Chapter Text
Sandor was proud to be included in Queen Daenerys’ entourage back north. She’d gained his respect the moment she flew in on a giant dragon and saved their asses north of the wall. That he had ridden one, willingly, was still unbelievable to him. He pledged himself to her when they made it back at Eastwatch by the Sea, along with the rest of the survivors. On the journey south to King’s Landing he found out that the King in the North, Jon Snow himself, had bent the knee as well and Sandor was glad for it. For the first time in his life he felt like he was actually doing something important and helping a cause he truly believed in. The new found purpose gave him confidence, which was desperately needed as he faced a reunion with the Stark girls; women who’d had a profound impact on his life, though in very different ways.
However, to his surprise, the reunion was underwhelming. Arya had seemed both surprised and pleased that he wasn’t dead somewhere in the Vale, though perhaps no one but Sandor himself would’ve noticed the facial tic and the moment of softness in her eyes when they’d locked across the great hall of Winterfell.
Sansa had looked at him cooly, the mask she’d created in King’s Landing that was capable of hiding her emotions, had been perfected in their years apart and Sandor honestly wasn’t sure if she was glad to see him at all or was rather planning to ask her brother for his head. It saddened him to think of what she’d been through to be less readable than the assassin she called sister.
Sandor was good at keeping out of the way and in the shadows and he stuck to the back of the hall to have his supper and listen as Jon filled in the northern lords to what had happened and what was to come. Briefly Sandor was worried that they’d killed the wight they’d taken to King’s Landing too soon and that these men would need to see to believe too but some little girl had stood up and said that she trusted her king and therefore what he said should be regarded as truth. He was amused watching the child put the grown lords in their place, their grumbling about it before acquiescing causing him to fight the urge to laugh. Soon enough the lords followed in her lead and pledged fealty to Queen Daenerys. The men sitting closest to Sandor whispered to each other their surprise that it took that long, “she has fucking dragons, why wouldn’t we bend the knee?” one asked the other, who readily agreed.
After the supper and meeting was over in the great hall a servant had shown Sandor his room, which appeared to be near the family’s quarters. He was sure there had been a mistake but the servant had assured Sandor that Lord Jon had requested he be roomed in this hall and Lady Sansa had made the assignment. The servant also gave him basic directions to the kitchens, the hot springs beneath the keep that he was welcome to use to bathe in, and to the godswood and then left him to his evening. After shutting the door Sandor took in his surroundings. The room was nice and spacious. There was a warm fire in the fireplace and plenty of wood to keep it going all night. In front of the fire was a comfortable looking couch and behind it was a table with two chairs. Off to the side was a large bed and he was glad to see it looked long enough for his height. In the other corner was a screen with a privy and a wash basin and pitcher. It appeared there was a flagon of wine and a cup on the table and his trunk was at the foot of the bed. While the room was large and the furniture clearly of quality it was rather simple, lacking the opulace he’d seen at both Casterly Rock and the Red Keep. The practicality of it made him feel more comfortable and at ease with being given such a nice room.
He poured himself a glass of wine and while it wasn’t particularly fine, it was at least sour and red, and he drank it appreciatively while sitting on the not as comfortable as it had looked couch. When the glass was empty he got up to pour another but realized he felt rather restless and knowing that the dead were coming for them he thought it might be best to not drink away the restless feeling but rather keep his wits about him and go for a walk instead.
He took off for the kitchens first and after grabbing a few carrots, escaped the cook’s wrath and headed to the stables. The horse he had been given to ride was a tall, well behaved, chestnut gelding and while it wasn’t his Stranger, he’d come to care for the beast too. He fed one of the stolen carrots to the horse and then brushed him down. Once the horse had been curried and brushed until his coat shined, had his hooves picked and his bridle path trimmed Sandor fed him the other carrots and made his leave. He’d planned to go back to his room, or possibly to the hot springs he thought as the wind whipping around the stable smacked him full force in the face, but instead he found himself walking the direction of the godswood. He hadn’t been to one since he’d last accompanied Sansa to the small one at the Red Keep while on guard duty just days before Stannis came and Tyrion set the bay aflame.
Somehow he wasn’t surprised when he approached the impressive weirwood tree and saw in the moonlight a dark figure kneeling before it. He was surprised when he heard her ask,
“Are you on guard duty again?”
Her voice had changed. It had deepened and matured over the years. It was clearly a woman’s voice and not the voice of the girl he’d once known. She glanced up at him, face still an impassive mask, waiting for his reply.
He stammered out “No I’m not. Just wanted to pay my respects I guess.”
Her eyebrow arched and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, “Did you find religion? I don’t recall you following any of the gods.”
His lip twitched up into a smirk as a small laugh was exhaled out, “A fire god priest showed me how to see visions in flames and yet I still pissed on the gods. Then I saw the dead. Saw them with my own eyes. Fought to kill the bastards that by all rights should’ve already been dead. Fought to not join them. Rode an actual dragon. Now,” he paused, “well now I’m feeling a bit more open minded.”
