SANDOR

He shoved Joffrey forward into the safety of the other Kingsguard who had taken refuge in an empty indoor market. Whether he liked it or not, the King was the first priority, but when he had heard the Imp calling for Sansa Stark, he had hastened with the boy King clutched to his chest, dragging him through the streets and ignoring the pitiful threats the little cunt spewed out. He had to deposit the boy in safety before he could look for the boy's betrothed.

Almost as soon as Joffrey's feet touched stone again, Sandor ran, his chainmail weighing him down as he made his way back to where he had last seen the girl. Through the arch, into a back alley, and into an unused stablehouse he went, listening for her cries, for she always made such noise when in danger. She was a loud one when it mattered, even if her little chirping lies that mocked him were nearly silent.

Cry she did, and he knew fear in that moment, listening to her scream for her mother, for help from anyone. It was not the sound of a girl about to be slaughtered but a girl about to be raped and he was ashamed to know it well. He had been privy to such sounds before and had ended some of the male participants but he could never save all of the girls. He wanted to charge forward, sword swinging at anything that moved, but he had to catch the bastards by surprise or they would find time to run for it, and he was adamant that none of them would survive this. He made a promise to the gods that none of them would.

When he rounded the corner, walking on the balls of his feet to avoid lending noise to his already heavy footfalls, he saw one of her legs being pulled open to admit her attacker. Her bare thigh was scratched by the fingers that held it and another man began to pull up her dress to give his fellow rapist easy access to the girl's maidenhead.

Sandor hurt for her. It tore at his lungs to listen to her scream but for the first time since hearing that tender little voice shriek, he was able to do something about it. And he would enjoy it.

The men might have exposed her, they might not have; Sandor couldn't remember. He grabbed a fistful of the man atop her and spun him around to look him in the eyes and relish his kill as the man realized who it was that had come for the girl. He opened the whoreson from hip to hip and squashed the innards underfoot. Then he snatched up another attacker and drive his sword through the animal's spine so that he was paralyzed before he bled out. The third had tried to run for it—stupid filth had run directly into Sandor's arm—and begged for his life, but Sandor trapped him to his chest, drawing his blade across the man's throat and relishing the spurting blood that followed.

The air was thick with a copper scent and the stench of piss of the men who had made water as they died. Straw littered the floor along with various intestinal globs of Sandor's kills and some disgusting soul had shit in the corner of the room, but Sansa Stark lay amidst it all looking at him with such gratitude and hope. Her arms were still above her head, as she didn't seem to realize that no one held her down any longer. Her slender legs were still opened though her skirts covered her below.

He reached over for her and she took his hand, her small fingers dwarfed by his glove. Before he slung her so carefully over his shoulder, he saw her steal a glance at his scarred side and there was a softness in her expression, almost yearning.

And he had been lost to her.

That day moving forward, he dreamt of her and longed for her, longed for that tenderness he had seen in her gaze, for no one had ever given him that before. She could not have understood the meaning of her expression if he had confronted her about it, young as she was, but someday, he might get the chance to tell her.

Only, he couldn't be sure that he had lived past that day, for he went to bed with his hair still damp from rinsing the blood of the crowd off of him. He lay in the darkness for all of ten minutes when his chamber door opened and admitted a hooded figure. His hand found his dagger but he dropped it with a hitch in the back of his throat when the figure removed its hood to expose silken strands of luscious red.

Sandor could find no grasp on reality. Was this the girl he had saved from the mob mere hours ago? Or was this the woman who had come to his table and taken his hand—also mere hours ago? In what realm of time did he live in? Had everything that came after the mob simply been a dream, or was he in Winterfell now, dreaming of time past?

Sansa Stark had a woman's face and as she—good gods—as she let her robe fall away, she also had a woman's body. Full breasts, flawless milky white skin, pure perfection.

He attempted to sit up, but she pressed him back down with a hand to his chest. She stood over him, tracing her fingers across his skin from head to navel.

"I never thanked you for saving me, Sandor," she said in a voice he had not yet heard from her. It was hers, but deep and dark.

She swiftly climbed atop him, taking his throbbing manhood in her hand and positioning it beneath her entrance. She mounted him and rode him hard and furious, commanding that every part of him center entirely on her. He tried to say something to her, say her name for once, but his elation at being inside of her struck him dumb and the only thing he managed to choke out was a shameful moan of ecstasy. When his breaths ran ragged in warning of his impending climax, he clutched at her but she pinned his arms down and he found them to be shackled. Then, she reached behind herself and her hands emerged with a flaming rock the size of his dog's head helmet. She brought the rock smashing down on his forehead.

