Figure 8: The Infinite Fate

by Supernova Dragon Cat

Fate brought them together in King's Landing only to pull them apart during the Battle of the Blackwater. With Sandor on the Quiet Isle and Sansa in the Eyrie, they both begin to feel the fates accelerating them towards one another once again. Sandor takes his fate in his own hands and decides to leave the Quiet Isle in search of his Little Bird.

8. Chapter 8

Thank you kindly for all the wonderful reviews for chapter 7. I love all the positive energy being pumped towards this fic!

I am ecstatic about this chapter and have waited ever so patiently to get to this part of the story. Much of it was envisioned before I even started writing this fic so I am beyond excited to get to this point.

This chapter is EPIC in length, which I like and apparently many of you like too. It could have been split up into at least 4 medium sized chapters, but I felt the impact and flow would have been compromised if I did that. So alas, a gigantic chapter. I don't know that the next chapters will be quite this long.

I spent some time in New Orleans, Louisiana in the midst of writing this chapter. Sitting on the Riverwalk, eating a beignet and drinking coffee, watching the river barges pass on by with seagulls flying over head definitely inspired parts of this chapter. New Orleans is such a unique city, full of energy and cool vibes, good food and good music, and great people, and underneath all of that, it is truly haunting! Here's to the Crescent City. And here's to Boston as well. No matter what happens, we always, ALWAYS bounce back.

Onward and upward to chapter 8. I hope you enjoy!

---

'Humming. Who is humming?' Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. Hard and harder still. Hard until she felt as though the skin of her eyes would seal shut for eternity, entombing her in the shadow lands of darkness.

Or perhaps her eyes were already shut. Wrapped in a thick blanket of darkness, she knew not whether it was the darkness behind her eyes or the darkness of the night through which she was tumbling, head over feet. Tumbling turned to floating, floating through a dream, twirling uncontrollably towards the stars or perhaps falling to the ground, her body weightless and cascading through the darkness.

One and two and three and four. The pentameter of the humming was pounding through her limbs, hammering in her head. Not quite the voice of a child, but not the voice of man nor the voice of a woman, for that matter. The sounds met her ears and rung throbbing through her head until words began to form, quiet words almost indistinguishable behind the vibrations from the incessant humming.

As she lifted her hands to cover her ears, she found the skin of her arms was glowing, bathed in a lunar light which illuminated the darkness around her and embraced her softly in a sphere of shifting luminescence.

Breathing in deep, deep and deeper still, she pulled cold air into her lungs. As she exhaled, her breaths came vaporous from her body. Born from her breaths, a mist began unfolding before her, forming into familiar shapes before dissolving into the darkness and floating piece-wise as shadows against the black void. Bit by bit, the shapes gathered before her, eventually accumulating into a silhouette of a weirwood.

As intently as she bid them to close, Sansa willed her eyes to snap open, for the morning sun to vanquish the shifting shadows and the night to melt away into a distant memory.

'A dream. This is a dream. Just open your eyes. Open your eyes and it will go away. It will be morning and the darkness, the humming, the mist will be but a dream.'

The humming had transformed into singing, the words melodically filling the darkness and seemingly illuminating the weirwood; the leaves a vibrant crimson and swaying softly in a phantasmal wind, the carved face weeping dark tears of sticky blood.

"But a dream, but a dream.

Our lives, our souls,

Are not what they seem."

Her uncontrolled floating came to an abrupt halt in front of the weirwood and Sansa found she was at once entranced and terrified. The form from which the singing emerged was obscured by shadows yet continued its song, the tone macabre and the words filling her with dread.

"Two dead direwolves, two dead Starks

Two rest in the meadow, two rest in the dark

Two dead direwolves, two dead Starks

Their demise sung by the meadowlark

Dead, dead, all four dead

By the hands of traitors, lost their heads."

Endlessly, it repeated its song, the words an unrelenting crescendo that she sensed was beckoning her to speak, to acknowledge its presence which in doing so would somehow bring it to life.

"Who are you?"

The darkness surrounding the form lifted until a dim haze traced an outline around the being, betraying the presence of ears, four legs, and a tail. It remained utterly still as its song trailed off into a screaming silence.

"The girl asks a preposterous question. Who are any of us? I am everything. I am nothing. I am the darkness of the shadow moon. I am the blinding light of the sun of noon. I create, I destroy. I am the breath of life. I am the kiss of death."

Undaunted as the form began to shift, padding slowly, one paw in front of the other, towards her, Sansa narrowed her eyes and huffed her frustration in a deep breath.

"I haven't time for your riddles. What is your name?"

