Being Mikken's apprentice came with its ups and downs, and Sandor couldn't make up his mind conclusively one way or the other for a long time.
On one hand, there was the terror of the constant heat in Mikken's working forge. Being an apprentice—and a very young one at that—Sandor's jobs were few and, for the most part, quite simple. Cleaning up after Mikken was done. Watching how Mikken worked the fire, how he pressed the bellows (which were too heavy for Sandor to manipulate just yet), which tools were used for what purpose. Learning his maths and letters at the end of the day in Mikken's small sitting room.
The terror of working near fire was minimized by the simple fact that Mikken, for however intimidating and surly he appeared, was a good man at heart. He was patient when it came to Sandor's difficulty at understanding sums, competent at explaining quickly but thoroughly every task he did, and best of all, he never, ever forced Sandor to go too close to the open flames.
Sandor knew the leniency was only because he was so young, and he knew as well that he would be expected to do more as he got older—including but certainly not limited to going near fire. Mikken explained it to him on the first night, the progression of his duties as the years passed. He was a very honest man, and seldom cut out anything for the sake of Sandor's age. If there was something difficult to comprehend, Mikken went about it over and over until Sandor could follow what he meant. Grasping what he meant by "should it come to war" took a long time. Sandor couldn't fathom the fact that not only could war break out without warning, but that Mikken would be expected to stay behind and amass weapons to send to their Liege Lord's aid, rather than go to battle. Mikken advised him not to dwell on it.
His days were much the same anymore. After waking with the sunrise, he would eat a large, hearty meal with Mikken, who would review the day's work with a critical eye. Mikken was in the habit of keeping small slips of parchment by means of remembering who asked for what, what that entailed, and most important of all, how much money was allocated for it. Sandor had never seen someone try to go stingy on the blacksmith, and though he knew the northerners were famed for their sense of honor, he had a feeling it had more to do with the fact that Mikken was so unerringly thorough about his work. There was no room for skimping on payment; he simply didn't allow it.
The cook would then take their plates away and wash up after them, while Sandor and his master headed into the forge to begin the tasks for the day. Some were busier than others. If Mikken had too many things to do, he'd often send Sandor at noon for his meal, allow him a brief respite to play outside, and then expected him back in the forge until supper. Most customers came to pick up their requested design in the late afternoon, and Sandor was often the one whose face they saw holding their purchase.
Reactions to his scars varied broadly from end to end. Cruelty exists everywhere, that much was fact, and what Lord Stark had told him about only his men withholding judgement was true. The rest of the smallfolk made no qualms about staring, or asking questions, or tutting in pity, or grimacing in distaste. One woman refused to deal with Sandor, and insisted Mikken be the one to give her the necklace she had had made for her only daughter's wedding gift. Mikken had come out with his arms covered in soot and his face darkened with anger. With clenched fists, he asked quietly for Sandor to go wait for him in the backrooms by the bellows. There was some vague, general shouting, a few roaring curses, and then by the time Sandor was allowed to come back out, the wretched woman was gone.
Gone, Mikken said, and never coming back.
Sandor tried to thank the man for his kindness once, with his hands shoved awkwardly behind his back and his face red with embarrassment. Mikken had barely spared the time to look at him.
"It's only skin, boy. Those who hate you for it do so out of fear. And hating a seven year-old boy out of fear is the same as being a coward. I don't serve cowards." And then he went back to striking the white-hot blade he was forging for one Brandon Stark.
That was something Sandor liked about working in the forge with Mikken. The young and handsome Stark heir visited his shop almost daily, at least twice a week, each day with a wildly outrageous and extravagant request. Not extravagant as in excessively beautiful or lush, but rather complex in design, specific in its use. A blade for gutting fish. An arrowhead for hunting small game. Leather gloves with spiked knuckles, to make ones opponent bleed.
His requests were almost always met with an eye-roll from Mikken and two raised-brows from Sandor. Brandon would laugh, tell them he has the coin, and Mikken would sigh and say, "Give it here then, milord."
That, for most people, was the end of the conversation, and they would then go off to do whatever it was they needed to do. But not Brandon. Sandor liked Brandon's visits best, because the young man (he was scarcely seven and ten) stayed long enough to tell a story, and the story was almost always good.
