Sandor made his way through the blanket of twilight towards the wind-worn stable that lay on the western side of the Isle. The sky above was a murky chasm devoid of starlight; thick clouds were rolling steadily from the southwest, a charioteer for the brisk, salty gusts of wind that descended upon the Isle.
Certain that the Maid of Tarth had followed him into the night, Sandor turned around once more to scan the horizon behind him only to see the trees swaying in unison with the sighing of the wind. He had not made mention of his intentions to set off in search of Sansa, but a silent, mutual understanding had passed between him and Brienne as he wordlessly retreated from her. I could bloody care less if the wench knows what intend to do.
True enough, Brienne was no real concern to Sandor, but he certainly did not wish to make his journey with her at his side, weeping and bleating endlessly about Catelyn Stark, Jamie Lannister, and all the oaths she had sworn to keep. Besides, Brienne had three traveling companions with her as well. Bugger that. Too many people will draw attention. I'll be better off alone.
Sandor's conversation with Brienne repeated in his thoughts. 'Aye, I cared for her.' Without another word, he had left Brienne standing there, tears glistening in the sapphires that were her eyes, her mouth agape with astonishment.
The Hound had never truly cared for anyone or anything, save Stranger his horse and the sword at his side. Unbidden to him, the Little Bird had somehow worked her way into his blackened iron heart. Through layers of rage and hatred, violence and pain, she had, beyond all odds, found an infinitesimal fissure which led straight to the core of his being. Delicately she began to stir his soul; a pebble dropped in a silent pool of water, small ripples giving way to larger ones and larger ones still until his heart was savaged by steady waves of his feelings for her.
In King's Landing, the growing affection he felt towards Sansa had confounded him, rendering him helpless to the flush of emotions she unintentionally elicited from him. Sandor Clegane was a killer, one of the most feared men in the Seven Kingdoms and rightfully so; he had killed countless men, women, and children without a second thought, relishing the way their blood coated his sword. Despite this, somehow he was defenseless when it came to Sansa; the way she seemingly floated into a room, leaving the sweet scent of lavender mingling in the air, the soft sing-songing of her voice as she would spout the loveliest of courtesies at him. Sandor was not a man that dealt well with feeling helpless. In an effort to regain control of himself, he would taunt the Little Bird, watch with twisted delight as she squirmed under his mocking glare and harsh words. When her desperation to flee was too much for him to bear, he would let her flutter off and the feelings would wash over him again, leaving him with pangs of regret and defeat. I have faced countless foes on the battlefield and courted death more times than I care to count. I have never been defeated and certainly have never been helpless. How is it then that a little peeping bird can render me, a vicious hound, defenseless like some suckling pup?
Sandor shook his head at the thought as he approached the stable and pulled the doors open as slowly and quietly as he could. Once inside, he shut the doors again and felt his way through the inky darkness, his eyes adjusting slowly and his hands cautiously guiding his way along the wooded doors of the stalls.
A long row of stalls held half a dozen horses, many of which eyed him fearfully as he passed. Stranger was in the stall at the end of the row, separated from the assortment of destriers, palfreys, and geldings that resided in the stable. The ebony courser snorted, his tail flickering, and his hooves stomping violently against the door of his stall and splintering the wood at Sandor's approach.
When Sandor reached Stranger's stall, he patted him lightly on the head and murmured softly. "Easy now. I'm getting you out of here." Adjacent to Stranger's stall, his saddle and reins had been neatly hung, the leather gleaming with the small slivers of moonlight that had come to seep from behind the ominous clouds and streamed through the tiny window at the top of the stable doors.
At least I don't have to go searching for that. My armor and sword may be another matter…
Once saddled, Sandor led Stranger by the reins as silently as possible from the stall, his hooves softly clopping against the ground. Reaching the stable door, Sandor pushed it open and began to lead Stranger into the night. The horse grunted and pulled stubbornly back on the reins.
"Bloody hell! Don't tell me you got attached to this place." The frustration was heavy in his voice. "Did some pretty mare do you in?"
Before Sandor could curse his annoyance into the night, he spotted a reflection of light in Stranger's jet-black eyes. He spun around, once again keenly aware of his sword's absence, and met the placid gaze of the Elder Brother.
Sandor had not come to Isle on his own accord, but was not exactly a prisoner to the Isle either. Yet somehow he could not help feeling as though he was stealing off like a thief into the night. He knew not what to say so he held his tongue and hung his head, waiting for the Elder Brother to speak. After many moments, the man began, gently and in hushed tones.
"You wish to leave us." It was not a question, Sandor had noticed, but rather was said in acquiescence.
Much to his annoyance, another wave of guilt flickered in the back of his mind. Bloody hell! In King's Landing, I would have ridden over anyone that stood in my way without a second thought.
Sandor searched for the words to say. Unlike the Little Bird, he never had some septa to teach him all the proper courtesies for situations like this. Brusquely, he growled out the only thing he could think to offer the Elder Brother by way of an explanation. "You saved my life. For that, I am grateful, but I cannot stay. My time here has served me well, but I leave tonight." That will have to suffice. No way in seven hells do I plan on telling him why I am leaving.
The Elder Brother let his grey eyes fall to the ground in a far off stare. Many moments later a soft smile played about his lips before he inclined his head back towards Sandor, a strange sadness gleaming ponderously in his eyes.
"The girl. You seek the girl." The Elder Brother's voice was barely above a whisper.
Bemused, Sandor tensely nodded his head, and with a clenched jaw, replied curtly. "Aye. I suppose that the wench told you as much."
The Elder Brother let out a deep sigh and shook his head. "No, the Lady Brienne did not." Another silence hung in the air before the Elder Brother apprehensively began again. "What do you remember of the day I came upon you on the Trident?"
