the gods.
“You made him into a member of your pack, didn’t you?” Arya muses, “Just like I did with Gendry and Hot Pie.”
Sansa can’t help but smile at the way that Arya has phrased it, her younger sister has always reveled in the sigil of their house, even more so since they found the direwolf pups. She and Arya have both suffered the trauma of losing their wolves, have had to survive without that bond. Even now whenever Sansa sees Grey Wind by Robb’s side she still suffers a pang, a grief at the loss.
“Yes, I suppose that he is a member of my pack.” Sansa agrees, “The question is, whether you’ll accept him as a member of yours as well.”
Arya seems to think on it, “If he brings back my sword than I might.” She finally replies, “He’s a fierce fighter so I’m glad that he’s on our side. He isn’t so very bad, and he doesn’t treat me like a little girl… at least he’s more amusing than these ones.”
Arya gestures to the knights that surround them, knights who for the past few days have remained silent and aloof after their initial attempts to win Sansa over with flattery failed. She has been less forgiving of their efforts than she would normally be. Sansa finds herself short of courtesies with Sandor away, she cannot find it within herself to smile prettily or respond politely as she once would have. As a result their guard is now only courteous and respectful rather than friendly, there is nobody to talk to or for Arya to trade insults with now.
Sansa gives a short laugh at Arya’s derision of their guard, and brings her horse closer so that she can reach out to muss her sister’s hair. It is already growing, their mother insists upon Arya regaining a length proper for a lady. Arya has complained about that point just as she’s complained about every other stipulation their mother has made that concerns her being ladylike.
Meanwhile Sansa has tried to mask her growing anxiety from her family, and to stop it from overcoming her. To pass the long hours of night when she cannot sleep, she has begun to work on a new surcoat for Sandor, in the colours of his house with his family’s sigil. She had acquired the materials before they left Riverrun but never found the time to start it before he left. Now she attacks her task with a vengeance every night after arriving back from dinner, often sewing for hours by candlelight. Arya has not asked what she is doing, her little sister goes off to sleep easily enough though she seems to suffer from nightmares far too often.
Once Sansa has finished the surcoat she will find something else to occupy her, a cloak perhaps, and she will ensure that they are ready to present to him when he comes back, because he will come back, he will…
It is then that Arya reaches over to touch Sansa’s arm, having noticed her sister’s preoccupation for once.
“He will be back.” She tells Sansa sincerely, “You don’t need to worry.”
Worry, Sansa will, but she gives Arya a small smile to reassure her anyway.
**
It has been a long seven days on the road, following the trail of Gregor and his men. It is not difficult to trace them, every village they come to seems to have a tale of their cruelty, each fresher than the last. They have already fought two skirmishes with straggling Lannister men, and lost one of their number. Somehow now aware that Sandor is on his trail, Gregor has burned the last two villages, charred corpses hung for them to see.
Now as they prepare to enter the latest burnt out village, Sandor knows that the time has finally come. His brother is here, and after decades of wondering, he will finally find out how the enmity between them will end.
In what must have once been the village square, Gregor waits for them along with his men, a cruel smirk upon his face.
“Keep your wits about you,” Sandor rasps to his own men before they come into hearing range, “Gregor is mine, but the rest of them are fierce fighters, don’t allow them to provoke you into acting rashly. If I should fail, then do your best to finish him.”
If he should fail… but there is nothing more that he can instruct them to do in that case, no messages he can ask them to take back. If he should fail then they will probably bury him here itself, and better that she never has to look upon his corpse after whatever Gregor will do to him.
The men that have accompanied him are brave and on the road here he has come to respect them, for what little that is worth. He hopes that they will survive but that is their own problem to handle, he can only think of his own fight.
As they approach he points one man out to them. “That one there is Polliver,” he tells them, “He should have the little she-wolf’s sword, a thin blade. No matter what, make sure one of you gets it back from him.”
