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It couldn't be... Yet it seemed it was true, after all. His little bird who was supposed to be long dead and buried in Essos was walking there, unchanged by the twenty years that passed. Sandor Clegane rubbed his eyes. Surely his mind, never a stable one to begin with, was now outright deceiving him. He shouldn't have made this journey. Why, why did he have to board this ship to Westeros? What awaited him here? Nothing but his own madness.
Since Sansa's death during the Plague of Braavos, when there were so many dead that she wasn't even given a separate grave, he just wished to get as far away as possible. First Volantis, then the Summer Isles, then Sothoryos. The Summer Islanders, who grew fond of him for no apparent reasons, sometimes visited him and brought him food, but usually it was just him and Stranger and the dreadful jungle and the memories. The Islanders nicknamed him the Scarred Hermit of the South.
A few months ago, he fell sick with a bad case of sweetrot. Then the Islanders insisted that he went with them to be treated. And exactly when he was healed and walked around for the first time, he saw a ship bound for King's Landing.
Sandor cursed once again. Apart from his sister and the little bird, no Westerosi had ever loved him. His homelands, if the rumors of Gregor's death were true, were certainly given away. Why was he struck with the foolish idea of going home for one last time? Damn it. He didn't even have an idea of who ruled the continent now. The Summer Isles were never interested in the game of thrones, and a foreign one at that.
As if the general bitterness wasn't enough, now there was this. He clearly saw Sansa Stark, as young and blossoming as before the Plague, strolling around the embankment. She was dressed in fabulous blue silk, ornaments of gold adorning her hair.
Barely knowing himself, Sandor disembarked the ship and watched the girl from a smaller distance. And almost immediately he breathed a sigh of both great relief and utter disappointment.
She looked wrong. Decidedly. She was amazingly similar to the little bird – the red hair, the sky-blue eyes, the complexion, the nose, many details – but she wasn't Sansa. The jawline was wrong. The smile was completely wrong, it reminded him of someone else though he couldn't remember whom exactly. The hair was a little curly. The figure was more robust – more like Cersei, truth be told.
So it was no crazy vision, but some flesh and blood noble lady. Still, Sandor couldn't bear it – she was far too much like Sansa. He felt as if she had stolen the dead girl's appearance, like the Faceless do.
"Who are you, girl? What are you doing here?" he rasped. The girl turned around, startled – so like Sansa that half of him wanted to weep. Another half wanted to rip this pretender in two.
She regained herself quickly, however.
"I don't know what you mean with it, ser," she said icily. With the little bird's voice.
Sandor shook his head, trying to compose himself. What was he thinking? Why did he act as if the Hound in him was reborn? There must be Tullys and Starks left around here. The girl's surely one of them. It's not her fault that she looks like Sansa.
"Forgive me, my lady," he said. "I used to live here but I've been dwelling in Sothoryos and the Summer Isles for twenty years. It is just that... that you reminded me of a lady I once knew, who died long ago."
Her expression softened, and she smiled. He appreciated it: now she was less like Sansa. Now, where had he seen that smile before?
"I see," she replied. "No offense was taken, ser. I imagine I wouldn't remember all my courtesy if I spent twenty years in the wild. Well, you asked who I am... As it happens, since this spring I'm the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. My name's Liane Targaryen."
It was the sort of thing that could happen to him, Sandor thought grimly. Insulting the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms only an hour or two after the arrival in his bloody homeland.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," he repeated with a bow. "The last king I remember was Tommen Baratheon," he added cautiously.
"You've missed a lot of things, Ser Unknown!" Queen Liane laughed. "Tommen's my cousin and my good-brother now, married to my elder sister Arlese. He has taken the name of Lannslann – meaning a Lannister on both sides."
Sandor nodded absentmindedly, thinking of the politest way of excusing himself, when something caught his ear. He suddenly remembered where he had seen Liane's amused grin before.
"Cousin, Your Grace?" he asked. "So your father must be the dw... Tyrion Lannister."
"Indeed," Liane said. "May I ask who you are?"
The dwarf would be most glad to see me, no doubt of it, he thought sarcastically.
"For the last twenty years I've been known as the Scarred Hermit," was what he spoke aloud. "But I used to serve in the Red Keep before. I hardly remember my old name."
"Poor man," the Queen said sympathetically. "My mother says it's a terrible thing when you forget about yourself."
What?.. Sandor began to doubt his own sanity again.
"Your mother is..."
"Lady Sansa, born a Stark," Liane finished proudly.
