His days came one after the other, and yet they ran into one another as well. Always the same - wake with the dawn, pull more clothing on over what he'd worn to bed to keep out the winter cold. Eat what was a meager yet hearty breakfast with men who had never been - and would never be - his fellows, baking in the heat of layers of wool and a fire in every hearth and far too many septons packed into one room. The work sometimes changed - the ground had been frozen so long that he could not remember how long it had been since he'd had to dig a grave. Mostly it was that the septons were fairly well-fed and generally kept warm- and therefore alive - but there had also come a day when even he with all of his strength could not break through the rock-hard dirt of the Quiet Isle.

This most recent change had been, in its own way, welcome and yet...unwelcome, somehow. When Elder Brother had announced that he was leaving the Isle for near a fortnight, most of the silent brothers merely nodded sagely. They had no need to know where Elder Brother was going; more than that, they simply didn't care.

Sandor Clegane assumed that he was supposed to feel the same. He knew that Elder Brother hadn't told the entire truth of why he was leaving - that much had been far too obvious, whether the silent brothers wanted to believe it or not. But another part of him...

He wants too much. Sandor knew that Elder Brother wanted him to join the order - almost expected it, even. The man's reasons as to why were good ones, Sandor knew...but he was not Elder Brother. He knew where they kept that piece of shit sword that had been taken from him when he'd been transported to the Quiet Isle. He visited Stranger in the stables, and refused to call the stallion Driftwood even now. He'd even laughed when he heard the story of how they'd attempted to geld his bad-tempered horse, and that reaction hadn't exactly endeared him to the brothers who'd been involved in that fiasco.

And most every night, he dreamed of Sansa Stark.

She'd found him in her bed as the sky glowed green and orange outside the windows of Maegor's Tower. He'd offered to take her away...but then he'd threatened her, and stolen a song. He hated himself for that, hated himself even more than he hated Gregor. The Elder Brother saw that as a sign that Sandor was willing to repent for his actions...and yet...he still wanted the Stark girl. He'd never raped a woman. He'd killed plenty of people, men and women and even children - even people who didn't need to die - but that had always been by order, by decree. He wouldn't have raped the little bird any more than he would have killed her. He could have...but he didn't. Wouldn't, he repeated to himself, over and over and over again. There was no sense in lying to himself, though - had she seemed willing...

And why in seven hells would she have been willing? She could never even look you in the eye...

But she had sang for him nonetheless, and more oft than not it was the memory of her lullaby - for there was no other word to call it - that had helped him to sleep at night. Especially here, where wine existed but was denied him.

Elder Brother asked too many questions, and wanted more than Sandor's loyalty - which by itself, he was willing to give. If anyone deserved it, it was that man, and this place. But the vows...those were things he would never speak. He'd kept his mouth shut - not talked except when asked to do so - but he couldn't - wouldn't - promise anything. Regardless of where Sansa Stark was now. Regardless of who she was - and here Sandor thought of Tyrion fucking Lannister - regardless of what she was now.

Would he say vows for her? He wanted to tell himself no, but after all the penitence that Elder Brother had insisted upon, Sandor had realized that if the little bird ever came back to him - or if he left this place and ever found her - she was the one, the only one, who deserved promises from him.

For the entire fortnight that Elder Brother was absent from the Quiet Isle, Sandor did not speak. It was, after all, what was expected of him.

But he never could have been prepared for Elder Brother's return - or for who he brought with him. She was grown, yes, but when Elder Brother called Sandor to his quarters, it took naught but a few moments to realize who she was. The anger that flashed across her face was what sparked the memory, but then the little wolf-bitch hissed, "You're supposed to be dead"...and he knew.

"Takes more than a little slice in the thigh to kill a dog such as me," he growled in response. "Why do you think I asked you for mercy?"

"Begged, is more like," she retorted. Yet despite the sword still hanging at her hip - why didn't they take that from her? he wondered - she made no move to attack him.

"Would you really have raped my sister?" she asked instead. Sandor wanted to tell her yes, wanted to remind her of the monster that he was - but no, that was the monster that he'd been, and even then...

"Lady Arya has a task to complete," Elder Brother interjected. "And I believe you'd want to help her."

The silence stretched for several long moments, during which Sandor studied the girl. No, she is a woman now. And a woman of note, at that. He looked at her and saw...if not the beauty of her sister, the beauty of her fierceness. Long nose, thin yet wide lips, angry gray eyes that bespoke the nature of what she had become.

She is a killer, now.

Not unlike myself.

Still, he couldn't help but ask, "Why would I help her?"

Elder Brother closed his eyes for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not he should even tell Sandor anything more. But then, he spoke.

"Sansa Stark has been living in the Vale with Petyr Baelish. With the regression of winter and the fall of Cersei Lannister, that man decided to reveal the Lady Sansa for who she truly is. She has been examined and proved to be a maid, and anyway, there has been no word of Tyrion Lannister. No one even knows if he is still alive. So Lord Baelish has conspired to wed Sansa Stark to a man named Harrold Hardyng. Harry the Heir, they call him, and now that young Robert Arryn is dead, so Harrold Hardyng is. With this marriage, the Vale and the North will become one...but there are some who do not want it so, and for very good reason, if what Lady Arya has told me is true. Those people called upon the Faceless Men of Braavos...and the Faceless Men sent this young woman."

"You're an assassin?" Sandor couldn't help but laugh. "My, how things change." He knew little and less of the Faceless Men - but he did know what everyone else knew: that being that when the Faceless Men were assigned a task, they carried it out without questioning the person - or people - it involved. He turned to Elder Brother. "And you are conspiring with her?"

"Not conspiring, no. You of all people know that I am a man of no allegiance, Sandor Clegane. I simply do not choose, after all that she has told me, to stand in her way."

"Standing in her way and sending me along to help her are two very different things," Sandor noted.

Elder Brother nodded. "This is true. But I long ago came to realize that you would never be satisfied with the life of penitence that we here on the Quiet Isle live. That we preach, in a way. That we love. You have...a different love. One that you can only fulfill by helping this young woman with her...assignment."

"The love to kill, you mean," Sandor pressed.

"No." Elder Brother was adamant. "The love for a woman whom you could never even hope to deserve. Sansa Stark is your destiny, Sandor Clegane. If you have not yet come to understand that, then there is nothing else I can do for you. It is far too likely that others will search her out - Cersei Lannister's champion, for one. Tyrion Lannister, if he is still alive and somehow believes that he deserves her or that she owes him something.

"Possibly even this Daenerys Targaryen with her dragons. This exile Queen who means to reunite Westeros by what I can only imagine are any means possible. And Brienne of Tarth, if she still lives, who wears a sword called Oathkeeper.

"A sword that was given her by Jaime Lannister himself."

POSTSCRIPT: I just wanted to note that while I understand that the Faceless Men are said to not send their assassins to kill people who those assassins know, I think that in a case like Arya's - especially in relation to the story in this fic - they would make an exception.