Author's Notes: Going for something different here, probably the most plot filled story I have ever written or thought of. It is completely finished, writing wise, and I hope it is enjoyed by the readers (even though there's not much in the way of action or romance).
CRONE: representing wisdom. She carries a lantern and is prayed to for guidance. (A Wikie of Ice and Fire)
"There are no true knights. There are no kind people. And there is no one, NO one, who could ever care for, or love, our face."
"There's our little sister. And what of Sansa?"
"Fuck her. She's as blind as those stories. False as the day she thanked you."
"She meant it. You tested her, she passed: I saved her and she thanked me. You scared her, and then she comforted us. I won't let you hurt her."
"We should have fucking ruined her when we had the chance. Then you would see that she's just like everybody else."
"Only because we would have made her thus. But I think she would have survived even that, would have been strong to overcome your wretched way with her, had you done so."
"The bitch needs to learn her lesson."
"No! You need to heel."
*Growls*
When Sandor opened his eyes, the Elder Brother's dog was playfully growling at his head, obviously ready for the day to begin. Groaning, he rubbed his face, feeling the remnants of his dream fade, thankful that at least it had not been another one of fire. Still, it had confused him; never had he been so at conflict with himself, it manifesting in his sleeping moments.
Deciding to forget about it for the moment, he scratched the mongrel's ears, slowly moving from the lumpy bed. After rubbing his maimed thigh of it's stiffness, he ate a modest breakfast left by the Elder Brother sometime during predawn, thankful for a hot brew of grog to wake his senses. Soon enough, he moved to the field set aside for the dead, and started to shovel; but not before the dog nipped at him affectionately, and ran to its master.
Each day started thus, and continued to dusk. The work was mindless, strengthening, and tiresome. Though the spade was balanced differently, his hands long used to the blade welcomed its weight, and his arms relished the exercise digging brought.
The end of the day brought him back to his modest hovel, where the Elder Brother had left another modest meal, with some mulled wine. Cheap, poor vintage wine, but warm nonetheless. It was not enough to get drunk on, or even tipsy; but enough to ease the aches and soothe the dreams.
And, until the previous night, it did both. He wondered if he was to have another such dream again this night. Shrugging, preparing to have another row with himself, he stretched his arms as his caretaker taught him. Then his upper body, and his lower back, groaning with the blissful pain it brought. His leg stretches went slow, and brought sharp pain to one thigh, but it was less then the previous night, he noted.
The Elder Brother also wanted him to meditate during the evening, but most nights he ignored the suggestion. He fully intended to do so again, but he found himself seated on the cot, staring at the single candle burning at the table, unable to say why he was drawn to it at that time. Sometimes the fire reminded him of his brother; other times of the young lady, kissed by fire, that he had once protected. This night, only the flame entered his mind, as it should be, light and warm.
A rapping at the door startled him. Before he had a chance to consider ignoring it, it opened, revealing an old woman, one that he recognized.
"Granny?"
"If that is who you see me as."
"What? Speak plain old woman, who in buggering hells are you?"
The old woman chuckles, "I am of the Seven. It is you who sees me thus, my son. I am but a fragment of the true gods, all who are one but many, and no man sees but what he believes. Perhaps, in the future, when all this is said and done, we will meet again under a Weirwood."
"What do you want with me, Crone? When all what is said and done?"
"Come, follow me." With little reason, or willpower, to do otherwise, Sandor follows the old woman out of the hut, observing her silhouette cast by the candle she picked up from his table. Indeed, she was the spitting image of his grandmother, the first "Lady Clegane", whom he had known as a boy, and who had died before he was maimed. However, he had never known her to wear humble septa's clothing.
Soon they are walking towards the kennels of Clegane Keep. Dog barks and growls can be heard as they near. Growling himself, Sandor asks, "What are we doing here?"
"We are here to start your journey. I am to guide you to the first step, to warn you of the trials you will take in the coming nights. Take comfort, for I will always be at your side."
Sandor takes the candle she hands to him, which has somehow turned into a lantern, casting a brighter light upon their surroundings. The crone walks to the dogs, petting them; but in the shadows is one who refuses to come closer, refuses to stop growling. He knows what's wrong with the dog, as easy as blinking, but still he is automated to ask, "What's wrong with that one?"
"He has been harmed most wrongly, and refuses to trust anymore; would rather bite the hand that feeds. But all can be saved. Just the right amount of patience and kindness can bring this pup back to kindness." Adopting a sweet cadence, she whispers, "Here, hound, here!"
The dog comes forward, scars up and down it's whole head, some gashes along his body offer proof of abuse it's no wonder he is angry and distrustful. But when the old woman pets his head, Sandor feels calmness running down his body, relaxing him as never before, as if he himself were the dog, and not the man standing beside the Crone.
She caresses the scars. "Each night, seven times, you will be visited by an aspect of the Seven, since that is what influences you now. As with me, they will take on the form of someone you know, but, unlike me, not always someone you trust, so take care to separate person from deity."
"Why?"
"You have a role to play in the game, one that I would see you embrace, instead of having to resign yourself to. It will not be easy, this journey nor that role, but, perhaps, it will bring you a measure of peace my son."
"Why do you care, woman?"
"It is not for this aspect to tell you. But, you are my son; I do care, despite your lack of faith." And she lightly slapped his face. "Now wake up. Tomorrow night begins the journey for true." And she slapped him again, turning into the Elder Brother standing above him in his cot, worry etched in his face....
DVD extras: When the Crone speaks of all religions being one, only different with the people: that idea is inspired by "Mists of Avalon", penned by Marion Zimmer Bradley.