Sandor

The rising daylight had not yet burned off the last of the morning dew, but Winterfell was already awake and preparing for a busy day. The courtyard was filled with the sounds of horses being saddled and prepped. Provisions for the long journey were being counted and packed away. The wheelhouse was being inspected for any damage that had thus far been missed, and a stack of bright shiny new axles was laid by on a wagon that would travel behind.

In the midst of all this confusion the Lord of Winterfell and his sister made their way through the men and wagons, inspecting the provisions, calming horses, and conversing lightly with the men. Serra smiled and laughed at the bawdy jokes that were being passed around, some in her honor. Inside, however, she was anything but jovial.

She found Jon and Benjen standing away from the group. Already packed and ready to go, they would soon be leaving for the wall. Serra worried that she may never see either of them again. She walked over to them and pulled her nephew into a hug. "Keep him warm up there, Brother." she looked pointedly at Benjen.

"I'll do my best. I wish we had had more chance to talk, just the two of us. There are so many things I wanted to ask you." Benjen stated, running one hand down his chestnut's flank.

"Aye, and many things I needed to tell you." Serra replied.

"Have you ever heard of Mance Rayder?" Benjen asked her.

Serra furrowed her brow as she thought. "Might be. There was an exiled crow by that name, I recall. Seems like he was trying to gather the clans, and not having much luck at it."

"Well then, his luck's improved a bit. He calls himself King Beyond the Wall now. He's threatening war."

"War against the wall?" she asked him. "Only one thing would make the Free Folk get an idea like that. The Others."

"What about the others?" asked Jon, but Benjen shook his head.

"The others are a myth, Serra. Maybe a stronger myth on your side of the wall, but a myth just the same."

Serra gritted her teeth. She had no doubt that Benjen loved her, respected her even, but on this topic he was nothing less than bullheaded. "Aye, a myth, Benjen." she countered. "A myth I have seen and touched and killed." Benjen merely shook his head and returned to his horse.

Serra pulled Jon aside. "They are no mere myth, boy, something your uncle will learn to his sorrow someday. You know I speak truly, you've seen the marks."

Jon nodded solemnly. "Yes, Aunt Serra." Serra watched him for a moment, and when she was satisfied that he was sincere she continued.

"The men on the wall will teach you many things, but they are also wrong in many things. Don't let any sense of loyalty or oaths you may swear get in the way of doing what must be done. You will do great things, dear nephew, but you must listen to your inner voice. There is no honor in dying for an empty cause. Promise me you'll heed my words."

Jon nodded again. "I promise, Aunt Serra. I'll carry your wisdom with me everyday."

Serra snorted a short laugh at that. "Wisdom, is it? Aye, and here's a bit more. The other's are real, and arrows won't kill them, steel won't kill them. Fire and dragon glass, or if you have it, dragon steel. Those are the only weapons that will do them harm. Remember that. And when the time comes eventually that even the Night's Watch can't deny their existence any longer, you can tell them what you know."

Jon's eyes were moist when he threw his arms around his Aunt's neck. "I'll miss you so much." he told her. She returned the embrace forcefully.

"And I, you, Jon. You're very precious to me, and far more special than you know. I will pray to the old gods every night to keep you safe so that we can one day meet again."

"And I will do the same." Jon told her.

She smiled, and pulled him back toward Benjen, whom she kissed lightly on the cheek. "Gods be with you, Brother." she said, and then embraced him.

"And with you, Sister. Take care of Ned down there in the south." Benjen said, squeezing her tightly. "And let him take care of you. King's landing has never been kind to Starks."

Serra scoffed as she pulled away from the embrace. "That's an understatement." she laughed, and then more solemnly, "I'll do all that I can, Brother, you can believe that."

Serra was making the final adjustments to Wraith's tack when a dark shadow moved across her. She looked up to see the Hound beside her, his black destrier beside him. "This must be a difficult parting for you." he said amiably. She nodded, wondering how much to say. She hadn't spoken to Clegane since the day in the crypts, but their silence had been a friendly one, and there was no more animosity between them.

