SANDOR
Never had he been faced with a more difficult challenge than trying to conceal the raging, longing arousal throbbing twixt his legs every time she looked at him. He told himself he didn't want it, as if lying to himself would somehow make the act of thinking it less despicable. But was it despicable if she was a woman grown now? No, he was only a monster for having an inkling of desire for her while she was yet a child. When he had stood before her in her bedroom with the Blackwater burning green just out the window and she had gazed upon him with such softness and pity, he had wondered what it might be like to have her…
Every night from then until now he had cursed himself for having such thoughts for her. Somehow he justified himself in his mind by telling himself that recognizing the impurity of those thoughts made him a good man, or at least a better one than the likes of his brother. He told himself that by not acting on those thoughts, by chastising himself for even daring to think them, he had redeemed himself in the eyes of whoever might judge him for them.
But gods, how he thought those same things now. He wanted her now. At the first stirring, he had denied his cock the satisfaction it so desperately wanted. He had tried to limit his interaction with her but that cunt Euron Greyjoy had overstepped his boundaries and Sandor felt compelled to intervene and then the Lady of Winterfell had asked for his help. It was a ready-made excuse to be near her, but he had deprived himself of that easy route and instead chose to watch her from afar. He found it bearable to watch, but not touch, as he was actually quite enthralled with this new woman he found in the girl he had once known.
She was bold, brilliant, and fearless despite being at a disadvantage and he found her fortitude to be more than just sexually appealing. It was pride that he felt, pride that she had learned to do more than chirp words back at those who played the game. Some part of him wanted to take credit for her achievement but if he was being honest, she had learned it all entirely on her own. So he was content to watch and guard, always aware of Littlefinger's proximity to her, not that Littlefinger would ever intentionally harm her. The little twat was infatuated with her, but somehow Sandor did not like the thought of that either. Was it jealousy, or anger?
His resolve to keep his distance was put to the test daily as she seemed fully aware of him at all times and would often call out to him to ask a question that she hoped would catch him off guard, trying to find a way in. He had kept her and others out for decades and had no trouble keeping to that code, but she was not making it easy to sustain that record. She was a constant headache, pounding at the door to his innermost thoughts and feelings and begging to be let in, but he had nothing he could give her—at least, nothing he felt comfortable giving her.
But she took anyway, and without permission. He had planned to stick to the shadows in the library and only give his input if he believed them all to be a bunch of dunderheads as they discussed the battle to come but when Cersei made her statement about how Gregor would be stowed away to hide with the women and children, Sandor had been unable to hold himself back from verbally degrading her. Gregor had always received everything he wanted in life and now that he was mostly dead and indestructible and had no wants of his own, others had to die for him and Sandor was having none of it. He would not die so his brother could protect the bitch who sat the Iron Throne.
He had said his piece and prepared to fight a Queensguard or two for it but Lady Stark's hand had descended upon his arm and stilled him. She never looked at him, nor did she say a word, but he felt the warmth from her touch, the reassuring pressure that his rage would be met with justice, that when the battle came, Gregor would not be tucked away beneath the ground. She had power in this place, her home, and she was silently promising him that she would use it for him and he had slunk away more to hide what he knew would be a very obvious bulge at the front of his trousers than to deescalate the situation.
A touch, just a simple touch from her and he had hardened as he had not hardened in years. His last woman had been several nights before the Battle of the Blackwater and no woman had enticed him since, so why in the seven hells did it have to be this woman to do this to him? Did the gods hate him that much in cursing him to lust after such forbidden fruit?
If she was so forbidden, though, if she was not meant to know him in this way, why did she keep returning to him? Why did she push to know him better, know him more? She had to know to some degree how he desired her and yet she made no attempts to cut off contact with him. If anything, she seemed to be seeking him out more often than not and it was becoming increasingly difficult holding back when he wanted to put his hands all over her, taste her, claim her.
And if she had the slightest suspicion of what her very presence was doing to him and yet she continued to allow him to remain close by, she was a fiery little minx and he did not appreciate it in the least. He had been subject to ridicule his entire life and neither he nor his cock would stand to be teased by this woman. If she was testing his restraint, he had more than proven himself on that front. Any other reason for knowingly putting him in such an uncomfortable situation was cruel at this point.
Not that any of this deterred him from taking his usual position beneath the main hoarding.
