A/N: Not exactly sure why this idea came to me, but it did, so I ran with it. This isn't my favorite of the ones I've written, but I think it turned out alright for what I was intending, so it ended up here anyway. Thank you to magnus374 and tini243 for reviewing 'Long Distance Lovers', and I hope that anyone reading this enjoys this chapter as well.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to George R. R. Martin.
Rating: T for some language.
The first time he saw her, he thought she was a ghost. He had turned away from the half-dug grave before him for just a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow when he caught a glimpse of fiery red hair. When he blinked again, it was gone.
The second time, he knew. He awoke from a nightmare to see a figure in the corner, and when he got up and reached for her fleeing form, his hand slipped through the space that her arm inhabited.
The next morning he went to Elder Brother and did what he had somehow managed not to in the time that he had been at the Quiet Isle. He asked for news from the outside world.
After hearing about the growing army of the Dragon Queen and the death of Tywin Lannister, he heard what he had most feared. Sansa Stark had disappeared the night of Joffrey's wedding and had resurfaced months later in the Eyrie as the bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish. Her true identity had only been revealed after her death, when she had been thrown from the infamous Moon Door by a jilted young bard who had been swiftly executed for his crime. Lord and Lady Baelish were said to still be in mourning.
When she appeared next, she didn't try to run. He had a feeling that she had heard what Elder Brother had told him and knew that he was aware of her death. She was sitting at the edge of an unfinished grave he had started the night before, swinging her pale legs and staring intently at the pile of dirt.
He almost veered away from his path when he saw her, but with a deep breath, he steeled his nerves and continued walking. She looked up when he arrived and bent to retrieve his shovel, giving him a small almost nervous smile. If he was correct in his assumption, she was just as wary about their reunion as he was.
Neither of them spoke a word as he worked, but when the sun had risen high in the sky and she still remained silent, he broke his vow. If talking to a spirit could be considered such.
"Why are you here, little bird? You...you're..." She met his gaze expectantly and he shrugged his broad shoulders in defeat. "Dead."
She looked sad as she nodded, then tapped her throat. Not understanding, he furrowed his brow and shook his head. Frowning, she looked up at him with a heavy pout and then wrapped her slender fingers around her neck, miming being choked before throwing herself into the grave between them. He instinctively lurched forward to prevent her fall, but his hand swiped empty air as she reappeared at her starting point with an amused smile.
So she couldn't speak. His heart fell at the thought. As much as his nickname for her had started to mock her, he had grown to enjoy and almost miss the soft sound of her chirping. A sound he would never hear again. "The bard had to choke you to death and throw you out that damned Moon Door, eh? Bastard."
She seemed perturbed by his words, but, unable to speak, she couldn't explain her discomfort. Instead, she turned away and stared down into the grave, her hands folded in her lap. Unsure of what else to say, he lapsed back into silence and after a few hours, she got up and wandered off, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
The next day she joined him again, carefully exploring the graveyard as he worked. When she finally settled again, sitting down on the ground and absently running her hand through the growing pile of earth, he spoke.
"I traveled with your sister for a while, you know." At the mention of Arya, her head jerked up and her bright, Tully blue eyes grew wide. "Stole her, really," he amended, scuffing his bare feet in the dirt. "I was going to bring her to your mother, but then..." He trailed off and Sansa looked away, her lower lip quivering. Wanting nothing more than to erase the expression of pain on her beautiful features, he hastily continued. "I was going to take her to your Aunt, in the Eyrie." When he saw the first tear slide down her pale cheek, he realized his mistake. He had been so close to her. He could've saved her. But again, he had simply left her behind.
"In the end all I got for it was an infection. Your sister left me to die, you know. If Elder Brother hadn't found me in time, I think I would've. Would I have had to wander through Westeros like you are if I had or would I have gone straight to the deepest of the Seven Hells?"
Sansa frowned at him but shrugged. She didn't seem to know why she was there in a purgatory of sorts rather than in the heavens that the priests of the Seven preached about. He found that he didn't really care to know. She was there, that's what mattered. And just as beautiful as she had been in life, even more so now that she was a woman grown.
"Do you remember the night of the Blackwater?" She looked away when he asked, but nodded, absently running a finger across her lips. He sighed. "I should've taken you with me. It's my fault you're dead. If I had forced you to come with, you never would've been married to the Imp, or taken by Littlefinger, and you'd still be alive now."
At his admission of guilt, she raised her head again, a deep frown pulling at her lips. Rising, she shook her head and walked over to him, resting one of her pale hands against his arm. He couldn't feel the pressure, but the sudden drop in temperature at the spot where her fingers lay made him shiver in surprise. For a moment she simply stared sadly up at him before pulling away and miming throwing a cloak over her shoulders and using it to ward off an imaginary chill.
He was surprised that she remembered. "Aye. I left you my cloak. It was ruined anyway. And I was done with that life." When she kept her hands tucked inside the invisible cloak that her actions had conjured to mind, an expectant look on her face, he frowned. "You kept it?"
She smiled brightly and nodded, happy that he had understood. He ignored the old feelings that rose in his chest at the thought of her wrapped in his bloodstained Kingsguard cloak and gave a noncommittal shrug as he continued shoveling. "The one good thing I ever did for you."
With his face turned to the grave, he couldn't see her look of disbelief, and he jerked away when her icy fingers met his cheek, leaving behind the sting of her blow. She stood before him, teetering on the edge of the grave, her hands on her hips and a look of righteous fury on her petulant features.
He stared at her in disbelief then threw his hands in the air, raising his voice. "What, little bird?!"
Still scowling, she thrust her arms in his direction, revealing the undersides of each, pale and covered in bruises that would never fade. His anger cooled swiftly at the sight.
"Did that bard do this to you?"
Again, her expression shifted at the mention of her killer and she waved away the comment, gesturing toward her shoulders where the scars from her abuse at the hands of Joffrey's guards remained.
"I know," he growled. "I couldn't protect you."
Angrily, she shook her head and stomped one of her delicate feet against the ground. When she opened her mouth, he could see the words on her lips, though no sound accompanied them. 'You did! You were the only one who ever did!'
Unable to accept what she was saying, he turned and fled, slamming shut the heavy wooden door to his room and hoping that it would keep her at bay.
That night, his dreams were plagued with guilt. Memories of all the times that he had stood by and watched as Joffrey had her beaten. Of Arya, accusing him of the murder of that butcher's boy. Of Gregor, shoving his face into the coals. But mostly of Sansa, and the look of fear in her eyes when he had told her all the 'truths' of the world.
She was there when he woke, wrapped around him, her hands cooling the sweat on his brow as he cried and curled into her embrace. When he could speak again, his voice cracked with the emotion he had tried so desperately to hide for so long. "I'm sorry, little bird. I'm so sorry."
The cool touch against his chin made him raise his gaze and he saw everything in her eyes that she could not say. Don't be. You were always there for me. You couldn't have known what would happen. I've forgiven you. Forgive yourself.
The guilt festering in his heart since the night of the Blackwater had kept him from doing that for so long that he wasn't even sure if it was possible, but when she laid her hand against his burned cheek and pressed her lips to his, he knew that he could, if only because she had asked it of him.
And so it was, lying on his pallet, a brother of the Quiet Isle, that the Hound was finally laid to rest. As his anger and self-loathing ebbed away, so too did the woman that he had tried so hard to protect. Her purpose achieved, Sansa Stark was given the peace that she had sought, and though she never saw him again, she was never far from the gentled heart of the man that she had loved.