AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've been awaiting the return of my muse which came back in the form of needing to draw a portrait of Tyrion for a friend. I hesitated to begin another story, but I wanted one that covered the Great Battle with the dead because I feel like that was the build up of 8 seasons, the threat of the White Walkers, not Cersei. This will be slow-coming since I'm not nearly as far into planning this one as I was when I first posted my other story to this website. I hope to make it as entertaining for you all as my last one was. As always, I appreciate your feedback and your dedication to reading.
Things that deviate from the show:
-Bran is not a complete and utter emotionless, useless sack
-There is no subplot in which Littlefinger tried (and ultimately failed) to divide the Stark sisters and died because that was stupid as hell. He's still alive at this point.
-Cersei decided to not be a dunce and agreed (and is following through) on leading her army North to help fight in the Great Battle
-The dead have not yet broken through the Wall
-There will be very little Jon/Daenerys because I don't want there to be, sue me
Takes place during Daenerys and Co.'s arrival in Winterfell at the beginning of Season 8, excluding the above info.
Happy reading!
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SANDOR
No sooner had he dismounted his horse that he felt a prickle run down his nape and he revolved slowly on the spot to see an enormous white wolf with vivid red eyes staring unblinkingly at him. He had seen the head of Robb Stark's direwolf, a giant thing that dwarfed the body to which it had been crudely and savagely sewn. The size of that wolf's head had left Sandor in awe at such a massive creature, but to see an intact wolf now with its gaze focused solely on him made him wish he had stayed atop his horse or better yet, kept riding and never come inside the damn castle to begin with. He had heard tell of how intelligent these creatures were, how they could sense a man's motives and pounce upon those it felt threatened by.
Could this wolf sense what he had done against House Stark? If it did, it should be able to sense what he had done for them as well, but the stench of the Lannisters was hard to wash off, even years later.
The wolf's head dipped forward as it sank into what was unmistakably a stalking crouch and Sandor braced himself to drop, leap aside, or fucking run for it. A miniscule twitch in the wolf's maw indicated that it was about to charge with its teeth bared. In a courtyard full of people, not one seemed to notice the albino wolf about to run down its prey.
Sandor prepared himself for a fight that would not end in his favor, vaguely wondering what they would do with his body…
The wolf pounced, throwing its front paws up onto his shoulders and knocking him backwards into the hitching rail. Sandor's hands flew up to protect his face as he waited for the jaws to close around his forearm. He felt an uncomfortably cold and wet nose poking into his scarred side, investigating the burned flesh. The wolf's weight was too much for him to remain standing and he dropped to one knee. More insistent prodding at the hole that used to be his ear and then the weight was gone from his shoulders as the wolf turned tail to go cause some other unfortunate bystander to shit themselves in shock.
Feeling snow soak into the knees of his breeches, Sandor stood up and turned back to his horse when he saw a small figure standing between him and his mount. Her hair was no longer a tangled mess that suggested she could be a boy or a girl but combed into the Northern style. She was dressed in Northern leather armor with the smallest hints of her house colors peeking out here and there. Her hands were folded behind her but at her hip she still had the irritable piece of steel with the thickness of a fire poker. The look of cold recognition was prevalent on her face as she regarded him with something short of disgust.
"I half expected him to at least take a sizable bite out of you," said the girl.
"And if he had, you would have left me bleeding and dying in the shit and mud just as you did before," Sandor shot back.
"He wouldn't have, though. Wolves don't pick fights with dogs unless they have to."
"What sort of wolf are you then, always running your fucking mouth at me just to hear yourself talk?"
"I'm a wolf of a different sort now. But it looks like you're still a drunk dog." She nodded at the wine pouch hanging from his saddle.
"If I had been drunk as often as I wanted to be while I had you with me, you wouldn't be here to bitch about it, so don't stand there and toss about insults to try and get a rise out of me. There's worse and more grating things than you to kill in the days to come."
"Precisely why I'm standing out in the cold talking to you when I could be making better use of my time. You have information I need."
Did he, now? She had need of him, did she? There was some amusement to be had in that knowledge.