"More than you know." she said finally. "I fear many of those I leave today will be lost to us before I return to Winterfell.

The Hound scoffed. "You planning to be gone that long, Wild Wolf?"

Serra shook her head. "Too long, and not long at all." she said cryptically as she swung up onto her horse. The Hound shook his head and took to his own saddle with a grace a man his size shouldn't possess.

The goodbyes had been said and said again, and it was past time to get the caravan on the road. Those remaining in Winterfell stood in the courtyard to wave their tearful goodbyes to those leaving. As she had expected, it had been difficult to part with the boys, especially Rickon He had cried and begged her not to leave him and her heart had been broken. She wanted to gather him up and take him with her, but he'd be no safer with her than here with his mother.

"Look after your brother." she had told Robb. "He'll suffer the most from this." Then, as an afterthought she added a warning, something that had come to her in a dream the night before, but only once, so might be it could still be avoided. "And don't trust the Freys. No matter what your mother tells you, no matter what the men tell you, don't you ever trust the Freys." Robb had looked at her oddly, but seemed to understand where the words had come from. "I'll remember. Never much trusted the Freys to begin with." Serra had truly laughed for the first time all morning.

Now they were lined up and ready to go. It took quite a bit of coaxing, but they finally got the wheelhouse moving. Ned was riding ahead with the King and his guard, but Serra was waiting for the wheelhouse to go by so she could fall in line with the soldiers behind it. She heard a commotion from the other side of the yard and a young boy screaming "Aunt Serra, Aunt Serra!" Everything after that seemed to happen both too fast and too slow all at once.

Rickon was running across the yard toward her, paying no mind to where he was going. He darted out in front of the wheelhouse, between the giant wheels and the hooves of the horses pulling it. He was going to be crushed, and she was too far away to do anything but scream. Not him, please, not him, not my fierce boy, not my Rickon She wanted to flinch and turn away, instead urging Wraith forward through the cluster of men an horses between them. She knew she would never reach him in time, but she had to try. She looked for Ned and saw that he was just as far away, and just as helpless.

Her stomach was little more than a ball of acid eating its way though her gut as she watched the horrible scene unfold. Rickon had somehow pushed between the two rows of horses pulling the great contraption., but the commotion he was causing had set them on edge, and they began bucking and straining at their halters. He had almost made his way through when one of the lead horses reared, and when he came down Rickon would be under his hooves.

Suddenly, a large form pushed its way through the crowd of onlookers and darted between the boy and the horse. When the hooves came down they met unyielding metal armor, and a powerful arm pushed the horse backwards and away, while the other arm cradled Rickon protectively.

Serra was off her horse now, and running. Her savior was holding the boy now, the crisis passed, and was trying to comfort him in his own rough way. "See boy, there's your Aunt." Serra reached for Rickon and pulled him to her, collapsing to the ground in silent tears of joy. She looked up at the man who had saved her nephew and met the Hound's eyes. "Thank you." She told him, reaching up a hand to take his. She squeezed it gently, and he looked around as though uncomfortable with the gratitude. He shrugged. "S'nothing." he said and pulled away from her.

But it was not "nothing." She could have endured almost anything, but if Rickon had died under those horses hooves, she knew she would have given up. Gods be damned she would have just given it all up right then.

She continued squeezing Rickon tightly, alternately scolding him for being reckless and kissing him and telling him how much she loved him. Ned was at her side then, looking pale and trembling slightly. He put his arms around them both and pressed his face to Rickon's, muttering words at the boy through his own relieved tears. He looked up toward Sandor who stood at the edge of the gathering crowd. "I don't know how to repay you, Clegane." he said solemnly.

"Didn't do it for you." The hound replied, his eyes never leaving Serra's. Afterward he turned and pushed his way back through the crowd to rejoin Stranger.

Eventually Catelyn made her way through the crowd and pulled the boy from Serra's arms, somehow finding a way to blame the situation on her. Ned did his best to calm his wife down, but she kept on and on until finally Serra said, "We're leaving now, Catelyn. Do you think you can hold on to him long enough for us to go, or should we have one of the men do it?" Catelyn just stared at her, dumbfounded. Serra smirked as she turned away, hoping to keep the memory of that look for as long as she could.

