Weeks ago, as I was still puzzled about the ending I could give to this story, a very wise person (Underthenorthernlights, I'm talking about you) gave me the answer. This epilogue is dedicated to her.

Rated M for violence and some situations.

Epilogue

"I said 'no surrender'," she tells him bluntly. "You know what you have to do. We agreed on this."

Though her slender figure is shaking in her blue dress, she doesn't blink. The dagger she took from him presses on her bodice and she stares at him, waiting. She had the same determination when she challenged him on the second day of their journey. But she didn't mean to die, at that time. At least, I thought she cared for life.

"What are you waiting for?" she begs, when they both hear Littlefinger's men coming in despite Ella's protestations. "It's too late to run away. You made a promise!"

The prospect of killing her terrifies him, so he doesn't answer. Downstairs, Symon is yelling at the horsemen. From the threshold of their room, he can't see him but guesses the lad is trying to stop them before they reach the staircase.

"They're not here, I lied!" the boy cries out. "You can't go upstairs!"

Some customers, startled by the noise, get out of their rooms. He pushes her inside, shuts the door and leans back on it, while Symon keeps on resisting to Littlefinger's men. She immediately bangs at the wooden panels.

"Fuck off, you little shit!" a harsh voice shouts at Symon on the ground floor. A whistling sound warns him a man just drew his sword.

"Lord Baelish said you wouldn't harm them!" the boy replies. "No m'lord, you can't go upstairs-"

A shiver runs down his spine as something thuds on the first steps; several men yell at the same time and one feminine voice is heard over them; a loud, shrill, barely human cry echoes the screams bursting his eardrums when he was caught up in the sack of King's Landing, many years ago. The endless shriek only stops to give way to a painful sobbing.

"Symon!" Ella calls. "Symon! Why?"

He opens the door he was leaning against and sees a frantic Sansa.

"What did they- What are you doing?" she asks, her blue eyes shining with disbelief. She unfolds her arms, ready to receive the stab supposed to unite their destinies. Something breaks inside her and she suddenly begins to weep. It wasn't meant to happen this way. He touches her cheek, briefly.

"Forgive me, my love. Forgive me and wait for me," he says before running to the window.

Littlefinger's men are already at the door, hammering and shouting ; the bolt can't resist for a long time. He clambers through the open window and soon reaches the roof. Some tiles slip under his feet as he hurries to the eave. From the open doors of the inn, he hears Ella's heart-rending cry.

In the backyard, men bellow at him, wondering what he's doing and where he goes. The only man who still was on horseback suddenly dismounts and he recognizes Baelish's thin figure clad in green.

"Stay close to the stables!" Littlefinger commands. "Don't let him escape!"

"What is he doing ?" an armored knight shouts. "Is this fool going to jump?"

Jumping from the roof is crazy: a twenty feet fall could only break his legs, but he has to find a way to the pigsty where he left Stranger. Behind him, men try to climb up the roof, gasping and cursing. He'll soon have no other choice than leaping into the void and trying to reach the nearest tree. The branches of the old oak can damp down his fall. He jumps and crashes against the trunk; as branches collapse under his weight, he feels a burning pain on his forehead and nose. The bark scratches his skin and once on the ground his ankle torments him but he doesn't have time for this.

"Ser Lothor, Ser Jon!" Littlefinger calls, a few yards behind him.

The knights must be on his heels, so he runs through the bushes, heading to the pigsty. His pursuers don't know where he's going, don't know the uneven ground either. One of them stumbles, falls flat on his face and curses loudly, before telling his companion to go on without him. Meanwhile, he reaches the pigsty, slams the door open and unties Stranger. No time to saddle his horse properly: he puts the saddle on Stranger's back and leads him outside.

"You're not going anywhere, Hound!" a brown-haired knight with shortish legs warns him, flinging himself on him.

He unsheathes his sword and easily disarms the knight, despite his sore ankle. As he climbs on Stranger's back, the second knight arrives limping along. Stranger rears up and kicks the man violently, but nearly throws his master off. He nevertheless manages to regain his balance and spurs the animal's flanks. In the same breath, he feels an excruciating pain in his thigh; reins in hand, he turns to his left and sees the first knight stabbing his leg. He boots his attacker to get rid of him and flees with Littlefinger's men in hot pursuit. Most of them run after him, wave their swords in vain, while some hurry to their mounts, but it's already too late. Buggers, you could have come with bows or crossbows and stop me from fifty yards, but you're stuck in your fucking knightly habits and your ideas about how a man should die. You know nothing about warfare.