Before he knew it, he stepped towards her and twisted her hand.
"You're lying!" he roared.
In a moment, cold metal was upon his neck.
"Stay away from my sister, you rogue," another voice hissed. Sandor reached for his own sword, but never took it out. His assailant was a young and strong man, very much like the Kingslayer used to be, and Sandor hadn't fought a single battle for an eternity and was exhausted after the long voyage.
He took a step away.
"I am sorry, my lord – Your Grace," he said to both of them. "I've lived away from people too long. You can challenge me all you like, ser, but please first tell me the truth – Sansa Stark is alive?"
"Sansa Lannister for the past twenty-four years," the golden-haired knight corrected him. "Yes, our lady mother is alive and well, though I can hardly believe she could be known to the likes of you."
"Don't be so haughty," the Queen's voice rang out. "This man said he had served in the Red Keep. He seems to have thought Mother died long ago."
"I'm bound to distrust strange vagabonds from wild lands who try to attack my sister," her brother shrugged, his sword still ready in his hand. Sandor chuckled sadly: of course, the youth had the right of it.
Liane, seemingly having forgotten about him, turned to the knight:
"No sight of Daeron's ship yet, Sandor?"
"No," he shook his head. "Sweet sister, if you remember, he's due to arrive late in the evening. You've had us all up and watching since dawn. He's not at war or anything."
"Sandor, you promised you'd look out for him!" she exclaimed.
"Dash it all! Queen Liane the Lovesick! You've been married for three years, it's past time you became reasonable again!"
Sandor Clegane was staring at them both, trying to comprehend everything. The little bird was alive. She went back to her dwarf husband. But she named her son after him. Perhaps he was going mad after all.
"Your name is Sandor, my lord?" he whispered. The young Lannister glanced at him, annoyed:
"Yes, it is, as you might have heard already."
"Sandor's named after Mother's faithful sworn shield," Liane explained. "Sandor Clegane. He rescued Mother when she was held captive by Petyr Baelish..."
"...and helped her flee to Essos on board of The Wind Chaser, her disguised as a kitchenmaid," he continued, unable to stay silent. "They stayed in Braavos, near the House of Black and White, where Arya Stark worked as one of the Faceless. But then the Plague of Braavos broke out, and... was Lady Sansa told that he had died?"
"Well, yes, he had – hadn't he?" Liane raised an eyebrow. "But how do you know it so well, ser?"
Meanwhile, Sandor's younger namesake was about to scold his sister about blurting out family matters or to tell Sandor to go at once if he valued his life, when something stopped him in his tracks. He looked at Sandor's face with growing shock.
"You are him?" he finally uttered. "Mother told me. Your face... and that old black horse I see on the deck..."
"Stranger," Sandor nodded. "It is. It appears that the little bird and I were cared about by different healers. And with so many dying, one couldn't track anyone in the mess... They told me she died. Apparently, they told her I died..."
"We're all forever indebted to you for Mother's life," Sandor Lannister said, all the mockery and arrogance gone from his voice. "Please, do come to the Red Keep and visit us. All our family will love to meet you."
He looked sincere, and his sister too. But what about Sansa herself? She used to adore the songs about lovers meeting after decades, yet life was still no song. Judging by the existence of Sandor the younger and Liane, Sansa has been the dwarf's wife in truth as well as in name. Certainly she's at least used to him now, after twenty years.
"Father and Mother are away," Liane said, as if reading his thoughts. "There has been a rebellion in the Eyrie by Harry Hardying's supporters, so they left several days ago to settle matters."
"For the best," Sandor said, his heart swelling with joy as it came to him that it was no dream. The little bird was alive. For a few moments, he forgot that she was bound to the dwarf, that he had been sunken in grief for all these years and for no reason. The little bird didn't die, she wasn't struck down by the fever when she hardly began to live, her body wasn't thrown to rot into some pit in Braavos. She had the life she deserved, except for the husband maybe (but who could deserve her?), and that was all that mattered.
***
The rebuilt Tower of the Hand turned out to be packed with the next Lannister generation. The Firstborn (as Sandor called him in his thoughts, since his own name felt terribly odd when in connection with Sansa's son) gathered all his siblings, spreading the word that the hero of their childhood stories, Mother's sworn shield, is alive and has come to King's Landing.
King Daeron himself upon his arrival greeted Sandor and told him how Sansa had praised his courage and faithfulness, and then took the trouble to tell him the history of the past twenty years and introduce him to Tyrion and Sansa's children.
