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Stranger is pissed.
The straw bedding is damp. There’s no oats in his trough, just grass hay. Near as he can tell, it’s almost dawn, but dawn barely comes any more in whatever miserable fucking “long night” thing they’re sliding into. There’s deep, deep snow on the ground outside and now it’s sleeting to add a layer of ice to the misery and it’s cold, colder than he can ever remember, and his balls are trying to crawl back into his body.
This is the place humans call Winterfell. Humans have stupid names for things: this is obviously Big Cold Stone House With No Decent Fucking Fodder. The place Favorite Human and the red girl, the Sorrel Mare, have been trying to get to for far too long. It’s not worth the trip in Stranger’s opinion.
Ever since Favorite Human left The Quiet Isle (Damp Island Smells Like Shit) and found Sorrel Mare at The Eyrie (Tall Stone House Too Fucking High Up), they’ve been going nonstop for this place. No idea why it’s so important to get here—though at least they’re under a roof now. Tramping through the wilderness in the cold and dark was enough to shrivel any stallion’s nutsack.
“Winter is coming,” Sorrel Mare keeps saying, and it’s been following them all the way north.
Stranger fucking hates winter. He's only a few years old, and winter is an unpleasant fucking surprise for a stallion who’s campaigned all through the endless months of summer and autumn. How is he supposed to trample anyone in these conditions? The snow is hip-deep on Favorite Human! The rest of the humans will vanish like fucking badgers down their holes!
Fucking winter. Fucking Big Cold Stone House. Stranger takes a grudging mouthful of hay and, finding a bit of gravel in it, spits the rock at the stableboy dozing in the corner of the stable.
The stableboy wakes up yelping and scrambles away. Ha!
But one of the most annoying things—and Stranger has a long, long list of annoyances—is how Favorite Human and Sorrel Mare are acting now. Finally getting to Big Cold Stone House has taken all the life out of them. Especially Favorite Human.
Stranger doesn’t give out a name like Favorite Human lightly. If you got his balls in a gelder’s pincers and forced him to tell the truth, he might actually admit that he likes Favorite Human. Right from the beginning, the big smelly angry male was the only one he would consent to carry: the only one as pissed off as he was. The big smelly angry male named him Stranger, and Stranger named him Favorite Human, and together they absolutely fucking crush anything that gets in their way.
(Stranger has always been angry. Who wouldn’t be? His first sight in this world was the coper getting a rope around him and dragging him away from his whimpering dam. As soon as he could stand, he kicked the bastard.)
Favorite Human shouts at other lesser humans and hits them and stabs them, and he smells like sweat and wine and vomit and horseshit (watch where you’re walking, two-legger), but he’s always gentle on the reins and he gives Stranger apples and soft pats on the nose. Stranger bites stableboys because he doesn’t trust them: Favorite Human is the only one to care for him, to brush him down and check his hooves and teeth and take care of his tack.
Favorite Human is steady. Trustworthy. Fucking heavy, especially in full armor, but Stranger is used to that.
But now Favorite Human is in pain. And it’s all to do with Sorrel Mare.
Stranger would kick Sorrel Mare, just on principle, but she’s in pain too. And it wouldn’t make Favorite Human happy if he did it. Wouldn’t make Stranger happy, either. Which is odd, because he really enjoys kicking people.
Sorrel Mare is from this place, the Big Cold Stone House. Stranger vaguely remembers seeing it before—two or three years ago now? He can’t be fucking bothered to remember. If it isn’t a battle or a race, he doesn’t care much. But Favorite Human rode him north to bring a bunch of humans back south, including the filly who would grow into Sorrel Mare.
After a few months back in King’s Landing (Big Town Really Fucking Loud), there was a big commotion and a load of humans got killed for some reason. Stranger didn’t care. But it put Favorite Human in a foul temper, and after that, Favorite Human started to smell like Sorrel Filly/Mare sometimes.