Feral eyes pierced through the inky darkness, amber cutting through black and reaching her in a fixed stare, the wildness behind its eyes strangely captivating her. As the voice began to speak again, she found that its words were no longer being spoken aloud but rather rang through her mind in an internal echoing. Seemingly, the being was speaking to her, eye to eye, mind to mind, soul to soul.

"Time, time. The shackles of your human experience. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Your precious time decaying away. Yet here you stand, defenseless against its passing. Go on! Cling to it if you will."

Still the being paced towards her, deliberate and intentional in its step as Sansa stood transfixed. As the form reached her, a stifled gasp caught in her throat as she felt her rising fear stubbornly give way to a feigned defiance.

"I demand to know your name!"

The form was once again dimmed until it was a silhouette in the darkness, a shifting shadow against the void of obscurity before her. A soft brushing of fur passed over the skin of her legs, which she had come to notice were bare. Startled, Sansa looked down, realizing for the first time that in place of clothes, her entire body was swathed in an ethereal light which radiated from her.

"I haven't a name. No more than the gusting of the wind, or the salt of the sea, or the fire of stars."

A twinge of curiosity settled within her, sinking Sansa to her knees to meet the height of the form whose heavy breathing was rustling through her hair.

"Alright. You haven't a name. What are you then?"

Slowly, the form began to circle her, its paws illuminating the ground in what looked like fallen starlight, the dust of the heavens kicked up as the beast padded around her.

"Who am I? What I am? How have I come to be? Why have I come to be? The same questions; one dressed as a knight, two dressed as a maiden, three dressed as a squire, four dressed as a Septon. Underneath, all are flesh and bone and blood. Same, same, all the same yet the girl demands my name!"

Exasperated Sansa settled to the ground, sweeping her legs from underneath her and resting them to the side of her body, steadying herself as she felt the weight beginning to return to her body.

"Please. I'm trying to understand. If you could just tell me something, anything!"

As the heaviness settled in her limbs, the glowing of her body suddenly fanned out in front of her, illuminating the form. As she lifted her eyes, the direwolf was resting on its hind legs, its fur bristling against a steady chill that pervaded the air around them. The beast began to speak, yet its jaw remained fixed and the words once again traveled the distance between its mind and hers, remaining unspoken but nonetheless understood.

"Sansa Stark. Solemn as the moon, radiant as the sun. I have nothing to tell. Yet I have much to show. Look not with your eyes lest you will never see. Peer with your soul for it is now what it was always meant to be."

In an instant, the direwolf sprung forth, propelling itself through the light emanating from her body and sending Sansa to the ground in an audible thud.

She whimpered as she hit the ground, helpless against the wolf's immense size and weight and finding her breath coming ragged from her body. Terrified as she was, she could not take her eyes off the beast and met its wild eyes which were rippled with a strange stirring.

"Remember, Sansa Stark. Look not with your eyes lest you will never see."

Slowly, the direwolf lowered its jaws towards her. As her screams escaped her lungs, they cut through the darkness which ripped away in shreds as the wolf dissolved back into a vaporous mist which poured into her open mouth, filling her body until once again the light was extinguished and darkness filled her eyes.

As her gaze shifted to her left, trees whirled by at a furious pace as the ground beneath her melted into a blur. Her legs moved in a fluid, syncopated motion, carrying her deeper into a dense forest and accelerating her lithe form faster than she had ever moved before.

'Running. I'm running.'

Sansa looked to the sky as a full moon hung beautifully against a tapestry of twilight. Suddenly, her instincts pulled her head back down and towards the frantic scurrying of a rabbit. At once, her senses were keenly aware of her surroundings as a familiarity filled her mind.

'I've been here. I know this place. This place is my home. These rocks, these trees, the river beyond. I know them all.'

Her mind was snapped back into focus as the musky scent of fear filled her nose and spread into her lungs. Layer after layer, she deciphered the smells; fur and fear, blood and men, the rotting of wood and decaying of bodies, the dampened blanket of fallen leaves that covered the forest floor, and death. So much death.

The layering of scents invaded in her nose yet her mind remained fixed on the prey, which darted between trees and under the brush, frantically fleeing into the night. Still, she kept with it, pounce for pounce, her pace gaining steadily on the terrified animal.

A hunger like she had never known grumbled through her belly, filling her with a lust for something she had never lusted for.

'Blood and flesh. Tonight I feast on blood and flesh.'

The thought filled her speeding legs with vigor as she sprung over a fallen log and landed with four paws on the ground. A distant howling cut through the night and rung in her ears whilst filling her with the warmth of kinship.

'Family. I have a family. My pack runs wild by my side.'

