LION TRAP, game of thrones

𝐈𝐈𝐈. scorpion

Sansorr wasn't sure he particularly liked Bronn of the Blackwater. But damn it, he was sure he couldn't stand the Dornish. Even here on the beach, near the sea with its cooler winds, it was unbearably hot. But as the only Northman, he also seemed to be the only one who struggled like this.

"We have to go in that direction... tomorrow. Let's set up camp," Jaime instructed Sansorr and Bronn. Sansorr growled an imprecation and started moving.

"I hate sand. I didn't realize how much I hate sand, bloody hell. The sand is everywhere, already!" he cursed, his leg aching with every step on the uneven, soft ground and he was considerably slower than his companions. Bronn kept turning to him as if he doubted Sansorr's fitness.

Sansorr met his doubts with a gruff gesture and forced himself to walk faster. When they set up their makeshift camp in the shelter of the dunes, still within sight of their small boat, his leg ached so badly that he feared the bone would pierce his skin again. But when he felt his leg, he could feel nothing but the leather splint through his trousers. He'll be fine.

"I fell down the stairs once," Sansorr replied to Bronn's questioning look. The dark-haired man laughed at Sansorr's explanation, as if the idea was ridiculous. Perhaps it was.

"Well," snorted Sansorr, "you probably haven't seen much wilder fights than that... Well, you're older than Blondie here and me, but still..."

"Only a few years," Bronn replied.

"I didn't think so," Sansorr teased and lay back on the sand, looking up at the sky and unlacing his vest and the shirt underneath. The fabric was clammy from his sweat.

"Why is he here again? Didn't he used to be a Stark?" Bronn asked unimpressed, looking at Jaime.

"Not anymore," Sansorr replied before the Lannister could say anything and stroked his hair gruffly.

"I see," Bronn snorted, sounding somehow amused, but Sansorr couldn't quite interpret why.

He turned his head away, looking up at the sky. On the one hand, the prospect of sleeping in the open air was reassuring; he preferred it to the inn's guest room. But at the same time, the fear returned to his chest of being completely unstable, as if he had no control over himself, as if the wind could carry him away at any moment. He buried his fingers in the sand, as if that would change anything.

With a soft gasp, he straightened up again, drawing the attention of his traveling companions once more. Jaime's look was hard to understand and Bronn had raised an eyebrow.

"Damned Dorne," Sansorr muttered, as if that were an explanation. Then he rose and limped away, muttering a curt, "I'm off to take a piss."

He made an effort to stay in the shelter of the dunes, not wanting to be careless after all. Nevertheless, he trudged on for quite a distance before settling down in the shelter of the dune grass. A little frustrated, he threw his sturdy leather vest aside for good and took a few deep breaths.

Sansorr only realized that he had scratched his cuticles bloody when the now cool sea breeze cleared his head. He pursed his lips. What was wrong with him? The fear in him, which he had attributed to the chamber, remained stubbornly with him. How could that be? He had thought that once he had the Lannisters' approval, he would leave all the horrors of his imprisonment behind him. But that wasn't the case.

"You killed him too," Sansorr whispered and shuddered. The sound of Tywin's skull cracking echoed in his mind and his hands twitched. He clenched them into fists, swallowing the fear. As best he could, at least. Not particularly well.

"Are you alright?"

Sansorr lifted his head and saw Jaime, who had approached him unnoticed in a cautious stance. The Lannister sat down next to Sansorr and Sansorr remembered how he had thought he was in love with him. That he could be in love with him. Was that true or was Jaime just the only one who was still good to him? And was he really good at all...