Epilogue

…

It was a long time before Sansa found him. She and Arianne spent hours in Planky Town, searching every boat, questioning every caravan, asking every passerby for news of a large man in armor and his black horse.

As the sun lowered in the sky, Sansa began to despair, wondering if Sandor had managed to leave already, finding passage on an unlisted smuggling vessel, or had even left the other way, finding passage down the Greenblood and heading north through the Prince's Pass. Arianne comforted her, telling her the Boneway was known to be long and challenging – barely a proper road – and the Yronwoods were known well enough to be fiercely protective of their pass, so Sandor was unlikely to have considered such a trip. Additionally, the princess promised, it was even more unlikely for a smuggling ship to make it through with such tightened security measures due to the war.

So they continued to wander the shabby port-town, peering into every tavern they crossed and every horse-stall they saw. Nearly convinced it was hopeless, Sansa almost missed the dark figure in the corner of a quiet, unassuming tavern. Though his head was tucked in his arm as if sleeping, the other limply clutching a half-filled mug of ale, Sansa's heart leapt to her throat when she caught sight of him, sure as the Seven.

She forced herself not to run to him, ignoring the questioning looks of the barkeep. She was unsure whether Sandor was truly asleep, though the even snores seemed to suggest it. His hair was messy and unkempt, and his beard had grown out again, but he was still here. As the initial relief and excitement began to wear off, a twinge of frustration and anger began to replace it. Before she could think twice on it, Sansa snatched the mug out his Sandor's hand and poured the remains of ale on his head. The hound roared in surprise, shooting to his feet with one hand already on his sword. If Sansa hadn't been anticipating such a reaction she might have been startled back, but instead only stepped aside to avoid a splatter of ale as he shook his head, snarling curses until his eyes landed on her.

Sandor quieted, eyes wide in shock, before a mix of emotions roiled over his face and he removed his hand from his sword to sweep his sodden hair from his face, settling for an angry scowl.

"What are you doing here, little bird?" he growled.

"I'm going to Mereen," Sansa announced, "and you're coming with me."

Sandor's eyebrows shot up at that. "Mereen? You're going to Essos? What flight of crazed fancy is this, girl?" he asked, throwing his hands up.

"I'm going to treaty with the Targaryen princess," Sansa said softly. "Prince Doran seeks to ally her with Dorne and unite the seven kingdoms under a Targaryen once more."

Sandor shook his head. "That's damned folly," he muttered. "That dragon bitch will turn you to ash as soon as you utter your father's name."

"And that's why I need you with me," Sansa said determinedly. "I need someone to protect me in Essos – you yourself told me not to trust the Martells, and I won't take a Dornish guard with me to unknown lands."

Sandor suddenly barked a laugh, startling Sansa. "So the little bird is finally beginning to learn!" he said. He scratched at his beard thoughtfully. "Meereen, eh? That's a long ways away."

"I know," Sansa said softly, suddenly feeling coy and foolish for making such grand claims with little actual planning.

"Your father'd better cough up more'n a few dragons for this," Sandor said, addressing Arianne now. "Getting around in Essos and impressing a Targaryan princess is going to take more than some piteous pleading from a west-bred lady and her guard dog."

"My father has arranged for a vessel to take you to Tyrosh where a galley awaits to take you directly to Meereen through Slaver's Bay. The trip will take a fortnight at least, but it will be far quicker than travelling by land and risking Dothraki ambush. You will have enough coin to keep you well fed and clothed throughout the duration of your travels, in both western coin and gold honors, though I would recommend cautious use as pickpockets and throat-slitters are not uncommon."

Sandor grunted and Sansa glanced up at him. Though still frowning, the hound did at least appear to consider the offer. He turned his gaze down at Sansa and cocked his head.

"You sure you're ready for this, little bird?" he rasped. "Essos' nothing like what you've seen. Seven hells, most folk probably won't even speak Common."

"High Valyrian is the norm," Arianne admitted, "but the Common Tongue is not unusual in port towns, and we have reliable confirmation that the Targaryen girl speaks Common."

"I want to go," Sansa said resolutely. "I want to meet the Targaryen princess. They say she's beautiful and just, and freed all the slaves in Essos. She will make a better queen than Cercei."

"Not all the slaves," Sandor laughed. "From what I hear, she's been having enough trouble with Meereen already. And I thought you'd learned that there is no true justice in this world, girl," Sandor said warningly. Sansa flushed but didn't flinch away from his tone.

"I don't expect her to be flawless, I know," Sansa said. "You can't make a kingdom without killing people. But she's better than Cercei, better than a half-dozen families tearing each other apart for a stupid throne."

Sandor was quiet for a moment, but finally sighed through his nose and snatched the mug of ale from Sansa's hands. Giving her an irritated look when he found it well and truly empty, he tossed the mug back on the table with a few coppers and began trudging for the exit.

"I guess we're going then," he said. Sansa grinned, sailing after him and grabbing onto one of his arms.

