Sansa
Sansa Stark sits at the high table in the Grey Hall between Bran and Jon, not really listening to the debate they're having with the wildling, Tormund Giantsbane. Her thoughts are elsewhere, dreading her wedding in just a few short days. All of Jon's Bannermen would attend, as well as all of the Eyrie's. It wouldn't take long before the whole Realm heard the news; Sansa Stark married to Petyr Baelish... She hasn't spoken to Jon since he informed her of his decision and he isn't giving her so much as a glance anymore during council meetings. She hoped that with Davos gone he might seek her council—but now Jon turns to Bran or one of his Bannermen, he would look to anyone except Sansa for advice every time. Perhaps he's waiting for me to get over this? It's expected of me to forgive him and move on… Or perhaps he doesn't value my opinion at all. He has never once asked—not without me making him. And when I did he just argued and didn't listen. He charged into battle like a thick-headed idiot because of Rickon. If he just listened to me…
"I've heard reports of conflicts between the Free Folk and the other northerners, the Manderlys and Cerwyns especially have been complaining about them." Jon says to Tormund, who stands before them below the high table, anger simmering underneath his wild, red hair. Jon continues, "I've left you in charge of your people and given them The Gift as their lands. But with winter here anywhere outside a castle or keep isn't safe, so I understand your people's needs. I've ordered the northern Lords to give your people shelter and safety during winter. The only thing your people have to give in return is their service and labor."
"My people? You're their new King. They're your people just as well as mine, Your Grace." Tormund grumbles, narrowing his eyes, "The Northern Lords have been feeding you lies. The Free Folk have been treated like dogs ever since we crossed The Wall, and your rise to power hasn't changed that. The ones who fought in your war are dying in the snow because your fancy Lords won't let them inside their walls."
"As I said, I've instructed them to—"
"They're lying if they say they'll do it." Tormund interrupts him, "You might call us the Free Folk but the rest of the North still knows us as Wildlings. They'll never stop hating our kind."
"I cannot stop discrimination in the north, Tormund. I can only ask that you do your best to work with them."
"I'm telling you, right now, The Free Folk will die before the Long Night ever comes."
"No. They won't." Jon looks at Bran who nods as though he can read his mind. What's he doing now? Sansa wonders, frowning. Jon says, "Tell the Free Folk Winterfell is their home if they need it. We have the room and a lot of work for the men and women both. If the other Lords don't like it then they can take it up with me."
Tormund smiles appreciatively. Sansa, however, scowls at her older brother. We only have enough food to last three months and he's inviting more people in? She wants to voice her concerns, but like always Jon would just talk her down. As Tormund turns to leave, the doors to the Grey Hall opens and someone Sansa thinks she'd never see again enters. Towering over the Stark Guards, covered from head to foot in snow, and carrying a familiar, pale boy over his shoulders, The Hound grunts and whips his long hair out of his eyes and glares up at the high table. Sansa's jaw drops, her heart skipping in her chest. His clothing clings to his muscular body, his hair drapes over the burned left side of his face, and at first, he doesn't even see her sitting there beside Jon. "Can I get some fucking help here?"
"Who the fuck are you?" Tormund asks him suspiciously, his hand moving to the hilt of his axe.
"You a Maester?" The Hound asks him.
"Do I look like a Maester?"
"No? Then get out of my way."
"Why don't you set that boy down and make me, big man." Tormund steps up to him and gets in his face. Neither look away, both men unafraid. The Hound smiles grimly.
"Tormund, stand down!" Jon bellows, and the giant Wildling does as his King commands, though his eyes never leave the Hound's as he backs away. Jon says, "Speak your name and why you've come here."
"My name is Sandor Clegane. I've come on behalf of the Brotherhood without Banners. I found this one on my way north." The Hound answers, glaring suspiciously up at Jon.
I can't believe he's really here. Sansa heard from Brienne about how he had protected Arya in the Riverlands… but Brienne said she'd killed him. He's carrying Brienne's Squire, Podrick Payne, who hangs limply, like a corpse over his shoulders. Maester Wolkan comes shambling out of nowhere, the chain around his neck clinking, to help carry Pod down onto a table to examine him. "He's frostbitten. Could lose his hands and feet. We need to warm him up." The Maester, a chubby bald man, told them. He was the previous Maester for Ramsay Bolton, Sansa remembers, but a Maester served the castle's current Lord and not a House specifically, so he was quick to swear servitude to Jon when they took back Winterfell.
"What happened to him? Where is Brienne?" Sansa asks The Hound, approaching them slowly. Once again, she is amazed by how large he stands, looking down on her for the first time since his arrival, brushing snow out of his hair and onto the clean floor. He doesn't seem nearly as surprised to see her as she was to see him. "They were ambushed in the swamps by the Crannogmen." He says, looking between her and Jon, unsure of who to speak to. "I wasn't there so I don't know. Ask him when he wakes up." He gestures to Pod, who is lifted out of the Hall by the Maester and several other guards.
"He might die yet." The Maester sighs on his way out, "But you also may have saved his life. I'll do the best I can. I can examine you as well, Ser…"
"I'm not a Knight." He growls. "I'm fine. Just need something to drink and eat. Ale, not water."
"You'll have all you need. First, tell me your true name, not what people call you." Jon says.
"He's Sandor Clegane." Sansa says, frowning up at the man who once saved her from rapers in King's Landing. "Brienne was captured by Crannogmen? Why?"
"Who knows why?" The Hound shrugs, "Probably being too fucking loud."
"Howland Reed is the Head of the Crannogmen." Jon says, looking now at Bran and Meera. "Why would he do this?"
"It must be a misunderstanding. He couldn't have known she served the Starks." Meera says defensively. He is her dad, Sansa remembers.
