Author's Notes: You all may have already caught on the notion that this story is not the 'usual' love story with sunshine and rainbows peering through an occasional rain, but altogether more melancholy and subdued rendition of how life has affected our two characters and what impact has the separation of many years had on them… I appreciate it may not be everybody's cup of tea and I am sorry if this will not meet expectations of some of you about a cheerful happy reunion and love ever after.
Yet this is the way I write, and this is the story I want to tell…
IX – "Why don't you tell me?"
The next evening the mealtime came and went and darkness engulfed the little hut and Sansa didn't show up.
Sandor went on about his duties, trying to concentrate on the tasks he had started before the interruption, but it proved difficult. The joy he usually took from seeing wood take shape had disappeared and every act was an effort.
He hadn't thought of Sansa Stark for a long, long time. Hadn't wanted to, but now that she was here and had wormed her way into his mind he couldn't help it.
Polishing an almost undetectable blemish in a grain of wood Sandor tried to think what he should do. When – IF – she came back, what he should tell her? To go away and not bother him anymore, or…the unthinkable? Should he beg her forgiveness?
He had not had opportunities to atone his many sins by means of forgiveness before, as most of those he had sinned against were dead or gone. Sometimes Sandor wondered whether he even truly wanted to do penance of his past – it was what is was, he had been in a different place, a different person even. Did the God truly care if he regretted his transgressions?
Past was such a long time ago – a gaping blackness he did not care to visit ever again. Maybe not even for her.
Twilight came and after finishing his meagre evening meal Sandor threw the scraps to Lilburne who swallowed them in one big gulp, his tail wagging for more while Sandor scratched his head absentmindedly.
He had been the biggest pup in the litter of one of the farm dogs, a mongrel of unknown paternity, but Sandor had felt an immediate bond with the brawny black beast and had requested it for himself. Since then the two of them had been inseparable; wherever he went, his black shadow was not far away.
If he was honest with himself, Lilburne had helped him at least as much if not more than the Doctor Elder's treatises of atonement, forgiveness, cleansing one's soul and putting bygone days aside.
"Here boy," he threw another piece of cheese into those big jaws. "What shall we do with the Little Bird? Why don't you tell me?"
The dog stared at him unblinking, his big brown eyes regarding his every move – but not exactly offering any meaningful advice.
"I don't have a fucking clue either," Sandor muttered.
X – "More than often."
She came just before midnight.
By that time Sandor had lived through the states of disappointment, relief and acceptance. They had met, they had filled in the gaps – what else was there? He had no reason to see her again, and she even less to see him.
And yet it was as if something was unresolved still.
"I am glad you waited for me," were her first words after she entered the room and sat down.
"This is my home. Where would I go?"
Lilburne meandered to her and rested his nose on her lap, delighted by this soft-spoken creature who smelled so good. Sansa smiled at the dog and patted his head. Sandor observed the exchange and concluded that his guard dog was getting soft.
Once again he wondered what it was that she wanted.
"Sandor – may I call you Sandor? May I ask you something?"
Not seeing a way to prevent her, and being a tad curious he muttered his approval.
"Have you ever thought of me since we have been apart?"
Sandor startled. It was unexpected; her calling him by his name and asking such a direct question no well-mannered lady would ever ask from a man – honing into his most guarded secret. He didn't know what to say.
She didn't wait long for his reply – which was not about to eventuate in any case – but rushed along.
"I thought of you often. More than often. I remembered how you were the only one who was kind to me and spoke honestly when everyone else around me lied and cheated or treated me as a traitor."
"I didn't…"
"You did, and I did notice. And I thought of you. And when I heard that you had died… I cried." She hugged herself in the chair and something in her expression arrested Sandor who was just about to say something derisive. She, a lady, crying for the disgraced soldier – who would ever believe such bull? And yet…
In a moment of daring he decided to be honest with her. She deserved as much from him.
"You ask me if I ever thought of you. Well, I did. A lot. Not all thoughts were pretty, mind you. You were such an innocent child back then, you had no notion how ugly men's minds can be, mine included. Doubt if you still do."
If she was offended by his words she didn't show it – the only sign that she had taken his meaning was red on her cheeks.
"I was naive then. There was so much I didn't know or realise. But when I look back at us I don't think 'ugly'. I think 'honesty'."
Us?
XI – "Who'd have me?"
After a prolonged silence Sandor didn't know how to fill, Sansa spoke again. This time she was looking at Lilburne who tilted his head and regarded her curiously – but Sandor knew her words were for him.
"My eldest is a boy of seventeen – a man really. He is at home, learning to become a Duke. His name is Edouard."
"Why a French name?"
Sansa smiled. "My husband was a bit of a Francophile, and I didn't mind. He was still named after my father, you see."
Lilburne had clearly decided that he liked this woman and her touch, settling down on Sansa's feet and resting his big head on her dainty boot. Sandor couldn't blame him.
"My youngest is fifteen, and he should be learning to be a man as well, but he has always been frail. His name is Robert – you know, for Robb."
"Your husband didn't have names to give?"
"He let me have my way with most things. He was a not a bad man if a bit weak. We didn't have much in common but we had our children."
Sandor didn't care to continue the discussion about the Little Bird's husband so he changed the topic. "Ailment of lungs, you said?"
