Part One: The Thaw
After the war, it's like the world falls silent.
Not surprising, when there are so few of them left by the end. Fewer still with something to go back to, without the ring of steel and the thrum of blood in their ears.
That was the problem with wars. They bred soldiers. Men who knew the feel of flesh giving way under their blade, of hands drenched in hot blood up to the elbow, and the smell of death thick in the air.
Men like him.
Peace time didn't need men like that.
They had a name for them in the streets when it was all over. The Bastard's Brotherhood, they call them – him and the other ones who had gone north on that first journey with Snow. Or what's left of them anyway, which isn't much these days.
It should've been an insult, but it's said with a kind of reverence he doesn't understand. The common folk down in flea bottom whisper his name as he walks past. Lowborn boys ask to squire for him. Children cheer him in the streets. High praise for a dog with a sword whose only talent is cutting men in two with one stroke.
It's a talent the bastard himself seems to value, though, when he calls them into the throne room, moons after the exhaustion of the war is finally starting to lose its bite.
Snow offers each of them lands, wealth, titles. Whatever they want. A small gratitude for their service, the lad calls it, but Sandor wonders if it isn't just a way to clear some room. Get the killers out of King's Landing to their lordly little castles in the Westerlands, to make way for the type of man you need in peacetime. Men like the Imp, who are slow with a sword but quick with words.
Perhaps it doesn't matter either way. He's had enough of King's Landing to last him a lifetime, or two in Snow's case.
Problem is, he doesn't really want anything, other than to be left alone. To go back to drinking too much ale, fucking too many whores, fighting men, just like before.
Then Tormund asks for lands in the north, and a fleeting glimpse of red flashes through Sandor's mind, catching at the edges of his memory and holding. Words whispered in the night a lifetime ago, while flames lit the night sky, swirl at the edge of his consciousness.
And when the boy asks him what he wants, words he didn't expect form on his tongue.
"I'll go north with the Wildling."
"You want lands in the north?" Snow asks.
He shakes his head. He doesn't need lands. He could have Clegane Keep, if he wanted, not that he would ever go back to that fucking cess pit. By all rights, he's Lord Clegane now, with Gregor dead – thank all the Gods.
It's something else he wants. Something he feels in the pit of his stomach, but can't name.
"Just to get away from here," he says, and it's true, although maybe not as true as it could be.
Even with all the Lannisters gone, the whole Keep still holds memories of that little blond cunt and the things he did. The things he made other people do. The red creeps back into his mind, clinging more firmly this time.
"I'm sure Tormund could use as many hands as he can get to get Castle Black back in shape."
"Just can't get enough of me, eh, Hound?" Tormund jeers, but he doesn't say no. After the number of flagons the two of them have shared in every inn in King's Landing, Sandor knows his presence won't be unwelcome.
"Very well," Snow says, not showing any surprise at the request. Sandor supposes not much would surprise the boy these days. "You'd best stop at Winterfell on your way North, the two of you. You are the newest northern lord, after all, Tormund. My sisters wouldn't miss the chance to make sure you're properly welcomed."
Robert's bastard snorts. "Have you met your youngest sister, Your Grace?"
Sandor doesn't laugh, although he agrees the wolf bitch is the last person who would make anyone welcome. But the mention of Jon's sisters has made his throat constrict, and no words will come out.
Jon just smiles. "We'll send a raven to let Lady Sansa know to expect you."
The snow on the ground is different to the snow he remembers from the North. That had been dense, icy, off-set by bitterly cold winds that seemed to bite right through a man's clothing and down into his blood. A snow that felt like it carried death with it.
By now, the snow is light underfoot, giving way to patches of green in parts. Slowly turning from a white wasteland to the damp scent of new life.
Stranger's hooves sink into the patchy brown sludge, making him whinny in disapproval. The old horse isn't interested in learning how to negotiate unfamiliar terrain. When they round the final bend in the King's Road and see Winterfell, Sandor wonders if he doesn't feel the same way.
A cluster of horsemen, holding a white banner with a wolf flapping on it in the crisp wind, ride out to meet them.
"How about this, eh?" Tormund has a shit eating grin stretched over his face. "My first official lord's welcome party. Jealous, Hound?"
"Remind me why we're here, again?" he snaps back, and Tormund just laughs.
The Bannermen escort them inside the castle gates. It's raining, and there's no one outside to meet them, although he can see eyes peeping over the battlements high above to get a look at the new guests. He scans the eyes, searching for one set in particular. He doesn't find it.
Tormund leads the group into the great hall.
