Despite the changing weather, the Riverlands remained green and fertile in the areas that had not been ravaged by the war. The borders of the North had come too soon, but the safety of leaving the region where Starks had been hunted could not come soon enough. In the town of Fairmarket, she stopped for the night, desperate for a hot meal and roof as the rain had not stopped for two days.
At the first light of dawn, she had saddled Almond and set out under a clear sky.
Anya heard the sound of another set of horse hooves beating on the dirt road and laid her hand over the hilt of Dark Sister. A black horse and rider appeared at her side before she could speak the stranger had already done so. "Dangerous times for a woman to be traveling alone."
"I can manage on my own," Anya retorted, easing Almond into a faster trot, but her new companion kept up. He had deep brown hair, dark eyes, and a crooked smile adorned with a short unkempt beard. His armor was polished though she could not tell what or if he wore a sigil.
"Where are you going, my lady?" He asked.
Anya glanced at him for a moment and sighed, "The Quiet Isle."
"That's the way I'm going as well, Maidenpool for myself, though, surely you would not reject company." He seemed sincere enough. The Whent girl could tell by his manner of speech and attire that he was no beggar, but a proper gentleman. No doubt, this man was a knight, "And who are you, good ser?"
"Hyle Hunt," he smiled. She knew House Hunt, they called the Reach home and were sworn to House Tarly. Anya opened her mouth to state her name, perhaps a peasant name and house that would not be recognized but she was not given the chance. "And you are Anya Stark." She nodded, keeping her gaze on the road ahead. "May I inquire why you seek the Quiet Isle." It was not common for women to frequent the island.
"I made a promise to someone there," a brief smile came upon her lips as she thought of him, "I will not break my word."
Hyle Hunt smiled as well, seeing that she lived up to the Stark name, just as her brother had. "Honorable," he remarked, "Rumor has it that those brothers have a Hound now." Anya laughed. The holy men of the Quiet Isle did, indeed, have a Hound now.
He was decent company, quick to crack a joke and quicker to draw his sword at any sound or movement he deemed strange. They had traveled together for several days now, each one seeming longer than the last. Hyle had told her it was because she was closer now, it always seemed to take longer when you were close. On the sixth day of their travels, they came to the edge of the Bay of Crabs, a league from the path she had taken to leave the isle.
"Thank you for your company," Anya remarked, not having forgotten her courtesies or the expectations that came with a woman of her status.
Ser Hyle Hunt gave a slight nod, "A pleasure, my lady." He turned on his mount to face the forested path that led back to one of the main roads. "Perhaps the gods will allow us to cross paths once more, Lady Anya." He smiled and was trotting off, red cape floating out behind him.
The path back to the Quiet Isle was not one she would have thought to be on again, but in truth, there was nowhere else for her to go. She did not belong at the Wall even if Jon would have let her stay and Sansa, her poor little bird, had been lost with no word on her whereabouts since her presumed part in Joffrey's death. And then there was Arya, a wild young wolf alone in the world. Anya went to the one place she would be guaranteed a roof and a good meal, if only for a little while.
She waited for the tide to recede and trekked across the muddy tidal flat, losing her boot twice along the way but by the early afternoon, she had come onto the shore with Almond behind her just as the tide came back in. An old brother greeted her with a fond smile. "The little rose has returned."
A tinge of color rushed up to Anya's cheeks, "You must know Sandor."
"Aye, I do. If you're looking for him he's with Brother Ray helping a nearby village," the brother watched in dismay as her expression fell. "However, they will be back by sundown," he amended.
Anya walked with him along the shoreline. "How is he?" She inquired, wondering if it was really a question she wished to have answered.
"We all like to believe he is doing well," the brother began, "but there is still a great amount of hate within him."
She tried her damnedest not to laugh, hate was the thing that kept the Hound alive. "I doubt that'll go away anytime soon." A wry smile grew on her lips.
"He would wake calling your name before the fever released him. It took six brothers including myself to stop him from tearing away the bandages and stitches." Anya felt a lump in her throat. "Sandor Clegane is a man in torment, I pray that your presence will ease his suffering." With those words, the brother took his leave and returned to the sept.
"Lady Whent," a familiar voice greeted.
"Brother Ray," Anya bit down on her bottom lips, "Thank you." The old septon smiled and bid her not to weep. There was no use for her tears now.
He could see the question forming on the girl's lips and answered it before she even had a chance to speak. "He's in the stables." The stables of the Quiet Isle were small, with only enough room for four horses. It was also the armory of the small island. Despite being followers of the Seven even the holy island had a small store of hammers, axes, and even a handful of swords that had somehow managed to wash up on the rocky beaches. Anya left the light of day for the dusky and dusty stables.
She saw Stranger before him, the horse lifted its head from the hay trough and pricked its ears up but almost instantly they flopped back over. Stranger had tried to bite her the first time she came upon him, now he was as comfortable with her as he was his master.
Anya didn't know what to say, or what to do. He was standing before her own eyes, tall and strong once more. The man who had plagued her thoughts many a night after she had left him here. His back was to her as he put away axes, trowels, and hammers. "Sandor," his name came in a breathless undertone.
He stiffened, "Little rose." Sandor hung the last of the trowels and turned. She lowered her head, unable to look him in the eye due to the butterflies that were viciously flapping in her tummy. Why must I feel like a lovesick child? The silence was unsettling, a calm before a storm, but she did not know what to say and he had never been a man of many words.
