The Company of Wolves
Snow flurries blanket Winterfell's landscape as Sandor spurs Stranger out of the gates. Turning in the saddle, he looks back at the castle on last time. Sansa is there, just as he knew she would be, standing on the balcony of their rooms and waving sadly.
Even from a distance, Sandor's keen eyes are able to make out the snowflakes dotting white against her bright red hair. Next to her stands Osha, the fierce Free woman balancing the wriggling twins on each hip with great difficulty.
The sight of her standing there sends a pang of misery through the man. The nights leading up to his departure had been pleasurable indeed, the likes of which he would not enjoy for some time. Mindful of her injury, Sandor had loved her throughout them, the man mapping her body with his hands and tongue. Sansa had sung for him, too, a sweeter song than he had ever heard from his wife, and Sandor reveled in her.
Early that morning, Sandor arose to Catya and Edric cooing contentedly in their cribs. He relished them too, nuzzling into their silky necks, memorizing their sweet smell and soft skin while murmuring nonsense until they giggled with glee and awakened Sansa.
The only thing Sandor had to look forward to on this night was damp earth, the smell of wet direwolves, sweaty men and horses, and, if the weather held, a smoky fire to keep warm. Since when did I grow so soft? He cursed himself as he settles in beside Arya.
Indeed, Sandor is far more yielding because of his love for Sansa and his children, but he welcomes the change; for he also grew fiercer, more like his sigil. The direwolves have nothing on him now, for the protectiveness of love and fatherhood has melted Sandor's fears and forged him into a far stronger warrior.
He was wholly absorbed in his desire for revenge and yet every now and then, regrets seeps into his subconscious, pricking his soul. If the gods saw fit to allow his life to end, Sandor will give it up willingly, though now he has far more reason to live: Sandor longs to see his wife and children again, to grow old with Sansa and watch Catya and Edric grow up.
His daughter will be a fine lady like her mother, and his son, a stronger, braver man than Sandor would ever be. Never before has he ridden into battle with so much to lose. It is a daunting realization, and yet it fuels Sandor's determination to end their enemies once and for all.
"Return to us, my beloved," he hears Sansa's faint voice call above Stranger's hooves crunching in the snow. "Return to us. I will pray for you."
Raising his hand, Sandor draws his sword and gestures it toward his wife, the bloody strips of silk from Sansa's gown decorating the hilt fluttering in the cold wind. In return, Sansa blows kisses toward him until slowly she fades from sight.
A strong gust blows a flurry of snow over the war party as they move deeper into the Wolfswood. Ghost woofs softly beside him. A small smile plays on Arya's lips; she glances his direction before sticking out her tongue to catch a snowflake. "A good sign, Hound. My father and brother are watching over us. Lady and Greywind, too."
Nymeria lopes in between them with her hackles raised, the enormous direwolf seemingly as intent on finishing the rest of the Boltons as her mistress and Sandor. After sniffing his sister, Ghost also ruffles out the fur from neck to tail and runs ahead of her.
Choosing to keep his thoughts to himself, Sandor carefully studies the sortie the wolf bitch has gathered to accompany them. His goodsister has chosen well, for they include Grey Worm, Unsullied, Lady Brienne, as well as assorted Wildings who neighbored near him and Sansa north of the Wall. They are a motley looking bunch, Sandor snorts with satisfaction, although how they look doesn't matter half as much as the ferocity with which they fight.
The queen had insisted on sending Gendry and Jon ahead of them with the dragons. After much debate, Sandor reluctantly agreed but only on the condition that they would be used only to cut off escape. Only a coward fights with fire first, he had told her, and Danaerys had agreed.
For perhaps the first time, she allowed Jon to ride Drogon, whose immense shadow shrouded the trail before them. If ever there was a beast who lived up to the stories of Balerion the Black Dread, it is the queen's fearsome mount, and even Sandor has to swallow his fear whenever the enormous dragon is near.
Even with the dragons, it is uncertain whether the war party will be enough, for no one could procure any information as to how many men were holed up in the Dreadfort. Chuckling, Sandor laughs at his irrational worry: undoubtedly two direwolves and two dragons could take the Dreadfort on their own.
The gods had gone with them before, both together and while they were separated; even if they did not fight for Sandor, experience has proven to him that they most certainly protect his beloved little bird and safeguard those who fight for her safety as well.
Forcing doubt from his mind, Sandor instead allows the memory of his beloved Sansa, pale and limp in his arms with the arrow bearing the mark of House Bolton protruding from her back, to fuel his rage. Sandor will never forget the feel of her warm blood spilling onto his hands and clothing as he took her into his arms. Clenching his teeth, he spurs Stranger onward, the man eager to put distance between him and the memory.
Elder brother rides up alongside him, the holy man seeming to sense Sandor's black mood. It had surprised him when his former mentor insisted on joining them and Sandor could not resist needling him. "Taking up the sword again, are you?"