"You fought them, the dead. You've seen them, heard them—"
"Smelled 'em," added Sandor, remembering the overpowering stench of long-rotted flesh. Even with the cruel cold of everlasting winter north of the Wall, he could still smell them in their countless numbers.
"I hear that they can only be killed with dragonglass."
"Or Valyrian steel."
The Stark girl pulled her cloak aside to show him an ornate handle with a single ruby encrusted in the center. He didn't know how she'd come by a Valyrian steel dagger (no doubt she'd stolen it from a lesser master), but now that she had it, it might just serve her well.
"Are they fast?" she continued. "Do they move as one or individually? Do they fight with the experience they had while they were yet living beings, or do they hack away mindlessly?"
They were all of those things and none of those things. They were constant and tiring. They were—
"Endless, that's what they are. You kill one and a hundred more take its place. That's why we're not gonna win," Sandor told her resolutely.
"Is it 'we' already" asked the girl. "Do you fight for the Starks and the North, for the Dragon Queen and her Unsullied and Dothraki?"
"I'll never serve again, girl, you can be damned sure of that. I fight for myself and I have something in common with all of these stupid fuckers about to fight an unbeatable army: I'm not dead."
His answer did not please her, but he had none other to give her. She had that dumb Stark bravery about her, ready to face any foe with reckless valor and lying out her arse about being frightened by it. If she planned to be in the thick of things, fighting alongside seasoned warriors, she would see. When the dead swarmed and came for the North, she would see…
She slunk away into the shadows without a parting word and he gave an impartial shrug to himself.
He pulled the cap off of his wine pouch with his teeth and spat it out to drain the rest of the thing but choked on the lot of it when he saw that he had an audience. She was watching him from the hoarding above, expressionless and untelling apart from a slight, almost invisible hitch in her chest as he caught her in the act.
She looked much the same but her face was fuller, no longer hollow and frail as it had been as a child. Instead of the nonsensical frilled and revealing silks of King's Landing, she was dressed in a cloak with fur trimming and underneath, what appeared to be black upon black, so ill-fitting for a woman of her complexion. Her hair was braided in the Northern way, though not the same as when he had first laid eyes upon her in this very courtyard. Being the Lady of Winterfell meant she now had to look the part and she had inherited the right to wear a proper Northern lady's styling of both hair and wardrobe. It both suited her and did not suit her at all, staging herself to be what a situation or others had commanded that she be. She had been Joffrey's loyal betrothed then and she was now a devoted lady of a Northern stronghold.
But still a little bird, still a frightened little thing.
And beside her with his pointed chin and immaculately styled goatee in the same rich furs made entirely of black and grey—was Lord Petyr Baelish. Sandor had last heard that the man had wed Lysa Arryn, but he was not about to hand over Arya Stark to the late lady's widower. Near on four years ago that had been, so what in the hells was Littlefinger doing here now?
That shouldn't be a question Sandor was even asking, given the circumstances. So many were here now—wildlings, Northmen, lords of King's Landing's court, misfits and wanderers the lot of them. In a place where both Brienne of Tarth and the last Targaryen could gather, it was no wonder that Littlefinger would be here as well.
"You want to fuck her," said a deep, gravelly voice.
The wildling Tormund Giantsbane was sauntering toward him with a devilish look to him that suggested he had been watching Sandor for nearly as long as Sansa Stark had. Bringing up the rear was Beric Dondarrion now with a full beard and perhaps a few more scars.
"How many times do I have to tell you to fuck off before I can get rid of you?" Sandor asked Beric in greeting.
"At least once more," said Beric, glancing up to where the Lady of Winterfell was conversing with Littlefinger. "A pretty thing she was when I last saw her, but she's a right beauty now, as befits her status. As stunning as her mother ever was, if not more."
Sandor really could not give two shits if the girl measured up to the beauty standards of her mother. She was the same as she had ever been, only taller—and with full breasts. She had a woman's body now and Sandor had to wonder if she had experienced a woman's pleasure even though it was not his place to wonder such a thing. He wondered how she had come home to Winterfell, who had brought her here, and what had given her that unfeeling look that did not look at home on her face. As a young woman in Joffrey's court, she was a sad, miserable little thing, but that goodness in her instilled by a proper upbringing could not be stamped out. Even a whinging piece of shit like Joffrey could not break that kindhearted part of her—but someone else had.