The question caught Sandor off guard. The Elder Brother had only sparingly revealed the details of that day. It seemed a lifetime ago to Sandor. The memories were disjointed flashes, indistinguishable from the fever dreams that had beckoned him towards eternal rest. The last words he had spoken were desperate pleas for a merciful death. Even at his most vicious, the Hound would have obliged such a request. However, his own pleading had been rejected and he was left to die an agonizing and slow death. The memory filled him with a smoldering fury.
"Little and less beyond begging for the merciful gift of a swift death, a request that was denied me not once, but twice. Beyond that, I remember nothing until I awoke here." The Elder Brother did not seem to notice the bitterness in his retort, but instead stared at Sandor with determined intent.
"When I came upon you, you were delirious. The fever had consumed you, burning through you like wildfire. I did what little I could to ease your pain. You were wrought with sadness, regret, and anger. However, it was not your physical deterioration or the kiss of death upon you that afflicted you so. Rather, it was Sansa Stark, of that much I am certain. Inconsolably and relentlessly, you spoke of her, you cried out for her, you were sick with grief over leaving her in King's Landing.
I made the decision to bring you here to the Quiet Isle. Unfortunately, your condition had worsened during the journey. You were given milk of the poppy continuously for a fortnight. You did not wake, but you dreamt of her. You muttered her name in your sleep most nights, screamed her name other nights. Do you remember any of this, Sandor?"
He remembered nothing of that time, those memories a black void, locked away somewhere forbidden within him. However, he did not doubt that Sansa Stark had haunted his dreams during that time. Those were the memories of my death. I wish not to remember.
The Elder Brother folded his hands and furrowed his brow before continuing again. "Sansa Stark is lost, seemingly vanished into thin air. The Queen Regent has offered a considerable price for the Stark girl's return to King's Landing. You are one amongst many who are searching for the poor girl, surely you must know that."
Sandor indeed knew that. He was well aware of all of it; the Little Bird lost somewhere, the price that had been set for her life, the hordes of knights, squires, common men, and high lords all looking for her with promises of Lannister gold fueling their searches. The thought threatened to beckon the rage within him.
"What is your point? Get on with it." Sandor's patience was wearing thin.
"I told you before I came to the Isle I had little else, but my sword, shield, and horse. I'm afraid that wasn't entirely true. I had bedded countless women, but loved only one. I rode off into battle, determined to come back to her with victory and honor. I had planned to marry her and give her a good life; a simple life, but a good one. I wanted nothing more than to make her happy. However, I died in that battle and ended up here. Many times I entertained the thought of going back for her, but I never did. She eventually married some knight, gave him four daughters, but no sons. For that, he took her life, this knight of hers.
I lived with my regrets for countless years and I am wroth to admit I still bear a considerable amount of that remorse. Even to this day, so many years later, I am haunted by dreams of her. I awake in a cold sweat, whispering her name. I no longer awake screaming her name, that much has changed over time, but that does not mean I am exorcised of her memory.
I understand your need to leave and will not stand in your way, but you must promise me one thing, Sandor Clegane. You are the Hound no longer. That man died on the Trident. Bury the Hound and promise me you will leave him at rest."
A bitter and familiar anguish remained in the Elder Brother's eyes and began to color his entire form. Sandor recognized this pained presence; he had seen the Elder Brother like this before and he now understood. Beyond that, the silent torment and regret the Elder Brother bore was seemingly a reflection of what Sandor himself was becoming.
He's offering me the chance he had, but never took.
"Aye, you have my word." Sandor was surprised to find he meant it too.
"While you are a two day ride from the Eyrie, you cannot journey there directly. Nonetheless, that's where I would begin your search. You would do well to avoid Maidenpool, the Saltpans, and the Mountains of the Moon. Your best option would be to cross the Bay of Crabs to the north. Follow the banks of the bay up towards Gulltown and head back west from there. You will pass the Iron Oaks, but will avoid the Bloody Gate."
Sandor pondered the man's words, realizing that while the Little Bird could truly be anywhere in Westeros and even the Free Cities, it would be best to begin his search in places were a Stark might find refuge.
"Aye. That's where I will start. By the time I reach the Eyrie, the Arryn's will be making their descent to the Gates of the Moon for winter. If Sansa is amongst them, I will have a better chance finding her at the Gates of the Moon than trying to make my ascent to the Eyrie."
The Elder Brother nodded solemnly in agreement. "Very well. Your sword and armor will be returned to you. You shall be given enough provisions to see you through your journey."
The older man smiled. Not the vacuous half smile that fleetingly fell upon his face, but a contented smile that intimated the small piece of solace he had seemingly just found. The Elder Brother retreated into the night, stopping when he had taken a few steps away from Sandor, and turned his head over his shoulder, still smiling softly.
"I hope you find your girl, Clegane."
They had been riding through the night and through the day at a furious pace. Lord Yohn Royce was determined to put as much distance as possible between them and the Stone castle, which sat between the High Road and the path up to the Eyrie. Sansa was an inexperienced rider and quickly became aware of the saddle relentlessly rubbing away at the delicate skin of her inner thighs. Initially, she would grimace each time her chestnut mare's hooves crashed to the ground, driving her weight down in the saddle and pain up through her legs. Now, she hardly felt it; her mind was a thousand leagues away.
A numbness washed over her and silent tears fell over her cheeks, freezing to her face in glistening rivers as they rolled down her cheeks. Lord Royce had not taken notice or if he did, he chose to ignore it. For that, she was grateful.
I am a direwolf of House Stark, the last of my name. I must be strong lest I will lose myself. There is no going back.
Lord Royce had hardly spoken to her, save from the few occasions they had stopped to rest their horses. Even then, the handful of words he would speak to her would be out of necessity. He would tell her to make her water and be quick about it, and then wordlessly offer her a meal of salted beef and a piece of black bread. They would eat in silence before returning to their mounts.
