Hi everyone,

I promised I would finish this story and I will. Came on here and it was hard for me to swallow that it's been six years since the last update. Although this fic is based off the books, I am of course watching the show, and with the show ending, I figured I better strike while the iron's hot and get it done. Thank you so much to everyone who read the story. Ye who leave comments are my heroes.

Apologetically yours,
KhaleesiDany

CHAPTER 25

SANDOR

"Sandor, whatever happened to the lady knight?" Sansa asked.

"Sent her on a bootless errand, as her masters do."

"Oh, you dog!" she chided him. "You're so cruel."

Sandor grunted. It was partly his cruelty that had gotten them this far. That big freak of a woman had done right by him and Sansa in the end, but that alone wasn't reason enough to trust her. He would keep being cruel and he would keep Sansa alive. But feeling her pressed against his chest, naked except for the cloak between them, made him want to be gentle, too.

They headed down the long path to a ranch built out of thick logs and surrounded by snow-covered pastures. This fort-like structure was the home of a man very much the type of lesser lord that Sandor's grandfather had been. Because of this, Sandor did not expect any problems in dealing with him. As the Cleganes raised dogs for the Lannisters, so this family raised horses for the Ryswells, who were supposed to give the best of their stock to the Starks. None of that mattered now. As far as the North knew, the Starks were all dead, and even if the Cleganes were a full rank closer to their lordship than this man's family, Sandor himself was errant. He couldn't claim an alliance with anyone. His Hound's helm lay hidden in his bag.

The master of the ranch saw them coming from a long way off and met them unhorsed, a scabbard swinging from his hip. He was younger than Sandor and his thick wooly coat made him look bigger than he was. Sandor had little doubt that the sword in that scabbard was cheap iron, and the man who would wield it more practiced with the peasants' weapon, the bow. But Sandor had neither want nor reason to test this. His own sword lay in pieces on the roadside, miles behind him. He called out a greeting and dismounted.

The man yelled back. "Make leave if you seek charity. We don't put up travelers."

It was custom to put up travelers, especially in winter, but since the Boltons rewrote the code of honor in the North with Robb Stark's death Sandor did not expect its people would be hospitable. "I don't want your charity," he responded. "I want to sell this horse."

Sansa flinched up in the saddle. The man stepped forward, appraising Stranger. There were snowflakes trapped in his red-brown beard and thick eyebrows. "Well, that's a relief. We've been overrun with Wildlings seeking shelter since Bastard Commander Snow let them through the Wall. Still, what makes you think I'd want to buy your horse?"

"When we passed through Barrowton I heard you were the Master of Horse for her Lady Dustin." The small keep there couldn't accommodate all of the Dustins' famous horses, so most were kept here.

"Aye, I am, but I fear you came out of your way for nothing. The barn is full up, and I don't need another mouth to feed this winter. Besides," he looked Stranger over and scoffed, "this horse is broken."

It was true that Stranger was weary, but he was not broken. "He's worn," Sandor admitted, "and he's seen battle." The joints in Stranger's knees were swollen and his patchy winter coat needed to be brushed, but Sandor knew the only cure his horse needed was rest. "He's a war horse of good Southron stock. If you breed destriers, he'll do something for your line."

"He's too old for more war, that's for certain." The master gave Stranger a closer look, with a few more epithets to describe him, including "swarthy", "ill-tempered", and "mean," but Sandor knew he would not argue if he didn't mean to buy. Stranger was unrideable, but he was not worthless. And since Sandor knew the fair price of his horse was more than could be got by butchering it, he meant to get it. Once the price was high enough that Sandor was confident Stranger would be pastured and not eaten, he accepted a bag of gold from the younger man. Though heavier than all of what a peasant family could earn in a year, it was still far lighter than it would have been if Stranger were in healthy condition and Sandor had demanded what he was worth.

He pulled Sansa and the packs off Stranger. She was crying. Sandor was surprised by how glum he felt himself, and by the sense of loss, like he'd sold one of his own limbs. He turned back.

