Sandor is grateful for the solitude traveling alone with Stranger. Riding from dusk until dawn each day, he left Elder Brother and the valet days behind him, knowing full well he would never be able to keep up their pretense in the company of Baelish's toady. That greenboy bastard is too fucking stupid to realize just how close came to meeting his gods, Sandor smugly recalls as he thinks of the oblivious young man.
While he pushes Stranger deeper into the foothills, Sandor feels a twinge of regret for leaving the valet to Elder Brother. When he was bedridden, Elder Brother told him that he once loved a woman; having little to offer her besides knighthood he was unable to win her hand. Judging by the desperate loss Elder Brother revealed in his experience, Sandor feels certain the holy man understands the unbearable turmoil roiling in his mind and heart and will forgive him.
His days are spent traveling hard, pushing himself and his horse to the limits of physical endurance in his attempt to gain as much ground as possible. His glossy ebony coat lathering with sweat, Stranger responds to the demanding pace with surprising ease as he follows the rugged trail away from the desolate burned out ruins of the Saltpans.
Despite the months spent passively stabled on the Quiet Isle, the powerful animal chomps at his bit and tosses his head, just as eager as his master to be out on the road once more. Sandor grins and pats his flanks; both of them are beasts bred for war. Both of them are not easily tamed and would gladly welcome a chance to spill blood once again. Sandor slows the mighty warhorse to a canter as they head northward toward the Inn at the Crossroads. They have covered a remarkable amount of land in their three weeks on the road. He will need to preserve the animal's strength for his escape with Sansa and must ease up the pace or risk ruining Stranger in the process.
He resumed calling his warhorse by his original blasphemous name ever since Elder Brother disappeared from view. Sandor cannot imagine heading out to rescue Sansa on an animal called Driftwood...that would be a fucking joke if he ever heard one. It is morbidly appropriate to ride into the Eyrie mounted on his ferocious warhorse Stranger, for Sandor's arrival means certain death for anyone standing between him and his precious Little Bird.
Discerning her feelings becomes easier the closer he comes to the Eyrie. Apparently his time on the Quiet Isle did not change his personality as much as he originally thought. Feeling her distress, the black rage from King's Landing returns to him with frightening fury. Haunted by her suffering, Sansa's misery drives Sandor relentlessly onward, turning his need to reach her into the most primal of urges. Agonizing pain radiates down his leg constantly but Sandor shuts out everything but her in his fevered determination. Sandor reaches the Inn at the Crossroads in just over three weeks time.
Snow flurries descend upon them as evening falls, the icy wind sends his weakened muscles into painful spasms. Unable to deny his body reprieve he finally relents, deciding to stay the night. Arriving at the Inn triggers sad memories of Sansa; they had stayed here with the royal caravan when King Robert ordered her beloved direwolf killed. Reaching into his tunic pocket, he retrieves a delicate ornament, fingering it with gentle reverence at the memory of her.
The day of the bread riots, he remembers Sansa wore her beautiful auburn hair down to her waist, save for the front held by a single dragonfly clasp. As she watched Myrcella leave King's Landing, he remembers thinking he had never seen anyone look so beautiful or so sad. After her assault, Sandor went back in search of her missing shoe. Discovering her hair clasp not far from where he found her, the dainty drangonfly sparkled like a jewel amongst the yellow chaff covering the floor. Tucked safe in his tunic pocket Sandor carried it with him from that day onward with the intention of returning it.
Even though he has never been known for his sentimentality, he found wearing it next to his heart comforting even as he cursed himself for his own foolishness. When he discovered her and Shae trying to hide her moonblood, Sansa had been distraught by his arrival. Her reaction plagued his conscience, making him feel like the lowest bastard ever born. After leaving her with Cersei he purchased a silver jeweled bird clasp fashioned with blue and green stones, the delicate piece reminded him of the feathers of little talking birds in the Summer Isles which inspired his nickname for her.
Stealthily entering her empty bedchamber, he carefully laid it on her dressing table next to her hairbrush, hoping the gift would lessen her sadness. Sansa never mentioned his gift outright but he noticed she wore it in her hair every day afterward. Occasionally she would touch the clasp as she looked at him, acknowledging it was their own little secret, a symbol of the affection the two of them shared.