She had a thousand and more questions for him. He was a serious man, constantly sweeping his eyes over the landscape and softly cursing into the night when something would seemingly vex him.
I don't think I've ever seen him smile.
Her father had been a serious man, but was also loving and warm. There was no such warmth where Lord Royce was concerned. The man who had so passionately spoken to her in the garden of the Eyrie about bringing her home to Winterfell had become taciturn and mercurial. The sudden aloofness in his demeanor filled Sansa with unease. She dared not ask him where they were heading. Something told her that she would not like the answer. There is no going back now. However difficult, my path is forward.
They were heading east, that much Sansa had gathered when they rode into the morning sun. She had welcomed the warmth on her face, but black clouds began forming on the horizon and blotted out the golden embrace from the sun.
We are riding into a storm.
The thought made her anxious. Autumn storms were treacherous, her father had once told her, much worse than the storms of spring. Sansa had been a spring child, which, according to her mother, explained her sweetness and fondness for knights and flowers and songs.
No longer am I a child of spring.
The silence that had invaded their journey left Sansa with her thoughts. She would have welcomed a distraction; something to make her forget the steady aching in her heart. The emerging saddle sores had offered her some reprieve until the numbness set in and she was once again afflicted with her anguish. Frustrated, she had tried to make a game out of seeking out as many birds as she could. When she spotted a falcon, she would promise herself four lemoncakes, finches would be two lemoncakes, and all other birds would be one lemoncake. Upon reaching a dozen lemoncakes, she stopped, feeling ridiculous and childish. Lemoncakes and little birds.
The memories hit her like a tidal wave, swallowing her whole and drowning her in bittersweet sorrow. 'Little Bird.' Those were his last words to me. His low, rasping voice was a whisper in her mind and once again tears began to spill over her cheeks, softly patting her hands as they fell.
'He died somewhere along the Trident…' The words echoed in her head, screaming behind her thoughts of lemoncakes and little birds and bittersweet memories. He was strong, so much stronger than anyone I have ever known. How could it have happened? Was he alone? Was he in pain?
Sansa replayed the night of the Battle of the Blackwater again and again in her mind; the eerily beautiful green-orange glow of her bed chamber as the sky was on fire, the weight of his body on top of her, the scent of blood heavy on him, and the way he pressed his mouth to hers. He wanted to protect me. He wanted to take me away so that no one would ever hurt me again. Gods, why didn't I go with him? I would have been with him at the Trident. Whatever happened there, I would have been with him. I wouldn't have left. I would have stayed with him, comforted him.
Regret began to rise within her, its weight threatening to suffocate her. She shifted her gaze to Lord Royce, stoic and unflinching as he eyed the horizon in front of them. As the gulf of silence between them grew larger, so did an impending feeling of dread. What would he say, my protector? What would he say if he knew I blindly entrusted my safety and my life to a man I hardly know?
Sansa could have guessed what Sandor Clegane may have said. He would undoubtedly laugh that growling, mocking laugh and tell her she was being a stupid Little Bird with rage heavy in his eyes. 'A Hound will die for you, but never lie to you.' He was only trying to make me see, to make me understand. His words may have been harsh, but they were certainly true.
She sighed deeply and squeezed her eyes shut in a futile effort of ward off the agonizing aching that was ravaging her heart, whispering pleas to whatever Gods remained above to grant her a small moment of solace. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that the sun was beginning to lower behind them and a tumultuous darkness was creeping along the horizon in front of them. When their pace slowed to a steady trot, it seemed the Gods had answered her desperate prayers and Sansa found that sleep came easy to her. The rhythmic gallop of her mare lulled her into a dreamless sleep. She knew not how long it had been since she drifted into slumber, but she was abruptly awoken by a deafening crash of thunder.
She lifted her eyes to the sky and found black clouds churning against one another, angry and restless. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky and Lord Royce dropped back to ride alongside her.
"We need to find somewhere to shelter and wait the storm out." His eyes darted along the horizon in front of them. The rocky landscape of the mountain foothills offered little by way of shelter. His eyes settled on a steep slope of a hill, with a cluster of tall trees at the bottom. He dug his heels into his stallion and pulled her reins away from her, leading her horse behind his.
On the eastern side of the hill, a large overhang of rock created a shallow cave, barely big enough for them both to sit in. Sansa sat under the overhanging rock, pulling her knees tightly to her chest while Lord Royce tied their horses to one of the enormous trees that flanked the sides and front of the cave.
Once he had come to join her in the modest shelter, their ritual commenced; Lord Royce wordlessly handed her a ration of salted beef and hard cheese while brooding over the unknown specter that had seemingly been haunting him throughout their journey. As they sat in silence, she was beginning to grow impatient. In King's Landing and the Eyrie, courtesies were her armor, polite smiles were her sword. The armor had suited her well and she had been proficient at wielding that sword.
Sansa, Joffrey's betrothed, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Alayne Stone, natural daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish. Both children of the spring.
No more. I am Sansa Stark, last of my name. All that I have loved has been ripped from my hands. An autumn storm rages in my heart. I have prayed to the old gods and the new. My prayers have been returned to me stained with blood and drowned in tears.
No longer am I a child of the spring.
Slowly, she raised her head towards the horizon. Storms had scared her when she was a child. When thunder would shake the walls of the Great Keep in Winterfell, Sansa would sprint to Robb's bed chamber, and crawl under the covers, tears streaming down her face. To comfort her, Robb would tell her stories of how the Gods would hold tourneys in their sky palaces. They would mount dark clouds in place of tourney horses and fly through the heavens above to dismount one another. As the Gods came crashing together, thunder would fill the sky and shake the earth below. As the thunder would boom, Robb would guess which God had been dismounted. On it would go until the storm would end and the thoughts of the Tourney of the Gods would ease Sansa into a peaceful sleep.