"No, Sandor; I am accompanying you as a healer, nothing more. I did not diligently care for your wife and children only to see you return to them grievously injured."
"What of Sansa?" Sandor snarls close to his face. "She needs you."
Elder brother des not flinch. "Samwell is perfectly able to care for her, as are the other healers at Winterfell, and you know it." Elder brother smiled at him. "If you thought otherwise, you would have hog tied me and carried me back to the castle yourself."
"True enough, that." Sandor rasps out harshly. Being in the company of Elder brother unexpectedly brings back the days on the Quiet Isle, as well as the teachings learned while he convalesced there.
Lessons in mercy and forgiveness paired with allowing the gods to seek retribution for past wrongs flit through Sandor's mind, but resolutely he pushes them aside. Instead, he slowly fingers the material on the hilt of his sword while thinking of his beloved wife, the sight of Sansa's blood stained fabric festering his hatred for the Boltons further still.
In truth, Sandor has already found it far more difficult to leave Sansa and the children than he imagined; a deep abiding ache churns his stomach, twisting there with each passing mile.
Is it the Seven warning him in some way? If the gods are the source of his discomfort, they will not deter Sandor. He will kill the Boltons or they will kill him; either way he will have vengeance for his wife and children.
"The Boltons could have killed Sansa. They could have killed our children." Sandor says aloud by way of explanation. Whether he is speaking to Elder brother or to the Seven, Sandor cannot say. Startled, Elder brother raises his brow at him but says nothing in response.
Return to us. Sansa's voice whispers in the wind later as he makes camp with the others. Sandor thought he heard her earlier as he rode, but since Stranger moved on unperturbed, the man imagined it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Glimpsing over at Arya, he notices she too seems disturbed. Squinting into the tree line, Sandor watches as she sends Nymeria into the brush before going about the evening chores.
After he bunks down for the night, Sansa's voice come to him again, this time much louder than before. Return to us. Gentle Mother, save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.
Perhaps she is praying, Sandor tells himself, though never before has he heard Sansa's prayers for him. He certainly did not hear them over the din of the Blackwater battle, or the many times she prayed for his soul in the Eyrie-or did he? Could that have been what drove him to leave the Quiet Isle in search of her? Was it the little bird's prayers that pressed him into making the arduous journey to the Wall-not once, but twice-in hopes of seeing her one last time?
Shaking his head, Sandor closes his eyes and burrows under the furs. The cold ground is unforgiving on his old wounds. Tossing and turning, Sandor curses his battle scarred body and the cold as he settles in for the evening.
Return to us. Sandor tries to ignore the sound of Sansa's voice, instead choosing to focus on the memory of her soft body arching into his and the sound of her sweet sighing as he took her slow and deep that morning. Soon enough, Sandor is as hard as the ground beneath him, and so he gives up on sleep, rises and goes in search of wine to take the edge off of his desire.
Arya finds him rummaging through their provisions like a black bear, shouting and cursing as he does so. "Do you hear it too?" She asks softly. "Do you hear Sansa?"
"Bloody hells," Sandor wipes his hand over his face. "I do. You too?"
Arya nods. "She is praying. I hear her."
"All fucking day?"
Arya laughs out loud. "Sansa's always been the penitent one."
Contenting himself with the lemoncakes Sansa hid in his pack, Sandor shoves three into his mouth before slumping down and holding one out to Arya, who wrinkles up her nose and shakes her head. "Your hands are filthy! Seriously, soap and water wouldn't kill you."
Arya's words remind him of her often-made complaint about his lack of cleanliness during their travels through the Riverlands long ago. "Find my stench unbearable already, wolf bitch?"
"Not yet." Grinning, she suddenly tips her head to the side. Nymeria whines softly while looking at Arya intently. "You hear that?"
In the distance, the sound of axes striking against wooden shields echoes in the night. "Aye, I hear it." Sandor draws both swords and heads into the tree line. "Seems the Boltons sent men to meet us halfway."
"That's stupid-we aren't halfway yet."
Grey Worm slips silently beside him. "This one knows the sound," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "It is the battle sound of the Thenn."
"What is a Thenn?" Arya glances at Sandor questioningly.
"The Thenn are not a what, they're a tribe of people north of the Wall. Cannibals and brutes, one and all of them." When Arya's eyes widen at him suddenly, Sandor further explains, "They eat the carcasses of their fallen enemies. Your brother married Alys Karstark to Sigorn, the Magnar of the Thenn."
"A magnar, is that like a lord?"
"More like a Dothraki chieftan."
"So north of the fucking Wall has zombies AND cannibals," Arya mutters, shaking her head. "What the hell is up with that place? And why should they attack us?"
"Probably hired as mercenaries for House Bolton."
