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V SANDOR "the hound and his pup" ⚜️
The iciness of Winterfell seemed to be alive, an entity in itself. It struck fever in the greenest of southern boys and had taken his squire to bed, leaving Sandor to squabble with his armour to the point of sleeping in it when he was drunk. The noise sent clattering screeches across the room but Sandor could sleep through it all, to his sister's annoyance.
Though he may not have liked the North with its rigidness and cold, Sandor certainly liked their drinks. There was no hint of water to taint the ale, and the stench of it could send him tottering. Many a night had been spent with the off-duty guardsmen, following knights, and stoic northerners, out-drinking them all and waking with a headache that made him dizzy.
It seemed the little Lannister had taken to the same nightly activities, though he was far more indulgent. The golden-haired man sat on a hay bale, his small stature making no dent in the straw and when Sandor lumped down beside him, Tyrion almost sprawled over to spew.
A harsh chuckle left the Hound's lips. "Rough night, Imp?"
"If I get through this without squirting from either end it'll be a miracle."
"I didn't pick you for a hunter."
"The greatest in the land. My spear never misses."
"It's not hunting if you pay for it."
Sandor let out a gruff sort of noise as he pushed off against the wall. The Prince was already suited in his riding gear- on ornate set up of gold and red, his merged suit of arms embroidered on each shoulder. Beside him was the eldest of Eddard's children, but Robb Stark paid little attention to Joffrey, instead laughing with the ward Theon Greyjoy. No doubt he was in for a torturous ride. The look on Joff's face was easy to read, bubbling so vividly with annoyance. He was not one to be ignored but Robb seemed not to care.
Lucella had asked him what he thought about the Starks and he had not had much to answer with. Even the children of the honorable Ned Stark could not escape the curse of character that came with being the children of a Lord. The eldest was still young at six and ten, lacking a view of the world that was not idealised and the girl could not yet see through the prince's false and thin charm.
Lucella had taken well to them. Arya Stark had began to follow her around the courtyard like a lost dog. The sight was pitiful and yet Lucella encouraged it. Even the bastard could be seen talking with her, though how willing he was could be debated.
"Good luck on the hunt, brother. Do try and silence the squealing pig," Lucella stood with her back against the wall. Her arms were crossed, stretching the already hard-stressed seams of her dress. The smirk on her face made Sandor roll his eyes as he continued walking past her. "Regicide will get you extra points in my books. And the Gods know you need it."
"You look like shit."
She did indeed. There were bags under her eyes- heavy black things that made the rest of her face look paler. It didn't help that she'd lost the rosy colour of her cheeks since being in the North. Sometimes, when Sandor looked at his sister, he felt as if he was looking in a mirror. He would have looked like her, had his face not been burned almost beyond recognition.