A few of the men grin, Arya has quickly become a favourite around camp, seemingly underfoot everywhere, always with a question or a comment.
“Little brother!” Gregor’s voice booms out as they approach, “Would’ve kept the fires burning to welcome you if I’d known you were so close. Come to die, have you?”
“We’ll just have to see which fucker it is that dies today, won’t we?” Sandor rasps back.
Gregor laughs mockingly, “Do you really think that you’re up for the challenge? Half a dog, up against a mountain? Sure you’re not going to piss yourself and run away like you did at the Battle of the Blackwater?” he pretends to peer closer at Sandor, “Or have you fooled yourself into thinking you’re a wolf these days?”
Sandor only grunts, he knows that Gregor is trying to rile him up before the fight, distract him from his concentration. “I’ve found that wolves suit dogs far better than lions do.” He replies shortly.
Gregor laughs again, shakes his head with a sneer. “So that’s why you turned craven and left the battle is it, so you could run with the wolves? Took their little bitch with you, didn’t you? Well I hope that her cunt was sweet enough to make up for what you’ll get from me now. Maybe once I’ve finished you, I’ll go show her what it is that real dogs can do to wolves.”
Sandor forces himself to remain calm, even as his grip tightens on his sword. He makes a gesture to stop one of the Stark’s loyal bannermen from darting forward in anger at the remark about his King’s sister. Sandor realizes the danger in his brother’s words, if Gregor escapes alive today then he will seek to harm her, simply to spite Sandor. Whatever happens to him, he will ensure that Gregor is finished, that he can never come anywhere near Sansa Stark. He hopes that that resolve alone will be enough to give him the strength to win this fight.
“I’m no longer a pup that you can hold down, Gregor.” He tells his brother with false calmness, “You might not find it so easy to have your way when you’re evenly matched for once. Now are you ready to stop boring me with all your fucking whining and fight instead, or are you too craven to try me now that I’m grown? Maybe it’s only little boys you can win against.”
Sandor has managed to provoke him and there is a burning rage in Gregor’s eyes as he pulls his sword out with a roar, whipping his horse forward.
If Sandor had believed in any gods then he would prayed to them right then, but instead for a moment he allows himself to think of Sansa as he had left her, her lips warm under his. If it is to be his last proper thought before he dies, then he might be able to do so with some measure of peace.
Then there is no time to think of anything but the battle at hand as Sandor urges Stranger forward, his own sword raised. Around him he is dimly aware of the other soldiers engaging but he blocks it out, focusing only upon Gregor’s approach, swinging himself to the side and raising his shield to avoid a cut even as he seeks to make his own.
He cannot say how long their battle rages, even as around him he hears his own group claim their victories one by one. All Sandor is aware of is the clash of steel on steel, as he twists and turns to avoid his brother’s blows and make his own. Gregor is bigger and stronger, but Sandor is faster and more agile, escaping the worst of his brother’s cuts through skill. There is a cold cruelty in his Gregor’s eyes as they engage and Sandor does not doubt that if he is overcome, his brother will burn him before he finishes him off. As Gregor makes his own moves in anger and haste, cutting wildly and with more strength than thought, Sandor remains calm, deflecting blows and waiting for the right moments to strike.
He is tiring though, and he can feel blood flowing from a cut on his temple, as well as a dampness running down one leg. As Gregor swings forward, Sandor realizes that there is a gap has appeared in his brother’s armour, come loose from their maneuvers. For a moment it is unguarded, and Sandor makes one desperate movement, stabbing his sword through and into the flesh as hard as he can. He feels a sharp pain at his own side as Gregor’s sword slices into him, but he refuses to let go, twisting his own sword up so that it guts his brother, pulling out and then stabbing in again.
Gregor looks at him as if in amazement, staring down at the sword in his belly before he raises his own once more to try and finish Sandor. He is too slow, and Sandor pulls his own sword out instead, smashing into Gregor’s sword hand with a resounding clash and knocking his brother’s sword to the ground.