Sansa sighed. "Yes, sometimes he can't breathe and starts wheezing and gets all red… I do hope Doctor Elder can help him. It breaks my heart to see him in distress."
"Hmmph."
"You have found…no-one?"
The thought was so preposterous that Sandor almost laughed – but seeing that she was serious he restrained himself.
"Who'd have me? No, I have my dog and an old nag to pull the cart and that's enough for me."
She looked at him – damn she had learned that skill well, unflinching and piercing straight through a man's being – but said nothing.
He could have said something more but he chose not to.
They fell silent. Sansa focussed on and fussing about Lilburne, who was scratching his ear with his powerful back leg, not the least interested in the discussion.
The ticking of the many clocks around the room, the chimes of the finished piece by the door, the wind blowing through the rafters and the many creeks and squeaks of an old wooden building were the only sounds surrounding them. Familiar, soothing.
Sandor tried to think of something to ask, perhaps more as means to keep her in his company for a bit longer rather than out of real interest.
"How is it there, in Norwich?"
Sansa looked up, surprised.
"Well, maybe not that different than what you know of such life. You have lived in the court and in high households, after all."
After Sandor's noncommittal grunt Sansa searched for words for a while, her gaze unfocused and staring at something only she could see.
"It is… peaceful. Our manor is deep in the countryside, surrounded by fields and forests and lakes. And yet it is not lonely. I have plenty of company; my sons, of course, their tutors and the old governess who is more family member than a servant, and an unmarried cousin from my late husband's side of the family has moved to live with us. And we have friends nearby - hardly a day goes by without one of my lady friends visiting me. Myranda Royce entertains me with her stories, Mya Brune comes by and her children play with mine, the old Countess of Waynwood shares with me all her ills and pains – she is the grandmother of my late husband, you see."
Sansa warmed to the topic as she spoke, and the world she described painted to Sandor a vista of domestic tranquillity dispersed with social gatherings, hunting parties, evenings filled with poetry reading and music, an occasional trip to the town where she had another house.
And every aspect of that world was alien to him.
Yet in an odd way, he enjoyed the portrayal of Sansa's life – she was clearly in a good place. Happy even - something he had not dared to hope for her. That it was in a different world than his didn't come as news to him – their worlds had always been apart.
When Sansa left, no promises were made about her return, and Sandor didn't expect any.
XII – "At least you are still here."
The next day Sandor started a new clock.
It had started as a custom order for a tavern at the other end of the valley, but he decided that the order could wait for a bit longer – he had bigger plans for this one.
The basic form of the case had already been shaped but he made it rounder, curvier, more elegant. He wanted it to be light and delicate, and yet strong enough to carry the mechanism, for which he chose the one with the softest chime; a pleasing melodious tinkle.
The inspiration and satisfaction of his work that had abandoned him earlier came back with a vengeance and the day passed with him hardly noticing it, so engrossed was he at his task.
Cutting, polishing, carving, adjusting…hours just flew by. Sandor also spent a long time with a piece of paper and a quill designing the decorations. Wolves were not commonly used is clocks, the usual motifs being flowers and leaves, but he wanted to honour the ancient coat of arms of the Starks of the North. She might be a Dowager Duchess of the Norwich but in his mind she was always a wolf - and a little bird.
Sketch after sketch of wolves, birds and a few hounds soon littered his table.
Sandor felt alive.
She didn't come that evening.
Sandor wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed, but in the end decided that it was better that way. If he reprimanded Lilburne sharper than usual when he tried to steal the scraps from his table, who was to know or care?
Before retiring to bed Sandor walked to his modest bookshelf and ran his fingers across the spines of books in it – a meagre collection by any standards, but the community respected learning and it was common to share books, to pass them from one person to another. Since discovering the joy they brought Sandor had rarely spent an evening without burying his nose into one tome or another – religious books, political treaties, adventures, broadsheets…anything that broadened his mind.
"At least you are still here," he said to no-one in particular - maybe to Lilburne, maybe to his books.
Reading had become only one of the many routines in his life. Waking up early to greet the morning on his own was his favourite part of the day; watching the sun come up and wake the world with its rays. Slurping a bitter brew of wild herbs and thinking of the day ahead, talking to Lilburne who listened as if he understood every single word. Washing his face with cool water from the nearby well, sensing every drop intensely on his skin.
Then a day submerged in his tasks – never ending but always different. Sandor had learned to like his new profession, the creativity and the feeling of satisfaction of a completed piece of work. The consistency of it; a break for a midday meal, sometimes a visitor or two entering through the door to inquire about his progress, to present a new commission or to collect a fulfilled one.
Then the evening meal in the common hall when he felt like it and when he had an urge to meet other people. Or on his own in his hut, if he chose to. Over the years he had accumulated an assortment of people around him who he could only think of as 'friends', as odd as the concept had first been to him.
Some of them were veterans of the Civil War or other, foreign wars; quiet men who harboured their nightmares deep within, just like Sandor did. There were grudging respect and camaraderie among such men, as well as recognition of when a man wanted to talk and when he did not. The companionship that suited Sandor well.
Once a week he went to the market, sometimes nearby, sometimes further ahead, breaking the monotony of the week - and yet every time when he returned from one such trip, he was eagerly waiting to get back to his routines.
Life was good. He was happy – as happy as any man had right to be.