CHAPTER 2 – THE VILLAGE

Covered in mud, tired, hungry, Sandor threw himself out of Stranger's saddle and stalked toward the inn's stables in a foul mood. How many more of these worthless villages will I have to search before I find her? If she's even still alive to be found! The stable boy shrank away from him, nodding mutely to Sandor's gruff instructions.

He came around the front of the building and saw a couple about to enter. The woman chanced to turn aside and the shock hit him in the chest like the hoof of a flailing horse. Her. Her hair was hidden beneath the hood of her cloak but her face, pale and lovely as ever, was as he remembered it. Her mouth fell open in surprise and she paused, causing her companion to look at her. Sandor, frozen in place, fumbled for something to say. He was going to go to his knee and pledge his sword to her then and there but the man next to Sansa stepped forward. Littlefinger. The corner of Sandor's mouth twitched. He'd known, of course, that Petyr Baelish was Lord Protector of the Vale but to find him here with Sansa . . . His fingers flexed toward his sword.

"My lord." Sansa stepped toward him and looked into his face. She seemed mildly perplexed but otherwise calm.

"Lady Sansa." His guts writhed. He'd spent so long thinking of finding her that he'd never really considered that she might not want to be found. By him. She didn't look at all disturbed by Littlefinger's company.

"Your arrival is unexpected indeed," intoned Littlefinger as he stroked the end of his pointed beard. "Are you a gift from our sweet Cersei?" His lips curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"No, I don't serve the Lannisters."

"Ah, so the rumors are true, then. One never knows what to believe." Baelish fixed him with an appraising look. "What brings you to the Vale, Clegane? You may not serve the Lannisters but I do."

Sansa's eyes hadn't left him, though he would not return her stare. He knew Littlefinger was far more observant than he liked to let on.

"If you've heard one rumor, you've probably heard another. King's Landing was slipping out of the Lannisters' grip before winter came."

"A grip is easier to maintain on a leash than an entire city, one would think." Littlefinger paused, gauging Sandor's reaction. "Desertion is such an ugly word."

Sandor kept his expression neutral. He'd witnessed years of Littlefinger's slimy probing, using his words to incite and inveigle. "So is kidnapping."

Littlefinger laughed without mirth. "As you said, King's Landing was becoming a dangerous place."

Sandor did not reply.

"If you haven't been sent by Cersei, and it's a fine thing for you that you're weren't, you know what she's like when she's kept waiting, then who sent you?"

"No one. I'm my own master now."

"How very impressive," Baelish answered in a tone dripping with sarcastic condescension. "And where are you going?"

"North."

Littlefinger's lips pressed into a thin line. He seemed to consider something for a moment. Sandor assumed he was trying to determine to which northern lord Sandor meant to offer his sword. It came as a small surprise when he said, "The Vale is 'north.' Perhaps you might consider being of service here. At least until you decide to take yourself elsewhere, being your own master and all."

"I won't serve you, or the Lannisters through you."

"Such principles. Such . . . honor." Littlefinger stretched his face into a grin. "I'm sure we could find a place for you in our household that would not involve your usual skills."

Sandor was certain a raven would leave for King's Landing within the hour, and that Littlefinger was detaining him. Not that anyone sent to apprehend him would reach the Vale with anything approaching speed . . . He stole a glance at Sansa. She tipped her head just slightly.

With some words about not staying long, Sandor accepted Littlefinger's offer and so found himself back in Sansa's company, if at arm's length. Littlefinger apprenticed him to the smith, an old man who, while still strong, lacked the stamina for all of the metalwork the castle needed. The man, Rogald, was glad of some company as the gossip had gotten stale over the winter. Sandor's arrival seemed to grease the old man's jaws and he talked from dawn to dusk, as Sandor pounded away on the anvil, making crooked horseshoes, useless kitchen implements, and misaligned tools. Rogald nodded over everything Sandor made, saying, "Well done, well done," without leaving his stool by the fire where he leaned against the wall, hands clasped on his ample belly, acquainting Sandor with the minutiae of the Vale's domestic history. Sandor wanted to drive his hammer into the old man's skull but every now and then he'd relay something interesting. Over time he heard about Sansa's arrival under the name of Alayne Stone, the death of Harry the Heir, and, best of all, the Lord Protector's rumored illness contracted from his late wife.

Sandor observed Sansa during meals and he misliked the proprietary manner of Littlefinger's attentions to her, although Sansa herself did not seem to object. He watched in silence, wondering why he bothered staying. Every now and again he and Sansa met by chance and exchanged a few words, and Sandor felt he could endure the Vale a little longer. Even if he did leave, where would he go? Finding Sansa had been his goal, or so he'd thought. He realized now merely finding her wasn't enough, and it was a daily frustration.