Hi! So... since I was so curious about all the Crossovers out there, I thought I'd try a few myself and well, here's the first result!

I do hope you'll like it, even though I disclaim anything but the plot. (Rated M because it always is where Sandor is involved ;P)

Enjoy!

Birds of a feather

... flock together.

Even if they are of the most different species.

Sansa is shocked when she realizes that the woman is wearing men's clothing – but has to admit that the trousers fit her unbecomingly well. The black, leather breeches encase her legs almost sinfully, while the white tunic and the forest green jerkin fit her as well as a dress.

The princess realizes then that this woman had always been a warrior first – and a lady only second.

.

"God damn it, Stark!" The woman yelled at her, almost spitting as she neared the destrier, looking as dangerous as the wild-haired woman did. "Don't just stand there doing nothing." She ground, unsaddling the black stud in deft moves – he stood still. "He's been carrying us for weeks now and you just stare unable to even get close to him."

Sansa thought about telling her who the horse had once belonged to, that, no matter how much it carried her, he would always be the Hound's – but she didn't.

.

As was to be expected (at least by him) he had troubles with her wolf.

It wasn't for the fact that the animal growled at him or was angry at him in any way: it was just the opposite.

Sandor hadn't even had a proper look at the wolf when it was already rubbing itself against his thigh, butting its head against his hand and waiting to be petted. The first time he'd shooed it away.

The second time she was with Assass and watched his behaviour with a raised eyebrow over her bowl of stew, but her companion would not be deterred from its' way. Even as he snarled at her to fucking contain that bestiality of hers, she only smirked and, clucking with her tongue, called the animal to her, motioning for it to sit with only one hand. And, like a trained dog, it sat.

Sandor glowered (not even his hounds had listened so obediently).

It was, surprisingly, Jaime Lannister who had him thinking one day with an off-handed comment. "You know, Tyrion once lectured me that wolves are but the wild form of dogs and that… even they have their ranking." Then he'd smiled stupidly. "But what do I know of that!"

True, Lannister might not have known what he was saying, but Sandor was aware that the wolf listened to the witch – and the witch only, she was his alpha, and when one day (the beast was pestering him again) he motioned for the wolf to sit, he was surprised when he did.

The epiphany that Assass would listen sat strangely with him, because animals clung tightly to a hierarchy, and due to their loyalty would never betray their masters. Pursuing that logic made his head hurt (because after all that would mean that Assass saw him at least as equal to the witch, and only mates were at least equal).

.

Hermione looked at the two and knew, as she always did, that while she'd – yet again – lead one lover to the other, she would, as always, return with a broken and empty heart to wherever she would be able to create space for herself.

She turns on the heels of her feet, Assass, at her side – whining questioning – and leaves the clearing. She is angry, and betrayed, because just days ago he told her that he wouldn't leave her side. She'd been a stupid girl, she realizes when she finds her way back to the stream and the horse, for she'd believed that what he'd inadvertently told her was that he loved her.

Whipping out her bow and her arrows, her sword and her knife, she starts to tend to her weapons, angry that she has no one to be angry at but herself.

Through her tears she never notices the grey eyes that take her in.

.

"She's a woman!", the little bird whispered scandalised.

Sandor smirked indulgently and leaned over to Dondarrion, a twisted smile of pride on his face. "But trust me, a devil with a weapon."

Beric, still distrustful of him – and who could blame him, in all actuality he'd just cut him down the night before – looked at the woman next to the other she-wolf, the little spitfire.

"What's she wielding?" he asked and this time, the other man answered – the silent brooder, who seemed to have caught the heart of the little bird.

"Whatever you put into her hand." He said. "Longbow, Short bow, Crossbow, cutlass, bi-blades, knives, whip, axe…" he shook his hand. "Trust me, I would not wish her fury upon my worst enemies."

But Sandor knew that he said so because he once had and the young woman had become wildfire and had killed everyone in her way who did not have the intelligence to run – he knew because he'd been about to be hung and only the black-clothed fool's wish for the little bird's safety had sent her into Harrenhall, had sent her on the spree.

Dondarrion looked at the young woman again, facing off 'Arry' countering her Water Style effortlessly.

.

Arya likes the new woman, even though she is a strange one and has powers Arya has only heard of. Gendry, is wary of her, but Gendry is wary of anyone who can best Arya in an honest sword-fight.

As they work next to each other, him hammering away on a helmet, her heating the coals when it needs to be done and plucking the pieces he cools off out of the water, he suddenly pauses and looks at her.

"She's in love with the man your sister wants." He finally says and Arya nods.

"I know." And then she frowns. "But she has not told him, or Sansa. And she watches, knowingly, as he slips away from her every day and becomes more Sansa's."

Gendry nods and then, turning to the anvil again, shakes his head. "I don't understand. That way lies anguish." He hammers away again, his blue eyes furious. Arya, though, understands. Gendry has put himself through the same pain, convinced that he would never have Arya, because she was high-born and he was a bastard Baratheon – but she only hugs her arms around his middle, undisturbed by his hammering (the strong movement of his muscles beneath her hands) and pulls him closer.

"Yes, that road lies pain." She said, knowing that he heard her, even over his working. He had keen ears like that. "And still she chose it, for the happiness of others. That is a kind of selflessness I have not ever seen."

.

He could see her anger, her tears that she never let fall. Even as she practised a game of 'fetch' with her wolf, he could see the rigidness in her shoulders, the steel in her spine and the tautness in her legs, never letting herself go loose for even just a second.

Assass – she'd told him once that it meant 'origins' in some foreign language – returned, bringing along the correct piece of tissue. The young woman knelt down and fed the animal a slice of raw meat as a treat as she ruffled its fur.

