Sandor supposed, bitterly, that it would always have come to this. Facing the monster twice-over that was his dead brother, he felt his lips curl back from his teeth and snarled. And so this was the ending, at last, after years of waiting, of fear, and now Gregor would force his hand.

In a full out fight, he would lose. Undoubtedly. Especially now, with the half game leg that meant he would tire more quickly, and tiring here was a death sentence. And of course, the beauty of it was too simple to pass up.

It was from a story he'd been told, once, such a very long time ago when he'd still cared to listen to stories. A story about the dead rising, and the hero who had gone to fight them, and found that they could not be killed for they had already died. "But he knew," the story went, "That the dead would always fear fire…the fire of life that they sought to quench, and even more the fire itself, for it would burn them, devour them, as nothing else would."

Damn you, Sandor thought, savagely, backing up, searching for something – a torch, anything. "Fire," he roared, to anyone, "I need fire-"

Someone threw a torch at him. For a terrified moment he almost broke, eyes widening, hearing the crackle that had always meant pain and fear to him. He dropped his sword to catch it, and lunged forward with a furious noise of bitter triumph, thrusting it into the visor of his dead brother's helmet, into his eyes.

For a moment, for one miraculous moment as the crumbling wreck that had been Gregor Clegane howled its last, it looked as though the Hound would survive. He staggered one step back, two, bleeding from a dozen wounds but none that would be fatal. Sandor dropped the sword, hand vanishing a moment under his tunic. It emerged a moment later as he stared at it, blankly, soaked in dark red lifeblood.

And then he fell.

She reached him first, and found him sprawled on his back, chest heaving, her fingers already working to tear the armor and clothing away from the spreading dark stain. Breath in short little bursts, the pain was clear in the etched lines on his face.

When she found the wound, she nearly retched. One cut from the greatsword had gone deep into his waist, near halfway through him. It was a miracle he'd stayed upright at all, for as long as he had.

The Hound shuddered, eyes closed, and a noise that was almost a plaintive moan squeezed from his throat. Sansa felt herself shudder. His eyes were the worst, though – as always. His eyes, blank and full of pain, staring up at the sky almost blindly. A moment of focus, of awareness, flickered into his right eye. "Dead?" He rasped, through what sounded like a mouthful of blood. Sansa covered her mouth with her hand.

"Yes," she said, softly, in a whisper. "Yes, dead." His eyes closed and for several moments she thought he was crying, then she realized that the sharp little exhalations were of laughter, weak and dark, but laughter nonetheless.

"Good," he said, thickly. "Good." His breaths were quick and shallow. Someone was saying something, but the Hound looked at her again, struggling to focus. "Little – bird…"

She forced her hand from her mouth, trying not to vomit for the smell. "What?"

His face spasmed horribly and he went rigid for a moment. When the spasm had gone, the Hound forced his eyes open again. "Look at me."

Something caught in her throat. "That's all?" She had to muster her courage anyway, though. Mother have mercy, she thought, sick, and touched his face to turn it toward herself. This time, she didn't flinch. All the anger had gone out of his eyes, and now he just looked tired.

His hand twitched upward, slightly, with the corner of his mouth. "Ah," he rasped, softly, and then the light fled his eyes.