Sandor rolled onto his side and decorated the stone floor in his own sick.

Someone had taken a hammer to his skull and bludgeoned it without aiming so that it throbbed all over. His side felt raw as if an animal had torn away at his mangled flesh before deciding he wasn't worth eating. When he sat up in a bed instead of among straw and swine, he tried to recall the events of the night before. Drinking, milk of the poppy, and the little bird. He had certainly outdone himself in playing the fool: his head told of how much he had consumed and then vomited back out, his body ached from having three adults pinning him down with ungentle hands, and to top it all off, he was sporting a nearly painful erection most definitely as a result of his nocturnal emissions.

As vivid as his dream had been, he knew it now to be just that and nothing more, a twisted tale of his own dark wants. Now that he had a chance to tend to his long-neglected manhood after being so unsuccessful in that endeavor after the celebration, he reached beneath the bed for the chamber pot and taking himself in his hand, he worked himself hard, for he had years of blockage in his system after turning women away. He had only wanted one, the one he could not have and if he could not have her, he didn't want any, so no whore would do.

He conjured images of his dream to aid in his release, trying to recall the feel of her and the look of her, only he knew neither of them to be true, for he had never seen her bared to him and so he hadn't the faintest idea what she looked like without clothes and he didn't know what she felt like, which was the real loss here. He found his release with the image of her bending over him, holding him down, though he couldn't quite place the memory. It might have been from the previous night or a figment of his imagination but until his head cleared and stopped fucking throbbing, he wouldn't know.

Moving gingerly to avoid upsetting the maester's work on him, he wiped his hand on the cloth meant to clean his face and splashed some of the basin water into his eyes to help wake him. In a small looking glass, he saw that he looked—in a word—like shit. He certainly smelled like it and judging by the ripeness of his trousers, he needed to scrub both vomit and blood out of the material.

He smelled of something other than just his own natural odors, though. He smelled her on him: lavender, honey, and lemon. Had he-? No, he couldn't have, otherwise he would be in chains now for daring to touch the Lady of Winterfell and he would not have had to tend to an obelisk of a manhood this morning. But he had done something during the night between drinking himself beyond coherence in the godswood and waking in a bed instead of the stables where he had been sleeping.

It was either go find the little bird and ask her what he had done or wash himself off first. He didn't want to delay a visit to the Lady of Winterfell, but knew she would think less of his request if came to her as filthy as he was. Taking his sword for no other reason than out of habit, he found his way to the godswood without drawing the attention of any of the castle's inhabitants who had drank just as much as he and were in various states of waking.

The godswood was quiet, blotting out the sounds of a castle coming awake with its dense trees. He found the pool he had located last night and saw that it extended further than the darkness had shown him. It was impossible to tell how deeply it ran as it reflected his image back at him, but even if he jumped in to find that it delved leagues beneath the ground, he was in no danger. He had learned to swim when his brother threw him into the river, claiming it to be a game and Sandor had had the option to drown or kick for the shore.

Testing the waters, he found them to be as warm as they had been during the night in the dead of winter. He made quick work of removing his breeches and boots and then scooped great handfuls of water onto them, scrubbing at the blots inside and out with bits of moss until both the smell and the stains came free, then he beat his breeches against a rock to help with the drying process and tossed them over it as he took one step into the shallow end of the pool. He waded in up to his injured side and dipped the bandaged wound into the water to see if the flesh could take the heat. It could, and he lowered himself in, finding the bottom with his heels and walking himself out deeper until the water lapped up around his chest. He pulled off his tunic in one quick motion and checked it for the same sort of stains but only found bits of dried bile on the front. Tossing this too onto the bank, he held his breath and stuck his entire head under the water.

He had not bathed in some time and knew how rank he must have smelled even before the battle but until now, he had never cared how his stink affected those around him. It felt good to run his fingers through his beard and not find filth, to not encounter matted hair at his scalp as he combed out the tangles and grease of gods-knew-how-many days. Cleanliness had never been this pleasing.