It was only when the noon-sun bore down on them with almost ferocious anger that she crawled out of her jerkin and laid next to her wolf, curling a fist in its fur, her head on her jerkin, her other hand curled around a knife by her hip.

He neared her then, sitting down under the same tree as she slept and started sharpening his sword. The witchling didn't even startle out of her sleep when he first slid his whet-stone over Silence – her wolf's ears perked up and he watched him from where he lay, back to its' mistress, but never moved and he smiled softly, patting the animal between the ears once.

.

Hermione smiled softly at the tall smith, handing him her bow. "Could you fashion one made purely of steel?"

He looks at her with big eyes, holding her masterfully crafted bow – a gift from Jon Snow – and she wonders how she could go about explaining that there are such bows from where she comes from. But he only turns away and gazes at the bow, weighing it in his hands.

"I cannot promise you that it will be quite as light, my lady."

She frowns. "I'm not a lady." She shoos the phrase away, before she nods at the bow. "And a little bit of added weight will do me some good, my arms should get used to it." And she could always cast a weightless charm on it should her arms not be successful. He nods. "When do you think you could be-"

But as she is about to ask him when he could be finished, Arya stumbles through the door to his chambers, searching frantically for her jerkin. Her hair is dishevelled and her tunic slips so far that the love-bites are clearly visible on her skin.

The smith flushes but Hermione only smiles. "Lady Arya, if you wish I have a salve that will conceal those in my tent…" The younger woman flushes suddenly, having found her jerkin, but now exposed in another way entirely. The witch smiles softly. "Especially the one on your neck, I wouldn't want a spit between Lady Sansa and you – we can't really have that so close before the attack."

.

Arya comes into her tent later, slightly embarrassed and rubbing her neck, but still, graciously accepts the salve that the witch offers her. "Keep it." She said cordially, but the youngest Stark can see the hurt in the golden eyes. "I've no use for it anymore."

She then produces another container of the salve and when she offers it to Arya, her hands shake. "And could you deliver this to your sister? I am sure that she could need it sooner or later."

Arya nods and asks herself, why the witch – if so knowledgeable and even in possession of these salves – hasn't taken care of the teeth-marks on her body. But the broken look of a woman who has lost love denies her the courage to ask.

.

Furious she stomped from the camp, energy cackling like lightning in her wild hair and running over her tunic; the men of the Brotherhood nearly jumped over each other, hoping to get out of her way as quickly as possible. The black clothed man stared after her – his face unreadable. Sandor shook his head, standing.

"You could've made that easier on all of us." He snarled, but Severus turned, pinning him down with an equally hard stare.

"And how the hell should I have gone about that?" he barked back.

The warrior growled. "Don't fuck her like a wench if you don't mean to treat her like a wench." He growled, nearing him, his great-sword in his hand. Head to head, Sandor found that luckily he towered over the black-haired arse. "You're worthless without your powers, you buffoon – she's the only ace we have and we cannot have her running out and about, headless because a fucker like you can't keep his cock in his breeches."

"Says the man who's fucked how many whores?" the man snarled back. "She's seen a war – she should know that nothing is as golden as it glitters."

Short of striking the man, he pulled him closer by his tunic, fury nearly overtaking him. "Takes one to know one, ser." He spit. "And I will not remind you of the little bird back in the tent, hoping for her fairy-tale ending that you promised her, before you went and got powerless." Slowly his grip tightened and he wished, for everything in the world, that it was his neck between his fingers and not only his bloody tunic.

.

He'd never seen a woman fight like she did.

Brienne, certainly, was a knight in all her female glory – but she stuck to honour and to morale, whereas Hermione did not. She bit him into his hand, kicked where she could reach, fought formidably when she had the space to and was also not beneath transforming into that blastingly large beast of a cat, howling and hissing as she attacked, claws out.

Jaime Lannister pissed himself the first time she transformed, charging on all fourths and had him on his back in three seconds flat – he had laughed so hard his sides had hurt and the little bird had looked at him condescendingly, but he hadn't cared.

She was ferocious when she transformed, golden fur and gleaming eyes, her shoulder up to his – if she could have been a dragon, the Queen could not have been more enthusiastic about her ability.

Denaerys, as it was, barely got a word over her lips that were, ever so thoughtfully, closed by Mormont's fingers tenderly lifting her chin.

.

The last night before the battle (the first of many to come), she sat outside his little bird's tent, going over her weapons. Inside he could hear the barely repressed moans of pleasure – male and female; still, she sat in front of the black flap of the tent, sorting through her weapons.

"Don't you get tired of crying after him?" he asked, not even sitting down next to her.

She looked up at him, dark smears under her eyes, telling him that she was so very damn tired. Still, a fire burnt in those golden eyes of hers as she opened her mouth to retort: "Don't you get tired panting after her like a bitch in heat?"

He stomped away then, furious certainly, but he had to admit that her witty mouth had won his admiration.

.

Dondarrion's spies had forwarded them information of Cersei attacking by the sea before her troops would reach them by foot and so, at dawn, they stand at the cliffs, eyes settled on the fleet with red sails and the golden emblem of the lion.

"Step back." She'd said then, wrestling her weapons off of her and fishing for that fiddly crooked stick he'd seen only once before.

Severus looked at her with big eyes, gauging as first what she was about to do – and stepping in to halt her. "Hermione, don't. You do not see the total extent of the fleet, if there's more-"

"Then I will slaughter more of them." She hissed, pushing him away from her as she freed herself of her jerkin finally, standing tall and proud as the rest of the forces stood back. Her hair whipped about her as she raised the stick, delicately held in her hands, to the sky and, closing her eyes, started to sing.

.

He'd never heard a song quite like hers.

