Author's Note: Just the threads that are floating around in my mind post S7!
Sansa
Samwell had arrived first, a wildling and a babe at his side – no man of the Night's Watch, nor Lord, nor Maester. Although seeking her half-brother Jon, in his absence, Sam had settled for the company of their younger brother Bran. Bran was lost so often these days in the tangle of lives he could see almost at will, the boy she remembered gone, replaced by something different. Sam looked at Bran with fascination, where Sansa felt unease.
Gendry arrived next, direct from the wall, with Jon's hard won Dragonglass, headed to the castle forge – the last known Baratheon bastard. Although unacknowledged, Sansa didn't need to spend long in his company to see the dead king's forceful bluster and enthusiasm living on in this lost son. Nobody could have believed the whiney, cruel Joffrey a true born Baratheon after meeting Gendry – warm, direct, indeed a bull – it should have been King Robert's sigil, the stag too refined for father or son.
Her sister eyes had fair exploded when Gendry walked through the gates, a ghost from Arya's past, flesh and blood, and bluster, here in their home, at their bother's command. Gendry had taken over the forge, with a whirlwind of efficiency, but his tales from beyond the wall were something else – they had set the castle aflame. Whether people believed him or not, they hung on every word, idling at the forge as he worked, asking questions of ice and fire and dragons. They were even rowdier in Winterfell's long winter evenings, jostling for a space near him on the busy long tables in the great hall, full of winter's refugees. Arya, his champion, when she was released from her duties at the high table, eyes bright, egging him on to greater embellishments and heroics with every re-telling.
The spiced wine was heavy on Sansa's tongue, her wolf pelt cloak too warm for her seat by the great fire, the heat clouding her thoughts, as the noise of the hall crashed around her. Her brother Bran was at her side, his food barely touched as his thoughts wandered elsewhere. Sansa felt alone – not because her sister's friend had returned, nor because Bran was lost in the past, these wolves had put childish jealousies behind, and were not want to let an outsider destroy the Stark bond. Sansa was happy for Arya, and couldn't help but smile as her sister, clambered onto one of the long tables, sitting atop it, for there was no other space near Gendry. No, Sansa's was not worried by their guests, but Gendry's tall tales of dragons, and ice, and heroes had startled her, and not just because of the others.
"He's alive?" Arya had screamed, interrupting as Gendry had recounted his tale for the first time in their private solar. "The Hound, is alive?"
Sansa had been no less shocked, but after years as captive, she had learnt to cage her tongue.
"Fuck" breathed Arya, "But Brienne killed him, or as good as. He said it was the end, to end it for him" Arya had trailed off, adding childishly "but he wasn't on my list." like she alone was the arbiter of life and death.
Sansa had focused on the guttering candle, let Arya ask the questions. There was nothing Sansa could ask that wouldn't betray her. Betray what? she had wondered – she was a flurry of emotions, but they wouldn't settle long enough for her to choose just one. She obviously cared to know that the Hound was alive – Sandor she reminded herself to use his given name, as whatever he was these days, he certainly wasn't Joffrey's dog – but surely that was just the way, to worry about old friends in war. Friends? she scoffed at herself. She'd had no friends in King's Landing, for all their pretty words, and fine manners, she was nothing more than a captive, their plaything. But Sandor Clegane was different, she insisted, no false words passed his lips. She was unconvinced though, harsh words could hold lies just as surely as the pretty ones.
When Sansa dwelled on any one emotion for long it was most usually shame, shame for the child she had been, gullible stupid afraid. Shame for the things she had said to save herself, dishonourable shocking craven. Shame for having waited so long for a knight to rescue her, and failing to recognise as knights those men and women who had done their best to aid her escape, conceited weak naïve. Of all who had known her, Sandor had seen these things most clearly, and had been wont to remind her at every turn of her many shortcomings. She had grown and hardened, the Bolton Bastard had seen to that like no other, but thought of The Hound reminded her of the girl she had been.
Arya had spoken easily of her time with Sandor, she named him captor, but it was clear to all that he'd been her shield long after he could pretend she was but a ransom. Sansa did not have the same easy memories, and those she had she guarded jealously. He had stood between her and Joffrey's worst abuse, but he had also held a knife to her throat, and stolen a kiss – drunk, and half crazed by wildfire.
The sound of the great hall brought her back to the present. Samwell was wheeling Bran away in his chair, retiring to his room, or maybe the godswood. She could ask Bran she realised, but no! came the second more reasoned thought. She could ask Bran about Sandor Clegane, and while he may tell her of his travels, reassure her that he was safe, she couldn't dictate what else Bran would see, and she knew there was plenty she didn't want to hear from her brother's lips. She could be patient, he was alive, that would have to be enough for now.