Now he's deep in the woods surrounding the inn and holds on Stranger's neck as the horse quickly leaves behind their pursuers. Even if riding a horse with a saddle loosely fastened is perilous, he won't stop. He can't let them gain ground, can't either stay close from her: the idea of coming back to her would tempt him too much. Shaking his head he tries not to think of her and decides to focus on his flight instead. Dashing for a spot where they could hide, Stranger jumps over a stream but the ruggedness of the ground in this part of the Riverlands is the last thing a wounded man needs. Instinctively, he touches his thigh and winces in pain. Blood stains his fingers and soaks his breeches. I've been injured before, this is nothing. Frothing at the mouth, Stranger goes on at full gallop and takes him far from the Thistle. Far from her.

Every move seems painful now. Stranger and him barely stopped during the day and the first half of the night, forgetting to think and to eat – he doesn't have food anyway – until darkness and tiredness forced him to dismount. His ankle will be fine soon but his left leg is in a bad shape. A few inches above his knee, the knight made a deep cut into the muscle. It's not the blood he lost, but his inability to dress his wound which annoys him. He's got no wine to boil so that he can clean the injury, nobody to help him as he uses his knife to remove the dirt from his cut, nobody to calm him down or doze upon his shoulder. No, I can't do that. I can't think of her now. I'm fucked up if I think of her.

Leaning against a tree trunk and lit by a fire already dying away, he shuts his eyes tight. Physical pain is nothing compared to the void he suddenly feels. He can't indulge in weakness though; if he wants to escape the men Littlefinger probably send hot on his heels, he has to become again the man he was a few weeks ago. The man? Or the Hound? I did something stupid the day I stole her from Baelish, for me and for her. Perhaps it's better this way. He opens his eyes only to see more blood on his shaking hands. It doesn't work.

In order to prevent Littlefinger's men to find him, if they had taken some dogs with them, he crossed the Green Fork. The muddy waters he stayed in for a while won't help. Taking a sharp intake of breath, he begins to remove his breeches. Every muscle aches as he does his best to get rid of the fabric caked with blood and mud. Wincing and cursing, he tries to clean the cut once again with his knife. You're wasting your time, Dog. All his efforts seem pathetic and he soon realizes how absurd he must look, breeches rolled on his boots, butchering the bloody hole in his thigh. The sad reality of battle field, though there is no drums nor cavalry here. His half-naked body, tired, useless and ludicrous could make him jeer. The kind of laugh, harsh and loud, he was used to before the battle of Blackwater, when there was no other way to put up with the farcical world surrounding him, or to tolerate his own misery. Maybe it's the first step in the process of becoming the Hound again.

He sees Littlefinger's men on the morning of the third day, and narrowly escapes them, hidden in a ditch full of mud. Fever brings him down and he can't sit properly on the saddle. Stranger carries him through the woods as if he was a bundle of dirty linen; he remembers he was heading to Saltpans but he's not completely sure and he's not able to lead the horse in whatever direction. Perhaps he should have surrendered to Littlefinger's men; if those bastards had a heart, they could have granted him with a quick death. Perhaps Littlefinger didn't even need to send his knights and sellswords on the roads of the Riverlands for him, after all. He's going to die because he has no food, no water and because his wound is infected. The damn cut on his thigh was oozing the last time he checked and he'd better not check too often if he doesn't want to go to pieces and weep like a babe. He gathered his strength after escaping Baelish's men and stopped in some tavern. He thought he could buy some wine and food – his purse was still heavy with gold – but it was all a blur and the customers seemed hostile; unsure he could fight if necessary, he chose to retreat. So he goes on, his stomach empty, swaying on his saddle.

When he was a child, he always imagined he would die sword in hand and that people would remember his skill and bravery – children always have fantasies of greatness – reality will be much more simple though: he'll snuff it in some muddy bank of the Trident and once he's dead, the first bugger who comes along will take his purse, his weapons and his horse. Somehow he's more concerned by Stranger's lot than by his own. A battle steed shouldn't end up pulling a cart like a workhorse, yet it becomes more and more likely.

He finally stops in the middle of the afternoon, too weak to go on. At first, he decides to let Stranger go, hoping his old companion would enjoy his newly gained freedom, then he changes his mind: sooner or later, his horse will have another master. It's unfair, but inevitable. He ties Stranger's reins to an oak, like he did so many times before, and collapses there, his back leaning against the trunk. In his fever dream, he doesn't even know where he is. There's water running on his right side and a big dwarf beech in front of him, that's all. He feels thirsty, but to drink, he would have to crawl and reach the bank. Impossible.