"Of course you would say that." Sansa snaps at her, "Brienne would obviously say she was loyal to the Starks and then he would release her, right? So then why isn't she back yet?"
"You haven't seen it out there, Little Bird." The Hound sniffs, "Nearly died walking through the snow to get up here. It might be wiser to stay south."
Sansa notices Jon's face contort into a curious frown, his eyes going between The Hound and Sansa suspiciously. He says, "I will send Howland Reed a raven. I will command that he release Brienne of Tarth at once."
"And if he doesn't obey your command?" Sansa asks, her hands clenching into fists.
"My father would never betray the Starks!" Meera shouts at her and Bran grabs her shoulder to stop her from standing up. "He has always been loyal. He didn't know. Just tell him to release her and he will!"
"But if he doesn't, what then?!" Sansa yells back.
"Seven Hells." The Hound mumbles, making Tormund snort in spite of himself.
"Silence! The both of you!" Jon's voice thunders across the hall. "I will deal with this properly, you both have my word. I need Howland Reed as my ally and I will not start a war with him, not over one knight."
"All you ever do is send ravens and talk about making allies." Sansa scowls, "You don't understand what these people can do. Brienne is a woman; do you think his men will hold back from raping her by now? If Howland Reed is so loyal then where was he when you called for aid against Ramsay?"
"Defending the Neck!" Meera shouts, red-cheeked. "Freys and Ironborn invade our lands all the time! He can't leave it all unprotected! He swore an oath to your father to do this!"
"Meera, please stop." Bran begs at her side.
Meera rounds on him next, "You should tell your sister to watch what she says about things she doesn't understand."
Sansa wants nothing more than to respond, but Jon yells, "That's enough!"
The Hound is staring at her. Suddenly she is struck with an idea. "Sandor Clegane." She addresses him boldly, "You once offered to save me from the Lannisters and bring me home. I am home now, and you are here by my side once again… May I ask one last request of you, and beg you to rescue my Swornsword, Brienne of Tarth?"
A Heavy silence follows her words. Sansa and The Hound's eyes never leave each other's, and she can tell he is considering her request.
"Sansa, I've made up my mind about this." Jon says but she ignores him, waiting for Sandor to reply.
"Brienne almost killed me once." The Hound grimaces.
"You were with my sister. She was sworn to protect her."
"I was already protecting her." The Hound growls.
"You were the one that was with Arya?" Jon asks, approaching them now with his mouth agape, forgetting that he was trying to stop this from getting out of hand.
"It was a year ago, last I saw her. She left me begging to die. Haven't seen her since. She wasn't hurt."
Jon looks unbearably relieved. "Where could she be now?"
"Probably dead." The Hound scoffs.
"Well I thank you for looking after her. Please don't heed my sister's words, I will take care of Reed. In the meantime you are welcome to stay in Winterfell as long as you like."
"I'll heed your sister's words all I like, if it's all the same."
"It's not all the same. As King of the North, Sansa, I command you to stay out of this."
"You can't stop me." Sansa is glaring at him now, unabashed, without tears. Jon is taken aback, much to her satisfaction, so she continues, "She's my Swornsword and I'm… I'm a Stark of Winterfell."
"Sansa…" Jon trails off, his brow furrowing. "Howland Reed is loyal to our father."
You mean my father.
Sansa turns away from Jon, ignoring his words. "Sandor, will you help me?" She asks, reaching out and taking one of his massive hands in both of hers. The Hound reproaches at first, but she holds onto him. "I would reward you for your aid."
"What sort of reward?"
"Gold. Food. A Keep of your own… whatever you want … and I would name you my Swornsword as well if you'd have me."
"Sansa, you can't—"
"Fine." The Hound says loudly. "You want me to save your bodyguard, I'll save her. But don't make me like her. I'm no Swornsword, I'm no Knight, and I'm nobody's Hound anymore. I'll leave in the morning, but I want a reliable horse that can weather the storm this time."
"You won't be going alone." Growls a voice behind him and she sees Tormund Giantsbane grinning maliciously, saying, "My lovely lady is being held by frog-eaters. Fuck the morning, we leave tonight."
"You can go by yourself tonight. I'm getting a good bloody night's rest first." The Hound tells him and the two men laugh, as though their tension before never even occurred.
"I will not have you starting a war over one Knight." Jon rounds on Sansa and he sounds truly angry with her for the first time. Sansa refuses to look him in the eye, keeping her gaze on Sandor's.
"We won't start a war, Your Grace." Tormund assures the King, "One body, maybe two, but we'll get her out before any of them can see us."
"You don't know that. If they catch you, they'll hang you. Or worse." Jon says, "Let me handle this, I will explain to Howland Reed—"
"Let us go with them." Bran says, "Meera and I were discussing it earlier. We can tell him ourselves. I'm a Stark, and Meera is his daughter. He won't hurt us if we go with them."
"Bran…" Jon groans overwhelmed, giving Sansa a flutter of delight.
"It's ok, Jon. This way I can ask him more about…" Bran hesitates, eyeing The Hound and Tormund, "About what we discussed earlier."
"I'm not dragging a crippled boy through the snow storm." The Hound says flatly.
"You won't have to. I'll take care of him." glowers Meera.
Jon was the only one in the room now against the plan. Even as King, Jon didn't have it in him to argue about this anymore, sighing with defeat. Sansa smiles, confidence restoring in her heart, thankful Davos, Littlefinger, or any other Lords were not here to help advise her half-brother on this. "Fine." Jon says, "I will grant you ten men to take with you for protection."
"That'll only slow us down out there." Tormund says, "Just the four of us should be enough. Quick and easy."
"You will not start a war." Jon warns them.
"Aye. No wars." The Hound says, licking his lips as a serving wench brought him a tankard of ale and a plate of chicken.