Her voice was melodic, soft, low – so unlike the voice of his little bird (higher, though soft as well), and as she sang, he saw the clouds draw together, he felt the wind pick up and, wary of the cliffs mere feet in front of them, he ordered the men back by a few more leagues.

Severus stood protectively bent over the little bird, Assass – as ordered – next to them. Her song picked up in ferocity and tone, her words grew harsher and with it, he felt the sting of the wind pick up and soon, all too soon, the storm set in.

Hermione, at the edge of the cliff, swung her stick – her wand – like a sword, slaying the ships that neared them and really: the moment her wand slashed down, lightning struck from the pitch-black skies and through the rain and the wind, one ship after another took to fire.

She was howling now, yelling and raging, her movements wild and uncoordinated, as if in an out-of-control dance, unrefined but powerful. One after another the ships were going down. Sandor neared the cliffs, watching the cacophony, the chaos in the tumble of waves that soared up to swallow all – boat and men alike. Feet next to him Hermione was still raging, still howling, still yelling.

It was only when the last ship had sunk that she veritably roared, in an act of sheer power and calmed the elements around her to still-stand as easily as she had commanded them.

He turned to the witch, for truly she had shown them that she was such but all he could see were her tears, the snot running down her nose, her red-rimmed eyes and the defeated, powerless look in them. And like that her golden eyes rolled upwards, and strength left her limbs.

He couldn't even remember himself moving, but he must have, for him to have caught her before she could have succumbed to the altitude.

Hefting her to him, an arm under her neck and carved around her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, he walked away, through the masses that parted easily before him. Assass regained his place by her side.

.

Denaerys watched silently as he lowered the woman onto her bed – he knew she hadn't used it a lot in the last few weeks, it hardly smelt like her.

"Will she be alright?" the Queen asked softly – he raged.

"Yes, your grace." He bit out, snarled and he could well imagine Mormont's displeased face behind him. "Your little pet magician will live to fight another battle in your name." he hissed.

There was the sound of a sword being drawn and he turned his head to see Mormont being stopped by his Queen, his face red. The Targaeryan however only quirked a brow. "I will oversee this once, Clegane, because it seems your heart is bursting, but not a second time."

And therewith, she took her Advisor and emptied the premises – Sandor was left to hold vigil at the side of the witch.

.

Sansa knew that something was going on with her protector.

For days on end now he hadn't left the tent of the witch, and when he did it was solely to eat and sometimes to fetch wine. When she asked him about it, he admitted to her – and her alone, she relished in still having his trust – that he sat at the side of the still unconscious warrior, hoping that she would wake before the next onslaught of Lannisters.

"Sandor?" she'd whispered to him one evening and he'd looked at her, his good eye piercing her, the other one lazily drifting towards her, she smiled. "If she doesn't… make it… would you… would you allow me to take her with me on the track?"

She would leave towards the Wall – purged of wights thanks to Queen Denaerys' dragons – with the Queen and the rest of the women and children. The witch would be hardly useful, lamentably and so the Hound had agreed, but only if she'd be in Sansa's care, and hers alone (because he doesn't trust anyone else with her, and Sansa understands).

.

But, unfortunately, Arya thinks, she does wake before the battle and the Hound is forced to watch as she trains herself almost senseless with the rest of the Brotherhood and the Unsullied. She is better than most men even, and Arya begins to love the fierce woman.

Gendry, having realized her admiration, worked numerable emblems into the bow, signs of protection, the sigil of the seven – and most pronounced those of the mother and the warrior. As he hands it to her, the keen golden eyes do not miss those details, and neither does their meaning pass them.

In retaliation, she gifts him with a hammer that the whole camp – watching the public exchange – immediately recognizes as a war hammer. There is one sigil burnt into its side and a strangely worded text beneath it. When Gendry grabs it, from the thin air it is hovering in, she looks apprehensive almost, but when he holds it, testing its' weight, she smiled broadly.

"It is said to have been the hammer of one of our old gods. He was supposed to be the god of thunder and lightning, a warrior to be feared." She says and Severus' eyes grow wide in understanding, but he keeps his mouth shut, instead watching as Gendry, almost naturally, throws it and wipes down three trees – the hammer returns to his outstretched hand as if it were a dog heeding a command. Hermione smirks proudly as Gendry stares at the wonder. "It's a magical hammer, so treat it well."

.

"Are you out of your mind?!" the man yells at her and Assass, at his side, cocks his head whining. Meaning to soothe the animal, he scratches him between his ears, watching on as the tall, black-haired man raves at the young woman.

"That is Thor's hammer! How did you even get a hold of it?!"

She shrugs. "I was looking for the Deathly Hollows, Severus, I figured if they existed other books might have been right as well."

"How long have you had it?" He asked dangerously, looming over her now – her look darkens and Sandor has half the mind to order Assass to attack, to intervene, anything to keep that idiot from her.

"I haven't. I called it." She replies. "A book in my bag instructed me how to."

"And what if it wouldn't have chosen that smith?" his tone was dangerously low now, but the witch still wouldn't relent – if anything she bends forth, closing the distance between them, her cold rage challenging his blazing fury.

"You, ser, have had your head up your arse for long enough now… either that or too far up another's cunt…" Uh, she's getting low with the insults. He smirked broadly – what a girl. "If you'd will yourself out of that damned tent for once and looked at the way Gendry works his buggering arse of in the smithy, you wouldn't be asking that fucking question."

She stands now, her cutlass brandished, 'the pointy end' not too far from the stomach of the black-haired man.

"I've never known you to be a fool, Severus, never in my whole life. And here you stand and let yourself be turned on your head." She seethed. "If you want to give her the life she wishes for, you will need to be the man who balances her out. You need to be the earth-bound one, because her head is in the clouds, you need to be the consequential one, because she is soft – as she has been raised to be."