Brandon Stark liked to talk as though he was constantly making a speech, grand and deep and proud. He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, waved his hands exuberantly, and frequently recounted tales of his glory, all the glory a man of seventeen years could have.
"And the javelin! A fine weapon!" He walked over to the rack of spears and javelins alike, the one Mikken kept on hand for display purposes, and plucked one from the rack. Sandor watched him with quiet, studious eyes, standing in Mikken's shadow as the smithy worked the fire.
"Do you know the first animal I ever killed with a javelin was a boar, fat and red and screaming its fool head off?" He turned to Sandor with a feral grin. With the javelin balanced expertly in the crook of his thumb, he began stabbing the air. "My father and I, we got it into the exact position we wanted first, chased him around both sides with our horses and a pair of clanging pots. To disorient it, you see. And then, when it came running to the tree I was behind, I stabbed!" And he lurched forward, lancing the invisible boar viciously. "Father called it the fattest pig in the north. We ate well that night, and several nights after."
"Did you throw the javelin? Or did you just"—Sandor mimicked driving the head of a spear into the ground, a deeply satisfied grunt in his throat.
The wild-haired man beamed, feral and fierce as the boar he'd hunted. "No, no. You throw, you risk the chance of it running off with your weapon."
Mikken made a sound of disapproval. In those days, Sandor could remember communicating a great deal via vague sounds and general throaty noises (and not much had changed since, either). "Not if you had good aim, you wouldn't."
"Well then. Well!" Brandon's mood soured a bit, and he cast a glower Mikken's way. And though Sandor knew Brandon was too smart to ever try going up against the blacksmith of Winterfell, he felt comforted under the obvious knowledge that Mikken outweighed the young lordling by some stones, and could likely defeat him sparring, as well. The younger man of the two wasn't known for having an even temper. Nor was he wise for his age, according to Mikken anyways.
He's a fine young lord, Sandor, and a good man to boot. That's a rarity anywhere but the north, you see. Mikken had told him such over dinner one night, and they supped on a hearty beef stew. Don't believe everything Brandon Stark tells you. He's some learning to do yet.
Sandor didn't mean to take everything the heir to Winterfell said at face value, but it was hard not to at times. Brandon Stark was made to lead, made to inspire. His words were weapons, gilded with encouragement and pride, and he used them well. And besides all of that…well… In truth, Brandon was one of his only friends. Sandor had met a few of the boys in town closer to his age (Brandon was a decade older than him, after all), but none of them showed half the talent at ignoring his scars as Brandon did.
"Well, how about you, Sandor?" said Brandon, trying to smile as charmingly as he'd once done. The effect was somewhat soured by the moody glint in his eye, a consequence of Mikken's rather unsubtle critique.
Sandor's response was to frown at him, puzzled.
"Your aim! Your sparring! Has Mikken taken the time to teach you a thing or two about how to actually use these things?" Brandon walked over and took an arrow off the rack. "My first weapon was the bow. Not that I use it anymore. Coward's weapon, you know."
Sandor nodded, though he didn't actually know that.
"A bow is a fine weapon in the right hands." Mikken's voice was barely audible over the din of his hammering. "Just because you never excelled in long-range weaponry, doesn't mean Sandor can't. And quit distracting my pupil, Stark."
Brandon acted like he hadn't heard anything after Mikken's critique on his form. "It's hardly the honorable weapon, anyways."
Mikken made another unhappy sound, a hum and a snort in the back of his mouth. "What's honor got to do with life and death, eh? What then?"
"Better to die nobly than to live a coward."
Mikken laughed his raspy laugh, years of working over smoke and soot engrained in the lining of his lungs. "You act as though sneaking through the woods alone on the frontlines of battle, readying the first arrow while scores of men lie in wait behind you, you act like that is cowardice. To battle your elder brother with a sword to the death—is that honor?"
"These are all such singular cases," Brandon rolled his eyes. "I'm talking about the sword! I'm talking about no games, no tricks, no fancy frills or pretty lace. It's a blade against blade, blade against bone. Sandor!" Black curls flew about on his crown as the man spun on his heal, grinning wolfishly.
"Sandor! I think you've been at it long enough, eh? What would you say to accompanying myself to the training yard, getting a good spar in before supper?" Brandon ribbed him lightly. "Get you away from the old dog over here." That was Brandon's favorite thing to call Mikken. The old dog, for his loyalty to the Stark family. For Sandor, it sounded like an insult, but it never seemed to bother the man in question. When asked, Mikken just shrugged and said something or other about liking dogs.
