1.

The swallow hopped back and forth along the wall; a tiny little thing, no bigger than her hand and from up here no bigger than a butterfly. There it went again. It would hop along the stone a little and look around itself as though checking – she wondered what it was it was looking for. Then it would peck down at the wall by its feet, look up again as though disappointed every time and repeat the process coming back up the other way.

There were fewer birds out every day now, she was noticing. She had heard once that they flew to other lands for the winter, but did not remember a winter in her lifetime. Besides, there had never been swallows in Winterfell. Maybe it was true then; maybe winter was coming. She had not cared, not until now, watching the swallow that had stayed behind. It had amused her at first, almost; but now, charting the futile repetition of its movements, it was starting to make her sad.

Fly away, little bird, she thought fiercely, willing it to half in the expectation that by doing so she could have some effect. Fly away while you still can!

She had read stories about girls – princesses, they were always princesses – who could sing to birds and call them over to the window where they waited like she waited today, and every day, never certain what they waited for. She was not certain either, but she was sure she would know it when it arrived. If she were only a girl in one of those stories she could reach out a hand and the swallow would fly up and alight on her fingertip. It would sing to her and she would feed it and keep it alive and safe. It could be her friend, the only one she had here. If she were a girl in one of those stories, if, if, if.

The thought turned sour, turned into the thought she was having more and more these days-that the stories had betrayed her, faithless lovers all. She did not want to keep watching the bird, it was making her sad. But then, in light of her uselessness, her inability to help, it seemed rude and weak to look away.

She did not look away.

She had watched so long and so hard that she felt she had come to know what it really meant to watch hard. Until you were a stone, until you could hardly move for it. She physically jumped when a noise from below made the bird take flight in alarm. She heard the tiny ruffle of wings as it scurried into the air current and disappeared into the wind.

It was a movement that had startled it. The holdfast was guarded at all times – as though there was anything she could do – and now she peered down to see who had frightened away her bird.

She started back, moving right away from the window, hand leaping to curl against her chest in what she knew was an affectation but it came naturally as though she would have done it anyway; it was The Hound – and he was looking up at her just as she looked down at him. Her breath caught in her throat, fluttering and beating there, like she could taste her own heart. It was silly. She was used to that face now, why should it startle her so? It was not the kind of familiarity to haunt dreams and bring terror; indeed his appearance in her dreams had left her flustered and confused, convincing herself she remembered nothing in the morning.

She leaned back against the wall inside the tower. Why did she do that? Behave and feel like she was being hunted. He could not see her now- logically she knew that; so why did she feel that she knew he was still looking her way? And after all, she had been looking his way too. Her cheeks felt hot; he puzzled her, that one. She did not suppose she would ever be able to imagine what went on in a head like that, what someone like that could be thinking.

He frowned, looking up at her window long after she had disappeared, wondering who taught her to colour up so prettily, clutch her breast in that maidenly manner. He wondered if she even knew she was doing it and if so for whose benefit? Startled the little thing, he thought, almost smirking – two birds, one stone.

No she would never understand him, never know what went on inside another's head, never imagine they could have a single thought in common- she probably did not even know her own mind, let alone anyone else's.

Fly away, little bird, he thought fiercely, as he turned away from her window. Fly away while you still can!

_x_

This is my first little play with this 'ship so please be kind! I have many other plans and since all the sections will have completely different genres I'll warn any that need it individually. Also I've only watched up to the end of series 2 so far so unless otherwise stated assume these are set mid series 2 'k? :-)