King Daeron's Story
As it turned out, Tommen was overthrown soon after the Plague of Braavos, by some young man claiming to be Prince Aegon, Rhaegar's son. Queen Margaery left her husband instantly and took the trouble to seduce Aegon – only to be murdered by a shadow assassin. Aegon vowed vengeance and managed to defeat Stannis Baratheon and overpower the fire priestess in the First Northern War. But he didn't have long to enjoy his triumph peacefully, as the Northern lords refused to bend the knee to a dragonless Targaryen – or even recognize him as a Targaryen, for that matter. They claimed Bran and Rickon Stark were still alive, and Bran was the rightful ruler of the North. It turned out to be true, though both Starks were only boys, they had powerful supporters. Aegon tried to make an alliance against the north, but that's when Queen Daenerys, most certainly a Targaryen, crossed the Narrow Sea with three dragons and refused to acknowledge Aegon as her nephew. She actually found the king's real mother, a Lyseni seamstress bribed by Lord Varys, and forced her to confess about the falsehoods spread by Aegon.
Aegon the Untrue was given a choice. Bend the knee and be exiled to Lys, or die. He didn't want to die, so Daenerys took the throne without any bloodshed. The anti-Northern movements were stopped instantly: Tyrion Lannister, the Queen's Hand, brought back Sansa Stark as his wife. With the Lannisters on the side of the Starks, no one dared to oppose the North. Bran bent the knee (figuratively, though, as he was still a cripple) and became the Warden of the North, with his fierce brother Rickon being named Shield of the North. The Starks' future was no longer uncertain. Bran married Meera Reed, and in the meantime Sansa gave birth to Sandor Lannister, a delightful boy whom both the North and the South recognized as one of theirs, though many wondered at his mother's choice of name.
Queen Daenerys herself married Ser Jorah Mormont, on the condition that their children would have the name Targaryen and that Jorah wouldn't proclaim himself King. She gave him the title of Protector of the Realm, though.
About a year later, Daenerys died in childbirth. Jorah named himself Regent for the infant King Daeron, and secured the baby's future by betrothing him to the newborn daughter of Tyrion and Sansa. Arlese, however, was a dwarf like her father, and when the healthy and pretty Liane followed, it was her that everyone hailed as the future Queen.
Everyone, of course, meaning not strictly everyone. After Daenerys's death, there were new uprisings and revolts. Many protested against a mere Mormont on the throne; new false Targaryens sprung from both continents. But most importantly, the wildlings and the Others, whom the presence of a fire priestess had kept at bay before, simply poured into the realm. The Night's Watch, torn apart by its own small game of thrones, could do naught. The dragons (who, as Rhaegal turned out to be a female, now numbered six) saved Westeros in this Second Northern War. It cost the lives of Viserion and one of the new hatchlings – and of the countless people, Northerners mostly. Lord Protector Jorah hoped that it had been the end of threats from beyond the wall, but Brandon Stark foresaw another war with the Others coming.
But spring came and went, then a long good summer, and everything was relatively peaceful. Daeron learned to ride his mother's favorite, Drogon, and Sandor Lannister unexpectedly tamed a young female dragon Daenelle, named to honor the deceased Queen. Another winter passed without the Others, but Lord Brandon still felt uneasy.
Rightfully so. For the next summer was brief, and the winter that came after it brought the Others and the Third Northern War, the deadliest and most horrible of all. The Others stormed through Westeros, getting as far south as Gulltown, and they seemed to develop some kind of protection spell against dragonfire. It wasn't so easy to burn them now. Jorah Mormont marched against them with many forces, including the allies he summoned from Essos. Several great battles were fought, but they only slowed the Others down. Many more perished, including Jaime Lannister, who lived in exile on the Sapphire Isle, Theon and Asha Greyjoy, Rickon Stark and his direwolf Shaggydog, and Lord Jorah himself.
Then was the time of the Youngsters' Arrival, as it was called later. Upon hearing of his father's death, the then-fifteen-year-old Daeron gathered his friends and all the young men he found, those who were thought too inexperienced for the battles. "Either we're old enough to fight or we're old enough to die," he announced. Not only youths and boys joined him – Tyrion Lannister did as well, and several dozen women, including Lady Sansa and Princess Liane.
So Lord Jorah's exhausted army, now led by Ser Jaime's widow Lady Brienne, one day saw fresh forces coming for help, with Drogon and all the small dragons descending from the sky. The Others, skilled in magical arts as they were, were exhausted by the previous battles as well – and the sudden help came completely out of the blue. Before the sun set, thanks to the dragons, they were thrown away almost to the Wall. Once there, they were soon finished with. To make sure of it, the dragonriders chased the remaining ones all the way to the Lands of Always Winter.