Sandor sidles in last, like a bashful child hoping he might manage to blend in with the crowd. He curses himself even as he does it, for being a fucking pathetic fool. Where has that sick feeling in his stomach come from? What is he afraid of?
She's sitting at the front of the room, wearing a blue dress that delicately traces every part of her body in a way that makes his mouth dry. She's more beautiful than he remembers, which he wouldn't have thought possible: a delicate smile lighting across her lips as she takes in the group.
Then her gaze lands on him, and her smile falters. He doesn't have a name for the look that flits over her face – not sure he really even knows what it is. Whatever it is though, unexpectedly, Sansa holds his gaze.
He doesn't know what to do with that – didn't expect it. There's a confidence in her eyes that he isn't used to. This isn't the stammering girl from the corridors of the Red Keep anymore. She's a woman grown, and not afraid for anyone to see it, if the dress didn't already give that away.
He looks away first, fixing his gaze on the ground. He doesn't feel right, looking at the Lady of Winterfell the way he's looking at her. Can't imagine she would like it if she knew what he was thinking.
"Lord Giantsbane, welcome to Winterfell." That the words don't sound ridiculous rolling off her tongue is a testament to the grace that she handles herself with. "We're honored to have you and your party as our guests on your way to Castle Black."
"Lord Giantsbane," Tormund chuckles. "Don't know if I'll ever get used to that one. Still, the honor's all ours my lady."
Then her eyes turn on him, and her mouth seems to falter over names before she finds the right one. "Lord Clegane. It's good to see you again."
He doubts she means the words, but they still make an unfamiliar feeling bubble up in him.
He wants to tell her not to bother with that stupid title. Lord Clegane was his father, his brother, people he hated. She should know better. Instead, his mouth goes dry and everyone is looking, so he just nods to her.
"We have a feast planned this evening to welcome you properly, but for now it's a long journey you've been on. The servants will show you to your rooms where you can recover from your ride."
He goes late to the feast for no good reason. Maybe he wants to prove to anyone who might care to know that he's still the same Hound, not giving a shit about protocols. Or maybe he's just scared.
There's a space at the Lords' table right next to her.
For a few moments, he considers pretending not to have seen it and taking a seat with the drunk band of wildlings Tormund has dragged north with them. They're deep in their cups already and getting deeper by the second. It's been a good few weeks since he last got drunk and gods knew this would be a good time to start again. But then he looks up and he accidentally catches her eye.
She doesn't say anything; doesn't need to. He takes the seat beside her.
When she moves her head a curtain of red hair rustles in his direction and the smell of lemon ripples through the air.
"Snow's starting to melt," Tormund says around a mouthful of chicken. Not the table manners he imagines Lady Stark is used to.
"Maester Dargood says the seasons are different now," she says. "Winters don't last more than a few moons."
Tormund snorts. "Maybe not here. In the true north winters will never change."
She smiles a smile that doesn't reach her eyes and he looks away and shoves some bread in his mouth when she catches him looking.
"You must be pleased to be returning north, my Lord. Castle Black is much in need of some hands to tend to it, your presence will be most welcome."
Sandor bites back a snort of his own. Still chirping like a little bird. All the right words and not an ounce of meaning to any of it.
In so many ways she's exactly what he always thought she might be. Sitting at the head of the table, cloaked in white furs, looking as regal as the Dragon Queen herself.
But in another way that he can't quite put his finger on, there's something missing. Like she's just a portrait of a queen, hung on the wall, to be looked at from a distance. Up close, close enough to smell her, close enough to reach out and touch her if he had the balls, he thinks he can see cracks.
"And you intend to travel to Castle Black too, my lord?"
It takes him a moment to realize she's talking to him.
"Suppose so."
He hasn't really thought about it, didn't think it mattered until now. Sandor shoves more food in his mouth before she can ask him to elaborate.
"If you keep eating like that, you won't be staying at my castle for long, I'll tell you that Hound," Tormund chuckles. "Food's scarce enough in the Crow's nest without you eating me out of house and home."
"Where's your sister?" He asks, taking a long swig of wine to wash down the bread he's shoved too readily into his mouth.
"Arya's gone south, to spend some time in King's Landing with His Grace." She laughs a laugh like rainfall pattering over his skin. "Though, I'm not sure anyone ever quite knows exactly where my sister is. For all I know she's in Essos by now."
"Always was a feral little wolf pup, that one."
"Not so much of a pup these days," Sansa says, not laughing now.
"Not many pups left after the Great War," Tormund says.