Grey Worm nods. "This one has met them in battle before. Before they died, the enemy said some of the Thenn have rebelled against Sigorn and chosen to fight for the enemies of Houses Stark and Clegane."
Arya raises her brow at him until Grey Worm amends his words. "Your enemy is mine, Arya of House Stark and Sandor of House Clegane, for your aunt freed this one long ago. I have killed many Thenn and Free folk. Let me kill these men for you."
Solemnly Sandor and Arya stare at each other while Grey Worm patiently waits for their responses. "It won't do to get tired out before meeting the Boltons in battle," Sandor shrugs at her. "Mayhap they were sent as a diversion to wear us down."
Arya sighs heavily before agreeing. "Go then Grey Worm; take as many men as you need and cut them down."
"Yes, Lady Stark," Grey Worm bows curtly before gathering a sortie of Unsullied and disappearing into the wood.
Nymeria raises her head skyward and laments a long, lonesome howl. Ghost nuzzles into her for comfort, pawing the earth and dancing at her feet. Soon other wolves join in the chorus, their primal song echoing through the chill night air.
Shadows come alive, their yellow eyes peering out of the darkness. As they draw closer to the firelight, Sandor notices wolves as black as pitch, tan and white wolves, snow wolves and great timber wolves are all gathering around them.
Nervously Sandor clutches his swords; it is one thing to have two bloody direwolves in the group but to have an entire wolf pack surrounding them is another matter altogether.
Seemingly reading his thoughts, Arya grins at him. "Do not worry, Hound. She is calling her pack, the wolves and wild dogs alike. They are our packs, too: your brothers and mine."
Smirking, Sandor nods while turning toward Nymeria. Snarling, the fearsome creature leaps forward, sniffing the noses and tails of each member of the assembled pack. Ghost stays beside her before following Grey Worm's trail into the brush.
The massive assembly of wolves follows on her heels. Before long, the clashing of steel is interrupted by their song once more, followed by the terrified screams of men. In the background Sandor hears Elder brother whispering his prayers to the Warrior.
The frightening noise unsettles man and horse alike; as their cries continue, even Sandor's teeth are set on edge but his former captive never waivers. Calmly climbing on a nearby rock, Arya peers into the dark. "Bloody hells, I can't see a thing."
"I thought wolves could see better than man in the dark," Sandor growls at her.
"They can, but I am not in Nymeria now."
Below, the snarls begin to die down. "Come on then, let's go see." When she pauses, he adds, "You afraid your pet will hurt you?"
"Never."
Upon entering the glen, Sandor sees the wolves have torn most of the warriors to shreds. Ghost approaches Sandor and lies at his feet, his tail wagging anxiously. Leaning down, Sandor holds out the quiver of the arrow that pierced Sansa for the animal to smell. "Who did it, boy? Find the man who treated with the Boltons."
Eagerly the massive direwolf sniffs the weapon and then turns toward the cornered survivors, singling out the man with the Bolton sigil. After shaking the large warrior like a torn rabbit, he lays the broken body at Sandor's feet.
Nymeria nuzzles Arya's hand, the direwolf having produced her own offering. Arya kneels down to the dying Thenn man, digging the tip of Wolf's Blood across his skin. "Do you know who I am?"
"Lady Stark."
Nodding, she moves the blade to his throat. "Thought we were civilized, didn't you? Not as strong as the Boltons, eh? Not as fearsome as the Thenn?"
"No…I-"
"Have you forgotten that the house to whom you are allied was sworn to the Starks for generations? Did you forget they betrayed us when we needed them most? And now, they have gone so far as to hurt my sister-what do you think I should do to the persons who side with such filth?"
The man Nymeria brought speaks. "Ramsay Bolton-it was his idea-"
"Ramsay…Bolton, you say?" Her eyes narrow sharply at him. Sandor remembers seeing the same expression on Arya's face, right before she drove her sword into the Tickler's belly; drawing his sword, he moves beside her.
The man slowly nods.
"He meant to kill Sansa Stark? He shot his arrow into my wife?" Sandor snarls, his entire body shaking with fury.
"Aye he did, to finish the line and make himself king in the north."
Clicking her teeth, Arya shakes her head at him. "Did you think your people are the only ones who feast on the flesh of their enemies?"
"Well, the Starks ain't known for such-"
"I am a Stark of Winterfell, wolf blooded. Sandor Clegane is the Hound." You're about to find out how wrong you are," Arya snaps her fingers. "We, too, feast on our enemies. Nymeria, Ghost," she calls sweetly. "Finish them all."
"No, not this one." Lifting the man Nymeria offered to Arya, Sandor shouts angrily over the sound of dying. "You bloody coward! Crawl back to that buggering bastard Ramsay and you tell him: the wolf and the hound are coming to burn his kingdom to the ground."