Chapter Text
"Lady and Lord Stark," Theon Greyjoy spoke, voice slicing through the still air, "a lone rider at the southern gate."
They lifted their gaze in tandem, mother and son sat together at the drawing table, mulling over their next plan. Robb stood in an instant, eager. "It must be them. I'll see to them, Mother."
Even after the last two years, Robb still struggled to believe his father was gone. Some part of him, deep inside, felt that this was temporary, like the times his father went away before. Other times he sulked around in his bedchamber at nightfall, smoke rising from snuffed candlesticks, feeling as if things were his fault. He should have agreed with his mother and convinced father not to go. Perhaps, then, he would still have his sisters too.
He put on an easy smile despite those spiraling thoughts. Winterfell was expecting word from House Tully, and while sending a raven was more commonplace, Robb did not mind company. It would not be Hoster Tully; the journey would be too harsh on his decrepit body. Robb expected Edmure, but the mention of a lone rider unnerved him. Edmure would never ride north without men to protect him.
A pit formed in his stomach. Something else, then. A peasant insistent on wasting his time. Robb would have to turn them away. Or worse: a messenger.
Robb and Theon walked together in the hall, footsteps echoing on the cold stone floor. "Tully colors? Or Lannister?" He was incredibly grateful to have Theon these days, acting as a sort of brother after Jon decided to take the black, and his father and sisters were gone.
Theon sighed. "It's a black courser, dark as ink. No sigil or colors."
A messenger, then.
Lost in thought, Robb almost flinched at the fierce wind when they arrived outside.
An enormous man stood in the main courtyard, surrounded by his men; this person was larger than anyone Robb had met in his life. He approached the visitor, palm at the hilt of his sword, though he was safe, far enough away that his men would attack before he could.
Not a lone rider, he realized. There was a small woman, hair as red as his mother's. She pressed her face against the tall armored man, shaking in the wind.
It can't be.
But Theon raced ahead, boots kicking up powdery snow. "Identify yourself in the presence of the King in the North!"
Robb could kill him. How could Theon not see that this was a ransom? This stranger would expect pounds and pounds of gold for the return of his sister, but Theon had not an ounce of sense in his body. Theon drew his sword and took a protective stance before Robb.
But Robb recognized the Kingsguard armor, the burnt mass of flesh that stretched from neck to temple.
"Sandor Clegane. I’ve come to return the little bird to her nest…”
The Hound.
Gods, there was not a man in Westeros who didn't know his name. He'd seen the man before, only once, during King Robert's visit to Winterfell. Robb remembered how he averted eye contact with the Hound more than once, not wanting to offend by staring too long.
It was in that moment he knew for certain it was Sansa. She donned his filthy white cloak and looked strangely at peace in the Hound's grip, but her eyes met Robb's, big and blue and pleading. His throat began to burn, and his shoulders slumped with relief; here she was, alive.
But his relief turned to anger. His deal with Queen Cersei was for both of his sisters, not just one. Arya might not have been Joffrey's bride-to-be, but she was still important, still his blood and kin. Robb wanted her back too. And Catelyn would be gravely disappointed to find one daughter returned without the other.
He looked at the black stallion, snorting, breathing heavy in its recovery from the long ride. Perhaps Arya was in the wagon, Robb thought.
"No sudden moves," a guard snapped at the man. "Unhand Lady Stark!"
Sandor's grip lingered. It was as if he never wanted Sansa to leave his side, didn't trust Sansa with her own bloody family.
"Unhand her!" the guard shouted again, lifting his spear in a threatening gesture.
Robb grit his teeth, lifting a hand and releasing his grip on the hilt. "We have no reason to draw our weapons, men," he scolded. He was just about to address Sandor when Theon approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder and murmuring into his ear.
"What are you doing?! Have them draw their spears! Take him into the cells and question him!" he urged, frantic brown eyes darting across the Hound's dented armor. The hem of Sansa's dress was torn and dirty.
But Robb knew he would hand her over without a fight. Slowly, the man let go of Sansa's arm.
Sansa ran into Robb's arms, eyes already brimming with tears.