Once again at archery practice, she had instructed that a contraption be built that would allow her to track a moving target pulled back and forth by a squire far off to the left who manned the device. She also had Jorah Mormont and a Dothraki chieftain present to provide some instruction and advice. Mormont acted as interpreter while Lady Stark would ask questions such as the best manner for assuring a deadly shot on a moving target and if it was better to let go too early or too late. Sandor had to admit that she was taking her role as a protector of her people quite seriously, though he still doubted that she would be allowed anywhere near the battlefield when the time came. She could learn, but she was no fighter, and she was far too late to the game to be taken as a serious contender.
Still, she had never been presented an opportunity to better herself as a warrior. She was a lady of the court and none would approve of her entering battle—until now. The warrior ran through the blood of the Starks, no matter how much Tully also ran through it. If she had longer to hone her skill, she could have been a formidable opponent, as her sister undoubtedly was.
And on the subject of the younger sister, the girl approached Lady Stark and provided a quick description of grave news while Littlefinger listened in. Lady Stark nodded to the younger and then lifted her gaze to find Sandor. She beckoned him with a solemn expression and he approached, preparing for news he knew he would not like.
Somehow, he knew. Before she even said a word, he knew, and he saw that she was banking on his ability to read her to tell him without speaking just how ill the delivered news was.
"That's it, then," was all he said to her in return.
"Yes, I suppose it is."
Not at all the weepy child who would have wailed and asked what could be done. Not the trembling mess of a girl who needed an escape. Just a woman who accepted what was coming and accepted it in stride. She led the way to the library where the rest of the war council had congregated before them. As Sandor, Brienne of Tarth, and Littlefinger filed in after Lady Stark, all eyes turned to the crippled boy in the wheeled chair for confirmation.
"The dead have breached the Wall," said the boy. Shouts of "how" and "when" were heard all around but the boy raised one hand and silenced them all. "I saw it happen not even an hour ago. The Night King rides the fallen dragon which breathes burning ice. It was this power that brought down the Wall at Eastwatch by the Sea. The dead are marching through and if they continue on their path, they will reach Winterfell within three weeks, four at most."
Sandor expected all manner of comments to be made on the hopelessness of their situation. He did not, however, anticipate Cersei's reaction.
"How did the Night King acquire a dragon?" Her question was for the Dragon Queen who bristled at the inquiry as if she had been accused.
Jon Snow came to her defense. "Myself and several others went north of the Wall to find a wight and bring it back to show you, Your Grace. We were surrounded, outnumbered, and about to be overwhelmed when Queen Daenerys arrived with her dragons to save us. We managed to procure the wight, as you well know, but one of her dragons was struck down by the Night King in the process. It would appear he resurrected it as a member of his dead army."
"Yes, it would appear so," Cersei agreed. "The Night King is capable of killing dragons, something your queen failed to mention. My people and I were of the belief that the dragons would be the deciding factor in this battle and that the dead would be made quick work of."
"If not for the sacrifice of my dragon, you would not know of this threat until it arrived on your doorstep," retorted the Targaryen.
"We still have two dragons," said Tyrion Lannister to intervene before this could become another battle of who made the bigger sacrifice. "And we know now how the dragons can be killed."
"Indeed. We know how living dragons can be killed, but how do you expect to kill an undead dragon?" inquired Cersei. "Shoot it with a dragonglass arrow?"
"Something like that," said Tormund Giantsbane. "Whatever can kill the dead can kill the dead dragon. We just have to get close enough to use whatever we have."
"Oh, is that all?" said Cersei with every ounce of skepticism in her voice. "Just get close enough and hope that what we have at our disposal will kill it?"
Or we might throw you at it, hope the indigestion suffocates it , thought Sandor as he once again began to reach his wit's end with the bitch's unhelpfulness.
"My dragons will be more than a match for what was once their brother," said the Targaryen with confidence. She appealed to the crippled Stark. "Is the dead dragon able to fly?"
"Yes," said the boy. "With no greater speed or strength than its living brothers, though it will not tire."
"And isn't that a comforting notion," said Cersei.
"If you have nothing positive to contribute to this council, you are more than welcome to dismiss yourself," said the Imp impatiently.
"If I am not welcome at this table, my army is not welcome on the battlefield."
