2 weeks after I started posting again, I'm happy to say the fic is getting some readers! (According to the traffic stats, at least.) And at least one regular commenter, Magnus374 :) Please consider leaving a review, maybe saying what country you are from or what you like about this story or the pairing. Or consider sharing it with other SanSan and ASOIAF fans! It means a lot to me to hear from you and get readers. Especially because...I told a few IRL friends who watch the A Game of Thrones TV show about this fic, and they thought I was super weird! "Ew isn't Sandor like 50?!" Haha. (Sandor is 28 in the books.) Anyway, this is based off the books ONLY and I picture them both pretty differently to how they are in the show (example on Deviant art: luaprata91/art/Knights-Are-For-Killing-390454836).

CHAPTER 29

BRIENNE

Brienne was halfway back to Barrowton when she realized that the Hound had tricked her. She reined her horse in mid-gallop, and it dug its front legs into the mud and twisted its head to the side to meet her command. As its back half swung around to meet the sudden change in direction its legs slipped and Brienne felt the saddle slip out from beneath her. She thought that they were falling, crashing into the snow and mud, but the animal righted itself with a jolt. When her horse had all parts of itself facing the opposite direction, it was also limping on one tenderly raised hoof. The horse had gone lame.

Brienne swore against everything she could think of in heaven and earth. I had Sansa, damnit! "I had her!" she yelled at the sky, forcing her wounded animal back down the road. Had her safe, until I lost her to the men I was stupid enough to trust. Brienne kicked her horse hard, as hard as she wanted to kick herself. It whinnied in protest and limped slightly faster. "When I find the Hound, Lothor, any of them—I'll kill them!"

She said it aloud to no one, silently hoping that the Gods—who had never bothered to answer any of her other prayers—would grant this one and absolve her of her mistakes. It took three times as long to get to the crossroad as it did to gallop away from it. Once there, she followed the path Clegane took along the cliffs by the sea. Her anger tempered to self-pity for herself and her horse, which would never carry another rider after this torture; its lameness worsening and as certain a death sentence as if she'd plunged her sword into its belly. But she needed it, since it could carry her and her heavy armor better than if she made the trip on foot. She kept riding until she came to the scene of the battle.

Here was a dead horse and a dead man. Brienne dismounted to get a better look at the scene. Even from a distance she could tell that the horse was not Clegane's great black beast. Her own turned away, ears flat against its head and lame foot tipped forward. As wounded as hers was, Lothor Brune's was dead. The dapple grey had got a sword plunged into its side. Only someone brutal, desperate, or cowardly would do such a thing. Or all three, Brienne decided, her stomach turning from the stench of death.

But Brune himself could not complain. He had half a steel blade lodged through the center of his skull. It reached halfway down his face, splitting his forehead into two slimy halves. His eyes stared at nothing, black and full of blood.

Brienne had no love for the man, but the sight of him turned her stomach. Clegane had Sansa—that much was obvious—but as for where they'd gone off to, she had no idea. It would be stupid to try and find them now, she decided. Although they couldn't be far, she had no mount to chase them with. And she had no taste to battle the Hound again.

She strode back to her horse. The animal flinched away from her, but with soft words and a gentle touch she was able to mount up again. It was not dark yet, but the short winter hours changed swiftly from evening to night. It began to snow. Light snowflakes coated her horse's mane like a fine dust, at first; then became heavy lumps that plopped out of the sky. By the time she reached the Kingsroad her horse was lifting its feet out of ponds of snow that were three inches deep.

Brienne looked to the North. Would Sansa really go to Winterfell? Even if she tried, it was hard to believe that she would make it. They were just as many lords who would hinder as would help her, and the land was overrun with bandits—to say nothing of the weather's harsh elements. If Sansa rode north, it would be as though the land itself were against her.

Brienne looked to the south. Were it not a dark night, she would have been able to see the outline of Moat Cailin's towers against a starry sky. Jaime was there, a day or so's ride from where she stood. At a gallop, she mused, and patted her shivering horse. "Let's keep moving. It'll keep us warm," she said to the wounded thing, and clucked her tongue to encourage it to walk.

As Brienne rode through the cold, a faint light appeared in front of her. It flickered out of sight, swallowed by the blackness, and reappeared with another, and another, all growing larger as she approached. She crossed the road and heard the sounds of men at camp.

Brienne hesitated. I could use a friend, right about now, she mused, but had no insurance that this camp housed men of the friendly type. Brienne steeled herself and rode forward. To be left in the cold would mean death.

An outline of tents made themselves clear as did the shouts of a camp no more nor less rowdy than was typical. Most of the men were inside to escape the snow, but a few unlucky servants and squires were left outside to attend to chores. She headed straightaway for the lean-to where horses were kept, calling out to a squire who left the makeshift stable carrying two large buckets.

"I've been caught out in this weather, and my horse has gone lame," she explained. "Could you put me up for the night?"

In answer, he dropped the empty pails. "Ser?"

"Pod!" Brienne leapt off her horse, stumbling a bit in the unfamiliar footing of snow.

"My lady!"

In a moment of jubilation, they embraced. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "What camp is this?"

"It's Ramsay Bolton's—or at least, the main one is. The one I'm in. They took me on readily, once they learned I'm Ilyn Payne's cousin . . ."

"Ah," Brienne couldn't keep the disappointment out of her voice. Ramsay's reputation preceded him. "Then, have you thrown your lot in with them?"

"N-no! No, Ser," Pod whispered. "I haven't forgotten our quest."

"Then where is the Blackfish? Surely, he can't be here. The Boltons would recognize him!"

"He's not. Nor his archer friend. Don't look so disappointed, my lady—Brynden Tully went on to meet with another northern lord; at White Harbor, I think. It wasn't safe here for him, as you said. But Lord Bolton's called all the northern lords to Winterfell for Ramsay's wedding."

"His wedding?"

"Yes," Pod was positively beaming, "—to Arya Stark."

Now Brienne was puzzled. Jaime had said the girl was dead, but Sansa had been adamant that she wasn't. If Arya was alive Brienne had a duty to go to her, especially if the poor girl was set to marry Ramsay.

"They're a cruel lot, for the most part, but I've managed to make some friends among the servants. A kind word gets you far with them. If you keep your head down, my lady, I'm sure we'll find a place for you."

"I doubt it."

"It's true!" Pod insisted. "The company grows larger every day. It's not just Ramsay and his men anymore. That calms them down some. We're expecting a retinue of knights from Barrowton tomorrow, and then we're heading north."

"For the wedding."

"Yes," Pod lowered his voice to a whisper again. "I'm sure Ser Brynden means to meet us there. Perhaps with the support of the lords loyal to the Starks behind him. They're his nieces. He cares about what happens to them."

"Pod, you sound most rebellious. What do you expect those two girls can do against the Boltons?"

At that moment an older man came out of the lean-to with a few choice words for his lazy assistant, who scrambled to pick up the fallen pails. "Just give him your horse and tell him Ser Jaime sent you from Moat Cailin," Pod assured her before he scurried away. "We treated with him yesterday. It's likely enough!"

Brienne's heart fell like a stone down a well. She was one day off from seeing Jaime. The North, she felt, knew no mercy.