He knew he should have expected his glove to rip. The yarn had been growing thin again. No matter how strong Sansa – Lady Stark's – stitches were each time she repaired them, it was only a matter of time before he wore through them. Since the third year of winter started, though, they seemed to need fixing more often. The ground had frozen halfway through the second year. The last of the injured from Saltpans had either died or left long before then, so it made not matter to him. Instead he'd helped with needed maintenance work to the buildings on the island. Until an illness came.
It was the old that caught it first, brothers who had seen too many winters to last another. Then men in their prime and young novices caught it. Sandor had caught the disease and was forced to live in the infirmary for a fortnight. His blood had boiled, but his skin froze. Now, almost a year later, he hardly remembered what he had dreamed; only that fire had been involved. And he had woken weak. That was the worst of it. For days after he could hardly walk from his cell to the dining hall, let alone break through the frozen ground to dig graves for those who didn't make it through. But so many died there was nowhere to keep the bodies until spring. So he began digging graves again. It was slower and harder than in the autumn and the shovel wore through his gloves.
Lady Stark never complained about mending them, though. The first few times, she nearly had to pry the gloves from his hands when she saw how thin they were. He knew the gloves were not meant as a special gift; she had made a pair for every man on the Quiet Isle. But she had been the one to make them, the one to repair them when they were threadbare. The disappointment of having damaged them again made him feel foolish. But for now he had work to do. There was a grave to dig.
Sandor's thoughts turned to the dead brother. He hardly knew the man, which was to be expected from a silent order. What he did know was the man's first thought on seeing a great black horse come to the isle was to hitch a plow to the beast in an attempt to sow one last harvest before winter. In return, Stranger had broken the man's leg. The bone had never set correctly, shattered in two places as it was. Along with a limp painful to watch, the brother acquired an infection he never fully recovered from. After three years, he finally succumbed in the night. Sandor spared the late brother a few thoughts. It wasn't his fault a warhorse lived up to its training.
"At last Brother Rawney may be at peace."
Sandor raised his head at the Elder Brother's words. It hardly surprised him anymore that the man could move so quietly. Instead, he placed his shovel to the side and carefully reached for Brother Rawney's feet. The Elder Brother instantly bent to grasp the shoulders. As one, they lifted and moved the corpse into the fresh grave. The holy man gave the sign of the seven as Sandor began to refill the grave.
"Allow me." That did surprise him. The Elder Brother reached for the shovel. "Hard work will do me some good. Perhaps a visit to Mother Joy would also do some good."
Sandor nodded and reluctantly relinquished the shovel. It appeared his glove would get mended today after all. Marching up the hill, he kept his hands tucked under his arms and his shoulders hunched against the cold. He could feel his teeth painfully chattering by the time he reached the door in the hill. He reached to open the door, then thought better of it. He knocked a little harder than he intended, but still waited, shivering.
As the door opened, heat seeped out to him. He closed his eyes a moment, felt his face start to warm again. It made his jaw itch, but he kept himself from scratching, knowing he would only find bone. Instead, Sandor opened his eyes. For a moment, he locked gazes with Sansa. After a pair of heartbeats, he bowed.
"Lady Stark."
He was not prepared when she suddenly leapt into his arms. He caught her, but his leg did not. He pivoted the best he could and landed on his back in a snow patch, Sansa sprawled across him. When she started giggling, he could only stare in confusion. This was the first time he had seen a proper smile on her in far too long. She hadn't been nearly this merry when they ran, too frightened they would be found and caught. Nor had her eyes sparkled so much the day of the bastard king's coronation, when she had stayed back to celebrate as one of the smallfolk. Each memory was laced through with pain and bitterness. Had he ever seen her so happy with the world?
"He's alive," she rasped between giggles. Lady Stark climbed off him and rose, holding her hand out to him. Sandor helped himself up. "Come inside, I'll show you." She grasped his hand and pulled, clearly eager.