"You are welcome at this table; you are choosing to be deliberately unhelpful," said the Targaryen. "With you and your armies, we stand a chance but without you we die just slightly sooner than you if you choose to abandon us because you feel slighted. Must all of humanity die for your pride? There will be nothing left of your house and no one left to spit on it or praise it if you allow your pride to prevent you from trying to be optimistic at this time."
"With all due respect, Your Grace, we need practical minds, not optimistic ones," said Lord Varys. "Though we now have limited time in which we can think of a solution, we cannot expect that solution to reveal itself to us in the matter of a few hours. Let those who must lead our ground forces continue to worry about their charges and let those who will be in the sky contemplate their own strategies. By all means, if anyone has sound advice or ideas, let them come forward, but it would not do to worry about that which we cannot control."
"The solution is simple," said Lady Stark. "Simple in its revelation, though I would not dare say so in its execution. That which was created by the Night King will be destroyed if he is destroyed. We can fight for hours and mayhaps even days against his hoard but as Tormund here mentioned before; for every person slain, we give him another soldier. The dragons can battle their brother until they collapse from exhaustion and then we would have nothing with which to fight it. If we do not kill the Night King, we do not stand a chance of defending the castle for long."
She was right, of course, but the task of battling an endless swarm of dead bodies seemed marginally more possible than getting to the Night King who would know that he was a target and stay well out of range.
"The Night King will come for Bran," said Jon Snow. "Bran is his prize, and he is ours. I will ride Rhaegal and protect Bran and Queen Daenerys will ride Drogon and assist on the battlefield. When the Night King comes for my brother, I will meet him and hold him off for as long as it takes."
"And what does it take?" asked the sellsword. "I don't think dragon glass will stand up to the king of the dead."
"All the Valyrian steel in the world is in this castle at this very moment," said Littlefinger. "A handful of swords and a dagger. Those who wield those weapons should also be with Brandon Stark."
"Those who wield those weapons are commanders of their own charges, but if possible, we should establish a signal to alert them if it comes to it that we manage to unseat the Night King. If we can separate him and the dragon, those with Valyrian steel must be ready," said Jon Snow.
Sandor waited for those with the favored weapons to be announced but no such information was forthcoming.
"Then the plan remains much the same as it was," said Yara Greyjoy. "Fight, survive, kill the Night King. It's just become desperately more difficult to do so. If that's all we've managed to agree upon, I would say let us end things here and go back to our duties. With three weeks between us and possible extinction, there's work to be done."
No one had much of a mind to correct her, so they dispersed and as they filed out one by one, Sandor glanced down at the swordbelts of the fighters. He could not be certain of the others, but he at least knew that Brienne of Tarth and Arya Stark had a weapon of Valyrian steel. And Jon Snow had the sword that was Jeor Mormont's, leaving Jorah Mormont without.
What Sandor wouldn't give to be in possession of one of those weapons right now…
/ /
In three weeks he would be dead on the very battlefield he was viewing below him as he stood watch on the wall. He was not called to do so, but he could not stand the thought of sleeping when he had just been given a direct timeline to the rest of his life. By no means a sentimental man, he was still very much aware that he had now seen his last summer, that he might never see direct sunlight again, that he was going to die homeless and terrified.
Braver men would have stolen a horse and made a run for it. Lesser men would have shit themselves. Sandor was calm and empty. His life would end here, not that it was much of a life to begin with. A few moments of pleasure and genuine joy, a few memories to take to the grave with him. The rest was misery. He could face his own mortality silently because he did not cling to life as others did. True, he was a fighter, but that was out of spite more than the will to live. He had simply existed these forty-odd years, never lived, for there had been nothing and no one worth living for.
"Has it set in yet?" asked the voice of Lady Stark as she joined him at the ramparts. "The reality of our situation?"
"It set in months ago when I went north of the Wall," replied Sandor. "I've known it was coming for all that time, but I never knew exactly when. I know now."
"And you will still fight?"
"Aye, I'll fight. I'll die, but I'll fight. If I'm to be judged before I reach the seven hells, I'd rather they have something to judge me for than to see I was a coward in my last moments."
"I thought you didn't believe in the gods?"
Sandor shrugged. Of everything tethering him to this world right now, the type of gods to whom he was referring were the least of his problems. "Not the Seven, I'll say that much. And not the bloody Lord of Light that Beric Dondarrion preaches about. If there are gods, if there's anything that stands between me and the end, I'll have it or them know I was never a coward."