"The Elder Brother will allow my stay on the island for the night but it is to be in the women's cottages on the east side," it was the only thing she could manage to say at the moment.
"There aren't featherbeds," he remarked through the lump that formed in his throat. Never in his life would Sandor Clegane have imagined that the sight of a woman could make him feel so many things at once and leave him dumb and mute.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes, "I can do without." They took the evening meal together with the other inhabitants of the island within the sept in near silence. Some of the brothers cast wary glances toward her as she would not depart with the sword at her hip, not even for supper. Yet they could not blame her for caution.
Afterward, the Elder Brother insisted that she take a loaf of bread and cheese for the night and morning with two skins filled with water and wine. The contents were placed in a woven basket. Meribald suggested that Sandor be the one to show Anya to the cottages for it could be a long walk for one to make alone in the night.
The cottage had a thatch roof and a mixture of mud and stone walls. It was comprised of a single room, at one end was a rough fireplace, at the other a pallet bed. The only other furnishings were a washbasin and small table on which a flagon of water sat.
Anya unknotted her sword belt and propped the blade against the wall, her worn boots were the next item to be removed. "Where did you go?" Sandor asked, a hidden anger surfacing in his voice but it faded when she turned back to him. The silver light of the moon cast deep shadows across her face that made her appear weary and broken.
"King's Landing and then to the Wall," she said while striking a small piece of metal against a slab of flint. A few sparks landed on the earthen floored and died, but with two more strikes, a small fire was roaring in the hearth. "Jon has his hands full and Sansa is somewhere but not there." Anya couldn't decide whether she was glad Sansa had escaped King's Landing or whether she should fear for her niece now more than ever.
"The little bird finally flew away," he mused and when stated like that Anya smiled. Somehow she had flown away.
Anya sat on the cool floor in front of the fire and let her eyes slip shut for a second. Sandor joined her and loosened the ties on his vambrace and a strip of sage colored cloth slipped out. She recognized it immediately despite the stains of dirt and blood. It had lost some of the pearls that had once been sewed into the shape of delicate little bats and wasn't quite the same color as it had once been. Anya took the favour and let the material slip between her fingers.
The initial tinge of color that had rushed to her cheeks had gone, now her eyes were wide in wonderment, "You kept it?"
He shrugged, "It's not like I got a trunk full of 'em." Even despite the months, they had been together on the road he had kept it hidden. Her heart began to feel odd as she realized he had taken it into the Battle of the Blackwater with him, and to what could have been his grave.
Anya handed the ribbon back to Sandor and he tucked it away into a small pocket that had been sewn on the inside of the brown leather jerkin. He stood to leave but Anya stood too and reached out for him, "Stay," she whispered. Sandor glanced down at where she had gripped his arm, it still seemed to startle him whenever their skin touched. "I know here that only man and wife may sleep under the same roof, but to hell with it all. Stay with me, Sandor." She didn't have to ask again or beg, he took a seat on the pallet and stripped off his boots.
Anya moved closer to him and like always she blamed the sudden impulse on the wine, only she had not drunk in weeks. She lifted her hand, shyly and raised it towards the scarred half of his face. Gods, I missed your face like hell. Sandor believed she had gone mad but he did not dare move in case it was a dream. If it was, then it was a good dream. "May I?" The murmured question was full of uncertainty.
"I don't see why you'd want to." She ignored him and laid her hand over the burnt flesh. His eyes slipped shut at the contact, it was the gentlest touch he had felt in years. Her fingertips danced across his scars, tracing over the division where melted skin met the half of his face unaffected by the flames. Suddenly her touch vanished and he opened his eyes to see her gnawing on her bottom lip as she always did when contemplating something.
"Fuck it," Anya muttered and then she was kissing him, burned lips and all and it was the sweetest thing she had ever experienced. He relented to the kiss and gave of himself what she required, his lips parting in symmetry with hers until the moment of realization collapsed.
She kissed him –long enough he could almost hear her thoughts. Long enough that he began to know her story, know what she had been through. Long enough that he began to realize her absence had left a cavity in his miserable life. It was the first time he had been kissed without having to pay some whore extra to do so and it made it that much sweeter. Anya gave willingly and he took, like a parched man in a desert would take water.
Sandor laid her back on the straw and rag stuffed mattress. As he had kissed her neck, she could not repress the feeling she was a lamb making time with a wolf. Each of his touches was near hesitant and gentle, for a man of his size it was unexpected but beneath the façade was a beast.
He must have thought she was made of glass but time had turned her from porcelain to steel. He tunneled his dirty hands through her hair and kissed her breathless. Her neck, her eyes, the corners of her mouth. He kissed her lips as if his life depended on it. He was at her neck again, this time she almost laughed at the feeling of his beard brushing over her skin, "Sandor," her voice sighing his name was something he never knew he wanted and it was all the encouragement he needed. She was pulling at his coarse tunic, dragging the material up his back until he obliged her.
He was muscled like an ox, broad and strong.
Beneath her wandering palms and fingertips, Anya could feel the numerous scars on his back and chest and those along his bare arms. She wanted to know the story behind each of them. Though she would not ask, not now, not when he was untying the leather jerkin and pulling the grey woolen tunic off.
Clarity rushed over him and he froze, she frowned as his conflicted eyes met her own. She kissed him softly and took his scarred and rough hand and brought it to rest upon her breast, "You won't hurt me," she was certain of it and he believed her, wholly. He folded her slowly, dignifiedly, and willfully in his arms.