But that was many years ago when she had been no more than a child, fearful and timid. Now she found that the turmoil on the horizon was exhilarating to her, electrifying her body and filling her with resolute courage. I have questions and, as such, I shall have answers. She turned to look at Lord Royce squarely in the eyes.
"My Lord, we are heading east. I figured we would. The Mountains of the Moon and the Riverlands beyond would have been much too dangerous. We are heading east, but where?"
A slight smile, almost proud, appeared on Lord Royce's lips. In the entirety of their journey, it was the first time Sansa had seen him abandon his mask of icy sternness.
"You are clever, child. No, we could not head west or south. Aye, we are heading east, towards Runestone. It is there, at Runestone, where I shall leave you for a short time. You will be safe there while I travel to Gulltown, which is a day's ride south. I will charter a ship in Gulltown to sail to Runestone to meet you. From there, we will sail around the bay to Coldwater Burn. The Coldwaters are my bannermen. You will be safe there."
He turned away from her in such a manner as to convey that he would not entertain any more questions.
It seemed to her that she had been whisked away from King's Landing to the Eyrie and then from the Eyrie to Runestone and from there to Coldwater Burn; one prison after another and another still. Try as she might, Sansa could not stave off her frustration. "For how long am I to remain in Coldwater Burn, my Lord? Until Littlefinger or Cersei find me? And then what is to become of me?"
Irritation flickered across Lord Royce's face and settled to a scowl. "Mind your courtesies, girl. You will remain there while I gather my bannermen and begin strategizing how to take Winterfell."
'…gather my bannermen and begin strategizing how to take Winterfell.'
The child-woman that was Sansa Stark in King's Landing would not have heard it. Alayne Stone in the Eyrie would have heard it, but never dare say anything in response. The woman Sansa had grown into understood immediately and refused to let it remain unchallenged. If I didn't know better, it would seem that he wants to take Winterfell for House Royce.
And then Sansa remembered. Andar Royce is his eldest son, heir to Runestone. I am the only remaining heir to Winterfell. It is possible Lord Royce wishes to join the Vale and the North together. Should I become Queen of the North, his son would be King.
The thought of being used as a pawn and the prospect of once again being married off to a man she did not even know filled her with rage.
She could feel the determination hungry in her eyes. "I beg pardon, my Lord. I did not mean to give offense. I am truly grateful that you will be winning back Winterfell in my name and for the House Stark. A Stark must always remain in Winterfell. Also, I am no 'girl'. I am a woman grown and now the Lady Stark. If it please my Lord, you shall address me befitting my status."
She half expected him to hit her. Instead, he only stared at her, his mouth tense, and after a moment, looked away in silence.
I am Sansa Stark, the last of my name and my fate is now my own.
The Elder Brother had the right of it. Sandor could not have hoped to reach the Eyrie by merrily riding up the High Road to the Bloody Gate and politely asking for passage to the Gates of the Moon and beyond.
He and Stranger had left the Quiet Isle to cross the Bay of Crabs to the north. The water had receded enough that they could easily ride across on a ferry raft to the other side. Once on the other side, the Saltpans were a half day ride to the west, Sandor had judged. The Elder Brother had warned him that Randyll Tarly had sent his men from Maidenpool to scavenge the land around the Saltpans for the outlaws responsible for the massacre that ensued there.
The last thing I need is to be spotted this close to where the bloody Mad Dog wrecked havoc.
The thought prompted Sandor to push Stranger at a speeding pace until they reached Wickenden. Rather than follow along the bay, which would have made him visible to others, Sandor traveled north from Wickenden and into the forest that lined the bottom of the mountain slopes. The forest path had slowed his pace a bit, but provided some cover from any fellow travelers riding along the bay.
Hailing from the Westerlands, Sandor was unfamiliar with the rocky terrain of the Vale and was none too pleased with the handful of times Stranger had stumbled over loose rocks, almost dismounting Sandor in the process.
Overwhelmed and frustrated, Sandor's mind wandered to the enormous undertaking at hand. He instantly became aware of the doubt rising within him. For all he knew, the Little Bird was not even at the Eyrie or the Vale or even in Westeros at all. Sandor felt his mood sour, exasperated at the thought of his mission being all for naught. It seemed to him that the odds were against him and he was more likely to come up empty handed. Despite this, he dare not let himself contemplate the thought of retreating back to the Quiet Isle in defeat.
Instead, Sandor had pushed Stranger to ride through the night and most of the day, stopping only briefly to rest and water the horse when the beast was clearly exerted.
He judged that Gulltown should be directly to his east now, probably ten or so leagues away. Through squinted eyes, he scanned the eastern horizon, roughly estimating the distance. Clouds were gathering there, thick and black as ink, steadily rolling towards him.
Bloody hell, a storm is coming.
Over a soft slopping hill directly ahead of him, Sandor noticed a billowing column of black smoke and urged Stranger forward, towards the direction of the smoke. On the other side of the hill, nestled in a shallow valley, was a meek village and at its center was an inn. The Elder Brother had given him not only food for the journey, but a bit of coin as well. Sandor considered the prospect of staying at an inn for the evening. The menacing storm forged in the sky above threatened to be brutal.
Stranger and I could use the rest.
He eyed the eastern horizon again, a flash of lightning lit up the sky and thunder grumbled moments later.
Bugger that. The inn it is. Urging Stranger forward, Sandor made his way down the hill and towards the village inn.
Sandor dismounted from his horse as a frightened stable boy approached hesitantly. Stranger snorted and snapped at the boy's hand as he tried to take the reins.
Sandor smiled and shook his head while tossing the boy a copper. "Careful now, lad. He's been known to take a grown man's hand clean off at the wrist. See to it that he is brushed, watered, and fed."
The boy stumbled to catch the copper and averted his eyes to ground. "Ay-Aye. Th-th-thank you, S-s-ser."