"We had another horse," he said, "a white sand steed. She ran off not too far from here. If you find her, she's yours."

"A missing horse to go along with this one? Now I know I got the bargain."

The man led Stranger away by the bit in his mouth, and Sansa bit back more tears over their lost horses. They left the ranch on foot and after a few hours she was really crying. The snow was up to their knees. Without animals, they made wretched time and their bodies were exposed to the elements. When Sansa's legs turned blue at the shins Sandor picked her up and carried her on his back.

"Just a little farther," he told her.

To hear the residents of Barrowton tell it, the North was overrun with wildlings—savages who refused to conduct themselves like civilized people, settled too close to town, and poached and stole what charity they couldn't beg. Traveling on foot, Sandor couldn't say that the settlement relegated five leagues away from Barrowton felt like it was too close.

The day's last light was an orange line above the horizon when they got there, led by the pillars of smoke from the wildling campfires. As they got closer, Sandor saw that each one was surrounded by people with uncombed hair and dressed in the gray and white furs of northern animals. The closest group saw him coming but did not budge. Sandor stumbled unceremoniously to the fire, lowered a sleeping Sansa to the ground and said, "I need to buy dogs."

Two women, so alike they could be sisters, though one was taller and more buxom and the other had a spattering of freckles across her face, wore expressions that bespoke curiosity and concern, but they waited so long to say anything that Sandor wondered if they even understood the language. Then the little one, her eyes wide and brown like a doe's, exchanged a look with her sister and said, "Yeh came all the way out here to buy dogs?"

"I need to go north."

The bigger one slapped her on the arm. "Don' talk to him! He could be a spy."

"A spy for who?"

"I dunno . . ." The wildling woman took a closer look at Sandor and then yelled. "What happened to yer face!"

"Yeh said not to talk to him . . ."

"Who are you?"

"We're refugees," Sandor answered, "from the war in the South."

"Who's we?"

"Oh . . ." Sansa moaned. The wildlings bent over her.

"There's a girl in his stuff!"

"There's hardly any stuff here. Here's this girl!"

"The poor thing is nearly frozen!"

"Give her here," the taller wildling woman commanded. "We'll get her inside." She lifted Sansa up with an ease that betrayed the strength of the lithe body hidden under her deer and fox furs and headed for the nearest hut. Their audacity annoyed him, but Sandor had no alternative, so he followed. There were about a dozen other wildlings nearby, but they gave the woman a wide berth and did not get involved beyond a few questioning looks.

"I'm Wyndi, and this is my sister Grtta," the little wildling told Sandor as they followed Grtta into a hut filled with pots, jars, and skins. "Who is this? Your wife?"

"Yeah." He went along with it.

"This here's our medicine tent. She can stay here until she feels better."

Grtta laid Sansa on the fur covered cot in the corner. Then she turned on Sandor. "You Southron idiot! What kinda husband be draggin' his poor wife through the snow? She could lose a foot!"

"Ah, Grtta! Yeh dunna know nothin' about them. Leave 'em alone.

As Grtta whirled around the tent filling her arms with salves, Sandor leaned back against the hut's wall, lower and lower until he was sitting on the ground. He had been moving mechanically, one foot in front of the other, for so long, that now that he allowed himself rest his tiredness overwhelmed him. Grtta faltered when pulling off Sansa's cloak. "Erg! She's naked! What you two been doing that your lady ain't got no clothes on in the dead of winter?"

The little one had an idea about it. "Are you lost or something?"

"We're going north." His wrists rested on his knees, but the rest of his body was still tired. The bag of gold was hidden under his clothes, and he would wake up in time to defend himself if they tried to slit his throat, wouldn't he?

"North? It's even colder up there. And what are you gonna do if the Others come down past the Wall?" But Sandor wasn't listening. The women's shrill voices faded into background noise. Comfortable inside the warm hut, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.