Sandor takes in the curve of her hips and the swell of her breast just visible under her cloak, but it's the steel in her eyes more than anything that tells him the other man is right about that.
He forgoes breakfast in favor of downing half a skin of Dornish red.
Stepping out onto the battlements, he's met with the familiar ring of steel on steel. Down in the training yard two dark haired northern children of no more than twelve are sparring with one another. A cloud of silken black hair billows out behind one of them in a breeze and when the child spins, Sandor is surprised to see it's a girl.
There's footsteps behind him and a too familiar smell washes over him.
"So shy on decent soldiers in the North you're teaching the lasses to fight now?"
A loose strand of red brushes over his shoulder as she takes a place beside him. "Do you think women can't make decent soldiers, my lord?"
He glances at her sidelong but doesn't rise to the bait. They both know full well it was Brienne the Beauty who came closer to doing for him than anyone else ever had.
"Ten years and I'm still having to tell you to fuck all your 'my lords' and 'sers'."
He thinks she'll try and make some of her ladylike small talk and he'll have to tell her to fuck off, but to his surprise she stays quiet. For what feels like an age, they stand in silence watching the children spar in the courtyard below.
"That one looks just like your sister did when she was learning to hold a sword." He nods at the girl in the training yard who's just been knocked in the mud, a sullen scowl plastered across her face. "Angry and fucking useless."
"Most people aren't born knowing how to kill a man in one blow. They have to learn."
"Did you learn?"
"How to kill a man?" she asks, and the ice in her voice makes his jaw clench. "Eventually."
"How to fight," he corrects, wanting and at the same time not wanting to ask just how she learned the other lesson.
She tucks an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm the Lady of Winterfell. I have men who fight for me."
"I'd bet your sister doesn't think much of that."
Her eyes flick back to him. He's staring at her, as usual – hasn't really stopped since he walked through the doors to the great hall. For a second he thinks he sees the briefest hint of a smile play over the corners of her mouth.
"Will you teach me, then, my lord?"
"Get your pretty little Ser Edric to teach you." He's seen the Winterfell master at arms around the place. Just the type of sweet knight he knows the little bird always hoped Joffrey would be.
She doesn't say anything back, still waiting for a real answer.
He swallows. "Don't know how long we'll be here anyway."
Sansa looks away. "Very well."
She picks up her skirts like she's about to go. Just like she should. He should just let her walk away, and leave it there. But the words tumble out of his traitorous mouth before he can stop them.
"Tomorrow at dawn." She stops her movements. "Can't have the whole castle around to see their lady falling on her ass."
His little bird would've blushed at his mentioning her ass. Would've squirmed under his mangled gaze and hastened her departure to get away from the Hound. Lady Stark just looks at him with a gentle smile creasing the corner of her eyes.
"At dawn, my lord," she says, dipping into a slight curtsey. Her white furs brush the ground, coming away streaked with mud.
Dawn in the north comes different than it did in King's Landing. King's Landing was orange light seeping over the walls, a languid sign of the heat to come. Northern dawns are brisk and dark, and come with the scent of earth and a feel of the world melting back to life.
She walks down the stairs to the training ground in that cool blue light and he wonders if northern dawns were made just for her. Just so that anyone who looked upon her could see the lines of her cheekbones, and the ice in her eyes, and the fire in her hair, just as they were meant to be seen.
She's in a simple woolspun shirt and breeches. Gods know where she got them from – he can't imagine the little bird owns clothes like that. They look like men's clothes, slightly too big for her, and he feels a pang in his chest that it takes a second for him to pinpoint and another second for him to quash as absurd. Jealousy.
Auburn hair is piled loosely on top of her head, out of the way except for a few loose strands.
"My lord." She nods to him as she descends. There's a hint of nervousness in her voice. Or maybe he's just made that up to make himself feel less ridiculous.
"Call me lord one more time girl, and you'll be needing someone to drag you around this place in a chair like your cripple brother."
She doesn't even flinch. Gods, how this girl has changed.
It only takes him five minutes to learn she's just as terrible a sword fighter as he had thought she would be. Too slow, too weak, too easily shaken by even a gentle tap from him. The only thing he can say for her is that she is utterly tireless.
By the time the sun is threatening to peak over the eastern horizon, she's panting and covered in a layer of mud beyond anything he imagines the Lady of Winterfell is used to. Still, after what feels like the hundredth slip, she drags herself back to her feet again.
"That's enough," he says. People are going to start emerging in the courtyard at any second, and he doubts she wants them seeing her looking more like her bitch sister than the fine lady she is.