He embraced her, squeezing her tight and grabbing a fistful of her long, fiery hair in his gloved hand. It was hard to believe she was really here. But now Robb had a perfect view of Sandor; he could see everything without Sansa standing before him.
The man shifted his weight onto one leg, his dominant hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. His hair was long and stringy, eyelids drooping with exhausion, watching Robb and Sansa expectantly.
He wasn't sure how to proceed. House Stark had an amount of gold set aside for negotiations with the Lannisters, but here was Sandor, arriving without Arya. What did that mean? A fifth of the gold for appearing without Arya, because the Lannisters did not uphold their end of the promise? It became clearer that she was not waiting in the wagon, ready to jump out and soothe his fear.
"Theon, bring Maester Luwin. And Mother, Osha, Rickon, and Bran…" he commanded, turning his attention back to Sandor, listening to Theon's boots crunch in the snow. Robb knew what father would have done: put Sandor in chains and send him to the crypts. How advantageous that would be, to capture him and question him until he knew every detail of Cersei's plans. But he couldn't bring himself to do it, and he wasn't going to let Theon give him orders.
Sansa shivered in his arms, so Robb held Sansa a little closer, turning away to wipe his face before meeting Sandor's gaze. "I remember you," Robb told him. "At King Robert's feast."
The man stared at him, his gaze empty. The Hound gave a quick nod before casting his eyes downward into the thick snow.
Robb went on. "Ser Clegane, I owe you my gratitude for returning Sansa to us, but what of Arya?" Robb said, standing a little taller. "Has the Queen changed her terms? I would like to see the letter."
“I’m not a ser, I never took vows,” he grumbled. "Arya isn’t in King’s Landing. She went missing even before your father was murdered.”
He stiffened, holding Sansa with one arm when she turned to look at Sandor, too. "The arrangement was for both of my sisters. You're telling me she is gone?"
“She was presumed dead.”
The corners of Robb's eyes began to sting.
“But we caught tail of her at a tavern,” Sandor added. “A boy said she’d gone with the Brotherhood, last he’d seen of her.”
He paused to take in the words. If that was true, he could send a group of his men south to search for her. But if it wasn't true… Gods, he needed to keep all of the men he had. "Not a ser?" Robb questioned, lifting his dark eyebrows. "But aren't you Kingsguard? What will I call you instead?"
None of this made sense. News of Arya's absence in King's Landing, Sansa weeping in his arms, and Sandor standing before him, his stallion growing agitated.
Should I let him inside? he wondered, realizing now that Theon was correct. He should have imprisoned the Hound at the first opportunity. The man was impossibly hard to read, and a strong fighter. Robb knew this was no trap, as they'd come alone, but… he questioned his own safety.
"The stablehands will take your horse. Follow me inside before my sister turns blue, and we can go over our terms," said Robb, gesturing for the Hound to follow him. Two soldiers accompanied Sandor, urging him along.
Robb guided Sandor to the Great Keep instead of the Great Hall. Sansa was poorly dressed for this sort of weather, so Robb was desperate to get her inside, and took her immediately to the fireplace on the main floor. The aroma of smoke and ash comforted him. Robb noticed, as Sansa moved to sit down, that her dress was not only torn, but bloodied in places.
"Where is she?" his mother called from the winding stairway. She wore her plain chemise and gown, not at all prepared to receive visitors. As she reached the bottom, she regarded Sandor, who lingered in the doorway, with disgust. "Robb? Why would you let… in our Keep… oh, Sansa!" Catelyn said, spotting her and hurrying across the room to bring Sansa into her arms.
Above them, footsteps echoed on stone. Robb knew his brothers and Theon must be coming.
Robb made eye contact with Sandor. "The letter," he began. "I'd like to see it." He regretted bringing the man into his family's private quarters, but he knew there was only a small chance that harm would come to them. He rested his palm on the hilt of his sword, mirroring the man's body language.
“I don’t give a shit about the letter, or the queen,” he muttered gruffly, moving closer to Robb. Robb saw a spot of dried blood in his beard. “I’m not here on the queen’s orders.”
Robb drew back in disbelief. He wasn't sure whether this made Sandor less or more dangerous.