For the first time in weeks she felt a sense of hope. She had come so close to losing the one thing she knew she could never bear to lose. He had been saved, not by her, but by the Hound. What did that mean? Was that another message from the gods? She decided she would take every opportunity on this long trip to learn as much about him as she could.

They had been traveling for weeks, the return trip even slower and more tedious than the trip north had been. Their company had swelled by scores with the addition of the Stark men, and no one seemed to be in any particular hurry to reach King's Landing. At least we've had more luck with the fucking wheelhouse, the hound though bitterly. It had only broken it's axle twice since they had left, and quickly replaced with a spare.

For all his grousing over the snail's pace they were keeping, Sandor Clegane was not entirely as miserable as he usually was. He had found some measure of distraction by watching the Wild Wolf. As in Winterfell, she continued to surprise and confuse him. She had been quicker with a smile or a kind word now than she had been towards him, and he assumed it was because of what had happened with her nephew. He wasn't sure what he thought of that, in truth. It had been a long time since he had had a kind word from anyone, and he was unused to the feelings it drew from him. He was a killer, he'd never been a savior before, and the mantle sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.

As before, he was intrigued by the way she interacted with everyone and everything around her. She chose to ride with the men instead of her brother or the other nobles, and seemed to enjoy their camaraderie. She joined in their company, treated them as equals, and to Sandor's surprise even the Lanister men had come to respect her along the way. Whenever they stopped at an inn or a keep, she may join the feasting for a time, but she always returned to her tent among the rest of the soldiers, refusing the more comfortable accommodations she was entitled to as the Lord of Winterfell's sister.

When she wasn't with the men she was with the youngest Stark girl, joining with her in exploring their new surroundings. Like the girl, he supposed, she had never been so far south, and everything around her was new and exciting. If he had been less jaded he might have enjoyed seeing the splendor around them through her fresh eyes. He kept to himself, though, content just to watch her, ashamed of the smirk that sometimes found it's way to his lips when she would get excited over a tree or bird or flower she had never seen before.

While the trip had been slow, it had not been entirely unpleasant, he supposed, though he would not admit to himself why. He told himself he was just happy to be out of the snow and left it at that. But now they were passing the Mountains of the Moon, and he determined to keep himself more alert than he had been. He was surprised when the Wild Wolf rode up next to him and questioned him about it.

"There's clans in these mountains that don't quite bend the knee, girl, if you take my meaning." he told her, his eyes scanning the hills.

She looked at him oddly. "Like me, you mean, like Free Folk? I didn't know there were any this side of the wall. Especially not this far south."

"Aye, a bit like your wildlings, I suppose.", he told her. "They don't have much use for the king or his laws, that you can believe. And they don't much care for people tromping through their mountains, neither. Might be they have the right of it, but that won't stop me from killing them if they attack."

She looked up him, a small frown furrowing her brow. "We're not in the mountains, though, why would they attack us?"

He glanced down at her, then back up a the mountains to their left. "Might be they won't, but they've been getting bolder of late. Jon Arryn used to keep them in check, but with him in the ground they've been testing the waters. A bit of extra caution here wouldn't go amiss."

The girl beside him nodded, but spoke no more. She remained by his side, her eyes also scouring the hills, and he was surprised to find himself relieved to have her there to help him keep watch. He knew none of the Kingsgaurd took the threat seriously, except possibly Ser Baristan who rode ahead with the King and Lord Stark.

He was surprised when Joffrey, riding just ahead, spoke up. "Don't worry, my lady, they won't dare attack us. If they did we'd cut them down, wouldn't we dog?"

The Hound growled low, and he saw Serra suppress a smile. "Aye, we would at that." he grumbled, and the girl turned her face away, her shoulders shaking. He envied her that, how easily she found amusement in things that made his blood boil. She was battle hardened as he was, scarred even, from the occasional glimpses of skin he sometimes saw. And there was something in her eyes that was as sad as anything he had ever felt. Yet through all of that, she could still laugh when the Prince was being a little shit. The Hound just shook his head.

