Sansa was tired. She knew she needed to stay awake, should Sandor need her, should he wake up, so she occupied herself with tending the fire, trying to keep him warm. This did not keep her busy enough, so she first turned to singing. She did not know what songs he preferred, but he had never complained beyond reminding her he was not a hero. So she tried to sing every song she knew. When she started a hymn to the seven, she stopped and began to pray. She prayed to the Father to be just and give Sandor life for protecting her. She prayed to the Mother for mercy and to ease his pain. The Smith for strength, the Maiden to smile upon them, the Warrior to help battle the fever, the Crone to guide her in helping him.

When she reached the Stranger, she paused. The Stranger had taken her family from her. The Stranger had guided Ser Ilyn Payne's hand in beheading her father. The Mother had turned her back on Sansa's when the Stranger came to the Twins. Sansa began to feel angry. She had been praying to the gods for so long and yet her prayers came to naught. The new gods did nothing to intervene against Joffrey's cruelties. And the old gods had done nothing to save Bran or Rickon from Theon Greyjoy.

She started screaming then, yelling blasphemously to gods old and new. She presumed to reprimand them for taking her family. She ordered them to grant clemency to the only person she still had. She begged. She pleaded. She questioned their existence. And her only response came from the horse called Stranger rather than the god of the same name. She found herself crying again.

She went back to singing, her voice strangled and choked from the tears. She felt helpless in the face of Sandor's raging fever. Blood soaked through his bandages and he shivered, but there was nothing she could do. And so she sang through her tears. The snapping of a twig from the direction of the river broke her from her song.

"Forgive me," said a tall man in brown robes. "I did not mean to startle you." He removed his cowl. "Is there any way I may help?"

His head was square, save for the circle his hair had been shaved into. This was a holy man. Sansa sniffled indelicately.

"He's hurt." She felt her voice break, but wiped at her tears with her sleeve. "And sick."

He smiled gently. "I can certainly see he is hurt." He knelt on Sandor's other side and gently touched forehead, cheek, and below his jaw. "And quite sick as well." The man then delicately peeled back the bandages to look at the wounds before replacing them. "I see," he said lowly when he reached the leg wound. It still oozed with yellow pus. "It's become infected."

"Can you help him?" Sansa feared to put hope in him. She got another gentle smile.

"I can try, sweetling." The way he gave the endearment was different, so unlike she had grown accustomed to in King's Landing. He said it as though it were true, as though he meant reassurance.

The man took a satchel from his shoulder and began to pull out packets and jars.

"What can I do?" she asked.

He unwound the strip. What had once been a white bend on a squire's cloak was now purple from wine, with black stains at regular intervals. The cloth she had pressed to the wound itself was slimy. He handed them to her with a small kettle.

"These need to be washed, and we will need some hot water."

Sansa worked quickly and ran back to the ring. The water sloshed in the kettle, but the brother only kept his kind smile as he put the bandages in to boil over the fire he had built up again. He returned to the pile of herbs he had made and she saw he was crushing some in a little bowl. A water skin and extra jar were kept separate, by another bowl.

"Drizzle a bit of honey into the bowl and slowly mix in the water," he explained, handing her a small spoon. "Just enough that the honey does not stick." She took as much care in this as she did in her stitching, applying only a couple drops of water at a time. When the honey flowed rather than clinging to the spoon, she showed him. "Very good. Your companion needs energy to heal. Rub just a little to his lips." In his stupor, Sandor licked it away. "A good sign. Give him a spoonful at a time; wait until you see him swallow before you give him more."

Sansa kept her eyes glued to Sandor's jaw and throat, looking for any tiny sign that he swallowed the concoction each time she gave him more. The traveling brother worked on his leg and she jumped when he spoke again.

"You may call me Elder Brother."

Sansa flushed, realizing in her grief she had forgotten all her courtesies. "I am… Joy," she said after a brief hesitation.

Elder Brother's gentle smile was now sad. "I hope you may someday trust me with the truth. But Joy you will be until then."

She stole a glance at his work. He was applying a green paste to the wound. She saw it had been cleaned of the pus, with rough stitches of sinew to close it.

"I did no know septons knew anything of healing."

He chuckled. "I don't know if any do, sweetling. And I'm not much of a septon. More a contemplative brother, atoning for the sins of my past life."

She looked again. He was a large man, built like a knight. But brothers of the faith did not sin, did they? She knew it would not be polite to ask such a question. "Do you often travel this way, Elder Brother?"

"Not often nor this far upriver, no. I was fishing when a young girl with a pair of horses asked that I come this way. Someone who may have passed while you tended to your companion, perhaps?"

She fed Sandor another spoon of the watered honey and said nothing.