Normally he smelled a bit like Yellow Runt, the screechy boy who always rode fast horses that were dumb as shit. Now Sorrel Mare’s scent lingered on Favorite Human’s cloak and tunic. Once on a bit of cloth covered in shiny stitch pictures that Favorite Human hastily shoved into his gauntlet. At the time, Stranger thought Favorite Human must be waiting for her to come into season.
Others seemed to think the same. Whenever Favorite Human rode Stranger out alongside Yellow Runt for hunting or racing or showing off for other humans, Yellow Runt would demand that Sorrel Mare come too. She’d ride with her head down, smelling like fear and the bitter-sharp scent of dried blood, and Yellow Runt would screech at her. Sometimes Yellow Runt’s whitecloak friends, Big Fat Bastard and Big Weasel Bastard, would hit her. Yellow Runt liked that: he smelled like excitement when he saw her bruise. Once or twice, when Sorrel Mare had been taken away and it was just the males and the horses, Stranger had seen Yellow Runt shove his hand into his breeches and stroke his runt prick over what had just happened.
Fucking weird. If Yellow Runt wanted to rut so bad, why didn’t he find a receptive female? Or was he actually a gelding and couldn’t go through with it? He was skinny, and geldings had that look.
Then came the Night of Green Fire. The memory still makes Stranger restless. The whole world smelled like burning, but it was the wrong kind of burning, stinging in his nostrils like boiling piss. Stranger was near panicking in his stall, and he wasn’t the only one: half the other horses were kicking out their slats and screaming the place down. Run! Run! Get out!
After what seemed like a thousand years, Favorite Human had come stumbling into the stables. He smelled like sweat, blood, wine, and Sorrel Mare, and his face was streaked with dirt and tears. He saddled up Stranger with shaking hands, and they left Big Town that night. The water burned behind them. Fucking horrible.
Then there was the long trip across Everyfuckingwhere, as Favorite Human called it. They met fire worshipers (bunch of mad cunts) and kidnapped Angry Filly, who kept trying to stab Favorite Human or brain him with a rock. She also tried to steal Stranger once, but he knew Favorite Human wanted her not-dead, so he didn’t bite off anything critical. And there was a fight, and Favorite Human sickened and smelled of death, and he was lying by the roadside while Angry Filly rode off on her own …
For the first time in his life, Stranger hadn’t known what to do. He was hungry and scared, but he couldn’t leave Favorite Human. Favorite Human was his human. Apples and nose pats and stones carefully picked out of his hooves. The first good memory in his life, the angry man choosing the angry foal with the bloodstained mouth (that fucking coper had gotten too close again, and Stranger’s teeth had come in) from the crowded paddock and saying That one. That little fucker’s got fight in him.
Favorite Human. Only human.
So Stranger stayed, standing over Favorite Human and nuzzling his feverish face, until Healing Man came and took them to Damp Island.
Stranger hated Damp Island, too. Still hates just remembering it. He had to haul carts, and Favorite Human was sick for a long time and couldn’t help him, and idiots in brown tried to geld him and Stranger had to bite some fucking ears off before they got the message. They even tried to rename him, which was just fucking pointless. Stranger wasn’t “Driftwood” and never would be. But finally Favorite Human had recovered enough to come limping into the stables, reeking of dirt, and he’d brush Stranger down and murmur Stranger’s real name and then things would be well for a little time.
There they might have stayed, moldering on Damp Island with the dead, until Healing Man came to Stranger one day.
“I’m afraid you two will be moving on soon,” he’d said. Stranger had lunged at him out of principle, but Healing Man was smart and stayed out of range. “I received some news today, and my conscience would not let me keep it from him. All men deserve to choose their paths … But I fear the rage that made him the Hound is not as dead as I had hoped.” He had sighed. “Nor is his blasphemously named steed. What do you think? Driftwood?”
Stranger lifted his tail and dropped a steaming lump of “driftwood” on the straw. The Healing Man had sighed again.
“That’s what I thought,” he’d said, and put a big carrot into Stranger’s trough.
Healing Man tried to rename him, but he had also saved Favorite Human. Stranger graciously consented to eat the carrot.