Snow crunching underfoot made him reach for a sword that was not at his hip, for he had taken it off when he entered the pool. He considered splashing back onto the bank to get it when he saw that his company was none other than his little bird. How fortunate he had been these past days in finding himself alone with her more often than not. She walked quickly with her eyes cast down, her steps without purpose. It was not in her nature to approach him while he had the indecency of being naked, but he had been surprised by her before. It was an opportune moment to speak to him privately, if that was what she had come for. The closer she came, however, the more he thought that perhaps she didn't even know he was there and that she would be taken by surprise to find him as he was. He relished the thought of her struggling to find proper words but figured that it would be cruel to let her walk so far into the unintentional embarrassing trap.

"Come to pray to your gods, little bird, or did you follow me?" he jested and she leaped back from the pool's edge as if he had splashed her.

He saw her glance at his trousers and then his bare torso before she stared determinedly at the overhanging leaves as she spoke to him. "Forgive me, I only sought solitude."

"This pool is out in the open and you'd have seen me long before you got close enough for me to hear you."

"To be truthful, I was watching the ground, not looking ahead. I had no idea you were here until you knew I was. Again, I beg pardon for catching you unawares."

She wasn't blushing yet; she could be telling the truth. If he stood up to reveal himself, however, she would shade scarlet faster than blood could pump into his once again stiffening shaft. He was starting to become annoyed with the thing, springing up whenever he tried to have a decent conversation with her, whenever he looked at her, whenever he thought about her. His manhood hadn't received this much attention in years and it was trying to make up for that period of disregard.

It wouldn't do to expose himself to her, not in the sight of her old gods if they happened to be watching, but if they were, it seemed a cruel and distasteful thing to ignore the prayers of their worshippers but condemn them for lusting and fucking.

"Well, now that you know I'm here, go about your business, unless it was with me."

"Why are you bathing out here?"

"Because I have all manner of bodily fluids on me after last night and I couldn't think of anywhere else to wash off."

"Last night?" she repeated.

"Aye, don't tell me you've gone and forgotten it as well. I was hoping you could tell me the finer bits since my memory's not cooperating with me this morning."

Was that relief on her face? A blush, perhaps? What had he done? He met the anticipation of knowing with curiosity now instead of dread. If his actions brought out pink tinges in the little bird's cheeks, it couldn't have been all bad. After all, she had been there to help hold him as the maester worked, hadn't she? He remembered at least that bit clearly and she would not have stayed away if he had hurt her.

"You do remember, don't you?" he prompted.

"Of course I do."

"Good, then you can tell me after I get my clothes back on. Turn 'round, will you, I'm getting out."

The little bird spun on her heel, shielding her eyes from even peeking sideways at him as he waded back into the shallows and slid his damp shirt back on. He tried to be quick so that she wouldn't turn back around prematurely and see his eager tool twixt his legs. His breeches were back in place to contain the beast and he was lacing up his second boot when he caught her head turning to the left.

"Unless you'd rather not be privy to a man doing up his boots, you can look now," he called.

She was tactful enough to pause a moment longer on the pretense of appearing ladylike but he knew she was waiting just in case he misinformed her purposely to pull another blush from within her. He took pleasure in her hesitation, her confusion as to how she should compose herself around him.

"How is your wound?" she asked, taking interest in his fingers weaving knots into his laces to keep his boots high.

"Hurts more now than it did before you let your maester scrape away at it. Tried to burn me, if I recall correctly." He did remember telling her that he would accept no form of treatment that involved the use of fire but even if she had passed the sentiment on to the maester, the old man hadn't heeded her and tried to bamboozle Sandor into drinking milk of the poppy so that he could burn away the rotted flesh.

"I did tell him no fire," said the little bird apologetically. "But I should have overseen his work to ensure that he didn't—"

"He didn't. Would've killed him if he had."

"If you recall all of that, what don't you remember?"

"Before that. I want to know how I got to that room."

The little bird fiddled with a silver trout ring on her left hand's small finger before answering. "I took you there. You were far too drunk to walk and I didn't know where your chambers were, so I gave you a new room."

That much appeared to be true, but had she found him wandering aimlessly about the castle and took pity on him, or had he come to her? And if it was the latter, he must have said something quite forward for her to be this uncomfortable in his presence after how at ease she had been during supper.

