Chapter Text
The dust begins to clear and she forces herself to her feet, entire body groaning in protest. The air is white with ash and powder, she can feel it coat her lungs as she draws in shuddering breaths, the taste of burning heavy on her tongue, joining the tang of copper when she licks her lips and tastes the blood. Her ears are ringing from the explosion. The air feels heavy with heat, the smell of bodies burning, dirt on fire, stone singed and blackened makes bile rise in her throat and she doubles over, dry heaving with one hand braced on a crumbling wall.
She drags her sleeve across her eyes, wiping away tears and sees the fabric stained with blood and ash and dirt. The streets are eerily silent, the far away roar of the dragon, the rumble of buildings falling in to flame echo around her as if in a dream. She can hear the sound of the stones crunching beneath her feet. She can hear the clang of needle against her belt as she staggers onwards. The sky is a brilliant white, blinding her and she hugs the wall, shielding her eyes from the light that bounces off the white walls and floor.
She steps over the bodies of women, soldiers, children, animals, all blackened into horrible shrivelled forms, frozen in time. Fires burn around her in the ruins of buildings that once held voices and laugher, homes that had been passed from generation to generation, brothels and drinking pits and bakeries and black smithies. All reduced to ash.
Once upon a time, she had ran through these streets, dressed in rags, dirt smeared across her cheeks, hands outstretched before her in an attempt to catch the sugar birds that fluttered away from her, always just out of her grasp.
Once upon a time she had prayed for the death of these people. She had prayed for the crumbling of these buildings and the screaming of despair. When she had watched them cheer for her Father’s execution, she had wanted nothing more than to watch them all burn. Over time, she had learned to confront her grief. She had learned that those innocents did not belong on her list. They were merely puppets on strings, not even that. They were the laughing faces that watched the puppets dance, the puppeteers were the ones she should exact her revenge on. They were the ones she should hear cry out. They were the ones that deserved to die.
The Hound. Meryn Trant. Joffrey. The Red Woman. Thoros. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. Polliver. The Mountain. Rorge. Walder Frey. Tywin Lannister. Beric Dondarion.
Her list had changed over the years. Most had been crossed off, their eyes closed forever. Some she now called friend. She ran it over in her head once more.
Cersei. The Mountain.
They were who deserved to die. Not these innocents. Not like this.
She thought about Sandor. Wondered whether he still drew breath. Some part of her hoped he did, wished it like she wished Nymeria was still running wild and free somewhere. Her father used to tell her; the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Her pack had grown. She who was once a lone wolf, running in the wilderness, trying to find her way home. Now, she had a pack. She had her siblings, she had Jon, she had Gendry. She had Sandor.
A loud snort had her turning. She rose to her feet slowly, chest aching as she drew in acrid breath after breath. Through the ash, she could make out a large, white shape. It was a stallion. A War Horse. He reared his head at her, snorting and whinnying as if urging her to come forwards. Its strong legs stomped on the floor, stirring up the dust and dirt. Its pretty coat stained with blood.
She walks forwards slowly, so not to spook him. Brown eyes regarded her warily, velvety nostrils flared as he snorted but he still stood his ground. She maintained eye contact as she neared, reaching out her gloved hand to slowly, slowly touch his neck. His eyes stayed watching her. Eyes that up close appeared greyer than brown and reminded her so much of her father. Her father who had always come to her aid, had always guided her and understood her. Her father who had believed in her when no one else had.
A lump choked her throat and tears stained her cheeks but still she looked.
Her hand caught the bridle and her other brushed through short, coarse hairs. She though of Nymeria’s fur. It had ben so long and impossibly soft. She used to bury her face in her neck at night and fall asleep to the sound of the Wolf’s steady breathing, heavy paws resting atop her arms, a warm nose pressed to her cheek, hairs tickling her mouth.
Her body groaned in protest as she kicked up on the horse’s back, her legs feeling leaden and heavy as she squirmed her way on. She sat low in the saddle, feeling the warm breathing of the animal between her thighs and clutched the reigns in her hand. She looks about her once more, looked at the bodies strewn across the floor, the crumble of the walls and the dancing flames all around.
Her list dances through her head again and she turns, looking back through the smoke and the dust to see the crumbled remains of the Red Keep. She looks back the opposite way to the gaping hole blown wide in the wall. The blue sky far beyond, the promise of home and escape, of life.
“If you come with me, you die here.”
She grits her teeth and turns, kicking her heels in to the horse’s sides and spurs him forwards, holding tight to the reigns and towards the smouldering fires of the Keep.
V
The very ground he lies on seems to rumble and quake beneath him.
Blood stains his vision and he blinks against the crust of dust and debris coating his face. There’s a heavy weight upon his body and he coughs, pain flaring across his chest at the movement. He groans and tries to move his arms, feeling the dirt gather beneath his fingernails as he clenches and unclenches his fists. Hands are not broken. No pain. That’s a blessing, at least.
Arms are next. He slowly bends his elbows. One arm complies; his sword bearing arm flexes and bends, moving with only the slight protest of his muscles. The other arm doesn’t move at all. There’s a paint, sharp and nagging at his shoulder and the rest of it feels motionless. He idly wonders of its been severed at the armpit.
He cracks his eyes open, blinking away the white and red, the light blinding, dust falling in to bother and sting but soon the tears wash enough away that he can make out his surroundings. Rocks and parts of stone stairwell lie around him. He looks down and sees his left arm bent at a horrible angle that has his stomach lurching in protest and he turns his head away, willing the bile to return to his stomach. When the worlds had ceased its spinning, he tries to flex his toes. Pain spikes up his right leg and he raises his head enough to peer down his body and sees blood coating it from ankle to knee. He tests another move and his foot gives a pathetic twitch before shooting pain sears through again and he groans loud, gritting his teeth against the pain of his ribs – probably broken, if not just cracked.