That night, Favorite Human came stalking into the stables, reeking of rage and frustration. He’d leaned over the stall door and rested his head against Stranger’s neck. His breath came fast through bared teeth, and he smelled of tears again.
“That fucker’s got her,” he snarled. “Fucking Littlefinger. Elder Brother found out. Got her locked up in the fucking Eyrie!”
He let out a groan like bricks breaking. Wound his fingers into Stranger’s mane. They were alone in the stables; even the robed idiots who brought hay and water were gone for the night. Only when they were alone would Favorite Human talk to Stranger.
(You’re my only fucking friend, you four-legged asshole, Favorite Human had said once.)
Favorite Human shook with rage and sorrow that night. Everything that had been buried in him while he trudged through the dirt on Damp Island, everything since the Night of Green Fire, coming to the surface again. He whispered to Stranger that he’d hoped she was safe but thought for sure she was dead. He’d prayed that she didn’t suffer. Him. Prayed! And now it was worse, because Littlefinger had her, and back in King’s Landing he’d seen how that slimy fuck’s eyes followed her …
They rode out before the morning light.
Stranger whuffs out a breath, remembering that journey. Almost as bad as the one that brought them here, to Big Cold Stone House. His breath clouds in the air, and there’s a scum of ice forming on his water bucket. He kicks the gate viciously, making the bucket jar where it hangs, and the ice cracks up. Better.
Fucking Big Cold Stone House. If this is where winter lives, he fucking hates it. Ice! Don’t talk to him about fucking ice. The ground should not move under his fucking hooves!
But Favorite Human and Sorrel Mare wanted to come here. Fought to come here.
It’s been madness for months. They found the Tall Stone House Too Fucking High Up, where the Littlefinger man was keeping Sorrel Mare. Some older male’s lust smell was all over her. But when Sorrel Mare saw Favorite Human again, she ran to him and wept into his chest.
Please don’t leave me here. I can feel myself slipping. Turning into what he wants me to be.
And Favorite Human wrapped his cloak around her and said I’ll kill that whoremonger for you, little bird.
Sorrel Mare smelled like yes when he said that. But she said Not yet. Please. I want Winterfell back, and he has things that can help us get it.
And Favorite Human said You’ve changed, girl. Are you playing the game of thrones now?
And Sorrel Mare said I don’t want to play that game. But I thought you were dead, ser—Sandor. I thought you were dead and he was taking my mind away. I want him dead, but I want to get everything we can from him first.
And Favorite Human said Aye. Revenge.
And Sorrel Mare said Revenge for the dead. Protection for the living. For the ones I love.
And Favorite Human nodded and said something about her brothers and sister, which Stranger was sure that Sorrel Mare hadn’t quite meant, but what the fuck did he know about how humans did things? Bunch of two-legged idiots.
Things happened fast after that. Stranger wasn’t privy to most of it: they didn’t do all their talking in the stables, and he never saw this Littlefinger human at all. (Which meant he never got to take measure of him and assign him a proper name. Favorite Human called him Greasy Cunt, though.) But there was a lot of commotion one night a week later, with fires in the outbuildings and someone screaming about a lord being revealed as a murderer, and Favorite Human mounted Stranger and Sorrel Mare mounted a shaggy brown mare she called Septa for some reason, and they rode off into the night with a number of strange parchments and heavy jingling pouches now hidden in Stranger’s saddlebags.
It took them weeks to get from Tall Stone House to the place the humans called The Wall. Stranger didn’t even have to figure out a name for that one: for once, the humans got it right. It sure was a fucking Wall all right. Sorrel Mare struggled in the wilderness—not a seasoned campaigner, that one—and she was weak from being penned up for a long time. The Greasy Cunt had been giving her some kind of milk that made her sick. Sometimes she and Favorite Human had to ride double while Septa carried the packs and Favorite Human’s armor.