As the forest of trees opened gradually to a clearing, she noticed the gentle sound of a river running next to her, the waters reflecting the light of the moon and illuminating her prey which had gradually succumb to exhaustion.

In a swift pounce, she flew through the air and landed with front paws on the rabbit. Instinctively, she pulled at the soft flesh of its neck, ripping away fur and skin and filling her mouth with the sweetness of blood. With an insatiable hunger, she greedily consumed the animal until a sound roused her feasting.

As she snapped her head up, a familiar scent mingled with the smell of blood which had come to soak the fur of her snout and was dripping from her teeth.

'The scent of man.'

Slowly, she rose to four legs as her eyes settled on the form of a man emerging from the river, water dripping from his clothes. He did not seem to notice her as he removed his boots and upended them, dumping out water to the ground in a soft splash.

The man's face was gently folded with the precipice of age which was echoed through his grey hair. His eyes shone a brilliant blue and his scent remained distinguished in her mind.

'He smells familiar; somewhat distant, yet familiar.'

Suddenly aware of her presence, the man turned on his heel and came to face her, remaining completely still despite the scent of fear pouring forth from every pore of his skin. In small, slow steps, the man backed away from her with arms extended in front of him. As the distance between them steadily increased, the man lowered his arms and stood still, eyeing her in wonderment and apprehension.

She knew not why, but she felt no need to give him chase. Instead, she studied him, feeling compelled to memorize his face and seek out the identity of his scent.

'Look not with your eyes lest you will never see.' The words materialized in her mind as the rustling of leaves began to whisper, quietly at first and then louder as the sounds came in a unified shout from each of the trees.

'Blackfish. Blackfish. Blackfish.'

Louder and louder, the methodical chant rung through the night until one by one the trees surrounding her began to fade into nothingness. The river ceased its running, standing completely motionless before reversing, the water fleeing away into shadows. Once more, she lifted her eyes to the heavens as the moon came falling from the sky, careening towards her, screaming as it fell, until her vision was filled with its blinding light.

When Sansa's eyes finally snapped open, her vision was a blur of faces, their outline gradually clearing into distinct shapes. Somehow she had thrown her body forward, sitting upright in an instant and her chest heaving as she desperately sucked deep breaths of air into her burning lungs. Trembling, she lifted her hands to her cheeks which were slick with tears.

As Sansa's racing heart slowed its beat, she rubbed away the tears from her eyes and saw as Brienne and Sandor stood over her, the strained look of concern heavy upon their faces. The Elder Brother was situated to the left of Brienne, his hands gently folded together in front of him with his perpetual serenity enveloping him. Septon Meribald hesitantly peaked his head from around Sandor before pushing his way forward to Sansa's side.

Before he could reach her, Sansa bolted from the bed and, to her amazement, her aching legs carried her steadily to the empty wash basin on the opposite side of the room. She rested her hands on either side of the basin and hung her head, bracing herself to vomit. Her stomach turned as the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, seemingly originating from the back of her throat. With forceful heaves, Sansa retched up the miniscule contents of her stomach, which were devoid of the blood she was certain would be there.

As she lifted herself up and slowly turned around, she realized all eyes in the room were heavy upon her; a quartet of startled faces quietly evaluating her and each hesitant to break the silence that had descended upon the room. As the fog of fatigue lifted and her stomach settled, Sansa realized they were apparently waiting for her to address the heavy tension that had come to fill her chamber. She obliged with the immediate thoughts that sprung forth in her mind.

"I could have sworn my mouth was full of blood. Was I not bleeding?"

Brienne stepped forward as the others exchanged confused looks. With a sly smile, Sansa laughed quietly to herself. I have done little to ease whatever has come to vex them. If anything, I have succeeded only in confusing them even more.

"My lady, we heard you screaming. Awful, gut wrenching screams. When we entered your chamber, you were asleep, but in the midst of what seemed a terrible dream. We could not rouse you. All four of us tried."

Sansa made her way back to her bed in small steps lest her legs give out from underneath her. Every muscle in her body seemed to ache and her head was throbbing, the light of the sun a blinding orb stinging her eyes. Gently, she lowered herself and sat on the edge of the straw mattress that made up her bed.

"I dreamt, but it didn't feel like a dream. It felt real. I…I was…"

Sansa lifted her eyes, apprehensive to relay her dream, afraid at how she might sound. The dream had not simply been vivid; it had left her body feeling exhausted, battered and broken. Her muscles pulsed with pain as if she had been running, she awoke still tasting the blood of her prey, her stomach growling at the absence of the flesh and blood it had been promised. Indeed, this was no ordinary dream.

