Sandor was dimly aware of the sensation of being lifted from out of the snow and being carried somewhere else. He lost consciousness again, blinded by pain and soothed by the constant rocking in the person's arms.
When he awoke again, he could see that he was in a small square room, cluttered with junk. He lay on a coarse blanket, his chest was bare. The face of an old, elderly peeked into Sandor's view and he passed out.
This time he stayed awake long enough to ask a question. "Where am I?" Sandor asked the old man.
"Somewhere safe." The man reassured Sandor.
He tried to sit up, but the motion caused immense pain to racket throughout his body. "You mustn't move!" The old man commanded. "Your wounds haven't healed yet."
"My wounds?" Sandor asked, confused. His recollection of the last few days was fuzzy at best.
The man stared at him seriously. "You were burned grievously across the face and down your left arm and torso." That explained the stiffness Sandor felt. Carefully with his right arm he reached out and hesitantly groped the left side of his body. From the crown of his head to the bottom of his ribs, he was covered in bandages. The sensation of being plunged into the fire suddenly came back to him. He could feel Gregor's hand at the back of his neck and he could hear the last words he spoke to him.
It was too much for him, it all came back at once. The urge to flee was strong. He tried to run, to sit up out of this bed and run. The old man stopped him, with a strength that surprised Sandor. He pinned him to the bed and commanded him to be still.
He released Sandor and crossed the room. He rotted around amongst the junk and clutter of the room. Coming back with a cup filled with a steaming liquid, he forced the concoction down Sandor's throat.
Sandor coughed up most of the drink in his panicked state, but he still managed to swallow most of it. The drink soothed his throat, and his anxiety dissipated. He felt relaxed, safe. Within seconds, he had drifted back to sleep.
He came to multiple times, each time staying awake for a little longer. The old man, whose name he found out was Ebrose, encourage him to move about the small room he resided in. The clutter and junk that filled the room was countless scrolls, herbs, plants, trinkets, and such.
Sandor was told by Ebrose that he was a healer, and a scholar, and a scientist. Whatever that meant. Sandor assumed that by 'scientist', Eborse meant that he was generally eccentric. Ebrose would flit about the room, cooking this up, pausing to read this, encouraging Sandor to drink whatever concoction he'd devised for him this time.
When Sandor would get too sore to continue his exercises, Ebrose would tell him stories. He would talk of men that lived in the ocean and breathed water. Of men and women that rode striped horses and shave their heads bald. And he told Sandor about legends of the shadow at the end of the world. But Sandor's favorite story were the ones Ebrose told him about dragons and the empire who used them to conquer the known world.
One day, during Sandor's exercises testing the burned tissue, he asked Ebrose a question. "Why did you save me?"
Ebrose didn't hesitate to answer. "Because I could not let a child die in pain like that."
"But how did you find me?" Sandor asked.
"I was passing through the forests, hoping to meet a man in Norvos. He claimed that he had in his possession a text on dragonlore from Valyria herself." Ebrose paused. "I could see the smoke from miles away, I wanted to see if anyone needed assistance. All I found was you. Everyone else was dead."
Sandor bit back tears. He knew his family was dead, he saw it with his own eyes. He just needed to know for sure. He felt so angry. His scars, his family, it was Gregor's fault.
Sandor barely remembered his brother before he left for war. Sandor couldn't have been older than five when Gregor left. He went off seeking glory with Tywin Lannister's army. Gregor had always been so big, even when he was young. He had always been cruel as well. Sandor remembered dogs disappearing from their village. Girls with unexplainable scars. Everyone knew the depths of Gregor's cruelty, but they would say nothing. They were all so happy when Gregor left.
Sandor could remember the fear Gregor always managed to inspire in him and the happiness he felt when he left. It seemed as though Tywin Lannister had only managed to exacerbate Gregor's cruel tendencies.
Soon, Sandor's burns began to heal. He could take off the bandages finally. But the first time he saw himself without them, Sandor wanted to cry. Half of his hair was gone, burnt off. The skin on his face was the worst, burnt skin, falling off in patches, blackened and oozing liquid. On his jaw, he could even see bone.
His arm and chest fared better. The skin was simply pink and warped, instead of blackened and oozing. He looked like a corpse. Sandor was thankful only Ebrose could see him like this.
He asked Ebrose once if his face would ever heal. Turn to pink and puckered skin like on his chest. Ebrose simply shook his head and told him 'No child, the skin will never heal.'
Eventually Ebrose allowed Sandor to leave the small room he'd been stuck in. The rest of the house was similarly decorated. Small and sparse, every spare surface was covered in all manner of trinkets and scrolls. He would avoid the kitchen, as a fire burned in the great hearth practically all day. Ebrose requested his help in preparing their dinner and Sandor nearly dropped the bowl he was holding. He found he could not compel himself to approach the fire, and any attempt to do so nearly brought him to hysterics. He would not, he could not make himself do it.