She shoved him then, harshly, away from him. "Be a man, Merlin damn it. Wizard or no."

.

"What do you know of sword-fighting?" she asked the taller man softly and he had at least the decency to blush.

"Stick 'em with the pointy end?" he asked, and he watches her smile as the smith repeats what Arya had chosen as her mantra when she'd still been at the beginnings of her teaching.

"That is the goal, ultimately." She agreed. "What we will work on is the way to get there." She took up a basic stance and watched him copy it satisfactorily. Sandor watched her as she went through the first lesson with the Baratheon Bastard, who'd admitted embarrassed that he had no idea how to fight.

.

"She's a good teacher." Beric smiled when he watched Arya and Gendry circle each other, the two of them, until now, equally matched.

Sandor, from his near-to-perfect vantage point could see Severus' eyes slide from the training couple to the young woman chasing around the children of the village in nothing but breeches and a too large tunic that should slip, were it not for the clever magic tricks of the young witch, giggling wildly.

"She's a good woman." Dondarrion said too, watching what the dour man watched now, as she twirled a girl over her head, the sleeves falling down to reveal her strong arms, two children on her feet, trying to climb her and 'free' the girl over her head.

Severus sighed. "She will not stand for being put out of the fight." He said softly, looking at the ground. "Sansa may, as may the Queen, but it is only understandable in her delicate situation. Hermione however… she'll raise hell just to stand by our side."

"And we could bloody well use her too." Sandor groaned from the edge of the cave, finally standing and tossing the water-skin away – he'd stopped drinking alcohol excessively when he had joined Sansa as her protector – the two men took him in, as if they hadn't seen him before. "She's damn well better than most of our soldiers, we'd be fools to call her ire upon us."

.

She was seething when she vomited, willingly swallowing the salt-water yet again, relieved though angry when she spit out the strange liquid anew. She could hear the men not far away, searching for her – she was angry.

They'd put something into her drink that she hadn't been familiar with, it was strangely bitter, but not overly so – just enough for her to believe that the flagon they'd poured her water from had not been properly washed from the sour wine they'd served in it the last night.

When she had realized that she didn't feel her fingers and that her hearing was slowly diminishing, she'd risen and done her best to look sober when she'd left the tent.

How she'd made it to the sea was beyond her, her whole body was numb and even though she could feel the waves lapping at her knees and hands, she couldn't hear it – her ears were too occupied with the ringing of her head.

Spitting out the last of her stomach's rejection, she swallowed another mouthful of sea-water, relieved when slowly she regained her hearing and her feeling. Angrily she looked up the cliffs, searching with bleary eyes for any kind of movement, relieved when there wasn't any. Tired, she slumped to the side, away from the waves and fought for her composure as tears threatened to spill over.

They'd tried to drug her – she breathed angrily.

She was one of their best warriors and still they'd tried to drug her and probably take her with the women's trail instead of to battle.

Balling her fist into the wet sand beneath her, she swallowed her cry of rage and, instead, glowered at the waves – she needed a plan, she needed to show them that she didn't do well with betrayal. Because she didn't, even if she loved them.

.

For not the first time in her life, Arya feels like killing something – someone. Anger suffuses her and it's only Gendry's strong arms (again) that, even though she's struggling, hold her back from her target.

Beric Dondarrion is used to her temper by now, as is her sister – and, it seems, so is the Hound, even though he himself is seething with anger.

"What do you mean you've no idea where she is…?" he growls, nearing the old man, gripping the pommel of his great-sword tightly, readying himself to pull it any second. Yes, she thinks, and this time not even your damned Red God can save you.

But Dondarrion only waves the question off. "We've given her milk of the poppy the evening before, to make sure she'd be complacent and travel with the women – but during the night we lost sight of her." He said, trying to sound apologetic. "I am truly inconsolable, but now that the Lannisters are at our gates so to speak, I have not the time nor the resources to send out to find her."

He should die, she thinks, struggling against Gendry's hold again, but her friend and lover knows what's in her mind and he loves her too much to let her kill him and sully her own name (that's not to mean he hasn't sullied his in her stead at least a dozen times).

.

She is unsurprised that these five find her first. Assass whines as he butts his against her, smiling his wolfish grin when she scratches him between his ears. He may not even hold a year yet, but he is as tall as any normal wolf would be – she's been told countless times that if she's lucky that's all he is, but she has a feeling that one of the famous dire-wolves has found its way to her and that he will grow yet.

Jorah Mormont, stares at her with his calculating eyes and she knows he wonders if she is alright, if she can fight already – but she has pumped herself with pepper-up the whole morning after having slept, cuddled to Assass and her sword.

Arya and Gendry both cling to each other in a distanced way. She can see the way the smith clutches the small hand of hers in his, and also see the way the younger woman stroke her thumb over the back of his hand. She knew they would much rather embrace each other, kiss and clutch, but they know that they could be seen and they are aware that they are each other's strength as much as they're each other's weakness and therefore, the simple touch has to suffice.

It's the Hound who catches her gaze and holds it. His grey eyes hold hers steadfastly, his hands are in front of him, clutched loosely – his mouth is a grim line, and his back is straight. He nods once, knowing – even though the rest of them might not – that she has tricks up her sleeve and that she will use them to their advantage. Such is her nature.

.

Severus is helpless as he watches her slay through the hordes of red and golden (how ironic, he muses). She moves ferociously, she moves like a warrior, as if she had grown up learning to tear people down.

And he remembers, as he shoots another arrow from the safety of the tree, that she's seen a war once already – but back then it had been a war of wands and magics, and she is well-versed in those, he knows. She's slain back then as well, though not nearly as vicious as now.

