Tormund stalked down the sun-brightened hall, Davos beside him.
He was trying to keep his face blank, but the Southerner kept eyeing him curiously.
Tormund had never given much thought to Jon's advisor before. Sir Davos was a quiet man, brave and loyal, so far as Tormund could tell. He gave Jon good advice, even if he had served that other king, Stannis, first. And he'd cared about the little princess, the one the red witch had burned. That much was obvious. Men who were kind to little ones didn't concern Tormund overly much. In his experience, they weren't all that likely to stick a knife in you without reason.
But now, he was less sure.
What had Davos heard? And what had he guessed? Did he know the lady of the castle lay nearly naked in his bed at this very moment? Did he have any idea what he had just interrupted?
An image of Sansa filled his head, then.
How she'd looked underneath him. Eyes filled with lust and lips parted in anticipation.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
"This had better be important," he growled.
"Why? What else were you planning on doing today?" Davos asked.
Images of Sansa flickered through his mind again. None fit to share with the Southern lord.
He grimaced.
"I've never seen you so agitated," Davos continued. "You almost attacked me when I tried to come in your room just now."
"Aye." Tormund stared resolutely ahead. "It's rude to enter a man's rooms uninvited. Or didn't you know that, Onion Knight?"
They walked for a few more moments in a silence only punctured by the scuffing of their boots on the stone floor.
Sansa's dress had slipped from her shoulders, he remembered. All that milky white skin.
Tormund groaned.
"I need to hit something," he muttered under his breath.
"What was that?" Davos asked.
"I said, I need to bloody well hit something."
Davos stopped, thought it took Tormund a few moments to notice it. Finally, Tormund circled back to the Southerner.
"Jon needs us calm and collected," Davos said in hushed tones.
"Is that what you are, Sir Davos? Calm and collected?"
"I don't like working with them any more than you do, Tormund. But if the knights of the Vale hadn't shown up, our bodies would likely be rotting on the battlefield right now. As it is, I'd rather fight beside them than against them."
Tormund laughed. Surely, the man couldn't be that dense. Could he?
"Is that what you think I'm angry about?" he asked the Southerner, just to be sure.
He watched Davos' face closely, but it only registered confusion.
"Isn't it?" Davos replied.
Davos didn't have a clue. Sansa was safe.
"Oh, aye," Tormund said, clapping Davos roughly on the back. "Knights of the fucking Vale. Hate them."
"Well, you're going to have to control that wildling temper of yours," Davos replied. "Littlefinger has come forward with some information and Jon is going to want our help in dealing with it."
"Littlefinger, eh?"
Just hearing the name made Tormund's shoulder blades itch. That was one man who wanted to put a knife in his back, make no mistake. Not that he'd ever be dumb enough to try it himself. Sansa probably fought better than the little lord. Still, whatever Littlefinger had to say, Tormund guessed it wouldn't bode well for him.
They reached the great hall then, and entered.
It was emptier than it had been only an hour before. Only Jon, Lady Mormont, Lords Glover and Manderly, Littlefinger, and a few Vale lords were inside, seated before one of the long tables. The dais stood empty. Tormund took that as a good sign. Jon might be King of the North now, but it didn't appear that he was going to rule like a typical king.
When Jon heard them approach, he looked up and gave a small smile, relief evident on his face.
Careful, Tormund would have cautioned him if they'd been alone. Don't let them see you trust the advice of a wildling and a smuggler more than your own sworn lords.
"Davos, did you not find Sansa?" Jon asked, a wrinkle marring his brow.
"She wasn't in her rooms."
Jon frowned.
"Tormund, have you seen her?"
Each of the lords and ladies gathered shifted their attention to him.
Tormund fought to keep his face expressionless as he lowered himself into a chair. He hated lying to Jon, but what else could he do?
"Not since this morning."
Jon sighed. "She should be here."
"I will be sure to pass on the information to her," Littlefinger said, a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.
Tormund would have loved to point out that that might be difficult, given that Sansa wanted nothing more to do with the little lordling. He would have also loved to offer to tell her himself. Maybe mention exactly where she could be found. But now was not the time for a pissing contest. Especially if it brought unwanted attention that might keep them apart.
Jon nodded curtly in agreement with Littlefinger's offer.
"Alright, let's begin then. Lord Baelish, can you repeat what your scouts reported for everyone here?"
"Of course, Your Grace," Littlefinger began.
The sound of his voice alone was enough to make Tormund want to beat him bloody.
Did Jon trust this little weasel?
"Last night," Littlefinger continued, "A messenger arrived from Moat Cailin. He reported that a small party of men were heading up the Kingsroad. They had stopped at the fort and begged passage north, claiming they were heading for the Wall. Our men there let them through."