"Does your companion also have a name?"

"San-" she broke off. He had not given a name in the mountain village, but they still knew who he was. His scars and helm were well known. Had this brother truly never heard of him? If he knew who he tended to, would he continue to help?

"I hope someday you may trust me with his name as well."

"Someday?"

"Yes, sweetling. Based on his injuries, I think it best if we take him to the Quiet Isle for further tending."

"What is the Quiet Isle?"

"It is my home and sanctuary, a place of peace, quiet, and contemplation. You will be safe as your companion heals."

"He promised to keep me safe," she said to herself.

"I believe he kept his promise. Unless you are hiding your own injuries." She shook her head. "I must ask, sweeling. Did he force you?"

"No!" Sansa surprised herself with her vehemence. "I was betrothed to a horrible boy. He always had his men hurt me when he was angry. I know he was going to hurt me on our wedding night as well. Sandor was the only one who was ever kind to me, really kind, so I gave him the only thing I could give. He never forced me. The first time, he didn't even know it was me. He had been drinking and came to my room by mistake. I had decided before then if he ever came to me, I would take him willingly. He thought I was someone else, but I gave myself to him. I've tried to tell him so many times that I was willing, that I wanted – that I still want him. But he still thinks he forced me, when he never did."

She realized she was crying again when a gentle hand rested on her shoulder. "Give him time, m'lady. Time and contemplation, and Sandor Clegane will see the gift was given freely."

Sansa gasped. "You know who he is?"

Elder Brother gave a small nod. "I suspected. When you gave his name you confirmed it."

"Then you know who I am," she said, dismayed. Half the gold in Casterly Rock could be put to good use in the hands of a holy order.

"You are Joy." He smiled kindly, before becoming serious again. "Now, the Quiet Isle is a place of peace and rest. Everything of war must be left behind."

They worked quietly, removing Sandor's sword belt, and piling it with the second sword and some daggers he had hidden in his bedroll. His chain mail and small pieces of boiled leather armor had been stuffed into a saddlebag. Since their fortnight in the village, Sansa saw the mail had started to rust. She added the armor to the pile. Elder Brother arranged everything in the shape of a man, arms crossed, then covered it all in stones. Lastly, he placed Sandor's helm, the snout of the hound blackened from fire and one ear shorn off from battle, at the head of the grave.

"The Hound is dead, sweetling," Elder Brother said. "From this day on, he must live only as a man." Sansa bit her lip uncertainly. Could Sandor live as an ordinary man? Was he going to live? "It is time we go. I have a raft on the river. Will you be able to lead the horse once we get your companion on him?"

"I believe so," Sansa answered, before holding out her hand. "Stranger, come." She clicked her tongue the way Sandor did and the horse obeyed, nuzzling her palm.

The brother sharply drew in a breath. "That's a blasphemous name. It would be best if he was called something else. Driftwood, perhaps?"

Sansa shrugged noncommittally. The stallion was not hers to name, and it felt wrong to agree to change it without Sandor's permission.

At his direction, she had the horse lie beside Sandor's body and wait as his massive frame was draped over the saddle. She then pulled the animal back up to a stand and followed Elder Brother to the river. Just as he said, there was a wooden raft pulled up to the shore. The brother pushed it into the water and stepped on first, using a long pole to hold it still. Sansa came next. As she gently rubbed Stranger's forehead, she pulled on the bridle until he stepped aboard as well. With a nudge, the raft drifted to the middle of the river and floated downstream.

Sansa did not watch where they went, instead soothing the horse and watching the dear cargo. So it was a surprise to her when they came to an abrupt stop. Turning, she saw they had landed on an island at the mouth of the river, the distant banks on either side barely visible.

"Welcome," Elder Brother said kindly.

She followed up a small hill, to a stable with a thatched roof. There, several brothers took Sandor's body between them and the group climbed higher, to another building just off the sept. Here, he was placed on a simple bed and blankets were pulled up to his chin, leaving only his bandaged leg exposed. One of the brothers spoke to their Elder before they all departed.

"It is nearly suppertime. Will you join us?"

Sansa shook her head, her eyes on Sandor. He seemed to have grown pale, even in the dim light of the room. She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand where she knew his heart to be.

"I will bring some to you, but you will also need to rest, sweetling." Sansa could not understand how he could still sound so kind.

"I won't leave him." To prove her point, she fished his right hand out from under the covers and held it.

At last he sighed. "On the Quiet Isle, men and women do not sleep under the same roof unless they are married. I will not stop you from tending to him during the day, but at night, I must insist you do not stay with him."

Sansa agreed sadly. "Where must I go?"

"We have cottages for women who visit. After supper, I will lead you to one."

Reluctantly, Sansa agreed.