Sandor barely gave the figures a second glance as he lurched back to the cart. Cowl raised against the wind and rain, he secured the last barrel of turnips with a knot and hauled himself into the seat. The gale was picking up for true, whistling through the windmill to herald another winter storm in the bay. He didn't envy the boatmen, who would row back to the far bank laden with cider, honey, and mead for the morning markets. He didn't envy the passengers, either: two poor bastards who'd pulled up in a second craft, their woollens drenched by the freezing spray. They'd have an uncomfortable squelch all the way up to the main septry. The path was smooth and well-tended, but Sandor knew from bitter experience that the incline would punish a weary traveller. He wearied quickly these days.
Ugly, bitter, and a cripple too.
When the ground froze too hard for gravedigging, they'd set Sandor to other forms of labour where his immense frame was of benefit. For the most part that meant heavy lifting when the traders rowed over to the Isle, trading the holy order's surpluses for goods the brothers couldn't make themselves. By design, the work was mindless, intended to tire the body while fostering spiritual contemplation. Sandor had spent most of his life bored out of his wits, stewing in his anger, using any break in the monotony to vent his rage: drinking, whoring, or best of all fighting. Yet the Elder Brother was unrelenting: confronting his demons was the only way to find peace, and he would never find the strength to confront them unless he accepted the light of the Seven.
Six moons had turned while Sandor strove for some searing insight to guide him back to the world. So far, he'd concluded that the gods were cunts, all men were cunts, and he was a cunt to boot. It was not news to him.
It had to be said that the Elder Brother was less of a cunt than most - and far more to Sandor's liking than the elder brother given him by blood. He saw some splinter of integrity in Sandor's refusal to take vows and did not press the issue, not for the present at least. When the spring came, he suspected there would be a choice to be made. There could be no return to the aimless wandering that had taken him up the Kingsroad; even without the price on his head, Sandor accepted that it would not be good for him mentally either. His life was lacking in what the Elder Brother called purpose. The Quiet Isle was as good a place as any to seek one.
Sandor untied the barrels, catching the smallest of them one-handed before it could burst on the cobbles of the courtyard. He left the donkeys shying as he backed through the big kitchen door with the first of his burdens. It wasn't until he'd placed the fourth barrel by the pantry arch that he saw the new arrivals crest the hill. A grizzled man-at-arms and some stripling for a companion, slender and unarmoured and discernibly female. An old uncertainty sparked in Sandor's gut. For all the roughspun and the tattered cloak, there was something in the way that girl carried herself-
Don't be so fucking ridiculous.
The gods seemed to share his sentiment, for a savage gust tore the pilgrim's shawl from her head as Sandor admonished himself.No locks of deep, rich chestnut threaded through with bright copper and dark bronze, just ordinary brown hair on another anonymous traveller. He shouldn't even be thinking about long auburn hair, much less hoping for a glimpse of it; that was just another unhealthy preoccupation of the Hound's, and the Hound was dead. The girl might be, too. She'd killed Joffrey, then the Imp had spirited her away and vanished from the Black Cells. Sandor allowed himself a smirk, carrying the last barrel. Vanishing. The latest fashion at court. It was unlike him to follow the trends. But what did the world have left for him anyway? His brother was dead, and Ned Stark had no more daughters for him to terrify.
When he stepped out into the cold for the last time, Sandor saw the pair retreating towards the Elder Brother's cavern. They were the second group to visit in a moon's turn, which was unusually busy for the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother would do as he always did: exchange tidings from the realm outside, succour them for a day or two, and send them on their way. The tides would keep turning, the winter would come and go, and Sandor Clegane would keep quiet.
The morning dawned damp and cold. Sandor shrugged into his robe, suppressing a shiver, and for a moment he was tempted to don the woollen face-wrap favoured by his silent brothers. He wondered how many of them wore it for piety, and how many wore it for warmth. He supposed he'd learn in the springtime, if he stayed to see it. Sandor slipped from the novice dormitory as quietly as he could to steal an early breakfast. He avoided the buttery at mealtimes; there was something eerie about benches filled with men, all eating in complete silence. It reminded him of the hall he grew up in. Still, there was a serenity to the silence here that he could never envisage at Clegane Keep. As the buttery began to fill up, he took his leave and shambled off for the visitors' cottages, broom in hand. A few paces up the path he remembered the girl, and realised the beehive-like cells would not be empty this morning: he would need to wait until lunchtime to approach. Sandor turned up around the hill towards the Elder Brother's quarters, the next stop on his rounds.
