A/N: English isn't my natural language, so, I'll appreciate if you help me to improve it. Thanks.
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Sandor loosened his horse's reins as he caught a sight of the Winterfell's walls, even though he had been there before, which now seemed to have been a lifetime ago, remained an impressive sight. A keep that seemed to be shaped from the same snow that covered it, seeming to strengthen with the snow that fell over it instead of succumbing to. As he approached, he could distinguish the new stones that had replaced the lost in the last attacks, as well as the new wood from which the gate was made.
"Someone is been working hard around here". He grunted as he crossed the gate and saw that the work continued in the courtyard, where every man, woman, or child seemed to be occupied with something.
"It seems Jon's substitute has led the North with an iron fist". The dwarf replied at his side while nodded at the people who staring at him suspiciously.
"Substitute"?
"His sister".
"Arya"? He turned to the dwarf without understanding. "I doubt the she wolf"...
"No, not Arya, Lady Sansa". He said with his eyes fixed on a point in front of him.
On the last step of the staircase leading to the castle's great hall, an auburn figure looked at them closely - straight backs and hands joined in front of her body, no smile, a legitimate, well-born lady who knew well the power she had. Behind her two guards wearing full armor and armed with spears and swords waiting for a signal to strike if necessary.
Sandor felt his mouth dry, and for a moment, he forgot where he was and what he was doing. It was she, older and taller, without the childish features of the image he kept in his mind, but the same Sansa Stark he had not forgotten for a day. The horse bucked beneath his body, taking him from his reverie, and shook its head, complaining of the way Sandor pulled his reins. Loosening his grip, he resumed his way slowly, staying back, so focused on the lady waiting for his brother to dismount from the horse that he almost missed the blur that passed beside her heading toward the King of the North. The little she wolf. The corner of his mouth curled at seeing her, she looked nothing like the dirty, angry little animal that had abandoned him to die years before, but she was alive, which was more than he could tell of many people he had met. His eyes returned to the auburn figure. Unlike Jon, she showed no reaction at the reunion of her brothers, and when the moment of euphoria passed, she received him with a hug that was only a little warmer than the falling snow.
As the others Jon called from "his companions", Sandor was led to the salon of Winterfell where he was received by the heat of half a dozen fireplaces and a bowl of hot broth and freshly baked bread. No wine, he mourned, but he ate all the broth and even licked his fingers so nothing was lost, the dead were on their way, and he did not know how many other decent meals he would have until those shitty creatures arrived. Sandor did not see any of the Starks that day, but he heard around that the crippled boy, Bran, was also there, back to his ancestral home after spending a long time on the north side of the Wall - how a crippled boy and a skinny girl managed not only to go, but coming back from there was a mystery he had no desire to unravel.
At night, already settled in one of the castle's chambers in a soft bed with warm covers, Sandor succumbed to exhaustion and slid easily into a deep sleep so heavy that he almost missed his door being opened. As fast as he could in his lethargic state, he grabbed the dagger he always kept under his head while sleeping.
"That will not be necessary." A whisper went through the darkness.
He knew that voice, but the tone was not the same one he remembered, it was more subdued, more restrained, more mature.
"What the hell are you doing here?" He asked as he sat on the bed, his covers sliding down his body, making him wince as he felt the cold touch his skin.
She did not answer at once, going to the little fireplace and turning the embers to revive them; when she seemed satisfied with her work, threw a new piece of wood that began to burn slowly. Turning toward him, Sansa removed the hood that hid her face - seeing her so close after so many years made him think he was still dreaming, and, for the first time in many years, it was a dream he did not want to escape.
"Wanted to see you."
"Why?"
"The last time I heard about you, I was told you were dead." They got silent for a moment, until she added, "It's good to know you are not."
"I thought you were dead too."
She laughed, a sound devoid of humor but full of bitterness.
"Apparently I'm made of a stronger material than many believed, even me."
The silence fell on them again, but though dense, it was not uncomfortable. Sansa turned again to the fireplace, and the flames, lit up her face. With her gaze fixed on the fire, her features seemed to be carved in stone, and if it were, she would be the most beautiful statue ever seen by him. However there was something else, something he could not name, but that made the hairs on his arm bristle, not in a good way.
"I need to get back." She spoke suddenly, already heading for the door. "Have a good night, sir." She finished without looking at him and sneaked out the door.
"What the fuck was that?" He swore before he lay down again, the sleep replaced by confusion. What did she want from him anyway?
The night turned into day before he could find an answer.