Sandor

Sandor Clegane growled as more snow began to fall. Which of the seven bloody hells was he in where snow falls in the summer? When he'd been informed that he would be traveling north with the king's caravan he was less than pleased. He was quite happily miserable in King's Landing and saw no need to go north and be uncomfortably miserable. However, the king had insisted and so here he was, suffering through another summer snowfall. Bugger.

The trip had been slow and mindnumbingly tedious. The great buggering wheelhouse would move no faster than a crawl, and they covered ground more slowly than if they had all gone on foot. Worse than that, the damn thing broke its axles more often that he took a piss. They had brought four spares with them, and still ran out. After that they would have to make camp and wait for a wagon to go into the nearest village, have a new one made, and bring it back. The whole process generally took a fortnight, during which time all he could do was drink and stare at trees.

And when they weren't waiting on the wheelhouse, they were waiting on the great buggering king. Every hold they passed with any semblance of a tower was an excuse to stop and expect a feast. Sometimes they would stay two or three days until the king had is fill of hunting, eating, and whoring. He should have been grateful when they finally passed into the north lands and near their destinations. Might be he would've been if not for the almost visible boundary between the two lands that said "Welcome to the north, here's some fucking snow."

Now he could see the gates of Winterfell and was heartened to see a small town outside its walls. He hoped to soon be someplace warm where he could get a good fuck and better wine. He reached behind him and unstrapped his dogs head helm, placing it firmly on his shoulders. The little shit prince had insisted he wear it when they entered the gates to intimidate the northerners. He pulled himself high in the saddle, making his already impressive height even more imposing.

He trotted up to ride just behind Prince Littleshit and the kings guard, taking in the dreary castle. It was gray and looming, weathered with age but no less formidable, not unlike the kings that had built it. The procession passed through the time worn gates and passed the small folk until they entered a courtyard where the household were gathered. He reigned his great destrier in next to the prince and lifted the visor of his helm, gazing at the assembled north men with veiled disinterest.

Dressed in dark blues and grays the Starks stood before him looking every bit as severe as the castle walls themselves. He cast his eyes up to look over the crowd when he suddenly felt someone else's eyes boring into him. He caught sight of a figure standing away from everyone else behind a column, a hood pulled over so the face was hidden, but obviously staring in his direction. As the king made his way into the courtyard those gathered took a knee before him, all but the figure in the black cowl.

He stared intently at the figure, gauging whether he was a threat or merely irreverent when suddenly the stranger pulled back the hood. It was not a man at all but a woman, wearing a mans jerkin and breeches, sword at the hip, black hair braided in small tight lines against her head and down into a myriad of tiny braids that disappeared behind her cloak. She seemed familiar to him, though he could not place her, and she had the look of a Stark.

Despite the presence of the king, the bright white Kings guard, and the shiny golden Lion of Lannister, her deep gray eyes stayed firmly on him. He scowled and nearly flinched as his own eyes met hers, gray on gray, steel on stone. He felt something akin to rage building inside him as he realized she must be ogling his buggering scars. It was the same thing everywhere he went; people either stared at his scars or shied away from looking at him at all.

But no, this woman continued to hold his eyes, barely seeming to notice his ruined flesh. For just a moment the rage melted into something softer as a part of him he kept deeply buried tried to surface. Just as quickly he stamped it back down, angry at himself for almost hoping that someone might see the man beneath the ruin of his face, even angrier at her for making it happen.

He clenched his jaw and his fists in equal measure, feeling the tick in his leathered cheek that gave away his discomfort. With effort he turned his face away from the woman, watching as the king greeted Ned Stark and his family and attempting to forget the woman with the intense eyes. She didn't look away from him, though. He could still feel her gaze boring into him, and he growled his displeasure with no one but himself to hear it.

On the third night of their stay there was to be a feast. Bloody hells, he would be as fat as the buggering king himself for all the feasting and blasted little training they had done on the trip. He determined to take to the training yard and get some exerciser before the eating began. As he walked he thought back to the woman in the courtyard. He had seen her a few times since, a flash of black hair and pale skin. He had learned from the Imp (who could learn everything about everyone in a single day) that she was actually Ned Starks long lost sister, raised by wildlings, and the very image of the kings dead love Lyanna. This, he'd been told, is why she'd remained hidden when they rode in. She and Ned had thought it best that the king met her away from prying eyes, unsure what his reaction would be.

He wondered if this was why she seemed familiar to him. He had only seen Lyanna Stark once before when he was but a green lad serving as squire to Ser Armory Lorch. He remembered thinking she was beautiful, but couldn't recall ever really thinking about her since. He couldn't call to mind even a memory of what she looked like to compare to the wildling Stark, so why would he think she looked familiar? And why in seven hells was he thinking of the wench at all?

No doubt she held a certain fascination for him. She was beautiful, no doubt, but so were a lot of women. And like all those women she would never see him as anything more than the fucking scars on his face, so there was no use thinking about her. Still, she was also quite unique. He had yet to see her in one of the austere woolen gowns the women of the north favored, or indeed any gown at all. She dressed, walked and acted like most men he had served with over the years, though far more pleasing to look upon. Even her speech, when he heard it, was course and unrefined, nothing like the highborn ladies he had known through the years. He supposed it was due to her wildling upbringing.

