NOTES: Characters and everything else from A Song of Ice & Fire belong to the brilliant George RR Martin. I do hope he doesn't hate me now. I have not, will not, nor will ever profit from this story in any way (other than an odd sense of accomplishment!).
Please be aware that this story contains a random smattering of SPOILERS from the first 4 books. They aren't prominantly flagged, but they're in here all the same. If you haven't finished reading the published canon, you may want to turn back now. This story takes place in the time frame roughly following A Dance With Dragons (though having not read that book yet, its degree of plausibility may change in the future). This story will also contain the death of canon characters in later chapters- fair warning now, as I know this is something that bothers a lot of readers and I'd hate to ruin anyone's day.
This is my first fic in close to 10 years, so please go easy on me. Rating may increase with later chapters. I hope you enjoy!
Snowflakes fell in slow flurries, drifting lazily across the white landscape. Those with the misfortune to land on the road were trod into half-frozen mud beneath a relentless column of boots the instant they touched the ground.
Sandor Clegane, or Creep as those who marched with him had taken to calling him, kept his eyes on the ground in front of them. Endless miles of mud had passed beneath their boots since leaving the Riverlands, and a great many more remained before they would reach their destination.
They were making for Stannis, and the Wall.
As always, he kept the hood of his cloak pulled forward over his face, concealing the hideous burns that marred one side from scalp to throat. Anonymity was his friend. Creep was just one of thousands in boiled leather and battered mail, breath pluming white in the cold air as they marched. He'd been with the same unit for four months and not a man there had seen what he looked like. None of them really cared to, and he was perfectly content to keep it that way. It helped avoid questions.
Walking had taken some getting used to, but there'd been little choice. Stranger had been shot out from under him the day the abbey burned. The gallant beast had made it close to five miles despite looking more like a hedgehog than a horse for all the quarrels protruding from his neck and flanks. It'd been enough.
As the miles passed and the air grew colder around them, the Elder Brother's final words kept him company.
Dragons have returned to Westeros- and with them, justice. You'll see.
Dragons had returned, in fact, and he'd traveled many miles south to seek them out in the Stormlands. But justice? Clegane had little enough experience with that to doubt such a thing even existed.
Where was justice the day they'd found his little sister face-down in the creek?
Where was justice when he screamed and burned?
When the women of King's Landing cried and thrashed in the arms of their rapers, and children were trampled in the street?
When Ned Stark's blood soaked the steps at the Great Sept of Baelor?
Or the day he'd left her to the lions, slinking away like a cowardly dog with his tail between his legs?
Where was justice the day the peaceful monks of the Quiet Isle were put to the sword?
The Dragon Queen had landed in Dorne a year earlier, with a hundred ships at her back and three great beasts in the skies overhead. The Dornish had risen for her, and the march north had been an easy one. King's Landing opened its gates without a fight by command of the High Septon, but the Queen did not dally there long.
As they marched one of her 'children' would become visible from time to time, slicing through the clouds on great leathery wings. More often than not it was the green, lithe and serpentine as it cut through the cold air like a brilliantly scaled emerald blade. It seemed even the rawest of recruits had grandiose tales to tell about the dragons. When the men gathered around the fires after the evening's rations had been consumed, he kept to himself and left them to their mindless chatter.
That's what had earned him the nickname. 'Oi, don't you ever get tired of creepin' around in the dark by your lonesome? Join us for a drink, mate!' There'd been no real malice in their eyes, just cool curiosity. He'd shaken his head and stalked off, and had been Creep ever since. As he deserved no better, it suited him fine.
He was far more interested in the talk that went on around the pavilions than at the campfires of the men at arms, but getting near enough to hear much of use had proven difficult. The great lords that had taken up with Daenarys had no shortage of personal guards and knights in their service who did not take kindly to common soldiers.
One night along the Green Fork a curious rumor had begun to circulate through the camp that a Wolf had joined their march. 'The Queen's new pet,' a few of the men said. It was enough to pique his interest, but more information had not been forthcoming – despite a fortnight's relentless investigation.
Nightly he made his rounds, skirting along the line of lordly pavilions that made up the center of the army's camp every time they stopped. Colorful banners snapped in the cold air: the spear and sun of Dorne was most prevalent, but countless others were also in attendance. The flaming tower, the grapes of the Arbor, the gold and green rose of Highgarden, the boar of Crakehall and red cock of House Swyft. Naturally, the royal pavilion was bedecked in black and red and the three headed dragon of the Targaryens was much in fashion around the camp as a whole.