Her mind meandered to Old Nan's stories of northern lore; fabled tales of the green seers and wargs, skin changers who slipped into the bodies of beasts. Bran and Arya had been entirely enchanted by these tales, eager to hear more and anxious to interrupt with a myriad of questions for the old woman. Sansa would voice her protest in whimpering complaints, begging Old Nan to retell stories of the Dragon Knight or Florian's boundless love for Jonquil. In truth, the tales of northern magic had frightened Sansa. The Starks were descendants of the first men, bound to their land by blood and by magic; a magic which silently pervaded the earth itself, its power a whisper in the wind and a reminder that dark and terrible things had once roamed the north, beings made of ice and unimaginable cold.

Disturbed by the implications of her dream, Sansa pushed the thoughts from her mind as she wiped the edges of her mouth with the sleeve of her robe. Sandor had come to stand beside her; his form a shadow which stood over her and his instincts somehow sensing the growing unsettlement that had come to fill her. He rested a hand gently on her shoulder, a reassuring gesture which instantaneously soothed her.

"Go on, Little Bird. We're listening."

Sansa started from the beginning; the sound of humming, the perplexing and haunting words of the mournful song, the direwolf that formed from the darkness and how she seemingly wore its skin, and the man she saw emerging from the river. Blackfish. The trees, the moon, the earth itself sung his name. Blackfish. But could it really have been him?

As she finished, Septon Meribald and the Elder Brother exchanged a look, their eyes somehow communicating something they preferred to remain unspoken, perhaps something that was better left unspoken. Too fatigued to inquire about their silent exchange, Sansa lifted her head towards Brienne who was already intently staring back at her.

"Lady Brienne, look not in Riverrun for Brynden Tully for you will not find him there. The man in my dream was him. He emerged on the banks of the Trident; exactly where I am not sure, but the man I saw was him, of that much I am sure."

The Maid of Tarth remained silent, her mouth agape and her face contorted in a look of utter puzzlement. In the periphery of Sansa's vision, Sandor's shadow shifted in unison with his body as he rocked his weight from one leg to the other with his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest.

"Little Bird, how can you be sure? Have you ever even met the Blackfish?"

Without meeting his stare, Sansa pulled her robe tighter to her body, clutching at the fabric and suddenly feeling the heaviness as all eyes were once again fixed on her, the glimmering of skepticism cutting through her. They look at me as if I'm a child.

"I said I was certain it was him. It makes no matter how I know."

With a curt nod, Sandor retreated from her, his shadow gradually lifting from over her with sunlight filling its void. As he reached the door, he turned his head slightly over his shoulder, the burned side of his mouth twitching ever so slightly brought on by what seemed to be frustration.

"After breaking our fast, we leave for Braavos. I will wait for you in the common hall. Don't make me wait long."

Despite the sun's persistent glare across her skin, his sudden iciness sent chills through her body. Wordlessly, the others filed out of the room, one by one, after Sandor, each glancing back at Sansa with sympathetic looks and soft eyes, offering her an unspoken token of encouragement and comfort. While appreciative of their sentiment, Sansa found it did little to soothe the stinging of Sandor's sudden brusqueness.

With a deep sigh, she pushed herself up from the bed. Her legs throbbed in protest as she paced her room, working out the soreness before pulling off her robe and dressing in her freshly cleaned dress.

Once again, Sansa worked over the memories of her dream. She had awoken with her senses keenly aware of her surroundings, her perceptions easily piercing through the undercurrents she had been blind to for so long. I awoke with the senses of the wolf.

'Look not with your eyes, lest you will never see. Peer with your soul for it is now what it was always meant to be.'

Sansa pondered the meaning of the words as she released the melody from her mind, letting it flitter off to the shadows of her thoughts.

I have seen with my soul, but what exactly was my soul meant to be?

With the clarity of her perceptions slowly fading, she could not come up with an answer, but instead was left with an unsettling feeling that she would, for better or for worse, come to find the meaning of the direwolf's song.

---

As Sandor stepped from Sansa's room, he felt the sourness of his mood take hold of him, powerless to stave it off and finding that it was becoming easier just to succumb to it. Sleep had not come easy to him the night before. When he was finally blessed with rest, it had been fitful and his dreams had been strange. The fatigue was beginning to settle in his bones, inflaming his already short temper.

The thought of traveling to Braavos made his stomach turn. The journey to get there would be dangerous, he knew. Septon Meribald would accompany them, which would undoubtedly slow their pace and potentially draw unwanted attention to them. However, Sandor was well aware that the aching in his chest and the churning of his stomach had little to do with the journey to Braavos, but rather had everything to do with what would happen when the time would come for Sansa to leave Braavos and for him to stay behind.

