Chapter Text
Winterfell.
Fucking Winterfell.
Sandor Clegane took a long pull from the wineskin he lifted from the kitchens. It wasn’t a Dornish sour. Hell, he wasn’t sure what he was drinking could even be called wine, but it was doing the job well enough. The cold that seemed to sink into his bones and set his leg to aching had faded just enough, and the thought that he was going to die in a few hours wasn’t beating at him as hard.
With a deep sigh, Sandor looked up. There were no clouds for once. The sky was a deep, endless black littered with stars, the moon a pale sliver on the horizon. Pretty, if you liked that sort of thing. He preferred the blue of a summer sky. Maybe then he wouldn’t be sitting on a frozen wall drinking a piss-poor excuse for wine waiting for the world to end.
It was enough to make him laugh. He always thought he’d die trying to kill his cunt of a brother. On his best days, he hoped he did so taking the bastard with him. Maybe he’d be cut down fighting for the Lannisters in some stupid war he couldn’t give two shits about, or a whore would knife him for his coin while his britches were around his ankles. In none of his imaginings did he see himself dying at Winterfell, fighting against creatures that should have been eight thousand years gone.
Sandor snorted and took another drink as light footsteps approached. When had something ever turned out the way he thought it would? He kept his eyes fixed forward, his shoulders tight, as the steps grew closer. Probably one of the younger boys pressed into guard duty, making themselves feel useful by manning the walls and looking out for the dead. Or some old cunt wanting to talk about better days. If he was going to die by morning, he wanted to spend his last hours the way he spent most of his life: alone.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Sandor looked up so fast he swore he heard the bones of his neck crack. It wasn’t a boy standing over him, or an old man. Hells, it wasn’t even Dondarrion come to give a final sermon. It was the last person he expected. The last person he thought wanted to see him. His muscles tensed as he prepared to rise, but something in him made him stay exactly where he was. He wasn’t going to put on airs like some bloody fool or pretend to be something he wasn’t.
The Sansa Stark standing next to him was a far cry from the one that haunted his memory. A lifetime ago he’d never seen the girl in anything darker than the color of spring leaves. There were no bright silks or elaborate braids for her now, no glow of youth or blush of innocence. Her clothes could have been hewn from the dark stone and hard earth of Winterfell. The black of her clothes made her nearly disappear against the sky. Her skin was still unblemished and pale, but now she looked to be carved from ice, cold and unrelenting. Thick fur ruffled at her shoulders, tangling with the fire of her hair, and for a moment it made her look a wild thing.
“The servants spoke of a man with a burned face,” Sansa continued when he didn’t answer, back straight as she stared into the night. “I thought you might have been one of the Reachmen who survived the Queen’s attack, but then Lord Royce told me that he swore he saw the Hound in one of the inner baileys helping unload dragon glass.” Her chin dipped. “I wanted to give you time, but it seems that’s something we don’t have.”
Her voice wasn’t the same. In King’s Landing, it was always honey sweet and trembling, moments away from being filled with tears. It was deeper now, hard and cold like velvet covered steel. Sandor shrugged and focused on the barrels in front of him. “Didn’t think the Lady of Winterfell wanted anything to do with the likes of me.”
“You’d be surprised what the Lady of Winterfell wants.”
His shoulders heaved with something that might have been a laugh. “Probably for everyone to leave her alone for five fucking minutes.” He flicked a hand. “I haven’t gone ten minutes without someone going on about how they needed to ask Lady Stark about something.” He took her in from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. “Looks like you’re not a little bird anymore.”
“None of us are who we were anymore,” she countered, finally turning to face him.
He wasn’t used to her scrutiny. The Sansa of King’s Landing avoided looking anyone in the eye. It was one of the things he hated the most, watching her eyes slide away to focus on the floor or just past his shoulder. The only time she looked at him, truly looked at him, was the Battle of Blackwater. Now her gaze was fixed on him, silver-blue eyes cataloging his every breath.
“Arya said you took care of her after you left the Brotherhood. You traveled together for weeks until you were separated.”
“Until she left me for dead, you mean,” he grumbled.
Her head tilted slightly. “If Arya wanted you dead, she would have slit your throat,” Sansa said the words with conviction. “I don’t think you were on her list by then.”
“That fucking list.” How many times had he heard her whispering it in the night when the little wolf thought he couldn’t hear? Enough so he could say the names himself if he thought about it. He hadn’t minded, not really. If dreams of killing kept the girl alive, he’d let her keep her list. The Stranger knew some days the thought of killing his brother was all that kept him moving. He glanced around. “Where is the little wolf girl, anyway? Thought she’d be the one to find me up here.” He’d thought he’d have a sword through the eye by now, with the way the girl promised to do it.
“Arya’s lurking around somewhere.” She looked up to the rooftops, scanning them for a moment before turning back to him. “I’m sure you’ll see her before the end.” She squared her shoulders and inclined her head. “Thank you, for taking care of her.”
He shrugged. “Girl would’ve got herself killed otherwise.”
Sansa stepped over his leg and settled on the barrels across from him, hands folded primly in her lap. She nodded to the wineskin before she reached out, expectant. He passed her the skin, his eyes to widening when she tipped it up and took a swallow large enough for him to see the column of her throat move in the dim light. She grimaced as she capped it and passed it back.
