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[A.N: This chapter turned out almost useless filler, but I thought it needed to be write it anyway, so you're getting two chapters today.]
Chapter 49
Sandor Clegane
Sandor Clegane ignored the murmurs and whispers around him, focusing instead on the young lord standing before him.
It was peculiar how Robb Stark interacted with his sister. Even as she clung desperately to him, tears streaking down her face, Robb's expression remained cold and distant. His response to her embrace appeared stiff and uneasy.
At first, Sandor found it amusing; perhaps the young lord simply concealed his emotions, and nobody else seemed startled by this, suggesting it was his usual demeanor.
But the direwolf beside Stark was another matter entirely. The massive creature lying upon the steps still reached Sansa's head in height. It bared its teeth, eyes glowing menacingly as it fixed its gaze on Sandor. Then those chilling eyes of Stark himself turned upon him.
Sandor had encountered frightening men before. His brother Gregor was notoriously brutal, capable of instilling fear in anyone. Tywin Lannister commanded respect effortlessly, with a regal bearing that rivaled a king's. Even Barristan Selmy's dignified presence could leave a man awed.
Yet this Stark was unlike anyone he'd met before. Something deep and unsettling lurked within his cold eyes, making Sandor's breath catch and his posture stiffen involuntarily.
"You're the Hound, yes?" Stark's voice was calm, low, yet carried through the silence. He gestured toward the greatsword Sandor held. "What do you have there?"
For a brief, startling moment, Sandor froze. Then, aware of all eyes upon him, he drew a steadying breath and knelt respectfully, presenting the sword with both hands.
"It is Ice, the ancestral blade of House Stark," he said carefully. "My lord."
Robb gently disengaged from his sister's embrace and approached, his footsteps resonating across the hall. Sandor watched him draw the sword --half-afraid it might be used to cut off his head—as he inspected the smoky ripples of the Valyrian steel briefly before sheathing it and fastening it at his side.
With a simple gesture, Stark indicated Sandor to rise. "You have done a great deed, returning my sister and our family heirloom," he said. Sandor inwardly winced; he had barely managed the first, and scarcely aided in the second. "Such actions merit reward. What would you ask of me?"
Sandor rose slowly, his gaze flickering to Sansa. He briefly considered silver, enough to start anew somewhere far away. But that path meant endless pursuits by ambitious fools seeking glory until one of them luckily succeeds.
Remaining here promised protection, perhaps even modest lands if he served loyally. More importantly, Robb Stark had ended Gregor's reign of cruelty—something Sandor begrudgingly respected.
'It's her deeds, not mine,' he reminded himself, looking again at the red-haired girl. 'She deserves the reward.'
Sandor took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "I would serve under you, my lord," Sandor said, the words heavier than they sounded. He'd never bowed to anyone without a threat behind it.
Robb studied him, expression unreadable. "And why is that?"
"The man who burned me, who killed my sister… your man ended him." Sandor hesitated slightly, ensuring his story was convincing enough, else the stain of a traitor cling to him forevermore. "I served the Lannisters only for revenge promised against my brother. But your Greatjon stole that revenge, and with it, my reason to serve the spoiled brat of King's Landing."
Robb considered this, nodding slowly. "I hear you are no knight."
A surge of unease filled Sandor; knighthood held no appeal. Before he could speak, Robb continued, "There is no shame in that. Your experience will serve us well. From now on, you'll be my sister's sworn shield. You've protected her before and will continue to do so."
Sandor knelt again, sincerity filling his voice. "It is my honor, my lord."
"Good." Robb gave a curt nod. "The court is dismissed. I have a family reunion to attend to."
Sandor rose to his feet, stepping aside quietly as the hall stirred to life around him. Watching Stark turn back to his sister, Sandor knew he'd chosen correctly—yet part of him still wondered just what manner of man he'd pledged himself to serve.
*-*-*
Robb Stark
It felt like a stone dropped out of his heart, the sheer amount of relief he felt at the reunion would have definitely driven him to tears, had he the ability to do so.