"How many men are we talking?" Tormund interrupted.
Littlefinger's eyes flashed towards Tormund. His expression gave nothing away.
"Our scout counted twenty two."
One of the Vale knights scoffed. "Twenty two men. Surely they are no concern of ours. What threat could they possibly pose?"
"My thoughts exactly," Littlefinger replied smoothly. "Until I learned who was in their party."
"And who would that be?" Jon asked.
"Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr."
Some murmuring went up among the lords.
The names didn't mean shit to Tormund.
"As many of you know," Littlefinger continued, "They call themselves the Brotherhood without Banners. They were started by your father, Jon, when he was Hand of the King, and tasked to hunt down Gregor Clegane and restore peace and justice in the Riverlands. Now, they're hardly more than a band of outlaws. They dispense their own brand of justice but they bow to no one."
"What do they want with the Wall?" Jon asked.
Littlefinger shrugged. "They claim they wish to join with the forces there to defend it, but what their true aims are, I don't know."
"Why do you doubt them?" Jon asked.
"Because, after sheltering in a nearby village for a night they changed their course. They're two days ride from Winterfell now. And also, I doubt them because of who else has joined their party."
Littlefinger paused. He was building up to something. Some dramatic reveal.
"Just spit it out already," Tormund said, tired of the intrigue.
Littlefinger turned his attention to Tormund. A small smile played at his lips but his eyes were cold.
"The Hound rides with them."
The murmuring intensified. Everyone knew this name, it appeared.
"Lady Brienne killed him," Davos said, speaking for the first time. "In the Riverlands. She told us the first time she met us. Sandor Clegane is dead."
"Then it appears he did not stay dead," Littlefinger replied. "A family trait, I'm inclined to think."
"Are you sure it was him?" Jon asked. "Your scout couldn't be mistaken?"
"I'm sure we'll all agree that the Hound is rather recognizable. Not a face easily forgotten. No, I don't think my scout was mistaken, Your Grace. The Hound is alive and he's heading right for us."
"Is anyone going to explain who the fucking Hound is?" Tormund asked. He hated exposing his ignorance in Southern matters, but he hated not knowing even more.
Littlefinger's answering smile made Tormund want to bash the lordling's head into the table.
"How uncourteous of us. Of course you wouldn't know, living in the wild, as you did."
Jon interrupted, before the conversation could take a turn for the worse.
"His name is Sandor Clegane. Everyone calls him the Hound because he wears a helm of a snarling dog and he was the personal bodyguard to Joffrey Baratheon for a time. He deserted during the Battle of Blackwater Bay, and no one has seen him since, except Brienne, who claimed she killed him during a fight in the Riverlands. He was traveling with my little sister, Arya." Jon paused for a moment, sadness clouding his eyes.
"After the battle, Arya disappeared. No one has seen her or the Hound since. He was supposed to be dead."
Tormund scratched his beard absentmindedly.
"Dead men don't stay dead much anymore, do they, Snow?"
"Not anymore," Jon agreed.
"But what does he want at Winterfell?" Davos asked.
"Well, that may be easier to guess," Littlefinger replied. "My scout spoke with some of villagers who housed the Brotherhood. They said the Hound was mostly interested in who held the castle now, and when they mentioned Sansa Stark, he grew visibly upset."
"Sansa?" Tormund asked, a sense of foreboding sinking in. "What does she have to do with it?"
Littlefinger shrugged. "I'm not sure. The Hound was Joffrey's personal bodyguard while he was betrothed to Sansa. Perhaps he thinks that if he returns her to the Lannisters his debt will be forgiven. Or perhaps, he thinks that if Sansa is here, Brienne must also be here. If they did fight in the Riverlands, he may wish to revenge himself on her."
"What do you suggest we do about it?" Jon asked Littlefinger.
"Sandor Clegane is a fierce fighter. It would take many men to bring him down. I don't think we should allow him inside the castle until we know what his motives are."
"I agree," one of the Vale Knights added.
Jon ignored him.
"Lord Baelish, you still haven't answered the question."
"I think we should get rid of him."
"And how do you suggest we do that?"
"We hold the castle," one of the Vale Knights interrupted. "When he comes to call, we fill him full of arrows. None of ours are harmed and the threat is neutralized."
Lady Lyanna shook her head in disgust.
"North of the Wall we heard tales of the chivalry of Southern Knights. I'm glad to know it was all a load of shit," Tormund replied.
"Tormund," Jon warned, before turning his attention back to Littlefinger and the men from the Vale. "We're not going to kill Sandor Clegane. Not without talking to him first. We don't know yet what his intentions are. And he was the last person to see Arya alive."
"We need a party to ride out and speak with him, it seems," Littlefinger suggested.
