• Chapter One •

Gods, it was fucking cold. The furs of Sandor's cloak tickled his beard as he made his way through the snow-laden grounds of Winterfell. Myriad scents met his nostrils as he strode past the butcher, the miller, the blacksmith. Each worker cast a careful sideways glance at him, eyes customarily lingering on his scarred cheek. All Northmen have the same dumb fucking face, Sandor thought to himself, scowling at the unwanted attention. It was bad enough he had to deal with the horrid Northern weather - having to deal with Northmen only added insult to injury. Sandor was accustomed to being treated with disdain everywhere he went, but the men of Winterfell had a unique and singular bluntness about them. Men here had no qualms about staring, laughing. Mocking his disfigurement in their stupid fucking Northern accents.

The sooner I leave this shithole, the better.

Sandor had been back in Winterfell nearly a week. He had returned with Jon Snow and his entourage after their ill-advised visit to King's Landing to display the Wight. He was not privy to the war meetings, but he knew that the King in the North was getting ready to mobilize his men, ready to face the threat beyond The Wall. The brief reprieve from the travel had been most welcome, though Sandor wished that it could have taken place somewhere warmer. I suppose it's cold everywhere now, he realized, sighing.

His heavy boots crunched along the frozen ground as he made his way to The Great Hall, hungry after a long day of cutting down trees in the Godswood. He decided he had better make himself useful while he was here - helping add to the firewood stores in preparation for The Long Night seemed a respectable job. Besides, Sandor found that chopping wood was a good way to clear his mind. Certainly, it brought up unfortunate memories of the last time he took up that vocation; but it brought him a curious calm nonetheless. It kept his sword arm strong, and it kept him out of trouble. Spending his days alone in the woods meant he wasn't picking fights with idiotic Northmen.

Sandor raised a blistered, gloved hand to the old oak door of the The Great Hall and pushed it open with a loud creak. It was nearly suppertime, and a few lord-type cunts and their women were milling around the tables, mugs and goblets in hand. Supper was yet to be served, but there were two or three steel trays of bread and potatoes lying about that Sandor helped himself to. He didn't like dining with the rest of them at mealtimes – he hated small talk. Beric would try and talk some shite about the Lord of Light's divine plan for them all, Tormund would spend the entire evening making moon-eyes at a clearly uncomfortable Brienne of Tarth. To be honest, Sandor didn't know the rest of their fucking names. He didn't care to learn. Most nights, he ate before everyone else and retired early. He was never one for making friends, and he preferred it that way. Better to avoid fucking up his social airs and graces by steering clear of the highborn cunts altogether.

Stuffing his face with potato, he cast his good eye around the hall, making sure there was no one there with whom he would be forced to make conversation. Scanning the faces around him, lit by lamps and candlelight, he recognized no one. He settled back into his wooden chair, relieved. He upturned a flagon of ale into his mouth, wiping the dripping remnants from his beard. The Northern swill was not as good as what he'd grown used to in the Capital, but it did its job. He felt his head beginning to swim as he finished off his dinner. Pushing the tray to the centre of the table, he made to stand. As he got to his feet, Sandor heard something a little ways behind him. Across the hall. Laughter. A high-pitched, girlish laughter. Sandor froze, his back to the source of the sound. He felt his good ear turn strangely hot, his breath suddenly coming a little less evenly.

"I knew there was no use in trying to talk sense into him" – a voice, smooth and sure, coloured with the last few gasps of riotous laughter. Though it had been years since he'd heard it, Sandor would have recognized it anywhere.

Little Bird.

Sandor's hands gripped the edge of the table, threatening to break the wood in two. His mind was infuriatingly blank. He shot a glance to the doors of the Hall, a good fifty feet away from him. If he made to leave, he might be noticed. He wasn't exactly a man of discreet stature.

Just go, you ruddy fool. She wouldn't give a pig's shit even if she knew it was you.