And as he watched Arya surge forward and throw herself at Sansa so hard the latter fell, crying out loud, he couldn't help but feel at peace.
"Sansa!" Arya shouts, embracing her sister like she'd never let go. "You're back!"
Sansa, having no more tears to shed, held Arya close, her sobs dry and hollow.
Before either could say more, a large, grey shape bounded in from behind them—Nymeria, Arya's direwolf. Without hesitation, the beast pressed herself to Sansa's side, resting her massive head against her, whining softly. Sansa stroked the coarse fur with a shaky hand, leaning into the warmth without a word.
Moments later, a familiar voice broke through the sound of the courtyard.
"Girls—"
Catelyn Stark, disheveled and breathless, emerged from the gates, her eyes already glistening. Unlike Sansa, she still had tears to give—plenty of them. She didn't even pause to think, just ran to them and fell to her knees, wrapping both daughters in her arms.
"My girl... my sweet Sansa…" she whispered, tears falling freely down her cheeks as she kissed their hair over and over.
Sansa clung to her like a child. Arya didn't let go either, too proud to cry but unable to keep her chin from trembling.
The three of them stayed like that for a long while—mother, daughters—holding on like the world might rip them apart again at any second.
Robb stood a few paces away, hands behind his back, watching the scene in silence. He didn't speak. Didn't move. He didn't need to.
For now, the women were safe. They were home.
Their voices rose together in a mixture of laughter, questions, and the occasional sob.
And Robb, for the first time in what felt like years, let himself simply listen.
*-*-*
The lake was quiet. The barge floated in the shallows, creaking now and then. Robb Stark stood next to it, his boots halfway in the water. The lake o the Isle of Faces was cold, and as the sun shone on its surface, mist billowed out close to its face.
He wore his usual gear—dark coat, light armor, and a new addition, Ice, across his back. The steel plate on his chest bore a direwolf's face, worn from use.
Behind him, Sansa folded her arms.
"Just one day," she said. "We've only had you back for one day."
Robb didn't turn. "The coronation is tomorrow. I need to be there before nightfall."
"You'll come back?" she asked.
"By morning," he said.
She didn't look convinced. Arya, standing nearby, let out a grunt.
"You just got back! Can't you stay a little longer?" she pouted. "Why do you have to run off to some boring old island right before your big crown day?"
"There is something I need to do." Robb replied. "A final step, before everything can finally begin."
Arya kicked at the ground. "Fine. But I'm coming next time. I don't care what anyone says."
Robb didn't answer.
Greywind walked up from behind. He was large—perhaps the size of a warhorse now. He stepped onto the barge, which dipped under his weight but held.
Robb followed him. He took the pole and pushed the boat off from the shore.
"See you on the morrow, brother." His red-haired sister wore a tight smile, as if she sensed something was wrong, though she couldn't quite place it.
As the barge moved forward, he finally felt it. The field surrounding the island, a memetic veil that spread the moment one thought about it, forcing them to dismiss its existence as mundane, insignificant.
This glamour –Robb suspected—definitely has more to it than that, it was clearly deliberate, but also it felt precise, controlled, and most importantly, put into place by people who were actually competent.
In reality, people knew about the Isle of Faces, they spoke about it, even. Yet it is rare for someone to venture to it, which is surprising considering its supposed status as a sacred ground for the Old Gods.
Not devout believers wishing to deepen their faith, or zealous Septons wishing to burn it to the ground, and not adventurous explorers like Lomas Longstrider who wished to see the wonders of the world.
And those who did, supposedly had nothing of note to speak of it, either.
Those facts brought questions to his mind, especially as someone unaffected by said shroud, a feeling crept in, that something was deeply wrong about the island.
What could have justified severing the island from the world outside world, even hundreds of years before the andal invasions? What secrets could it hold? And why did the Force whisper with unease, even as it beckoned him to eplore that island?
Answers would come soon.
The lake grew still once more as he drifted farther from the shore. The Isle of Faces loomed ahead.
He didn't look back.