He stares at the dwarf beech, instead. Its bare and twisted branches stand out against the pale blue sky and hang down. She would like this sight, the simple vision of an old tree, growing more in width than height. She would say trees are more beautiful in autumn or in winter, once they got rid of their leaves. At last, you can see the tree's shape, its flaws caused by storms when thunder hits the branches or, if bad weather spared it, its perfection. Neither wind nor men damaged this beech. A Northern girl would love this place, he's sure.

Now that he's going to die, he allows himself to think of her again. He finds solace in the idea that he resisted and didn't kill her. A long time ago, in a similar situation, he would have done it without the slightest hesitation: he used to draw his sword instinctively and if he couldn't keep something, he preferred to sacrifice it rather than watching someone else claim its ownership. At least, I did one good thing: I let her live. I'd rather burn in hell than kill her. Littlefinger won't kill her, he'll use her name to rule both the Vale and the North. Hope he won't hurt her. Hope she won't hurt herself.

As his thoughts wander, Ella's freckled face suddenly appears and guilt overwhelms him. He left a mourning friend alone in a big old house, somewhere by the Green Fork. Ella believed he could protect her and what happened? She first lost his father because of their presence, then her brother. No matter what part Symon played in Littlefinger's game, nobody deserves to die so young. Ella must blame him for Symon's death and this idea is unbearable. Nearly as unbearable as what Sansa now thinks of him.

He feels suddenly numb and the sight of the dwarf beech becomes blurred: he'll soon lose consciousness. A senseless man in a senseless world. Stranger snorts beside him, or is it a gust of wind? He clings on to his memories: he somehow betrayed her when he ran away, but what could he do? Perhaps she'll understand, later, when she's a bit older. When she realizes love doesn't imply a suicide pact.

He remembers the disbelief on her face when he came back in their room before his escape: the blue eyes shone and shone even more when she began to cry. Images churn around in his head and her confused look gives way to other visions: she's the girl he married and bedded while raging waters threatened to break their ship; the girl who gave a hard time to the Brotherhood but could burst into tears in front of a charred rabbit; the one who kissed him and blamed him for the murder of a bloody hawker on the same night.

His memory lingers on two fleeting moments: a few hours after he abducted her, as they were hiding at the top of a ruined tower, he suddenly got on his feet and banged into the frame. He saw her repressing a smile and felt stupid because the girl, beautiful as she was, made him forget his fucking height. At that instant, he was already lost even if he understood it later: he couldn't let her go. A long time ago, when he was a squire in Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister's younger brother Gerion told him unstoppable men were those who own nothing. That once you've got something to lose, you're weak. He survived a long time in the Crownlands and the Riverlands because he was alone and had nothing he really cared for. Stealing her from Baelish was like inheriting a hoard: he had something to lose and this choice caused his downfall. Yet he regrets nothing, except the consequences she will have to face alone.

The second memory he savors like a last gulp of wine is related to their first kiss. She was in a bad mood, that day – he had put her in a bad mood – and when they stopped in the middle of nowhere, she asked if he knew the way. His answer didn't pleased her though. "Can't you just pretend we're lost?" she said. It was childish. It was enticing, as well. He knew he couldn't resist for a long time and he didn't.

Even his memories can't prevent him from sinking into eternal sleep; keeping his eyes open is almost impossible now. He nevertheless sees something near the dwarf beech. A figure, walking toward him, but it's not her. Bugger, as if she could come and hold you in her arms while you breathe your last breath... A bald man wearing a brown robe gets closer. A thief: he'll steal my purse, my weapons and he'll take Stranger with him. He's unable to fight though and shakes his head now resting on the ground. When he leans over his agonizing body, the man's hands don't seize the purse nor his sword. He touches his burning forehead and the voice escaping his lips is a whisper.

"You're wounded. I'll take good care of you."

Forced to stay in the large, beautiful bedroom with silk wall hangings of peach and cream-white and a massive four-poster bed, Sansa paces up and down. Since her arrival to the Eyrie, she has been shut in her new apartments and a maid told her Lord Baelish would come soon. She barely talked to him during their journey to the Vale, not only because she spent her time crying. He was mad at the thought of what she had done with Sandor: his eyes were glistening with anger when he briefly looked at their room, she could see it through her tears. And she kept screaming, saying she was Sandor's wife and they had no right to do this. Someone told her once Littlefinger loathed women shouting and crying. Well, it's not idle gossip. He looked daggers at me.

