A/N: Sorry it has taken so long to update this story. Real life and stuff. I'd like to thank everyone who has read and commented so far. And as always, only Serra is mine, everyone else belongs to GRRM
The air was frigid and snow blew harshly against her feathers. Her keen eyes could make out the trees below her that made up the haunted forest, though it had been years since she had seen it. Pushing through the field of white that surrounded it she could just see three black clad men on horseback. She circled down, buoyed by the wind in her feathers, to get a closer look.
She perched herself in a tree branch high above the heads of the men who seemed so out of place against the stark white landscape. From her new vantage point she could see that one of the men was her brother Benjen. She cocked her head and watched with interest has he made his way through the trees.
Suddenly, the air around her became colder, biting through the protection her thick feathers provided. She could feel a familiar dread in the air, and the horses below her began to shy and buck. She took to the skies again and looked out over the landscape. From a distance she saw what she had most feared: darkening skies and an oncoming horde of undead.
Below her the men struggled to get hold of their horses, terror written plainly on their faces as they heard the sound of the enemies they couldn't yet see. Benjen had said that the white walkers were a myth; he was about to learn better.
She dove toward the men, trying to warn them, trying to send them running in the opposite direction. Benjen looked up and for a moment their eyes met. Time seemed to stand still, and then the horses screamed and the men shouted and it was all over before it even started.
Serra woke roughly, sweat soaking through her night shift, and jumped out of the bed. She dressed quickly, barely taking time to tie back her wild hair, and hurried to the hand's chambers. She came upon Ned as he was eating his breakfast, and walked without preamble into the room. Ned looked up and her and smiled. As he took in her disheveled appearance and obvious distress the smile fell from his face.
"Has something happened, sister?" he asked nervously.
"Benjen is dead." She said. "I saw it. He was overtaken by wights."
Ned wiped his chin with a napkin and stood. "What do you mean you saw?" he asked her.
"I was there, just now, as my body slept. I was a hawk flying above and saw it all."
"It was just a dream, Serra." Ned told her. He smiled indulgently, like a parent smiles at a small child. Serra wanted to slap him.
"It was no dream, Ned." She said firmly. "Our brother is dead, and the walkers are farther south than I have ever seen them. They're getting closer, and we sit here doing nothing."
Ned ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Even if it were so, what would you have me do?"
Serra slammed her hands down on the table. "You're the thrice damned hand of the king, Ned. Send men north, send as many as you can!"
"It's not that simple, " he replied. "Men don't volunteer to go to the wall, I can only send criminals who warrant it."
"You have an army! Send troops!"
"The king would never allow that, even if I were of a mind to ask him." Ned told her. "Serra, we've talked about this before."
Serra had tears in her eyes. "That was before they killed our brother!"
Ned put his hand on her shoulder. "I'll send a raven to Castle Black. I'll inquire about Benjen and we'll put the matter to rest."
Serra was beyond livid. "Winter is coming! You send your ravens, brother, and sit here in your comfortable rooms while our ancient enemy comes further south. Jon will be next, and then Caitlynn and the boys. Will you send men when Winterfell is over run? Or will you still think I'm dreaming? You've believed my visions before, why can't you believe this one?"
"Even if it's true, there is nothing to be done about it now." He told her, pacing to the window and looking out over the courtyard below. "I do have something I need to discuss, however. Something more pressing."
"What could be more pressing than this?" she asked.
"My wife has taken Tyrion Lannister hostage." He said simply, though there was nothing simple about such a statement.
"What? Why would she do a thing like that?"
Ned turned back to face her. "There is strong evidence that he was the one who tried to kill Bran." He told her.
"That's ridiculous. Tyrion was the only one of his family who even cared. Why would he do such a thing? He had no cause."
"It was his dagger that nearly killed Bran in his bed!" Ned reasoned.
"That doesn't mean it wasn't planted." She replied. "Ned, you know the Lannisters won't let this stand. There will be consequences."
Ned ran his hand over his face. "I know. " he stated. "As if things weren't bad enough without this."
For the first time since entering the room Serra noticed how tired her brother looked, how aged. "Has something else happened?" she asked him, feeling almost sorry for her anger earlier.
"Nothing I can discuss. Not right now." He told her, attempting another small smile that fell flat. "Tell me about you and Clegane."