The Hound's bulking figure is never far from her, always in a certain distance to her, not overbearing but near anyways – a quick look over her shoulder suffices to know that he's there; near her. He shoots again, killing swiftly a man who would have hacked into Mormont's back.

His eyes return to Hermione as he reaches for another quiver of arrows that Gendry had prepared for him – the young man was a force of nature by the way he tore through the masses. Delicacy was largely lost on him, for he slaughtered his way through with the war hammer, and when the hammer was flying, he slashed his sword (he too was always in looking distance from Arya).

Hermione dances, flies, hacks and slashes, but he has never seen her like this – has never seen her take lives so easily, and it excites and appalls him at the same time to see the young woman he'd educated for so long fight her way through a battle that had never really been hers to begin with.

He shoots another arrow, thankful when his target slumps behind the Hound.

.

She is high on the blood she spills, when the world darkens. Something blocks the sun so vehemently that she has to look up.

When she does, her chin nearly falls. Hagrid had been tall, yes, but he was half-giant. She knew that such things didn't really exist in these realms (although really tall people did exist). He is clad in an armour of black steel, sitting upon a horse that she knows is his speed – at least she hopes so, because if he is tall and quick, much as Sandor is, then she will have a problem.

.

He has hacked through the last wall and, finally breathing, can see that they are winning – it would be so much like Cersei to put her strength into the first troop (the ships) to wear their better men down.

But it is clear she has not listened to rumours (again) and has underestimated their best woman.

As he looks on, he finally finds her – Hermione – in a fight he knows she is unlikely to win, best man (woman) or not. That and, he thinks as he charges, Gregor is his to kill.

.

She sits, bared to her underclothes (more specifically: her panties) in her tent and pours the potions over her wounds, watching as they sizzle clear from any dirt and close, leaving yet another handful (or three) of scars.

But there's this one she knows she won't be able to reach because honestly the bastard had caught her fair and square in the back and by all means, she shouldn't even have survived (and probably wouldn't have if it wouldn't have been for Sandor).

Angry for not being able to reach the damn wound, she hurries into her breeches and is about to wrap herself into a black tunic, when the tent-flap opens and in walks the Hound, looking a mite bit… drunk. She can't really be angry at him, he just annihilated the last of his family, he's alone now: Lord of Clegane Keep without any real desire to go there. But he's come in the right moment.

"Help me out." She says, stripping the half-donned tunic again and offering him her back and the salve.

She knows he debates with himself, even in his drunken state, when he hesitates, but she says nothing and simply waits and then, truly, his large fingers, lathered in the salve, stroke over her back, over the flesh-wound and she can feel it sizzling, before he applies another layer and watches it clot, another layer and all that is left is a scar.

One more over many on her back, she knows. She hurries to dress in her tunic again.

.

Denaerys flung her pregnant self around Jorah's neck, glad to find that the father of her infant was alive and well… and had defeated the Lannister soldiers for her. He bends, giddy himself, to kiss her fully on the lips, one hand on her swollen stomach.

Sansa wrapped her arms shyly around Severus' middle, who, in turn, gladly pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

He watched Hermione smile, even at Gendry and Arya who had ridden one horse on their way back and were now cuddling together, arms around each other. He didn't miss the way her hand flew up to her neck, where she scratched at a fading bite-mark; a claim, he knew, that had never been fulfilled, leaving her emptier than anyone else involved.

.

"My ambassador?" the Queen asked softly, furrowing her brow.

Hermione sighed from her position on the ground, kneeling. "My Queen, I am aware of the workings of few things here, but to my understanding the virtue of a woman is her highest prize. And I have had that prize taken from me."

She said softly but not without a little acid on her tongue, he congratulated her for keeping her eyes steadfastly on the Queen instead of letting them slide towards the man they all knew responsible.

"Therefore I am of no use to you for marrying, although I would have served you in that aspect without questions, would it have been possible. Alas, it is not. As an ambassador though, you would not need to have me married – you send me to Houses you wish to keep an eye on, or to deal with. I am knowledgeable of the art of rhetoric and I can easily keep an eye on myself."

Denaerys, stroking her womb, thought on that proposal shortly, before looking at the kneeling witch again.

"And… why do you not wish to stay here? I have been told you are a more than competent fighter – would the offer of the seat of Head of the Queen's Guard tempt you?" she asked, but Hermione only smiled.

"My Queen, as I know you to have a gentle heart, especially where love is considered, I am aware that you will not marry a maid away to whom she does not want to be married." Sandor had a hard time not to scoff – the two of them knew that the Little Bird was no maid anymore, but it was, nonetheless, gallant of her to not spread those news where everyone could hear her.

"Therefore, making a political move, might I suggest the Lady Arya Stark in my stead as Head of the Queen's Guard? The Lady will make a fine, if not better, substitute and her family would be loyally sworn to yours without needing to break up a lovely pair."

The Queen looked to her left, where Arya stood and motioned for her to stand before her as well. "You have heard the proposal of Hermione Granger, have you Arya Stark?" she asked and the brown-haired woman nodded.

"Would you, as she has implied, swear your sword to me and become Head of the Queen's Guard?"

Arya, kneeling now, looked up and smiled. "It would be the greatest honour, Your Grace." She admitted and Denaerys nodded.

"So it is settled then." She said, nodding at Arya for her leave, before returning her attention to Hermione. "But if you are to be my ambassador, I cannot good-heartedly let you out into the world alone. Even-" she interrupted the witch who was about to speak up, "even if you do know how to defend yourself."