He never got the chance to investigate further, however, for at that moment Lord Varys snuck up on them in his silk robes and slippers looking like he was about to dive into the pool himself. Sandor gave an inward groan for as quick to wit the little bald man was, he played the game of lords and ladies well and used copious amounts of flattery so that Sandor had to exercise caution to not gag every time he listened to the man. Bowing to the little bird and giving Sandor an acknowledging nod, he said, "Queen Daenerys has called a meeting of the not-so-small war council and requests your presence. She sent a squire to escort you, but I intercepted the boy solely to have the opportunity to visit the godswood where they said you had gone. The past few days have not left me much time to see the true beauties of Winterfell and I confess myself impressed by the age of the place. History has been made in these woods many times over. But the true beauty is in the daughters of Winterfell itself."

"You are too kind, Lord Varys. Shall we go, then?"

Offering out his arm, the eunich beckoned the little bird follow him and in turn, she bade Sandor follow, though he couldn't imagine why.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Sansa, but is Sandor Clegane now a member of the war council?" asked Varys with some puzzlement.

"He is. As of last night when I heard him discussing battle strategies that I thought we might find useful. He has been in many battles and served under the Lannisters for a fair portion of his life. His knowledge might prove to be useful."

Sandor definitely did not remember discussing battle tactics with the little bird, but the meaningful look she gave him now behind Varys's back suggested that he play along, so he did. Varys, however, looked less than convinced.

The war council was held in the library but the stench of the dead lingered here as well. The better-to-do's and well-off's crowded around a table laden with maps and House sigil blocks, moving them about and discussing strategies and Sandor took no part in it, lingering by the window to watch the snowfall. The Dragon Queen, Jon Snow, the Imp, Varys, and their various subjects and advisors argued back and forth about the best course of action. The little bird lent her voice and her sister chimed in as well while their crippled brother stared dead-pan off into space, occasionally coming to long enough to focus on one person gathered around the table as if reading their history in their eyes.

Sandor had heard of this boy's power, how he called himself the Three-Eyed-Raven, whatever the hells that meant, but by word of mouth, he knew a person's past, knew every whim and thought they ever felt. He had given evidence against Petyr Baelish and the slippery bastard had met his end that way. He wasn't a boy to be caught alone with if all of that was true and so Sandor gave himself a reminder to not let himself be cornered by the cripple.

He might have still been in the godswood, wading the length of the pool. He might have been trying to pull memories of the night prior back into the forefront of his mind. Or he might have been scratching his arse and gnawing on a pig's foot behind the kitchens. Anything but this dull proceeding of high lords and supposedly wizened individuals debating whether or not they should rally their forces against King's Landing or wait out the winter up North.

"The men need time to mend. Not one of them escaped unscathed from the battle. Some suffered only flesh wounds, some lost limbs and other precious body parts," said the little bird. "In any case, this is not the army to pit against Cersei's, not in the state they're in. They must have time to recuperate."

"And how long do you propose we give them?" asked the Dragon Queen.

"At the very least, enough time for them to seal up their wounds before you send them into combat against trained soldiers with minds of their own instead of the undead rabble they just fought," said the little bird crisply. "They're no use to you if they die on the march or before they reach King's Landing."

"I do not have time to wait for Cersei to think up new ways of shooting my dragons out of the sky."

"That's all she can think up because we know the other defenses she'll use to protect the city. Let her sit within the Red Keep and dread the day we show up at her gates, but her men are in peak fighting condition, her army backed by the Golden Company and Euron Greyjoy's fleet. We have little more than her own numbers and nearly all of them are wounded. The Iron Throne isn't going anywhere and neither is Cersei, so we do have time to spare to allow our troops to lick their wounds."

Sandor smiled where no one could see him. What a fierce little tongue his little bird had developed in their time apart. It used to be that every word out of her mouth was empty and frivolous, a perfectly recited fib to protect herself but now she was verbally sparring with the likes of Tyrion Lannister and this Dragon Queen who had quite the eloquent and cast-iron tongue of her own.

"So your plan is to have us sit around Winterfell in the meantime, crowding up your halls and emptying your larders?"

"We lost half of our forces in the battle. There are half as many mouths to feed. And you are welcome to have your men sit by in the cold, but reconstruction on Winterfell is necessary, so our taskmasters will be seeing to it that the stronghold of the North is rebuilt."

"I see; the men are not fit enough to fight, but they are fit enough to rebuild your castle."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Sandor, having heard enough of this Targaryen woman acting like the soldiers were disposable pawns that could heal on command to fight her war for her.

