CHAPTER 1 – ON THE QUIET ISLE
The winter was relentless. Many froze, more starved, and all were trapped, including Sandor Clegane. One evening, while another gale blew curtains of snow over the Quiet Isle, the Elder Brother confided in Clegane the nature of Brienne of Tarth's visit. Already driven half-mad with boredom and the strict rationing of wine, Sandor cursed the Elder Brother roundly, bellowing about his interference and raging inside at his own powerlessness. He stalked out of the cell in a violent mood, wanting to punch the walls and drive his fists through the wooden beams until the entire place crumbled into a ruin. Then he wanted to piss on it. He was burning with anger when he flung open the door and stomped out into the snow. The cold was an affront, the snow infuriating. Sandor barreled through the drifts to the stables. Riding Stranger along the few passable paths between buildings would clear his head. Stranger, however, snapped at him and balked at leaving the relative warmth of his stall. As he gave a dismissive jerk of his head and turned back toward his hay, Sandor's rage crested and crashed. If Stranger breaks a leg, we'll both be bloody done for. Misery overwhelmed him and he sank into the hay in the neighboring stall.
A lifetime of frustration shook him. Before he was even aware of it, tears flooded out of Sandor's eyes and sobs wracked his body. He could do nothing. He was nothing. Not even his horse would obey him. He hadn't cried since he'd talked to the Elder Brother after having his wounded leg treated. Now he was sound of body again and maddeningly sober. Who knew how long the winter would last? Maybe the rest of his life. And the Elder Brother had kept this Brienne's visit a secret from him until long after he could possibly act.
Sandor lay on his back, feeling an insurmountable inertia. He'd never wanted anything like he'd wanted Sansa Stark. She was by turns stubbornly naïve and shockingly sweet. He, in turn, had growled and threatened and put both his sword and his dagger to her throat. He'd stolen a song from her. That night had gone hideously wrong. Sandor had never allowed himself the hope that she might care for him, but he didn't think she'd refuse his offer of escape. Her objections to his behavior still stung but his own actions caused his insides to twist most uncomfortably. His inactions, too, as he recalled his silence as the members of the Kingsguard beat her on that little bastard's orders.
Sandor yanked a horse blanket off a hook on the wall, covered himself, and turned on his side. The hay scratched at his face and hands but it was nothing to the chafing of his memories. He shielded himself from none of it. He'd told the Elder Brother much, too much, apparently, but there was more. Those little details, like the way she'd screamed at her father's execution, the brightness of the blood from her split lip, the feel of her hand on his cheek, those were all his. Sandor replayed their every interaction in his mind and allowed his feelings, both pleasant and painful, to roll over him.
Stranger settled in his stall and the wind whistled through the cracks in the roof. Since he'd stormed out without a lantern, the darkness in the stable was absolute. Sandor saw all he needed to in his mind, though, and, hours later, spent, he fell into a dreamless sleep.
As winter wore on Sandor filled his time by practicing with his sword, clearing snow, and thinking about Sansa. He could look on the past if not with detachment, at least without agony. What was done was done and, despite his regular attendance at services, he did not truly believe the Seven would intercede on his behalf.
The winter lasted four years. After a six-month thaw, the roads, while perilously muddy, were at least navigable. Sandor turned his thoughts to his options: stay or go.