Firstly, I wanted to express how pleased I am that Dweezil514 is writing again. I feel so glad that we are all coming back together; I know that I have been feeling better since I have started writing again. Thank you to everyone who left comments; they are greatly appreciated. You have no idea how much it means to hear from you. It might seem insignificant, but I can assure you that it literally makes my day. I hope that you enjoy this update. Every chapter has a song that it comes from- this chapter's song is inspired by "Bird in my Window" by Roadkill Ghost Choir. The Prologue's song was "Cannibal's Hymn by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds".

Love,

Moa

Chapter One

Bird in my Window

Cold rivulets of sweat ran down his brow, tracing his throat, down his tunic, his chest, his back, his arms—the air was sharpened with the steel of the impending first frost, but still he was sweating, pressing himself harder and harder. He spent the late afternoon running across the field, training in isolation. He'd carry large stones on his back and push himself to sprint until he could no longer breathe—he'd practice with his swords, climb trees, force himself to do push-ups and chin-ups and lunges until his legs and arms began to feel as though they'd never stop shaking—pushing himself to the brink of collapse, exhaustion, the very limit of his stamina. He wanted to know where that ended, and what point could his body no longer function—he'd been yet to find it. His dark hair clung wet to the sides of his face, and his lungs felt like they were being burned by a dull fire—it was the only part of his day when his mind went still, when he could stop the winnowing of his sodden conscious.

He'd come to depend on that part of his routine. Living in almost perfect isolation made it essential to do something structured, to parcel out time at an even clip so that his day-to-day did not descend into hopeless doldrums. He'd be damned if he let his body go fallow and become useless. Living without drink made it so that he was able to focus his efforts, to concentrate as he'd never done before. In all truths, he'd never been in a better physical condition. His strength was now surpassing that which he'd known—an astronomical feat, he estimated, considering what he had started with. His muscles were bulging in places that he thought had developed to full capacity; his neck was noticeably thicker, his ribs were buried beneath wings of hardened flesh that made his torso much more imposing than before. It was a physical link to his brother that was becoming more and more evident; at this rate he'll be bigger than he had ever been. When he was a younger lad he'd dream of surpassing him just so that he could best him—so that he could kill him—so that he could watch The Mountain's eyes fill up with terror before going black. It seemed a waste now that the task had been carried out by another. His rage burned brighter now, albeit cleaner. He'd drank himself into a nightly stupor because of it before; striving for some sort of peace now hadn't erased that fathomless, aching rage. He had just begun to live with it, to let it transform itself into something that he could utilize.

He often thought about his isolation, and wondered at it, as a lonesome traveler wonders at the distance made from one point to another. Without news of the outside world he'd become confused by why exactly no one had tracked him down. He was no fool—he knew that the Spider would be able to find him if his head were desired. Perhaps the Mad Dog of the Saltpans was dead now, and with it his legacy died as well—or at least any man's concern for his whereabouts. Perhaps he was being kept alive and free, a tool for future events out of his hands—he didn't know. Perhaps everything had fallen to shit in the great wide world and he'd somehow been passed over. He tried not to dwell too much on these thoughts, but kept himself prepared in the case that he ever woke to the sound of Lannister men approaching. Of any men approaching for that matter.

Time would only tell.

Sandor laid out on chilly grass, wiping his wet brow, his swords lain out beside him. In the distance he heard his dog's bailing cry. He starred up at a sky that was the crisp, wide blue of fall and thought of her. It was the color of her eyes. It was as though the very heavens themselves had chosen to glorify her. It only seemed fitting that the blue was visible through the trees with their red leaves—her again. He smelled the sweet scent of grasses that shivered in the wind, rippling like waves on a lake. The weakening sun shone through the tree line, refracting and transforming into a great glowing oculus. The low buzzing sound of the last of the Summer cicadas still hung in the air, along with the high notes of the birds; they'd all be dead soon. The trees would go from golden to gray, and finally to white. Crystal snow flakes would soon begin falling, followed by the ice storms, followed by the frosts and then the blizzards, and then the seemingly never ending black of sunless days buried under fathomless depths of snow. If he didn't hear of her soon there would be no more hope; the whispers of a never-ending night were never far from his mind.

He closed his eyes.

The dreams began before he was even aware that he was sleeping; never the same dream, only a loose confederation of his bad memories and his best hopes. He saw her being spirited away by a fair-haired knight, her skin pale like gossamer. He saw her doubled over in her saddle, her arms thin and wan. He didn't recognize her by her looks; she too had been transformed. He saw the Summer Isles in her eyes, he saw the North, he saw the free cities—he watched her as she was taken from her saddle and abandoned in an open field.