All heads turned to him and put him in a very bright, unwanted center of attention. He crossed his arms defensively and stood up, but stayed against the windowsill as they regarded him, some with interest and others with puzzlement as to why he was in the room to begin with.

"You have something to say, ser?" asked the Dragon Queen with a dangerous arch of her eyebrow.

Oh, he had several things to say but only a few that he could if he wanted to keep his head. The little bird and her brother might let him slide by without being courteous, but this woman and her dragons were of a different sort and as miserable of a head it was, he wanted to keep it.

"I'm not a knight, Your Grace, but all this twiddle-twaddle is best left for private conversations, not war councils. None of us are going anywhere when our stitches are fresh and our blood is still watering the grass beneath the snow. I can still smell the corpses we burned, or can't any of you? If you tell the men to march, they will, and they'll die and there's nothing else to be said about it. I have a claim to that because I'm one of the unlucky bastards who bled, as is your knight Ser Jorah, and if I remember right, I had to lug him inside the castle when he couldn't walk himself. He certainly wouldn't survive the march and a boat wouldn't do him much good either."

Jorah Mormont was here now, though he sat on a bench, holding his stomach and looking quite queasy at the moment, which lent aid to Sandor's claim that he wouldn't survive the march to King's Landing.

"Ser Jorah survived the battle thanks to the quick work of Maester Wolkan and your actions, but—"

"Not looking too good, is he? And he was one of the lucky ones. There's others hurt worse than him and they'll pick up their swords and lances to fight and die for you, but all they'll end up doing is dying. They wouldn't ask you for a year to heal, Your Grace, but they would ask for enough time to do you justice on the field. Not a one of them could give you that right now. If you stood in front of the gates of King's Landing right this second against Cersei's army, she'd flatten you like a dung beetle underfoot. And now that the Night King is dead, I can say that corpses don't win wars anymore."

Looking past the Dragon Queen, he saw the little bird hide a smirk on his behalf.

"You've fought in many wars, ser?" asked the Targaryen woman.

"I'm no ser, but I've fought in one, Your Grace; the one that happened a few nights ago. I didn't stay long enough where I was before to become a part of the war there. But I've been fighting longer than I haven't been and I've lived in the barracks with all of those who lick their wounds."

"If you came from King's Landing, how do you find yourself here fighting for me?"

Well, I don't fight for you, now, do I?

"I just ended up here, not like Jaime Lannister who chose to come here. I went beyond the Wall to bring back a wight, I went back to King's Landing to show Cersei that same bloody wight, and then I came back here. The Northerners are the only ones who don't want to kill me, so I stayed."

"And why would Cersei want to kill you?"

"As I explained to you last night, Your Grace, he left Cersei's son to die in the Blackwater," said the little bird. "He was less than a sworn shield to them, just a wall of meat to protect Joffrey, and he had had enough of the Lannisters. His decision put him on the path which resulted in the survival of House Stark, and for that, I have pardoned him of any affiliation with the Lannisters, as you have pardoned Tyrion and Ser Jaime."

The Dragon Queen spared a scathing look for the Lady of Winterfell before returning her attention to Sandor.

"It would appear that you have gone where you will and forsaken your vows to House Lannister, ser."

If I have to tell you one more bleeding time that I'm not a ser—

"Aye."

"Then tell me; whom do you serve?"

Not you.

"Until we burned the last of the dead, I served the living, Your Grace."

He knew that wasn't an answer and that she wanted to hear him swear fealty to House Targaryen, but she would be sorely disappointed. Sandor surrendered all notions to serving noble houses when he forsook Joffrey.

"What do they call you?"

"They call me whatever comes to mind, Your Grace."

Mormont spoke for him now without cause to. "His name is Sandor Clegane, my queen. And he's saved my life more than once. Gruff he may be, but he fights for the winning side, as do we all. And he's a proven soldier who knows the needs of the many far better than we ever could."

"It would be in all of our best interests to hold here until travel is an obtainable thing," said the Imp. "As Lady Stark said, Cersei isn't going anywhere."

"And we're too far inland for her to launch a naval assault from Euron Greyjoy," agreed Jon Snow. "Let them have a month."

Overruled by her council, the Dragon Queen surrendered her plans in favor of her wounded army and dismissed the council. Sandor was the first one out the door, but he hadn't made it far when he was called back by the Imp.