She wipes a splash of mud from her cheeks, but her hand is muddy too and it just smears it further.
"I'm terrible," she says.
"Aye," he says, and then thinks better of it. "Everyone's terrible at first."
Sansa's lips set in a line. "Again tomorrow?"
He smiles, but he can feel his mangled lip stretching over his teeth in a way that he knows looks utterly grotesque, so he stops.
"You're more like your sister than I gave you credit for."
The next morning she's distracted. It's even easier than usual to knock the sword from her hand. After his fifth swipe with no effort that sends her wooden sword clattering to the cobblestones, he stops.
His chamber isn't far from hers, so he can imagine it has something to do with the fact that she kept him up half the night with blood curdling screams that her guard explained away as her usual night terrors when he went to check if she was being murdered.
He doesn't know why he asks, but he does. "Sleep poorly?"
She pushes some loose stands of hair from her face, sweat sticking them back against her scalp. The more he sees her like this, the more he thinks there's another layer of Sansa Stark, hiding just below the perfectly preened surface, that he wants to see more of.
Gods knew, she'd be disgusted if any of her lordlings saw her looking like this – mud stained breeches, torn shirt, a sheen of sweat covering her body. Perhaps that's why she wanted him and not her beautiful Ser Edric to teach her. He was the only person she knew would always look worse than her, no matter how dirty she was.
"No more than usual." Her voice is rougher than usual from the lack of sleep.
"Don't remember you screaming that like in the Red Keep."
For the first time since he's seen this new Sansa Stark, her face flushes. "I'm sorry if I disturbed your sleep, my lord."
"Piss on your apology, girl. Is that why you wanted to learn to fight?"
He's heard things, a lot of things, about what happened to her when they married her off to the Bolton bastard. He had thought Joffrey was the worst of it, although perhaps he would've been if he'd had longer to grow into the cunt he was always going to be. He wonders, not for the first time, how different things might have been if he had taken her at the Blackwater.
Probably both of them would be dead. Her at the Red Wedding and him in some drunken fight in a tavern with some Lannister cunts, whenever they finally caught up to him. Not so long ago, he wouldn't have thought that was such a bad option. Now, with a faint smell of lemon clinging to the edges of his memory, and the sight of a sweat covered little bird in the early morning light, he isn't sure what he thinks.
"I don't want to talk about it." It's the first time she's been anything close to abrupt. Not commanding, but asking. "Let's keep practicing, I think I'm starting to get it."
He snorts. "Aye, so long as you're fighting the Imp, you should be fine."
She glares at him through the dirt and the sweat and swings her sword at him. He's not expecting it and he parries slightly too hard, sending the girl sprawling.
"Sorry," he says, before he has time to stop himself. From on the ground she stares up at him, something akin to shock in her eyes. He knows it's the apology she's shocked by, but the girl has too much sense to say it. Probably knows it would be a good way to bring out the bite in him.
After a moment's silence, he steps forward and reaches out a hand to help her up. Uncertainly, she slips her hand into his. She's a tall girl, but her hand still seems small in his. Small and soft, just like he thought she would be. His mind slips away from him, down a trail of thoughts about what other parts of her would be soft.
When he pulls her to her feet she comes up closer than he had expected. There's a moment where they both pause, faces close as they've been since he was hovering over her in her chambers with a dagger to her throat.
He waits for her to jump backwards in disgust. Too brave for her own good now, the girl doesn't do it. He does it for her, letting go of her hand quickly and stepping away, looking down to the ground, where he should be looking.
"Again," he grunts, forcing his mind off all the parts of Sansa that he has no right to think about, and back onto the feel of the stupid wooden sword in his hand.
Their days in the North take on a kind of routine that he doesn't entirely mislike. At dawn, he rises and spends a precious hour alone with the little bird, teaching her the basics of swordplay. They'll break their fast with the rest of the household and then she'll take her place in the great hall, where all the commoners come to complain about the stupidest shit he's ever heard. Sheep running away, grain going rotten, one man stealing a kiss from another man's wife.
He couldn't take more than two minutes of it when he tried to listen the other day, but somehow she sits through the lot with a serene look on her face, like she was born to do this. Gods, she probably was.
Like she suggested, he and Tormund and the rest of their Wildling pack fill their days sparring and drinking with the Northmen. They're a hardy breed up here, just like the Wildlings. A bit like him too, he supposes.
They must be planning to leave soon, although Tormund hasn't made mention of it. He asks the other man one morning as they stand watching a wildling get pummelled into the ground by one of the Stark guards.
