It's been awhile since we've had a chapter that's more perspectives than overview, so this one will jump into some heads.

Chapter 21

The light that filtered past the curtains was hazy, dimmer than would be expected for a sunrise. The snow must still be falling. Sandor raised the bedcovers slowly, glancing sideways at his sleeping wife beside him, and taking extra care not to wake her. He slipped out of bed and pulled on his clothing while his thoughts drifted to the things which had occurred in that bed the night before. His cock flexed involuntarily, a shot of pleasure rising through his stomach in remembrance of it. The couple could not get enough of each other, sexually or otherwise, and though he was sure it would catch up with him eventually, for now he could still keep up.

After dressing, he quietly splashed water on his face, washing the sleep from his eyes and running his fingers through his hair in place of a comb. He walked around to the side of the bed where Sansa slept, her hair tossed about the pillow, her long lashes resting on the soft, ivory cheeks he knew so well now. Long, even breaths proceeded from her mouth which was open slightly in an unladylike fashion, but which he thought was endearing as hell. I'll never know what I did to deserve you. He smiled down at her, allowing the rare moment of tenderness, as he placed a kiss on her forehead. She stirred, but did not wake, and after a final glance back at her, he quietly left the room.

Sandor had always been an early riser, and with tensions so high, he would be damned if he'd be caught by the oncoming army unawares. He made his way to the great hall where he would get some food in his belly before going into the practice yard. It had been too long since he'd swung a sword and the crisp, frozen air made him feel alive.

He pushed in the heavy doors and entered the hall where several hearths were already crackling. The smell and heat were inviting, and though he welcomed the invigorating cold of the yard for practice, it was much more pleasant to eat where it was warm. A few other bodies dotted the hall, breaking their fast in relative silence. He moved toward an empty table, preparing to call for a servant, when he heard himself beckoned.

"Clegane!" It was a friendly, morning sort of greeting, and he rotated quickly to see who called, although he was already fairly certain by the voice.

Jaime Lannister raised his mug toward Sandor, a lazy grin on his face. "Come join me. It's been a long time since I've been in your company, and never with you as an equal." His eyes gestured to the table where his food was already in front of him.

Sandor hesitated, glancing at the inviting emptiness of the table he'd been heading for. Damn him. He judged it best to at least attempt to be civil. The man had called him an equal, after all. Unless he's mocking me, which is more likely. Still, there was something of a sincerity in Jaime since his arrival at Winterfell which Sandor had not seen before, and he'd been more than a little curious about it already. His own journey of reconciliation with his past and attempt at redemption which had begun since he'd befriended Septon Ray had changed the way he saw himself. Perhaps Jaime—the man who had always revolted him with his sickeningly perfect looks, easy arrogance, and sharp, cruel tongue—had experienced a similar change of heart. After all, he had of his own accord abandoned his bitch of a sister which said a lot in itself. Sandor grunted and moved toward him, with only a hint of reluctance.

Jaime watched the huge man with curiosity as his leg swung over the bench opposite him. He turned away momentarily to call for the servant to bring food and ale for his friend, and then his attention was back on Sandor, who met his gaze with his usual, unimpressed glare.

"Clegane, I've been meaning to tell you how impressed I am with you." Jaime's drawl always sounded like it toed the line between sarcasm and sincerity. Sandor raised an eyebrow and scoffed, deciding it was likely the former, and his mouth twitched on the burned side of his face.

"What, easier for you to mock me when I'm sittin' next to you, is that it?" He growled, leaning slightly forward so his face was closer to Jaime's. He glanced down at the golden hand of his companion, then met his eyes again. "We're equals as you just reminded me, and there's nothing stopping me from making short work of you now that I'm not your family's dog anymore." He said the words through clenched teeth, his anger rising. "How well does that golden hand grasp a sword?" He sneered.

Jaime raised both hands in surrender, "You mistake me, Clegane, I had not intended to mock you." He looked sideways at nothing, almost seeming frustrated with himself, before turning back to the scarred, angry man facing him. "You have every reason to believe I was, I understand that. I am—," he paused, squinting his eyes a little as he thought about how to choose his words, "I am not the same man I was." He chuckled at himself, surprised at his own admission. "I had hoped that my coming here would make that clear. I backed an oath in that dragonpit and I meant to keep it." He leaned back a bit, hoping his sincerity showed on his face more than his embarrassment.

Sandor narrowed his eyes at the man, unsure of whether to believe him or not. Jaime smiled a little sadly at him, "If I have heard your story correctly, you understand something of redemption?" He sighed at Sandor's lack of response and stared down into his mug of ale. When he spoke again, he spoke to the table. "I know the world thinks I have shit for honor," he looked up again, "and it's too late to change most everyone's perception of me. But I mean to do what I believe is right." He smiled again, somewhat bitterly, "Apparently what is right involved leaving my sister to join your merry lot."

Sandor grunted, unsure of how to respond to Jaime's openness. He took a swig of the ale which had been delivered to him and wiped his mouth, his dark eyes fixing on the man they called Kingslayer. "So what have I done to impress you then?"

