Dark wings, dark words. That's how the bloody proverb goes.
The month before their departure to King's Landing passed quicker than Sandor could believe. Each night Sandor laid abed with Sansa, soaking in the sight and comfort of her after their lovemaking, and knew they were one day closer to leaving this home of theirs to march south towards another bloody war.
His fractures and the other injuries he sustained from the battle against the Others and his brother continued to recover over the month; he was now able to walk on both legs, although much slower than he used to. His ribs no longer throbbed after taking a deep breath or coughing and he no longer felt incapable of performing his duties as a husband in bed. However, the scars, breaks, and tears would last with him for the rest of his life, much like the ones that lived on the left side of his face.
What are more scars to me? I can hardly remember a life without them.
The morning before departing for King's Landing, Sandor sat behind the desk in the temporary solar. Many of the younger boys and older, feeble, men would stay behind and continue working on rebuilding the main tower as the others headed towards the war; it would take the span of their trip to and from King's Landing before Winterfell recovered from that undead dragon. Sitting beside the window with his arms crossed over his chest and eyes closed, Sandor waited for his wife to return from meeting with her younger brother in the godswood.
When the door opened, he opened his eyes with an eagerness. It was not Sansa but the maester, shuffling his feet with haste.
"Your Grace," the old man greeted cautiously.
Gods, I'd love to see the Imp react to that courtesy. He'd shit himself from laughter.
"What is it?" Sandor muttered, leaning his head back against his chair with disinterest.
"Uh...Your Grace...we received a raven, a parchment…" he mumbled.
"Bring it here, then," he commanded, holding his hand out towards the maester.
"Uh...yes, here, Your Grace." He placed the thin parchment into Sandor's palm. Once the letter was in his hand, Sandor did not stir to read it. "Your Grace...I believe it is of dire importance and should be opened straight away."
"Haven't you already read it?" Sandor grumbled. "Isn't that what you maesters do?"
"Not this one, Your Grace. The seal...the wax...it has no sigil," he explained. Sandor's curiosity sparked at that. He straightened himself in the chair and looked at the parchment in his hand.
A black seal with no sigil. It can't be the Night's Watch. There is no bloody Night's Watch, not anymore.
"Leave," Sandor ordered the old man.
"Your Grace," the maester bidded apprehensively, scurrying out of the solar.
Dark wings, dark words.
Before Sandor could peel the wax seal, the door swung open again.
When his eyes met the entrance he saw that, once again, it was not Sansa, but her little sister.
"What's that?" Arya asked him, chewing on an apple while making her way to sit across from him at the desk.
"Mind your fucking business," he rasped. Sandor inspected the black seal again and felt troubled about the unknown contents of the letter . When he looked up at the girl sitting across from him unusually silent, he saw that her curiosity was sparked, too, dropping the apple into her lap at the sight of the unfamiliar seal.
"Open it!" she shouted.
"Hush, girl!" he yelled back.
Sandor broke the seal from the parchment and unrolled it across the desk slowly. When the words appeared in the form of a poem, he felt his heart pause. Dark wings, dark bloody words.
What does the wolf do when the dog is not looking?
A wolf red of hair meets a scarecrow red of hair.
What happens when the wolf is struck by lightning?
The Lord of Corpses impregnates her, before he must fare.
Your proof awaits you where you should have died.
The mêlée with the little sister of your whorish bride.
"Seven hells, what is taking you so long? Can't you read? Give it to me." Arya leaned across the desk to reach for the parchment.
"Bugger off," he growled. Sandor read the words another five times before a sickness overtook him, prompting him to lean towards the floor as if he might vomit. Arya took the opportunity to seize the parchment from the desk and ran across the solar with it. "Bring that back here!" he muttered breathlessly.
Arya stared at the letter in silence, furrowing her brow as she read the words until it was clear that the meaning had come to her. She immediately crumbled the parchment into her hands and stared at Sandor wide eyed. "No," was all she said.
Scarecrow, red of hair, lightning, Lord of Corpses...all references to Beric Dondarrion. The wolf, red of hair, Sansa. The dog, me. The lord...red of hair...impregnates her...
Sandor rose slowly from his chair. "Give me the fucking letter."
"Are you a fool?" Arya spat. "This is a trick! Sansa would never-" she paused.
Bloody fucking hells, even she is considering the possibility. The possibility that my little bird was taken by Beric fucking Dondarrion behind my back...we named our son after him. No, she named our son after him...
His right leg nearly buckled underneath him as he stepped to open the window, letting in the soft morning snow and fresh frigid air into the solar. "Oh gods," he groaned.
"My sister was a maiden before you," Arya explained. "I have heard and caught you two fucking more times than I can count. When would she have ever had the time for anyone else? Someone would have seen her," she pointed out, but there was something in the tone of her voice that made him grow increasingly uneasy.
Sandor could not manage a response. He hated himself for even considering such a thing from a woman like Sansa. The impossible idea that she took Beric for a lover. He delivered my son, or was it…
"Sandor," she sighed. "Even if she did, Beric is dead. You know she loves you, and you trust her, don't you?" Arya's demeanor became sullen once she posed the question.
'They're all liars here, and every one better than you.' That's what I said to her when she was no older than a child. What did that fucking Imp say? Sansa knows what to say, knows what to do, to keep her motives a secret...