That was when the two of them started getting on Stranger’s nerves. All that sad-eyed staring and those lingering touches was fine by Stranger, you gotta get a good sniff of your partner to make sure she’s up for it before you get your leg over her, but they never seemed to actually get around to it. They just wanted. They’d just get up every morning out of two bedrolls put reeeeeally close together to “share warmth” and the suppressed lust reeked and they would ride all day smelling like each other and then bed down again stroking each other’s hands like idiots and talking about stupid fantasies of running away to someplace called Free Cities and having a house with lemon trees in the yard.
Well, obviously it was a fantasy. They almost never mentioned him in these little stories of theirs. Any world where Stranger wasn’t with Favorite Human could never come to be.
As the snows started coming in hard and the nights got longer, they finally reached The Wall. There, they all met up with Sorrel Mare’s brother (though he didn’t really smell like one?), Sad Crow, and planned to get back Sorrel Mare’s home. Suddenly Sorrel Mare stopped riding double with Favorite Human, and Favorite Human started addressed her as Lady Stark. Fucking odd.
Then, finally, battle! That part was always good. Stranger whickers, remembering the fight against the enemies holding Big Cold Stone House. The enemies had flattened down and moved a lot of the snow to give them room to build barricades and palisades, but Stranger and his humans knew how to fight that kind of thing. If they’d left the snow where it was, the attackers would’ve gotten bogged down. Instead, they ripped the defenders to shreds.
There was more to it, some shit about strategy and waves and proper deployment, but Stranger didn’t care about that. That was Favorite Human’s job: Stranger’s was to run fast and smash the fuck out of anything that tried to stop him and his rider. That’s what he did, and he did it like a champ. Fucking hard to hold a pike when you’ve got an iron-shod hoof the side of a plate through your face. Talk about paying the cunting iron price.
Even Septa had come good when she trampled a man who was trying to infiltrate Sorrel Mare’s part of camp. Stranger is reluctantly prepared to accept that that one isn’t completely fucking useless, even if she isn’t a trained warhorse. She’s got the thick coat and feathered hocks that keep her warm up here, anyway, while his sleek Westerlands coat is leaving him freezing.
But now? Now they have Big Cold Stone House back. Now there’s some kind of new battle coming, which is fine by Stranger—he’s got enough hooves for any faces you put in front of him. More people are coming to Big Cold Stone House to talk to Sorrel Mare, and Favorite Human is being pawed over by female humans who know a proper stallion when they see it. Everything should be fine.
But Favorite Human and Sorrel Mare are acting up.
They’re spending almost no time together now. Favorite Human has stopped smelling like her. Sorrel Mare is spending a lot of time with Sad Crow and a bunch of stupid-looking humans in furs and stupid elaborate clothes, and Favorite Human is training with the soldiers and lingering in the stables so much that Stranger is pretty sure he’s hiding. And he’s avoiding the other females who want him. Hasn’t got his leg over even once. Hasn’t since before Damp Island.
Sometimes, Favorite Human sees Sorrel Mare walking past, and he smells like sad and want. Sometimes, Sorrel Mare comes to the big double doors of the stables and peeks in, watching Favorite Human work while he’s unawares, and then she smells like sad and want. She leaves before Favorite Human turns around. That’s the only time Stranger bites Favorite Human, because he’s being an oblivious cunt.
Horses have it much simpler. If Septa goes into season and she doesn’t tell him to fuck off, then Stranger will have a piece of that. And next spring there’ll be foals with shaggy coats and big fucking stomping hooves.
Actually, he hopes she does go into season. Those sound like some pretty good big bastard foals.
Favorite Human and Sorrel Mare would have pretty good big bastard humans. Stranger takes another mouthful of hay, considering it. Yeah. Really big bastards—even the fillies, since Sorrel Mare is tall. Long legs, good for walking through this horrible fucking snow. The sorrel coloring wouldn’t be so good for hiding from enemies, but any offspring of Favorite Human’s isn’t going to be hiding from shit, it’s gonna be the thing everyone else is hiding from. And their humans can ride Stranger’s get, and Stranger will know that his foals are getting good care from their own favorite humans and not being dragged away from their dams too early or beaten in a shitty coper’s pen at a shitty fucking horse fair.
But none of this will happen if Favorite Human and Sorrel Mare don’t actually do anything.