Both of Sansa’s eyebrows lifted slightly as she regarded him and what he’d said, “That’s good." A pause. "Bran is the Three-Eyed Raven now.”
“I don’t know what that means,” he said, baffled.
She gave him a small smile, “I don’t really know either.”
Sandor took the smile as a peace offering and lent down offering her his hand to help her up. He was glad when she took it and as she came to her feet he was amazed at how tall she’d grown. He still towered over her but far less so. He was sure she was taller than Jon and was a bit put out that she’d stayed seated at the table in the great hall earlier as he’d like to see for sure but given that she came to right under his chin he was fairly positive. He realized that they were both taking each other in and the silence had gone on a bit too long. He cleared his throat and stepped away from her, noticing as he did that her hand slipped out of his and that meant she’d held it the whole time. He shook off where that line of thought was sure to go and searched his mind for something, anything, to say when she beat him to it and broke the silence first.
“I prayed for you,” she said quietly, turning slightly away from him as she made her confession.
Of all the things she could’ve said that was the most surprising of them all. Sandor felt his mouth gape open and his mind whirl. “What?” he choked out inarticulately.
“I prayed for you. I prayed to the Mother that she’d quiet your rage. “I prayed to the Warrior that he’d protect you when you left. “I prayed to the Father that you would come back and rescue me, as I was a fool to not go with you. I prayed to the old gods and the new when I’d heard that you’d died that it wouldn’t be true. I prayed when there was nothing left to say. When it was obvious that my prayers weren’t working anymore,” she quietly answered, avoiding his eyes like she would when she was a girl. It didn’t anger him now as in truth he wasn’t sure he could handle her eyes on him at that moment. Her words were too much to take in without those beautiful Tully blues leveling him. He turned a bit from her and rubbed his face and beard roughly with his hands. When he turned back to her he felt her gaze before meeting her eyes. They were full of unshed tears and Sandor suddenly felt terrified, so unsure he was of what to do.
She blinked away the wetness and went on, “I was married here at this spot, to a man who was worse than Joffery ever was.” Sandor had heard Jon mention that Sansa had been married to the worst bastard there ever was. He’d assumed it was only because it was obvious that Jon didn’t really know how awful Joffery had been but his stomach clenched when Sansa confirmed that her husband had been worse.
“I lost my voice, calling out for you,” she was shaking now, and despite the cold Sandor knew it was from emotion and not the icy air as he was shaking too. “I broke,” her sentence ending with a sob, though he didn’t need her to go on. He had witnessed Joffrey's attempts to break her. For days and weeks and months on end he had watched the King torment the girl, his ire at her strength of will making it worse on her and yet she’d never broken. The fact that the monster she had been married to had succeeded where Joffery had failed provoked the flames of Sandor’s rage in a way he had never felt before and all he saw was red. It took a moment more for him to realize that he was at Sansa’s side and he’d gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly to him. His hands were in her hair, the auburn tresses surrounding him. They were both trembling and he stroked his hands through her hair and down her back, soft soothing noises coming out of his mouth as he subconsciously tried to calm her. He didn’t know what to do with a woman but he knew what horses and dogs responded to and at the moment that was good enough while he tampered down his rage at her dead husband. He reminded himself that Tormund had claimed Jon had almost beaten the man to death himself. He remembered Jon saying that Sansa had demanded he’d be fed alive to his hounds. At the time he’d been glad that there were still hounds looking after Sansa but now it wasn’t enough. He wanted, no needed to kill someone for this, but with the bastard dead, his entire family name wiped out, and the Littlefucker who'd arranged the marriage dead there wasn’t anyone left.
Her heart wrenching sobs brought Sandor out of his head and into the present. He could be angry later. He would be angry later. But now she didn’t need anger so he let her tears put out the fires in his soul. He felt her knees buckle and while he was strong enough to easily hold her weight he found himself lowering them both to the frozen ground beneath the tree. He situated her onto his lap so that he could still hold tightly to her as he continued to rub her back while she kept crying. Minutes passed and Sansa’s tears ran dry and still they sat, with her perched on his lap leaning into his chest as his arms held her close against him. As she calmed she realized where they were and how they were sitting and knowing the impropriety of it she began to pull away from his chest. Sandor immediately released the tight hold he had on her though he didn’t remove his arms from her yet. She glanced at him, and was relieved that he didn’t look angry or annoyed with her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Still with the chirping little bird?” he questioned kindly.
She sniffled as she shrugged in response, her eyes lighting up at the familiar moniker.
“Are you alright?” he questioned, being sure to keep his voice soft.
“No, not really, but I’m beginning to hope that I might be,” she replied in a shaky voice. “I am so glad you are alive,” she added, her eyes refilling with tears.
He pulled her back close to him and as she settled into his chest he said, “Me too, little bird.”