Summary: "Sansa." The way he said her name in his low, raspy voice was a caress, and she submitted to it, closing her eyes. Yet he didn't move. Sansa opened her eyes again and from the way the muscles of his arms and his neck tensed, she knew him to be holding himself back, like a predator ready to pounce.

Sansa

Sansa hardly slept that night. She went through her meetings with Sandor over and over again in her head. How he had looked, what he had said.

He cared about me. He left me because he thought I would turn away from him.

He had been shocked to see Eddor and discover that he was his son. Was that too much for him? Sansa had had a hard time imagining Sandor as a father, but he had clearly changed. The rage and scorn was gone, and it was as if he had reached some sort of inner peace. She wondered how that had happened. Life as a sellsword was hard, and few of them lived long. Even fewer became better people through their occupation, being treated as human weapons and fodder for wars.

In the morning Sansa told Eddor that they were going to meet her old friend from the previous day. Eddor was excited to hear that he was a sellsword from across the sea. He asked Sansa about his face, in the curious and straightforward way children do.

"Did he burn himself in a battle? Or did a dragon do it?" His eyes widened. Everyone knew about the famous Targaryen dragons, but the only time they had been this far north they had simply flown past Winterfell. They had been on their way to the Wall to finally put an end to the threat of the Others, and Eddor had been too small to understand what the small specks high up in the sky had been.

"Neither. He had an accident when he was just a boy, younger than you. Probably better that you don't ask him about it though." Sansa walked briskly to keep up with Eddor's running steps, and as they approached the centre of the Godswood, they saw Sandor there already.

He jumped up from the log he had been sitting on. He looked tired, and Sansa guessed his night had not been any better than hers.

"Eddor, this is Sandor Clegane, my old friend. He is from the Westerlands, but he has lived across the Narrow Sea for these past many years. If you ask him politely, he may tell you where he has been."

Eddor was, for once, silent, looking up in awe at Sandor. "Good day, ser."

"I am no ser, boy," Sandor said, but his voice was not angry. Soon they were talking about the places Sandor had been, the armies he had fought against, the cities he had visited.

Sansa sat down on the log and looked at them while they conversed. When they were together, their resemblance was obvious. Both had the same hair, eyes and sharp cheekbones, and Eddor was already showing signs that he would grow up to be a man of formidable size and bulk. Sansa's eyes swept over Sandor appreciatively. She was aware of how, despite her anger and frustration last evening, she hadn't been able to close her mind to the way he affected her physically. His powerful body and the strength it emanated had made her feel weak and maidenly all over again.

Shaking her head and forcing her thoughts away from the dangerous path they were taking, she considered what she should do next. She knew that if Sandor came back to Winterfell with them, anyone seeing him and Eddor would immediately recognise him to be the boy's sire.

Sansa hadn't told anyone about Sandor's return yet. Many people in Winterfell wouldn't remember the famous Hound anymore, his name having vanished like that of so many others who had fought and disappeared in the War of Five Kings. Yet there were enough of those who would, her mother and brother amongst them, of course. Sansa winced. She didn't really worry about what anyone else said, but she wanted to figure out what she wanted first, before letting the news of Sandor's return slip out.

Looking at the two of them she marvelled that the day she saw her son with his father had finally arrived. She couldn't help smiling at Eddor's enthusiasm. The boy had lost any reservations he had had earlier and was interrogating Sandor with increased vigour. To her delight the large man reciprocated and responded to him with infinite patience. His eyes focussed on the boy with an intensity that would have been disconcerting for Sansa had she not known the reason for it.

Eventually it was time for them to go. "Eddor, time for your lessons. Maester Lesser will be waiting for you."

Eddor looked at her with disappointment written all over his face. "Do I have to? I still have so many questions for Lord Clegane."

"I am no lord either," muttered Sandor, but pushed Eddor lightly towards Sansa in a way that showed that he didn't mind.

"Yes, you do. Run along now, we will follow you," Sansa told him. Eddor resigned himself to his fate and started traipsing towards the Keep.

"He is a fine boy. You have done excellent work in raising him." Sandor stepped to her side and they walked slowly. "I am grateful to you for allowing me to meet him."

