Ice Wolf

Serra's mind was pressing, pounding with an onslaught of unwanted thoughts, so much so she'd needed a flagon of strong mead to diminish it. She sat in the cool and near-dark of the catacombs trying to make sense of what was happening to her. She had known what was coming, she'd known all her life. Now that it was here, though, it was more than she could handle, more than her mind could comfortably wrap itself around. She needed time to think, to make sense of it all, but time was something she had precious little of.

She had lost so much in her short life, and now she would lose even more. Why couldn't she just say no? I could just refuse. Dig my heels in, hide under my bed and refuse to follow this path. But that was a fools dream. She would play her part in this mummers farce until the last line was uttered. She felt her heart squeeze, it had been doing that all morning, and her throat was raw from choking back sobs. Did she have to lose him too?

She felt so alone. How could anyone understand what she was going through? She had spent countless hours praying at the heart tree, weeping for herself and everyone she loved, reaching through the roots to find a way stop it all before it started. But the gods were silent, and she was alone.

Both Ned and Benjen were here but she couldn't burden either of them with her suffering, they would soon have enough of their own. And that was part of it, wasn't it? She knew the suffering they would face, knew what they would all face, but she couldn't do anything about it. She couldn't even warn them. What would be would be, and all attempts to stop it would be futile. She could only stand by, alone, and watch this tragedy unfold.

She took another swallow of mead, closing her eyes at the familiar burn of it in her throat and into her chest. The king and his entourage had been here for weeks, and her mind had become more and more cluttered as the days went on. She tried to put on a brave face, had actually found an occasion or two to enjoy herself, but inside she was a mess.

The feast had been awkward and strange. Catelyn had put her foot down and Serra had worn a grey woolen gown, feeling silly and uncomfortable. Her blade was still at her side but without her leathers she still felt naked. Making small talk with the royal family had been a trial. The expected "my lords" and "Your graces" choking her and making her feel like a hypocrite. The king was a bloody fool who took more than his share of everything, shamed his wife, and ignored his children. Serra couldn't understand why her brother loved him so.

The queen was difficult to read, and she found herself equally drawn to her and repulsed by her. There was a sadness in her eyes that made Serra almost feel protective of her, and in the one or two conversations she had with her Cersie had seemed genuinely interested in her life as a wildling. She sensed the queen was what she might have become had she not been raised in the wilds, and that frightened her. More often than not what softness there was turned cool with little provocation, and she would cast disdainful glances at the people around her. Serra felt sorry for her, but knew she would never allow herself to get too close.

She found the dwarf, Tyrion, quite entertaining. His self-depreciating wit was a welcome distraction to the myriad thoughts bouncing in her head, and he could always be counted on to share a drink and clever conversation. She wouldn't confide in him, though. He was a Lanister and Ned had warned her that they were treacherous. She wouldn't damn him for her brother's feelings, but she wouldn't trust him yet either.

Ser Jamie was interesting. He was possibly the most handsome man she had ever seen, and unfortunately he knew it, often coming across as far too pleased with himself. Tyrion said his brother was the greatest swordsman in Westeros, but she found it unlikely that a man so blessed of countenance could also be so blessed with skill. She had yet to have an occasion to spar with him, so she couldn't say for sure how good he was. But while his wit wasn't as sharp as his brother's, he was certainly able to land a fierce blow with his tongue.

Tyrion had seemed to care about her unladylike appearance or behavior. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it, saying that it was good to see a woman who could take care of herself. That he said this in front of the king's men made her more inclined to like the little bugger. Jamie had been a bit more reserved, but she won him over during an idle conversation one day.

"Why do the men all call you Kingslayer?" she had asked him.

Tyrion answered before he could, "You mean the great Ned Stark never told you how my dear brother broke his vows to the king's guard and killed Good King Aerys?"

"Mad King Aerys you mean, the one who killed my father?" she had been a little confused. "I thought they were insulting you when they called you Kingslayer."

Jamie had laughed at that. "That they are, my fair wildling. I not only broke my sworn oath to protect the king, I killed him with my own blade. Most here question my honor, though not to my face." She remembered how he had frowned when he said it, as though trying to hide the hurt it caused him.

She had been more confused than ever. "He was murdering people, roasting them alive, while the king's guard watched and did nothing, is that the way of it?"

"It's the duty of the king's guard to protect the king, not the people." Jamie had intoned.

"Yet you killed him and put a stop to it." She had said, shaking her head. "You protected the people, and that makes you dishonorable. You kneelers are a strange lot." She had walked away to the sound of the imp laughing, but the Lion of Lanister had been kinder to her since, although for the last several days he had seemed to be avoiding her.