She doesn't expect much of his visit; her only hope concerns Sandor. If Baelish's men found and killed him, he'll bring her some proof. He promised her he would do so and grinned. If he doesn't mention her husband, everything is possible. Sandor said he would know if his brother was dead because he hated him so much, but maybe it's the same if you love someone. She feels the void Sandor left in her heart, she worried sick but she doesn't feel like he's dead.

The door opens without any other warning that a key rattling in the keyhole and the Lord of Harrenhal comes in briskly. The slender man walks toward her and when he stops, she realizes she's slightly taller than him.

"The silly things you did are so numerous it would be impossible to list them," he snaps, "but I'm pleased to see you became more sensible since you're here."

What did he think? That I intended to kill myself? If Sandor is alive and hiding somewhere, dying doesn't make any sense. She stares at him coldly.

"How did you find us?" she asks.

He represses a smile: this is something she already noticed in King's Landing. Littlefinger's unconcealed pride about his schemes. He'll tell her all she wants to know.

"Remember Lord Varys, my dear? A wise man, really. I would say he inspires me; when I came here, I decided to hire "little birds" as he did in King's Landing. It costs a lot, you don't have the slightest idea, but it's a worthy investment."

He pauses and glances at her, disappointed not to find any trace of fear on her face. Only aversion.

"Clegane killed two of these little birds in the woods of the Riverlands, the two merchants, yes. Varys trusts beggars and handmaids, but I think it's important to hire spies coming from all ranks of our society. The merchants disappeared and their fate remained uncertain after their night spent at the Thistle, so my interest for this inn grew more and more, and my little birds whispered about strange events: the inn-keeper killed, a mysterious pair of customers including a beast of a man..."

He deliberately stresses these last words, scrutinizing her features.

"His name is Sandor," she says in a challenging tone.

Littlefinger chuckles and shakes his head for a second, then locks eyes with her again.

"I knew you spent time there, so I looked for the weak link and found this boy. The poor fool wanted to leave his house and see the world with the girl he loved. Westeros seems full of boys or even grown men who want to flee with their ladylove, these days. But that's not the point. He didn't know she was handsomely paid to laugh every time he joked around and paid to kiss him."

"The girl?" she asks in disbelief. "She's so young, she's a child-"

"Children are the best spies, if you think about it, my dear. Nobody pays attention to them, yet they see and hear everything. And what's more, they don't even understand how important are their revelations. They don't understand the consequences."

As he speaks unashamedly, she feels her head pounding. She didn't notice anything about Symon, nor did Sandor. Ella seemed anxious, but she trusted her brother. Sandor and her were cornered wherever they decided to go: the North wasn't safe but the Thistle was a trap meant to catch them even before they came back.

"I promised a purse of gold, swore I wouldn't harm you and the boy agreed. He told me all I needed to know. And so you're back. I kept my promise; I gave the dragons he should have received to his sister and I treated you well."

She wants to scream or slap him but it would only make things worse. She stares at him, instead. Her gaze seems to abash him and he points at her hair.

"You disappointed your aunt, you know," he adds, with a hint of conspicuous gallantry. "This hair-dying was her idea. But it's nothing compared to the other big mistake you made."

Tension suddenly fills the gorgeous bedroom with silk wall hangings and carved furniture. She knew this would come and she faces it, back straight and determination in her eyes.

"How many times did you lay with Clegane?"

She takes her time to answer and enjoys the anxiety showing on the surface of Baelish's features.

"More than you imagine, my lord. We are married."

At this instant, she doesn't blush like she used to do whenever she mentioned their wedding. She blames herself for many things, but certainly not for this. She juts out her chin. How easy it is to have a stately demeanor when you're proud of yourself.

"When did you marry him?"

Littlefinger's question takes her unawares so she says bluntly: "It's been some fifteen days. Maybe more."

He smirks and claps his hands twice, like someone who calls a pet. The door opens and she sees a maid carrying a tray, with a tea-pot and a cup. The woman puts the tray on a console table before leaving the room.

"Good," he comments. "The heiress of the North can't bear children unless she marries a suitable man."

"What does it mean?" she asks, suddenly frightened, looking at the steaming tea-pot. "What do you intend to do?"

"I make sure you won't give birth to some- what? Puppy?"

On the verge of tears, she steps back, but he already pours some hot liquid in the cup.