Someone else had damaged her and given her cause to look so distant and solemn. Sandor had an urge to know who had done such a thing. He needed to know who had etched that expression of betrayal and sorrow onto her face—and kill them if they yet drew breath. It wasn't his place to bring that justice to her, but foolish child as she had been, she had been one of the few good things in this world and the person responsible for taking that from her deserved death.
A soldier approached them, pockmarked face looking like he had served several masters to survive the handful of wars the Seven Kingdoms had seen in the past several years. An experienced man, a tired man, and one of many that they had at their disposal to fight the dead. Sandor had to shake the feeling of foreboding doom that every face he saw around him might add to the dead army in just a manner of weeks. The thousands of men, women, and children preparing for war might die and come back with cold, lifeless blue eyes.
"Sandor Clegane and Beric Dondarrion," said the soldier, "Her Grace, Lord Snow, and Lady Stark request your presence in the Great Hall."
Wondering what he and Beric could have done that merited an audience with the Dragon Queen herself, Sandor looked accusingly at Beric, asking him without words what he had done to bring punishment down on them without being inside the castle walls ten minutes.
"Might as well go where we're summoned," Beric suggested.
"I thought the Brotherhood Without Banners answered to no house?"
"We didn't, but we're disbanded now. And in any case, there is no banner for the living, which we all are a part of. Come."
Sandor fell into line behind the soldier and Beric, mind reeling with all the possible reasons for being called before the highest ranking occupants of the castle. He had to duck through the Great Hall entryway as before which momentarily distracted him from the fact that the room was packed in with Northerners all facing a cleared spot at the center, before the high table. The Targaryen woman sat in a chair placed at the middle of the table with Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister on her right and the Lady of Winterfell on her left. At the far left edge of the table was a young man in a wheeled chair, but Sandor could not place him, not that he cared to.
His eyes were automatically drawn to Sansa Stark, noticing too late that she was regarding him with equal concentration. The gaze that they held might have lasted some years and he would not have noticed. In closer proximity, he ached at the sight of her, the shadows under her eyes, what looked like scars just barely hidden from view by a high collar.
Whoever the fucker was that had taken the rest of her happiness, he had hurt her as well and Sandor suddenly did not trust himself to be in a room full of people with a weapon close at hand, for he had not been disarmed upon entering the hall and was feeling animosity toward every individual in the room that was not the young woman across from him.
He placed his hand on his sword pommel to steady it, feeling that there was not enough space for a man of his size. The eyes of four dozen men and women pressed in on him standing there, staring dumbly at the Lady of Winterfell.
"Sandor Clegane and Beric Dondarrion, step forward," summoned the Targaryen woman.
Beric had to nudge Sandor in the ribs to make him move and the two of them approached the high table, stopping a respectable distance from it and waiting for the self-proclaimed queen to speak.
"I understand that a proper rest is in order after such a long journey, so I will do my best to make this a relatively short affair. You both were a part of the group that willingly went north of the Wall to bring back evidence of the White Walkers," said the Targaryen. "Among others. You have my thanks for your service both to me and the houses that stand behind me in our fight against the dead. However, it has been brought to my attention that there are past crimes to atone for and that both of you avoided such atonement by living lawless lives these past several years, answering to no house and calling no man lord, calling no man king, no woman queen."
Sandor had to swallow a harsh laugh. An endless army of walking corpses was marching toward them and his past was being put on display to be judged by a woman from across the sea. This was one of the many reasons why he could never stand being at court: the proceedings were always a bunch of horseshite with ninnys and nances arguing over the proper way to do things and punishing men for lesser crimes than their own.
"You find the circumstances amusing, ser?" asked the Targaryen, eyeing Sandor somewhat scornfully.
Remembering that this was a queen with two dragons he was speaking to and not someone who would take threats lightly, Sandor brought his former courtesies to the forefront of his mind to put them back into practice. "With respect, Your Grace, if I'm to be put on trial for the things I've done when the greatest battle humans have ever faced is on its way, it would have served everyone better and saved time if you had tossed me over the side of the ship before we made port at Eastwatch by the Sea. Or better yet, you should have pushed me off your dragon, but then there would have been no one to catch your man there." Sandor nodded at Ser Jorah Mormont who stood dutifully behind the Targaryen, and the knight cleared his throat and made a point of interjecting himself into the conversation here.