They had made camp for the night, and not in a place that Sandor would have chosen, but he had not been asked for his opinion. They were surrounded by trees north, south, and west, and the mountains loomed to the east. They were boxed in, a perfect place for an ambush, and Sandor was uneasy. His battle senses were tingling as he walked toward Serra. He noted she seemed to be surveying their camp with the same worried expression.

"Best tell that wolf girl of yours to stay close and not go exploring tonight." he told her.

Serra looked at him and nodded. "Already have." she said, and he wasn't surprised. "I don't like this." she continued. "Not even a decent place to keep watch."

He nodded. "Aye. Couldn't you have said something to your brother?"

"I didn't have to." she answered. "When I rode to the front both he and Ser Baristan were trying to persuade the King to move on to a better site, but that fat lout is as stubborn as his awful son."

Sandor was abashed that she felt free to speak that way about the royals to him, and a little gratified. "Aye." he told her. "That he is. There's nothing for it then, we'll have to keep watch as best we can. No one else is gonna do it."

And so they sat, each facing another direction, as the camp quieted down and an eerie silence fell around them. Neither spoke, but both were grateful for the other's presence as the night wore on. The night was so quiet that Sandor was startled when the girl spoke.

"Sandor." she whispered. "I think I saw something in the trees to the north. He turned his head that way slightly, not wanting to give anything away if they were being watched.

"Well what did you see, woman?" he asked her brusquely.

"It may be nothing, but I would swear it was the glint of steel in the moonlight." as she said it, he caught the same glint, and slight movement in the trees to the west. He slowly moved he hand to the hilt of his sword, and saw she was doing the same. "They've circled around." she said.

"Aye." he answered. "I was afraid of this." With that he stood swiftly, the girl right behind him. As one they drew their swords and let loose a warning cry.

Knowing they had lost their surprise, the clansmen in the woods descended upon them, at least a dozen here, and he could see more coming out of the woods farther down the encampment. They must have circled from the south as well. He didn't have long to think on it before the battle was joined, and he and the Wild Wolf stood back to back, hacking and slashing through the attackers. Their weapons were mostly rusted axes and swords, pitiful things, but what they lacked in arms they made up for in fury.

Sandor had to move swiftly to take them down before more were upon him. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see the girl was holding her own. She had both long swords drawn and was meeting her attackers blow for blow, at times three at a time. She brought her swords together in an x at the throat of one of the clansmen and drew them apart, severing his head, she wasted no time spinning and thrusting her swords backwards into two more attackers rushing toward her.

Sandor had cut down five of his own, and there were only a handful left when they heard a scream come from deeper in the encampment, toward the wheelhouse. They looked at each other briefly. "I've got this." he told her. "Go."

She did as he said, running toward the horses that were hobbled nearby. She quickly loosened her white destrier and leapt on her back, not bothering with saddles or tack. She dug her heels into the horse's sides and shouted a command in that strange language of hers. The horse moved off into the blackness, looking much like her namesake until he lost sight of them both.

He could hear the clashing of swords all around him now and knew that there was fighting going on up and down the line. He tore through the last of the clansmen that had attacked originally and ran toward Stranger. He saddled him quickly and mounted, riding off in the direction that Serra had just gone. When he got to the wheelhouse he saw their own wounded and dead strewn on the ground, but no attackers at present. The queen was on her knees in her dressing gown, holding Tommen in her arms and crying. Those about her milled around uncomfortably while her ladies maids tried to comfort her.

"Dog, where have you been?" Prince Joffrey snapped at him when he saw him.

Sandor snarled. "I'm covered in blood, boy, where do you think I've been."

"They took Myrcella." the queen sobbed. "She opened the door to see what the noise was and they took her!" Sandor paled. It was possible the clans would hold her for ransom, but more like they'd have other plans for a pretty little girl like her. He looked up at several members of the Kingsgaurd standing nearby.

"And why haven't you gone after her?" he shouted.

"We're protecting the queen." Meryn Trant sneered. "Besides, there are plenty of men after her. And that wildling woman, too."