"I'll go," Jon offered immediately.
"You can't," Lyanna Mormont said, her child-voice fierce.
"I agree with Lady Mormont," Littlefinger replied. "You are the king now, you cannot leave the castle so unprotected. You should send an envoy."
"Let me guess, that would include you?" Tormund asked him.
"No, I'm afraid Clegane will hardly trust me. Or any of the other lords gathered here. But perhaps he would trust Sir Davos, who is known for his loyalty. And of course there should also be a leader of the Free Folk. Someone who can talk to him in language simple enough for him to understand. Killer to killer. Tormund, you are not afraid to face the Hound, are you?"
Tormund ground his teeth.
"I'm not afraid of anything south of the Wall," he answered. "Let alone some dog."
Littlefinger clapped his hands together. A triumphant smile on his face.
"Then it is settled. Tormund and Sir Davos will ride out to treat with the Brotherhood. They will find out what their intentions are and report back immediately. We should begin to make arrangements for their travel."
Jon nodded absentmindedly.
The other lords began to excuse themselves from the table, until all who were left were Jon, Davos, and Tormund himself.
"You fool," Davos whispered as soon as they were alone. "You walked right into his trap."
"What trap?" Tormund asked, voice thick with irritation.
He was just now realizing what this mission would mean for him.
"I'll come to you tonight," she'd said, tangled in his sheets.
But he wouldn't be there. He'd be freezing his dick off on the way to meet with some madman who thought he was a dog.
He groaned and ran his hands through his hair.
"Littlefinger just managed to strip Jon of his two closest allies and send us off where we have about as good a chance of being run through as we do making the Hound listen to us. He's hoping he signed our death warrants," Davos said.
Tormund's eyes landed on Jon, who nodded his head in agreement.
"Fuck," Tormund muttered. "Alright, what do we do about it then?"
"The Hound is dangerous," Jon said, "But he isn't insane like his brother. We need to know what his intentions are towards Sansa and also what happened to Arya. Whether we like it or not, he may be the key to finding her, and I won't pass up that opportunity for anything."
"What about Sansa?" Tormund asked. "None of us have asked her about the Hound. Maybe she knows something that can help us."
"I don't want to upset her," Jon said softly.
"She's not a fucking child, Snow. She can handle a question about the bodyguard to her dead betrothed."
Jon stared at him. Tormund was afraid he'd given something away, but finally, Jon nodded.
"You're right. She isn't a child anymore. We should ask her opinion."
"But where is she?" Davos asked.
Jon looked at Tormund for a long moment.
"I think I have an idea."
Snow was falling in the godswood. Already the ground was covered in a light dusting.
Sansa was seated before the heart tree, beside the frozen pond, her grey cloak spread out around her and her head bowed.
She looked up when she heard them approaching, her face a mask of worry.
"What's happened," she asked, rising to her feet and brushing away a few fallen leaves that clung to her skirts.
Her eyes flickered from Jon to Tormund.
He wanted to reassure her that all was well. That Jon didn't suspect a thing. But of course, he couldn't do more than give a short shake of his head.
Still, it was enough. Her worried expression melted away and she smiled.
"Did you come to pray with me?"
"I don't pray, anymore," Jon replied.
"And I never have," Tormund answered.
"Then I shall have to teach you both," Sansa said with a smile.
"Sansa, we need to talk to you."
She licked her lips lightly.
She did that when she was nervous, Tormund knew. He was getting to know all of her little quirks.
"About what?"
"Do you want to come inside?" Jon asked, evading the question. "Somewhere warmer?"
Her eyes flickered to Tormund.
"What is my brother trying to avoid saying?"
"There's someone coming for you," Tormund said, without preamble. "Someone named the Hound. He's two days ride from here. We don't know what he means to do when he gets here but Davos and I are going to head him off."
To Tormund's surprise, Sansa's face lit up.
"Sandor Clegane? He's alive?"
"Aye."
She spun away from them then, and sank down before the heart tree, reaching a hand out and placing it against the trunk.
"Thank you," she whispered, just loud enough for Tormund to hear.
"Sansa, are you alright?" Jon asked, his voice equal parts worried and confused.
Sansa stood then and faced them.
Her face was composed once more, but her eyes burned with an intensity Tormund had only seen a handful of times before. The most recent of which, had been today, in his bed.
Something was wrong.
Sansa swept up her skirts and squared her shoulders.
"Well, when do we leave?"
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. Put in some much needed work on my original WIP these last couple of weeks. Your reviews definitely helped me regain focus on this piece though. Can't wait for the next chapter, which will feature something I've been obsessing over for a while now: a meeting between Sansa, Tormund, and the Hound. :)