I am no Ser. Sandor almost said it out loud, but to his own astonishment he stopped himself. When the Hound had been called "ser" or "my Lord," irritation would give way to anger and the chiding retort had become natural to him. The stable boy had led Stranger away before Sandor could correct him, but he figured it was for the best. My aversion to bloody courtesies are almost as easily recognizably as my ruined face.
The inn was modest and a rusted sign hung on one hinge above the small front door. "Inn of the Falcon Flight," it read with a faded falcon's head barely visible, the paint chipped away with time. As the wind picked up, the sign swung on its hinge, giving off a hideous sound of metal screeching against metal. The stable butted up against one side of the inn, which probably boasted no more than eight rooms by Sandor's estimation. He doubted the inn had had much business as of late. Outlaws roamed freely through the Riverlands and the Vake, which made traveling a gravely dangerous undertaking.
Approaching the front door, Sandor pulled up the hood of his cloak tight around his face. He pushed through the door of the inn and into the common room, which was empty save two men in the corner, engaged in a boisterous conversation and steadily drinking down cups of brown ale. They paid no mind to him as he approached a small, rotund man with a grey-brown beard and soft green eyes. The man was the inn keep, most like. A wide smile flooded the man's face as he greeted Sandor, puffing with red cheeks as he approached him.
"Welcome, good Ser! Will you be needin' a bed for the evenin'?" The man struggled with a large cauldron of hot water as he worked his way towards the stair case extending to the right of where Sandor stood. To Sandor's relief, the man's preoccupation with his task had distracted him from making eye contact with Sandor.
Keeping his head down, Sandor replied, "Aye. Food and a flagon of wine as well."
Out of breath and panting, the man motioned his head towards the common room as he started up the stairs. "Shan't be a problem. Find yourself a seat and my wife will have it right out."
Sandor settled in the corner of the room, with his back to the wall and his face down lest someone recognize him by his tell-tale scars. The two men in the adjacent corner of the room continued their conversation, blithely unconcerned by his presence. Both men appeared to be middle aged, but shared little else in common beyond that. Where one was stocky and heavily muscled, the other was lithe and lean. The stocky man had grey hair, but was turned with his back to Sandor so he couldn't make out much else. The other man had golden hair framing a face with graceful, feminine features.
Sandor smiled slightly, amused by the dichotomy of the two men. One of these men has seen battle, the other clearly has not.
A plump woman with rosy cheeks and dark brown hair hurriedly approached Sandor's table with a bowl of steaming mutton, carrot, and onion stew, a heel of black bread, and a flagon of Dornish red.
"Here we are, milord! A nice hot meal and your bed will be upstairs, room at the end of the hall." The woman smiled merrily at him before fluttering off, skirts whirling about her thick legs.
Sandor ravenously devoured his meal and took a long pull from the flagon of wine. He savored the familiar warmth as the wine filled his belly. He sighed deeply and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Thunder boomed outside and he could hear the wind furiously battering the walls of the inn. He hadn't paid much mind to the men in the corner as he finished his meal and worked on the flagon of wine. As Sandor sat pondering the remainder of his journey, the dainty man mentioned a familiar name.
"Littlefinger meant to marry her himself. The bloody Lannisters were having none of that!" The man's speech was slurring and Sandor gathered the men had begun their drinking long before he arrived at the inn.
The grey haired man took a gulp of ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, belching loudly. "Aye. They meant her for one of their own."
The other man slammed his cup down on the table. "The fucking Imp," he bellowed belligerently and howled with laughter. "Poor girl had been through enough for her maidenhead to be taken by that tiny little prick of his. I could show her what it is to be with a real man."
Sandor's blood began to boil as his hands balled into fists. He will die slowly and painfully for that.
The grey haired man shook his head, pointing his finger in the other man's face. "Easy now! She's not a common whore. The girl is highborn. Show some bloody respect!"
A silence fell over the men. The golden-haired man slowly began to crack a smile before erupting with laughter and raising an empty glass up into the air, his arm wavering with drunkenness. "Bloody hell! So high and mighty you are. Wench! More ale for the both of us! Weeennnch!"
The large man let out an exasperated sigh before lowering his voice. Sandor strained to hear, tilting his head ever so slightly in the direction of the men.
"Littlefinger means marry her to Harry Hardyng, the Young Falcon they call him. They mean to reveal her identity during the wedding by parading her out in a maiden cloak of grey and white. The boy is a glory-hungry fool. He will ride into Winterfell in her honor and get himself killed by Ramsay Bolton, quick as a wink."
The dainty, golden-haired man laughed hard, spitting out a mouthful of brown ale. "Littlefinger knows this, he does?"
The grey-haired man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped droplets of brown ale off of his face. "Aye, he knows. He will marry her himself and secure his hold over Harrenhal, the Vale, and the north."
Sandor's rage was thick upon him now. He was seething where he sat, focusing every bit of self-control on not flying from his seat to slaughter both men, in particular the dainty-man. Joffrey was a sadistic prick, but Sandor had thanked whatever Gods existed, old and new, that the little bastard never thought to violate Sansa's maidenhood.
Sandor was never quick to trust anyone, but Petyr Baelish had made him uneasy ever since the day he was appointed master-of-coin and made his permanent residence in King's Landing. The man had proudly boasted at taking both Lysa and Catelyn Tully's maidenheads, at which Sandor had snorted and shook his head before making a comment about how he doubted Littlefinger's "little finger" could manage not one, but two highborn maidens.
Regardless, it was clear even to a man like Sandor Clegane that Petyr Baelish had been desperately in love with Catelyn Stark; a love she most certainly did not reciprocate. Sandor did not doubt that Littlefinger's fixation on the Little Bird was some attempt at a second chance with Catelyn Tully. Littlefinger was as perverted as he was manipulative. The thought of it made Sandor see red. He turned his attention back to the conversation between the two men.