"A woman told me once moon tea has a bitter aftertaste," he adds. "I never figure out if this beverage has an unpleasant taste or if she was referring to the act of losing an unborn child. What do you think?"

He holds out the cup and she takes it reluctantly. She looks at the moon tea for a while, then at him.

"What?" he barks, eyebrow raised.

She throws the hot liquid in his face and hears him shouting. For a few seconds she enjoys his cheeks turning red and his mortified look. Panting, he wipes his forehead and his pointed beard. He claps in his hands again and the same maid shows up.

"Go fetch Ser Jon. I may need his help if this young lady isn't more sensible."

The maid hurries herself in the corridor as he steps forward, glaring at her, and seizes the empty cup.

"I've been magnanimous so far," he starts. "I gave this poor girl the gold her brother deserved and that's how you repay my generosity? Do you want me to send some sellswords in the Riverlands? They'll finish what these two merchants began."

Appalled by his words, she fights back her tears and shakes her head. He gives her another cup.

"Drink now," he commands. "You'll drink this moon tea without spilling a drop."

The thought of what his men could do to Ella nauseates her, so she complies silently. She didn't think she could be with child so far; she just knew it would happen someday. The prospect both terrified and elated her. Now that she drinks the piping hot beverage, her wondering about children is nonsense.

"Good," he says, when the tea-pot is empty. "Of course, you wanted to rebel, but you know better than that. After all, you're my obedient daughter, Alayne."

Once he's gone, she sits on the edge of the bed. She won't bear Sandor's child and she's stuck here: the realization makes her weep silently, no matter how hard she tries to stay strong. Tears roll down her cheek as she suddenly gets on her feet. Across the room, down on her knees and, with relief, she finds in the elm chest the one and only relic she managed to keep. The maids got rid of the clothes she wore during the past weeks but they forgot the shawl he gave her. She takes it, unfolds the woolen fabric, wraps it around her shoulders and kneels down at the foot of the bed, her dress billowing as she drops to the floor. This way, the shawl covers her body. She buries her face in the fabric and enjoys the musky smell of Sandor's saddle bag, where she used to store it during their journey.

An old memory brings back a sad smile on her lips: months ago, as she was still an inexperienced girl attracted by the lights of King's Landing, like a moth to the flame, he offered her his protection and she refused. Afterward, she hid herself under the stained and tattered white cloak he left. How long she stayed there, smelling blood and sweat on the filthy fabric, she couldn't tell. I feel exactly the same about this shawl, she muses.

Her memories of that crazy night when the sky was filled with green hues lead her back to him. What did I do? I was such a fool when I asked you to kill me. I thought it was the only way to stay with you and to show you how I care. I was completely wrong: what was supposed to prevent us from being separated widened the gap between us. And I let you face a terrible dilemma.

She broods on her conversation with Littlefinger, still crying. He said all this to crush her will: he wants her to become again the weak, easily swayed girl she was in the capital. Let him think I can be that girl. Let's be quiet until I can take revenge for what he did. While remembering every detail of their discussion, her mouth drops open mid-sob. Dumbfounded, she suddenly wipes her tears and tightens her grip on the smooth fabric of the shawl. Littlefinger said nothing about Sandor; it's been six days since he ran away from the Thistle and Baelish's men didn't find him. He's alive, hiding somewhere. He'll find me again. Unless I find him first.

In the cave, tall candles cast their light on the walls covered by tapestries. At the bottom of the tapestries, carpets muffle the Elder Brother's footsteps; by places, one can't tell where the tapestry ends and where begins the carpet. The furniture disturbed him at first; as he was recovering after days of fever dream, the odd chest and table made with driftwood seemed straight out of a nightmare. However, all this is as real as the throbbing pain in his leg. He's lying on a narrow bed, a little cramped, as the bald man sits down on a driftwood chair and watches him. Earlier this day, the Elder Brother told him he would walk again but limp slightly. Knowing this, he started to talk, though he didn't mean to confide himself to a godly man. He didn't even know he had all these thoughts churning in his head, tormenting him. Now that he's silent, his throat is dry as if he hadn't been drinking in days. The Elder Brother unfolds his arms and rubs his red nose.

"Your brother is dead and she is alive," he says after a while. "Maybe the truth comes down to this."

The Brother looks so serene it's upsetting. He listened to him quietly as he was telling him what happened in Ella's tavern and before. The truth, harsh and disgusting, didn't seem to bother or to surprise the brother. His tone, calm and even, reveals his inner peace.

"You could have killed her and flung yourself on those men. You didn't. You chose to let her live, you knew you would be parted from her. You nevertheless made this decision."