"If it please Your Grace, I would speak for him when the time comes to call for witnesses on his behalf," said the knight.
That was a kindness Sandor had not expected, though it certainly stirred something inside the Targaryen, for she gave a small nod to her man in acknowledgment of his proposal. And privately, Sandor thought the knight better damn well speak out on Sandor's behalf. They had fought side by side against the endless waves of cadavers and for the knight to not come to Sandor's aid now would be a very poor demonstration of the honor and loyalty he had swore to uphold when he took his vows.
"My sworn shield vouches for you, ser," said the Targaryen.
"I'm not a knight, Your Grace."
She paused, glancing sideways at the Lady Stark for clarification.
"A shield to Joffrey Baratheon, but a man of no spoken vows. He was given the task by his brother's reputation," said the lady. "He made a point of correcting me several times whenever I addressed him as such."
"So a man who never swore vows of any kind and yet lived in a place where only vows matter finds himself serving the North and a queen he knows nothing about," said the Targaryen.
"He serves neither," said the Stark girl from an alcove beside the boy in the wheeled chair. "I believe his words were something along the lines of fighting for those still living while serving no man or woman."
Her words were less than helpful and Sandor tried to shoot her a dirty look to inform her that this would not go unpunished.
"If it would absolve you of every wrongdoing you have ever done, you would not bend the knee even now?" asked the Targaryen.
"There is nothing to absolve," said Lady Stark. "He has done far more good for my house than he has done disservice. Service to the Starks in assisting with the procuring of the wight to grant us allies in the fight to come, service to the Starks in protecting my sister Arya Stark for the better part of a year, service to the Starks in protecting me during my time spent as a prisoner to the Lannisters. Though not noble to begin with, he chose his path and deserted the one that would have labeled him a traitor. I would see him pardoned for his dedication to my house."
"And yet he forsook his position to Joffrey Baratheon," observed the Targaryen. "Though I would not wish to serve the boy king either, I would serve my duty until I was relieved of it."
"I never said the words with good reason, Your Grace," said Sandor. "I refused to take a knight's vows when none of them had ever completely stayed true to them. I'd wager even your knight there has broken a vow or two."
"You play a dangerous game in accusing of disloyalty the one man who would defend you," said the Targaryen disapprovingly.
"If I've come this far only to die because a knight's words couldn't save me, I deserve to die," said Sandor shortly. "My truth is this: Tywin Lannister appointed me guardian over his daughter when she became queen and Cersei relieved me of that duty to protect her son. I did as I was told, but I never gave my word to the gods that I would stay with the cunt."
"Is there anyone who stood witness to this?"
"You mean besides my brother who has witnessed this very scene?" said the lady, though Sandor had no clue as to what she might be referring to. Jon Snow was certainly not there the day Sandor had been assigned to Joffrey.
"There were a select few privy to the appointing of Sandor Clegane to Joffrey Baratheon, Your Grace," said Littlefinger from behind Lady Stark. "It was a private occasion." Sandor neither needed nor wanted any help from the slimy little bastard because he knew it came at a price and he would not go to his grave in debt to Petyr Baelish.
"But you were there, as was I," said Lord Varys, another man Sandor was surprised but also not at all surprised to see in the Dragon Queen's company. "It was not a grand affair, Your Grace, but Lord Baelish and I were present at the small council meeting when Cersei Lannister reassigned Sandor Clegane to Joffrey Baratheon. Sandor Clegane took to his new task without question, for he could not very well say no, could he? The second son of a lesser house, a vassal to House Lannister, he owed what small standing he had in the court to Tywin Lannister and if he had refused—if at any point in that boy's wretched life he had refused to do his duty—he would have been executed. Only when there was no one to stop him did he flee during the Battle of the Blackwater."
"Where did he flee to?"
"He came to me," said the voice of what had once been Sandor's little bird. "He came to offer me a chance to escape King's Landing which I foolishly did not take for fear that we would be caught, that he would be hanged and I would be beaten worse than I already had been. And then he was gone."