It was his chance – he knew – his only chance to make good on his promise to Beric Dondarrion and to leave with the witch (in his rage he'd promised the man worse, but that was futile now for he was dead). Stepping forth, he knelt as well. "If my Lady and my Queen would so allow it, I would travel with Hermione Granger, not as an Ambassador but as her Shield and Counsel should she so want it."

Sansa had an odd smile on her face when she nodded her consent and he an odd sense of elation in his chest when Hermione accepted him and the Queen allowed them their post.

.

Their travels were smooth and undisturbed – he was vastly surprised when she showed him that magical bag of hers, small enough to be inconspicuous, but tricked and tweaked in a way that made him damn jealous of her ability, after all, she was able to hide a whole tent in that bag.

Not that it was bad, he had to admit. Autumn was coming and with it heavy storms raged over the land. They decided to put the horses into the tent as well, closing off a section for the beasts and one, smaller, for them. But they wouldn't need that much space on their travels, they had decided.

It had been a wrong decision (perhaps).

.

She'd never really seen Sandor Clegane before, it seemed.

He slept wrapped in his furs, one bare foot sticking out, allowing her to spy a strong calf (he was scarred even there) and, surprisingly, washed and looked after feet. His tunic and jerkin hung at the back of the tent, where they had set up a small fire-bowl to dry the clothes, and he himself lay bare from the waist in his furs. He was a strong man, she had to admit, gigantic, yes, but packed with muscle as well and while she had believed him to be different (don't ask her why, she couldn't answer that question even to herself) he had little hair on his upper body.

A smattering on his chest and a fine trail from his navel further down – but otherwise none and she guessed that because of the constant rubbing of either mail or at least a rather loaded leather jerkin, the hair had simply not prevailed.

He had scars all over his body too. Aside from the obvious scarring in his face, he was almost gruesomely peppered with scars from battles, fights, lessons, trainings and even punishments it would seem.

Still Hermione could not help but think that their arrangements to sleep in smaller quarters than before could be beneficiary –especially if she got an eyeful of Clegane the way she did…

.

She was extremely careless for a woman of her beauty, he soon found out.

Dressing and undressing in front of him bothered her little. She would have the courtesy of turning her back to him at least, when she'd shed her tunic and bare her skin to his eyes, but was – according to Severus' tales – so used to simply not bothering in male presence, that she apparently didn't even think of him.

Which was a fault.

Because, he knew – even as he tried to deny it to himself – that the moment he'd laid eyes on her back, the first time, he would be a slave to her beauty.

He'd been drunk as a dog – again – (but not since then) and she'd had obvious difficulties reaching Gregor's parting gift to her, right in the dead centre of her back. She hadn't even asked him if he wanted to, she'd just ordered him to take care of the damn cut. He'd sobered almost immediately and even while hesitant, he'd tended to her.

And her skin was so soft. It was so milky, even when the scars on her back were so numerous that they formed a picture (of a tree at that), and she had the most beautiful figure he'd seen in a while. She was a completely different league than his Little Bird, or the She-Wolf.

She was their best aspects mingled together it seemed at times. Sansa's femininity meshed with Arya's ferocity. There was nothing not to desire about her.

And he loathed her (and himself) for every time she turned her back to him and undressed before slipping into her furs (and leaving him to deal with his stone-hard cock in silence).

.

He was not getting better, she grimaced as she carefully slowed her mount to a trot, waiting for Stranger to catch up and allowing her to take his reins – Clegane was too far gone in his fever to even hold on to them anymore (it was a miracle he was still sitting up).

Worried he might fall down, she switched horses, settling herself in front of Sandor, wrapping his arms around her and keeping them around her as she guided Stranger and bound her horse to the saddle. In her back she could feel him heating up, even in the drizzling rain.

She didn't know when exactly he'd caught it, or what exactly it had been, but she'd noticed how he started coughing first, and when his sight started to get bleary, it was already too late, and he had been burning with fever. Stubborn though he was and so had not allowed her to take care of him, had grumbled about nags and had wrapped himself in his furs, falling asleep minutes later.

He was too far gone now, she knew, to protest when she – finally – found an inn to guide them to. Heaving him up her shoulders was hard work, he was a heavy man, and tall as an oak (and they'd decided not to flaunt her ability). It had to be a comical picture, her entering the inn with him hefted to her shoulders, almost too heavy for her.

The first to aid her was the inn-keeper himself. A tall, fleshy man, who had lesser trouble carrying Sandor to a room that she paid for as soon as he'd deposited the scarred man on the bed. One look at the gold dragons and he'd assured her that she could stay as long as she needed to – and if she needed anything else, to just name it. He was gone then and Hermione nearly was too.

Assass whined pitifully as he put his head on the bed, near Sandor's. Thankful for magic, she dammed the room from cold drafts and started a roaring fire. The next step, she knew would not be all that easy, but she needed to do it.

.

He was naked when he next woke up. His head hurt and he felt hot, but at the same time, he felt sleepy.

Something stirred next to him and he opened his eyes to see that… it wasn't just next to him, but in his arms. Hermione, stripped down to her smallclothes and her tunic was cuddling herself to him.

Swallowing quickly, he tried to suppress the rush to his groin, knowing it was futile. He knew why she'd put herself next to him, shared body heat often broke fever and he wasn't stupid enough to think that that had not been the case.

He'd been damn near delirious near the end, before he'd completely lost his bearings – it was a wonder he hadn't fallen down from Stranger.

As he looked down again, he found that she was still asleep, smiling softly into his chest. Carefully he pulled the furs closer around them and, ever so softly, put his arm around her again, pulling her even closer to him, before he fell asleep again.

.

Nothing was the same afterwards.