With his future in Westeros becoming increasingly bleak and uncertain, Sandor had made the reluctant and painful decision to stay behind in Braavos; to let Sansa go so that she might find the happiness she was so deserving of. Although desperate as he was to be the man she needed, the doubt had begun to splinter through and it been enough for him to come to the solemn conclusion that he needed to let her fly. I may long for her, but I doubt she longs for a dog like me.

He had heard her screams echoing from off the stone walls of the main building, ringing from her chamber and tumbling down the hall to meet his ears. Sandor was not a man who ran to get where he needed to go. Heavily muscled and tall as he was, running proved an entirely inefficient way to get around. Yet as he heard her screaming, his legs carried him as fast as they could towards her chamber. As he frantically burst through her door, he had all but expected to find Ser Hyle there. The man had an ill-guised and lascivious lust for Sansa and Sandor had not put it past the prick to sneak into her chambers and forcefully take what he so obviously wanted from her. To his immense relief, Ser Hyle was nowhere to be found, but instead Sansa was alone in her bed, thrashing about violently, the thin blankets twisting around her legs and her screams muffled as her face pressed into her pillow.

Grabbing her by the shoulders and calling her name, he had tried to wake her, but to no avail. After a few moments, she calmed slightly and had come to lie perfectly still, but let out soft whimpers as her face contorted in what appeared to be pain. Brienne was not long after him and came bursting into the room with her sword drawn and her eyes wild with something between fear and rage, obviously expecting to find Ser Hyle in Sandor's place.

In soft, hurried steps, the Elder Brother and Septon Meribald had shuffled into the room and each tried in vain to rouse her from whatever nightmare had come to torment her so thoroughly. When Sansa had finally awoke, she sat up abruptly and was gasping for air, her skin pale as snow and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. Breathless and obviously reeling, she relayed the details of her dream with bewilderment gleaming in her eyes.

Sansa had been wholly convinced that the man in her dream was the Blackfish, yet she had never met her great uncle. Sandor was not one to read too deeply into dreams and couldn't help but point out the discrepancy, which apparently did not sit well with Sansa. Instantaneously he had felt his mood darken and heard his words leave his lips harsher than he intended.

In long strides, Sandor headed towards the common hall, letting his legs carry him away in hurried steps as Brienne, the Elder Brother, and Septon Meribald followed. When he reached the hall, he slumped into the nearest chair and watched as the others followed suit, seating themselves around him.

With hands waving excitedly in the air, Septon Meribald began to chatter, his voice cheerfully filling the common room.

"Extraordinary! The girl is a warg, I tell you!"

Brienne stifled a laugh, the air in her lungs escaping in a slight snort as she shook her head. While Sandor had sensed a fondness between Brienne and Sansa, he gathered that the Maid of Tarth had also considered Sansa's dream with hesitant skepticism.

"A warg? Pardon my boldness, but you can't be serious. Lady Sansa dreamed of being a wolf. I once had a dream that I was a horse. That hardly makes me a warg."

Septon Meribald's jovial disposition darkened, his smile melting away as he solemnly pressed his lips together and let his hands come to rest on the table. He leaned in close, his voice lowering to scarcely above a whisper as if willing his words to remain within the circle of individuals about the table. As he spoke, his eyes fell deliberate and fixed on Brienne, then the Elder Brother, and finally came to rest on Sandor.

"As a child, my mother talked of northerners; their blood ran cold through their veins, she said. They speak to the beasts of the forests and ward off creatures of made of ice and snow. The sons and daughters of the north are infused with the magic of old, the Starks in particular and most of all. How else could they have ruled the vastness of the north as the Kings of Winter? Many possess the power to slip into the skin of beasts as easily as you or I slip in and out of our clothes. Some call it a gift, others call it an abomination. It makes no matter. Courteous and gentle as she is, the Lady Sansa is still a Stark, blood of the first men. The magic of the north has been stirred in her. A tremendous pity should we underestimate the power and the meaning of her dream."

Although loathe to admit it, Sandor knew the Septon's words were tinged with a strange truth. Although he hailed from the Westerlands, Sandor, like most in Westeros, knew that northerners were an unnatural sort; as stoic and unyielding as the ice that covered their lands in winter yet profoundly and entirely devoted to duty and honor, disdainful of the pleasures and indulgence of the southron way of life.

What little time Sandor had spent in Winterfell had been enough to convince him that all he had heard of the north and its people was true. He had scoffed at their superstitions, which to him seemed entirely preposterous. He had japed that Starks used direwolves as wet nurses. Even the youngest Stark, a child of no more than three, had a direwolf steadfast by his side. Sandor had found Ned Stark's nightly ritual of praying beneath a weirwood to be laughable.

