The Holy Man

The Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle stood at the brow of the hill and watched the figure below digging graves. Though the sky was a clear winter blue, the night had brought thick hoarfrost that coated the bare branches of the trees, every blade of grass, in a sparkling white.

He had little thought to admire the sight, however, his mind focussed intently on the gravedigger. Near four years on this island, and he yet wears novice's robes.

It had been autumn when he'd come across Sandor Clegane dying by the roadside, and autumn it had been when he'd buried the Hound and brought the man back to the Quiet Isle. It had not surprised him that Clegane decided to stay, and he had hoped, in those early days, that Sandor may still be able to embrace the tranquillity of service to the Seven as his salvation.

And yet... The months had gone by, and Sandor's confessions did not change. He still dreamed of killing his brother, burned with the desire, as other men burned for women or money or drink.

I fear these flames will consume you, the Elder Brother had once said, and Sandor had laughed, a rasping, unpleasant sound, and replied, Then the Stranger will finally finish the job Gregor started.

Gregor Clegane had died, of course, fighting in single combat with the Dornish prince. Years had passed, though, and Sandor still attacked the frozen ground as though it were his brother's body. Angry, so angry.

Two days ago Brother Sandor had stumbled into Hermit's Hole in the middle of the night, shouting for Elder Brother. He had not been drunk, though that might have been a mercy. It was as though the man stored up his sins inside until he could no longer bear their weight, and only then, when the walls were already crashing down, would his confession be ripped from his throat. This confession, a year from the last, was somehow worse than the others – Elder Brother had been left exhausted afterwards, but unable to sleep, his mind on a treadle wheel.

Sandor had not spoken of her by name since his first confession, dying by the roadside on the way to Saltpans. And yet Elder Brother had somehow sensed her presence behind Sandor's words that night in the stillness of Hermit's Hole; behind his eyes.

Sansa Stark.

"What will it take for you to be at peace?" he had asked as the sky began to lighten. It had been half a prayer, a helpless plea to the Seven as most prayers were. He had not expected them to answer.

A cold breeze blew in from the Bay of Crabs and Elder Brother turned and went back up to Hermit's Hole. The ground was a mixture of hard-packed ice and slushy mud where the salt-air had melted it, and he walked carefully so as not to slip. The windmill creaked and smoke streamed from the smokeholes of the Isle's buildings as he walked across the yard between the storerooms, the granary and the kitchen. They had been lucky, here, that the war had not touched them, and their stores were full for winter. The past three years, many of his penitents had been employed in sharing out the bounty of the Seven to the surrounding towns and smallholdings – Saltpans may never be rebuilt, but there were plenty of people in the riverlands who had lost their lands and their livelihoods to the war.

Coming upon the small smithy by the stable block, Elder Brother finally found the person he sought. The boy had washed up on the Quiet Isle after a particularly harsh winter storm, clinging to a great black wolf that looked big enough to ride. At first he would not give his name, scared, defiant, scrawny little thing that he was. Later, he had told Elder Brother that his name was Nat, son of a wildling woman Osha, who had somehow gotten over (possibly around – the boy was unclear) the Wall and had been fleeing south to escape the worst of winter. Osha was dead, the boy confided tearfully, killed by men a month ago for no other reason than that they wanted to kill her. He and his 'dog' had escaped, but they had got lost, and were trying to ford the river when it swept them away.

Now, the boy was watching the clink and clatter of the smithy working a horseshoe – heat heat beat, beat beat quench – with rapt attention, curled up with his 'dog' close to the furnace. Two months in the care of the Brothers and he still ate like he was starving, still sought warmth like he was frozen through, still watched the world warily from behind his great animal. Elder Brother felt a pang for him, for what was to come.

"Nat," Elder Brother called, "come here, please."

The boy slid reluctantly from his perch and came over to where Elder Brother stood in the doorway. As he did so, Elder Brother noticed a bruise on the boy's wrist.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, crouching down to inspect it more closely.

"Brother Sandor beat me with a stick."

Elder Brother looked at the boy levelly – he was dramatic and prone to exaggeration, but he could not seem to maintain the pretence when faced with Elder Brother's stare.

The boy stood his ground for a moment, then his shoulders sagged. "I made Brother Sandor fight me with a stick-sword, and I weren't very good at it," he admitted.

"Thank you for telling me the truth, Nat," Elder Brother said.

"You looked at me like my father," the boy said sullenly.

Elder Brother straightened and guided the boy out into the yard with a hand on his shoulder. "I thought you said you didn't remember your father," he said lightly.

"I don't," the boy said angrily, kicking at a stone. It skittered across the yard, into a tall clump of frozen grass growing out of the cracks in the granary wall. His beast snarled, baring its teeth at Elder Brother.

"Come," he said, ignoring the reactions of both boy and beast, "let us go to the sept."

"Why?"

"I feel that we should talk."

After a moment, the boy mumbled, "Mother said you couldn't lie in a sept, 'cause the gods could see your heart anyway."

Your wildling mother or your noble one? Elder Brother did not respond immediately, however, pushing open the door of the small wooden sept and allowing the boy to choose where to sit. He chose the bench by the Smith's altar and Elder Brother sat beside him.

"Your mother was right," he said, "it is a sin to speak falsehoods in the presence of the gods. That is why I've brought you here, so that you will know I speak the truth." He looked at the boy, who was kicking his feet carelessly, though the beast stared at him with green eyes, the lines of its body tense. "There is a Stark in Winterfell once more," he said. The boy's head snapped around to look at him, but otherwise remained silent. "Brandon Stark has returned and rules there with his sister Sansa. They have bent the knee to the Dragon Queen and the north is at peace once more."

The silence stretched for many heartbeats. Then, "Bran?" the little boy whispered.

"Yes."

"Bran went home?"

"Yes. And now it is time for Rickon of House Stark to return home as well."