The Others surely had something to do with the weather, for when the last of them were scattered and killed, spring swiftly came to Westeros, and Daeron had a second coronation for himself and Liane, saying that he would like to remember his own crowning, as the first one happened when he was a babe. Since then, no great conflicts have shaken the realm. There were only minor rebellions, quickly crushed. The king was loved by the commons – after the Third Northern War, the royal couple was named Daeron the Victor and Liane the Spring Flower. The hatred of Lannisters was also forgotten during these years, Tyrion Lannister proving himself to be an able and wise Hand, and all remembered that he was the Queen's father, he helped restore the Targaryens and took part in the Youngsters’ Arrival. Many called him the Giant of Lannister, and Daeron couldn't understand why Tyrion absolutely hated it.
No less hailed was Sandor Lannister, knighted immediately after the war. The singers already compared him to Aemon the Dragonknight. He was soon to be married to Miraene of House Grafton, a lovely maid from Gulltown who was held captive by the Others until saved by the Arrival.
***
At this point of the story, Sandor turned to his namesake:
"Sansa must be proud of you. Everything like her favorite songs."
The young Sandor blushed and looked over to his bride, whom he had also dragged here to introduce to "Mother's sworn shield".
"Well, that's actually all of it," King Daeron said. "I doubt you want to hear about the smaller things, like the recent Hardying rebellion."
He nodded:
"Thank you, Your Grace. I was glad to hear the whole story, but I think I should go now."
"But aren't you staying until Mother comes home?" Genna, one of the smaller children (as far as Sandor could count, there were fourteen in total), asked, pulling his sleeve. "She'll be ever so glad to see you!"
"No, little one," Sandor shook his head. "I don't think so."
Queen Liane and Lady Arlese ushered their youngest siblings away, and Liane said:
"Am I right in supposing you love our mother?"
"Aye," Sandor confessed, feeling no need to shirk it. "We loved each other, to be precise. After I helped her in the Vale, she grew to love me, that at least I know for certain. We wanted to marry in Braavos. It was before your father was known to be alive... We would have married if not for Arya – she hated me still, and it took time to persuade her to accept our match. But then the Plague broke out. First Sansa, then myself..."
"And they told you she was dead!" Arlese, a simple-minded but kindly one, sighed. "And her – that you were dead!"
The painful memories sprang anew. Braavos after the Plague, horribly quiet and empty. The solemn-faced healers and maesters. Himself, frantically and desperately searching first for the little bird, then at least for her resting place...
"You still love her," the younger Sandor said quietly.
"That's why I don't want her to see me," he replied. "I wish my visit could be kept secret from her."
"I'll talk with the children," Arlese assured him.
"You're right, ser," Daeron said solemnly. "I've never seen a couple more devoted to each other than Lord and Lady Lannister, nor a family happier than this one. I fear your arrival will... disturb Lady Sansa."
"It is what I believe, Your Grace," Sandor agreed. "She might still mourn me, but the d... Lord Tyrion has been by her side for twenty years. They've lived through two wars together and have so many children... Live's no song, and I'm no fool."
Suddenly, Liane's eyes lit up:
"But perhaps you might want to see her? Unrecognized?"
***
In a few days, a tourney celebrating the announcement of the Queen's pregnancy was held in King's Landing. Among the competing ones was a mystery knight, a tall man entirely in grey armor. Some part of the audience hoped he won so he would reveal his identity.
That wasn't to be: the mystery knight fought very well, but was finally unhorsed by Sandor Lannister. Not that anyone was sorry. The Lannister heir was the first favorite, and when he won the last joust and crowned Miraene Grafton Queen of Love and Beauty, the applause and cheers were deafening.
Sandor Clegane went back to his tent, where Stranger was waiting. He didn't risk riding his destrier – first, the horse was old, second, people could still recognize it. The stallion he loaned from Tommen Lannslann was a good, reliable, fierce enough warhorse, and Sandor was pleased he hadn't lost all of his skills after all. There had been only three or four jousts after he was unhorsed.
Not that he wanted to win. On the contrary, he was glad he rode well enough not to disgrace himself but mediocre enough to go unnoticed.
He saw his little bird, and that's what counted. She arrived from the Vale the day before.
Sandor gazed at her again from the tent. Thankfully, she was seated high enough as the Hand's wife, so he could see her from wherever he went.