"Lady Stark has asked me to stay for a while." Tormund snickers. "I think she means to propose marriage."
Sandor just stares at the other man, until the giant roars with laughter and slaps him on the shoulder.
"A joke, Hound. She says Lord Umber is expected from the North in a few days. Wants us to stay on so she can formally introduce us." He snickers. "Trying to get all her lordlings to play nice with one another."
"Perhaps she means for you to marry Lord Umber."
Tormund shakes his head. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Clegane. Get two northern lords out of the way for you."
Sandor doesn't know what to say to that without making it clear that he's thought about and utterly dismissed the possibilities that arise from the little bird being unmarried.
"Fuck off," he says, for something to say.
"Anyway, from what I hear, you and the Lady Stark will need all the extra time you can get for her to learn those sword fighting skills you're teaching her. Oh," The other man chortles when Sandor doesn't reply, "You thought no one knew about that?"
"Don't care who knows about it," he replies, too snappily. "Girl wants to know how to fight so she can cut the balls off any bastard like you who tries to bed her."
"Not to worry, Hound. The lass is too bony for my taste, pretty as she is. I like my women grown, with a bit of meat on their bones."
"Why would I give a shit about how you like your women?" he says, but his memory is already tracing the curve of her hips, her breasts, her lips. That was a grown woman if ever he'd seen one.
It's a few days later when the Umbers ride into view on the white horizon. The red banner with four linked chains snaps briskly in the breeze.
It's still early, the sun just beginning to thaw the layer of frost that covers everything. Sansa's outside too, standing above the gate, covered in a layer of frost that the sun never melts off her.
She takes in the approaching bannermen like an archer marking her target. He doesn't quite understand the look. Umbers are allies of House Stark as far as he knows, but it's not a pleased look that flickers across her face and disappears so quickly he might've missed it if he didn't spend half his life staring at the girl.
He couldn't say when she goes, but the next time he turns around to steal a glance at her, the walkway is empty.
The approaching hoard creeps its way across the field for much of the morning, in no seeming rush to get to their gates. He doesn't know why, but Sandor finds himself glued to the ramparts, watching them approach. He counts their number, and then counts again only including the fighting men. There aren't many of them. So they aren't here for trouble. But then why did she look so grim?
He gets his answer soon enough, when he sidles his way into the back of the hall through one of the doors by her throne, taking up a space behind her and to her left, near one of the household guards.
She's already deep in court, talking to one of the usual supplicants about a sickly cow they thought wouldn't last the rest of the winter.
Then the space clears, and one of the page boys announces "Lord Ned Umber of Last Hearth, my lady."
"My lady." A boy of no more than five and ten sweeps himself through the crowd and down onto one knee, furs pooling on the ground. He's sturdily built, and cleanly put together, but the strength in his shoulders doesn't hide the soft curve of his cheeks that nothing but age can wear down.
"Lord Umber. As always, we are most pleased to see you."
"And I you, my lady. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but you appear to grow more beautiful each time we venture south to Winterfell." The words are awkward out of the boy's mouth. Like he's reciting pleasantries his maester taught him, that he thinks the Lady of Winterfell would like to hear.
He can't see her face from where he's standing, but he can imagine well enough what the Lady of Winterfell thinks about having boys recite niceties at her.
"You flatter me, my lord. Pray tell, what brings you south?"
The boy glances over his shoulder. There's an older man standing there, black beard showing streaks of grey and hard lines around his eyes. He scowls at the boy for turning round and showing how green he is, but steps forward anyway.
"Wildlings, my lady."
"Ser Rickard." She always sounds so cold now. Frost thinly covered by a veil of courtesy. Frostier than usual with this one, though.
"My lady will recall the raids we spoke of when you visited Last Hearth?"
She nodded. "And as you may recall, ser, we visited the settlements in the north and spoke with the leaders of the encampments to discuss your concerns shortly thereafter. They assured me the free folk were not responsible for the raids you spoke of."
He had heard of wildling settlements being set up in the North after the wars. It had seemed strange to him that the wildlings even wanted to be put in settlements. Perhaps they didn't really want to; mayhaps it was the northern lords who really wanted them there, rather than in their towns and keeps.
"With respect, my lady, our grain stores say otherwise. The raids on the lands around Last Hearth have increased tenfold now that winter is ending. We finally have some crops beginning to grow and as quickly as we can grow them, the wildlings bastards are in our stores, robbing us blind."