Ebrose asked the boy what was wrong. Sandor did not answer. Upon seeing where the boy's gaze was directed, Ebrose simply took the bowl from his hands and sent him outside to chop more firewood.
Sandor liked being outside most of all. The fresh air invigorated him after long hours spent in the stuffy house. He enjoyed the ache of his muscles after he chopped the firewood. It reminded him of his home in the forest. How quiet it could get when everyone was hard at work. There was no time to chat when there was a goat to be milked and game to be skinned and steel to be forged.
He could remember watching his father hard at work at the forge. His father would hammer the steel into submission, shaping it into a sword, ready for battle. Though even the memory of the burning forge could send Sandor into a near panic.
One day Ebrose announced he would be taking Sandor to Norvos. He felt Sandor had recovered enough to endure the tough journey to the great city. For Ebrose still wished to see the man about the Valyrian text.
The journey to Norovs is a hard one. The woods surrounding the city are filled with bears and packs of wolves. Though there are paths through the woods, even they are not free from danger. Ebrose seems to think the risk is warranted when it comes to Valyrian texts.
They packed a cart filled with vegetables from Ebrose's gardens, pelts Ebrose has traded for, and trinkets whose purposes are lost on young Sandor. The cart is pulled by a gray donkey with a back bent with age, and Ebrose rode while Sandor walked. He carried a rusted sword Ebrose had produced, seemingly with the purpose of defending them. Sandor doubted the sword could even kill the old donkey that laboriously pulled the heavy cart.
Norvos sits on the eastern bank of a great river. It sits high above the forests ringing it, on high, stony bluffs. Below, the lower city spreads along the muddy shores. They passed through the terraced farms around the city before they could enter the lower city.
Never in his life had Sandor ever seen so many people. He marveled at the sheer size of the place, while suddenly feeling self-conscious about his scars. Sandor pulled the hood up on his cloak, hoping the shadows would hide his face. He was not out of place. It seemed all people covered up in this weather. Norvos was a chilly place, blanketed in fog under dark skies.
They passed through rows of timbered buildings. He could hear drunken shouting out of the open door of one building. In another, half-naked woman draped themselves out of windows. Sandor pointed them out to Ebrose. Ebrose simply chuckled at the poor boy and told him he'd explain it later.
Finally they stopped in front of a building much closer to the high city. It too was constructed of timber, it had a sign advertising that this was a merchant. The interior reminded Sandor of Ebrose's home. Small, dark, and cluttered. Every object conceivable littered every available surface and some even spilled onto the floor. Sandor had to watch his step to make sure he didn't break something.
A shifty-looking man stood behind the counter. He was shorter Sandor, though taller than Ebrose. Lean, in a weasel-y sort of way, his eyes were constantly shifting, his hands fidgeted with the object before him. He looked up and saw the two of them approaching and his whole demeanor changed. He instantly stilled and stood straight, a wide smile breaking out across his face.
"Welcome, Ebrose. It's been a while. I had started to think you weren't coming." The weasel-y man smiled welcomingly.
Ebrose dismissed him with a wave. "I'm not here for pleasantries Alequo, I'm here for the texts. I have the price we agreed on."
Alequo's smile widened. "Glad to hear it my friend, but the price has gone up in your absence."
Ebrose was shocked. "I have the gold you wanted, what else do you want? I have many fine pelts."
He shook his head. "Furs are cheaper than whores in this city. You'll have to offer me something of value." Alequo's eyes shifted, landing on Sandor who'd been standing there silent throughout the debate. "Handsome-looking boy you have. How old is he?" Alequo inquired.
"He is ten-and-one-years. What of it?" Ebrose demanded.
Alequo chuckled. "Nothing my friend, only that he is tall for his age. And he'll get even taller I suppose. He looks strong too, those burns make him look fierce." Sandor shuffled back, torn between embarrassment and rage.
"How about you give me the gold you promised for the texts, and throw in the boy and we have a deal?"
Sandor was shocked. The man was offering to buy him, surely Ebrose wouldn't simply give him away for a piece of paper.
"Deal." Declared Ebrose.
"WHAT!" Sandor exclaimed. "Please Ebrose, don't give me to this man! You saved me life, I trusted you!"
Ebrose did sincerely look apologetic. "I'm sorry my boy, but flesh is cheap in the Nine Cities, Valyrian texts are not." He collected the scrolls from Alequo. "I hope you will not begrudge me this act, and may we meet again one day."
Sandor watched the old man walk out the door, and once again he was all alone in the world. All alone with this flesh merchant.