She trained with the Winterfell guards in the mornings, as she had done every morning for the last three years. At first the soldiers who accompanied the royal caravan were furious, but when she ignored their protests and proved her skill most of them had relented and a few had even sparred with her. The king's guard, however, still refused to share the training grounds with her and would wait until she was through to join the rest of the men.

Sandor Clegane was one who never shared the field until she was done for the day. It was a shame, really, because she had never seen anyone quite as powerful as he was, and she would have liked to test her strength against him. Several days had gone by since their altercation at the stables and she was no closer to understanding his role in things than she ever had been. As far as she could tell he was just an unpleasant, unhappy man who happened to be quite good with a sword.

It was with this thought in mind that she had found herself watching him one day as he stood guard behind the horrible little snot that Ned had betrothed Sansa to. He always seemed to notice when she was watching him and this time was no exception. He turned his spiteful gaze toward her and frowned. She could see the muscles in his neck tensing has he clenched his teeth. She found herself growling in response. Though he was too far to hear it, Tyrion had, and he laughed as he patted her on the forearm.

"Don't worry about the Hound, my Lady," he had told her. "He was born with a stick up his arse and a frown on his face. It's nothing personal, I assure you." Serra hadn't been so sure.

Now after all this time he was still a mystery. They had barely spoken to each other since the stables, and when they had the conversation had been strained at best. If he was an enemy he wasn't being very covert about it, and she certainly couldn't say he was a friend. So why was he in every dream? Every single dream? He had gone from making occasional appearances to featuring in her night time excursions every time she fell asleep. Why? Who was he? Why did the gods insist on tormenting her with him?

Now, preparations were being made to leave for King's Landing two days hence. It would be a difficult parting. Jon would be going to the wall with Benjen to take the black, at Catelyn's insistence. Thinking of it made her blood boil, but she knew it was meant to be that way.

Bran had fallen from one of the forgotten towers while they had all been away on a hunt. He still hadn't awakened, and although she knew he would, her visions were of no comfort to the boy's mother. Catelyn, to her credit, hadn't left his side, neglecting even to eat and sleep as she needed. Serra would have felt sorry for her, but she just seemed to make everything so much more difficult. That was one parting she wouldn't lament, but she would weep for sweet Bran and hoped that he would have an easier time with the path laid before him than she had.

Rob would stay, and that was as it should be. Ned said there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and while she hadn't been raised as a Stark, she knew the saying came from much more than a sense of pride. Winter is coming, that was their words, and though her family may have forgotten the complete significance of it she had faith that they would remember when the time came.

Arya and Sansa would be coming with them, so she didn't have to say goodbye to them yet, though her dreams assured her it was coming. She wondered if Jon had given the little sword he'd commissioned to Arya yet. He had confided in her what he wanted to do, and together with Mikken they had come up with the perfect design. She knew Ned and Caitlyn wouldn't approve but she refused to feel the least bit guilty about giving the little wolf a way to defend herself. She only wished she could do more for Sansa, but the girl was all graces and airs, things Serra knew nothing about.

Rikkon. Her heart ached to think of leaving her little warrior. He was the brightest sunshine of her life, and to be without him would leave her in darkness. It seemed so cruel for him to be so small while such big things were happening around him. She wanted to be the one to protect him and help him grow up brave and strong, but that task would fall to another. She would pray for him every day, and hope that he'd remember her and the love she held for him.

For all of this sadness, though, all of these partings, the most painful one was already taking place. She wasn't surprised, she didn't need green dreams to know it was coming, but the pain was just as sharp. The only thing she had left of her old life was slipping away, and she could do nothing but ease the passage.

This time the sob escaped, and the tears behind it.

Sandor had had a long day of watching Prince Joffrey be a little shit. Lord Imp had slapped him when he disparaged the Stark boy who had fallen, and Sandor wished he could have been the one to do it, fully mailed and all. A broken jaw was less than he deserved. Now he thought he might go into Wintertown and see if there was any wine left, or any whores. They would be journeying south soon and just thinking about creeping behind that blundering wheelhouse gave him a thirst.

As he walked past the crypts he thought he heard moaning. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck as for one brief moment he remembered the tales his sister had told him when he was a boy about specters and spirits that haunted lichyards. He gave himself a mental slap for acting the boy, and as if to prove he wasn't afraid he walked down the stone staircase and into the enormous underground chamber where 8000 years' worth of Winter Kings slumbered.

There was a torch burning several yards away down the corridor of tombs and he could see something slouched against the wall on the other side of its meagre circle of light. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword and walked slowly towards the shape. As he got closer he could make out the body of a woman with a large fur laid out beside her and partially on her lap. He moved a little closer, not sure if she was alive or dead, when he saw her gently stroke the fur she was holding.