There's ripples through the crowd. Wildlings are littered amongst the group of supplicants. From what he's learned of them in the last few years, they aren't the kind to take accusations lying down.
Sandor only notices Tormund is there when he yells from the back of the room.
"If you're lucky, one of our spearwives might steal your boy lord and then maybe he'll grow up a real man, with better to talk about than grain stores and crops."
"Well if it isn't the new Lord of the Wall without a wall." Ser Rickard scowls. The boy lord in question looks like he wants to melt into a puddle on the ground to end his suffering. "Like we needed any more of your kind to watch out for."
"Aye, and watch out you should." The smile on the wildling's face is more fearsome than a scowl on most other men.
Ser Rickard spits on the floor in disgust.
Sandor's hand is on the hilt of his sword before the spit hits the ground. He steps up beside Sansa without thinking about it, hand drawing his sword just enough that the ring of steel echoes through the room. Ser Rickard's eyes snap to him.
So do Sansa's and he's surprised when she raises a hand and places it gently on his forearm. He's been a Kingsguard for years, and a household guard for many years before that, and in all that time he doesn't ever remember any of his charges touching him like that (if he can even call her a charge). The gentlest reminder that she doesn't need him to protect her anymore, even if he wants to.
He doesn't know what he is to Sansa Stark, but he knows he isn't the only one who's noticed her hand on his arm. He sheathes his sword and steps back, but he doesn't take his hand off it, keeping his eyes on the Umbers. They, in turn, don't take their eyes off him.
Sansa doesn't stand. She barely even moves, but her voice when she speaks is crisp and unshaken.
"Lord Umber. I'm sorry to hear that the raids have not stopped. Winterfell would be pleased to offer you twenty of our own men to assist in guarding your stores in the coming months, if that would go some way to helping you."
"Yes my lady. Very much so, my lady, thank you." The boy bows deep and slow. He's far enough away, but Sandor thinks he can see his hand shaking. Ser Rickard's a barely contained ball of rage beside him. Sansa trains her icy blue gaze on him next.
"Now, I believe it has been a long journey from Last Hearth. You are most welcome guests in Winterfell, as are all the people in this room, but you will appreciate that there are many others who require an audience. I suggest you take the rest of the day to recover from your journey before the feast this evening."
It's not a request. The guards at the back of the room seamlessly slide the doors open and the Umber boy bows to Sansa again. For all his sturdy build, he's a boy in more ways than one and he doesn't do a good job of hiding the grateful look on his face as he sweeps from the room with a surly Ser Rickard in tow.
A strange pride that he has no right to ripples through him at how she seizes control back of the room so easily. She's not a girl flailing round in the mud with a wooden sword in here. She's a woman grown, one who knows how to handle herself.
At dinner he's not seated beside her. She's between Tormund and the Umber boy. He's down the far end of the table where he can just hear the boy's feeble attempts to make conversation with her.
You look beautiful. Thank you. Where's your sister? South. How's the King? Busy.
It's painful to listen to and he wishes he had something to distract him, but seated beside a morose Umber and one of Sansa's ladies who tried and failed to engage him in idle chatter, he can't help but overhear.
Then the boy says "was that the Hound in the great hall today, my lady?" and her eyes snap to him before he has the chance to look away and pretend he isn't shamelessly listening to her conversation.
"It was Lord Clegane," she says back. She's still looking at him and he looks away, because he doesn't know what to do with her staring like that.
"Why is he in the North?"
He chances another glance at her. She's still looking and he swears a slight smile creases her lips.
"In truth, I'm not quite sure, but I hope to find out."
He drinks enough wine to drown out the conversation then, and lets the blonde girl beside him talk his ear off with a bunch of horse shit he couldn't care less about. Better than sitting there indulging his stupid fantasy about the Lady of Winterfell.
He needs to get out of the keep and get himself to a brothel. Fuck away all the thoughts of her, and maybe then he'll be back to normal.
Eventually he gives up and leaves, unable to stand another second of the blonde girl's chirping. The wildlings and the Umbers are both drunk, but it seems to have brought them together enough that the night is on the cusp of turning into its usual drunken mess. Not so long ago, he would've been five flagons of wine deep, and preparing to pour himself into bed after dawn. Tonight, though, he's not in the mood.
The guards nod as he passes. There's the sound of footsteps on the ground behind him. Heavy boots, but something lighter too. He glances over his shoulder and she's there, fifteen feet back, guards following closely behind.
He turns back around and keeps walking, painfully aware of the footsteps behind him.
