Thanks again for all the comments, favorites, and follows! The GOT fandom has kind of suffered since the TV show ending and the hype dying down in general. So I hope who's reading enjoys my post-ASOS rewrite. I'm tempted to add in so many more chapters since I have thoughts on other characters, too, but I've had the outline for this done for a long time. I wish it were my job to write all day! Sigh.

CHAPTER 47

SANDOR

Sandor had not drunk to excess since that night in Barrowton, those few years ago, when he and Sansa first came North and he had pushed against her reluctance until she stabbed him. After that night he had finally accepted that his old drinking habit muddled his mind and merely masked old pains, even as it made way for new ones, and he had kept his promise to her not to drink. But he drank to excess now, spilling a week's worth of wine down his throat until he passed out on the floor of some poor crofter's home.

Sandor woke in a stupor, the familiar headache greeting him like a gloating old friend. The smell of what he hadn't downed permeated the air above where it had soaked into the wood where he'd spilled it. Spots danced in his vision as he lurched to his feet. The room was dim, but he could see bright sunlight seeping through the minute cracks around the door jamb like a glowing molasses, engulfing him as he forced his way outside.

The people had been excited to see him when he rode up yesterday. All the people loved him, the Hound, who had sliced through their enemies and brought their sweet princess back to rule them. Now they scurried away or looked with eyes downcast as he made his way to the chain pump. Dimly, he wondered what obscenities he'd roared the night before to change their attitudes so much. He drank heartily from the cold water and washed his face. Then he leaned back with his wrists on his knees and watched the people going on their business in the village.

It wasn't long until women came to the fountain to get water, a group of widows and orphans that did the work for dead men who would never return to them. They huddled together as they approached with none of the songs or happy chatter typical of their ilk, avoiding him as best they could as they filled their pails heavy with water. Sandor caught himself sneering, uncomfortable in the knowledge that they were afraid.

An old woman broke off and approached him. "You'll feel better after you get some food in you. Come on." She reminded Sandor of his promise from the day before to help the villagers frame a house. They were starting a honeybee farm and needed help with the heavy labor. He forced himself to his feet and followed the group back to the dwellings. One of the women brought him breakfast, a slim-bodied thing with demure eyes and full lips. She set the board of fried eggs, onion, and ham timidly in front of him.

Sandor carried the heavy beams and helped the village's few men lift them into place to form the frame of a house. The hewn logs fit evenly into pre-cut notches that were then hammered together with smooth, rounded pegs. The men were quite satisfied by the amount of work they were able to get done from having Sandor as their extra hand and the mood at dinner was festive, a bright fire crackling in the center square. The same woman who brought him breakfast brought his plate. "More wine," he told her, and ignored that she teased her uncovered wrist as she laid the pitcher on the table and lingered by him while he ate.

There could be more women in his life, he knew. But the thought angered him and he pushed it from his mind. He only wanted Sansa—she was different. No. Sansa's a cunt like all the rest of them, he thought, but immediately regretted it and took another swig of his wine. He ate and drank heartily but slipped away from the smallfolk before he loosed his tongue or heard too much. Some of them wanted to go to the fair, while others just wondered about it. Lords, ladies, and traveling merchants from afar would all be present. They knew more about him than they let on—even though he had just come from the castle everyone was sensitive enough not to ask him about it, or about Sansa, or Harry, or any of the other guests. He nursed the rest of his wine alone in a field before crawling back to his cot.

In the morning Sandor took three skins of their strongest liquor as payment and rode away into the forest. There was a ranger's camp less than a day's ride in, but Sandor took his time and relished being alone in the wilderness among the tall pines and windswept bluffs. At night he unrolled his bed, but this thin thing was not the squashy brown one he had used on his long journey with Sansa and there would be no fur-lined snow house dug in through this muddy earth. He woke up after midnight, stiff from the cold, and forced himself to move quickly and warm up. His shivering horse had a thin coat of dew on it and he wiped the animal down before forcing them both back on the trail. He reached the rangers, but they didn't need his help and were only eager for news from the castle. They gave him some extra furs and a better blanket, and he went on his way.

