The trill noises of Sandor's surroundings echoed in the hollow air, coaxing him from a sleep that had been bottomless, almost drowning in its depths. He could hear the resounding chirrups and chatterings of nearby watercocks and moorhens mingling with the ungainly throaty croak of marsh frogs. It was peaceful as he emerged from the haze of sleep. A slight breeze grazed the unburnt side of his face. The rush of water began to trickle into his awareness, its ambitious roar growing heavier in the air. Nature spoke to him and did not ask him to answer back. Sandor listened and remained silent.

Behind his eyelids he followed the the wolf in the winter plains. Snow drifted lightly and yet the creature moved with urgency, bounding through the sea of snow stretching on endlessly before it. The creature kept its eyes focused and fixed on the horizon, steadfast in it's journey. Ahead of the wolf hung a heavy grey strata of cloud and ancient cold, but it did not waver. It continued into the fog of shimmering snow and ice, disappearing like some ghostly apparition.

The dream that held Sandor slipped away and he began to stir. He slowly opened his eyes, groaning at the intrusive sunlight that made his eyes water and ache in protest. He brought up his right hand to shield his eyes from the harshness of the bright sun, his joints popped and creaked from lack of use. Gradually the pain in his forehead lessened as his eyes adjusted to the light, and through his fingers he spied a blue sky partially obscured by green leaves that had begun to turn golden. He felt sedate and dull-witted, his body tingled with parethesia as if his body were broken and coming apart.

Where the fuck is the girl? He wondered his thoughts muddled, as he struggled to sit upright. The pain of his exertions stole the breath from him. The fevered memory of the wolf child's desertion flooded back to him as he surveyed his surroundings. The russet palfrey was no where in sight and Arya's belongings were gone. He made a rough noise, almost a laugh but it dripped in as much loathing as he could muster. A stone settled in his stomach and he grimaced for a moment. No mercy for the wicked.

The air was hot, smelling of salt, iron and rot as if the entire forest was filled with death, and him left in the midst of it. It made Sandor's stomach cramp with nausea, he would have vomited had there been anything in him. A fire crackled next to him, spitting sparks and ash high up to singe the canopy of leaves above. The coals burned hot and bright, pouring heat into the already stifling air. He was too close to the fire, but for once he did not care to give it a further thought. Fire had always come by to savage his remnants of his life when he resisted it. The rains had stopped at some point, but it was beyond him to know how many days he'd been fixed to this one spot. Now the sun loomed strong and golden overhead, and Sandor had to accept that he was alive, despite his disappointment. He had been ready.

A cold wash of relief spilled over him as Stranger trotted out from the woods. There was little capacity within him to withstand further misfortune, and he was grateful that through some folly, this horse...his horse had remained with him. His outlook was restored slightly as he followed Stranger with his eyes. Sandor's courser lingered along the threshold of the woods, his head bobbing as he foraged along the forest floor. The equine's breath was strong and steady as it pawed at the earth searching, flicking its ears as a fly droned by.

Stranger snorted and tread a few steps towards a knotted willow, the branches parted and slid over the courser's dark powerful shoulders. Sandor swept his eyes across he campsite in suspicion. He could see his packs and several bags on the ground, flung open and looking thoroughly searched through. Overhead strips of cloth fluttered in a shiver of a breeze, they were tied onto low branches far from the fire. He felt clumsily for the back of his neck and moved his hand up to his ear, feeling for the wounds and finding them dressed in clean bandaged. Sandor craned his neck and searched for more signs of another's company. Two buckets, one with feed and the other with water were placed within reach of the horse. Closer yet, a polished driftwood mug stood glinting in the sunlight and next to it a bowl rested on a tree stump. The bark of which was caked in mud, dried from the heat. The grass was gashed and pitted along where the stump had been dragged towards the fire. He looked down at himself and the rough spun blankets that fell at his waist, neither of which were from his own bedroll. His boiled leather and mail were gone, the tunic he wore was unpolluted with the blood, dirt, and sweat that should have caked him.

Someone else is here, he groaned at the thought... Maybe the little bitch did come back. He had found her more trouble than he anticipated. Too much trouble, he had to admit to himself. What if she brought back that Lightening Knight and the tattered fuck Thoros? His eyes searched wildly for his scabbard but there was no steel to be found. She would do that, I've fed her enough of the truth to leaved her baying for revenge. He remembered his begging, his goading of Arya for mercy with the secrets he spilt at her feet. He could feel the revulsion in her eyes singe him as she denied him the death he begged her for.

Wine, I need wine. His thoughts were unsteady with suspicion as he cradled his head in his hands. His body had began to ache with a throbbing pain. His left leg hurt badly and he was almost afraid to look too long at it. Just the thought of it added to the misery. He sat for some time with his eyes closed as he held his head, trying to gather up his thoughts at they tried to slip away from him. Sandor vaguely recalled a voice urging him to drink. He remembered drinking the offering, but what else?

What else?

Sandor took his hands off his burned head and sat, watching his horse tread deeper into woods that dipped down towards a riverbank. The horse went as far as the length of rope it was tied to allowed. Leaves had already begun to litter the ground and fluttered down around the horse as it lowered its head and sniffed around a spray of white flowered plants. Sandor took a deep breath, his burned lips twitched in a spasm. Snake's milk. Ironic.