Lady Stark breathed upon her gloved hands and rubbed them together before nodding pointedly at the steps down into the courtyard. "Come inside with me."
"Too cold for you out here?"
"This is my home. I am more accustomed to the cold than you will ever be, but that does not mean I am foolish enough to remain outside when I would be better served indoors. Will you join me, or will you stand out here to prove a point?"
He rather wanted to stand out in the cold to prove a point, for he had gone north of the Wall and was positive she had not, so he knew the cold very well and had experienced a chill far worse than anything that could be felt on the walls of Winterfell but this was her home and she was of the North. She knew the cold well enough and nothing could be achieved in claiming to be superior in that field.
Instead of leading she fell in line with him and he found himself briefly wondering where she might take him on such a night where it was nearing the midnight hour. She took him to the great hall which was empty apart from a low fire in the grate. It appeared that she had already been expecting him, for she gestured to the table nearest the fire where two goblets and a heel of bread sat.
"Wine?" asked Sandor, pulling the goblet toward him as he took his seat.
"Water," she responded. "I have had the maester keep all wine under lock and key to only be used to dull the pain of those wounded in battle. I will not stand for a man to be drunk when he might be called to battle at any moment."
"Sometimes a man can only face what terrifies him if he's well on his way to being drunk or well past it," reasoned Sandor. "And a drunken man knows no desperation. The intoxication makes him fight like he's invincible."
"And gets him killed quicker than he would sober," countered the girl.
"Did you ask me here to confront me about my drinking habit?" Sandor stared dismally at the water in his goblet as he wished for something much stronger to get him through this conversation.
"I asked you here because I wanted to. You have stood by and watched me at my work for several days and I will not stand for it any longer unless I get something in return."
"And what would that be?" asked Sandor, his pulse quickening as he thought of what she might mean.
"Conversation. I want you to talk with me, not to me and not at me. I want to know what it's like to be able to hold an amicable conversation with you without you glaring at me or berating me for being a foolish little girl. There is no threat of Joffrey or Cersei now. I can speak my mind and I will and I wish for you to do the same as if you considered me a friend."
Sandor let out a hearty laugh that ended on a note of skepticism. "If you wanted to hear me spill secrets and exchange fishwives tales with you, you should have brought something stronger than water, girl."
"I did. I brought my authority. You are under my roof and so you will live by my rules. It has been both distracting and irritating having you hover around me as I practice and if you want to continue to do so, you will sit here with me until I dismiss you."
The conversation had been going well despite not actually going anywhere until she made that last comment. She was commanding him now and damned if he let a woman with as few years in a position of power as she tell him what he was and was not allowed to do in his remaining days in this world. If he wanted to watch her go about her day and stay well out of her way while doing so, that was his business and he would dearly enjoy seeing her try to prevent him from keeping to himself.
Sliding his hand forward along the wooden grain, he ended in clenching a meaningful fist as he leaned slightly forward and said in what he hoped was a warning tone, "You don't fucking give me orders, girl."
"Then leave," she offered without pause.
Was it a dare, a threat, or an invitation? Gods be damned, he could not read her as easily as he once could and right now she was infuriatingly coy. She wanted him to believe that she had some power over him, but if he left, this opportunity would never again be presented to him. And if he defied her orders, she could use his insubordination against him by ensuring that he no longer was allowed to follow her, watch her, and most likely even think about her. He might have done himself a favor or two in indirectly declaring for House Stark when he fought alongside Jon Snow and the other Northmen, but he was not a Stark soldier, only a guest in the Stark household. The blasted woman was right in that he did have to show courtesy where it was due out of respect to those who were housing him.
But if he left her now, she would walk back to her quarters alone and might never get there. He would be a fool if he believed that Cersei would not try even the most transparent of tactics to have Lady Stark killed and her death would be on him if he chose to walk right back out the way he had come.
So he stayed sitting and said nothing in response to her.
"You won't, will you?" she asked with a smirk. "Because Arya is nowhere to be found and Brienne has turned in for the night and so that puts you on involuntary duty. You can't help yourself; you have to know that I am being guarded by someone you trust. I know you have been following me and I know why, so unless you think I would be in danger if left unattended, then you are free to go as you will."
"You show me those," he gestured at the scars poking out from under her high collar, "and you expect me to let you be?"
"I did not show you. You invited yourself to my pain as if you had ownership over me, as if you had a right to reveal my scars."