"My lord?" That's her voice. Can't the girl ever just leave him in peace?
"What?" He doesn't stop, doesn't turn.
"Will you escort me to my chambers? Or do you intend to walk ten feet away from us the whole way back to the sleeping quarters?" Her voice is tinged with laughter, and he wonders if she hasn't had too much wine.
He stops and turns to glare at her, but it's rather pointless since he waits for her to catch up just like she's asked. He doubts there's many things she would ask that he wouldn't do. Not that he'd tell her that.
"How was your evening?" she asks. She reaches out a hand as though she's expecting him to proffer an arm. He doesn't, falling into step beside her, and she drops her hand.
"You're lucky your ladies are pretty, because they have to be some of the dullest ones I've ever met. Rivalled only by those Umber cunts."
He half expects her to balk at the word, but he should've known better. Not this Sansa Stark. She doesn't even flinch.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Didn't look like your evening was much better if you ask me."
Sansa pauses before she speaks, measuring out her words like a good lady. "Lord Umber is a lovely young man. I expect he will make a fine lord in time."
"Chirp, chirp, little bird. Spitting out as many fake compliments as that boy was doing to you at dinner."
She ignores the jibe and sighs. A thoughtful sigh, he thinks. "He means to marry me."
That stops him, although he doesn't know why. The Umber boy can't be the only one with his sights set out on the pretty Lady of Winterfell. Perhaps it's the fact that she's telling him, like he's meant to be able to offer her some advice on it. Like she cares what he thinks.
"It's Ser Rickard's doing, I expect. He's convinced him that I must take a husband and that he is the most suitable for the job.
"Who the fuck is this Ser Rickard, anyway?"
"Ned's cousin. He won't be the only one saying it though. The Northmen want a lord in the North, and they want it to be one of their own. They're worried if I wait too long, the Queen will marry me off to some Southryn lord without my having a say in it."
They're probably right. He looks at her and she knows it too.
"She wants to marry me to Ser Jorah. Jon's told me. He said he wouldn't allow it, but who knows how long that will last. She does seem to have a way of getting the things she wants."
Sandor snorts. "Women always do."
She looks at him. He looks back and he's painfully aware of the guards behind him, although he doesn't know why.
"And what do you want, Sandor?"
Some answers flash through his mind that he can't say. Not to her. Instead he says, "Wine and women. And a good night's sleep now and again."
They're outside her room, but she stops and doesn't go in. She takes him in slowly and thoughtfully. "You're different."
She's one to talk. The fearsome Lady bitch of the North thinks he's different?
"I've always liked wine and women, girl."
A smile tugs at the corners of her eyes. Maybe the first genuine smile he's seen from her in all the time he's known her. "Good night, my lord. Sleep well."
She calls off their morning training sessions. She says it's because she's too busy, but he expects it's really because she doesn't like the idea of Ser Rickard seeing what she's up to and getting some kind of upper hand.
Instead, he doesn't see her for a few days and he's left to ruminate on their conversation and what it means. Why she thought it mattered to him who the Dragon Queen thought she should and shouldn't marry. How she looked so beautiful in the candlelight standing outside her bed chambers, but he tries not to linger too long on that one.
The next time he sees her she's walking with her hand gently resting on Ned Umber's arm. The boy says something and she laughs a gentle laugh, looking at him in a way that he knows. It's the way Cersei used to look at men. Devotion and awe over well veiled indifference. The kind of look that tricks foolish men into falling in love with a beautiful woman.
He doesn't like seeing that look on her. It reminds him too much of Cersei, which is something he never thought he'd say about the little bird.
He's walking with Tormund back to the hall and she stops as they pass by each other.
"My lady." Tormund inclines his head.
"Good morning my lords." Even her head nod is regal. It's all just a show for the Umber boy, but he hates watching it. "Will you join us? We were going to take a turn around the Keep, and your company would be most welcome."
"Certainly," the wildling says with a grin.
"No," he says, at the same time.
Sansa looks between them with a frown.
"Don't come then, Hound," Tormund says, offering his other arm to Sansa, and she takes it slightly uncomfortably "I'm sure the Lady Stark would prefer to be accompanied by northmen more than the likes of you anyway."
"Get fucked," he says, because anything else just seems like he's giving the wildling what he wants.
Tormund chuckles as the three of them walk away.
He finds Sandor after the walk, downing a fresh skin of arbour gold in the great hall with some of the other wildlings.
"She's a clever one, that Lady Stark," Tormund says after he's fetched himself a cup.
"How's that?"