"And he tried to return me to my mother and brother Robb at the Twins," added the Stark girl. "When we were too late, he made the journey to the Eyrie to hand me over to my Aunt Lysa who had recently died and with no one to whom he could safely surrender me, he kept by my side. No duty or vow made him do that. No duty or vow made him go beyond the Wall, either. He's always done as he's liked so long as there was no one to stop him. For better or worse, he's done as he pleases and some are alive to attest to that while others aren't. My sister and I are part of the former."
"I would see him pardoned, as I have said," claimed the lady. "He is a formidable fighter and one we cannot afford to lose in the fight to come when every man counts. And as a friend to House Stark, he deserves the right to choose if he would stay with us or leave. I doubt he thought that he would be called before what may very well be considered a trial for returning to the North, yet even so, he came here of his own free will."
"I would not be overly eager to fight for the very people who placed me on trial to question my allegiance," said the voice of a scowling girl from Sandor's left. The sigil on her breast put her as a member of House Mormont, though he had no idea how a girl was given the right to speak at a trial, no matter her affiliation with House Mormont.
"Lady Mormont," acknowledged Jon Snow and Sandor had to do a quick mental reteaching of the greater houses in the North. Lord Jeor Mormont had a sister who ascended to the head of house after the former took the black. Ser Jorah Mormont had forfeited the title by exiling himself to Essos, leaving Jeor's sister, Maege. And Maege had had a daughter who must be this fierce little lady who was speaking out in Sandor's favor.
"If we want men to fight for us, we must prove that we trust them to do so, not accuse them of sins long past. I would not blame this man if he took a horse and rode South with all haste just to put distance between himself and his accusers."
"I did not ask for him here to accuse him," said Lady Stark. "I summoned him to let it be heard loudly that he has been pardoned despite what others might think or claim. I called for the witnesses who stand here today because I want it known, I want the word spread that he has been forgiven for any crimes against House Stark whilst under the order of Joffrey Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. House Stark pardoned him long ago…"
She meant for those last words to resonate with him. She wanted him to know that she had forgiven him for frightening her, for being present at her father's execution, for doing nothing when Joffrey made public sport of her, for bruising her when he grasped her too tightly in his anger, for everything. She had forgiven him many years prior, perhaps the night he left her to see the Blackwater burn.
"Sandor Clegane, you are pardoned of any past wrongdoings associated with your time serving House Lannister."
Thinking privately that it might have saved time if they had just come outright and said that at the beginning, Sandor could only give a slight nod, though not one of gratitude. He did not think his time serving the Lannisters would ever be brought up again, least of all with the Queen of Dragons And Whatnot standing between him and his pardon.
"I would testify to that before the court in King's Landing," continued Lady Stark.
"As would I," said the Stark girl.
"As would I," added Ser Jorah Mormont.
"And when I sit the throne, I will declare it to be so," said the Targaryen. "I do not judge or condemn a man for past sins if he has redeemed himself in the eyes of many or few. I thank you for your part in helping secure help from the South, and for saving Ser Jorah beyond the Wall."
"Lord Beric Dondarrion," called Lady Stark.
"If it please m'lady, I forfeited my titles long ago after the Lord of Light brought me back from what would have been an early grave at the hands of one Gregor Clegane," said Beric.
"Don't fucking start," warned Sandor.
"My sister tells me that you were one of two leaders to the Brotherhood Without Banners, men who recognized no law during the war."
"Aye, we recognized no law, but we tended to side with wolves over lions. Our plans were to return your sister to your mother before Sandor Clegane gave himself that task. In the years following, we delivered justice when the Lord of Light called for it."
"The Red Priest who brought him back died north of the Wall," said Jon Snow. "He was a good man, selfless and brave. The Brotherhood died with him and now only Beric Dondarrion remains. He believes he was resurrected to serve a purpose that has not yet been fulfilled, which is why he finds himself here. I have not known him long, nor do I know him well, but he, Sandor Clegane, and Thoros of Myr willingly left the safety of the Seven Kingdoms to aid Ser Jorah, Tormund Giantsbane, the lad Gendry and myself on our quest for the queen. I would vouch for his pardon."