Sandor
He could have sailed for Bravos, he could be warm and being paid handsomely for his sword, but when that woman told him she and the boy were riding north for Winterfell for the wolf girls, that was all he could think to do. He'd not been fool enough to return to Dragonstone, he'd had enough of fire and dragons and queens and this game of thrones for many a lifetime – and he had seen what was coming – but they were still alive, those two fool girls, and for one stupid moment he thought he could be the one to save her.
One stupid moment? he spat, he could have turned back at any moment. The King's Road ran in both directions, but somehow the tall bitch's unfailing belief that they needed her protection, provoked his hero complex. Brienne of fucking Tarth the Lady knight who'd almost killed him and her boy squire Podrick. The heroes were too earnest and dull to be diverting travel companions, but at least they let him fester in peace to wonder how it was two such ill equipped brats had survived this long – without him the unbidden thought always taunted him at the end.
He cursed himself for walking away, and cursed himself again for assuming her long dead by Joffrey's cunt hand. There were no ravens where he'd been – his ever-present excuse; if it weren't for the terror inducing whispers of wildfire he wouldn't have known the Lannister whore had killed the court and seized the iron throne.
He had questions, but few that made it past his lips in the face of Brienne's guileless stare. She had told him freely all she knew of Arya's journey, that was after all where they had met, she knew he'd been Arya's protector.
Of Sansa, wine drunk and feigning boredom he finally ventured to ask, "What of the elder sister?"
The boy had flushed, and busied himself elsewhere. How much did the kid know? wondered Sandor. He could place the boy now as former squire to Tyrion, the Lannister dwarf. Some squire, He scoffed A woman and a dwarf!
Sandor had never sought to advertise his feelings about the girl, but Tyrion was a shrewd little imp. And in a marriage that can only have been designed to torture them both, had wed her.
Littlefinger was Brienne's pre-occupation; He had taken her from King's Landing; He had sold her into yet another loveless marriage; He had returned to sniff around again now that she was Lady of Winterfell in her own right. He was the reason for Brienne's haste.
The Hound would happily greet the malevolent shit with a flick of his dagger, and watch while black red blood melted into pristine white snow. Fear be damned, he'd burn the body himself, just to be sure the flesh peddling cunt could never rise again.
The drunk fuck Thoros should have shown him her flaming hair in the fire, not the desolate wasteland of the dead that killed him. She's not waiting for you fool he reminded himself she wants a knight, daft saps will write songs about.
If anyone was ever bold enough to write a song about Brienne the Brave he hoped they'd leave his sorry self out of it. He didn't want to hear how they'd skipped through the snow, or tiptoed past wolves. Winter was brutal, and would make brutes of them all before they reached Winterfell's solid walls, and those wolf girls.
As they rode north inns were few and far between – and even on the King's Road, innkeeps were talking of closing their doors retreating south for winter. One fat kitchen boy had begged to ride north with Brienne, but no nursemaid she was as short with him as Sandor would have been himself, shutting the lad down with absolute authority, and sending him back to the kitchen. Shame, he'd smiled, the kid made good pie, and that fat, he'd be good eating if it ever came to it.
Brienne's language was sweeter – she had been raised a lady – but she made friends almost as easily as the Hound, and was perhaps faster to take offence. Brienne the Beauty he'd heard at court. She was no beauty, though nobody had held her face to the fire and watched as skin melted from bone, his sullen thought. But on the days between the inns, when they would seek sanctuary from the deathly cold at a farmer's table he came to realise Brienne the Beauty wasn't welcomed either. Maybe one day the ginger wildling fuck would take the stick from her arse, and tame her, damn sure nobody else was mad enough to try. Although he had noted the very pretty Lannister sword at her side.
When even Podrick's cherub face failed to open farmers' doors they resorted to pilfering chickens, and stealing into barns: if they were lucky they'd spend the night warm surrounded by shitting livestock; if they were unlucky there was another body to burn. Uneasy Brienne insisted on leaving payment for anything they took, but they all knew that meagre coins wouldn't fill a starving belly when the winter's food ran out; and like as not the next visitors would take both food and coin, and worry not for what they left behind.
Brienne had insisted Winterfell was just over the next hill for days, so when the grey towers finally appeared from the snow – not on the horizon as he'd expected, but so near that he couldn't understand why he'd not seen them earlier – it was somewhat a shock. He jerked angrily at his reins halting his mount – at no point in the journey had the Hound felt more inclined to turn tail and disappear to the warmth and safety of the south. Arya, aye, she might welcome him, think him an asset for the war to come; but Sansa, if he pushed unwanted through her gates, yet again the unwelcome intruder – little bird would never sing for him.