It’s getting on for dawn, and the weakest of weak light is starting to seep into the stables through the high windows of pared horn. The stablehands are beginning to stir. There’s a fresh surge of gurgling water in the stone walls, making Stranger chuff and dance a little in place.
Soon enough, the humans are putting out his morning feed. More hay, and a pitiful amount of hot mash that’s mostly (surprise!) hay with some bran and a few dried carrots sliced in. He’ll take it—he’s always fucking hungry—but Big Cold Stone House is definitely on a war footing, because this is wartime rationing fodder if he’s ever had it. Favorite Human had better come up with some apples or oats fast.
As the light grows a little stronger, the stablehands start on the morning routine. Every horse gets a heavier blanket in preparation for turnout. One of the boys, a new one, gingerly approaches Stranger with the blanket in his arms. Stranger turns his head and aims a meaningful glare right at the little shit. The boy backs away, trembling.
Eventually, Favorite Human turns up. He looks like shit and he doesn’t smell great, either: he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and there’s bits of rush floor matting stuck in his hair and on the back of his tunic. From the reek of him, he got fucking plastered again and passed out in a corner of the great hall.
Such a fucking hopeless cunt, he is. Stranger nuzzles him affectionately and receives pats on the nose and a hearty scratch at the itchy point just behind his ears.
He may be hungover and smell like a brewery privy, but Favorite Human knows how to do the morning turnout. He’s got Stranger’s heavy rug on him and buckled nicely in a flash, and Stranger shivers a little as warmth suddenly fills his body. Favorite Human had left the folded rugs stacked against the stone wall where the hot water runs, and now it’s practically steaming. Ahhh.
Favorite Human chuckles as Stranger snorts and leans against him. “You like that, don’t you, you big asshole,” he says. “Come on, let’s get you out of here. These little dumb fucks can’t muck out your stall if you’re still in it, glaring at them.”
Stranger doesn’t see why that’s true. They just need to find stablehands that aren’t whingeing pussies. But Favorite Human is taking his halter and tugging lightly, and it’s Favorite Human doing the asking, so Stranger steps out into the alley between the stalls. One of the stablehands shrinks away from him, and Stranger gives him the evil eye, making the boy whimper.
Morning turnout in Big Cold Stone House is a pretty sorry business altogether. They don’t exactly have big warm meadows where Stranger and his stablemates can go to pasture while the stalls are cleaned. Instead, the horses are turned out into a number of large livestock yards, some of which reek of pig or cow recently slaughtered. There’s room to stretch his legs, but no fresh grass in the depths of winter, and the water in the cisterns is cloudy and smells faintly like bad eggs.
Fucking Big Cold Stone House. Everyone who lives here is a cunt. Stranger snorts his disapproval at the yard in front of them.
“Aye, I know,” Favorite Human says as he leads Stranger out into the center of the yard. He doesn’t even bother to hold Stranger’s halter, just nudges him this way or that. “Shit situation all around. But it’s safer than King’s Landing.”
Considering the Night of Green Fire, Stranger agrees. Fuck that shit.
Suddenly, Favorite Human’s heart picks up speed. Stranger pricks his ears and looks around. Favorite Human halts where he is, his hand resting on Stranger’s mane, and stares across the yard.
A small group of humans is making their way around the edge of the yard, back towards the stables. Some of them look a bit like Favorite Human: this cold place breeds big bastards all ‘round, and several have got dark hair. Definitely better-fed than Favorite Human, though, and their clothes are covered with big fluffy fur cloaks. Under the hems of the cloaks, some of them have shiny boots. Favorite Human never had shiny boots a day in his life.
Near the head of the group is Sorrel Mare. Favorite Human’s scent is full of longing, and his heart is pounding fast even while he keeps an expressionless face. Stranger noses him, but Favorite Human isn’t paying attention. His eyes are fixed on Sorrel Mare.