"You let me. If you'd wanted me to stop, you would've told me."
"No!" She slammed her hand down on the table, upsetting her goblet in the process. Her eyes burned with hatred, recollection, and above all, fear. "Don't you ever, ever say that to me. Men take what they want whether or not women consent to it. I never consented for a Bolton to touch me but he did. I told him to stop but he didn't. I begged him to stop but—he— didn't . I never let him put his hands on me. He forced himself on me and ignored my pleading and crying. And you, you knew I was uncomfortable showing you my scars but you ignored my discomfort to satisfy your own curiosity. If I had said no, you would have done it anyway."
If there was one man to whom he would not be compared other than his brother, it was Ramsay Bolton, and he told her as much. "What I did was nothing like what he did to you. I never hurt you—"
"With a mindset like that, you might as well have. You did not have my consent, but that didn't matter to you, did it? I did not want to show you, but you saw anyway because I was afraid to say no."
"You were afraid that I would force myself on you if you gave me a stern 'no'? Is that the sort of man you think I am?"
"I—don't— know —you," she told him once again. "I did not know what to expect if I refused you, but I feared to do it and that fear in and of itself is more than enough evidence to prove my point in that you could not see my discomfort with such a personal matter. How does that make you different from other men? What makes you different from other men?"
He pulled up short at this question, as it soundly stumped him. He knew he was different from other men, but in what way? The differences did not necessarily make him better , but they did distance him from being associated with other kinds of men. By no means was he a defender of the innocent, for he had seen and done nothing when many innocents were being tortured and killed in front of him. He had stolen, beaten, intimidated, killed men and women, most of them deliberately because they deserved it, because they sought to do him harm. He had killed that farmer and his daughter earlier than they would have died naturally by stealing what little coin they had left to spare.
But he had never raped a woman. However despicable he may be, he had never taken a woman against her will-at least, not in the physical sense. He had made the Lady of Winterfell bare herself to him without regard for how she might have felt about it. It mattered not that he also had scars, as if that somehow made them kindred spirits. She had not wanted to show him, but he had seen because her fear of rejecting him outweighed her fear of calling upon the memories that came with the scars.
He was not in the business of dealing out apologies. He might have uttered the words once or twice in his life and never to a woman—which told him that he was a hypocrite and exactly the sort of man she despised. If he had made her so uncomfortable, if he had caused her to remember how violently other men had reacted toward her when she told them no, the fault was entirely with him and he owed it to her to make things right however he could.
"I thought…I thought showing me would help you. Having a scar on half of my face made it hard to hide it so I didn't let it hurt me. I thought it would help you, too. I never meant for it to hurt you."
She scoffed at his unsatisfactory delivery. "If that is your attempt at an apology—"
"I'm sorry you felt unsafe with me and that I put you in that situation. That's the last thing I wanted to do," he blurted out as quickly as he could vomit the words, for they were foreign on his tongue and left him feeling exposed.
His vulnerability in this moment seemed to soften her as she considered him and then asked, "Does it matter terribly to you that I feel safe with you?"
Truth be told, the thought that any woman would think he might force himself on her left a sour taste in his mouth but for this particular woman, the thought almost left a pain in his chest. "I don't like the thought've you thinking I'd ever hurt you, so I suppose it does matter."
"And why does it?" she prodded.
"Fuck if I know, girl, it just does. I can't give you an answer if I don't know."
"What if I know?"
"Then why'd you ask me?"
"Because I wanted to see if you know. But since it appears that you do not, let me try to explain what I see and what I believe to be your reasoning. You feel failure that you wanted to protect me and take me from King's Landing. You feel failure that you tried to protect Arya from Brienne. You are no septon, no high priest of any sort, but you do try to defend those who are weaker when you can. You know that your face deters many from approaching you and that your gruff nature pushes those away who might venture closer despite that face but as long as it was only ever the defenses you yourself put up, you didn't care what people thought of you. But for a woman to look at you and see you as a man who would harm her, assault her, have his way with her, that infuriates you because it likens you to your brother and if there is one thing I can claim to know of you, it's that you despise your brother and would do anything to prevent yourself from ending up like him. It matters so deeply to you that I should not fear you because you know you would never harm me, you know your intentions and your heart."
"Load of shite, that is."
"Of course it is."
"Don't patronize me, girl."