"Fuck" he muttered into the wind, spurring his horse to join the others. If he wasn't welcome she could fucking well tell him herself.
Sansa
The Hound – Sandor, Sansa reminded herself – had arrived riding aside Brienne on her return from King's Landing. Podrick an exhausted third betraying the haste with which they had ploughed through the North's early winter snows. They had barrelled through Winterfell's gates as if Jon's direwolf Ghost were snapping at their heals, not prowling the godswood awaiting his king's return. There were wolves in the hills, and Arya swore her long lost direwolf Nymeria was still alive and leading a pack – but that would be a question for another day. Sansa had watched their approach from the battlements, and there was nought but a cold wind and a handful snowflakes to follow them to Winterfell.
As Brienne's horse pirouetted to an uneasy stop, her worried eyes had darted between Sansa on the upper walkway and Arya dancing below, as if to count her charges, reassuring herself that no harm had come by her absence.
The Hound's impassive face had fixed on Sansa, Lady of Winterfell, with no more than a nod, to reaffirm their acquaintance, before Arya's dance, brought their moment to an end.
Sandor, still atop his horse, Arya, ever the water dancer had reached his side, sword in one hand, gracefully aloft, ready to strike; her Valerian steal dagger in the other digging menacingly into the top of his leg, threatening to slice an artery, or something more important should the mood take her.
"So you're alive then?" she grinned up at him, the cheeky lift in her voice welcoming the Hound to Winterfell, as only Arya Stark could dare.
"Arya" Sansa called out aghast, but, her sister ignored the reprimand, remaining poised.
"Aye wolf, nobody found my heart yet," the Hound replied, dragging his gaze finally from the older sister to the younger. "Pretty dagger" he growled, "when you cross me off your list, I'll thank you to use it, not that stupid sword. A gift?"
"From Littlefinger" replied Arya, returning the blades to her belt and taking a step back. "I repaid him," she added with a lopsided smile. "We repaid him," she corrected herself, looking up at Sansa.
"Past time," was Sandor's curt reply.
"Where is Lord Baelish," asked Brienne, a beat slower on the uptake than the Hound, but when nobody replied her eyes rounded in recognition, and her mouth formed a perfect "oh" before she dismounted. Brienne long legs had her half way to the steps before she spoke again, "I bring news my Lady."
Remembering that she was the Lady, Sansa curtsied to her guests, "Welcome to Winterfell. We'll convene in the solar when you've had a moment to wash away the road, and warm up. Arya," she added, less harshly that before, "would you fetch Bran?" - He, was likely lost in the godswood.
Sansa felt cheated, when Brienne alone arrived to recount their tale to the Starks. She had expected his council. Was he not the one who had ventured beyond the wall, was he not the one who had captured a dead man walking, was he not the one who had ridden a dragon. Gendry the Baratheon bastard had arrived days since with half the tale of that fateful journey, would the Hound not share the rest?
Sansa was ashamed, she was thinking like the spoilt petulant Joffrey, instead of listening to Brienne's council.
Sansa
He'd been at Winterfell for days, with little more than that curt nod in Sansa's direction to acknowledge her continued existence. Flesh and Blood, like Gendry, but certainly no bluster. Alive though – which was something. He was sitting at the far end of the great hall, the puckered remains of this side of his burnt face visible to all. Sansa was sure he sat this way to keep himself apart, to intimidate those around him, to make sure nobody dare approach. He could sit anywhere, he was a powerful presence wherever he sat, but perhaps the other way was too hard for him to endure, too difficult to see his disfigurement reflected in the expressions of others, as they came upon his scars unprepared.
"Cook made this special for you m'Lady"
The serving girl had interrupted Sansa's reverie. Shivering, despite the fire, whe pulled the wool of her thin cloak closer and looked up into the child's pretty face, "Thank you" she offered, before looking down at the plate. "Lemon cake? But where did you get…" the girl was gone 'lemons in winter' the unfinished words on Sansa's lips.
When she looked back at the room, Sandor had turned towards her, both sides of his face taking her in, before he looked away embarrassed she thought.
Sansa smiled to herself, but how had he remembered her favourite?
A stupid little girl in a stupid little song might have sliced the delicate cake and sent half to her knight as a token of affection, but the Hound was not the type to appreciate being made a spectacle and Sansa was no little girl.
"Lost your appetite" piped Arya from her side, reaching for the plate.
"Of course not," Sansa slapped away Arya's hand and picked up the fork, "you know it's my favourite."