"She's sneaky. She asks me about life in the north before the wall came down, so I start to tell her about it and the Umber boy chimes in with questions. They do know more about life in the north up at Last Hearth. It's the closest you southerners have to a true north.
"Anyway, we get talking, and he's not so bad. Before I know it, he and I are chatting like old friends. I don't even know how it happened but somewhere along the way she gets us to agree that it would be good for me to visit Last Hearth."
"You're going to Last Hearth?"
"Aye." The wildling sounds as bewildered by it as he is. "To talk about crops and other horse shite."
"And you agreed to it?"
Tormund shrugs. "She's persuasive. She almost made me think it was my idea."
"Well, what do you know… Guess the little bird got some political sense forced into her after all these years."
But he'd already thought as much, hadn't he? That was exactly what he'd seen on her face as she sauntered through the courtyard with Ned Umber's arm under her hand, and his eyes locked on her. She's playing the game of thrones now, alright.
"More than some, I'd say." Tormund downs the rest of his cup of wine and waves over one of the serving girls for another. "If the Umber boy doesn't marry her, maybe I will."
"She says she won't marry anyone," he says, before he thinks it through.
Tormund snorts. "With a face like that, that's probably what all the maids say to you, isn't it Hound?"
The Umbers leave the next day. With them gone he can almost visibly see her relax, but with it comes a reminder that Tormund's reason for staying in Winterfell is gone.
As if she's realised it too, Sansa appears by his side as he walks through the courtyard.
"Will you stay long in the North, my lord?"
He looks at his boot prints in the melting snow. They leave gigantic imprints in the muddy ground underfoot. Hers are small and delicate by comparison, just like how she used to be. Before she became the hard edges and cold lines he sees now.
He doesn't miss the delicate, naïve child from King's Landing, but he thinks she might. Miss what she might've been if it hadn't been for the blonde cunt, or the even worse one he hears came along afterwards.
"Maybe. Nowhere else to be," he says, and their eyes meet briefly, icy blue on tired grey.
"What about Clegane Keep? It's yours, you know. You're Lord Clegane now."
"And you're Lady Stark. Tell me, how does that title serve to ward off the nightmares that linger in Winterfell, my lady?"
They stare at each other in silence for a long time. She knows as well as he does that he's not going to Clegane Keep. Can't think of a single place in the whole of the seven kingdoms he'd want to be less.
They've stopped walking. When he realises he starts up again, trying to put a bit of distance between them.
He doesn't know what to do with this new Sansa Stark who is gentle and sharp and warm and cold all at the same time. Whose clothes cling to her body in the way that they didn't when she was 13, giving him a daily reminder that this isn't the child he knew in King's Landing.
"Will you go to Castle Black?"
The question stops him, only because he doesn't know what to make of it.
"Where else would I go?"
"You could stay here." Her small steps bring her back up beside him in a rush of cool air and the faint smell of flowers.
While the rest of the north slowly defrosts around them, Sandor feels his words freezing up in his throat. He looks at her face, pale skin with the finest dusting of freckles, wisps of red hair escaping to brush flushed cheeks. Had she always been as beautiful as she was now? If she had been he couldn't remember it.
"Perhaps," he says. He turns and walks away and neither of them speak another word, but they don't need to. They both know that if he was going to say no, he would've done it.
Tormund tells him they're leaving the next day.
He doesn't really seem surprised when Sandor says he isn't coming.
"I'll follow in a few weeks," he says, but they look at each other and he thinks they might both expect that's not true.
"So long as you know what you're getting yourself into, my friend," the wildling says and claps him on the back.
He doesn't. Has no idea what he's getting himself into, although he has a good feeling it's a world of trouble. For a moment, he doubts his decision.
Then he looks up and she's there on the ramparts, hair coiled in a tight braid that wraps its way over her shoulder and all the way down to her hip. Who is he kidding? He couldn't leave if he wanted to.
Author's note: This fic has a funny history. I wrote this a number of years ago (in between Seasons 7 and 8 of the show coming out, which hopefully explains all the dead people who are still alive in this) and then did a substantial rewrite and published that rewrite over on AO3. But I never really liked the direction the AO3 story went in and I ended up abandoning it because I just couldn't make it work how I had originally envisioned.
Then a few days ago I happened back on this original version and realised it was much better than my rewrite (not the first time that's happened, maybe I should learn my lesson...) and I set about finishing it off.
There will be two more chapters after this, which are largely already drafted, so I hope to have them posted up very shortly. In the meantime, any feedback is always greatly appreciated.