They were big on their dogs here, the northern men.
"Brandon."
"What?!" asked the young lad, with an incredulous laugh. "Oh come on now, Mikken! You cannot possibly have so much to show him in the next hour he hasn't seen or won't ever see again! Let me take young Sandor for an hour or so." Sandor stood there, barely moving, barely breathing, praying to gods he didn't really believe in that Mikken agreed to it. Praying to get the chance to have Brandon of House Stark show him how to wield a sword.
The old man set down his hammer with a frown deeper than any canyon. With a sinking feeling of dread, Sandor could see the word no curl in his lip, the word as hideous as a three-headed troll baby, but before anyone could say anything, the front door of the shop flung open, and an irate, loud, girlish voice stretched from the opening doorway to the depths of the forge.
"BRANDON!" the girl called. "BRA-A-A-ANDON! ARE YOU HERE?"
"Gods, that girl has a voice." The young Lord in question shifted upright, plucked a sheathed sword of the rack, and strode briskly to the door connecting the front room where purchases, pickups and orders were made. With his head stuck out, he beckoned her impatiently. "In here, Lyanna! Gods, hasn't your Septa taught you a thing about visiting guests?"
Brandon stepped back to let her through, absolutely no one listening to Mikken's groans of dismay.
"Hello, Mikken! How are you today?" A brightly-smiling, grey-eyed girl with hair as dark as her brother's but neatly groomed entered the room, giving a small, perfunctory curtsey to the owner of the house. After which, she made a face at her brother as though to say, are you satisfied now?
Brandon scoffed and shook his head, twirling the sword in hand.
"Oh! Hello, Sandor!" The young girl smiled brightly at him, and gave a little wave. She did not curtsey, nor did she begin to spout pleasantries like a fountain like most ladies did for other boys his age and older. Instead, whenever she saw Sandor, Lyanna Stark would raise a hand and wave it, pair it with a bright and cheery hello Sandor!
He liked it. He liked her a great deal. When she met him for the first time, she hadn't even flinched at the sight of his scars.
"Lyanna!" Brandon wheeled around to face her with a frown bemused and disappointed. "Shouldn't you be in your lessons?" he asked, leveling the tip of the sheathed sword at her, sliding into a playful fighting stance.
The girl's cheer slid away at once, and her face grew dark with contempt. A hand swatted the sword like a pesky fly, casting it aside. "I hate lessons," she pouted at him.
"That isn't a reason, I'm afraid." But Brandon made no move to walk Lyanna back to the castle, nor to even send her from the room. "Father will be furious when he finds out you skipped them. And poor Ben, left there on his own to suffer Maester Walys' lectures. How could you, really Lyanna?"
"Oh hush." Lyanna crept closer to Sandor, away from the sword Brandon was cautiously wielding. Mikken had gone back to his work, grumbling under his breath about ants running about under his feet, and favors for the Lord of Winterfell. "I came to find you anyways. Father was looking for you. Said something or other about your visit to Barrowton."
"Oh?" Brandon puffed up in the chest a bit at that. "Likely wants to discuss what he'll be giving me to take there. And I suppose you'll be wanting to come with me, little horse-rider?" He grinned down at his sister, and wrapped a firm arm around her shoulders, gave her a squeeze.
"Yes, I will! Brandon, stop!" But she was laughing, the pair of them so uncannily alike in their joy that Sandor had to turn away for a moment.
Lyanna's warm interactions with Brandon reminded him terribly of his sister. He missed her fiercely, missed her sweet, milky smell. She was only a baby—not even a full year old—but she was the only real family he had left, or the closest one anyways. Mikken was a good teacher, and he liked him very much (and he liked being away from Gregor too). But in the south, he had been able to play with little Elinor as he pleased, often sneaking into her nursery after leading Gregor away from the very place on a wild goose-chase. Gregor liked to torment Sandor in any way possible—his facial scarring a final testament to the fact—and Sandor would die before letting baby Elinor fall prey to him next.
After creeping into the nursery and sending her nursemaid—a rather robust woman named Ilana—on her way, he would then lay her atop a blanket on the floor, pretend to eat her toes and talk at great length to her about the evil pack of monsters living under the stairwell to the kitchens.