The bastards who robbed him of his helm inexplicably overlooked the dragonfly clasp in his pocket. Elder Brother said he found Sandor clutching it in his hand, repeatedly calling out "little bird" as he lay dying,and he returned it as soon as Sandor regained consciousness. Over the excruciating healing process Sandor held onto it tightly more than once, trying to draw the Little Bird's strength from it as his body convulsed in pain. Sighing, Sandor presses it next to his heart for a moment before returning it to its place.
He needs coin but will never part with this cherished symbol of Sansa. After much debating he decides to sell off some of Stranger's armor. Carrying the heavy bundle over to the blacksmith, he is well pleased with the deal he strikes; metal has become scarce since the war and the blacksmith gives him three pouches of coin, more than enough for his needs.
After paying in advance for his room he soothes his aching muscles with a steaming bath before heading for the common room, concluding he may as well gather some much needed information while he quenches his thirst with a thick Dornish red.
Sandor keeps his cowl pulled close, obscuring his scars from view as he enters the dimly lit room. His brown holy robes and greatsword draw curious glances from the greasy sellswords seated next to the fireplace. Taking a seat in the very back corner facing the door, he observes the men assembled cautiously as he settles into his chair.
Draining the first wineskin with ease, Sandor waives the serving wench over for a second round when an expensively dressed young knight enters the room. He is tall and handsome, outfitted with a red and white diamond checkered sigil on his breast...just the type to invoke Sandor's ire. "Another buggering lord whose shit doesn't smell no doubt, just what this godforsaken place needs," Sandor frowns darkly and pulls deeply on the jug.
Clearing a few drunken smallfolk from the tables, the young man's company of soldiers quickly claim the great room for their own, earning the derision of the sellswords seated nearby. "Just who the fuck do you think you are, coming in here like you're Robert Baratheon?" says the largest of the sellswords, his hand resting on his short sword.
"Let's see you try getting out of this one pretty boy, go ahead and talk your shit," Sandor smirks to himself, waiting to hear the young man's reply. Several of the soldiers unsheathe their swords, the threat of violence suddenly extinguishing the jovial mood of the room.
"Who do I think I am, you ask? I am Harrold Hardyng...the young falcon, future Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, surely you must be familiar with my name," the young man laughs haughtily, bowing exaggeratedly toward everyone in the room, causing his men to heartily laugh at his showy display. Two whores make their way to his table, eager to earn the young lord's plentiful coin. "The young falcon...Seven hells," Sandor mutters under his breath.
"So you're Harry the Heir, eh? You must be as daft as you are pretty if you think Lord Baelish will step aside while you and your men waltz into the Eyrie and take over his home. Half the lords of the Vale tried to get him to give up your cousin and his place there," a large mountain clansman barks out, sending the men at his table into raucous laughter.
"I come at his invitation, good man. He seeks betrothal for his reportedly very beautiful and voluptuous daughter Alayne Stone," Harry grins lustfully, downing his tumbler of honeyed ale and pulling a busty blond whore onto his lap. Sandor's ears perk up to attention. "Alayne Stone-that's the name the female knight used for Sansa...Littlefucker is going to marry her off to this piece of shit? He's not that stupid...something doesn't add up," Sandor mulls over this information, fighting the simmering fury Harry's words ignite in his blood.
"Done some work for Littlefinger clearing the clansman from the Eyrie and I seen the lass myself. She's a beauty and a true lady to be sure...more than the likes o'you deserve." The man eyes Harry suspiciously before adding, "Why would he want you for her now?"
"Sounds like you're full of horseshit to me," agrees another sellsword, laughing as he clinks glasses with the first man. "If she's as pretty as you say, what makes you think she'll even agree to marry you with her father Lord Protector of the Vale?"
"She's bastard born, an unfortunate reminder of one of his youthful indiscretions I'll wager. Needs someone to take her off his hands, I suppose...and I am next in line as heir of the Eyrie after all. Having such a lovely girl coming to me at quite a bargain, what red-blooded man could resist?" Sandor growls under his breath and reaches into his tunic pocket, drawing out Sansa's clasp and passing it through his long fingers in a fluid motion to calm his fury.