Of course, she wasn't unchanged by the years. She was nearing forty now and didn't pretend to be much younger than she was, a trait not uncommon among noble ladies. But Sansa was never even a coquette. She bore her age with grace and dignity, as she would do when she'd be seventy. There were lines on her face – left by the tumultous life she had had; she was no longer a young naive maiden but a mother of many and a respected lady at court, but Sandor found her just as breathtaking with the new appearance. Queen Liane might look much like Sansa did, but Sansa was Sansa, and no lines or years could change it. Her smile was still lovely, her voice still sweet. The little bird was not only alive, but happy and contented.
Sandor felt tears running down his cheeks. What great good had he done, truly? After all these years of suffering, he was blessed with such a wonderful sight.
Of course, there was Tyrion Lannister sitting right next to the little bird. Sandor felt a pang of old jealousy as he glanced towards him. King Daeron didn't lie: the marriage was now more than happy. Tyrion held Sansa's hand, they laughed together at some jests of his, they were surrounded by children. Why was it Tyrion and not him? Why did the Plague of Braavos spread? If it hadn't, Sansa would be sitting by Sandor's side, surrounded by his children. Well, minus the jests. Sandor was never good at joking.
He groaned and, taking one last look at the little bird, walked away with Stranger by his side. The ship was due to leave for the Summer Isles in the evening.
***
After boarding the ship, however, Sandor bethought himself. He had gotten more in his life than he ever deserved. He had met the little bird. He was loved by her once and still remained a warm memory. Of course, if not for the Plague, he could have been her husband... But, considering it – could he give her such a happy family? Even after the Quiet Isle, in the brief months of their blissful life in Braavos, he couldn't fully get rid of his Hound ways. Many times he scared Sansa, some times he even made her weep. He didn't know how to live up to the perfection that was her. And the children... what could they be? The Clegane men were always nothing but cruel, harsh and merciless. What if their son would be Gregor reborn?
Instead, Sansa's son is Aemon the Dragonknight reborn.
The jealousy and anger died down. The years on the Quiet Isle and later those in the Summer Sea did him good. The image of the little bird's liveliness and happiness rose up again in his mind. What right had he to complain about not being her husband, when only a week ago he thought her long dead?
"I'm glad I came here," Sandor told his stallion, stroking his nose. "We saw the little bird, didn't we? After all, the dwarf's not the worst she could get, considering everything I've heard and saw."
Unexpectedly, his namesake came to see him off.
"We told the little ones to keep quiet about you," he said. "All of us were dead serious. Liane told them Mother's heart would break if they spoke a word, and I think they comprehended it."
"Thank you," Sandor said, smiling genuinely for the first time in years. "Lest I forget, you were rather careless in the melee. A good sword is fine, but mind your shield as well. Sometimes it looked like it was an annoyance to you, and had it been a battle, you could have been butchered. Whom do you practice with?"
"Ser Jaime taught me, when he was alive, then Lady Brienne, and Daeron, of course."
"His Grace is a born warrior no doubt, but he's younger and even less experienced than you, and the Tarth girl is too impulsive. You should ask your aunt Arya to find a good water dancer to teach you. They're truly good. The last one I've heard of knocked several of the Kingsguard unconscious with a wooden sword."
"It's a pity you can't practice with me," the young man said. "Thank you, ser."
Ser again... But Sandor had long stopped to mind it.
"Nothing to thank me for. You have the potential to become an excellent warrior, boy. I would have told you to send my greetings to your lady mother but I can't."
"You are going back to Sothoryos?"
"Aye. Stranger and I are used to living there. I doubt I'll ever return again. If any of you need urgent help, ask the Summer Islanders for the Scarred Hermit. But I don't think such an occasion will arise."
Sandor the younger shook his hand with respect:
"Farewell, ser. May your journey be good."
"Farewell to you. Make sure your mother's well cared for."
He was certain of it. The little bird, he knew it, had all the care she needed. Everything she lacked during her first stay in the capital.
The Path of Sunlight slowly left the harbor, bound south. Sandor the former Hound stood on deck, watching King's Landing grow smaller. Sandor the celebrated knight stood on the coast, thinking about this quiet ageing man, as different from their father as could be imagined, who so fiercely loved their mother and was once loved by her.
But he didn't remain there for long. His parents' past was not his to judge and dwell on, and he didn't want to dwell on any past on this day, to be honest. He walked back to the Keep and thought of the future, of the feast about to begin tonight, of the wedding scheduled to take place in two moon's turns, of Miraene Grafton's bright brown eyes.