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The North was peaceful now, anyone could see it, especially a warrior like him, trained to sense any possible danger. There was none now. Only peace and joy as the new spring approached fast.
Sandor felt his throat clench. He didn't belong with this peace. He didn't expect it, or else he would have never come. A pity he didn't like turning back.
For four years he had lived in penance on the Quiet Isle, until he felt he would break if he spent there another day, not knowing a thing about the little bird. He failed to protect her. The dwarf failed to protect her. What had happened to her since then? Septon Meribald, the only link between the Isle and the rest of the world, had spoken little of the matters not concerning the Seven, and in any case the old man was two years dead. They heard of his death from some smith from Maidenpool who brought Meribald's Dog to the Isle.
Sandor sighed. He respected the septon greatly. Meribald had known everything from his confessions and used to tell him:
"One day you will find your little bird, be sure of it. When the first flowers of spring bloom, she will already be yours."
It used to calm him on the Isle, but now Sandor knew for certain that Meribald had been trying to do nothing but offer comfort. The first snowdrops were growing in the sunny plains of the Riverlands and even here and there in the North, but he was no closer to Sansa than he had been two or three years before.
A patrol with the sigil of House Flint of Widow's Watch stopped him.
"Who are you, entering the realm of Rickon Stark, King in the North?"
Rickon it is now, then. The former Hound recalled an unruly three-year-old boy in Winterfell, years ago. So he was the only one left. Sandor's heart twisted with a dull unbearable ache. Have some hope, he reminded himself. The Elder Brother used to say to him he should always hope. The little bird may be still alive. She's not to inherit if her male siblings live. She may be married, why, probably she's with the dwarf at the Rock.
"I am Terrin Erenford," he replied in the meantime, using the Elder Brother's name. After the massacres at Saltpans, his own name was far too dangerous. "I am but a traveler."
"Erenford?" the young Flint in charge raised his eyebrows. "You don't look like a riverland man, even with your helm on one can see it."
"Aye, you look a Northerner," another one joined in.
"Don't riverland lords ever wed Northern lords?" he asked. "Don't your people ever have Riverland looks?" he added, picturing to himself the flaming red hair and the blue eyes, so big, so naive, so lovely. "I thought it's a peaceful land now. Why are you suspicious all of a sudden?"
After some whispering, the Flints finally let him pass without further questions. Stranger galloped forward, and Sandor thought on what had taken place. Had he been the Hound still, he would have been disgusted by it. Not by the general suspicion, no, he was used to it enough. By these gallant knights. So bloody easy for them to be gallant and defend their homeland when there's nothing to defend it against.
Now he felt nothing but exhaustion. Always, everything the same. The war had ended, and the life hadn't changed at all.
The little bird doesn't need me one bit, if she's alive. Any fool can guess it. Well, since I'm already going North, I might just as well continue. The Night's Watch lacks good fighters.
He rode on, down the Kingsroad, and the further he rode, the more he was convinced the journey was a complete stupidity from the start. Sansa Stark had been scared to death of him and had nothing at all to thank him for. Well, except for that riot thing. But in the end it hardly made difference to her: she was spared by the commoners, but ended up in the dwarf's bed. Why would the little bird, the sweet and polite proper lady, want to meet the Hound, even a former one? She'd never want it. If she's alive... Cursing under his breath, Sandor forbade himself to think otherwise.
Winterfell, newly rebuilt and magnificent, came into view. There were several towers that hadn't been there before. One had a pitch-black roof, Sandor noticed.
He came to the gates and stopped there uncertainly. Every fiber in his miserable being was urging him to knock on the gates and ask about Sansa, with only the most firm part of his mind stopping him.
What harm can it bring, damn it?
He jumped off Stranger and simply banged on the gates, fearing his courage would fade if he hesitated.
A servant opened them and looked at him with obvious fright.
"I need to see Lady Sansa Stark," he said, not thinking anymore. "Is she here?"
"Lady Sansa?" the gatekeeper repeated. "Yes, she is, but she rarely wants to see anyone. But His Grace Rickon is here..."
"I don't want to speak with the boy."
"...And Lord Commander Jon, mayhaps he might be of help, His Grace calls him his Hand..."
"I. Need. To see. Lady. Sansa," Sandor said, stressing every word.
"A-all right, come on please, in here, ser," the servant mumbled.
Stranger was put into a stable, and the castle's steward walked Sandor to one of the towers. The one with the black roof.
"You should take off your helm," he said. "Lady Clegane only talks to people when she looks them straight into the eye."
She has grown wiser and braver, then... What?!
"Did you say Lady Clegane?" Sandor asked, suspecting a trick was being played on him.