After a delicate few bites, designed to taunt her sister Sansa relented, and slipped a small half to Arya's plate, listening politely while she prattled on about how Gendry had been studying her dagger, and how Sam was excited by the hilt, and how the Hound had been showing her how best to use it, and how none of them had believed she could swing Gendry's war hammer.
When the Hound rose looking to leave, Sansa, realised Winterfell was large enough for him to ignore her, from within her own castle walls, for months should he choose, her anger rising she decided she must confront him.
Making her escape by the closest exit, she couldn't be sure if she'd made her excuses to her sister, or just walked away. Hoping courtesy was fused so deep to her bones, that she had said something appropriate, she took a breath and ran lightly through the corridors to the door at the far end of the great hall. When a server whisked through heading back to Winterfell's great kitchens, she saw Sandor's seat already empty.
Feeling every bit the stupid little girl she pulled up the great green hood of her cloak, and turned, to walk reticently back the way she had come, past the alcoves and statues and hangings of the dimly lit corridor, until one gruff statue spoke from his alcove.
"Forget something little bird?"
Courtesy her armour, she turned to face him, his eyes twinkling from deep in the shadows of the alcove. Sansa's voice was steady and unerringly polite, "I thank you for all you have done to assist my sister Ser. I hope your accommodations are pleasing."
"Don't play that game" he snarled, "not with me. I've no need for pretty little words, and you girl, for all your fluttering about in that silly cloak, are no caged songbird singing for her knight." he spat, "Not anymore," he added cruelly.
Sansa's face hardened, as she stepped towards him, the wolf, "No Ser," when he didn't take the bait, she couldn't think what else to say but, "thank you for the lemon cake."
"The what now?" his screwed up face a picture of infuriated confusion.
"The lemon cake, the lemons," added Sansa, her voice fluttering, "you brought lemons from King's Landing," she was certain now that she was wrong, but somehow she had to finish the thought, as ridiculous as it sounded "… so the cook could make lemon cakes."
"Do you think me the kind of fool who would cart lemons from King's Landing, through snow, so that you could eat cake?"
"No Ser," replied Sansa, refusing to look away, determined to savour every bit of bile and bluster he had to offer.
"I am no knight," he spat. "I am not one of your stupid songs. I do not seek your favour." His voice was low and hard, but his eyes were softer, asking something different, "I will fight for you, until you slay me yourself. I will stand between you and danger until the last breath leaves my body. I will be your shield until Winterfell falls and we are crushed by stone and snow and ice. But it will never be pretty. Nobody will write songs. I am no knight Sansa Stark, but the monsters will come and I am here," he stopped, searching her face for his answer. "Or will you still wait on your knight?"
"No Ser," she replied truthfully, "The monsters have come, but no sworn knight."
"I am no monster," he was angry now.
"No Ser," Sansa closed the distance between them placing her hand on his chest, she had not meant him "you are no monster. You may frighten little girls. You may take a song or a kiss, and leave but a bloody cloak, but you are no monster."
"I frighten you little bird?"
"Once Ser," she admitted.
"I am no knight."
"No, Ser."
"I took no oath little bird, there is no reason to call me Ser."
Sana raised her chin, the defiant wolf "I shall call you as I wish, I am no silly little bird, and you no longer frighten me. Ser."
The Hound pushed forward forcing her to step back into the wall, the scarred side of his face to her as he growled, "Perhaps I should, little bird."
Sansa smiled, the Hound could not frighten her so easily, she reached out to touch his face, running her fingers gently over puckered skin. "I have seen the monsters Ser. The monsters have no scars to label them monster. Scars are but sealing wax for the wounds of their victims," she told him gently, "for when they cut open the little bird, and watch her bleed the wound must mark, so that others might know her story."
Sansa's hand stilled on his face, as she felt her heart ricocheting through her chest, her breathing heavier than it should be. She'd not meant to be that explicit, the Hound might not frighten her, but that didn't stop her from frighten herself.
Sandor's rough fingers circled her wrist, removing her hand from his face, and Sansa watched transfixed as he pulled back her sleeve, exploring her forearm with gentle fingers until he found the raised pattern of uneven skin he had not wanted to find.
When he brushed aside her cloak, and carefully pealed her dress from her shoulder Sansa reprimanded him firmly, "You forget yourself Ser."
"What happened little bird?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper, a hint of salt tears on his cheek.
Sansa felt sorry for what he was about to hear, but said it anyway. "I fed him to his hounds, and watched as they stripped flesh from his screaming bones until they had eaten their fill."
Sansa was nobody's little bird.
Author's Note: Thanks for reading, there may be more, if it comes to me! x