As if feeding his irritation, the fire in the hearth spat and crackled in a last ditch attempt to stir itself back to life before it would become nothing but ash and Sandor flinched at it, a motion that did not go unnoticed by the lady.
"Even with the supply of dragonglass that we have, fire is the greatest weapon at our disposal to fight the dead. I suppose that isn't exactly reassuring to you," said Lady Stark.
Sandor had to take care to not roll his eyes at her as if his lifelong fear of fire had somehow dissipated since they had last met. "How do you think that feels? Knowing that the only thing that can save you is the thing you hate and fear most. Aye, the dragon fire might stop the dead, but it might take the castle and survivors with it. Either way, it'll end in ice or fire and I'm not sure which is worse."
The dying light caught on her eyes, setting them ablaze in a color he did not care for on her, though it brought life to the tone of her hair. Her voice was contemplative but distant as she mused, "I don't suppose I've ever given it much thought as to which would be more awful to die by. It does take a terribly long time to freeze to death, but I have been told death by ice is quiet, almost peaceful. Death by fire would be excruciating and you would feel that pain for every second until your soul fled your body, but it would be quicker, if that is any mercy."
"The dead don't freeze you to death, girl. They're vicious and relentless and their only motive is to kill. It'll be painful, it might even be quick, but it won't be quiet and peaceful, take my word for that."
The last of the flames choked themselves into embers, pitching both Sandor and the lady into the black.
"Well," came her voice light-heartedly, "at least there's no fire in the darkness."
"Aye, but there isn't much else, either."
"Isn't there?"
"What are you expecting I'll say?"
He could almost hear the muscles in her lips turning downward in a frown from his response and it amused him somewhat.
"There is always something. In fact, I would go so far as to say that everything exists in the darkness except the light, just as everything exists in the light apart from darkness."
"Not overly fond've it myself."
"Why, because you're afraid to be alone in the dark?"
"No, I'm afraid of not being alone in the dark."
And just as he knew she would, as much as he had hoped she would despite him telling himself it was wrong to hope for it, she found his hand in a blind hold and grasped it. Still small, still delicate, and still bitingly cold, but it did not tremble with unease as her entire body had always done when he touched her. She was steady and confident-and entirely too bold.
"It's not so bad. There is peace in the dark as there is in death."
"How'd you know? You died a couple times since I last saw you, girl?"
"I might as well have. If you see death so much, you come to know it well. If all that you know and remember is death, the actual act of dying yourself seems like greeting an old friend because there is nothing uncertain about it. It would be a kindness, a welcoming gift to embrace the dark after fighting so long to keep it back. But you've never found kindness in the dark, have you?"
"Never found kindness anywhere. Just how it is."
"Then what would you call this right now happening between us? Would you not say that I am being kind to you, offering you comfort from a subject you loathe and fear?"
"I'd call it pity."
"Then we must find other ways to expose you to kindness so that you can learn to identify it more easily."
"I think we're too close to the end now to waste time on finding me kindness ," he said somewhat condescendingly.
"As Lady of Winterfell, I decide what I have time for before the end. I have daily duties to attend to as well as my archery practice, but I will walk and talk with you for one hour every day, wherever you wish."
"I don't have enough words to just talk for the sake of talking."
"Then listen to me talk. I have plenty to say."
"And you think I've nothing better t'do than listen to your stories?"
"You've nothing better to do than stare at me as I practice for six hours every day at my archer's post, so I believe one more hour spent in my company will not upset your exceedingly busy schedule, Sandor Clegane."
His chuckle came out reluctantly but it still came out in both amusement and pride. Like her sister, the Lady of Winterfell had a sly amount of wit to her name but had had to conceal it in the years he had known her. Now, she was free to use it as she pleased and she dueled his own admirably.
So focused was he on enjoying this moment of levity between them that he had not noticed that as her hand absorbed the heat from his, heat had begun to grow in his groin but now that his manhood was painfully stiffening in his breeches, he wondered if he might try to press his luck, if he dared.
He did not. Not yet.
Her hand left his and he heard her fingers fumbling in the dark for the candle at the end of the table. The sound of a striking of steel against steel, a moment, and a flicker grew from the candlewick, illuminating the underside of her face.
"Until tomorrow, then…"
Sandor stood up to escort her back to her chambers, though it was an automatic response instead of a conscious one, and one she found the need to comment on as she ambled over to the door with him barely a step behind her.