"Looks more like you're hiding behind the queen." the Hound growled. He noted not so much as a drop of blood stained any of the their pretty white clothes. "Which way did they go?" Boros pointed east, and Sandor spun his horse around and headed in that direction. It wasn't long before he encountered a group of Stark men fighting off a score of clansmen. He joined the battle, hewing through them on horseback while Stranger kicked and bit and trampled men underfoot. When the group was down, he spun around again when he heard horses riding fast toward him.

He made ready to fight but lowered his sword when he saw it was their own men, with Serra in front. She was covered head to foot in blood as was her white horse, and the your Princess was nestled in front of her, clutching to her tightly and her face buried in the young woman's armor. Serra's eyes met Sandor's questioning ones and she shook her head slightly as she rode past with the King and several others riding behind her. He followed behind and reached the camp just as Serra was handing the terrified girl down to her mother.

"I've never seen anything like it, Cersie." King Robert was saying. "When we arrived two of them had her pinned down and another had a knife to her throat. I was afraid to move, but the Stark girl just threw a dagger that went right through the eye of the one at her throat and snatched Myrcella up and away from the other two before the rest of us could do a thing. It was the most god damn impressive thing I've ever seen."

Serra shrugged. "She's not the first child I've had to go after when they've been carried off." she said, and a nameless sadness passed across her face. "I'm just glad I got to this one in time." She had dismounted Wraith and turned to lead her away when Myrcella wrenched out of her mother's arms and ran to her, throwing her arms around her waist. Heedless of the blood and gore the girl nestled her face against the young woman's stomach. "Thank you." She said looking up, her face bloody and tear stained.

Serra crouched down and put a hand on the girls face. "You're very welcome, little princess." she said, caring nothing for the courtesies she wasn't showing. "You're a very brave girl. I hope I have a daughter like you someday."

Myrcella smiled, and turned to the King. "Father, she saved my life, you should knight her." Robert looked uncomfortably at his daughter and then at Ned, but Serra saved him from his embarrassment.

"No need for that, Princess." she said, standing up. "Don't have time for it anyway, I need to look after my horse."

"But you're hurt." Ned told her. "You should see the maester."

"I'll be fine." she told her brother, "One of the men'll see to it. I've been hurt before." Then she turned away, leading Wraith gingerly through the crowd that had gathered. Sandor dismounted and followed behind her.

"You should see a maester, that's a nasty gash in your side there." he said when they were away from the main encampment.

"There's plenty more wounded." she said. "Some worse than me. I've had worse."

"Well there's a stream up ahead." he told her. Let me grab my bag and we'll get your cleaned up." She turned to look at him and then nodded.

Serra was at the bank of the stream with her leather jerkin off when Sandor arrived with his pack. She looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her dressed only in a light tunic, gingerly washing away as much blood as she could in the cold water. He knelt beside her and rummaged through the sack, pulling out a piece of cloth. He handed it to her and she nodded her thanks before dipping it in the stream and using it to scrub at the gore.

He took out another cloth and wet it as well. "I'll have to lift your tunic to get at that gash, girl." he said gruffly.

She reached back and took the hem in her own hand, raising it enough for him to get to the slash in her side. He clicked his tongue against his teeth at the sight of the angry wound, as well as the scars that marred the visible flesh around it. He began to scrub away the blood around the wound as gently as his large hands could manage. She flinched but otherwise made no sound.

"Do all wildling women fight as you do?" he asked her as he worked.

"No more than all men do." she answered. "Some are content to be wives and mothers, just as some men are happy to farm. Truly, only a handful of women learn to fight, and fewer still become warriors."

"Hmph." he grunted. "I take it you have as little interest in being domestic as you have in being a lady."

She laughed at that, then hissed as he touched a particularly tender spot. "I may want to be married someday, and I'd like to be a mother if the gods will it. Just not yet." she was quiet for a moment and then added "I've got too much to do yet."

