(no subject)
Sandor sat on a bench in the yard at Winterfell, sharpening his sword. It was gorgeous compared to the thing he'd been toting around for the last few months; not a spot of rust on it, not a nick or a pit in sight. In the center of the practice yard, Lord Stark's bastard was sparring with his skinny brat of a sister, their laughter ringing from the battlements.
Uneasy still, unable to accept a dream or a magic that had brought him here, when he had no business being anywhere near House Stark or any of its scions, he kept his head down and hoped nobody would decide it was a good time to lynch him for the horrors he'd committed in the name of House Lannister. He had felt a measure of relief to discover that while his Grace King Robert was here, his conniving bitch of a wife was not, and in her place a woman Sandor had never met but had heard much of; Lyanna Stark, whose death had been the final act in a bloody play that had set the stage for the last twenty years of Westeros' history.
Nothing made sense. Least of all Sansa Stark alone instead of on the arm of the Imp; and a foreign woman, just as strange, who seemed closer to Lord Snow than any woman should be to a man of the Night's Watch. But if the Imp and his sister could be absent, and dead people walking the halls without a second glance, why then could not the bastard of Winterfell have flown down off the Wall to return to normal society?
The Hound was not a thinking man. He didn't care about the why of a thing; he only cared about the how. And the how confronting him at the moment was how he was going to find a place in this strange new reality he'd found himself in. He was only a little surprised to find the prospect was an enjoyable one.
Uneasy still, unable to accept a dream or a magic that had brought him here, when he had no business being anywhere near House Stark or any of its scions, he kept his head down and hoped nobody would decide it was a good time to lynch him for the horrors he'd committed in the name of House Lannister. He had felt a measure of relief to discover that while his Grace King Robert was here, his conniving bitch of a wife was not, and in her place a woman Sandor had never met but had heard much of; Lyanna Stark, whose death had been the final act in a bloody play that had set the stage for the last twenty years of Westeros' history.
Nothing made sense. Least of all Sansa Stark alone instead of on the arm of the Imp; and a foreign woman, just as strange, who seemed closer to Lord Snow than any woman should be to a man of the Night's Watch. But if the Imp and his sister could be absent, and dead people walking the halls without a second glance, why then could not the bastard of Winterfell have flown down off the Wall to return to normal society?
The Hound was not a thinking man. He didn't care about the why of a thing; he only cared about the how. And the how confronting him at the moment was how he was going to find a place in this strange new reality he'd found himself in. He was only a little surprised to find the prospect was an enjoyable one.