A/N: Yay, a bonus weekend chapter! This means I get extra time for the next one. I couldn't stand to let any of us wait for too long (and that includes me) after the cliffhanger I've been told I left you with last time. I'm afraid there's another one here; hopefully it won't be as painful. My apologies, but that's just the way the muse operates.

Feedback and comments are love.

These Scars We Wear - 10

His next beat of his heart slams heavy and loud inside his chest, and then begins to race. Elder Brother has turned his back to Sandor and he is talking to her, one of her hands clasped in his. And Sandor realizes that he cannot truly see her face, shadowed as it is beneath the hood of her cloak. But his eyes drink in the familiar stiff line of her back as she turns to the septon, and her height: taller since last he's seen her, almost level with Elder Brother. Deep red locks of hair have escaped her cloak and flutter in long waves against her chest. An errant gust of wind snatches the hood away from her face and she absently folds it back.

Not even in his dreams has she been this lovely. The promise of a pretty girl has blossomed into a beautiful young woman on the narrow cusp of adulthood.

Sandor's next thoughts are jumbled and frantic: I am not ready, what was I thinking? I cannot do this. Why is she here? What do I do? Gods, look at her!

He watches as she is handed off the ferry and onto the dock. A robed man on either side of her, she walks toward the beach, head tilted to the side as she listens to something the septon is saying to her. She glances up and her gaze wanders until it comes to rests on him. Sandor is frozen, unable to look away or even blink. And then her eyes slide away and do not return, her attention captured by something else.

Of course, he thinks. The hood, the scarf. The robe. She doesn't know me.

The realization brings him up short. She does not know me, he thinks again. This time the thought is a revelation too vast to wrap his head around. And so it is instinct that makes him turn and follow the path back to the stable, his steps heavy and slow.

He waits for Elder Brother after ridding his mount of saddle and gear, and he of his robe, pacing in looping figure eights down the length of the stable, knowing the monk will eventually come looking for him. He does, some time after Sandor has burned through his nervousness and has settled despondently on a bale of hay, elbows on knees, his hands hanging loose between them. He looks up as Elder Brother comes through the door.

"I've turned fucking craven," he remarks, with no prodding other than the inquisitive look on the older man's face. "The only thing I've ever wanted as good as dropped in my lap and I run away."

Elder Brother remains silent, joining him on a corner of the bale.

"It's really her, isn't it?" he asks, turning to Elder Brother.

"Yes. I knew as soon as I saw her. She is just as you described."

"Why is she here?"

"She seeks sanctuary. From what little she has said, it seems she left the Vale with a small party that later came under attack. She and an escort were some distance from the main group when it happened and were able to escape the worst of it. The man she was with died of his wounds not long after they reached Saltpans."

"She's not been hurt, has she?"

Elder Brother lays his hand on Sandor's arm. "No, she is not injured. But she is frightened and very much alone, and certain she is being pursued."

"Baelish?" The name leaves his mouth black as a curse.

"I believe so. Only …"

"What?"

"She calls him her lord father."

Sandor gives that some thought and can make no quick sense of it. "Where is she now?"

"With Septon Meribald. I left them in the common hall. Sandor-"

"If she's being chased, then she was running away. Why? What's happened to her, what did he do to her? I swear by all the gods, if he's hurt her-"

"I don't know what's happened. Why don't you ask her?" Sandor gives him a sharp look and then glances away. "What are you afraid of?" Elder Brother lets the question hang there for a few moments and expels a deep sigh. "It can be frightening when our dreams are first realized."

"That's the thing: they're my dreams, not hers. The things I said to her in King's Landing, the way I treated her. What I did the night I left the city. What if she looks at me and that's all she remembers? That's all I gave her to remember."

"You told me a few days past that you would accept whatever a meeting with her might bring. That all you wanted was a chance to say what needed said. A pious man such as me might see this opportunity as a gift from the Seven. Will you now deny that gift?"

"I am not ready for this," he argues.

"We do not get to choose when events will conspire to change our lives, Sandor."

"I don't know where to start."

"I've found a sincere 'hello' to be the easiest way to begin a conversation."

Sandor sneers at his attempt at humor. "I'd rather face another buggering bay of wildfire, just now."

Elder Brother looks at him in surprise, his brow knitted. "Truly?"

"No," he growls, disgusted at himself.

Elder Brother unfolds from the bale. "Let me bring her to you. May I do that?"

"What will you say to her?"

"Only what I must, in order to get her here. It's your story to tell, not mine."

Sandor thinks on it and then raises a hand, flicking it in dismissal. "Go on, then. Fetch the girl. May as well get this over with."

He spends the next several minutes with a brush in hand, short, hard strokes pressing into his mount's flanks. He is aware that he's mostly hidden by shadows here in Stranger's stall, but his mind does not connect these moments to the all the other times he has spent in darkness, waiting for her.

He hears the creak of the door behind him and sees the sudden sunlight splashed against the back wall of the stable. The brush drops from his hand and lies forgotten at his feet.

"It's all right, child," he hears Elder Brother saying. "No harm will come to you. I will be just outside."

He hears the soft fall of her feet as she makes her way to him. A donkey a few stalls down softly brays and he hears her sudden intake of breath. She is uneasy but does not slow her steps. And then he can smell her, tipping his head back and filling his lungs with it. Her footfalls stop as she sees him.

"I beg pardon, Ser."

He bites back the habitual rebuke that springs to his lips, because it does not matter what she calls him - not now and not ever again. Sandor steps out of the stall and turns to her.

"Hello, little bird."

She gasps again and takes a half-step back, one hand flying up to press against her throat. Her back is to the sun, her face shadowed, so he cannot clearly see what crosses it. But he can feel the light upon his and knows himself to be as exposed to her eyes as he has ever been, in all his common ugliness. He will not duck his head or try to hide. He wants only what he has always wanted from her: to see him and all that he is, no matter what that might be.

"I am dreaming," she finally says.

"I'm no dream, girl."

She gives a tiny shake of her head, as if to clear it, and then recovers the small step she'd taken back and moves a step closer instead. And then another. They are separated by little more than the length of his arm, but he does not raise it to touch her. Her hand lifts from her throat, fingers extended, and she brings it between them and suddenly stops, and he glances down at the fist she has made.

"I thought you dead," she whispers.

He shakes his head. "Not dead. More alive than I have ever been."

He has no choice but to reach out now, closing the distance between them to scoop her up as she faints dead away.

….