Summary: Sandor seemed more serene and his permanent scowl was gone. She also noted shadows of silver in his cropped beard, and his hair, which had always been dark, had a few strands of grey at the temples. His face, although more tranquil, had deep lines etched into it on his forehead, in the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. Yes, he was older, but so was she, not the ignorant maiden she had been.

Sansa

He is back. He is here.

Those were the only thoughts racing through Sansa's mind as she walked back to the keep. Luckily Eddor didn't notice anything amiss and happily scooted away to follow the other boys.

She had chores to attend to and people to see but she cancelled everything, informing her maid she was not feeling well. She had held onto her composure in the yard, resorting for the first time in years to the harsh lessons she had learned in King's Landing, schooling her features not to give away the storm of emotions churning under her serene façade. When she was finally alone, and only then, she allowed herself to unravel. She sunk onto her bed and buried herself inside the blankets and furs, feeling a need to shut out everything. All she wanted was to be covered, hidden, protected from the world; she needed that to recover from the shock she had just received, like an animal crawling into its cave to lick its wounds.

He is back. He is not dead.

Sandor had told her he had been across the Narrow Sea. Had he also said that he had arrived in Westeros just a short time ago, that he had travelled directly to Winterfell? Sansa had difficulties remembering their discussion, the words he had spoken. Tears followed her attempts to relive their meeting, silently and softly.

He knows he has a son.

She hadn't had time to consider when Eddor had run to her, no time to reflect on whether it was wise or foolish to let Sandor know the truth. He had been stunned, it had been clear from the way he had stared at Eddor and herself. Why wouldn't he be? There had never been talk about his bastards in King's Landing, so it was unlikely he had ever fathered any children. For a moment she was worried about what Eddor had made of the situation. Had he noticed anything? He was only a young boy and had been so excited about his win and curious about the burned warrior. Surely he had not paid attention to the undercurrent of their brief meeting?

Suddenly she became anxious that Sandor would do as he had done earlier, all those years ago, and leave before she had a chance to talk to him. Yet he had said the words, promised to wait for her.

She tossed and turned, feeling sick. She had waited for so many years…for what? What would happen now? She was determined to leave no stone unturned in her pursuit to find out what had occurred that day such a long, long time ago. She had to close that chapter of her life once and for all, whatever the end result of her quest was. No more unanswered questions.

Sansa got up at early dusk, dressed simply and covered herself with an ordinary cloak. She rode to Wintertown by herself, but that was not unusual. She was known to visit the village every now and then to see healing women, to help a servant's family that had fallen on hard times or to deliver nameday gifts to the many babes named in her honour. The guards at the gate saluted her with respect, but peaceful times had lulled everyone into a feeling of security and they were content for her to go alone.

It had been easy to find him, a man of his size always being noticed. She had pulled the hood over her head when making her enquiry to the innkeeper, but the man had not shown any particular interest towards her person. Her heart started to race as she approached the door of his room.

The door opened and there he was. As tall and broad as she remembered, and the scars on his face as noticeable as ever. However, they did not intimidate her in the slightest. If anything, she looked at him with wonderment, astounded by how familiar his features still were to her. Over the years, when she had looked back at her time with him, his appearance had always been a fundamental part of it. She might have been forgiven for adjusting her memories over time, making his looks comelier and his behaviour more gallant, just for the sake of maintaining an idealised image of her first love. She had not done that, and seeing him now in flesh he looked as he did in her dreams.

Yet something was different. Sansa had noticed that in the morning, and in the room illuminated by the flickering light of many candles, she saw it anew. Sandor seemed more serene and his permanent scowl was gone. She also noted shadows of silver in his cropped beard, and his hair, which had always been dark, had a few strands of grey at the temples. His face, although more tranquil, had deep lines etched into it on his forehead, in the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. Yes, he was older, but so was she, not the ignorant maiden she had been. Suddenly she became conscious of her hips, heavier than before, and the faint lines she had recently noticed under her own eyes.

Sandor guided her towards a rickety chair next to a table, and seated himself in another opposite her, the flimsy seat creaking under his weight. She noticed his hands as they rested on the wooden surface, his calloused palms and long and graceful fingers. Strange that she had not thought of his hands for a long time, when seeing them now reminded her of how she used to be fascinated by how skilful and strong they were, doing all the tasks on their journey together. How gentle, when he had touched her.