She was facing the long row of stony Stark kings, her knees drawn up and her head leaned back against the cool granite wall. It was the wildling bitch. And she was crying. Seven bloody hells. He hated crying women, and wasn't overly fond of this one anyway. He turned around as quietly as he could and tried to get out before she noticed him.

"What are you doing here?" he heard, and he silently muttered curses at himself. He turned around.

"Might ask you the same question." He said, and realized how stupid it was before it finished leaving his mouth. He sighed and waited for her to sneer at him and point out how ridiculous he was. To his surprise she lifted a wineskin and held it out to him. He cautiously walked toward her, fearing a trap but never one to turn down free liquor.

He slid down the wall beside her in the dim light and took a deep swallow of the liquor inside. It wasn't wine as he expected but the northern stuff the burned going down and tasted like honey. "These are my ancestors." She stated when he was done.

"Aye." He said, though he really didn't know what he was supposed to say to that.

"If I had been raised here where I was supposed to I would know all their names and what they did. Instead they're just a great lot of kneelers to me."

He frowned, still not sure what she wanted from him. "Didn't lose much, seems like. That's a load of useless knowledge in the scheme of things."

She didn't say anything for a long time, just took the skin from him, staring intently at the unyielding faces before them. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. It was bitter laughter but still held a hint of amusement. The Hound was at a loss. Mayhap she's mad in truth. He had never made a woman laugh before, let alone one that had been crying moments before.

She seemed to have settled, when suddenly she snorted, and threw her head back to laugh even harder. The sound of it and the absurdity of the situation were more than he could take, and he found himself chuckling as well, then laughing hard enough his sides hurt. Certainly he was using muscles that had gone undisturbed for many years.

When she finally quieted down the silence seemed to echo throughout the crypt, louder than their mirth had been. It stretched out for a long time, but wasn't uncomfortable. They passed several long minutes that way in the dim torchlight, passing the skin back and forth amiably before he finally turned toward her. He welcomed the warm feeling the mead was producing, and his mind was numbed enough that he didn't mind facing her fully. When he saw the redness around her eyes he knew she had been crying for a long while before he had come.

It was when he put his full attention on her that he noticed the fur she held wasn't a fur at all, but a large shaggy dog. He hadn't moved in all the time Sandor had sat next to her, not even during their raucous laughter. It was plain that the old mongrel was gone. Had she been crying over a dog?

However much he disliked the wildling, or thought he had disliked her, she had earned his grudging respect. She was as fierce as any on the training grounds, he knew. He'd never sparred with her but had watched her with great interest and had yet to see anyone best her. She fought with the ferocity and confidence of a seasoned warrior. Tyrion had confirmed this one night, telling him a story that he had overheard from the girl's brother the crow.

"He had it from a group a wildlings he encountered while ranging." Tyrion had told him. "Apparently, she's as infamous on that side of the wall as you are on this one."

The idea had seemed absurd at the time. "That's a right load of horse shit." He'd scoffed.

Tyrion had shrugged. "No doubt some of it is. The wildlings had all sorts of wild tales about her. Ice Wolf, they call her."

That had peaked his interest. "Aye, Ice Wolf. Ice Bitch more like." Looking back now he didn't know why he was so determined to hate her, any more so than he hated everyone at least. Their first encounter aside, she had never wronged him, though she had been no more civil toward him than he was to her. "Did they say how she came by the name?" he had asked finally, curiosity getting the better of him.

The imp had eyed him knowingly, and he'd almost told the little fucker to piss off. Almost. After a moment Tyrion had continued. "Apparently, she killed her first man when she was six years old. There was some raid or another on her camp and all the children and women who didn't fight were huddled in a single hut to wait it out. Some of the raiders broke into the hut in the chaos and began raping the women and killing children. They say the girl had a dagger her father had given her and used it to kill the first man who got near her. No doubt he hadn't expected her to put up a fight. When he was dead she quietly made her way around the hut killing the rest of them. It's hard to believe none of them noticed they were dropping like flies, but I suppose one does lose some sense when he's busy fucking."

Sandor had shaken his head. "That's quite a tale, if it's true." And I was twelve when I killed my first man. He had felt foolish then, questioning his prowess over a tall tale from beyond the wall. Besides, he'd had no cause to kill anyone before then, save his brother, and he would have done so happily had he been given the chance.

"Oh, but it didn't end there." Tyrion had continued. "When the men in the hut were dead, she went out into the battle itself and continued her silent killing spree. Seems she had gotten a taste for blood and she liked it. They found her the next morning after the battle curled up naked and asleep in the snow next to her faithful dog, covered in blood, her last kill lying three feet away."

