He had not expected such a greeting. He had been travelling on his own rootless path for so long that he hardly remembered anymore what it was to return to somewhere. It certainly hadn't been the place of his birth. He'd had to bend down a bit so that she could reach him fully; and he closed his eyes in those few moments of her embrace, in the haven of her. This is what he imagined it would feel like, returning home.
She recognized him at once. He looked so grand, entering Winterfell's gates, riding in at the head the party accompanying Jon, wrapped in a heavy cloak with a fur pelt at the shoulders. His expression was hard and stern as always; but in his eyes there was a gentleness as he looked at her, as she'd always remembered there could be. She knew that he would have respected Brienne of Tarth as a warrior greatly for besting him in combat, a worthy opponent; but Sansa herself had not cared for it, and it had caused her concern. The stable hands came to look after Stranger and take him to the stables after Sandor had dismounted, and after all she had been through, she no longer cared what anyone thought; and everyone would be so caught up in the excitement of Jon's return that they'd scarcely notice anyway.
"You look well, Ser Sandor." she told him, smiling.
"Lady Winterfell." He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.
She knew that he had said many times that he was no Ser, did not believe in it; but that was who he was to her, and who he would always be.