He awoke suddenly as the sun was sinking low; the sky had turned to layered tapestry of purples, oranges, pinks—a small rim of black storm heads gathering at the corners of his vision. His dog had long returned to him and was slumbering away. Sandor sat up and felt immediately annoyed—he worried about the candle, his devotion. He'd planned on sharpening his axe to gather lumber tomorrow—now he'd have to stay up later to do so. The light was gone so there would be no reading, either. He'd not intended to fall asleep in a grove like a boy, dreaming of fair maidens. Now everything had been pushed back. Living alone had made him quite self sufficient and dependent on his self imposed schedule; he was able to fend for himself almost entirely, and acquire whatever else he needed during his seldom-frequent trips into the small village. The delayed clock-work of the afternoon had not been planned and was therefore an annoyance.

He rose and felt himself shivering, his bones shot through with ice. The wind bellowed in from the North, no longer a breeze but a gale. He regretted not bringing a cloak with him, as the walk back to his small house was still yet a long one. He gathered up his blades and whistled for his mutt to follow him. He'd not really claimed the dog as his own; it had followed him from the village and had failed to leave. He fed it and had grown to find its company oddly agreeable. It seemed only natural that he'd have a dog—an ugly mutt, but a dog all the same. He'd yet to name the poor bastard, estimating that if Dog had been a title fit for him at one time, perhaps the beast wouldn't mind either.

They walked in silence, first by the waning evening light and then by nothing but their senses. The stars were not shining and there was no moon; the black clouds had swallowed up the entire sky, consuming all light. He breathed deeply and could smell rain. He regretted not only failing to take a cloak, but was wishing for a lantern. The dark was becoming too thick and he found it to be inconvenient to navigate through it. Had he no concern about the candle burning at home he might have just slept in the woods instead of walking at a half pace through the underbrush.

He walked for an hour, hoping to make it in before the sky opened up and drenched him with needles of cold rain. He was relieved when, at last, he came upon the clearing, a low flat stretch of land that ran to the edge of a riverbank. He could see the faint gray outline of his house despite the darkness, and was relieved at the promising hint of a dull light in his window. It still burned—his constant devotion still flickered.

The dog trekked ahead of him, sniffing at the ground—not exactly a proper tracking dog, but still one that he'd been glad to have when he had to go hunting. He broke out into a run when he saw the house, charging for it, bailing and crying as he made tracks, snapping twigs and brittle leaves in his wake. Sandor followed behind him, no longer feeling rushed. He'd be at his door in a matter of moments—let the dog run, he'd take his time.

The dog began circling something madly—howling and barking up a storm.

Sandor stopped dead in his tracks—the dog had gotten so much further ahead that he couldn't see what had made him erupt in his cries. He was barking like a mad beast, bailing and howling—at what? Gods, he wished that he could see through the dark. He kept his hand on the hilt of his longsword and took up a sprint, doubling his pace until he was a less than twenty yards from his front door. He peered through the thickening dark watching the mutt pace and bark at the shadows.

Nothing there—he could see that plainly though the dark. Nothing but the wind and the thick night that was getting colder and colder. The dog insisted on crying at something near his door—mayhaps a raccoon—certainly nothing of any substance could hide in the sliver of shadow between his door and the wooden awning that shaded it from sun and rain. Sandor felt so annoyed at the dog that he could have kicked it—the stupid mutt.

He walked slowly up the front steps, willing his eyes would to adjust to the thick, syrupy darkness.

Everything came into focus all at once, as though the sun had suddenly risen and dispersed the night to the nether worlds. Instantly he saw a shadow that was clutching itself against his door, wrapping its hooded cloak around its body for protection, clearly afraid of the animal that was snapping and lunging towards it. Sandor's mind was quieted; he didn't think—his body only reacted: without effort his legs were taking long strides, his long sword drawn, his shoulders squared, his elbows and arms locked.

"Who's there?!" He called, readying himself for all avenues of action.

The fucking dog wouldn't quit barking.

He drew closer and called out again.

"Who's there?!" He repeated.

The dog backed away, circling instead behind his master.

Sandor opened his mouth to demand an answer again but was cut off-

-It was a whimper—not of pure pain, or of absolute fear, but something worse; he'd heard it many times in his life. It was dread. It was agony. It was desperation—the kind of desperation that leads to eventual madness, the unspeakable and the profane wrapped around itself, the alchemical process of terror and disgust and confusion and agony mixed together and transmuted.

The figure dropped its hood to see him—it was milk white skin that was glowing—

His sword dropped to the ground, where it smashed against cold earth with a hard thud. The wind blasted frozen shards from the river, freezing him to his core. He began to struggle with his breath. He felt himself choking, unable to surface, his lungs and stomach and guts twisting, as though there were a knife being wrenched into his sides. His jaw tensed and his knees began buckling—the world began to spin.

And suddenly, everything went dark as the candle in the window petered out.

"Help me." She whispered, her voice as quiet as a moth fluttering against glass. To his ears, it sounded loud enough to shake the stars from the heavens.