"Don't worry, Ellie," he'd say. "I'll protect you."
Those words haunted him anymore. What good was he doing protecting her, when he was with Mikken and she was nowhere to be found?
Because Sandor hadn't seen his sister since they parted. Not once.
And now, seeing Brandon and his young sister speak so freely, so happily with one another—it hurt him in a way he was unfamiliar feeling.
"Seems I ought to get back then. Stop bothering Mikken anyways." Brandon clapped the man on the back, earning him a scowl.
"Good. Go." Mikken turned his broad back to them, the shirt he wore torn through in several places and caked in grime and sweat from the hard labor. "And…take the lad with you, why don't you."
"What?" Sandor tilted his head at the man in confusion. "But I thought you wanted—"
"Never mind that."
The heir to the north made a pleased sound, a deep throaty laugh, and he practically swept Sandor out of the forge in his happiness. "Come on, Sandor! You can dine at the castle with us tonight!"
"I don't think—"
"Oh, it'll be such fun!" Lyanna skipped alongside him, taller by only a few inches, and smiled down at him. Her dark eyes were twinkling in that moment, two blue pools of sea water and stone.
Even then, before it had truly all begun, he was unable to refuse her anything.
Dinner with the Stark household was altogether enjoyable, in spite of a few unfriendly stares his face earned. He tried not to let it bother him, like Mikken advised weeks ago, but it was difficult, and the urge to shout at the top of his lungs was mounting by the day. Being surrounded by the Starks helped a good deal, though, for none of them carried judgment in their gaze, and in fact all had kind words for Sandor.
"What's it like, working for Mikken?" Benjen, a dark-haired boy much like his eldest brother, asked through a mouthful of potatoes.
Sandor glanced at Lord Stark to see if the man had spotted his son's poor form of table manners (he had not, deeply engaged in a conversation with his Maester instead) and then looked back to Benjen. The boy was only a few years older than Sandor, though he still preferred Ben's older brother, if he was being honest.
"Good, I s'pose." He didn't have much to compare it to, anyways. It was better than his life back in Clegane Keep; that was all that needed to be said.
"It must be a lot of hard work." Lyanna spoke with a musing tone, twirling her fork in the air as she did. "Does Mikken keep you at it all day?"
"No. He lets me take a break for lunch, and another before dinner." Sandor scratched the back of his head, a bit awkward. He knew very well that he was far below the other children at the table, in as far as station went. His clothes, his shoes, his hands—they all felt unclean, even though Lyanna's dress was soiled at the hem, and Benjen's hair had hints of branches and twigs lining the roots. Sandor tried for a change in subject. "Um…so what's it like living in Winterfell?"
Lyanna made a noise of derisiveness, entirely too bitter for her young age, and Benjen grinned into his plate. "It's a giant dungeon. No one lets you say or do anything you want."
"No one lets you say or do anything you want no matter where you go," Brandon piped up, in the middle of loading a roll of soft baked bread onto his plate. His third, Sandor suspected. "At least you're well-fed here."
"Yeah. Well-fed until it's time to sell me off." Lyanna's vigor slumped with her shoulders, and she turned her pretty face downwards. "Hopefully I'll get to stay in the north."
"That's the spirit, little sister." Brandon nudged shoulders with her, bumping her into Benjen slightly. "Besides, I can always pummel anyone who mistreats you. Just say the word." Brandon raised one fist and pretended to jab it across the table. "Dead."
"Brandon Stark, I hope you're finding time between punching and shoving to show an example of proper manners to your brother and sister." Rickard, who must have caught Brandon's movement in his peripheral, spoke loud enough for the whole table to hear. Lyanna and Benjen clapped a hand over their mouths at the same time, stifling their laughter hastily.
"Yes, Father." Brandon's reply, almost too quiet to be heard, made Lyanna and Ben laugh only harder.
"Good." Rickard leaned forward suddenly, and spotted his two younger children doubled over in their chairs. "For gods' sake, Lyanna. Sit up. And Benjen, get your hand out of your mouth. Young Sandor here will think you were all raised in a barn."
Lyanna, looking sorely tempted to respond with something witty and doubtlessly disrespectful, bit her tongue with a hopeful glance at Brandon, plainly seeking out moral support.