"I am quite capable of finding my way back to my room on my own."
"And has Euron Greyjoy suddenly started sleeping out on the moor?" Sandor asked.
"Not that I am aware."
"Then, no, you are not capable."
"Not safe, you mean." She opened the door and just on the other side sat the albino wolf as if he had been waiting for her. Smiling down at him, Sansa pet his head gently and resumed, "As I said, I am quite capable. No one can touch me without his leave."
"No one?" Sandor posed, more as a jest and to prolong his time with her than to express his doubt of the wolf's capabilities.
"I don't believe Ghost counts you as a threat. After all, the two of you did come to my aid against Euron Greyjoy before. Perhaps, after that, Ghost sees you as kin."
That was a curious concept but not entirely unbelievable. It would explain the wolf's reaction to him upon his initial arrival. Perhaps the wolf had some level of respect for him or perhaps those who thought so were all full of shit. If the wolf could be that intelligent as to sense Sandor's intentions and judge him accordingly, Sandor would take back his doubts but until he tested his theory, he would remain of the belief that the wolf was a beast of normal intelligence.
Sandor reached out to lay his hand on the Lady of Winterfell's shoulder and the wolf did nothing. He pulled with the gentlest pressure, steering her closer toward him and then when she was already quite close to him, he jerked her forward quite suddenly to where she collided solidly with his chest. The wolf turned to face the corridor as if it had concluded that Sandor's sudden movement was done in an act to protect the lady but never raised a hackle or bared a tooth to Sandor.
Well, fuck me.
"I suppose something good did come of our conversation," said the lady as Sandor released her. "Before, I was mostly but not entirely sure that you meant no intentional harm to me. But now I know for certain, and so does he, otherwise he would have attempted to rip out your throat. Good night, Sandor."
Looking back over its shoulder to blink once at Sandor as if having the torch passed to it to take up the duty of protecting the Lady of Winterfell, the wolf trod along beside her as she disappeared down the corridor.
Sandor felt incredibly hot both around the collar and below the belt and as such, decided he would stroll about outside for an hour yet until he could be certain that no telltale erection was present when he bedded down with the men who shared his barracks.
As the frigid night air instantly cooled the heat at his cheeks, he had to muse that perhaps some small inkling of good had come out of this night. In just a short half hour, he had gone from accepting his fate in its full gloom to feeling that he just might leave this world with one last happy memory in the form of the woman he had just left.
She was making an effort despite his best attempts to ignore her. In fact, his dismissal of her had had the complete opposite effect in bringing her closer. She was curious about him and if the caress from her finger was to be believed when she grasped his, she wanted to know more. She only had so many days left in this world and instead of deciding to fuck it all and wait for her last breath, she was searching for something she truly wanted and Sandor was absolutely dumbfounded that what she seemed to want—was him.
He could not say to what extent, for he had always made her nervous since he first spoke to her all those years ago. But now she had made it her goal, perhaps her final goal to reach him in spite of how very hard he had worked to keep her out. Whether she wanted more than just his friendship, he did not know (though his cock very much hoped).
She was as nervous to be forward with him as he was to be with her, but she had become emboldened by the set date of their death. What had once been casual annoyance at his presence was now stubborn insistence. She had as many days of life left as he and instead of spending every waking moment with her siblings, she wanted to spend them in his company. She wanted to be with the man she had once feared and possibly hated.
And the wolf had approved of him. He knew that the Starks believed direwolves to be just as sentient as the Targaryens believed dragons to be and if those beliefs held water, then the albino wolf knew Sandor's intentions with Lady Stark and had done nothing to deter him. If he had the blessing of an ancestral house sigil namesake, his wants had to mean something, didn't they?
Touching him of her own accord was a monumental step for her and allowing himself to be touched by her was a great feat for him but if he moved too quickly and pursued his wants too boldly, he knew she would retreat back into herself and he would ruin any chance he might have to become more familiar with her before he had even begun. Her promise of putting aside time for him was a start and if his patience served him well, he could have her before the dead came.
But only if she acted first. This conversation with her had proven to him that she desired control over her life in that one aspect, that she wanted to be the one to accept advances or deny them. If she accepted him, only then would he go through with it. He could nudge her in the direction he wanted, but if he pushed too hard, if she discovered his motives too early, he would have no second chance and would die knowing he had betrayed her trust, that she saw him as nothing but a man like all the rest.