Looks like the group of humans is going riding. Sorrel Mare has her mane pulled back tight, and she’s wearing boots too (not shiny) instead of the torn-up slippers she had on during the hasty journey from Tall Stone House Too Fucking High Up to The Wall. Her cloak is slightly stained white wool, with a patch on the hem that Stranger recognizes. It used to be Favorite Human’s cloak in Big Town. She’s just added some fur on top.
The stablemaster is coming out to meet her, holding a fresh bridle in one hand. Probably going to tack up Septa or one of those asshole ponies.
Sorrel Mare glances over. Her eyes meet Favorite Human's.
Stranger is too far away to smell her or hear her heartbeat, but he can see her eyes widen. For a moment, she’s about to smile. Then one of the shiny-boots humans says something to her, and she lowers her head slightly and looks away.
“Lady Sansa is a vision this morning, isn’t she? Despite what appears to be a ratty old Kingsguard cloak.”
Favorite Human half-turns and glares. Another human has come waddling up, grinning, and Stranger lifts one hoof and contemplates “accidentally” stepping on him.
Some of the other humans now filtering into Big Cold Stone House are familiar scents or faces from Big Town. The little one talking to Favorite Human has got almost as many names as a pedigreed horse—Tyrion or Imp or Halfman or Dwarf or Lannister or now, for some reason, Hand of the Queen, which is a name that gets passed around a lot. Obviously, his proper name is Pony Man. Smaller, stubbier, does the same work as the normal-sized ones but acts like a fucking tit: a pony if Stranger’s ever met one. He hates ponies.
Following Pony Man is his brother, Wet Cat. Stranger used to think of him as Stupid Mane, because he was trying to look like a lion with hair all puffed up, but since he resurfaced he’s cut most of the hair and gotten gaunt and sad-looking, like a cat that’s been fished out of the river.
“Fuck off, Lannister,” Favorite Human snarls.
Wet Cat chuckles. “Me or him?”
“Are you a Lannister? Then fuck off.”
“Our friend Clegane is in a foul mood this morning,” Wet Cat says to Pony Man. “Whatever could be the reason?”
“He was born,” Pony Man says with a grin.
“Aye, and you’d fucking know about that, wouldn’t you,” Favorite Human snaps. “I don’t want to hear whatever clever talk you’ve worked out to impress your whores and sellswords. Got work to do.”
The Pony Man puts on a sad face. “I was merely remarking on how fair Lady Sansa appeared this morning, Clegane. Despite the circumstances, she has been most gracious and welcoming to all us wayward souls. Is it not a fine thing, to see a vision of beauty before we go to war for the fate of the realm?”
“You’re not going to war, Imp, you’re going to breakfast. We won’t put you in the field unless we need someone to suck the Night King’s cock without kneeling.”
“Well, I am known for my innovative battle plans,” Pony Man says, cheerful again. “Do you think he even has a cock?”
Wet Cat chuckles again. “I suppose it would explain some things. Not having a cock would certainly damage my calm. I, too, might plot to conquer the world.”
“The Unsullied seem perfectly controlled,” Pony Man points out.
“Yes, but Varys …”
“Ah, you have a point there.”
They keep on talking, filling the air with words that mean nothing. While they chatter, Favorite Human is standing there with Stranger, stuck between fuming fury and sadness. His hand fists in Stranger’s mane, not hard enough to hurt but hanging on for dear life anyway. Tonight, when Favorite Human comes in to give Stranger his evening brushing, he’ll smell like tears again.
No one will ever see him weep, but the nose doesn’t lie.
The cat and the pony are still talking. Favorite Human is looking away from them. Sorrel Mare has stopped at the entrance to the stable and is talking to the stablemaster while a couple of the shiny boot men try to catch her eye. Stranger has only gotten close to that sort a couple of times, but their scents keep getting onto Sorrel Mare. They crowd around her like she’s gone into season, all the time.
Favorite Human says she’s got to make an “advantageous marriage.” Stranger doesn’t know what the fuck that is.
The stablemaster says something and points to the horses that have already turned out. Sorrel Mare glances over at them. She smiles a little, and Stranger raises his head proudly and arches his neck. Yes, he is a fine specimen of a warhorse, and everyone better fucking know it.