Serra rolled her eyes. She had known this was coming eventually, but this hardly seemed like the time to discuss it. It was obvious he was trying to distract her. "S'nothing to tell." She said. "We're friends."
"Friends?" Ned chuckled. "The whole kingdom is talking about what happened at the tournament."
"Nothing happened at the tournament." She sighed. "I gave him a silly ribbon, he put some silly flowers on my head, we both thought it was funny."
"So that was it then? Just a jape?" Ned looked skeptical.
"Of course it was just a jape." She told him. "Why are we even talking about this now?"
Ned took her hand in his own. "Because I worry about you, and I don't want to see you hurt. And because I would have you guard your reputation."
Serra smirked. "My reputation is the least of our problems."
Sandor Clegane was a hard man. He had lived a life full of battle and bloodshed, even before he was a soldier. He survived his life by not giving a fuck about anyone or anything, including himself. It had worked for him well for 28 years, and he had counted on it lasting the rest of his lifetime. The last thing he ever expected was for some highborn wildling to come along and addle his thoughts.
Yet addled was the only term for what was happening in his mind right now. He was wandering the red keep, wineskin in hand, with nothing but the Wild Wolf on his mind. It made him angry, how she had wheedled her way into his thoughts. He had not seen her since the tournament, but he'd faced a dressing down over their "inappropriate behavior" from the king.
As he made his way down the serpentine he caught sight of her walking towards the drawbridge, wierwood staff strapped to her back. No doubt she was heading for the Godswood. He tried to walk the other way, to put her out of his mind, but found with frustration that his feet were carrying him in her direction. Shit.
He knew that she came to the Godswood daily to pray, sometimes twice a day. Since she called herself a priestess of the Old Gods, it was not surprising. He had never had any use for prayer, himself, nor any use for gods. But he suddenly found his curiosity overwhelming his earlier musings. He stalked her through the trees, following but not too closely, until she settled herself in front of the heart tree.
He had heard her lament that there were no weirwoods in the south, and indeed the heart tree of this Godswood was naught but an ancient oak. He wondered if it really made a difference. A tree was a tree in his opinion.
She was knelt down sitting on her feet, eyes closed and head bowed. He thought she must be at prayer already, weirwood or no, but then she stood and pulled the weirwood staff from off her back. She held it high above her head for a moment, tip pointed down toward the ground. Then suddenly she thrust in into the earth beneath the heart tree.
Nothing happened at first, then a white light enveloped the staff. It began to change, to grow. As it got taller, branches sprouted from the top, blood red leaves springing up along them. It continued to grow until the small tree stood two feet above her head. In its trunk he could just make out a carved face, red sap dripping like blood from its eyes.
The Hound took a step back, not believing his eyes. He had seen many things in his life, but never anything like that. Magic had always made him nervous, but this was different. This was more than magic. This was unearthly. He thought he had gotten to know Serra Stark during their long trip together, but now he found himself wondering just who she really was.
She knelt down again in front of the tree and was quiet for a moment. Then she said softly "You can come out, Hound. I know you're there." He wiped a hand in front of his face and cursed his own foolishness. She was a battle hardened warrior, and apparently more than that. Why had he thought he could sneak up on her?
He stepped out of the trees and stood beside her, saying nothing. "Sit, if you're so curious." she told him, without looking up. He did as she bid and took a long gulp from the wineskin. He offered to her but she declined. "Not while I'm at prayer."
He watched her silently then, with her head bowed and eyes closed. Her lips moved but the words she whispered were apparently for her gods' hears alone. Then she was quiet and seemed to be listening. She looked sad suddenly, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. Without realizing he was doing it he reached out and wiped the tear away.
She opened her eyes then and looked at him. Her eyes had turned a luminescent shade of grey, brighter than he had ever seen, and though she faced him she seemed to be seeing something much farther away. Then her eyes dimmed and she was just Serra again, just the Wild Wolf of the North, and nothing more. Her eyes focused on his face, and she smiled softly.
"How long have you been stalking me?" she asked with a smirk.
"I wasn't stalking you woman." He huffed. "I just wondered what you were up to."
"Aye,so that's why you were skulking about in the trees like a bandit." she scolded him lightly. "A bloody noisy bandit at that. If you wanted to know what I was doing, you could have just asked."