"As would I," added the queen's knight and Sandor made the assumption that the man was too honorable for his own good. Sandor suspected that a cow pie could be put on trial and the knight would defend it.
"Beric Dondarrion, you are pardoned for your past association with the lawless, provided that you do not resume the habit upon completion of the war against the dead," said the Targaryen with a hint of warning.
"The days of lawlessness are long gone, Your Grace," Beric assured her, bowing much deeper than Sandor had.
"You all have witnessed this here today because I intend for you to remember it and recite it if any man, woman, or child should question the integrity of these men you see before you," said Lady Stark. "Scouts report that the Lannister army is within three days' ride and the men of the South will be quick to point out traitors to their queen. Defend the honor of these men; they are here to fight for you."
The room began to stir as the lords and ladies rose to excuse themselves but Sandor had not even begun to think of if it was too early to swipe a strip of cured meat from the kitchens when-
"Sandor Clegane, I would speak with you privately."
If there had been those who had not caught on to the obvious attention Sandor had been given by the Lady of Winterfell, they all would bloody well know now.
Lady Stark beckoned he follow her into an antechamber, bidding her own sworn shield wait without. Sandor had no words for Brienne of Tarth; their reunion had already come and gone. Ducking his head once again, he shut the chamber door, knowing that for this young woman to ask for a private audience with him, it would raise all the wrong sorts of questions and if Lord Varys was here, the Spider could be counted on to spread rumors of a sensual nature.
"Best make this quick. More than one set of eyes saw me follow you in," said Sandor.
"I did not attempt to be discrete in asking for a word with you."
But that would not prevent the rumors from spreading. She had gone to the trouble of gathering the likings of a court just to prove his innocence. Many would say that she favored him, and in the wrong sort of way, unbecoming for a woman of her status.
"I did not expect to find you here," said the little bird sincerely. "I thought you dead from what Arya told me."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"Years away from a proper court have not softened your words. And on the subject of court, I apologize for having to subject you to that, but it was imperative to have you pardoned and spoken for—"
"That little lady had it right," Sandor interjected.
"What about?"
"You all are sitting here and playing at courts and courtesies while your soldiers train outside in the snow to defend your walls. And the dragon woman making promises of when she sits the throne as if there'll be one once the dead reach us. It's enough to make any man's stomach turn. You've learned how to be a player in this game, little bird, but you're still ignorant about many things."
"I alone knew the importance of having you pardoned. I do not ask for gratitude, but I do ask that you accept mine."
"That I will not be doing."
He put his hand on the door handle.
"No," said the girl, moving in front of him to block his way. "You revoked my appreciation before, but you will not do so today. You are going to stand there and accept it."
Against his will, he was impressed. She had never faltered in pointing out his anger, but she had still been an ignorant child unwise in the ways of the world and he would not allow her to have the last word when she knew so little of anything. Now, she knew the full power of her status and for as long as he slept beneath her roof, he would have to do as commanded—to an extent. He had taken orders for far too long and was in no great hurry to do so again, but he would stand here and listen to her spew her courteous gratuity only to humor her.
She was the one person whose orders he would not obey.
"Are you going to stand there, or shall I have my sworn shield make you?" she asked presently.
"Say what you want to, little bird," Sandor invited, now somewhat amused.
Removing her hands from the door, she took one of his between them and squeezed. "Arya is alive because of you. Jon is alive because of you. And so am I. You had no reason to ever defend us, but you did anyway. You are a better man than you allow yourself to believe. And I would have you know that we see you as one."
"I don't need anyone seeing me as a good man or a piece of shit," remarked Sandor irritably. "All of our lives are going to be cut short and it's best not to live them owing someone for this or that."
"You stood before a woman with two dragons at her disposal and you did almost nothing to defend yourself," said the little bird somewhat accusingly as if she found fault in his feeble attempts to speak out on his own behalf during his trial. "You allowed her to seek out those who would testify against you and you gave little to no fight. Is life so meaningless to you?"
"I went north of the Wall with your brother. I saw the army of the dead and I saw the one who commands them. I know what's coming for us all and the way I see it, if I don't die now, I'll die when they get here. There's no winning against them, not with every man in the Seven Kingdoms wielding a sword and two dragons. I watched the dead burn with dragonfire, but I watched their leader kill a dragon with one hit from an iced javelin. We don't stand a fucking chance, girl."