"I left her. I betrayed her. I made a promise I couldn't respect."

"She's young. She has plenty of time to think about it and understand what you did. If you had decided to kill her, she wouldn't have time to blame you or praise the choice you made. And I would say that men invented oaths to break them. What? You're shocked a devout man can even think about breaking vows? You're very naïve, beneath your callous outward appearance. Septons and brown brothers sometimes break their vows. I'm not judging them; it happens, that is all."

As the Elder Brother is quiet, he sits up and clears his throat.

"What about my dream?" he asks, almost reluctantly. "Whose blood is it? Symon's? My brother's? Hers?"

The Elder Brother smiles. In his square face, broad grins make his lips thinner and his nose even more red.

"I was able to heal your wound, it doesn't mean I can decipher dreams. If you want my opinion, those who say they can understand other people's dreams are either fools or liars. Dreams only show what matters for us. We see the things we're obsessed with. No more, no less. The only truth your nightmare reveals is that you're obsessed with this girl. She haunts you. And death scares you because the Lannisters want you dead. There's no hidden message in your dream. You can always seek some purpose in suffering and losses, but there's no meaning at all. No purpose. Things happen and all we have to do is quite simple. Take good decisions. Try not to hurt anyone. And you didn't hurt her, you saved her."

He pauses again and sighs.

"Maybe there's a meaning after all. You arrived here with a bunch of questions. This is a good place to stay and think about what you did. This cave, here in Quiet Isle, is named the Hermit's Hole. The first hermit was certainly looking for answers, as well. You'll swear a vow of silence. Once you'll get some answers, you'll have to make a choice. Stay here and help me rule this place or quit. If you decide to leave Quiet Isle, we both know where you will go."

The Elder Brother stands up and walks to the door, then stops. His back to him, he waves as if some idea had suddenly sprung in his mind.

"Loving someone implies to make difficult choices. Let your loved one do as she pleases or protect her against her will. Which path did you choose? Are you able to choose this path again? Those are relevant questions."

Once the wooden shut quietly, as if the godly man feared to awaken a child, Sandor lies back and stares at the white-washed ceiling.

Where are you now, my love? Are you thinking of me as a good man or as the traitor who left you alone? Are you even thinking of me? A faint grunt escapes his lips as he shifts in the bed. He can't make himself comfortable. There was another bed he didn't like, in the galley sailing back to Saltpans. On our wedding night. And there was the storm, the howling wind: the hull made an awful creaking noise. Images wash over him like the big cold waves soaked the upper deck that day.

The septon married them an hour ago and he was lying half across her, his scarred side on her naked chest, trying to adjust his breath on hers.

"In the end, I didn't even know if it was you or the swell," she told him, a secret smile on her lips.

At first, this crazy image struck him. Childish yet enticing, like her. Being compared to the raging waters enchanted him, but he raised his head and leaned on his elbow, faking anger.

"Of course, it was me! This is very unladylike, mistaking your husband for the swell. We should do it again, to make sure you can tell the difference between me and a bloody storm."

She giggled and ran her fingers through his hair. He wanted to follow through with his threats, but her remark sounded like a good reason to tease her back. Still leaning on his elbows, he locked eyes with her.

"Will you tell me someday what I said that night at the Thistle, when I was asleep?" he asked.

She blushed; in the dim light, he saw his wife's high cheekbones reddening, then her eyes glistened with tears.

"It's nothing," she said when she noticed his disconcerted look. "We've been through so many things lately, I was not sure I would live long enough to tell you. But here we are, right? Together, married... you can't get rid of me, now."

He wiped her tears with his thumb and asked again what he had said that night, making her laugh, this time.

"At first, you said 'I want you' and I was shocked," she told him. "I mean I knew it, but it felt real, especially when you wrapped your arm around my waist. Then you added 'And if someone takes you away from me, I'll find you. I can do it again.' That's all you said that night, but I made so much fuss about it you probably thought it was something bigger. Something more crude. You must be disappointed, Sandor."

Her forefinger trailed down his cheek, softly, in an apologetic way.

Lying on his bed in the Hermit's Hole, Sandor clutches the rough fabric of the sheets.

No, my love, I'm not disappointed.

Thanks a lot for the reviews, the support you gave me (following, favoriting this fic)! It helps me a lot.

Writing this was a little crazy and I did some crazy things these past weeks. You want a proof? I slept with an English dictionary. Literally.

Anyway, I'm very grateful for all this. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Lucia