In the Hermit Hole, he sat heavily on the bed and propped his aching leg along the length. It did not bode for him well if one enthusiastic woman was able to nearly cripple him. He was worth nothing as a soldier if he couldn't keep his ground.
"Here." She thrust a small, water stained paper into his hands. "A raven must have gotten caught in a storm and died before it could reach the intended recipient. But read it."
Sandor tried to obey. Much of the ink had bled across the paper. Only three words remained even remotely legible and those still blurred: "found Rickon Stark." The handwriting was scratchy, as though written by a child, but more care had been put into those words than a child normally displayed. An adult, then, just barely learning his letters. He remembered as a boy seeing his grandfather's old papers and marveling at how they seemed to share a hand. Only as he grew and gained practice did he realize his grandfather was only barely literate. But the same care was in the writing of those papers as in these three words. Sandor looked up, waiting for an explanation.
"We thought Rickon and Bran dead, remember?" Sansa spoke breathlessly, as though the words had to be said quickly in order to be true. "Theon Greyjoy had killed them. Or made us think he had killed them. But somehow they lived. Rickon was in hiding somewhere and he lives." She gave the tiniest bounce on the last word, as though she wanted nothing more than to dance for joy.
"Who found him, my lady, and when?"
For only a breath did she seem to deflate, but she became more resolute than ever. "It does not matter." She took the paper from him. She stared at it, perhaps looking for any other information on the last of her family. "If it is an enemy then we will fight for his freedom. If we are too late, then we will have our vengeance. If it was an ally, we will thank them and continue this alliance."
"Whomever found him knows your brother's the new king of the north now that the young wolf is dead. And he's barely a babe –"
"Eight." Sansa interrupted. "He's eight." She looked away, towards the ceiling, and blinked rapidly. "I have not seen my brother in five years. He will have no memory of me."
"He's young enough for whomever has him to use him. They can declare a regency, take control of the north in your brother's name. If you walk into that, they'll either see you as a threat to their power or you'll be another tool to use."
"Or they are an ally, defending and protecting the North in Rickon's name."
Sandor let out a breath of air. How could he ever think she would quit believing in stories of knights and valor? "Or they might be on your side," he conceded reluctantly. "We need to know which before we can do anything."
She began digging through papers on the Elder Brother's desk. "I was not meant to know any of this, but Roose Bolton's bastard was legitimized after Robb's death. I know they are not to be trusted. The Boltons held Winterfell, but just before winter, Stannis Baratheon gathered an army of Northmen to attack. If the mountain clans are behind him, then surely he is the ally. If Lord Bolton has, or had, my brother, King Stannis would not let him die." At last, she pulled another small paper from the pile, no bigger than what a rave could carry. "Here. At least one raven was sent to the crannogmen by clan leaders calling them to join."
Sandor glanced through the paper as he took it. It said exactly as she claimed: signed by "The Flint," it called for "The Reed" to gather his swampmen and meet King Stannis at the gates of Winterfell to remove Roose Bolton and his bastard.
"Winter started three years ago. A lot can change in that time." Lady Stark handed him another small paper. This one was nearly as water damaged as the one that started her excitement and said only "hold Winterfell." "This means nothing, little bird. It could even be a missive to Bolton, not from Stannis." When she had no answer, he looked up, quizzical.
"It has been three years since you last called me that."
Sandor thought over his words, trying to figure out what he said, then looked away. "Forgive me, my lady."
Small hands, once soft but now dry and starting to callus from work, turned his face to hers. "I missed it." She pressed her lips to his forehead. "I know it is difficult, that I have no solid evidence for any of this but please," she rested her head against his, "please believe me. My brother is alive and safe. Stannis is my ally. He has Winterfell. He will not abuse Rickon's power. I cannot explain how I know, but I do."
He didn't know how he could believe her certainty. What she showed him was too weak to go to war over. But her faith was too unshakable to argue. "I believe you. Your brother lives. But we need to know how safe it is to get you to Winterfell, before we can just ride off." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue but he was nonetheless rewarded with a chaste kiss to his lips.
"Thank you."
