Wolf Warrior

-Sfortuna

Notes: This is AU as hell since I've only seen the TV series. So I'm mostly projecting my own hopeful guesstimates of the future, though I highly doubt it will go this way. The rating will go up! You have been warned!

Chapter 1

Sansa knew better than to ride in the Wolfswood alone, but that certainly never stopped her from doing so when she was of a mind to. Once upon a time she had been afraid; of horses, being alone, the woods. The list went on and on at one point in her life, yet war had a way of changing people. Sansa had not fought with sword and shield, her chosen weapons were words and courtly actions. However, there had been moments where no word or courtesy in the world would have saved her from a situation; that is where she thanked the old gods and the new that she had Sandor Clegane to stand for her. And in the end, he taught her to fight her fears.

TheWolfswood, with its fresh late snowfall and quietude, happened to be quite peaceful. Few people lived there, a couple hermits, sometimes in the summer a less savory type of folk would hide from the kings justice in the oak and evergreen. Even with winter coming to a close, the cold lingered too much in the air for any outlaw to seek refuge there.

Sansa looked up, letting the weak sunlight spill across her face. She smiled and thanked the old gods for this time of peace. Bran did well as King in the North, surprisingly so to many. However, there was much still to be done; Winterfell and it's banners survived winter, yet not wholly. Many had died, through war or cold mattered not, and Sansa shared the burden of her brother in helping to rebuild and regroup. Winter had come, and once again the Stark family lived to tell the tale.

Reigning in her mare, she dismounted, sinking into the fluffy snow. It soaked her skirt, but her underthings and boots stayed dry. The breath of the lady and the equine ghosted into the still air as one led the other along some invisible track.

Somewhere, a wolf howled.

-Game of Thrones-

Sandor looked over the nearly-finished dagger with a practiced eye. While he had no skill for smithing, he knew how to judge a good blade from a bad one and had a particular interest in seeing this one done correctly. He wanted it's future owner to be able to trust it would stand wear and time. He held it up to the light of the ever-burning forge and scanned it with eye as well as hand.

"You've got the materials?" He demanded.

The blacksmith grunted his aye. The man could rival Sandor for burliness, yet he had very little height accorded to him. Being squat and brutishly muscular had made him a great blacksmith to replace the loyal Mikken that had frozen two years past. That he had survived the trip North looked all the better for him as well.

"Good. Remember what I said about the gems."

The ex-Lannister dog handed back the blade and made his way back to the keep proper. The forge kept the smithy bloody hot even in the Northern winter, so walking back out into the weather made him grunt in displeasure at the abrupt change. Even the closing of the heavy doors behind him did not block out the cold the way forge-flame did. He absentmindedly brushed at snowflakes that were taking their sweet time to melt on his face and tickled the flesh of his unburned side.

"My Lord!"

A young boy skidded to a stop right next to him, somewhat out of breath and sweating through his heavy clothes. It was clear that he had been running through the keep in search of him.

"What?" Sandor rasped, scowling at the youth.

"His Grace urgently requests your presence."

Snorting, the large man walked towards the kitchens. "Oh he does? And what does His Grace wish from me today?" Chuckling, he rubbed his hands and ignored the boy dogging his heels.

"I don't know, milord, but he said it concerns his sister, the Lady Sansa."

Sandor stopped dead on the stairs. The boy ran into him, tripped on the steps, and fell backwards. The moment his ass hit stone, he got pulled back up and right off his feet. Eyes wide, his face inches from the older man's, the page gulped and shivered.

He growled, "And what about the Lady Sansa is so urgent?"

Small hands grasping the large forearms of the great Hound, the boy replied, "I don't know milord! He just said twas urgent, to find you quick as can be and tell you to see him!"

"Seven Hells and all their Devils."

Taking the steps two at a time, Sandor retraced his steps quickly and set the boy to his feet at the top without stopping. He stormed through the stony halls of the keep and any that encountered him quickly moved out of the way. At the doors of the king's office, two guards stood; one opened the door as he approached and quietly closed it behind him.

King in the North, Brandon Stark, sat at his desk with Summer lounging nearby. The large direwolf somehow managed to fit through the halls and doors of most of the keep, unfailingly sticking close to his human companion. Used to wolves everywhere he went these days, Sandor paid the creature no mind as he stormed right up the desk and put his hands on the front edge of the weirwood furniture.

"What about Sansa?" He rasped, dark eyes watching the face of his king.

"Good day Lord Clegane," King Bran replied. "My sister made off with a horse early this morning. No one else went with her."

"Dammit," Sandor snarled, "What the hells was she thinking? There's been too many damned bandits roaming the villages, doesn't she know that?"

"It doesn't matter." Bran waved his hand in the air, as if swatting a fly. "She's out there, all alone. Find her."

Straightening, the older man noticed that Summer watched him, ears pricked forward in interest.

"I'll gather some men, and tan her ass for the trouble!"

Throwing the door open, Lord Clegane stormed out as quickly as he had stormed in, the King in the North's laughter following him through the halls and stairwells.