Sandor wandered south with no goal in mind until he ran out of drink. By day he fancied himself a knight errant. Lightly armored atop his horse with his sword at his side, he judged for himself which road to take and what quests to pursue, liberated from the entrapment of feudal society. But at night he drank himself numb from the knowledge that he had no land, no lady, nothing to fight for, no reason to live. Men like him weren't meant to guard peasants on the road or help construct houses, they were meant to duel others to the death and cut down lesser men in battle. The drink met him gleeful and taunting. It was eager to remind him of all his hurts and failures, past and present, and to urge him back to his old habit of drowning himself in it until, for a few relieved hours, he forgot everything.

Sandor decided he would head to Castle Cerwyn, Lady Jonelle's seat. It was close enough to Winterfell to lessen the pain of being separated from Sansa, and Lady Jonelle was a friend to the Starks—she would not look down on Sandor for being reluctant to leave her liege's side, even if he need be chased away by her new husband. The word on the road was that Lady Cerwyn was not even at her castle, but had snuck away to visit Brandon of the mountain clans. No matter, Sandor thought, he would visit anyway, and unless he left this land and found someplace far from Lannister influence, there was nowhere else to go. The route took him past Winterfell besides.

He could see it in the distance. The great looming spires poked into the sky above the thick gray outer walls and battlements that made Winterfell a formidable fortress. He was level with it on a low hill, leagues away, on the clear land that surrounded the Kingsroad to the south. Castle Cerwyn was not far from here. Sandor watched the road to Winterfell for a long time until a group of tiny specks heading down from it materialized into riders carrying the blue and white banner of house Arryn.

A kind of recklessness seized him as he realized, here was Harry with his men. He thought of the sweet red blood that would flow out if he stabbed him. Harry had knights, but there were not too many of them. He thought a bit too seriously about how he would do it—charge through, and maybe get one or two good hacks in before his horse fell under him and they killed him, too. Warrior danced and snuffed, sensing Sandor's anticipation, but he held the horse steady as the Vale knights drew closer.

Of course there was no way Sandor could cut through them all. Harry had armor on and his best knights around him. The two at the ends of the line broke off into a gallop to head around the little hill and behind him. It was the typical movement employed to encircle an unknown combatant. Warrior danced more spiritedly around the top of the hill—they still had time, he seemed to suggest, to fight or flee, but waiting would do them no good. Sandor held him steady. A primal urge to see his rival had seized him—to see this man who needed eight others to protect him but came into his home to steal his woman. Harry rode at the center of the column, the safest position, and Sandor saw with distaste his handsome, unscarred face, his body which was lean at best, his expertly starched doublet, expensive jewels, and armor's polished trim.

"The Hound," Harry sneered, and Sandor knew he matched the other man's snide expression. "I should have known that you were not far off. That's the problem with stray dogs—feed a beggar once from master's table, and they never leave."

The knights fanned out around him, cutting off any escape route, but Sandor itched for a fight more than ever. Just give me an excuse to rip out your sorry throat, he thought, and saw in the other men's eyes that they were ready, too. All of you. "I'm surprised to see you on the road," Sandor retorted. "A man like you should be safe behind castle walls with your new bride."

Harry frowned. "Sansa?"

"Yeah. You suit each other—soft and needy."

Harry looked bemused. "Actually, she refused me."

Sandor's heart flipped and leapt up in his chest, the feeling of a boy's elation to match his astonishment. Sansa had not lied to him, she had kept her promise, she had not given her hand to Harry—

"Not that it makes any difference to you," Harry continued. "Sansa has many suitors. After me, a delegation from Harrenhall will be up shortly."

"Littlefinger," Sandor seethed. Baelish has his sticky fingers in everything. I should not have left Sansa. Harry was in on it, he was as good as a spy, that singer had been a spy—Sandor would root out, kill, all of them. His horse tossed its head nervously.

"Oh, to be sure, he'd marry her." Harry's smile was sickly sweet and his expression, beneath his tousled, sandy blond hair, as relaxed as if caught waking in the middle of a pleasant dream. Even so, his hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword. "But Lord Baelish doesn't come himself. He sends Gregor Clegane."