Snug and simply furnished, the Elder Brother's rooms reminded Sandor of the deeper levels of Casterly Rock. He'd roomed there as a boy; it was the first place he'd known safety and his memories there were contented ones. The Hermit's Hole had the same feeling of rough-hewn comfort. Sandor started, as usual, at the alcove near the entrance where the Elder Brother prayed. Tall bookcases screened the shrine off from the rest of the warren; simple idols of the Seven, carved in driftwood, were placed in niches at head-height to a kneeling man. Sandor beat a cobweb from the Crone and began to sweep.
From the other side of the bookcases came a scrape of wood on stone and the clatter of wooden plates on a tray. It was unusual but not unprecedented for the Elder Brother to return before noon, and as expected Sandor continued about his work, though he swept a little more vigorously to alert the monk to his presence.
It was unprecedented for the Elder Brother to bring a guest back with him.
"Sit, sit," said the Elder Brother, gesturing at the farthest end of the cavern. "There is more apple juice in the jug. It's good. Now, I have thought on your request and I must say, your tale leaves me a little troubled. It's true that it was once common for noblewomen to confine themselves in prayer during their betrothals. As you say, the aim was to seek the guidance of the Maiden - similar to how men beseech the Warrior before being knighted. There were vigils to all of the gods, once: women prayed to the Mother in final days before giving birth, and apprentices sought the Smith at their elevation to journeyman. I should be happy to accommodate you, of course. The custom seems worthy at such an important time in a maid's life.
"However, I am concerned that something else has brought you here. You must appreciate how it looks, Lady Alayne. You have come here unannounced, in the company of a hedge knight you claim works for your father, seeking sanctuary. You do not seem eager to contact your father, leaving such matters to your man-at-arms. I knew Ser Lothor many years ago, before I was godsworn, but you, my lady, I do not know. What brings you onto the roads in winter with only the clothes on your back? What is Lothor Brune to you?"
The Elder Brother's tone was softer than his words. A grim smile crossed Sandor's lips: of course the Elder Brother would be concerned with the girl's virtue before all else. The Elder Brother had fallen from knighthood at the Ruby Ford, and the passage so many years were like to have changed this Lothor Brune as much as any man. Lothor Brune... the name rang a bell, but placing it was proving beyond him.
The girl's voice came quietly, and it was composed and courteous despite the unsavoury line of questioning. Sandor's broom faltered for a moment.
"Ser Lothor... reminded me of someone else who protected me, once."
Seven hells.
Then reason reasserted itself, just as it had the previous evening. Sandor had never known any Lady Alayne, brown-haired or otherwise. If her voice seemed familiar, it could only be the jape of an overactive imagination. A trick of a guilty conscience, desperate for absolution.
"Your lord father? A young man before your betrothal, mayhaps?"
"You mistake me, my lord. Ser Lothor is a faithful retainer to my lord father, and has remained so in all the time that I've known him. He has served me as honourably as an anointed knight should. And as to the other man... there is not much to say. Simply that Lothor Brune is not the first man who saved me from rapers and offered to take me away from danger."
Trick or not, the girl's voice affected Sandor like icewater running down his spine. It was uncannily familiar. Is this some fucked-up dream? He had to leave. Quickly.
"That man was not a suitor, or a knight for that matter. He took a song and a kiss and my refusal, and I never saw him again. Ser Lothor has something of his decency, I think. He certainly shares my concerns for my immediate safety, and he shares Lord Baelish's regard for discretion. The circumstances are unconventional, but-"
Heart hammering, Sandor pulled the door to as quietly as he could and stood thunderstruck beneath the sails of the windmill. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, then realised he'd left his broom inside.