-Game of Thrones-

"I thank you for the fire and warm milk, grandmother." Sansa respectfully curtsied to the elder. "I won't wander too much longer before heading home."

"Ye'd best be going home now, lovely." Two wrinkled and claw-like hands grasped one of her own. "Winter's leavin' us, but there's colder and more unforgivin' things in the wood than snow." The papery skin and fragile bones pressed hard, then let go to pull at the raggedy furs and cotton around thin and stooped shoulders.

"I will take your advice. Fare well."

With a last nod, Sansa mounted her horse and turned it towards Winterfell. The sun had moved faster than she anticipated and she felt a trickle of worry that it would be dark before she could make it back.

"Surely everyone will be working themselves into fits by now," She muttered to her horse, patting it's neck as she urged it to a quick trot. "No matter, they will see that I am well enough."

Maybe an hour away from the old woman's hut, Sansa began to feel as if she was being followed. As quiet as the forest had been all day, there were still the small rustlings of little creatures and birds. Even that noise had stopped. While on the run, the Lady of Winterfell had learned signs such as these heralded something Not Right. A large predator, bandits, armies, thieves, and any number of other Bad Things. Nudging her horse to go faster, but not quite into an all out run, she reached into her saddlebags and pulled out a small dirk. Fear made her grip it until her knuckles were white, unseen in her gloves, but she kept her bearing steady and scanned the wood for any potential threats.

When she saw the pile of fallen trees, she knew that would be a good spot to hide an ambush. When the men jumped out from behind it and quickly surrounded her, spears threatening her horse, it was with a grim sort of satisfaction that she congratulated herself on her guess.

"Lookee here!"

"How big are her teats?"

"I ain't fer no sloppy seconds!"

Men, dirty and rank looking, ragged wool and leather layered for warmth, and axes tucked into belts or held in hands empty of spears. They lacked the decoration of mountain men and the furs of wildlings and most Northerners. Southern men, escaping to the North? Whoever they were, they clearly meant her no good.

"Who is it that waylays the Lady of Winterfell?" She called out over their clamor. That shut them up, as they looked at one another in consternation and maybe even a bit of fear. Then one started to laugh, and that gave the rest of them courage to laugh and continue their banter.

"We're naught but poor huntsmen milady." The man that spoke up grinned at her with a mouth full of rotten teeth. "No persons of importance here!" He planted his spear into the snow and waved around. "We're just some lonesome men lookin' fer a good time."

The spears came closer and Sansa thought quickly as her horse danced under her. They clearly were not stopping her for a simple talk or directions, they meant her harm.

Damn, she thought, and spurred her horse towards two men who lacked spears. They cried out in shock and instinctively stepped back. That was all it took for her to break through and give her mare head to run pell mell towards the keep. The huntsmen behind her screamed and she looked over her shoulder to see that they were attempting to chase after her. She breathed a sigh of relief; even with the snow and all the men, there was no way they could catch her. They had no horses that she saw, there was no conceivable way they could catch her. She sighed in relief.

Of course, at that moment her horse tripped and went down with a scream.

-Game of Thrones-

Sandor and a group of Winterfell soldiers rode hard into the Wolfswood. He'd lost thirty minutes picking out and organizing the men, then another thirty to forty questioning people who were up and about early that morning who might have seen their Lady ride out. Luckily, a farmer and his sons had spotted her as they travelled in and could point them towards the Wolfswood with great certainty. From there, Sandor and a couple of scouts were able to pick up her trail and follow it with ease at a quick pace.

"How far did she go?" He heard one of the men mutter. Sandor had the same question in mind, right behind his anger for her idiocy.

"Milord, we need to slow the horses. We don't know how far she went, we can't risk running them down."

This voice came from behind and center. It sounded like one of the more experienced men that had lived through the war.

"We'll slow when I say! Spread out!"

He glanced back to see the soldiers fanning out to either side of him. Nodding in approval, he turned forward and concentrated on the area. He cantered in line with her tracks, his mind on finding her as quickly as possible. They could not achieve that if they lost her trail, so Sandor took it upon himself to make sure they did not do that. That is how he noticed something very disheartening.

"Milord!"

"I see it! Fuck!"

Footprints converged on Sansa's and followed alongside them. He grit his teeth and stared ahead, eyes darting for any hint of his Little Bird.

"Those men are dead unless I say otherwise!" The Hound bayed at the men, demanding their obedience in this matter. No one wanted to see their Lady come to harm, and the possibilities had them all worried and ready to come at whoever may be coming after her with fangs bared.

Sandor's eyes caught something that made the anger he felt bubble over into rage. He held his hand up for a halt and circled around the terrible evidence of his Little Bird.

"Gods have mercy!"

Sansa's horse lay in the snow, blood pooled around it. Two spears were sunk into the mare's body; one in the strong muscles of the back leg, another deep in the neck. It had not happened much earlier, as the blood sluggishly ran out of the wounds and steamed in the cold even though the animal was clearly dead.

"Fuck the gods." Sandor rasped, teeth clenched. "I'll have no mercy."

-A Game of Thrones-

This story is actually finished, except for some editing. Expect the second and last chapter in a couple days. For suspense purposes, haha.