"Most like it was the dog that did the killing." Sandor had reasoned, though having seen her train he recognized the look of a killer.

"Perhaps," Tyrion stated. "The wildlings also said she could call down wild animals against her enemies in the heat of battle, and that the old gods speak to her. Perhaps it's all just fantasy. But I have found even the most fanciful tales sometimes hold a grain of truth." With that the imp had trundled away, leaving Sandor to ponder what he'd said.

If any of the story had been true, then she certainly was the toughest woman he'd ever known. It explained a great deal about the mannerisms so conflicting with the life of a high born lady she had been born to. Mayhap it also explained why Lord Stark seemed to let her do as she pleased, despite the fact that his wife obviously despised her. Not that he thought old Ned was afraid of her. More like he treated her as an equal, a brother in arms. Sister in arms.

When he thought about it, most of the soldiers in Winterfell who knew her well treated her with the kind of respect gained in battle, not by birth. In fact, he couldn't remember any of them using her title when speaking to her, something they would only dare do if she had asked it of them, and only then if they trusted her.

All of this led him back to the current situation. He had never seen a woman cry over a dead dog. It just wasn't the sort of thing they usually cared about, but then this was an exceptional woman. Why would a hardened warrior care about one dead mutt? He thought back to the story Tyrion had told him, how she had been found in the snow curled up next to her dog. Was this the same dog?

Seven hells. Now he understood. She wasn't crying over an animal, she was grieving a friend, a companion, perhaps the only link she still had to her old life. He sighed and ran his hands through his dark hair. Might be he'd grieve too in her shoes.

Speaking softly he motioned toward the lifeless animal. "What was his name?" he asked her.

His voice seemed to pull her from her own silent reverie, and she began stroking the dog's soft fur again. Fat tears were rolling silently down her cheeks, though she made no sound, and her voice was hoarse when she answered him. "Garick." She told him. "My father gave him to me when I was a wee babe, the same day he brought me to the village."

Sandor cringed. More than just a companion, then, a lifelong friend. He'd never had a bond like that with anything, human or animal. He could only imagine how intense the pain must be. As intense as having your face melted? Could be. He almost said something stupid like he lived a long happy life, or he's in a better place now, but thought better of it. He didn't know how true either of those things were, and anyway he'd most like break someone's bloody jaw if they said something so foolish to him.

Instead of trying to comfort her, something he had never tried to do before and had no clue where to begin, he went for practicality. "What do you want to do with him?" he asked her. If she was put off by his brusqueness she didn't show it.

"Thought maybe I'd find a place for him down here." She answered. "My body'll never have a spot here with my ancestors, but his could." He didn't know why those words touched him so but he found his own voice to be huskier than usual when he answered her.

"Right then, wild girl, "he said standing, "Let's find your good old dog a nice spot to rest." In the end they had found a tomb that opened easily enough. Serra had had no idea who its occupant was, just "some kneeler," she had told him. There was naught but bones and Sandor had irreverently brushed them aside, then lifted the old dog over the side and laid him gently to rest.

Serra had said a few words in a language he didn't know, still crying silently and thankfully without the sobs that had alerted him to her presence here in the first place. When she was finished he moved the cover back over the tomb. Serra pulled a dagger from her belt and wordless scratched some markings onto the tomb, the dog's name in that strange tongue of hers most like.

Without speaking she lifted the torch from the wall and started back down the corridor toward the entrance. When they reached the stairs that would lead them up she put her hand on his arms and stopped him. He turned to face her and she took a step toward him, mindful to put the torch in a sconce before getting too close. "Thank you." She said softly, taking both his wrists in her small rough hands. Their eyes met and there was something soft and unfamiliar in those shimmering grey orbs. She opened her mouth as though she was going to say something else, but then closed it again and just smiled at him sadly.

They walked together up the stone staircase, squinting at the bright daylight when they reached the surface once more. Again she turned to him, regarding him wordlessly. Then she did something he never would have expected. Standing on her toes she kissed him lightly on his unburnt cheek, then walked away hurriedly before he could respond.

He found himself touching the cheek reverently when Ser Jamie came up beside him. "Well done, Hound!" the Lion laughed, slapping him roughly on the back. "Melting our little Ice Wolf already, I see."

Sandor shook off the other man's hand. "Bugger you," he growled, but couldn't stop thinking of that soft, chaste kiss. Mayhap he had melted her a little. Might be she had melted him some too.

A/N Thank you for the reviews, I'm glad people like the story. Please let me know what you think. ConCrit is also welcome.