Jaime chuckled and seemed almost surprised that Clegane had understood him. "Well, for one," he began, "you're still alive after abandoning the king and your station." At Sandor's glare he clarified quickly, "Not saying I blame you." Jaime pushed the potatoes around on his plate, studying the larger man. "But mostly, it's at how you managed to make Sansa Stark fall in love with you—and even marry you." He shook his head and took a bite. "That's impressive," he finished, the food in his mouth muffling the words."

Sandor snorted, a touch of humor reaching his eyes as he ripped off a piece of bacon and chewed. "Aye, can't say that I don't agree with you. I still don't really know how that happened." He shrugged, trying to suppress a grin.

Jaime caught it and pushed the joke, "So she bewitched you then? Married you against your will?" He chuckled.

Sandor shrugged again, moving past the jape to the true explanation. "In King's Landing they beat her. Your son was cruel to her." A shadow passed over Jaime's eyes and he swallowed, looking down at his plate. Sandor continued, not intending to dwell on it. "I hated watching those fucking knights beat a helpless girl. I did my best to offer her advice and help her where I could." He took another bite and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Sansa was the best thing about that shit of a city and they hated her for it." He swallowed and continued, "I reckon she remembered that I'd tried to help her there, cause when I came here to offer her my sword she—," he paused, unsure of how to explain what had happened. "She trusted me I guess." He looked at Jaime, trying to determine what the handsome knight would think of his story of conquest. "I suppose she could see that I cared for her. The rest just kind of—happened."

Jamie chuckled sadly and looked at his plate again. He didn't speak for a few moments, taking bites in silence. When he spoke again he had almost a wistful look on his face. "I suppose when death is coming for you, things like propriety or greater and lesser houses don't mean much in the face of love."

Sandor looked at the man, truly surprised at not only the depth of their conversation, but at the exceptional change which had come over Jaime since he'd known him years ago in the capital. He grunted a bit and wolfed another bite down before responding. "I would've laughed at that comment a year ago." He pushed his bread into the bacon grease, wiping it up as a grin crept up his face. "But love does turn a man into a foolish little nance." He shook his head, almost embarrassed and actually shared a chuckle with the man he had once truly hated. See? Nance.

"Well, you have gone from one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdoms to one of the most envied," Jaime smiled knowingly. "Sansa Stark has only Daenerys and Cersei for rivals in beauty and consequence, and neither have her innocence."

Sandor raised an eyebrow, "She ain't all that innocent."

Jaime leaned in on his elbows, amusement written in all of his features. "Really?" He took his last bite of food before continuing, "Well the sigil isn't a direwolf for no reason, I suppose. And she has become quite—commanding—since she's come into womanhood. Rather more like her mother than I'd have thought she'd be." He raised his mug to Sandor, "I congratulate you, despite the present circumstances in the world you've managed to improve your situation immensely." He grinned as he said it, preparing to down his ale, when Sandor saw his expression change. His gaze had shifted beyond Sandor's shoulder and all the easy confidence which Jaime naturally portrayed was momentarily shattered. It passed quickly enough, however, and his expression returned to normal as he raised his mug to his lips again, finishing the rest of its contents.

Sandor risked a glance toward the source of Jaime's discomfort. It was none other than Brienne of Tarth who was lumbering into the room. Sandor turned back to Jaime who was forcing ease of manner, yet was clearly disconcerted by her entrance. What the fuck? He took another bite of food as he attempted to process the meaning of it.

Brienne approached the table and nodded a characteristically awkward, "Good morning," to both.

Jaime attempted nonchalance, "Ah, Lady Brienne. I would invite you to join us, but we have just finished." Sandor was too absorbed in reading Jaime's reaction to make any attempt at greeting. He drank the last of his ale, his eyes still trained on the man opposite him. Brienne was responding.

"That's quite all right, I prefer to eat alone," she was the embodiment of awkwardness, and quickly moved on, seating herself at another table. Jaime made a move as if to leave, all the forced calmness apparent in his demeanor. "Well, I should be meeting with my brother, it was—"

Sandor cut him off, grinning as he stood up, and leaned toward the other man until their faces were quite close. "What was it you said? Propriety and greater and lesser houses don't mean much in the face of love?" He snorted at Jaime's face which had lost its color suddenly. Sandor swung his leg back over the bench before muttering at Jaime under his breath, "Death is coming for us, remember." He laughed at Jaime's obvious discomfort and left the hall.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sandor returned to his chambers after breakfast to get his armor and found the maester stepping out of the room. The older man inclined his head and gave a courteous smile. "Lord Sandor, I was just leaving."

Sandor thought nothing sounded more ridiculous than the word "lord" before his name, but he let it pass. "Maester. Is everything all right?" He glanced toward the door.

The maester waved his hand, "Oh yes, nothing of importance, I merely needed to speak with the lady. Please excuse me." He bowed and made his way down the hallway. Sandor pushed through the door with a frown, his gaze settling on his wife who was still in bed.