He noted that the silver eagle of Seagard and the merman of White Harbor were the newest additions, and likely not the last. The Queen had been gaining support steadily as her march progressed and word of their strength spread. But the banner he sought was not to be found, and he kept his distance. Bumping into a knight that recognized him could easily mean his head on a spike, and he knew it. A price he was unwilling to pay for what was likely little more than scurrilous camp rumor.
Such rumors were common. Some said the White Walkers had already broached the Wall. Others whispered that Stannis had awoken a dragon of his own, a great dreadful creature from nightmare, and he was luring the Queen into a trap. One man in their formation swore he'd heard that Stannis was raising an army of the dead and would be marching south to crown himself on a throne of bones.
Glimpses of the various lords and ladies that made up the Queen's following were few and far between. The men-at-arms in the outlying camps, and Creep with them, were up before dawn, fed and forming columns long before those of high birth even stirred from their beds.
Occasionally they'd catch a glimpse of Lord Yronwood, when the preening old man could be bothered to escort the column that flew his banner. More often than not he hung back with the other Dornish nobles and knights.
Though he'd never even seen Dorne, Sandor figured their banner was as good as any. It seemed safer to march with strangers from the south than any of the western regiments, where he'd more likely be recognized. He wasn't alone in that, and most of the regiments were a pretty motley mixture of men-at-arms, sellswords and freed slaves that had accompanied the Queen across the narrow sea. It was easy to blend in.
The miles along the Green Fork came and went, and nothing more was heard of the Wolf in their midst. Before long he figured it must have been a dream and dismissed the idea completely.
They'd seen their first action at the Twins, though not a drop of blood had been spilled by the Queen's army. Her children had seen to that. Watching the three beasts in action as they'd set the towers alight and scattered the Frey's meager defenses had been a terrible sight.
They said old Lord Walder died of fright when the creatures came down on them in the night, and Sandor believed it. They'd lingered at the Twins for nearly a month, and Queen Daenarys had left one of his grandchildren in command of there after they departed. Which one, he could not say. Probably another Walder Frey. It made little difference.
A week earlier they'd passed Moat Cailin without a fight. The formidable castle had been abandoned by the Ironborn for quite some time, by the look of things. Foragers had scoured the surrounding area and a token force was left to hold it, though none could say when they'd be coming back this way – if at all.
The Kingsroad was a rough thing this far north, narrow and winding. Patrols of outriders had been dispatched ahead of the main column, but signs of Stannis and his own army had been virtually non-existent. They were in Cerwyn lands now, and nearing Winterfell. What little remained of it, at any rate. Creep had no more opinion of Winterfell than any other place they'd be passing on this journey, but the thought filled Sandor Clegane with quiet dread.
When the march halted for the day on the edge of the Barrowlands and the men broke ranks to set up camp, young Dart sought him out, as always.
'Ay, Creep! You hear? Word is Ser Ellis an' 'is come back early. We jus' might be seein' Lor' Stannis affore we reach the Wall after all!'
Dart was no more Dornish than he was. He was from King's Landing, which was, in many ways, far worse. Sandor had made every effort to discourage the boy, from ignoring him to being outright rude, but Dart was equal parts stupid, oblivious and above all else, hopelessly friendly. Eventually he decided it best to just put up with him.
'Stannis.' Creep grunted.
'Sure 'nough! Come far south as Castle Cerwyn, they sayin'. Mayhaps we'll see 'em on the morrow. Think she'll put the beasts on 'em?'
Dart ran a hand through his dirty brown hair, which fell over his forehead and ears in a messy tangle. He was young, probably not more than fifteen, but the filth of the road that smudged his face and simple leather jerkin made him look far older.
Creep grunted again, shrugging off his pack and tossing it against the base of the nearest tree. He'd often wondered if Stannis would have the balls to face them, but supposed there was little choice. Better to march south and take his chances on a field of his own choosing than be trapped with his back to the Wall.
'Don't 'spose it's true, what Will said, do you? 'Bout the dead men and all that …'
Sandor sank down with his back to the trunk and sighed, glad to take the weight off his feet. More than once after his flight he'd considered stealing a horse to replace Stranger, but the opportunity never presented itself. After a while he'd started to see walking as yet another penance. His leg had healed well and rarely gave him trouble any more, but his feet were another matter. Painfully he flexed his toes and felt the bones pop wearily. At that moment he would have liked nothing more than to take his boots off, but it was far too cold for that.
After a moment Dart dropped his own pack and sank to the ground in a similar fashion, his face thoughtful.
'Guess we'll know in the mornin', eh?'
Sandor said nothing, pulling a hunk of black bread from his bag and tearing a piece with his teeth. He tossed a second piece to Dart, who snatched it from the air gratefully. It was stale and mealy, but better than nothing.
The two men ate in silence as fires were lit and the camp formed around them.