AUTHOR NOTES:
Modern AU set in one of the many medieval villages that fill Castile (Spain). Sansa and Sandor are aged up and this is not Westeros, so they'll probably be OOC but hey, we are here for the fun! Though our protagonists are chased by ghosts of their pasts, I like to think that this is a feel good fic, so it'll also be full of friendship, learning, romance, feelings and fluff, all set in the hauntingly beautiful wheat and sunflower fields that cover the landscape of the land where I grew up.
Sansa is 24 and Sandor is 35.
Invernalia is the Spanish name for Winterfell
This will be a slow burn, so please be patient!
Pictures and visual references of this story can be found on Archiveofourown.
Beta-edited by KITAMERE
Comments are very much wellcome! ^.^
See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken
But I swear in the days still left
We'll walk in fields of gold
We'll walk in fields of gold
Fields of gold, Sting
PROLOGUE
"FOR SALE"
The big sign is clearly visible from afar, hanging lazily from one of the balconies on the façade of the ancient Stark House, the one next to the big stone shield with the family sigil. Sandor stopped the engine of his old van at a safe distance a few minutes ago. He hasn't been able to take his eyes off the white and red letters of the sign since he entered the street that leads to the Main Square, nor off the white A3 Audi parked just in front of the heavy wooden main door. He knows no one from the village owns a car like that; and even if that were the case, no one would dare to park it right there. He'd like to believe it belongs to some of the tourists who usually come on the weekends, guidebook in hand, to visit the medieval village or to climb to the castle, looking for a place to breathe fresh air and relax far from the noisy city - if it wasn't a Monday. And there is also that damned sign already hanging on that rail in the house.
He realizes it's been at least four years since the last time someone opened that door, the day of the funeral of Ned and Catelyn - the last time someone of the Stark family was ever seen in Invernalia. The stately mansion has been closed since then, gathering dust and oblivion, its façade a symbol of other times, of the silence of a village about what happened there right in under their noses. However, that was a lifetime ago, and people have forgotten. They went on with their lives of lies and routines without looking back, without a single question - the Stark's names pronounced in whispers in case anyone dares to mention any of them. Sandor hasn't forgotten. How could he when certain incidents - a certain person - still resist leaving his mind, making him regret each one of the choices he made back then? He has often wondered if time and hard work would help him to have some peace, although, as he finally takes his eyes off the wheel and lifts his gaze to the window again, he realizes that the answer is no. He might forget at some point, but that time still isn't now. It's been four years since something noteworthy happened in that bloody village suspended in the midst of time - ancient history holding onto modern times with its stone family houses, its stone pavement, its twelfth-century stone church and its ruined stone castle watching all over them. Four years for them, for the others. Because for him it's been almost six since the last time he waited under that same window in this same van - it was new back then - for her to open that door, rain drumming its nightmarish rhythm on the van's roof in a land where a drop of water hardly ever falls. He waited then like he is now, for hours, staring up at that bloody balcony like an idiot, waiting for some kind of stupid miracle that never happened, in what was probably the biggest act of foolishness of his life. In the end, he started the engine, stepped on the accelerator and left Invernalia without looking back. When he finally had to return many months later she was no longer there, and he is still wondering if that was for good or not.
It's the second week of September; an incredible hot summer is about to end and wheat harvest time is coming. The news of the Stark House for sale will soon be the talk among the gossipy neighbors. Well, at least they'll finally have something new to talk about, Sandor snorts. Something is going to change, he can feel it in his bones, though he doesn't still knows if he wants it, if he even needs it or if he has been waiting for it for six endless empty years.
He starts the car again and speeds off, the noisy engine breaking the usual calm of the village in the mornings. When he passes in front of the main door of the house, it seems as if the wolf sigil of the Starks is mocking him from its privileged position on the facade, its jaw fiercely open, fighting an unknown danger - uncaring to how Sandor's old wounds are slowly opening again.