"Thank you Sandor," she said, leaning against him. He snorted, but didn't move to shake her off until they reached the stables behind a nearby inn and he had to tack Stranger. The great destrier seemed to anticipate their journey and pawed anxiously at the ground, snorting something fierce.

Sansa followed Arianne along the docks, Sandor following close behind and leading his nervous horse on a short rein. They stopped before a small and unassuming ship with wide square sails.

"The Wind's Bane will take you to Tyrosh, where you will find Vallayo Denavosaal, a Tyroshi," Arianne explained. "He will take you to Meereen on a galley."

"Why can't we take a ship directly to Meereen?" Sansa asked, brows furrowing.

Arianne gave her a wry smile. "Meereen is a slave town, Sansa. Since slavery is outlawed in Westeros, it would look mighty suspicious should we have a ship making straight for Slaver's Bay."

"Oh, yes," Sansa said meekly.

"I'm more worried about getting Stranger from boat to boat," Sandor growled. "Didn't exactly enjoy his first trip by sea."

"I'm sure you can handle him," Arianne said coolly. "I should leave soon. We are expecting visitors this afternoon from Yronwood." She surprised Sansa by enveloping her into a crushing hug.

"Take care of yourself, Sansa," the princess said softly. Sansa hugged her back with a smile.

"I'll miss you, Arianne," she said. "I can never thank you for all you have done for Sandor and I."

"Oh, you sweetheart," the princess pulled her into another hug. "And remember what I told you about other ways of pleasure," she whispered into Sansa's ear before pulling away. Trying to hide her reddening face behind a curtain of hair, Sansa curtseyed and tried not to giggle.

Sandor glanced between the women with a raised brow and rolled his eyes.

"You take care of her, Clegane," Arianne said with vigor. "If I hear you've been running off or hurting her, I'll make sure your first glass of ale in Westeros is poisoned."

Sandor snorted sharply. "Aye well, wouldn't that be a fucking shame." He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. "I don't think I could run off should I want to. This stupid bird always seems to find me anyways."

Arianne flashed him a small, secret smile, before turning and disappearing into the bustle of the port town. Sansa took a deep breath, and realized she was shaking. Her stomach was suddenly in nervous knots of excitement and she couldn't keep her eyes off the boat that would take her away into new, unknown lands.

"You dyed your hair again," Sandor remarked. Sansa paused in twisting at a lock of her dark hair, and glanced up.

"I thought it would be prudent, until we arrived in Essos anyway." Sandor nodded in approval, and Sansa was struck by a sudden coquettish bravery. "You know, the Tyroshi are well known for dying their hair and beards. If you really wanted to fit in…"

"No," Sandor growled. "I will not color myself like one of those cock-sucking greedy cunts."

Sansa rolled her eyes at the colorful language and simply leaned in against her companion, breathing in the salty breeze.

"Why did you run away?" Sansa asked softly. Sandor tensed slightly, then sighed through his nose.

"You know why," he said. "Don't tell me that Martell bastard didn't tell you. Him or his daughter."

"They told me, but that can't be the only reason. You don't care what they think. Sandor you don't care what anyone thinks."

Sandor snorted at that, but was quiet for a while. Finally, when Sansa was on the verge of giving up pursuit of her incomprehensible companion's reasoning, he shifted and spoke.

"I… there would be no future for us, Sansa," he said. "Even if we bring back this dragon bitch and stick her on the throne and all's fucking well in the North again, you're still heir to Winterfell, and one day you'll be wanting for a husband and some brats, and I can't give you that and you know it."

Sansa sighed. "For all your posturing you really can be melodramatic at times, Sandor." The hound sputtered indignantly at that and she smiled, silencing him by squeezing his arm. "We're going to Essos. That's leagues from Westeros and all their little rules. I hardly have a desire to marry again so soon, if even I could, and until the war is over and the north re-stabilized, I have no interest in children. Besides," she grinned cockily. "I'm not pressuring you into marriage, Sandor. There are other ways for us to be together."

Sandor barked a laugh and shook his head. "Getting bolder by the day, aren't you. That bitch Arianne undoubtedly filled your head with all sorts of ideas."

Sansa giggled and leaned against him, closing her eyes. "I won't do anything you don't like Sandor, but I want you to trust me. I know my place now, and I do want to take back Winterfell, if not for me or for my family's honor, then for the people of the North suffering because of this stupid war. Just stay with me, and don't run away again."

Sandor was quiet for a moment, and finally she felt him nod his head once.

"I'll stay with you, little bird. You know I will."

Sansa smiled.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

…

Fin

...

.:Author's Note:.

Well. That's done.

A huge thanks to all my readers and reviewers - I really hope you enjoyed this story, and thank you for sticking with me to the end, despite ridiculous hiatus moments stemming from life stress and/or writer's block.

Please let me know what you thought of the story and ending - did you like it? Was there something that could have been improved in content, flow, etc? Was I inaccurate/inconsistent anywhere (I put a lot of research effort into this, but you always miss something!)? Would you like to see a sequel? - no promises on the last, since I'm flooded with university at the moment.

Cheers, and until next time,

- Kerrigas