Sandor shook his head to interrupt the revolting thoughts. Sansa would never lie to me. 'A hound will die for you, but never lie to you.' That's what I told her. She knows I would never lie to her, so why would she ever lie to me?
"Aye, I trust her," he finally broke his silence.
Perhaps I should have never trusted him. He sacrificed his own life for her. Why would he do that? I thought he did it because he knew I loved her, because she was the Lady of Winterfell. But, what if he did it because he loved her? Because he had her? When he kissed her, it looked so natural for him, didn't it? I was enraged at the sight, watching his lips meet hers, and all because it appeared too fucking natural.
Sandor collapsed back into the chair, covering his face with his hands in disbelief, and mumbled, "That bloody fucking bastard."
"Don't think about it, and don't mention it to her," Arya advised him. "This letter was sent for you and Sansa to become at odds with one another. Someone does not want the new King and Queen in the North to have a long reign," she added.
Like the dragon bitch, he thought. Was she the one behind this letter?
"It would have to be someone with connections inside this castle, if the claims are true. How else would they know such things...how I nearly died at that buggering Crossroads Inn with you." ' Where you should have died, the mêlée with the little sister of your whorish bride ', he repeated in his head. "How many people can know that? Then again, all fools know how to gossip and spread secrets," he pounded the desk with his fist.
"I will ask the maester who has sent ravens as of late. However, it is not difficult to send off a message without his knowing," she frowned.
"I love your sister more than anything," his voice shook. "Even if this were true, I would still love her," and become bloody suicidal. "If I just ask her-"
"No!" she shouted. "If you imply that she was fucking Beric and had his child instead of yours, how do you think she will react? It will not matter if there was a parchment or if it were me who planted the idea in your head. She will not just take offense when you ask, proving that you do not trust her. It will destroy you two, don't you get that? Seven hells, you are stupid," she muttered under her breath. "There's no reason to learn the truth. If it happened, it happened. If not, even better. What will finding out the truth of this bring you?" she asked him.
Everything, he thought. Not knowing the truth of this buggering poem will drive me mad. And how will that not destroy us all the same?
"Give me the parchment," he ordered her. Arya shook her head and made for the brazier, tossing it into the flames. Sandor ignored the pain in his leg as he rose from the chair to pull the letter out, reaching inside only to pull away in terror once the flames kissed his skin. "You little bitch!"
"We can't have this parchment get into the wrong hands. Sansa cannot know and more importantly, her men cannot know. Maybe you are too thick in the head to understand, but these men declared Sansa their queen and will march south on her orders to aid Daenerys because of Sansa's honor, her loyalty, and her devotion to her family, even to a miserable shit like you. If these same men learn she was unfaithful, mothering a bastard and burying him in the crypt of Winterfell which is solely reserved for Starks...I do not think it to be good for her," she shuddered. A moment of silence passed between them before she stared at Sandor wide eyed again. "That is what they want," she whispered. "Whoever sent this did not do it out of respect for you."
"Of course not, you little twat," he grunted, supporting his weight against the wall beside the brazier.
"As I said before, the only reason someone would send this to you is to divide you and Sansa. If your army were to learn of this, why would they risk their lives to fight for Daenerys if they no longer respect Sansa or her demands? They would turn back North. This letter has to be from someone on Cersei's side, someone who doesn't want the North and our allies to aid Daenerys in the next war," she suggested.
"Or," he sighed. "Maybe it's her idea. Perhaps the dragon bitch hopes we do not come. If we failed to show up, would she not be justified in demanding that Sansa and I bend the knee? After we chose not to help win her fucking throne?"
"The Crossroads Inn," Arya muttered, ignoring his words. "It's on our way to King's Landing. No, this is a fucking trap, I can smell it. What proof could they have anyways? And even if they did, why would they just give it to you? They wouldn't," she reasoned. "They would demand something from you before that proof is provided and I bet it's to send your men back here."
"So, to know the truth of this shite, I would need to send back our army, fail to assist the Targaryen bitch in winning her chair, submit to bending the knee after all these bloody Northmen have declared otherwise, becoming not only hated by them but by my own wife." Sandor threw his head back against the wall in frustration.
"Or, you don't learn the truth of it at all, Sandor," Arya proposed. "Worse things happen everyday."
For others maybe, but not me. Sansa is all I have. She is the only person who I have ever loved in this gods forsaken world, other than my son...who might not even have been my son...how do I live in peace with her without knowing the truth? Is that why her brother saw Sansa have a girl when she had my child? Is it because the boy was not mine? Is that why that fucking lightning lord smirked over the camp fire traveling back from the Wall? Had he known she was pregnant, because of him? What role did I play in all of this unless I was just a tool to kill my brother.
"Tell me," he lifted his eyes towards her. "What do you believe?"
Arya shifted uncomfortably before releasing a deep breath. "I don't know," she admitted. "I was in denial when she told me that she loved you. I could not believe it." She gave him an apologetic glance and shifted beside the brazier again. "She does love you though. That should be enough for you. Before this, you never questioned her loyalty. Don't start now."
"Speak no more of this," he said. "Not even to that bastard Gendry you are so fond of." Sandor struggled to stand up before returning to the desk. "We have a long, brutal road ahead of us beginning tomorrow. Go." For once, Arya did not sneer at his orders and left the solar without a single fuss. Sandor sat in the chair, staring at the brazier that had burned the troubling message into oblivion.
A long, brutal road ahead of us beginning tomorrow, he thought. And on the way, the Crossroads Inn.