"You needed to see him again. I like to believe he is very much like you…could have been."

"He is better than I ever could have become," Sandor muttered.

Without stopping to think, Sansa asked, "Will you wait for me again tonight? There are still things I want to discuss with you."

Sandor turned to look at her, surprised. Without Sansa needing to ask him, he stopped and said, "Aye, I will wait for you. You have my word." They resumed their walk.

"Maybe it is better that we don't go to the Keep together."

"For sure. You go ahead, I will find my way through another gate."

Sansa hurried after Eddor and reaching him, stole one more glance behind her. Sandor stood where she had left him, tall and strong, watching them. Seeing Sansa's look, he nodded at her, holding her gaze until she turned back and took hold of Eddor's hand, secretly glad to have him to support her as they walked through the woods.

Sansa knew her way and reached the door to Sandor's room just after sunset. She was nervous, her stomach in tight knots. What was she doing there? What did she want from him? There had been nothing else on her mind the whole day, but still she was no closer to a decision. It was clear that Sandor only awaited her instructions; to go, to stay, to do whatever she wanted him to do.

What did she want?

Sandor opened the door and stood aside to let her in. She noticed that he had bathed; his hair was still wet and hung flat. As she passed him, she was aware of his presence in a way that reminded her of their times on the road. She had been but a young girl then, easily overwhelmed by a man of his size and strength. She was a woman now, and with the maturity gained over years recognised that what she had experienced then had not been timidity or submission to someone so much stronger than her, but something else. She closed her eyes and took in his scent; something unmistakably masculine, a hint of sweat from the clothes he wore, a whiff of horse and…him. She remembered that smell as its memory unlocked itself from the deep recesses of her mind, and it took her back in time in a way she had not known to be possible.

With utmost certainty she realised that her feelings all those years ago had been true. She had been more woman than she had thought, and in him she had found her man. The night that Eddor had been conceived … During the dark hours of the previous night she had allowed herself to go back to it, for so long banished from her thoughts. The way he had made her feel, the heat of his touch, the heady mixture of emotions and sensations from passion to tenderness to surrender to triumph and joy. Her throat constricted at the memory of it.

When she had gone to her marriage bed with Willas she had half-expected a similar experience, thinking that was the way things were between men and women when they laid together. The truth had been far from it. She had been ill at ease and Willas's embraces had been awkward and done nothing to flame her senses. When he had entered her, it had not been painful, but she had been aware of nothing more than a strange intrusion into her body, followed by friction which - though at times felt passingly pleasing - made her wonder if that was what bedding was supposed to be. With Sandor, despite it being her first time and involving some pain, she had discovered what it was to forget herself – no, to truly be herself - and experience the closeness and intensity of being with the man she wanted, so united that it was as if they were one.

Even before she sat down on the chair next to the rickety table, she knew that she was lost.

Sandor was better prepared this time, having ordered some wine and cheese from the inn and offering them to her. She accepted a goblet and sipped wine while trying to sort her thoughts.

"You said there were things you wanted to discuss with me," Sandor grunted, toying uneasily with his goblet. Sansa looked at his fingers, the way the hairs that covered his arms trailed down to the back of his hands and persisted all the way to his knuckles and fingers. Hands that could kill…or caress. She shivered.

"Yes…" she said, trying to buy some time. She thought she finally understood what had driven him that day long ago; how he had felt so much for her that he had left rather than face her rejection. Yet many years had passed since then, and he had lived such a different life. He had come to her, however, as soon as he had heard the song she had sent to call him back. Why? Was it because of his sense of duty? For some misplaced loyalty he had been famous for?

Did he still care about her?

Sansa knew that Sandor expected her to say something, but she had no words. Instead she reached towards him and touched his arm. He stopped fidgeting and looked at her. His eyes were serious and intense. She saw him swallow and moisten his lips with a quick flick of his tongue.

"Sansa." The way he said her name in his low, raspy voice was a caress, and she submitted to it, closing her eyes. Yet he didn't move. Sansa opened her eyes again and from the way the muscles of his arms and his neck tensed, she knew him to be holding himself back, like a predator ready to pounce.

He expects a sign from me.