For reasons unbeknownst to him, Sandor's legs guided him involuntarily back down to the table. Cursing under his breath, he kept his head down, away from the sound of murmuring across the hall. From what he could tell, Sansa was sat at the Stark's table at the front of the hall, speaking with another young woman. A friend, he guessed, considering the laughter he had heard. They had since lowered their voices, he could no longer make out what they were saying. Sandor strained, trying to discern the matter of their conversation.

Look at you, eavesdropping like a lowly street whore.

Sandor scowled at himself, but did not move. Keeping his head down, he turned ever so slightly. His long, scraggly hair fell down over his face, concealing it. He peered through it, spying across the room the two women seated at the farthest, highest table.

He knew her immediately. Her back was turned three-quarters away from him, her long auburn hair reaching all the way down to the small of her back. It was longer than when he last saw her. The style was different, no longer tightly braided like the Southern highborn ladies. Like Cersei, when she still had hair. He smirked at that thought. His eyes roamed across Sansa's profile, noting how her face had matured in the years since they had last met - in her chambers during the Battle of the Blackwater. She was so young then, pink faced and terrified. She didn't look terrified now. She spoke confidently, smiling and laughing with her plain-looking friend. Even her posture was different. Sandor glanced down at her neck, her shoulders. He wanted nothing more than to get closer, to see her more clearly.

Sansa turned her body slightly, threatening to look in Sandor's direction. His breath catching in his chest, he tore his face away, forcing himself to look somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Walk away, dumb cunt.

It had been six days that Sandor had been in Winterfell. Six days that he had spent in the woods, trying to avoid this exact situation. It was only in this very moment - with his breathing erratic and the hairs at the nape of his neck on end - that he realized the true reason for his elective solitude.

He had refused to admit, even to himself, his trepidation at returning to the Stark's home. He had heard tell of Sansa's turn as Lady of Winterfell in Jon's absence. He imagined she must have changed considerably since they had last met. He cursed himself whenever he thought of that night. They had not left on good terms. Though he was drunk as a mule, head pounding and ears ringing from the sights and sounds of battle, he remembered his ugly treatment of her. Shaking her, demanding a song from her pretty lips. His faced turned hot thinking of it. He hated that he had frightened her. Of all the people in Westeros he revelled in frightening, she was not one. He had meant to offer her sanctuary. A means of escape.

But he had cocked it all up, made a mess of things like the dog he was. And he had left her there, in that hellish place. Sandor had committed many sins in his wretched lifetime – slaughtered countless men, women, children – but leaving Sansa Stark alone in King's Landing was his greatest regret.

He had attempted to atone for this sin by way of protecting her sister, Arya. But she had proved more trouble than any bag of silver was worth. He had seen the younger Stark girl during his stay in Winterfell, catching glimpses in the yard of her training with Brienne in the afternoons. He had laughed loudly to himself at the sight, but decided against approaching them. He had done enough to the poor girl. He would be of better use in the woods.

At the top end of the Great Hall, Sansa Stark had stood to leave. Sandor eyed her, his head still turned downward, making certain he stayed scarce. He watched as she left through the archway at the head of the room, his eyes raking down the back of her. She wore a long, simple black dress, far removed from the audacious pastel pinks and greens she wore in the Capital. It conformed to curves he had never noticed before, her hips full, her legs long and elegant.

Gods. She's a woman now.

His mind still churned lazily with alcohol, and Sandor found his imagination all too quickly ran away from him. He suddenly pictured his large, calloused hands running up and down the length of the girl's smooth form. He sucked in a sharp breath, willing the thoughts to dissipate. Rubbing his eyes firmly, he stood as soon as Sansa had disappeared out of the hall. Enough of that, he thought. He turned on his heels and headed for the large doors behind him, his boots thudding heavily on the stone floor.

He pushed on the doors with more force than was strictly necessary. The creaking echoed in his ears as the frosty night air whipped at Sandor's cheeks. The doors pounded shut behind him. Sandor let out a lungful of air he didn't realize he had been holding – the steam of his hot breath creating a wispy haze in front of his face. Exhausted and ashamed, his mind still reeling, Sandor leant his weight against the oak doors and stared into the cold, dark night.

Fuck.

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