LION TRAP, game of thrones

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. filth

When Sansorr regained consciousness, he was pleased to see that he still had his skin. At least except for the small wounds he had everywhere, but damn, he had to concentrate on the good things in life. So that cause of death was out. At least for that day.

Bolton's men had taken him to a chamber somewhere in Harrenhal and when he woke up, he was barely given time before he was pulled to his feet by two men and dragged through the corridors. He didn't know what had happened while he was unconscious, but he just clung to the thought that if they really wanted to kill him, he would already be dead. Even though he wished for relief from his agony, he didn't want to die. He would fight. It was the only way out of this madness, he wouldn't be a Stark if he didn't fight.

Remember that you are a Stark.

Suddenly those words from his father echoed through his head as intensely as if he were a child again, looking into his father's hard, gray eyes.

Sansorr was taken to a washroom, steam rising from the water in the basin in the center of the room, making it difficult to see. Sansorr could just catch a glimpse of Brienne, who was led past him outside.

In the water he now saw a dirty, bent figure with hair clouded with dirt. It took Sansorr a few moments to recognize the Kingslayer in this pitiful state.

"What's going to happen now?" he muttered, but then whimpered in pain as the men roughly stripped him of his clothes. Under his dirty shirt, his right side was swollen green and blue. That wretched Bolton dog had broken his ribs. For the first time in his life, he was ashamed of his nakedness, of his battered and vulnerable body. He missed the combination of hardness and softness he was used to in his body. Now he was thinner than ever.

One of the two men whispered something to the other and they both laughed. Sansorr felt sick when he felt the first man's cold hand on his bare hip. "I'll bite your fingers off, I swear it!" he hissed, stumbling hastily away from the two and was incredibly relieved when they didn't follow him. They even left the room, but Sansorr was sure that they were keeping watch outside the door. He would not be able to escape like this.

Stiff-legged, he climbed into the pool, gasping at the feeling of the warm water on his wounds. A few seconds later, however, he immediately felt the relief that the warmth brought to his muscles. It was a strangely familiar, comforting feeling that he would have liked to sink into for all time. It reminded him of Lyanna's nursery in Winterfell. Of their early childhood, when they had built castles together out of pillows and furs, playing knights and squires until late at night. Sansorr had always been the squire, of course.

"Don't stare at me like that," he muttered gruffly in the direction of the Kingslayer, who was sitting motionless in front of him like a dead man, looking at him with reddened eyes. He looked incredibly tired.

The Kingslayer's gaze actually slipped away and so Sansorr began to wash himself, roughly removing the dirt from his curls, scrubbing his skin until he felt clean. He turned his back on the Kingslayer, submerged himself and for a few moments enjoyed feeling like he was in a warm embrace. Then he resurfaced, placed his forearms on the edge of the pool and rested his head on his arms.

Not being dirty was the best thing he could imagine at that moment and he enjoyed it. His standards had probably dropped enormously.

"Where are those scars from?"

Sansorr groaned in annoyance. He had just ousted the Kingslayer. Fingertips brushed across his back and he wheeled around, so fast the water splashed and the Kingslayer sank awkwardly back against the side of the pool opposite Sansorr. It looked like it hurt and Sansorr felt a tinge of triumph.

"Keep your fingers away from me or I'll cut off your other hand too, Kingslayer," he threatened. To his surprise, his counterpart only sighed slightly.