She hissed again as he poured a stream of Dornish Sour over the wound. He handed her the skin saying "Drink up, girl. I'm gonna have to stitch this wound." She obliged and took a long draw as he prepared the needle and horsehair thread. She balled her hands into tight fists and set her jaw as he began to sew, but was still and quiet.

He continued talking to keep her mind off the pain. "It's a good turn you did for the princess." he said. "She'd have gotten no mercy from the mountain men, you can believe that."

"I know." she said, her voice tight. "I saw it in their eyes. They didn't care that she was a princess, or that she was just a child, she was just a piece of meat to them. I've seen that look before." she laughed humorously. "Hells, I've cut that look off many a man's face myself."

"So I've heard." he told her. "Is that what you meant about saving children from being carried off?"

She shook her head and looked at him, wondering how much to tell him. Finally she pulled her tunic up higher, exposing a dark red blistered scar in the shape of a skeletal hand that rested just below her breastband. Sandor stopped what he was doing and gazed at the scar. "What in seven hells is that?" he asked.

"The mark of an Other." she said in a voice that brooked no argument. Still, he couldn't stop his automatic response. "The Other's are a myth."

She scoffed at that, disgusted. "So you kneelers keep saying." she growled. "Do you honestly think your ancestors built a seven hundred foot tall wall of fucking ice to keep out the Free Folk? You southerners may have forgotten, but we live it everyday."

He wasn't sure what to say to that, but he could tell she meant what she said. "Go ahead and tell your story, Wild Wolf." he appeased her.

Her eyes took on that sad faraway look again, and he almost regretted bringing it up. They were surrounded by trees in the soft moonlight, and the stream bubbled happily past on its way to the rivers beyond, but he knew she was seeing a cold expanse of windswept snow. "One of the women had just given birth the day before." she said. "We had had a few run ins with the Others while out hunting, so we knew they were close. They must have heard the cries of the babe, and it drew them to the village. It was the first time they had come so close to us." She paused to wipe away a tear the memories had brought to her eyes.

"They attacked us at dusk, taking us by surprise. We lost a dozen men at least, before they retreated. We thought we had beaten them back, until we heard a scream from one of the huts. I was the first one there, the first to see it. Sonra, the mother that had just given birth, was holding down one of the other women. Her skin was pale and white and her eyes blue as sapphires and glowing. She had become a wight. The babe was gone; the Others had taken him."

"Why would they do that?" Sandor asked, absorbed in the story now. He was finished stitching and using the cloth to dab a healing ointment to the wound.

Serra shook her head sadly. "It's how they increase their numbers." she explained. Those they kill become wights, but Others are different. They can only be changed as babes, and grow as living and dead at once. They took him to make him one of their own."

"So you went after them." Sandor surmised. He was done now, and was lifting the tunic here and there to search for more wounds, stalling to hear the rest of the story.

"Aye, we went after them, but we were too late. The babe was turned when we found him."

Sandor let out a long breath. "What did you do?"

In answer she pulled a blade that was strapped to her thigh, handing it to him hilt first. It was made entirely of obsidian, and glinted black and dangerous in the thin light of the approaching dawn. "Only three things will kill an Other." she said, "Fire, Valerian steel, and dragon glass." she nodded toward the dagger. "We killed as many of the Others as we could, a few more of our men falling and rising again. Eventually I got close to the babe. That's the blade I used to kill him." she said, and wiped away another tear.

"Seven Hells." Sandor whispered. He thought he had been forced to do some terrible things, but he'd never had to kill a babe. His brother would have taken pleasure in the task, but he wasn't sure that he could have done it.

"It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." she said, as though reading his thoughts. She was silent again for a moment, and then shook her head, as though shaking the memories free. "Afterward I fell to my knees with the babe in my arms. I didn't see the Other that had crept behind me. It would have killed me, but my father got there first. He killed it, but not before it put its icy dead hand on my back. It burned as hot as any fire, and left that scar through armor and cloth."

Before he even knew what he was doing Sandor reached up to stroke her cheek, wiping away another tear that had escaped. "You're a strong woman, Wild Wolf." he told her. "Strongest woman I've ever known, believe that."

She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. "I hope so." she said softly. "I'll have to be to see this all through."