"Rousing proclamation in there, Clegane," he observed. "Though I must admit that I didn't know politics intrigued you enough to attend a private war council."

"If I wasn't there, you'd all be heading South this very moment," said Sandor coldly.

"Don't you mean us all? You are a part of this as well," the Imp corrected.

"Not that I'm aware. I traveled with the Brotherhood Without Banners, so I guess that makes me a bastard freedman. I don't serve any house."

"Not even the Starks?"

"Not even."

The Imp knew something he wasn't telling but the little bastard wouldn't say a word further about it, instead rearing the conversation to a subject Sandor was even less eager to talk about than where his loyalties lie.

"Was that you I heard screaming at some ungodsly hour this morning?"

"Might've been, depends on what you mean by screaming."

"It wasn't a pleasurable sort of screaming."

"That was me, then. And never mind you why."

He made his exit through the back end of the library but was cut off somehow by the little bird who knew her way around the castle and knew its back entrances better than he ever could. She was grinning in a secretive sort of way, her smile wry and playful.

"That is why I wanted you on the council."

"Because I scolded the Dragon Queen like a child when she started to throw a bloody tantrum?"

"Because you supported me."

"I supported the soldiers that're out there bleeding in the snow."

"Which was my suggestion, but coming from your mouth, I don't think she expected someone to be so blunt with her and she certainly wasn't prepared for it. You caught her off guard and that gave the rest of the council time to counter her."

"Congratulations to all of you, then."

"Sandor, about last night—"

Oh, so they'd finally arrived at that, had they? Was she going to regale him with the notorious deeds he had done, or was this about how she had had to stretch herself over him to keep him from bringing Maester Wolkan to an untimely end as the man worked to purify Sandor's infected skin?

"I wish we had not argued, and I apologize for the way our conversation in the Great Hall ended."

Caught in obliviousness, Sandor couldn't recall the argument he had had with the little bird at first and had to retrace his steps back to what had come before the wine. He had started drinking to numb himself to the disappointment of not receiving what he had wanted from her. She had not given it to him even though she was presented with the opportunity. They had argued because she was too frightened still by the harm in telling the truth.

He decided to continue to feign ignorance on that front. "Truth be told, I don't remember arguing last night, little bird, but whatever sins you committed, I'm sure the gods will forgive you."

"Don't be so certain that it was I who sinned," she responded, watching him closely for reaction.

Shit. What have you done, you blundering oaf of a whoreson?

Their deserted corridor did not remain so any longer, for Varys and Ser Davos Seaworth came idling by, watching their exchange with curiosity.

"If that's all then, m'lady," said Sandor, disliking how those words tasted on his tongue.

"I—"

Sandor bowed his head to her, something he had not done in years and it felt as unnatural now as it did then.

He swiped a heel of bread and a water pouch from the kitchens and set himself up in the courtyard to watch the Unsullied shift debris into carts from the battle damage. The curtain wall was in ruins with one section completely flattened, leaving another teetering unsteadily. It would need to be knocked down and then rebuilt, for it was too precarious to continue with the rebuilding process with it still standing.

"She's a big fucker, isn't she?" asked Tormund Giantsbane, plopping down next to him. "The dead dragon landed on her like she was a tower of eggs."

The dead dragon had been hauled out by a team of fifty horses and burned several times over since fire did not penetrate its thick, scaly hide on one go. It had done devastation to the courtyard which looked an even sorrier sight in the daytime. The little bird had not lied when she claimed that Winterfell needed the attention of the survivors, but the Unsullied were only doing what they had been ordered to; none of them knew the first thing about wall construction and reinforcement. They didn't know how to lay the mortar and layer the bricks and stones that would—

You do. You know how.

The little bird wanted her castle rebuilt, Sandor knew how to do it, and she would thank him for it if he did. He was raised on the knowledge of a basic trade after his brother burned his face. His father insisted that he educate himself in work that did not involve sword fighting in case Sandor grew into adulthood as a disappointment and if he did, he would still be good for something. As a stone mason's apprentice, he had the means to make Winterfell stand at her former glory.

Under the pretense of working on the little bird's orders, he recruited both northerners and Unsullied to help him in his task. The ruins were shifted away and recut into new slabs to be used. Wildlings set out into the woods to cut timbers for extra support. Sandor did not dictate, but helped with the heavy labor so that none of his helpers would desert or worse, go to the little bird and ask for a new taskmaster.