"And what in seven hells could one man want with all of that land?" The girly-man was slobbering over his words and fighting against his body's swaying to remain in his seat.
"I admit I do not know the answer to that. Those thoughts have remained with Petyr Baelish alone. It does not matter now though. Bronze Yohn stole off with her like a thief in the night. All I know is we had best find her."
"Aye and when we do find her, I have half a mind to say we both have a go at her. A real shame for a pretty thing like that to go unused." The girly-man licked his lips and slumped forward, his elbows crashing on the table.
The Hound or not, I will fucking rip his throat out. Sandor's hands were shaking and it took everything he had not choke the man with his own entrails right there in the middle of the inn.
The grey haired man waved his hand in annoyance. "She is highborn, you blubbering fool! You will do no such thing. Besides, I'm promised a lordship should she come back unharmed. I mean to have that lordship."
"Well, if it please milord, I need to go take a piss." The smaller man pushed himself from the table and stumbled towards the door of the inn, shouting towards the inn keep as he passed by the kitchen.
"Wench! That ale better be sitting at the table by the time I come back." With that he pushed through the front door of the inn. A moment later, the plump woman rounded the corner out of the kitchen with a pitcher of ale. Approaching the table, she filled the empty glasses as the grey haired man handed her a couple of coppers for her trouble.
Sandor slowly stood from his table and slipped through the front door unnoticed. Once outside, the wind thrashed against his face as his cloak whipped about his body. His blood churned as violently as the blackened sky above.
He found the man on the other side of the stable, facing the wall and whistling "The Dornishman's Wife" as he relieved himself.
Sandor shook his head and smiled lightly to himself. Fucking fool. This is going to be too easy.
As Sandor approached, the man spun around with cock still in hand, nearly tumbling over his own feet.
"And who the hell are you? Can't a man take a piss in some bloody privacy? Fuck off!" The man was stumbling as he pushed his cock back into his breeches and clumsily went for his sword.
Sandor's fists were already clenched as he took two swift paces to close the distance between him and the drunken man, swinging his fist deftly through the air to meet the man's stomach. The man stumbled backwards, his back hitting the wall of the stable and his legs giving out underneath him. As the man slumped to the ground, he gasped violently in an effort to catch his breath.
Sandor stepped forward and grabbed the man hard by the back of his head, snapping it back to meet his furious glare. His voice was loud over the far-off rolling of thunder.
"What do you want with her?!"
Still choking for air, the man winced in pain. "I don't bloody know who you're talking about."
The man struggled feebly, fists swinging at empty air trying with all his might to reach Sandor. Enraged, Sandor wrapped one of his massive hands around the man's thin neck, pulling the man up to his feet and punching him hard in the side, the sound of ribs crunching under the force. Slowly, Sandor squeezed the man's throat and lifted him off of the ground. The man's hands flew up to meet Sandor's and struggled to pry them off of his throat. Sandor lowered his voice in a deliberate growl.
"We'll try this again. Sansa Stark. Where is she and what do you want with her?"
The man was gasping for air, delirious from pain and drunk off of ale. "The Eyrie. S-s…Sansa…St-St…" The man coughed and spat up blood. "The…the…the Stark girl. Littlefinger…" Another gasp for air interjected. "Littlefinger took her from King's Landing to…to…to the Eyrie. She escaped…He…he wants her back."
Holding him steady in one hand, Sandor swung the back of his fist to meet the side of the man's head and let him slump unconscious to the ground, blood pooling underneath his face. Standing over the man's unconscious form, Sandor lifted his leg and with the heel of his boot, stomped hard on the man's shin, which broke easily under the force with a sharp crack.
Sandor stalked off back towards the inn, but passing the front of the stable on his way, he spotted the other man, mounted on a horse and the stable boy pale as if he had seen a ghost, eyes as wide as saucers. The man's face was familiar to Sandor.
I know this bloody prick. The name escaped him momentarily, but raced to the front of his mind as a bolt of lightning cracked the sky open.
"Lothor Brune," Sandor rasped, his voice grumbling in unison with the thunder.
"Sandor Clegane. Many people, myself included, will be disappointed that Joffrey's dog isn't dead, rotting in the ground like they had hoped." The man spat at Sandor's feet.
Before Sandor could pull him from his mount and beat him bloody, the man drove his heels into his stallion and the horse sprinted forward, knocking Sandor into the frightened stable boy behind him.
Sandor threw his arms out to catch the side of a stall and steadied himself on his feet before swirling around towards the stable boy.
"My saddle! NOW, BOY!" Sandor's voice boomed with anger and the boy went quickly to work saddling up Stranger.
Sandor knocked the boy out of the way and swung himself up onto the saddle, plunging his heels hard into the horse's ribs. Stranger reared up on his back legs, front legs swinging at dead air and a deafening scream erupting from the horse's throat before bounding out of the stable.
Staring off to the eastern horizon at the brewing storm, Sansa had hardly noticed as Lord Royce rose to his feet. He too studied the horizon intently, but his expression was unease where hers was wonderment. Black clouds tumbled over one another in figure eights, broken apart as lightning shattered the sky and thunder erupted in its wake. Sansa's breath caught in her chest, enraptured by the scene playing out in front of her and the air buzzing with intrigue.
This night is bewitched. Goosebumps enveloped her skin at the thought. It is the storm. It is filling the air with whispers of something yet to come. Sansa pulled her knees tighter to her chest and rubbed her arms to drive out the sudden chill that hung in the air as the wind began to pick up.
Lord Royce shifted his eyes towards Sansa momentarily before allowing them to flee back to the ominous horizon. He strode swiftly towards the tree where the horses were reined and began to unbind his stallion. Befuddled, Sansa rose to her feet and eyed him with puzzlement. If I didn't know any better, the man is afraid of the impending storm. The thought seemed somewhat humorous to her; a grown man fleeing from a storm. However, there was something sinister churning amongst the blackened clouds.