Since a young age, Sandor had been surrounded by the lavishness and intrigue of the southron courts where hollow courtesies, rich wines, and scheming manipulations flowed thick as honey. The northern culture and their hardened way of life was unusual and completely foreign to him. In place of wine, they drank dark ale and although he much preferred wine, he drank it anyway, eager to let his time in the north pass by in a drunken haze. Even the northern whores were enslaved by a deep rooted sense of honor and tradition which he had found to be absurd given their profession.

Despite all of this, Sandor had been keenly aware of something unsettling about the way the wind blew in the north, the way the clouds layered the sky in grey sheets, and the way the biting cold soaked through to the bone. He had only needed to look in the eyes of each northernman to know that they felt it too yet dared not speak of what it was.

The Elder Brother nodded his head, his eyes cast in a sober stare set firmly on Brienne. The man sighed deeply as he often did before starting in on his monologues of profundity. It wasn't until that moment that Sandor realized the Elder Brother had remained silent throughout the morning. While he wasn't necessarily a talkative man, Sandor assumed he would have had something to say in response to Sansa's dream, some piece of wisdom to share. Instead, the Elder Brother's quietude had enveloped him, somehow adding to the gravity of Septon Meribald's words and lent validity to Sansa's seemingly prophetic dream. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained with fatigue, his ominous tone matching his words.

"Septon Meribald speaks truly, Lady Brienne. Lest we have forgotten, winter is now upon us. The north as a whole stirs and with it strange things are brought to life. You would do well to take a leap of faith and trust in our little warg, for I believe what Lady Sansa saw in her dream she saw through the eyes of a wolf."

Brienne shrugged her shoulders in acquiescence before turning to look at Sandor, tilting her head slightly and narrowing her eyes, sapphire blue peering out between the slits.

"Clegane, did Sansa have these sorts of dreams while she was in King's Landing?"

I can scarcely imagine what sorts of dream Sansa had while in King's Landing.

Between her father's beheading, the subsequent purging of the Stark household, and Joffrey's sadism, her entire time in King's Landing was undoubtedly a waking nightmare. Warg or not, any dream was surely a welcomed reprieve from all she had suffered while in King's Landing and regardless, she had certainly never confided in him about her sleeping visions.

"I know not of what she dreams, no more than any of you."

By the confounded look on her face, this did not seem to be the answer that Brienne was looking for. In so many words, the woman was looking for Sandor's opinion on the matter, but far be it for her to outright ask. Instead, the Maid of Tarth rested her chin heavily in one hand with her other arm crossed about her chest, her lips pressed together in a defeated scowl. Sandor couldn't help but smile. She's got quite a bit of pride, I give her that.

Sandor's memories drifted back to the throne room in King's Landing and the day Sansa was beaten and stripped before the entire court in payment for her brother's victories in the Westerlands. While the memory had always come back to him in a blur of rage, a detail was beginning to pierce through the veil of regret and anger. Joffrey had called on Lancel Lannister to tell the entire court of Robb Stark's treasons. While it was not the answer Brienne was looking for, it was all he had to offer.

"It was widely known that Robb Stark rode into battle with his direwolf by his side. The beast could savage man and horse alike. Stories emerged from the Battle of Oxcross that Robb sent in an army of wargs to ravage Lannister forces."

Brienne shook her head, apparently unappeased. "You never fought any battles against the Young Wolf, only Stannis Baratheon. You can't know this to be true."

Sandor huffed his annoyance. Not only was Brienne proud, she was stubborn; two traits which were contributing to her lack of understanding at what he was getting at.

"I was twelve when Tywin Lannister lent his swords to Robert's Rebellion. I got my first taste of battle alongside northernmen, Ned Stark's men. I've seen how they fight and I've seen how they die. I wouldn't know a warg if I saw one, but that's hardly the point. Northerners are a different sort. It's entirely possible the Blackfish slipped away from Riverrun. Bloody hell, what do I know! I suppose it's even possible that Sansa somehow saw this in a dream. If Brynden Tully did escape, he most likely would have emerged from the Trident. Your search for him should begin there."

She had been too proud to ask for his advice, to ask what he would do if in her position, what to make of Sansa's dream, yet Sandor gave his advice anyway. With a sudden resolve, the Maid of Tarth pushed herself from the table and stood firmly on her feet, glowing with her usual sense of honor and duty.

"The day is quick upon us. I had best wake Pod to saddle the horses and begin gathering our provisions." With that Brienne, bowed slightly at the waist and exited the room with sweeping strides and an eagerness to begin the journey ahead painted on her face.