He pondered these things as he passed the stables but stopped when he heard the tromping and whinnying of an angry horse, and shouting of frightened stable hands. Fucking green boys pestering Stranger again. How many times did he have to tell the little shits to leave the horse be and let his master handle him?

He strode angrily to the source of the noise but stopped short when he saw the culprit wasn't Stranger, but a large white destrier he hadn't seen before. "I don't care what the bloody king's guard cunts told you, I told you Wraith couldn't share a stall!" he heard a woman's voice yelling. He walked in further to see the wildling Stark staring down at at a frighted stable boy, while another cringed nearby holding an obviously broken arm.

A large boy, of a height with Sandor and wider in girth, patted the white beast's neck soothingly. "Hodor," he cooed. "Hodor." Whatever the word meant, the horse settled, but not the master. Another stable boy was nearby cleaning a wound on the neck of a smaller bay. He recognized the animal as belonging to Ser Boros Blount and chuckled despite himself. He knew a horse bite when he saw one, Stranger had doled out more than a few.

"The fuck's the trouble?" he called out as he approached the scene. The wildling looked up at him and seemed startled for the briefest moment before schooling her features into a scowl.

"These buggering fool stable hands your men brought are idiots, that's the trouble." she growled at him. "Apparently they were told to double up another horse in the stall with mine on the orders of one of your fucking king's guard."

"Watch how you talk about the king's men, wench." he bit out, though in truth he gave not a wit about them and would gladly see them all gutted for the mere pleasure of it. "You'll find your pretty head on a chopping block if you aren't careful, you can believe that."

She strode toward him and met him face to face, and he was surprised both by her boldness and the fact that she was taller than any woman he had known, though he still had several inches on her. "And you better watch how you talk to me or you'll find yourself on the sharp end of my blade." she snarled. He was so taken aback by her words he almost didn't notice when she turned her back to him as though she held no fear at all. He reached out for her arm and snatched her back to face him.

"Hodor!" the large stable boy cried but Sandor ignored him. He was almost amused by the defiant look on her face, and amazed that she met his eyes with and icy gray glare, never once looking at his scars.

"Unhand me." she spat. "Or I'll unman you." he felt a slight pressure at his thigh and looked down. To his absolute astonishment she held a dagger to his groin. He pushed her away roughly.

"Fucking bitch!" he cursed. "No bloody wonder your horse is half wild."

"You're one to talk." she told him. "I've met that black devil of yours." He grimaced. He wasn't expecting her to throw Stranger in his face. He floundered for something to say.

"What's a woman need with a warhorse anyway?" he asked her, feeling like a childish boy.

"What's a dog need with a warhorse?" she countered. He narrowed his eyes. For the first time in his life he felt like he was sparring with an equal, if only with words. "You can't ride a garron into battle, can you?" she finished.

He smirked, trying to ignore the crowd that had begun to gather around. "And how many battles have you fought, little girl." he asked foolishly.

She growled at him, bearing her teeth a little. "One less than I will fight if you don't get your stupid nose out of my bloody business." she spat. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and turned away from him again. Seven save me from willful women.

He was debating whether or not to go after her when he felt a stinging smack to his calves. He swung around looking down toward the attack and came face to face with a small boy with a mass of red curls on his head. He was of a height with Sandor's knees, but didn't seem to realize it. He was holding a wooden sword in his chubby little hands, raising it as though threatening to hit him with it again, and beside him was a black wolf cub diligently gnawing at the leather of Sandor's boots. Sandor growled at him and both the boy and the wolf growled back.

Sandor's eyes widened. "What are you about, whelp?" he rasped in his roughest voice. The boy didn't even flinch.

"You don't yell and my Aunt Serra!" the boy shouted and this time walloped him on the knee with his wooden weapon. Those still gathered howled in laughter. Sandor was thinking seriously about kicking the boy when the wildling woman swooped in and lifted the child in her arms.

"Rickon!" she cooed, and he noticed that her face had softened at the sight of the boy. "My little champion, are you defending my honor, little one?"

The boy nodded solemnly in her arms. "I beated that mean man for yelling at you." the boy said, and Sandor rolled his eyes.

"I saw that, my fierce little warrior." she said, tousling the boys hair. She turned her gaze on Sandor and he scowled at her. "You spanked that bad old dog good, didn't you?" Sandor threw his hands up in defeat and walked away, wondering what in seven hells had just happened. Buggered if he knew, but he needed a drink.

He spotted the imp sitting on a bale of hay, a flagon in his hand. He made his way to him and sat down beside him, all thoughts of training forgotten. The buggering imp chuckled. "Quite the spitfire there, eh Clegane?" he said as Sandor relieved him of the flagon and took a long pull.

He rolled his eyes when the lion joined them. "And quite lovely," Jamie added, "In a strange, mannish way."

"Bloody bitch is what she is." Sandor growled, taking another swallow.

Jamie smiled and looked at his brother conspiratorially. "Well if she's a bitch, and you're a dog, that must have been some kind of mating dance." the halfman said with a grin.

Sandor stood and threw the flagon back at him. "Shut up, Imp." he said, stomping off to find different wine with less commentary.