Silence stretched between them.

"Why did you come back?"

"I am sorry I came back."

They both spoke at the same time, then stopped. After a while Sansa continued, seeing that Sandor seemed content to wait for her to talk first.

"Why did you come back?"

"I had to see that everything was well with you. I heard the song." Sandor appeared to be struggling for words and for a moment Sansa had the same feeling she had had once before, of being the stronger of them two. Mayhap she was, mayhap the man who had always loomed so large over her, first in real life and later in her memories, was but a fallible man who made mistakes like any other. Somehow the thought made her feel better and gave her confidence.

Sandor finally seemed to come to terms with what he wanted to say.

"I am much too late, years overdue, I know it. But I only heard it last year. I left immediately, but it took a long time to get here."

"You heard 'The little bird and the hound' across the sea?"

"Aye, a singer-merchant from Westeros sang it in Asshai. They told me it had been commissioned by a lady, a noble from the north." He looked unsure, as if he still harboured suspicions about whether the song was meant for him after all. Sansa answered the unspoken question in his eyes.

"I sent it for you, as you said I should. I just didn't think it would take so long for you to hear it." Again they were quiet. The years between them were not easily dismissed.

"I thought you were dead," Sansa sighed at last. Sandor winced, then looked at her searchingly.

"Why did you send that song? Did you need me, at the time? If you did, I wasn't there." He clenched his fists as he spoke, and Sansa could sense the restrained, frustrated strength in him.

She wondered what he was thinking. That she had needed his help in some petty quarrel or in a war? That she had sent the song all across Westeros just to make him come back to her for a task? After seeing her son – his son – surely he knew better?

"I needed you on the day you left. Why did you leave me then?" She had not meant to say it so accusingly, but that was the way it came out of her mouth.

"I had to leave. I had just raped you, and I was a known Lannister dog. Your kin would never have allowed me to stay." He looked at her, almost pleadingly. "You wouldn't have put up with me once settled with your folk and seeing me for what I was. I helped you, yes, but in the end you would have seen me for true, and turned away. Especially after…what I did to you." He looked away, his shoulders sagging as if under a heavy weight.

Sansa felt angry. It was not a feeling she had anticipated, but there it was, unmistakable fury rising in her.

"You didn't give me any chance for that, did you? If you had had the courtesy to tell me you were leaving, and why, at least I would have known what was happening!" She couldn't help herself, she was fuming.

"You just left, leaving me to wonder what I had done wrong. Had I been too wanton; had I not been good enough for you; had you just been biding your time, waiting to get rid of me!" She almost spat the last words. "No, you just rode away and left me with all the questions!"

Sansa felt tears in her eyes and turned away to hide them. Sandor didn't reply – how could he have responded to her accusations, knowing she was right? After a while she gained control of herself.

"I was with child. I gave you my maidenhood and you gave me your son." Her voice was quieter now.

Sandor buried his face into his big hands, leaning against the table.

"I didn't know. I could never have imagined… I did a terrible thing, destroyed your life!"

Sansa rose above her anger and considered him calmly. Even in her unsettled frame of mind she recognised what he had said. '…in the end you would have seen me for true, and turned away.' Had he really left her because he had thought she would otherwise leave him?

"You didn't destroy my life. Eddor is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Nothing in this world can persuade me to think that my life would have been better without him."

Sandor lifted his head from his hands. "He is…a good boy?"

"He is. He is bright, strong and capable, but he also has kindness in him." Sansa stopped and looked at him. "He is what his father could have been. A good man."

Sandor stared at her with uncertainty written on his face. "Does he know anything about me?"

"He knows that his father didn't treat me badly. I have told him that he and I loved each other -" Sansa blushed at the indirect implication her words contained "- and that he had to go away. He also knows that he was not approved of by my kin, or by many others. Yet he knows that the man who fathered him was good to me. I have promised I will tell him everything when he gets older. For the moment it is enough that he knows he was conceived in love and that his father was the greatest warrior in Westeros."