“That is awful.” Her voice was thick from the wine.
“It’s what I could get from the kitchens.” He shrugged and took a drink, fighting down the thought that her lips had been on the spout moments before. “Does the job.”
Sansa made a small sound of agreement and heaved in a breath. “What are your plans for the future, Lord Clegane?”
His mouth twisted. “Cold must have addled your wits, girl. I’m no more a lord than I am a ser. And it’s not like we have a future, anyway.” They both knew what they faced. Like as not they’d all be dead by morning. Made no sense thinking on things that would never come to pass.
She tilted her head, staring down at him in a way that made him look away. “You haven’t thought at all about what you want if you survive all this? You traveled beyond the Wall with my brother to capture a wight, carried it with him to King’s Landing knowing full well Cersei could have called for your head as a deserter, and you’re here now, willing to fight and die for the North. You think I or my brother would let that go unrewarded?”
“Didn’t do it for a fucking reward.” Sandor looked at the wineskin. “This Northern piss must be stronger than I thought to have you spouting shit like that.”
“So, you don’t want a keep?” she pressed. “Good lands?”
“Aye. And a bunch of whining smallfolk driving me half mad for the rest of my fucking life.”
Sansa laughed, the sound clear and bell-like. It transformed her face. Softened the hard marble and gave some color to her cheeks. He couldn’t recall ever hearing her laugh before.
“For what it’s worth, Sandor Clegane, if we survive, I think you’d make a wonderful lord.” Her eyes clouded. “You were a better knight without saying the words than almost every knight I’ve ever met.” She turned away from him again, her gaze focused somewhere in the night. “Jon said you saw the Mountain in King’s Landing. I’m sorry you won’t get to kill him like you wanted. I know how freeing it can be, to kill the one who tormented you.”
“Sansa…” He’d heard the stories about the Bolton bastard, what few the people were willing to tell. Most seemed to want to forget he ever existed. “The wildling said you fed the bastard to his own dogs.”
“I did.” There was no velvet over the steel in her voice then. “He deserved worse, but I thought it was fitting. He took such pride in them.” There was nothing gentle about the smile that crept over her face, wide enough from him to see a glimmer of teeth. “I kept the hounds alive long enough to shit him out.”
Sandor laughed at that, the sharp sound carrying into the night as he passed her the wineskin. It gentled something in her expression, made some of the light return to her eyes.
“Heard Littlefucker’s dead, too.”
Another look of satisfaction settled on her face. “Arya slit his throat in the great hall.” She took a swallow of wine large enough to make his eyebrow twitch before capping it and handing it back. “He was on his knees, begging me for mercy and plotting all the while to tear us apart.” Her tone said that was the stupidest thing Littlefinger could have done.
“Looks like neither of you needs the likes of me anymore.” He’d told her once to learn to defend herself or die and get out of the way of those who could. It looked like she’d finally taken his advice.
They sat in silence for long minutes, neither looking at the other. His perch on the battlements was the furthest he could find from the forges, away from the smell of smoke and steel and the shouts of men. It was almost peaceful.
“I kept it, you know.” The words were so soft he barely heard them.
Sandor frowned. “Kept what?”
“The cloak.” Sansa stared into the darkness. “The one from the throne room. I mended the tears and hid it in the bottom of my trunk. After you left, when I was alone, I would wrap myself in it.” Her mouth tried to curl into a smile, but it looked like it pained her. “I would imagine you were there, outside the door or around a corner…always just out of sight. For the longest time, it was the only thing that made me feel safe.” She breathed in deeply, her gaze faltering to her feet. “It’s the only thing I regret leaving when I fled King’s Landing.” After a moment her eyes locked on his. “I should have gone with you that night.”
Yes, you should have. He swallowed the words back, grateful that he managed them. She knew it, she didn’t need to hear it from him. He passed her the wineskin. “You thought you’d be safe.”
“I would have been safe with you.” The conviction in her voice warmed him more than the wine. “But I was a stupid little girl, always waiting on others to save me.” She should have sounded bitter. Another person might have, but the girl almost sounded amused as she heaved a sigh. “First my father, then my brother…Ser Dontos, Baelish. The one man who wanted to, not because of family or my name, I refused. They’re all dead now, and I’m home, sitting on the ramparts sharing a wineskin with one of the most dangerous killers in Westeros waiting for the war to come to us.” She took another swallow.
“Freezing our arses off,” he grumbled, but at the moment there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
“You chose the spot.” She stood and stared down at him, eyes glittering, before she held out her hand.
Sandor stared at her hand like he would a viper. Like a pool of cool water in a desert. He worked his throat. The damn thing had gone dryer than the Dornish wastes. “What are you doing, girl?” he finally managed to croak.
Sansa shook her head as if he’d said something incredibly stupid. “We could die tonight. Is this where you want to spend your last hours?”
Sandor stared at the pale fingers, mouth dry and mind blank. Sana stood there unmoving, a woman carved from marble and fire. She was close enough that the hem of her cloak brushed the rough fabric of his britches. A breeze kicked up then, bringing with it the smell of cold and stone, wood smoke and pine. Underneath it all was the faintest hint of flowers. Not sweet, like the soaps she once used in King’s Landing, but something earthy. Something that lingered on the back of the tongue. When he didn’t move her fingers wiggled, as if he were a pet she was tempting to come.
He took her hand.