"Aye," the steward also looked at him with increasing doubt.
"I thought she was married to Tyrion Lannister."
"She wasn't."
As he waited for the little bird outside, he considered two possibilities. Either he was going insane, or indeed someone had recognized him and decided to make a joke like this. I'll kill whoever had the idea. There are some taunts even a dog won't accept.
Finally, she appeared. Sandor felt his breath hitch. The little bird was now a woman, fully grown, her beauty and sweetness even greater than before. Her sky-blue eyes might have lost the innocence in them, but they continued to have the sincerity remaining in their look. Nothing of Cersei or Margaery, no soulless calculating glances... Her skin wasn't as purely white as before, indicating she had spent a lot of time outdoors, but somehow it made her even more charming than with the face and hands of a porcelain doll.
What struck him was her dress. She was clad in wide black robes that hid most of her figure, and had a horrible black hood on her head. Why would she do it? It didn't become her at all.
"Yes, m'lord, I'm at your service," she smiled, and Sandor broke down. He stood straight, despite the steward gesturing him to bow, and threw off his helm.
The little bird's hand flew to her mouth in pure astonishment. But almost instantly astonishment gave way to something different.
It was his turn to be shocked now, as Sansa gasped and threw herself in his arms, sobbing.
"You're alive! Oh, you're alive! I've always dreamed..." and further words were muffled by her happy tears.
Still understanding nothing, Sandor grasped her shoulders:
"Little bird."
She looked up at him. It's true. She doesn't fear anymore.
"What took you so long?" he was sure he heard a faint accusation in her voice. "I cried myself to sleep so many nights after Lady Brienne told me of your death. Where were you?"
"On the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother of that Isle found me as I lay feverish and took care of me. I was thinking of taking their vows, but," he smiled, for the first time in many years, "both he and Septon Meribald convinced me I'd never be a brother like them... because of you. You mattered most to me, all the time I've been there."
"The Quiet Isle?" Sansa exclaimed. "Oh, but I was... I was in the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon! To think of it! So close..." she buried her face in his neck, and he felt her tears spring anew.
For a few moments, Sandor said nothing, just reveling in the unexpected bliss of holding the little bird in his arms. Say it to her straight and clear, Septon Meribald's voice echoed in his mind. Don't frighten her anymore. He swallowed:
"I love you, little bird. I've loved you since I first saw you here in Winterfell."
She raised her moist face to his face again, her eyes shining:
"Sandor... Like in the songs, isn't it?"
"Yes," he confessed. "You win, little bird."
"I won because of you," she said, turning serious. "I wouldn't have been alive if not for you. I..." she blushed. "I dreamed of you. The dreams kept me alive when I thought I had nothing left."
Damn it! And I was digging graves on the Isle, thinking she hates me!
"I am sorry for this little deception," Sansa continued, still looking embarrassed. "About us being married. You see, I've read that the ancient Andal custom stated: if a man puts his cloak on a woman and kisses her, it's enough to consider them wedded for good. Well, I thought: what is the risk? It has all truly happened, as you remember." Kisses her? Little bird, you got confused somewhere on the way. "I had to annul my marriage to Tyrion somehow. My intact maidenhead wasn't argument enough for both Margaery and Daenerys, so I told first the one and later the other about you. Tyrion confirmed it when Daenerys asked. About the cloak, I mean. He remembered it, thankfully. Therefore, he and I have never been actually married, as Arya said you were certainly alive at the time of my wedding. After all the war has ended, I've lived in peace as your widow... never ceasing to hope... sent the patrols looking out for you..."
"Little bird," he repeated, scarcely believing it all. Septon Meribald's consolation came back to him. She will already be yours...
He thought on correcting her, telling her that he had never kissed her, but decided against it. Later, perhaps. Whatever she thought she remembered, it was a stroke of luck for him. He won't have to go through a wedding feast and a bedding, she won't have to convince her bannermen that her choice is wise.
She doesn't love you, his mind said. She only wanted freedom from the dwarf, and now she wants security...
But all Sandor's doubts were shattered as Sansa's gentle hand touched his scarred cheek:
"You'll have that song of yours," she whispered, a new seductive note audible in her silvery voice. "Tonight. I just want you to meet Jon and Rickon, and after that I'll sing for you as long as you want."
The look in her eyes, he thought, bewildered. Like the ones she gave the Knight of Flowers, only a thousand times more tender and sincere.
Then he thought: I can't believe I was seriously considering taking the black!
Then he thought, with a surge of possessiveness, as his lips touched hers: It's the truth now, little bird, not some product of your growing-up imagination. It's all the marriage ceremony I need.