Sansa slowly padded up to where Lord Royce was working at the reins of his horse. "I thought we were seeking shelter here for the night, my Lord."
Lord Royce lifted his eyes to the horizon once more, before hesitantly beginning with quiet reservation. "We cannot ride this storm out here. It would be too dangerous."
Sansa squinted hard against the rising wind that was blowing towards them. A flock of birds above flapped furiously against the wind, flying away from the storm and desperately trying to seek their own shelter.
"Where shall we go then? The nearest village we passed on the way here is nearly three leagues away."
Lord Royce considered her words, seemingly letting them tumble through his worried mind. He lifted his heavily muscled arm and pointed towards the angry eastern horizon where a densely forested patch of land sloped up a high hill.
"Aye. However, there's a small village over the hill there, about a league away. There's an inn, 'Inn of the Falcon Flight' I think it's called. We can seek shelter there. Pull your hood up tightly around your face. You're fooling no one with the attempt to darken your hair. The Tully is showing right through."
Sansa knew Lord Royce was right; the dark brown rinse that had been used on her hair was all but faded now. Her hair was a rich shade of auburn and nothing could be done to hide her Tully blue eyes. She pulled up her hood and clutched it tightly around her face before working at the reins of her mare, untying them from the tree. They had been traveling almost ceaselessly through night and day. Her body was aching and her head was beginning to pound. She welcomed the thought of sleeping in a warm bed and having a hot meal.
An inn. I haven't slept at an inn since the journey to King's Landing from Winterfell.
Sansa began to realize, however, that the thought was becoming bittersweet to her. Something about watching the storm sweep over the horizon, furious and steady, had enchanted her. I suppose I can still watch the storm from within the inn as well.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Lord Royce came to her side, abruptly lifting her to her saddle. "Come, my Lady. We must begin towards the village. If Gods be good, we will reach the inn before the storm unleashes its fury." Lord Royce swung up to his own saddle and dug his heels hard into his stallion's side, forcing the horse forward in a dash. Sansa followed suit and urged her mare forward.
As they traveled towards the village, the wind was lashing across her form, snapping her cloak and causing her mare to neigh in disquiet. She leaned forward in her saddle to gently stroke the horse behind her ears and mutter reassurances softly, which did little to quell the mare's apprehension at the frequent claps of thunder that had begun to boom across the sky.
They had ridden about half a league by what Sansa had guessed. The forest was a blanket of green-black darkness, the trees casting fleeting shadows against the cold earth. The trees themselves felt as though they were intently watching as Sansa and Lord Royce made their way through, their leaves sighing whispered secrets as the wind rustled through. A steady chill persisted in the air, beckoning Sansa to pull her hood closer to her face to drive away the cold and retain every fraction of warmth she could.
Small raindrops began to fall from the black sky, softly plodding against the ground and stirring the earth. Gradually, Sansa felt more and more drops explode against her hands, the droplets spilling cold across her skin and sending shivers through her body.
The expanse of forest they had been riding through had begun to dissipate and she spotted a column of black smoke on the horizon, coming from the inn most like. She breathed her relief with a deep sigh. The rain was coming down in steady sheets as cold as ice, cutting through her cloak and chilling her to the bone. The thunder boomed across the sky so loud she felt it rattle through her chest.
Suddenly her mare stopped and stubbornly wheeled itself around, away from some invisible apparition. Lord Royce's stallion echoed her mare's uneasiness and neighed loudly into the night. Sansa's eyes darted across the line of forest to the front and the sides of them, desperately trying to search out whatever was hidden between the trees. This night is bewitched. I can feel it.
From the corner of her eye, a flash of steel was illuminated by a bolt of lightning. A scream caught in her chest and was buried there as a man astride a stallion emerged from behind a cluster of thickly-trunked trees. Lord Royce's hand flew to the hilt of his sword, pulling his steel from its sheath in a swift, graceful motion.
Another flash of lightning filled the sky and Sansa glimpsed the man's face as he approached with his sword extended in front of him. She recognized the face immediately.
Ser Lothor! He's been following us. Lord Royce must have known it.
Lord Royce sighed his relief and snorted as Ser Lothor slowly, but deliberately approached. "Lothor Apple-eater. So here we are. I figured Littlefinger would have sent someone more…worthy. Or did you come on your own accord?"
Ser Lothor chuckled lightly and swept his eyes towards Sansa, meeting her petrified gaze with a soft, reassuring look. "Littlefinger may have sent me, but you know as well as I why I came. I want no trouble, Royce. The girl, just give me the girl and I will let you slink back to Runestone. I can assure you there is someone far more dangerous who seeks her."
Lord Royce shook his head and glared valyrian daggers at Lothor Brune. "I think not, Ser." With a speed that surprised Sansa, Lord Royce rushed towards Ser Lothor, his sword a blaze of steel as it slashed down hard towards Ser Lothor who blocked it deftly with his own sword. The sound of steel clanged into the night as the two men whirled about one another.
Sansa sat frozen on her mount, her heart beating frantically. She tried to scream. Nothing came out, but stifled whimpering. She knew not what to think, her head was swimming and pounding. Ser Lothor plunged towards Lord Royce, the tip of his sword finding a hollow space in his rune-inscribed armor, cutting through skin on his left side, leaving a deep gash that immediately spilled forth his lifeblood.
Lord Royce slumped back in his saddle and clutched his side with his hand, his face contorting in pain. He inclined his head towards Sansa, his eyes darkened with defeat and fear. His voice broke through the night, clear and steady.
"Sansa! Run!" With that, he edged his horse towards hers and swung the flat of his sword on her mare's rump. Sansa almost fell from her saddle as the horse reared on its back legs before fleeing off into the night. She dare not look back for fear; fear that some demon from her nightmares would be fast in pursuit, gaining steadily on her.