Septon Meribald followed suit, slowly lifting himself up from the table and mumbling to himself about the preparations for their travels to Dyre Den and then Braavos. As the Septon left the room, Sandor could feel the Elder Brother's eyes on him, burning hot through his skin. Within the little time Sandor had come to know him, he knew the Elder Brother carried his burdens in his body, letting his troubles rest heavy in his limbs and line the subtle folds of his face.

Sitting across from him at the table, the Elder Brother was seemingly filling the room with his worries, purging them from his body and letting them loose to meander about the void of silence between them. After what felt an eternity, the man began to speak, his voice reserved and thin.

"The time draws near for us to part."

Sandor lifted his eyes slightly and saw that the Elder Brother was staring intently at him. Sandor shifted his weight and settled back into his seat, resting his chin in his hand and contemplating the man before him whose cloak of perpetual serenity was diminishing with each passing second. Mindlessly, the man was drumming his fingers on the table, unspoken words halted on his lips. I am making him nervous.

The surmounting tension was kindling to Sandor's already darkening mood, succeeding only in infusing it with frustration.

"What is it that you want me to say? What exactly do you need to hear from me? I've said all I've needed to say."

With an exasperated exhale, the Elder Brother stood, head shaking in discontent and letting his eyes look down upon Sandor. The man circled around the table until he stood by Sandor's side and placed a hand heavily on his shoulder, squeezing slightly as if willing his words into Sandor's unmoving form.

"You see so much, Clegane, more than most. Your eyes cut through deception and lies, you pick away at the guises and masks so many of us wear. You see the world for what it is, not what you wish it to be. And yet you are so very blind to what is in front of you."

With that the Elder Brother slowly made his way to the door, shaking his head along the way and muttering 'so very blind' under his breath as if it was some sort of mantra to soothe his troubled mind. Or perhaps he is baiting me. The man knows me too well. Sandor snorted a sarcastic laugh and swiveled slightly in his seat, turning over his shoulder towards the retreating man.

"Blind to what is in front of me…what would that be? An old knight who worries like a maiden on her wedding night? Because that's all I see in front of me, Ser." The inflection of his words was biting and, like he had hoped, stopped the Elder Brother in mid-step. However, the man did not turn around, but rather let his head hang over his left shoulder, averting his eyes to the floor.

"Mock all you like, but should you leave her, you will rue that day. Oh how you'll rue that day!"

Without another word, the Elder Brother shuffled from the room, pale as a ghost and swathed in a layer of disquiet which had come to replace the cloak of serenity he so often wore. Sandor could read between the lines, interpret all that was left unsaid between the two of them. True enough, their lives seemed to have been led in parallel; both battle-born and having died by the sword to be resurrected in the maddening silence of the Isle, haunted by the lives they left behind. But Sandor was also keenly aware that his future with Sansa represented the life the Elder Brother left unfulfilled; the man's sense of closure seemingly hinged upon vicariously experiencing Sandor's happiness at keeping his Little Bird, living out their lives in bliss. Sandor felt a bitter laugh erupt from his chest. The man is as wrapped up in bloody fantasies as the Little Bird. A creature like Sansa Stark would never want to live out her life with the likes of me.

"What are you laughing at?"

Somehow, Sansa had floated into the room, materializing from his thoughts to come and stand next to him. No longer wearing the over-sized robe, she stood before him in the dress she had worn when he came upon her. Where the robe was over-sized, her dress was a bit undersized; gathering tightly about her bust and clinging to her waist and hips before falling just below her ankles. Her hair was braided in the northern style and tumbled in loose, auburn curls to her waist. Truly, she was becoming more of a woman with each passing day and in turn becoming more breathtaking as well.

A warm smile flooded her face as she moved closer to him, the fabric of her dress brushing against his bare forearm and the honeyed scent of her hair filling his lungs.

"Well, whatever was so funny you should have shared it with the Elder Brother. I came upon him in the hall and he seems rather distraught."

Still smiling, her voice was gentle and sweet, her eyes sparkling a radiant blue. Sandor watched as she folded her hands in front of her and softly bit her bottom lip as she had come to do whenever deep in thought. He felt his stomach flip at the sight of her, his mind become a nest of jumbled thoughts, and his breath quickened in time with the beating of his heart.

The Western folk had claimed to have produced the most radiant queen in Cersei Lannister that the Seven Realms had ever known. Sandor remembered when Cersei had been young, a little older than Sansa when she took the throne. The woman had been beautiful, there was no disputing that, but there was no comparison with Sansa who glowed with a genuine kindness and gentleness that Cersei could never have hoped to possess. However, it wasn't her unearthly beauty that made Sandor feel as though he was losing control; it was the way she looked at him with a sweetness and affection he had never known before. She looked at him; not through him or to the side of him, but at him, at him like he was a human being and not a killer or a dog or a monster.