Gregor stands there for a moment as if he might wish to charge at Sandor, but there is blood gushing from his wound and Sandor suspects that the only thing keeping his guts in is the armour. He removes his helmet instead, spitting blood on the ground.
“Killed me after all have you, you fucking bastard?” his brother laughs, even as blood seeps from his mouth “Killed me for your fucking wolf king and your little bitch? Is that what you were waiting for all these years, someone to give you the order so you could roll over and do it? Think you’ll ever be anything other than a loyal dog to them? Think you’ll get anything for it? You won’t even get Clegane Keep, the Lannisters will take it away from you. You’ll lose everything one day, pup, the Starks will eventually spit on you, don’t think that your little cunt won’t eventually tire of seeing your ugly face either. You’ll have no joy of my death, brother.”
Once these words would have affected Sandor but he feels oddly detached at that moment, Gregor can no longer harm him. He has gained too much in the past few months, a surety of love and a confidence in himself that even his brother’s venom cannot remove.
“Maybe, but you’ll be dead, and that’s enough for me.” Sandor replies simply, “If there are any gods, Gregor, then you’ll burn in all seven hells, and our father and sister will be glad to see it. As for my ugly face, it’s the last fucking sight you’ll ever see, so take a good long last look.”
Gregor opens his mouth to retort but Sandor is keen to finish it, rather than bandy words with his dying brother. He raises his sword and swings it at Gregor’s head, cleaving into the neck. Gregor’s neck is too thick for the sword to completely cut through but it is done, and his brother is finally dead.
And it is over.
Looking down at the body, Sandor wonders what it is that he is supposed to feel. A sense of justice done? Relief at his brother’s death? Guilt that he is now a kinslayer?
All he feels is tired. Exhausted and weak, and he realizes finally that he is bleeding like a fucking pig and if he continues to stand there he’ll probably be falling over himself before he knows it.
Turning to survey his men he sees that two are dead, and a further four are injured, one so badly that he might not make the night. They are watching him, having already finished their own fights, their expressions a mixture of incredulousness and respect.
He is not certain that he wants it. Not for this, which he should have done years ago if he’d ever truly had the courage before now.
“Did anyone get the girl’s sword?” he rasps instead, his lips twisting into an almost smile when one of them holds it up. Maybe that’ll stop the little she-wolf sniping at him, maybe it’ll help stop the nightmares he guesses she must have after whatever she’s witnessed. A weapon by his side certainly helps him sleep better at night.
“We’ll camp here tonight, bury our own dead. We’ll burn theirs.” He announces, looks down at his brother’s body once more, lifeless eyes now staring up at the sky, devoid of whatever terror he spread while he was alive. He shall have no further hold over Sandor, never again. Let his body perish in the flames and be done with it, there’ll be no grave to mark Gregor Clegane’s passing.
“Claim anything you wish from the bodies before you burn them.” He barks out names, gives those who are either uninjured or only mildly so their tasks before he half collapses onto a nearby rock.
“Now would someone come over here and fucking well sew me up before I have to join my brother in hell?” he rasps finally, loosening his armour as one of them scrambles to a saddlebag, intent on producing medical supplies.
Gregor is dead.
He is alive.
He had never believed that this would be the outcome. Never, not before…
He is alive and he bloody well intends to stay that way, to make it back to Robb Stark’s battle host, claim another kiss from his little bird and see her smile at him just so, every fucking day for the rest of his fucking life.
He’ll be back with her soon, returning to her alive and well just as he thinks she must have prayed. He’ll be back with her and hear what she wishes to say, tell her a few things himself if he can find the courage.
He’ll ride swiftly to be with her again, not give her a day’s more worry than is necessary.
He might have just killed his brother, might have lost all hope of a claim to his childhood home, might not have anything to offer to her at except himself all but he knows she’ll not reject him when he says the words.
He’ll ride to join her as fast as possible, and he knows that when he sees her again it will be as if after the longest time, he’s finally come home.