Lord Eddard was nothing like Littlefinger. Ned was honest, honorable and tried seeing the best in others and it got him killed. The Little Bird has always reminded him of Ned, which is why he feared for her in King's Landing. Thinking of her reminds him to stay quiet so the young fool will continue talking. The clansman laughs loudly,"For all your pomp and high talk you'd be the one knowing about indiscretions wouldn't you now, Ser Hardyng? Rumor has it you've a bastard of your own and another on the way...haven't you learned how to dip your wick without making offspring, pup?"
Narrowing his eyes, Harry turns to face the man. "True as that may be, the burden of who her father thoughtlessly fucked is not mine to carry but hers, wouldn't you say?" he hisses menacingly though no one in the room is impressed, least of all Sandor. "Petyr promises a virgin pure as the snow, but I have no intention of agreeing to anything unless I first get opportunity to taste her wares. Let's see how grateful she is for the chance at respectability."
The room erupts in laughter; Sandor barely contains his fury and sharply plunges his fighting knife into the wooden table to alleviate his anger. Several of the men glance over at Sandor, watching him remove his knife for a moment before resuming the conversation. "She may be bastard born but your words prove yourself one in spades, Ser or not. Have you no shame, taking advantage of her weak condition? I saw the poor lass a week ago, she has grown frail and thin as of late," another one of the sellswords offers.
"The Little Bird is ill? Poor little thing, she's always been so delicate...everything must have finally caught up with her," he shakes his head and leans forward intently, eager to hear more. Sighing in disgust, the man grits his teeth and continues, "Littlefinger says she's been ill with grief for the past month or so." Harry scoffs, "Really? Who is she grieving for-should I be jealous?"
"It's over a family friend recently found buried on the Quiet Isle," the man replies curtly. "Just like a woman...she'll recover soon enough once she meets me. She can grow as fat as she pleases once I plant a son in her belly...I like meat on my women," Harry chuckles, squeezing the full breasts of the whore on his lap for emphasis. The soldiers all laugh, toasting each other for their lord's quick-witted response.
Blinking several times, Sandor tries to digest the sellsword's words. "Sansa's ill with grief over me?" The very idea tearshis scarred conscience, sending waves of bitter guilt coursing through Sandor's heart. Unable to tolerate listening to anymore talk from them, he rises and makes his way to the serving wench. Harry calls after him, having noticed Sandor is the only man refusing to engage in conversation, "Friend, you look like a man who could use another drink...won't you stay and celebrate my upcoming marriage awhile? Next round is on me, anything you want."
Enraged, Sandor slowly turns to face him, 'I'm not your friend, you arrogant little fucker. Don't push me any further or I'll gladly give you and your men what's coming to you," Sandor growls low, then hands the young girl a handful of coins. He would welcome the chance to bash his pretty face into the wall for the load of shit he's talked. Ultimately he decides to leave it up to the boy to decide what happens next.
Uncomfortable silence falls over the men. Startled by Sandor's blatant challenge, Harry gapes in surprise. Not one of his men confronts Sandor or even protests. "Cowardly pieces of shit, all of them," Sandor looks each of the soldiers in the eyes, begging for a fight. When no one responds he casts a final smirk at all of them before trudging up the stairs, the sound of the soldier's nervous laughter echoing through the common room.
Stretching out on the comfortable but narrow bed, Sandor stares up at the ceiling. It's been a long while since he's enjoyed such pleasant accommodations. Still sleep continues to escape him. Memories of the night he left King's Landing play in a continuous loop in his mind. Sansa knew nothing but fear her entire captivity. Oftentimes he spoke hatefully to her, intentionally scaring her in his drunken half-witted attempts at teaching her to stop believing in true knights and face the dangerous reality of her life. Sandor wonders for the thousandth time why the fuck he ever thought his growling would help to the poor innocent girl survive the Lannisters.
