LION TRAP, game of thrones

𝐕𝐈. mercy

Sansorr would die.

The fever was raging in his body, eating him up from the inside out. The wound on his leg was numb by now, but he didn't find that too comforting. Because it smelled.

Like a fucking animal carcass and that was proof enough for him that he was going to die. Tywin had said he would be back. But when? When?

Sansorr lay stiffly on his back, listening to his breathing. He didn't know how long he had been waiting, the fever clouding his mind. Perhaps only a few hours, perhaps decades. A spasm of coughing shook his body and he whimpered helplessly. There was no place that didn't hurt anymore, no movement that wasn't difficult for him.

He was such a fool. How could he have ruined all this for himself? He had disappointed Tywin, and his demands had not been that difficult.

"Because you're a failure," Sansorr whispered, "You can't even do the simplest of tasks, you damned, miserable fool... You're lucky he even turns to you like this... And you ruined it. Because you always ruin everything..." Speaking also hurt. He tasted blood. He wished he could drown in it.

Sansorr stared into the darkness out of clogged eyes and, gasping, pumped another gush of stale air into his body.

Dying hurt. Almost more than living.

How stupid.

The door opened, but Sansorr was not strong enough to look around to see who was coming in. His body was shivering without Sansorr really being cold. Probably the fever. The decay in his body.

"Sansorr..."

His teeth chattered together and he became afraid for his tongue, which lay heavy in his mouth. He would bite it off. Then the blood would fill his mouth, his lungs. And then he wouldn't have to breathe and the pain would finally, finally end.

"Sansorr!"

Panting, he focused his eyes.

Jaime was kneeling next to the cot. He wore no armor, but a soft-looking leather top and cloth pants. His skin was sun-kissed and his lips delicately reddened.

"I'll take you to a maester... You'll lose your leg otherwise," the blond's voice reached Sansorr's ears as if through cotton.

He lowered his gaze, daring to look down at himself and his legs. The bandage he was wearing on his injured leg was dirty and bloody. Sansorr felt sick.

Jaime put his arms around him and tried to lift him up. But Sansorr resisted, at least by tensing slightly. He was incapable of anything more.

"I can't get out... I don't want to get out," he mumbled and whimpered when Jaime grabbed him by the waist to lift him up. "Please... You're hurting me, Jaime," he gasped, his voice light and vulnerable. Dying sounded beautiful, if it could save him from this embarrassment.

Fortunately, Jaime let go of him again. There was a tangle of troubled emotions in his green eyes that almost made Sansorr laugh. Instead, only a strange gurgling sound came from his throat. How cute the Kingslayer was. A cute, sick man.

"Now you're helping me? When everything has already happened? You could have prevented it," Sansorr whispered, licking his lips.

"That would have been noticed."

"Sure," Sansorr muttered and broke into another cough. Jaime stood up, disappearing from his view. "No... Jaime, please stay," he whispered, panic swelling inside him like a boil, "Stay with me, I'm sorry..."