05. Without Banners
There she was again, standing in the courtyard to await whatever came from beyond the East Gate. When Sansa was younger, seeing the gates rise and fall with new arrivals or returning groups of gallant and skilled men was exciting. Sunshine would create spotlights for them as they dismounted their steeds and light snow would land on their shoulders in greeting. It was always something to look forward to.
The activity did nothing but churn her stomach now.
It all gave her flashbacks to when she and her family stood side by side years ago to receive King Robert and his company. How different things were now. Sansa had been anticipating the arrival of the king for weeks because his presence also brought with him his golden-haired son—Prince Joffrey. News of how handsome the prince had been was all Sansa could concentrate on. Very little pulled her attention away from him. It was summer and she was giddy and the gods gave her the betrothal she thought she wanted.
Less than half her family was at her side now in the frozen mud and frigid air. Sansa didn't wish for visitors now. There would be no royal family dipped in gold or promises of marriage and the crown or a journey to a city far away that was only beautiful and glorious in theory. She wanted to kick herself for believing that was all that mattered in life—beauty and marriage and happy fairytale weddings. Her parents had raised her young and stupid. Sansa wished to be that again, to step into her younger self alongside her whole family—alive and well—and greet the king. She'd make very different choices if she could do it all again. Above it all, she'd make sure to stay as far away from Joffrey as possible.
The heavy grind of the metal gate ascending brought Sansa back to the present. She shook her head slightly to rid herself of wishes and redoes. None of that would help her now. The present was as it was, and she'd have to live with that.
Nothing came out of the threshold at first but harsh winds that doubled as ghostly whispers. Many more than just Jon, Sansa and Bran stood to wait. Guests that should have been drowning in wine were only steps behind their hosts, just as curious as to what could make the Brotherhood travel so far north without proper invitation.
The light sound of horse neighs and ice crystals being crushed under heavy hooves came first—both slow and lazy. Then a figure, two, three, ten stepped through the gate and around the bend to face their awaiting audience. They were a ghastly sight to behold. All were covered in heavy snow, skin different shades of pink from being in the cold too long. Most wore chainmail and wool tunics, wrapped in thick cloaks and furs, but it didn't do much to keep them protected from the newly beginning winter.
Two men singled themselves out from the rest and rode up to stand before Jon, Sansa and the others. The man on the right gave them an almost smile, not sensing that this encounter was uncalled for. His hairline was receding, but still he had a hair knot upon his head. Much had fallen from the knot and had become windblown and straggly. There was little about this man that would make Sansa look at him twice, but she found him oddly familiar, though she couldn't place where. She stole a glance at the partner on the left. He was much more interesting to look at, none of which had to do with the patch he wore on his eye or the scars on his face. He too had windblown hair, but he was short and manageable with facial hair trimmed and soft. Lines surrounded the one eye that could be seen, heavy and mindful.
Sansa imagined that his man would have been very handsome some years ago when life had not taken such a heavy toll. In fact, she knew that he had been. She knew these two men, though it felt like a different lifetime, a different her since she had last laid eyes upon them.
"You're Thoros of Myr. And Beric Dondarrion."
Beric Dondarrion smiled at Sansa and bowed, though she couldn't tell just yet if it was heartfelt. "My lady, how you've grown since I saw you last."
Sansa nodded in response, unsure of how to go at making conversation with men she only knew in distant passing. She turned over to Jon. She was as good as any to make the introductions. "The Red Priest, Thoros of Myr and Lord Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven. They were in King's Landing for the Hand's tourney."
Thoros laughed, slapping Dondarrion on the arm. Snow flung off his clothing. "Ha! Do you remember that joust? Landed right on your ass!"
"Bastards luck was all. Lord Snow—or should I call you Lord Commander? Or The King in the North? You've faired for yourself quite nicely of late. We've heard plenty of stories about your affairs since your father died."
Jon didn't wish to take part in small talk. "Why have you come this far north, my lord? Why to Winterfell?"
A small smug smile crept across Thoros' face as if to announce without words that he knew something very important that Jon did not. The action was not at all comforting. "You'll be glad we did, Lord Commander Snow of the North. We're granting you a favor and presenting a gift."
What favor would they give so willingly? Sansa wondered, not convinced. They left their banners behind for a reason—to bow to no lord. Not many granted favors to nobles they didn't want to have ties with. What gift could be so worth the travel?
Beric Dondarrion took a single step forward, no smirk like his companion, but a look of all seriousness and stone. Sansa could see the highborn Lord rise within him. "We all know our lands have a bigger threat than false kings and murderous queens, and with winter's arrival, little time now separates us from Them."