He watched with dead eyes as his horse strained against the rope to reach the white flowers, muscles rippling on the animal's neck. Sandor brought his palms together, clapping to engage his horses's attention. The horse continued to ignore his master's calls, rather opting to pursue with more vigor after the florets.

"Stranger!" he commanded, his voice hardly more than steel on a grindstone. His throat burned, it was dry and all he could do was rasp. Stupid horse, he thought but inside he was filled with a consuming panic. He did not have much, but he would much rather die than to watch his warhorse fall dead. Sandor tried to stand, but the terrible agony that lingered on the fringe closed in, angry and bright red. He saw the world dissolve before him, the pain in his leg took away his breath as it buckled beneath his weight. His ears rang in a deafening roar. He fell back onto his elbows and finally did find his voice. Yelling in fury, disgust, and agony. His head spun.

He retched and this time he did vomit, bile filling his mouth as he spat out the foulness.

Sandor's yells were followed by a heavy void of sound that echoed in the air. The woods stood strangely silent until at last a bird song pierced though the quiet. Sweat dripped down his forehead and his wounds stung, his mangled ear hurt. But for the song he paused to listen. It hurt to think of her. He would allow himself to think that much of her. Only that. So I must not think of her.

The woods were all of black, green, and gold. His chest fell and rose with each breath he took, wheezing slightly. His lips curled into a twisted smile.

He laughed. Through the pain, through tears and blood, through the damned exhaustion, through the fucking disappointment. His laugh broke the air, ungainly sounding and crude. Sandor laughed until his sides ached, not from the sorrowful beating he took, but from the effort of laughter. And he did take a beating, he deserved it... that and more.

He was not himself, he would never be himself. There would be nothing, no revenge. No retribution. He had always expected that there would be the moment. But Gregor was dead, and somewhere in the past was the moment that he should have taken, where ever it was. Gregor had left his cruel mark and escaped the proper fate, the only fate! He sound have fucking died with my sword at his neck or buried deep in the black thing of his heart!

The forest echoed with emptiness. No answer to this thoughts, to the insanity that he found himself in. It sucked him in, he had been born into a madhouse. It was dark, miserable and strange. The fear of too much light, too much sound, too much living... the fear of what should have been natural.

The sound of his horse screaming from the woods snapped Sandor out of his morose musings. He could hear the warhorse struggle against some presence. Stranger's breathing was loud and angry, he trumpeted, kicking his hooves loudly threatening. Sandor sat up, ignoring the discomfort of his sudden movements. A dark figure struggled with his horse, it's dark robes dragging on the ground tattered. It dragged his horse into the shadows, shrieking.

Sandor's heart was pounding in his chest. Maybe the tales that old nans whisper in the night are true.

He hesitated for a moment before yelling out, "Leave that fucking horse alone! Leave him!"

Silence danced in the air.

"Leave him to die, while his master watches on throwing a fit, worthy of a madman?" a voice shot back through the dark woods, loud and strong as it reached Sandor's ear.

"Who the hell are you?"

"You've already asked that question."

"You didn't answer it, as I can bloody well recall." Sandor was frustrated. He wanted only answers and not to be toyed with.

The voice sounded intrigued, "What else do you remember?"

"What am I supposed to remember? I've been on the brink of fever, on the very precipice of death, drugged and kept asleep for how long?!"

"You sound almost proud of your suffering."

"Yes, I take pleasure in self flagellation." spat Sandor sarcastically his gray eyes following the obscured movements in the forest. There was rustling, murmuring, every once in a while Sandor could hear Stranger renew his struggle. After a long pause, the shadows began to retreat from the forest.

"Fear not, your horse will live. As will you." the voice cried out loudly before breaking out into coughs. A shrouded figure emerged from the woods, Stranger trailed behind on the length of rope with foam dripping from his mouth. Sandor realized, looking at the figure that it was a man of the Seven who he was speaking to. The robe he wore was dun rough spun. The man lowered his hood and wiped at his brow. His head was shaved in tonsure.

"You're a brother of the faith." Sandor said out loud, meant more to himself.

"It is very astute of you to notice." The man turned his back for a moment, and tied Stranger to a branch much closer to the campsite. He turned back to face Sandor giving him a tight nod. The brother's face was broad, and his eyes were sharp. He was a brute, a fighter. Or at least had been one.

"I am who you say I am, and you were near death when I came across you. You begged to be put down. You were a touch away from dying. The wound in your leg had gone putrid, and the neck and ear were well on their way."

"Then why not mercy?" Sandor looked up. His face like stone, whole one side and broken on the other.

The brother considered his words carefully, " You are a fighter, there is no mistaking the look of you. You kill. You live by the sword you carry with you." He paused for a moment, looking unflinching at Sandor. "I have taken a vow, and no matter the duress, life will not find its end through my hands."

"But I live now, and I may still yet kill you." Sandor threatened, suddenly inflamed. The fool and his talk of vows! As if that would have any bearing on his instincts if I were to come at him with a sword in hand. The man's a born fighter... Instinct bloody reigns!

"Yes, but that is a choice that is yours to make. We all have choices, Hound or Sandor Clegane... whichever you truly go by. I had a choice when I stumbled upon you. When I saw the helm that lay next to you, and saw for myself the burns that mottle your face. I had a choice, I know I did. Fever raged in your body and your breath rattled in your throat."

The brother looked Sandor in the eyes. "I could have walked away."