Truth be told, he feels he was just as big a fucking coward as any of the rest of the buggering Kingsguard. He should have gutted Meryn for striking Sansa and killed that inbred little fuck of a king for murdering her father. The hell the Little Bird endured daily in King's Landing served as a constant reminder of his own lack of courage to act in her behalf. Most of his days were spent blaming that bitch Cersei and her sadistic son, staying in an alcohol induced stupor during his off hours so he wouldn't have to think about it.
As he lay injured and alone in his cell on the Quiet Isle, his thoughts tormented him; he hated himself thoroughly and looked forward to the peace death would bring him. Even death denied him; despite his taunting her about Sansa the wolf bitch's eyes glittered with rage yet she refused to put an end to his miserable existence. With no wine to drown his sorrows, the cold truth struck him like a battle ax to the chest. It wasn't Cersei that laid in her room covered in blood the night the Blackwater burned. Joffrey had not held a knife to her throat or made her sing a song for him, or offered to take her with him in the pathetic hope she would love him out of appreciation. The brutal truth was he abandoned her; he left his beloved Little Bird to the the lions.
Elder Brother has reassured him many times, saying he is now a completely different person, that he cannot continue dwelling on the past. Sandor berates himself every time he thinks of it; only speaking to her will alleviate his guilt. Knowing he has much to atone for when they meet again makes him more eager than ever to reunite with Sansa as quickly as possible.
The next morning he rises before dawn, only to find the roads around the inn buried in a foot of fresh snow. The crusty old innkeeper recruits the soldiers to dig out the roads with the promise of free whores. Little progress is made and by mid-afternoon it is clear that he and the rest of the guests will be staying another night at the inn.
An hour after Harrold and his party depart, Elder Brother and Littlefinger's valet ride in the following morning as Sandor inspects Stranger's shoes. Chilled but no worse for wear considering the inclement weather, the men happily greet Sandor, who is none too pleased to see them. The valet called Rafe by Elder Brother is in a jovial mood, "We met Alayne's intended and his men on our way here-what a stroke of luck! I have sent ravens announcing our arrival. The High Road to the Eyrie will be cleared of mountain clansmen and Lord Baelish has seen to it that the Knight of the Gate will allow our passage."
Sandor frowns but says nothing; as much as he hates to admit it this development will definitely make their travel through the Vale easier. Elder Brother speaks up, "That is very good to hear, Rafe-isn't it Brother Digger?" Refusing to look up Sandor grunts in response, intent on digging a rock out from his horse's rear hoof. "This way you will be free and clear to arrive at the Eyrie quickly with no impediment. Perhaps you would be willing to leave within the hour?" Sandor bows in assent.
"What is the rush, Elder Brother? We certainly may all travel together with little difficulty, there is most certainly safety in numbers," Rafe answers with a smile. "True, true, but since the betrothed of your master's daughter is headed for the Eyrie as we speak, I believe the wisest course would be to have the lass meet with Brother Digger as soon as possible, for premarital counseling and such," Elder Brother gestures for Sandor to prepare to leave.
Rafe thinks it over a moment, then grins, "Agreed, excellent idea! There will be much preparation needed for the couple before the wedding-with your permission, of course." Rafe turns away, heading into the inn. Elder Brother rolls his eyes then whispers seriously,"You must get to your young lady very quickly, Sandor. I understand she is quite ill and suffering from the grief of your loss. I fear the effect all of this is having on her."
He nods in agreement, "Yes, I heard that very thing last night. Something else isn't right. It's unlikely Littlefinger would allow Sansa to marry that f-uh, that joker you met earlier, not with all he stands to gain from her being a Stark of Winterfell."
"Yes, I agree it does seem a bit odd, and I am only familiar with Petyr Baelish based on reputation. Please, go before Rafe comes back...never mind us, we'll catch up in a few days. Take these medicines for her...she may be in need of them."
His stomach sinks as he nervously packs the medicine pouch in his belt. Swinging up onto Stranger, Elder Brother quickly makes the sign of the Seven over Sandor, leaving him with a prayer, "May the Seven watch over you and your lady Sansa." Overwhelmed with emotion, Sandor barely manages to choke out a thank you before spurring Stranger northward.