"The night is dark and full of terrors." Gone was the playful smile on Thoros' face. In its place was something knowing, calculating, and fiery as he gazed at Jon. But there was more. He was studying Jon, examining everything that could be seen on the outside just as easily as what none but the gods themselves could see on the inside. "But you know that well, don't you, Lord Snow?"
Jon revealed nothing. "My lords, is this you offering us your swords?"
It was all a bit unbelievable really. There the Brotherhood Without Banners were, willing to take up banners.
"We're here to serve the realm, Lord Snow, nothing more. What needs to be done is bigger than any one sigil. But if you're willing to take our swords, we're willing to wield them."
Jon said nothing, so another said it for him.
"Thank you, my lord," Bran spoke up, voice even. The little lord was no longer little, "for traveling this far to aid us. Please, make yourselves comfortable here. A feast is already underway."
Sansa smiled as Bran declared his appreciation. He was so much like Father at that moment.
Dondarrion nodded to Bran politely and said, "We thank you very much, Lord Stark. But before we progress further, I think we shall present our gift to you now."
"We would have returned it long ago," Thoros started, slightly smiling again, "but it was…misplaced shortly after we acquired it. Luck would have it we were reunited."
As if on cue, more horses appeared, carrying more riders of all shapes and sizes, and just as worse for wear at those who arrived before them. Were these men the "gift" Dondarrion and Thoros spoke of? Why all the suspense and theatrics? Men were men.
That's when a single rider came forward, the remainders of the group moving aside with much hast to create a straight shot to Sansa, Jon, and Bran. Several yards separated them and the rider, but time passed as if it were miles, stretching on and on.
Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr continued to watch in amused silence.
The rider wore a dark brown leather tunic and matching knee-high boots over tan pants. A large, dark blue-grey wool cloak rounded their shoulders, making their relatively smaller frame seem bulky. Her hair was just about shoulder length, shorter than either Jon or Sansa or Bran had ever seen it, but the same dark shade as Jon's—as their father's.
A realization hit the Stark siblings almost all at once, like a ghost from the past had just plowed into them.
"Arya," Sansa barely breathed the name, it practically getting stuck in her throat. She blinked once. Twice. She was worried that her eyes were playing tricks on her, trying to get her hopes up and then rip it out from under her. It can't be.
But it was.
The horse she was riding was still walking when Arya swung her left leg over and slid off the side of the saddle. Her feet hit the frozen ground with a thud; loose bits of snow and dirt were thrown from their designated places. Memories of Arya trying that same move when she was younger dance across Sansa's mind. Arya could never get the landing quite right. She'd always stumble forward then fall back on her side. She'd complain to Father that her ankles stung. If they stung now, she didn't let on.
Standing up straight after her dismount, Arya simply stared at them. Her siblings did the same in return. This was it—the Stark reunion that all of them had been thinking of since that fateful day when they left Winterfell. Each was so sure of what they were going to do with their lives then, what experiences they were going to have on the Wall or in King's Landing, of which none came true. Their reunion was the same. There were no suspense fill days in preparation for the arrivals back together or fun stories at the tip of their tongues for when they gathered in the same room or their parents to wrap them in hugs and cover then in overbearing kisses. Their once anticipated reunion of dreams was nothing much more than snow and death and a dozen of watchful eyes.
But there was a split second where none of that mattered—not the strangers present of the fact that only half of their bloodline was alive to experience it. That moment came when Arya bolted forward. She took off like the wild stallion Sansa always thought of her as, hooves denting the ground, each step bringing her closer to her family and her home. It was a hard impact when it finally came. Arya wrapped an arm each around Jon and Sansa's shoulders, practically jumping into their arms and pulling them toward her. These embraces were hard to come by nowadays.
"I can't believe you're actually here," Arya whispered into her siblings' ears.
"Us?" Jon almost laughed as he pulled her away, checking to make sure she was unhurt and real. "For the longest time, there was thought you were dead. Where have you been? What happened to you?"
Arya looked Jon and Sansa up and down then moved her focus down at Bran. She knelt down to hold him tight. "It's a long story. Very long in fact."
"And I'm sure Lord Snow had much he wishes to enlighten you with," Thoros said, taking a couple of steps forward. "But I'm sure that can all wait until we have food in our bellies and ale in our cups."
Thoros of Myr was a bold man by nature but grew even bolder now that the Brotherhood had presented their gift. No one could begin to think of rejecting them now even if they had wanted to.
"Of course, my lord," Jon stated as he stepped forward, holding out his hand to Beric Dondarrion. The leader of the Brotherhood graciously clasped Jon's hand with his own. "You've earned our favor."
"You and Thoros are more than welcome to sit at our table. If your men don't mind, they'll have to make camp just outside the castle walls with the rest." Sansa nodded at the men.