Her eyes flick to Favorite Human. Her expression turns sad again, and she looks away.
A fresh wave of sadwantsadwantsad rolls off Favorite Human. Stranger sneezes and pulls away a little. Favorite Human puts a hand on his bridle.
“Whoa, boy,” he says. “Settle down.” He rests his hand between Stranger’s ears and gives a conciliatory stroke.
Fuck that. These humans need to figure their shit out. Stranger pulls away again and nudges hard, trying to push him back in the direction of the stable. She’s right there. Go fucking do it.
“Stop it, you daft fucker!” Favorite Human snaps. Stranger whinnies angrily and shoves his head against Favorite Human’s arm, forcing him back a step towards the stable.
Favorite Human’s starting to look proper fucking pissed off, but well, too late now. Any warhorse knows that shying at the last second gets you killed far more readily than just committing to the charge. Favorite Human grips Stranger’s bridle hard, and Stranger snaps his teeth at him and gives another shove.
“What’s gotten into you?” Favorite Human demands. “Stop fucking around!”
Behind them, Pony Man lets out a braying laugh. “Like master like mount, eh, Clegane?”
“Shut up, Imp!”
A couple of stableboys cross the yard and begin to select horses from those already turned out. Septa is one of them, and she bobs her head and trots back towards the stable, disgustingly calm despite the awful fucking weather. One of the shiny boots men says something to Sorrel Mare, but she brushes him off and smiles when Septa approaches.
“See there, boy,” Favorite Human mutters to Stranger. “She’s riding the mare today. I know you carried her a while, but she’ll not have you any more.” He sighs quietly. “She’s back where she belongs. Up high. She’s not for the likes of us.”
Do you see this? This tiny little thing?
It’s a straw.
And if you lean close and listen real hard, you can hear it breaking the courser’s back.
Not for the likes of us.
His.
Massive.
Swinging.
Stallion.
BALLS she isn’t!
Stranger is pissed. Stranger is cold. Stranger’s Favorite Human has got his head crammed so far up his own ass that he can wear his own guts like a turnout rug, and Sorrel Mare is wearing Favorite Human’s cloak again and they both smell like longing and tears all the fucking time and there still aren't any fucking oats in the fucking stable.
He rears up, ripping his bridle out of Favorite Human’s hands. Favorite Human shouts to “Get down, you fucking cunt!” and Stranger ignores him. Screams break out as the biggest warhorse in the stables bounds across the yard, hooves making deep divots in the frozen earth.
He skids to a halt in front of Sorrel Mare, blowing steam from both nostrils. The stablemaster reeks of fear but flings himself between the two of them anyway. Behind Sorrel Mare, the shiny boots men are shouting. Some of them are drawing knives.
Fuck ‘em. Stranger plants his head solidly in the stablemaster’s chest and shoves. The man stumbles, and Stranger pushes himself into the gap and thrusts his nose into Sorrel Mare’s hands.
“Oh! Hello!” Sorrel Mare says.
There’s still shouting and commotion all around, but Stranger doesn’t give a shit. He lips at Sorrel Mare’s hand, demanding that she pat his nose immediately. There’s no time for fucking around being cute and getting the fair lady to braid some fucking weeds in your mane like those fucking Big Town assholes would do. Pat the nose, right now, and signal that you’re calm and everything’s OK before Favorite Human hauls him away for scaring her and goes into another fucking drunken sobbing bitch fit.
Sorrel Mare pats his nose. Then she runs her fingers up the bridge of his nose and lightly scratches his forelock. It’s not exactly the right spot—fuck the forelock, it’s that bit behind his ears that’s always the problem—but Stranger leans into her anyway, acting like it’s the best fucking scratch he’s received in his life.
“My lady,” the stablemaster is saying. He’s hitched up his sagging balls (figuratively) (maybe literally too, human anatomy is fucking weird) and is trying to worm his way between Stranger and Sorrel Mare again. “My lady, please, stand clear. This horse is a vicious creature!”