She looked up when he entered and the smile she gave him made his heart flip. "Sandor," she said. "I was having the most pleasant dream, but then when I reached for you, you were gone." She tilted her head and pouted slightly. The Sansa who graced his bed was sometimes a very different creature than the woman who ran Winterfell.

Sandor laughed, "Don't make that face at me, woman. You'd think I'd killed a kitten with my bare hands." He crossed the room and kissed her head. "I didn't want to disturb you. I awoke at first light and I was hungry." He shrugged, "You wore me out last night."

Sansa smacked him playfully. "Should I apologize? I'm so sorry, my lord, I've brought so much difficulty to your life." She rolled her eyes.

He chuckled and kissed her full on the mouth, pushing her head back into the pillow as he leaned over her. "I'm not complaining," he rasped as he pulled away. She looked like a siren lying there with her sultry eyes and flaming hair. "Now stop tempting me, I mean to train today and you're nothing but a distraction." He stood and began putting his armor on. Sansa laughed prettily and stepped out of bed, removing her sleeping gown in one swift motion.

His back was turned as he clasped on the last of his armor, then turned toward the door. Sansa was naked, standing before her looking glass and brushing her long hair. She hummed lazily, running her hands and the brush through the thick, auburn strands alternately. Fuck it if she doesn't make it impossible to get things done. The blood rushed to his cock as he took her in, his imagination running wild. He could grab her right now, throw her on the bed and ravage her.

He groaned, "Little bird…"

Sansa spun around, her eyebrows raised in question. "Hmmm?" She caught his expression. "What's wrong?"

He made a face that said "Do you need to ask?" and his eyes roved her body. Sansa laughed as she looked at his breeches, a clear outline showing in them. "I'm sorry, my love. Sometimes I forget I'm not the only one in my room anymore. I'll get dressed." She flitted to her wardrobe, her breasts bouncing as she went.

Sandor closed his eyes and chuckled to himself. Gods, she has too much power over me. Stop acting like a damned fool. He shook his head, "I'll be in the training yard," and he left the room, taking special care to rearrange himself in his pants.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jaime watched her in the yard, each blow precise, each step forethought. There was no doubt that she was an incredible fighter. Just observing her was a pleasure. He frowned and wrinkled his brow at his own mental description. Watching her was entertaining, that was better. Her opponent yielded and her eyes met his momentarily. His stomach turned, she has beautiful eyes. Sapphires. She quickly looked away and Jaime cleared his throat, uncomfortable by the direction his thoughts had gone.

What was it about Brienne anyway? She was not beautiful by any means, there was no grace or femininity to her. There was no sexuality like there was with Cersei. And yet, his stomach flopped about like a boy when he saw her. The innocent way she looked at him, the simple truth she lived by, demanding honor at every turn. Jaime sighed, remembering Sandor's comment that morning. Love was what I felt for Cersei. And yet, I left her all the same.

What he felt for Brienne had no similarities to what he felt for Cersei, yet even he could not deny that he felt something for her. It must be friendship; a mutual respect. They'd shared a long and perilous journey together, each suffering, each privy to the inner weaknesses and pain of the other. They shared a solidarity. He walked slowly along the corridor which surrounded and looked out upon the yard. And what other friend has made you feel the way you do around her?

Jaime clenched his fist and determined to ignore his thoughts. The big, redheaded wildling was challenging Brienne now, grinning stupidly from ear to ear. Ah, he likes her. That explains his reception of me. He laughed to himself and pretended that the stab he felt at the thought was indigestion.

Tormund glared in Jaime's direction before he started sparring, determined to show himself as the alpha male. What a fool, Jaime thought, yet he couldn't help hoping that Brienne would make short work of him.

The pair stepped toward each other, positioning themselves for attack, when a horn blast sounded through the chilly air, long and eerie.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooooooooo

The hair on Jaime's neck rose, and every person in sight stood rooted to the spot, listening. Shouts from the ramparts reached their ears, the words indistinguishable. Brienne looked at Jaime, her eyes wide with fear.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooooooooo

Men began running, pouring out of halls and barracks, shouts filling the courtyard. Jon and Daenerys burst into the yard; there was both fear and determination written on their faces.

Jon wasted no time and drew his sword, the Valyrian steel singing as it left the sheath. He held it high above his head.

"Winterfell!" his voice carried across the castle, silencing the chaos which had erupted. Men stopped and turned toward him, listening.

"Today we fight for the living, with fire in our hands and blood in our veins!" A dragon shriek sounded overhead and men scattered as Drogon appeared overhead, landing heavily in front of Daenerys and Jon with scarcely a warning. The beast shook its great, scaled head and roared. The men of Winterfell roared in response, the battle cry and the beast's great movements shaking Winterfell to its roots. It was felt beyond the gates by the armies gathered around them. It was felt by Sansa who'd run gasping from her room, clenching the railing until her hands turned white as the snow in the yard. It was felt by the men beneath the ground who furiously hacked at the earth and stone in hope of finding the key to victory over the army of death which had finally reached them.

Huge thank you as always to my reviewers and faithful favoriters and followers. I love seeing that you're enjoying the story. Keep it up! Eeeek, I'm excited!