Sandor

Sandor Clegane sat in the Great Hall of Winterfell downing the northern sour red and contemplating everything he had heard on his travels about the Starks rise back to power, first travelling with the Brotherhood to the Wall, then with the Stark bastard turned King back to fucking King's Landing, then with the Dragon Queen and her entourage back North to Winterfell.

He heard tell that after her escape from King's Landing, Sansa ended up back in Winterfell while the Bolton's still held it. Rumor told that it was a plot designed by Littlefinger. He didn't doubt that Littlefinger was capable of such a thing but he hated the thought of the Little Bird back amongst enemies. Hated it even more when he heard what her new husband, the Bastard of Bolton, did to her. Rumor had it that her screams could be heard nightly throughout Winterfell. It made his blood boil when he thought of it. But from what the red headed wildling said she had her revenge.

He could scarcely believe it when the wilding told him what befell her second husband. The wildling was there, the Battle of the Bastards they were calling it. The Stark bastard was losing when the Knights of the Vale rode in and saved the day. With a laugh the wildling told him that the Little Bird fed the Bastard of Bolton to his own dogs. "Cold as the fucking Wall itself," he said with a touch of admiration in his voice. Part of him wished the fucker was still alive so he could show him what suffering really was but for her sake he was glad the fucker was dead.

The wildling was a reliable source but they had since parted ways, Sandor south to King's Landing while the wildling stayed at Eastwatch, much to Sandor's relief. He was better company than the buggering Brotherhood but he was a wretched fucker, sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

Soon after their trek north of the Wall, Sandor left with the Little Bird's bastard brother to King's Landing. There he'd seen others he hoped to never see again: Tyrion Lannister, Brienne of fucking Tarth, and his brother among them.

Sandor was not so inclined to despise the Imp once he learned that the Little Bird's first marriage had gone unconsummated, the only way she had been allowed to marry the Bolton fucker. And to his surprise, something of amends was made with Brienne of Tarth. He held no ill will towards her. She protected the Little Bird now and, if rumor told true, she was the only reason Sansa had made it to her brother safely.

But his brother was a different story. There were no amends, no softening of hate and ill will. On the contrary, the things Sandor had seen only instilled in him the sense that there were much worse things than his brother. He no longer feared The Mountain That Rides.

After leaving King's Landing, armies were mobilizing North to Winterfell, then to the Wall where death and the dead awaited them.

Along the way they received news that the Lady of Winterfell had sentenced Littlefinger to death. He thought it was too easy an end for a fucker that lied and betrayed his way to her side. That held a knife to her father's throat and betrayed her to her enemies.

Sandor was within earshot as Brienne of Tarth and her squire discussed it. She was both relieved that the snake was gone but disturbed that the Stark girls did it themselves. He thought she must have wanted to carry out the sentence herself.

Now Brienne of Tarth stood behind the Stark sisters, eyes ever watchful, as Sandor drank and tried not to stare. He was failing miserably.

Of course on his travels, he had heard of the Lady of Winterfell's beauty. With so many men and so few women, bawdy soldiers loved a good tale of a highborn beauty. To both his and Brienne of Tarth's ire, the Lady of Winterfell was a favorite topic of conversation.

She was commonly known as the Queen of Ice among many, from her time as standing Queen of the North. Some said she was more beautiful than the Dragon Queen. Sandor knew this to be true. Others spoke of her with respect and awe, that she was clever and a natural leader. A minority, however, held the opinion that she was cold and calculating and harsh as the winter. They would use the fate of the Bolton bastard and Littlefinger as examples.

Sandor thought it was horse shit. Those fuckers got what they deserved.

He had laid eyes on her from afar as the Dragon Queen's procession made its way through the gates of Winterfell. There she stood, tall and erect, next to her stoic, wolf sister, her cripple brother last.

Neither his memory nor the stories did her justice. Back in King's Landing she was only a frightened girl, on the verge of womanhood, beautiful, graceful, courteous, all the things that are expected of a highborn lady, but still just a girl.

Now, she was a woman grown, tall, proud, with a woman's figure, and so achingly beautiful that for several moments he could look nowhere else. She stood in the snow wearing a dark green dress with a grey direwolf sewn onto the neckline and a fur lined cloak draped over her back. Her auburn hair in a long braid coming over her shoulder. The Queen of Ice indeed.

He remembered all those years ago, his first time in Winterfell, his first time laying eyes on her. How she seemed out of place. A southern child out of place amidst the winter.

It no longer seemed that way. She seemed to belong. More than belong. The way she held herself, proud and beautiful, composed and as though she belonged nowhere else, she looked more like a queen than the Targaryen girl. There was no question who was more beautiful.

A serving girl refilled his cup, pulling him back into the present. As much as he tried he knew he had barely taken his eyes off of the Lady of Winterfell. He had spared a glance or two for her sister. Rumor had it she was a killer now.

He knew there was no "now". The little wolf had been a killer before too. Now she was just better at it, if the rumors told true.

Sandor's mouth twitched in a smirk as another northern lord went to the table at the head of the Great Hall to pay their respects. They deigned to the Lady of Winterfell, not the Dragon Queen or the bastard that should be their Lord. But ever the proper lady, she would make introductions and diffuse the strain in relations.

And Sandor was not blind. Many of the lords were overly friendly, clearly seeking her favor. To his credit, her brother noticed and seemed none too pleased. However, Sansa did not seem to notice. She was courteous to them all, though he noticed her smile did not reach her eyes unless she was speaking to her kin.

He wondered what would happen if she saw him. The last time he had seen her was in King's Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater. He held a knife to her throat and took a song and left his cloak.

Now she was the Lady of a great house. She could put him to death if she wanted. If she was as cold as they said, maybe she would.

He took another long drink.

So deep in thought, he did not notice her sister had seen him.

He saw the Little Bird mutter something to her sister then look in his direction. Then suddenly, they were both looking at him.

The Lady's eyes widened and he noticed a blush creeping up her cheeks. Gods be damned, it only seemed to make her more beautiful. Her gaze was unflinching and he knew she was not the child she used to be when she could not stand to look upon his face. He didn't know how long they stayed looking at each other. He saw in his periphery, Arya look from him to her sister and back to him.

Brienne of Tarth, standing behind them, had noticed their discomfiture and stepped forward and spoke to them. Sansa finally looked away, breaking their eye contact.

He stood abruptly and left the table and the Great Hall.