When she awoke, his hand was resting in the dip of her waist, having crawled under her tunic the tip of his middle finger, resting easily in the valley of her spine, his thumb caressing her ribs. His hand was pleasantly warm on her skin, his sweating obviously having stopped.

Nevertheless she knew she couldn't stay and wait until he woke up (no matter how direly she wished she could) because he was hers (as was the man she'd thought was her own) and she should know better than to try and compete with a woman whose beauty was near to unmatched.

Carefully extracting herself from his grip, she sent him a last lingering look before she dressed – because yes, he was a handsome man, fierce, a warrior (someone she might have wanted if his heart wouldn't belong to someone else).

.

He watched through lidded eyes, pretending to still be asleep, as she dressed herself in a new tunic.

Gods above! (He needed to stifle a groan) – but if those teats weren't perfect… He was convinced they'd fit effortlessly into his large hands, would feel soft when he would squeeze them, tease her until her nipples were hard as pebbles.

His eyes cut to her back again, to the scar-tree there and he wondered – not for the first time – if it had been deliberately made, if she'd been captured in some or another spite, because he knew, he had no idea of her former life…

As she slid into her jerkin and then her trousers, he wondered if she would allow him into her life. His Little Bird had, quite obviously, chosen the other man – and yet, for her, he'd given up drinking (largely) and he'd sided with the Targaeryan Queen. She hadn't wanted him (and he wondered if she even knew he'd held such an interest in her). But would Hermione?

He closed his eyes, waiting until she was out of the room. Could he even dare?

.

The inn-keeper's wife had informed her that they were not too far from where they had ultimately wished to end up: Riverrun.

It was no secret that the Freys were still dancing gleefully on the corpses of the murdered Starks. The Little Bird had wanted revenge – Denaerys had asked that they would see if the Freys would at least cooperate. If such would not be the case, she had fully agreed that revenge was in order.

When she asked for a possibility to wash and clean herself, the rounded woman beamed and told her excitedly that their small village had their own hot-springs – which it was quite renowned for – and that a young man had fashioned a bathing house for guests.

Hermione thanked her and, finishing her fast, returned to the room she shared with Sandor with a bit of broth she'd asked for.

.

He was lucky she had 'vacated the premises' so to speak, giving him ample time to release the tension in his nether regions (twice… as if he were a green squire) and was lying in his furs again when she returned.

She looked less tired than back in the camp, although a day of rest certainly wouldn't harm her as she sat down on the bed, crossing her legs so she could cradle the bowl of soup there while she helped him to sit up.

As she fed him, Hermione didn't speak a word, and neither did he – enjoying the fact that she was feeding him, despite him being quite able to do it himself… but he'd learned from his times with the Little Bird that sometimes it was better to not say a thing and simply accept the things as they came, and as long as Hermione offered to feed him, he was going to just let it happen.

"We are half a day's ride from Riverrun." She finally said, feeding him the last spoon of the broth. "The inn-keeper's wife says there's hot-springs around here… and a bathing house though I'm suspicious about that."

She had reason to be. Bathing houses were rarely anything else than brothels.

"Anyways I'm not taking you out just yet. We'll rest another day and if you don't fall back this night, we'll go to the hot-springs, have a thorough bath in the morning and ride to Riverrun. Sounds like a plan?"

He nodded, feeling uncommonly tired again – she only shook her head and smiled. "Just go to sleep, Clegane. I'll be there in a minute."

Wondering if that meant that she'd sleep in his arms again, he fought to stay awake, but finally had to succumb to sleep, hoping that she would.

.

She knew that, while it was only natural, she shouldn't feel so excited as she clambered back under the covers to Sandor. It would look strange if she suddenly slept elsewhere, she'd convinced herself, and she didn't want to alienate him – he was the only person she could somewhat trust right now.

But as she slipped closer to him, she was surprised when he reached out his arms and pulled her closer to him, a low rumbling in his chest announcing his satisfaction. Craning her neck, she found that he was still asleep, while his hands hand simply brought her closer, encased her and aligned her safely next to him.

His nose was hidden in her neck, one of his arms under it, snaking up to clutch at her shoulder – the other arm had wound around her hip and was, apparently very content lying next to her legs. He breathed deeply and another rumble emitted from his chest, before he pulled her closer again, cradling her now – skin on skin – to him.

Then he rested.

.

When she woke up that night, his hands had relocated to places she wasn't entirely uncomfortable with, but would rather not allow him to feel. The massive paw that had rested on her shoulder had dropped during his sleep and was now warming a breast, while the one lying next to her legs, had snaked between them, her thighs warming his hand.

However, what she hadn't suspected was the pang of hurt that tore through her. Because she realized in an instant as he grumbled and pulled her closer again (they'd separated… a little) that it wasn't her he was thinking of.

She cried herself softly to sleep, wondering if she would always be the second choice.

.

He'd woken up curled around her, one of his legs wrenched between hers, one hand on one of her teats, the other hand clutched in her two hands.

But despite the pleasant way they had woken up, once she'd left his side, she had channelled as much Northern weather as possible – he'd rarely been at the receiving end of so much ice (not even Cersei could quite compare). And for the beating of his heart, he could not figure out the why!

All he really wanted was to hold her thusly again, to cradle her close to him, to feel her warmth and her beating heart beneath his hands, to breathe in her scent and to surround her as easily as she surrounded him.

He wasn't the confronting type though – in wars, yes he was, but when it was about people telling him what the seven hells was their business… well, he wasn't too good about that. And therefore, as they washed and dressed, he said nothing as she ignored him safe for a few words, allowed her to withdraw into herself as they hurried over the land and towards the Towers of Riverrun.

.

She knew he couldn't possibly know what this was about. After all, she was the one who felt like the second choice – and even though she was convinced that that's all she was, he would maybe not really see it that way, or if he could, he would maybe not even care.