As she had deduced, he could not go to his grave being compared to his brother and he would be damned if it came to that. He would enter the seven hells in good standing with her or he simply wouldn't fucking go. It was a small goal, almost not worth it for the years he had spent in this world, but he would rather die knowing his life had meant something to someone than die for no one to see or care.
He heard someone clear his throat and out of the corner of his eye watched Littlefinger amble toward him along the wall in no particular hurry. Sandor was his destination, but he was deliberately drawing out the time it took to get to him for reasons only little shits like him would know. If Sandor attempted to leave, he was only prolonging the inevitable conversation the man wanted to have with him.
When Littlefinger finally arrived beside him, he stood silently with that infuriating little smirk of his that suggested he was waiting for Sandor to speak first.
"Don't stand there smirking at me after that big fucking show you just made of walking over here," snapped Sandor. "Tell me what it is you came for and be on your way."
"I did not come to argue, if that is what you were hoping would happen," said Littlefinger. "I am simply walking to clear my head, as I see you are doing after we were given our date of execution."
"Aye, that's what I'm doing, but there's other men on the walls and you came directly t'me."
"Nothing escapes your notice, does it?"
"Plenty does."
"But not where Lady Stark is involved. I have noticed your presence at our archery practice as much as she and know why you stand there-"
"Aye, and it's my business."
"I also am doing my part to protect her."
"All seven stone of you," Sandor scoffed. "If something or someone wants her, they'll barrel right through you without ever knowing you were there. She'd be better served protecting you, but she won't because she can't stand the sight've you. That example she had made've you the other day, that was a message, wasn't it?"
"A private one," said Littlefinger delicately as if to warn that this was not a topic up for discussion.
"Seemed public enough t'me. Those bruises on your face can't be considered private. She wanted you to be humiliated and that's a woman who wouldn't have the taste for it after growing up in Joffrey's court. But for you, she found the taste so tell me: why does she hate you?"
"For the same reason you do."
"And what's that?"
"Because I know your every move and can predict your actions before you conceive them. Because I have survived by not being a decent man."
"I don't hate you because've that. No decent men ever make it as far as you do. The world's run by shits and shit stains, always has been and I can't hate 'em all for being the way they are. I hate you because you just don't give a fuck and a man with nothing to lose is far more dangerous than a man who fears to lose everything."
"Would I be here if I had nothing to lose? You are here for the same reason as I."
"Not even fucking close. I'm here to fight because it's who I am, because it's all I know and all I'm good for. You're here because you have to be, you were ordered to be, and you'll hope you're the last one standing to claim the prize when everyone around you is dead. You want the spoils of someone else's battle. You're a fucking coward and you'll die a coward because I promise you, no soldier worth his salt is gonna let you live if the rest've us have to die. You're no better than any've us and you don't deserve to live more than any've us, so if one person dies for you, I'll rip out your guts and feed them to the undead dragon. Now, fuck off."
He turned his back on Littlefinger and once he had heard the man leave, let out a heavy breath through his nostrils that went up in steam by light of the torch beside him. How he had longed to say such a thing to the likes of Littlefinger for so long and now that he had so few chances to do so, he could not waste a single opportunity. He knew he was right in his assumptions, that Lady Stark hated her advisor for reasons neither of them would share with Sandor, but she still had a name and a house to uphold and could not speak to him in such a way as Sandor could. And Littlefinger could not retaliate because Lady Stark appeared to favor Sandor so if anything happened to him, Littlefinger would pay the price.
What a pleasing thought that was.
He would have mulled in it further had the torch not spat at him and cast a series of sparks onto his sleeve. Cursing, he tossed a handful of snow onto his sleeve and swatted at it to ensure nothing could catch fire but the snow left his bare hand bitterly cold and brought him crashing back down into the reality of what was to come.
He had burned, he had nearly frozen to death, and a battle that involved both with an enemy that could feel no pain was absolutely fucking terrifying. Squinting out into the blackness that surrounded the castle, he imagined dragonglass clashing with rusted steel. He envisioned rotting faces with gnashing teeth and soulless blue eyes closing in, pressing him back. The snow fell heavily, the cold was relentless, and dragonfire could not penetrate it. It was a battle of ice, death by ice, and nothing but the howling wind and rasping noises of the dead to see him into the next life-if there was a next life for the damned.