He just glared down at her, a brow raised as though to say, really?
Her head dropped half an inch with disappointment. Sandor, meanwhile, watched from his peripheral, entranced by the ordinary interactions of the Stark family. They didn't resemble any sort of family gathering he'd partaken in before. Rickard Stark, sharing a meal with the Maester. Brandon the heir, bantering with his youngest siblings. There was another brother, Sandor had heard talked of, but he had yet to meet the mysterious Eddard Stark. All he knew of the boy was that he was quiet, humble, only slightly younger than Brandon, and (in the words of Lyanna) a terribly wicked fiend for leaving me here with our stupider brothers. And then there was Lyanna and Benjen, willingly talking to the strange ward from the south who had been welcomed at their table due to some string-pulling of his grandfather.
His grandfather… Sandor thought of the man quite often. Memories of Aldor grew dimmer and fuzzier, but the sound of his voice remained strong, echoed by Sandor's own childish voice each night before he went to bed.
A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. It was his waking prayer and his last goodnight. He whispered it to himself before falling asleep, tucked under the heavy furs Mikken had accumulated over his lifetime.
Lyanna drew him from his thoughts with a nudge and a grin, and pulled him back into the conversation with a crude jape about Benjen's ears, to which Benjen began whining and protesting, and Brandon coughed through his laughter, and Sandor drank in the experience like it was the finest glass of sweet wine he'd ever had.
The rest of the night passed in much the same way, and before he knew it, the time had come to say goodbye for the evening. "Mikken will be wondering if I've stolen you, no doubt," Lord Stark spoke with a hint of a grin, enough to make Sandor relax as he bowed, the way Mikken himself had taught him.
"Thanks to you, for hosting me at your table, Lord Stark, Lord Brandon, Lord Benjen, Lady Lyanna." He stood upright once more. "May the gods be with you."
"And you, Sandor Clegane." Rickard Stark nodded at him in farewell. "Go quick now, lad, before it gets any darker. Winter is coming."
Ah, if only he had a silver stag for every time he'd heard that since arriving in Winterfell.
He made his way out of the castle with steady steps, unhurried but straight and precise. Mikken might have given him the night off, but he didn't doubt he'd have to make up for it in the morning. In his head, he was reviewing all he'd learnt about being a blacksmith, but his heart kept calling back the memory of Lyanna's smile and Benjen's hand clapping his shoulder warmly between his squeaking laughter.
He was so consumed by his thoughts that he didn't hear the footsteps racgin up from behind him until his stalker was upon him.
"Sandor!" Lyanna's soft hand went to touch his arm, but he pulled away quickly, unprepared for the touch. The moment he realized what he'd done something like shame welled inside of him, though it was a reflex he couldn't control. Affection was unheard of in his few years; not even his grandfather had spared more than the occasional pat on the back or friendly tousle of hair, and those instances were especially rare.
"Oh, sorry." She chewed her lip for a second. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"S'fine," he mumbled, trying to adjust his eyesight in the darkness. All that existed to light his way were the burning flickers of torches lit on the walls, no moonlight or starlight on such a cloudy night. "Did you need something of me, Lady Stark?"
At once she made a disgusted sound. "Yes! I need you to swear to never call me Lady Stark again. Just Lyanna, please."
"Sorry. Do you need something of me, just Lyanna?"
Lyanna's face, at an age on the cusp of childhood and adulthood, smiled radiantly at him, a slow, sugary show of her white teeth. The wild gleam flickered in the torchlight, red and orange in the dark, murky blue, and amusement danced in her gaze as plainly as the reflection of flames.
"Yes. I like you, Sandor. I forgot to invite you back here. You should come play with us. Brandon's too old now, he says. But Ben and I know how to have fun." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Sometimes we even borrow Bran's old swords from the armory and play knights and dragons in the godswood. No one finds us there."
He didn't think to question her logic. Sandor swallowed roughly, and glanced at his toes as his face heated and the rest of his face turned as red as the angry unhealed wound on his cheek. "I don't know… Mikken keeps me busy."
She shrugged cheerfully, undaunted by his hesitance. "We'll find a way."
He didn't doubt that she really meant it.
"See you soon, Sandor!" She waved at him as he walked away, and kept waving even as he left her standing there, until her body was nothing but shadows in the night.