"I am the Ambassador of her Lady Queen, Denaerys Stormborn of House Targaeryan," she informed the Gate Keeper, "she has sent us to your Lord."

No one knew this, of course, because Hermione had convinced the Queen that unexpected visits would prove the truth of things said much easier than if to announce their arrival and leave the Houses time to prepare their speeches. The gate opened and calmly the two of them strode through.

Despite the fact that she should think of how to convince House Frey to swear allegiance to the true queen, all she could really think about was the way the man at her side had held her this morning. How warm he'd felt, how warm she'd felt… right before her illusions had crashed.

He was everything she could have wanted… but she knew that he wanted another… and never her.

.

They had one room.

Which… he had known. Because even if she didn't have her 'virtue' anymore, no one else but the Queen knew that, therefore any man she travelled with had to be her husband, or at least her betrothed and, in the eyes of the Frey, that was enough to give them one room.

Still, he liked watching her eyes blaze – not only for having been given one singular room, but also because she had wanted to move a lot quicker than Frey had and was therefore not very happy to have the meeting delayed.

Because that also meant being in the same room as him.

.

If he said so much as a word she was going to spontaneously combust and set this whole place on fire, Mister Burned Head as well, and no pleading would save him.

Sandor Clegane, however, was a man of few words and she was very happy that while she was pacing, he pulled out his great-sword and wordlessly started to sharpen it.

.

When he was younger, and his mother still alive, she'd told him a story that had been passed down for generations, it was said, from when the Clegane Clan had still been in its' baby-shoes. There was once, so it is said, a young man in the clan, who set out to hunt, but came home empty-handed, safe for this story to tell.

He was a skilled hunter and had therefore little worries of finding a trail of a deer. The deer, however, proved elusive – worse so than a woman who made a man hunt her. And so, at noon, still empty-handed, he settled in a clearing, and, getting rid of his weapons, unpacked a few dry crumbs of bread. And so he sat and ate, and when he was done eating – he still sat.

And while he sat, calm and unconcerned, the deer neared him – slowly, silently until it finally was in front of him. And as it lowered itself to the ground, allowing him to touch it – he had learned the most valid of lessons.

He'd always asked what that lesson was, because… well as a small kid, he had really no idea. His mother had only smiled, kissed him on the head and told him that one day he'd realize.

He realized now, after so many years, as the young woman paced in the room, mumbling to herself.

Patience.

He smiled as he guided the whetting stone over his sword. He'd learned the lesson of patience.

(And so did he when finally she tired and allowed him to collect her into his arms that night, holding her the way he'd longed to the total of the day.)

.

"Frey… was unwilling, unfortunately." Hermione admitted, biting her lip. "After the initial hold-off I practically out-stayed my welcome more or less, hoping to convince them but… well."

Sandor, behind her, nodded his acquiescence when the Queen looked to him for affirmation – if Hermione noticed it, she didn't seem disturbed by it. Severus' eyes, though, behind Sansa, narrowed, hardened when he finally realized what that meant (Sansa's did as well, but she sat straighter for it).

The Queen allowed them several days of rest, but when he looked at Severus, he couldn't help but think if, perhaps, leaving Hermione in his near vicinity was a rather bad idea.

.

He found her crying on one of the many hidden balconies that this castle provided – she was wrapped in nothing but tatters (the dress she'd been given ripped) and cried like a wounded hound.

It was Assass who'd come to find him, the dire-wolf had snatched a part of his jerkin in his fangs and had tugged him into her direction.

When he finally stumbled upon her, all he could really see was red.

.

"You have no idea what you are talking of!" the man snarled at him, brandishing a wand in his direction that both of them knew didn't work anymore for him (not since his run-in with the red-headed sorceress).

"I don't?!" He brought his palms down on the table so hard that the bowl filled with… whatever it was, bounced off and fell to the ground, where it shattered. "Don't you tell me I have no idea what I am talking of! The woman has only ever had you and you were too cowardly to put up with her! You fled to the one woman who bears resemblance to your lost love and damn it I GRANT YOU THAT!" he bellowed, bearing down on the table. "But don't take it out on her."

Severus sneered disdainfully, his face deforming, making him the man she'd talked about. "Does she tell you a lot of things?" he hissed.

Sandor looked up, defeated, into a face so full of distrust and hate – he just wanted to break the bastard. "Yes, when she has night terrors she's barely lucid and she talks." He stood. "I don't ask of you to know that, clearly you don't care."

But he knew that Severus did (after all, why else would he react so badly to the mere thought of Hermione killing?).

"Stay away from her." He said – softly, menacingly. "If you have even an ounce of feeling for her, stay away from her."

Because even though Severus liked her, he did her no good (and finally Sandor had his proof that staying away from Sansa had been a good thing).

.

She woke in his arms, wrapped in his cloak and stuck under the blanket, where he warmed her with his nearness.

As they had gotten used to (more against Hermione's will than at her will… but she'd given in nonetheless), they were sharing a bed, clothed enough to keep it chaste, little enough to make sure that anything dirty or wet was off.

One of his hands rested on her hip, drawing hers close to his, his other hand clutched hers loosely, the arm functioning as her pillow. His legs were entwined with hers, and she could tell by how he had wrapped her in that nothing but comfort had been on his mind (unlike… several other times when she hadn't been so sure).

She breathed deeply, inhaling their mingled scent – his more prominent in her nose due to the cloak she was wrapped in – and snuggling deeper into his embrace. Behind her, he sighed deeply, pulling her closer again and deeper under the covers.

Hermione smiled softly as she closed her eyes.

Review please! There'll be more of the two in the future =)