He has the taste of blood and dirt in his mouth, grains of sand crunching between his gritted teeth and he licks chapped, blood stained lips.
He looks to his side and sees his brother’s face. His eyes are wide and empty, devoid of life and he sags a little in relief.
He stares for some time, the horrible red of his eyes, the blue tinge of his skin, the unnatural look to him. He’s spent his entire life hating the man. From six years of age he has been his reason for living, his promise that one day he would exact terrible vengeance on him for the gift of his scars.
“You know killing him won’t change what he did to you. Just like killing Ramsay Joffrey, Littlefinger and the rest won’t change what happened to me.”
The little bird’s words ring in his head like a bell and he would laugh, if he could, that she should be the one to think about while he lies dying. He closes his eyes and her face swims before him. He thinks of her at the feast. Her soft, warm hand upon his, her soft gaze, her pretty blue eyes that danced across his face but never looked away. Her flaming red hair that shone in the firelight like honeyed wine. He’s glad he could see her one last time, glad he could see the woman she has become. He’s glad her face and her voice and even her touch and smell are so fresh in his mind that he can die with her almost by his side.
He watches her smile, hair tumbling down her shoulders and back, soft skin illuminated by candlelight, eyes sparkling and alive. He watches her reach for him, pretty, pink lips opening and hears her voice call his name.
“Sandor.”
He feels her in his veins like the curling heat of wine. Feels her pull him up and away from his body, feels weightless, free.
“Sandor.”
“Sandor!”
His eyes jerk open and he’s lying in a pile of ash in a crumbling city.
He groans and blinks a few times, hears the galloping of hooves on a gravel pavement and thinks for a moment it is the Stranger, come to reap his soul like the little bird had warned, like so many had warned of his blasphemous ways.
The hooves grow louder and the voice still calls his name. He turns his head, pain flaring across his chest and shoulder and sees a silhouette coming closer. But the horse is white. The figure too small. His vision is blurred but he can see the figure kick their legs over the side of the horse and drop to the ground, rushing to his side.
A familiar face swims in to view and he feels blood trickle in to his beard when he croaks out a laugh.
“Thought you were going to leave me to die, Little Wolf?”
His voice is a harsh rasp, catching as he chokes on blood, a cough and a groan sending more trickles out of his mouth and he squeezes his eyes shut in pain.
“Not today,” she replies, roughly wiping the dust from her eyes with her sleeve and turns to catch the reigns of the horse as it paces back and forth behind her. She tugs on the bridle and the horse complies to her gesture, long legs folding beneath him until he lies beside them.
She turns back to Sandor and he realises her intentions, his eyes dart from the horse and back to her.
“You’re mad, girl,” he barks in that weak rasp, “take the horse and go home, leave me here.”
She frowns and her hands are pushing rocks away from his body, dusting rubble off his clothes, kicks away the helmet his brother wore.
“I’m not leaving you this time.”
Her small but strong hands brush over his arm, dark eyes assessing the damage in his shoulder, the odd angle of his arm, the bruising no doubt blooming across his ribs beneath his ripped shirt. The blood coating his leg. He shakes his head at her and catches her hand in his own.
“This world is done with me, leave me to die.”
She just shakes her head, peels off her leather gloves and stuffs them both into his mouth, “I’m not done with you yet, now hold still – this is going to hurt like all the seven hells.”
She takes his arm and rises it above him, turning him this way and that before meeting his eye. He should be surprised she knows what to do, but its been a while since anything she has done surprised him. He just nods to her and grits the leather between his teeth. She gives a sharp tug and the sickening sound of his bone popping back in to its socket fills the air and pain flares like fire across his chest. He shouts out, ignoring the pain in his ribs and surges forwards, spitting out the gloves when the pain subsides as suddenly as it came. He rolls his shoulder experimentally, testing the joint and feels it working fine, if a bit sore and tender.
Arya tugs off her belt and loops it around his chest, strapping his arm over his heart.
“Try not to move it. ”
She tuns to his leg and gently peels back the torn fabric of his breeches.
“You’ve got a nasty cut, nothing too bad, nothing broken at least, but you’ll need stitching.”
She tugs open her jacket and tears a strip off the front of her shirt, leaning over to wrap it around his leg He grumbles and grouches in pain but the spike of it has his vision clearing and his mind coming back to his senses. She wraps it tight around the cut, Sandor gritting his teeth against the jolt of pain. When she’s done, she sits back on her haunches and meets his gaze.
“You’re wasting your time on me, girl. You’ll be faster on your own.”
She rolls her eyes and stands, covered from head to toe in dirt and blood and ash and she moves beside him, hooking his good arm over her shoulders and plants her feet on the ground.
“If I come home without you, Sansa will send me right back to get you.”
It’s a joke, he knows, but it spreads a warmth in his chest that has his body moving, bracing his weight on his good leg and lets her haul him to his feet. They shuffle slowly over to the stallion that sits patiently waiting for them and he gingerly climbs on, dirty hands gripping its snow white mane and seating himself on the broad back.
Arya slides in in front of him, taking the reigns in hand and digs her heels in, the horse lurching and surging to his feet. Sandor grabs on to Arya’s jacket, gripping the leather hard and squeezes his thighs around the beast’s girth to stay balanced.
“If you fall off, I’ll make you get back up on your own.”
He barks a laugh but squeezes his thighs tighter as the horse starts up a trot, taking them out of the crumbling walls and towards the far away skies of the North.