Instead, Sansa dug her heels into the mare's ribs as hard as she dared, pleading the horse forward. From where, she did not know, but a wild instinct to flee consumed her. The rain was pounding relentlessly against her face so hard she thought that her skin would tear off, leaving her a bloody ruin. Terror flooded her being; the terror that she had suppressed in King's Landing and the Eyrie seemingly suffocating her all at once.
She raced head long into the storm, rain pouring from the unsettled sky and thunder violently shaking the earth below. Sansa kept her gaze steady in front of her, fighting hard against the urge to see what or who was chasing her into the night.
A black form emerged on the horizon, small at first. She squinted hard, willing the rain to cease so she could make out the form. Perhaps to spite her, the rain came down harder, blinding her to what lie ahead. Regardless, she could tell that the distance between her and the form was melting away; still it came, it's frantic pace matching hers and making her heart pound harder in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut to drive the rain from out and when she opened her eyes again, the form was dashing in front of her.
And then it came to meet her; a black silhouette, horse and man, crashing towards her, their beings careening uncontrollably towards one another, the Gods themselves powerless to interfere. Her mare snapped hard to the right to avoid the collision, but only succeeded in tumbling hard to the ground, throwing Sansa from the saddle in the process.
When she hit the ground, she felt the breath escape from her lungs in an instant and a sharp light flashed in her eyes; from the lightning or the fall, she did not know. The frigid rain was pounding heavy against her face, mingling with the warmth of blood running down her cheek from a gash on her forehead. Her mare stumbled to her feet and fled into the night, leaving her bloodied and dazed in the cold ground's embrace.
As the sound of her mare's hooves faded into the night, Sansa whimpered in protest. This night is bewitched.
Suddenly, another sound pierced through the air. A sharp scream from a horse echoed somewhere through the darkness followed by a faint, but persistent rhythm of hooves. The sound became louder until the black form appeared again.
Death. This is death coming to collect me.
The man swung from his horse and fell to his knees in front of her, his hair soaking wet and plastered against the sides of his face, one side a ruin of scars. His mouth was agape with disbelief, his eyes flooded with desperation and franticly drinking her in.
Sansa's eyes swept over him, half believing what they saw. She stared intently at his face until his grey eyes came to meet hers. She held his gaze as silent tears spilled over her cheeks.
It's him. In death, he comes to me.
She willed her arms to throw themselves around him, to feel his embrace dissolve into her so that they may return to the stars together, melded as one. Instead her arms defied her and remained still at her side. The steady stream of tears falling from her eyes gradually erupted into soft sobs.
Seemingly understanding her desperate plea for his familiar touch, Sandor wordlessly cupped her cheeks gently with calloused hands, wiping away blood and caressing her skin in small strokes. With the feeling in her arms slowly returning, Sansa brought her hands up to meet his and was surprised at the warmth she felt emanating from them.
Oh gods, it's him. Flesh and blood, it's him.
When she met his eyes, the bewilderment had retreated and had given way to what seemed like a deep yearning. He shook his head silently, and smoothed away the wet tresses of hair that were stuck to her face. She closed her eyes as he delicately scooped her up into his strong arms. Slowly, she encircled her own arms around him and buried her head into his neck, letting her tears fall freely from her eyes.
She breathed in deep, filling her lungs with his smell, which brought a familiar joy, one she didn't know how badly she had needed.
He pulled her close to his chest and wrapped his arms around her tightly, rocking gently and kissing her softly on her forehead. She felt his frantic breathing in her ear as he brought the side of his face to hers, breathing her in, and caressing her cheek gently. Softly, he began kissing her cheek, slowly working towards her lips and muttering something incoherently before pulling his head away ever so slightly. The tips of his finger brushed under her chin, inclining her eyes to meet his intent gaze. Gently, he ran his thumb across her lips in soft strokes.
The rain was beating loudly on the ground beside them, but underneath the sounds of the rain she heard it. That familiar rasp, deep and longing.
"Little bird."
A/N:
Before I set out writing this fanfic, it was this chapter, especially the events at the end, that were playing in my head. For a multitude of reasons, I have been waiting patiently to get to this chapter. It is this chapter that the title of the fanfic ("Figure 8: The Infinite Fate") comes from.
It seems that there are certain people in our lives who we cross paths with and then separate from, going our own ways and living our own lives, only to be propelled back to that person once again. No matter how many times or through how many lifetimes, we experience this push-pull of the universe. Our fate with that person ends up being rather like a figure 8 with our journeys ultimately accelerating us back together.
Turning a number 8 on its side you end up with the symbol for infinity, which is not only abstract in terms of mathematics, but also pervades many aspects of mysticism and represents things that are eternal. If you are familiar with tarot, the eighth tarot card of the major arcana is Strength. It pictures a maiden taming a lion. The message being that we can tame our inner "beast" through internal, rather than external strength. In the eighth card also appears the symbol for infinity.
Regardless of how you view the dynamic of Sansa and Sandor, they both stand to learn quite a bit from one another: Sansa learning to gain strength through courage and Sandor learning to quiet his rage and gain inner strength through compassion.
The spiritual aspects of this fanfic (synchronicity, fate, universal guidance, etc.) have been rather intentionally and deliberately placed, even if they are just whispers throughout the story. I honestly believe that with Sansa and Sandor there is a story of two people who will always, in some way and through whatever hardship, find one another because through their fates they are somehow universally bound to one another.
Thank you to all who have patiently awaited the reunion of these two. The story is far from over and I promise some quality Sansa-Sandor time ahead. As always, please review.
A special thanks to my boyfriend who helped me make the fight scene with Sandor much more believable. What I had originally written sounded more like a UFC fight than a fight that would actually take place in Westeros.