"Then why are you here when you should be riding south to flee what scares you so much?"
Many things he had been called by many people, but never a coward by this—this woman. He still had difficulty referring to her as such and accepting her as such, but the tiniest flinch of the long neglected muscle twixt his legs could not deny that she was indeed a woman now.
Still, he would not be called a coward by the woman who owed her life to him.
He made what might have been a menacing step forward, for she backed herself into the wall, unwittingly cutting off her own escape route.
"If it scared me that much, I would have kept riding, but I'm still here, which should tell you exactly what I think of dying. If your new queen had dug up some crime worthy of execution, she would have killed me and I would have died a few short weeks before I die in the fight against the dead. We're all going to die and it makes no fucking difference when or how."
"Your words are no kinder now than they were when I knew you before," the little bird admonished, though with a trace of sadness at the dismal fact.
"You never knew me, girl," he corrected. "You never knew me."
She paused, considering the truth of his words, and then admitted defeat with that underlying hopeful tone he had come to hate. "I did try to, but you would not allow me to."
True, he had dashed her every attempt to be kind and grateful to him, to open the door to more conversation than his position allowed. As the personal guard to her betrothed, it would not do to make himself well known to her, even if his words were some of the kindest she had received during her sentence as Joffrey's prisoner. He did not want her becoming reliant on that kindness, however, and so he had kept his distance and given her harsh truths to expose her to the reality of what was happening around her. She needed to hear the sting of those words, but perhaps coming from him, they fell differently upon her ears. He apparently was not distant enough with her, otherwise he would not be having this conversation with her now.
She was still trying to reach him even when both of their days were numbered…as if it made a difference.
Her sharp blue-eyed gaze asked him once again if he would allow her in, if he would open himself to her, but she did not need to waste what remained of her life trying to find a softness within him.
He reached around her, face coming down within a foot of hers, and turned the knob, pulling the door open just enough to brush against her backside in a suggestion that she move out of his way. Her shoulders dropped in a heavy sigh and she moved aside, but as he bent his neck to duck out of the antechamber, she spoke once more.
"Sandor."
He paused, feeling the weight of his own name spoken back to him for the first time in decades. This name had been lost to him when he was still but a child, replaced with other names, cruel names: the Burned Boy, the Scarred Man, Half-Face, the Giant, the Hound, Clegane. All names that were not his, all reminders of the childhood that had marked him forever as a deformed being, of the adulthood that saw him standing in his brother's shadow. How very odd it was to hear his name on this young woman's lips as if it had come from there often. She sounded so familiar when she spoke it, too.
It was enough to draw him up short and wait for her to dismiss him, not that he cared one way or another. His own curiosity was what kept him in place to hear whatever she had to say, not her seniority.
"If what you say is true and there is no stopping the dead, whether or not you choose to believe it, I am glad to have seen you again before the end," she said.
Before the end, as if she, too, was resigned for the worst. She knew what was coming even though she had not seen it as Sandor had. She believed him when he said there was no hope of outrunning it or escaping it. There would be no fleeing for the Lady of Winterfell. She would stay here with her people and die a true lady of the North.
How his little bird had grown…
As more than a foot soldier but less than a knight, he was given the option of taking up a cot in the barracks and found a spare bunk at the far end of the long but narrow room. As he sat down on the bottom and took stock of his belongings, he felt the smallest stab of remorse. His armor had rotted away and smelled of festering flesh when Brother Ray found him with it, so there was no use in keeping any of it. His horse Stranger had been taken, either by the Stark girl or Brienne of Tarth and her squire. His sword and knife had been lost to the moor. Now he had no armor, no horse, and a sword and dagger that would do nothing in a fight against the dead. Nothing to call his own except the clothes on his back and the very visible tenting at the front of his trousers.
No, don't you dare, he warned his cock, but already it was twitching with hope and curiosity at his most recent exchange with the girl who had become a woman in his absence. She had irritated him, angered him, and confusingly aroused him.
This was the very last thing he needed to be concerned with when the dead were marching toward Winterfell and bringing the worst of winter with them.