“Of course he is,” Sorrel Mare says, and she pats his nose again. “He’s a Westerlands courser. He was trained to run and kill while carrying a mounted man in full armor.” Her voice is soft, her tone appreciative. Clearly she was listening when Favorite Human boasted about Stranger while he was drunk. “Though by the look of him, I’ve always thought he had a destrier dam or granddam. Those are not courser ankles, nor the mane neither.”
She runs her fingertips through his mane, and Stranger’s ears flick forward. This isn’t so bad.
Favorite Human had gone bolting after him, but when the nose-patting began, he’d halted a couple of body-lengths away and just stared. Half of the shiny boot men are standing well clear, and the stablemaster looks like he’s going to be executed any second for letting his lady’s fingers get snapped off, but Sorrel Mare remains calm.
“My lady,” the stablemaster says again. “I don’t understand. This—thing has bitten everyone who comes near him, except the Hound.”
At that, Sorrel Mare’s hand slows. She gives the stablemaster a sharp look, almost like she knows there haven’t been any oats or apples today.
“This thing is the fine steed of a fine lord,” she says coldly. “When I fled from the machinations of Petyr Baelish in the Vale, I was carried at times upon the back of this horse, and never once was I harmed. By the mount or by the man. This is Stranger, the warhorse of Lord Sandor Clegane of Clegane Keep, and I trust there will be no further confusion concerning who is what.”
“O-of course, my lady.” The stablemaster ducks his head. “I, um, I beg pardon.”
“Granted.”
The stablemaster reaches for Stranger’s halter, but Stranger lets out a sharp neigh and swings his head around to snap at the man’s hand. The stablemaster curses and jumps back. Stranger immediately returns to docility and pushes his nose back into Sorrel Mare’s hand, making her laugh.
Sorrel Mare looks to the shiny boot men. “My lords, I too must beg pardon for not riding with you today. It seems another of my faithful friends demands my attention.”
“Who could blame him for wishing to be in your company?” says one of the shiny boot men. Stranger doesn’t fucking care. Sorrel Mare has finally found the proper itchy spot, and Stranger leans in hard against her and whuffs out a breath, making her smile widen.
The shiny boot men fuck off to do something other than riding. Good. Don’t let the door hit your fat arses on the way out.
And finally—fucking finally—Favorite Human is approaching.
“All right, that’s enough of that, leave the lady be,” Favorite Human growls. Stranger bares his teeth at him too, making Favorite Human glare. “The fuck’s gotten into you?”
“Perhaps he hates being cooped up,” Sorrel Mare offers. She’s looking at Favorite Human now, and her smile is small but real. Less tear smell, more wanting-smell. “It must be hard for a warhorse to be trapped in a new place, unable to act.”
Favorite Human nods slowly, placing his hand on Stranger’s neck. “Aye. It has made him worse than usual. Feeling useless and penned in with fancy fuckers.”
Sorrel Mare’s hands creep up into Stranger’s mane again. Her fingertips brush Favorite Human’s.
“He doesn’t like the company?” she asks quietly.
“He thinks most of it’s shit.” His eyes flick over her. “Not all of it.”
“I’m honored. It’s rare to be in the favor of such a brave creature.”
“I … He’s honored too. He likes you.”
Their fingers twine across Stranger’s mane. Their hearts are pounding furiously, but the sad is seeping out of them. Favorite Human looks at Sorrel Mare like she’s the source of all oats and apples in the world, and Sorrel Mare looks at Favorite Human like she did the night they fled from Tall Stone House Too Fucking High Up, when she buried her face in his chest and cried again but said they were happy tears, whatever the fuck that meant.
There’s definitely eyes on them. The yard is full of humans and horses, and while the horses have enough sense to ignore all this stupid bullshit, the humans are gawking. But Favorite Human and Sorrel Mare don’t seem to notice; they’re finally talking again, they’re holding hands, they’re smiling. And it only took Stranger nearly bucking one into the other’s lap!
Still. They’re happy right now. They can figure out the rest of that shit themselves later.
And they better give him some fucking apples for this.