Dondarrion turned his head to look at Sansa. "Our men are grateful, my lady. But if I may, can a third spot at your table be found? There is another that I must insist sit among us."
"And which brother would he be?"
Arya eyed between Sansa and, surprisingly, Brienne as if wondering how this next bit would play out for each of them. But she said nothing, and Sansa didn't care enough to question her at the moment on what her glance meant. It wouldn't have mattered even if she had. Beric Dondarrion answered her question with no hesitation.
"Sandor Clegane."
Sansa felt Brienne tense beside her, both remembering the story she told to Sansa about running into Arya, traveling with Joffrey's former sword shield, near the Eerie. A fight between them led to yet another of Arya's disappearances and the Hound falling down the side of a rock covered cliff. It would be too much to assume he held no hard feelings.
The man sat upon his horse several yards away from Thoros and Dondarrion, a couple other of the Brotherhood in front of him, but Sansa still couldn't believe that she hadn't noticed him. There were no more than a dozen men that stood before her before Arya and the others came, but even after years, his appearance had not changed. The Hound was still a large man, much more so than any of the noblemen's men with only a few wildings with the ability to even try and stand against him. His expression was still gruff and unhappy, if anything, indifferent. And his scarred face was still promptly placed on the right side of his face. He was still the Hound, he was all more or less the same, and there he was, back at the castle of Winterfell.
He said nothing as he approached, and neither Arya, Thoros nor Dondarrion gave any more explanation as to what nature was of how this particular man came to be among them, or why a seat beside them was requested.
The name and face seemed to be lost to Jon for a moment, having never spoken to the man or looked upon him except from afar. "Sandor Clegane. The Hound? Shield to Joffrey Baratheon?"
"Was," he replied with a voice just as low and raspy as it had been so many times before. Memories of serving Joffrey hardened his expression. He'd never truly be able to run from those years under the Baratheons. "Until the ball-less brat started a war he couldn't win. I left during The Battle of the Blackwater."
The Hound's eyes seemed to skip over to Sansa quickly at the mention of when they last spoke. She was already thrown back there: the wildfire consuming Stannis Baratheon's men, Cersei's torment of being killed by Ser Ilyn if the outcome wasn't in her favor and a visit from a man so scared of fire he was willing to denounce the king and break her free from her prison.
"Clegane holds no banner, just as the rest of us," Beric Dondarrion explained, not quite a smile on his lips in reassurance to his hosts.
Jon seemed a bit at a loss at the moment, unsure of trusting a former follower of his enemies. And he wasn't the only one. Brienne was still tense beside Sansa; fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of her sword, the memory of the fight between her and the burned man fresh in her mind. It mattered little that Arya, the reason for the fight ensuing, was right in front of her. Brienne continued to give out a cold stare.
It was returned in silence.
"A seat can be found, my lord," Sansa answered Beric Dondarrion's request. She motioned to both him and the rest of his men, eyeing each of them with a well-mannered gaze. "Please, dine with us tonight."
The Brotherhood was more than willing to oblige. None of them minded that they'd have to stay outside the walls with hundreds and hundreds of others. There was proper food and drink and warmth. It was probably more than they're received in a long while. Wasting no time, the men dismounted their horses and moved to the designated area where they would be gifted with pleasantries for their stomachs.
Sansa placed her hand gently on Arya's arm—a sisterly affection hardly ever shared between them—in welcome. Emotions pulled at her heartstrings. Arya, just like Bram, had grown up into someone almost unrecognizable. The younger sister gave Sansa a tight, closed mouth smile and grasped Sansa's hand with her own.
The moment exchanged between them was gone all too soon when Arya dropped her hand to accompany Jon and the others. Sansa was about to do the same but took one last look across the bailey.
That's when she noticed that the Hound was the last to touch his feet to the ground, patting his horse's snow-covered nose. He looked so out of place there, standing in the north amongst snow and wildings and Starks with nothing identifying his former southern allegiance. It was the last place anyone would have expected to see him. Sansa figured it was the last place he expected to be. Still, he gave the reins of his horse over to a nearby stable hand and followed the rest inside to the Great Hall, not looking directly at anyone.
Sansa's only thought was on if they had enough wine.
Xxxxx
It might not be the reunion you wanted, but I really didn't want anything more emotional than needed. Neither Sansa nor Sandor are in the mood for that kind of thing.
I know it's been a long time since I've updated - at it always is, I know - but it's been especially busy this last semester. I can't even begin to say how stretched thin I've been between school and internships and work. However, that's about to change! I officially graduate as an undergrad tomorrow! I figured we can celebrate with another chapter.
Read. Review. Enjoy!