"I never would have believed this." he said, motioning toward the newly sprouted weirwood tree. As he said it she put her hand around the trunk of the tree and the white light returned. The leaves and limbs began to recede, and the tree shrank in on itself until it was once again a simple white staff.
Serra handed the staff to Sandor for his inspection, and he took it warily. "A gift from the Old Gods." She told him. "So that they could hear my prayers wherever I go, and so that I might hear them in return."
"And do you hear them Wolf?" Sandor asked her curiously.
"I do, though I don't always like what they have to say." She closed her eyes and wiped another stray tear from her face.
"What did they tell you today to make you so sad?" he asked softly.
"They reminded me that some destinies are set in stone, and anything I do to change them will be futile." She opened her eyes again and reached out for the wineskin.
"Seven Hells, Wild Wolf, "he said, handing her the skin, "You don't need buggering gods to know that."
She drank from the skin and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She was quiet, and her eyes began to scan over his face, as though searching for something. She stared in silence for a long moment until her gaze became too much. "What?" he growled. "Just noticing this ugly mug for the first time?" And he realized this was the heart of his unease. This is why she invaded his thoughts. He couldn't remember a single time since he had been burned that a person looked upon his scars for the first time without flinching. But she never had. From the first moment they met, she had looked right into his eyes, and right past the horror that was his face. As though she didn't see it. As though it didn't matter. As though he was more than the ruined shell of a man he had become.
As though reading his thoughts she scooted closer to him and reached out to him. Her hand was steady but her eyes were questioning, as though silently asking for permission. Then she placed her hand upon his scarred cheek. He tried to wrench himself away but she caught his wrist with her other hand and stilled him. He found he had not the strength or the will to fight her. She continued to study him, eyes roaming over him as her fingers traced the hard ridges of his scars.
"You were so brave." she said softly. "Stronger than your tender years. A child forged in fire, a warrior born. But there is so much rage there, so much hatred, so much pain. Would that I could lighten your heart." He began to feel uneasy, as though she were looking into his soul. He snatched her hand away and pulled back. Serra dropped her hand to her side. "Apologies." she whispered, a light blush rising to her cheeks. Sandor had never seen her like this, open and vulnerable. He wondered what secrets she kept locked in her own heart, and wished that he could see in to her as easily.
"I shouldn't be here." he told her. "The king tore into me about the tournament. He says our relationship is 'inappropriate.'"
"Bugger the king." she laughed. "Ned told me something similar this morning. He said I had to guard my reputation." she scoffed at this. "If he only knew! Anyway, I will decide who I befriend, not my brother and not some kneeler king."
The hound regarded her through steely grey eyes. "is that what we are, Wolf? Friends?"
"I hope so. " she teased. "Anyone else would have found a dagger in their belly, trying to sneak up on me in the trees."
"He laughed darkly and took the wineskin from her. "You could try." he countered.
She smiled at his jape, but then her face turned serious. "I do hope we are friends, Sandor Clegane. I will sorely need a friend in the days to come. This burden that has come to me, its too heavy to carry on my own."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't why you would want the help of a scarred old dog like me. You have your family, you don't need me."
"You have a role to play in this, Hound, weather you will it or no. I have seen you in my dreams. The Gods speak your name to me on the wind. I believe that when the time comes, it will be you who stands by my side in the face of darkness." Sandor reeled at her words. What kind of madness was this? She had seen him In her dreams? The Wild Wolf was crazed, surely. Yet he looked into her eyes and saw no madness there, only sadness and longing.
"Speak plainly." he rasped suddenly. "What burden do you carry. What do your buggering gods want from you?"
She smiled. "I will tell you." she said. "One day I will tell you everything. But not today." with that she stood, brushing the dirt and leaves from her knees. She picked up the weirwood staff and slid back across her shoulders. She reached out her hand and helped him to stand as well. Her face was now full of mirth, as though the previous conversation had never happened. "Is there a decent tavern around here? I have a thirst for ale and rowdy company. Or are you afraid your king might disapprove."
Sandor smiled wickedly. "Piss on that, I know just the place." he told her. "Might be I'll even get myself a whore." They were walking toward the exit of the Godswood, and he laughed when she punched him playfully in the arm. "What?" he said innocently. "I'll share if you like."
Serra growled in mock indignity. "I'll pass."
Friends. He'd never had a friend before. Mayhap it wouldn't be so bad.