They had put in almost four days of hard work when the little bird came to him on her own, looking surlier than he would have expected, given that this was her castle they were rebuilding.

Shading her eyes against the midday light, she noted their progress and then rounded on Sandor. "I never gave the orders to begin construction on the wall. Who assigned you to the task of master builder?"

"I did, or were you planning on waiting until your month's respite was up to start repairs in the hopes that it'll buy you more time from the Dragon Queen?"

"You are three days past the removal of the infection from your bloodstream and in no fit condition to—"

"I'll decide what I'm in fit condition to do," he said curtly, cutting her off. If she was going to be ungrateful solely because he didn't ask her permission to begin the project, that was her choice, but he didn't have to listen to her pretend to have concern for him.

"Be it on your own head, then," she said loftily and strode off.

"I knew you had something for gingers, Clegane," said Tormund, nudging Sandor in the ribs. "You get your sad eyes from looking after her."

She's a redhead.

"Fuck off, wildling."

"She's a pretty thing, mayhaps a bit young for you, but she has the fire in her. You'd be a whoreson to let her slip away."

"Will you fuck off?"

Sandor seized a wheelbarrow and went to empty its contents into the growing pile of debris. He pulled the cork from a water pouch, spat it out, and took a swill of the stuff to rinse the dust from his mouth. Wiping the excess from his lips, he could still smell the little bird's pleasant mixture of scents on him and the sudden realization of what he had done hit him like a spiked glove punch to the gut.

He had kissed her. Her discomfort in the godswood upon seeing him, her claim that she was not the one who had committed a sin before the gods—she was wary of him now because he had taken liberties with her. The finer details were lost to him but from what he could pull from the haze of drunken memory, he had found her sometime in the night and admitted his longing for her. He couldn't recall her verbal response, if she had had any, but the tiny whimper of surprise, the softness to her thin lips, the reluctant craving for more (though he might have imagined that last part) stood out quite clearly in his memory.

And what's more, she had let him. She didn't shove him away or ask him to stop. She had let him touch her in a way that no man should unless he be wed to her. Perhaps she had forgiven him due to his intoxication, but somehow, he didn't think she minded too terribly anyway. For one, she had taken no action against him after the fact and also, she had invited him into the war council.

Was it in her best interest to pretend that it had not happened, or was she waiting for Sandor to remember and approach her on his own once again? He wasn't stupid enough to hope for that outcome, not after he had been the one to initiate everything because she couldn't summon the courage to do it on her own. He didn't want it if she would remain passive about it. He wanted all of her, willing.

He returned to his work, thinking up mad plots on how to get her alone and force her true intentions out of her. She would have to tell him sooner or later and he would have the truth from her before he left for King's Landing, or not at all, though if he received it and it was what he wanted to hear, it might just be enough to make him forget that long, irredeemable road of vengeance. Was she enough to turn him from that path he had marked for himself as a child? Could she be what ripped that stabbing pain from his heart and mind, what freed him from the shadow that the Mountain cast on him all of his life?

She was watching him from the walkway, he knew. He always knew when he was being watched, for it sent a prickle up his nape every time, but unlike those others who could only gawk at his face, he knew she was watching him, lost in thought as he was. He decided to catch her in the act and see how she responded to it: with grace or guilt.

Straightening his back, he pivoted in the mud and lifted his gaze to where she stood. She was taken aback slightly, but she didn't look away, considering him with no telltale signs of anything. It was a game of who would look away first now that he had challenged her. He always won this game because of his mangled facial flesh, but she didn't fear that anymore, so he was interested to see the outcome of this battle.

I know what I did, little bird, and I don't regret it.

He willed that she could hear his thoughts and perhaps she did, for she took one last lingering look and fiddled with the wrist clasps of her gloves before stepping back and walking away.

"She's a true match for you, Clegane," said Tormund with a wicked chuckle. "The way she looks at you is the way I looked at Brienne, my beautiful big woman before the dead took her."

Considering that hanging might be a fair price to pay for smacking Tormund over the head with his spade, Sandor moved off to another section of the courtyard. He didn't want the little bird's glances his way to be compared to Tormund in any way, shape, or form, and if he had to listen to Tormund talk about it again, he would gladly walk to the gallows just for shutting the wildling up.