Riled by the instantaneous flustering he felt at Sansa's presence, Sandor pushed himself from his seat and stumbled forward as his foot inadvertently caught underneath his chair, which then went tumbling behind him. Laughing, Sansa caught him by the arms and pushed her weight up against his to steady him on his feet. Sandor let his eyes dart about the room to avoid her smiling and playful gaze, desperately searching for something else at which to focus his stare.

He wanted to tell her how gorgeous she was, to tell her how entirely undeserving he felt to have her looking at him like that. Most of all, he wanted to tell her how much he wanted to be deserving of her smiles and her sweetness, but didn't know where to start or how to even do it.

Instead, he pulled himself away from her and brusquely plucked the chair from the floor, throwing it back towards the table where it hit with a thud. His breath was coming out in huffs as he began to pace towards the door.

"I told you not to make me wait, girl."

As he reached the door, Sandor had expected her to follow, to scamper after him frightened and following his lead. Sansa did not follow, but instead stood with her back to him and dropped her head, hands still folded in front of her. Sandor stood beneath the frame of the door, waiting to hear her footfalls behind him. For many moments, they both stood where they were; him at the door and her with her back to him, both unwilling to yield to the other. Seven hells, what is it about the bloody Quiet Isle that makes women suddenly so stubborn?

With a deep groaning sigh, Sandor turned towards Sansa with arms crossed about his chest and leaning up against the door frame. Slowly, Sansa turned around with her hands clutched in fists by her side and her chin held high and her eyes contemplating him with irritation. Once again, he had misjudged her, having expected her to shrink away in fear, avoiding his stare with tears in her eyes.

"I hardly feel you were made to wait so very long."

With that, she took quick steps to the door, her dress shuffling about her legs as she moved. As she came to the door, she stopped in front of him, shooting him an aggravated look with her jaw clenched before heading off down the corridor and forcing him to be the one to follow after her.

Follow her he did, down the corridor several paces behind her until they reached the outer doors. As she pushed her weight against the door, Sandor took a few hurried paces and slid between her and the door, blocking her exit with his form. Taking a step back, Sansa stood firmly on her feet and crossed her arms about her chest, averting her stare off the ground, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Have I done something wrong? Besides making you wait…" Her words were laced with sarcasm, her tone mocking him playfully, but insistently.

"No. No you haven't. But we had best get going. We have a long journey ahead of us, dangerous too, and we will have to break our fast in the saddle. We will need to fi-"

Sandor's rambling was interrupted as he felt two tiny hands wrap around one of his and Sansa took a step closer to him, her eyes sweeping across his face and a slight smile emerging on the crease of her lips. Seven hells. She's looking at me like that again.

Sandor let his eyes wander about the ceiling and then down the corridor, anywhere and everywhere but Sansa who was still staring at him steadfastly, quietly demanding that he meet her gaze. When he finally did, he heard as her breath caught in her chest and saw as her eyes widened and her sly smile gave way to a sweeping grin.

"I've never seen you worry so much. Everything will be fine. You'll see."

With that, she lifted herself on her toes and planted a soft kiss on his unburned cheek before pushing past him and through the outer door, leaving him dumbfounded. As the scent of her lingered in the air, Sandor lifted his hand to his cheek and let his fingertips run along the spot where she kissed him and felt as a gratified smile threatened his lips. If she keeps doing things like that, I will lose my bloody mind.

As he pushed through the outer doors and into the yard, a thick layer of fog blanketed the ground, swirling about his ankles as he walked towards the Elder Brother and Septon Meribald who were saddling two rounceys and a mare.

Sansa emerged from the fog, pacing from around the other side of the mare and giving him a shy smile as she came up to his side. Evaluating the horses, Sandor realized the assortment of steeds were meant for himself, Septon Meribald, and Sansa. With irritation bubbling up from within him, Sandor turned towards the Elder Brother.

"Stranger is the only horse I mean to ride. Where is he?"

Before the Elder Brother could respond, Septon Meribald interjected, shrugging his shoulders and contemplating Sandor with an amicable smile.

"Your horse shares your fearsome reputation it seems. We thought it best that Driftwood stays here at the Isle until you return."

"Is that so? Where was I when this decision was being made?"

Sandor pressed his lips together in an angry scowl before setting an icy glare towards the Elder Brother who met his eyes with a subtle defiance. Bloody prick. The man means to ensure that I must return to the Quiet Isle, whether I will it or no.

Sandor's attention was roused as he felt Sansa wrap her arms around one of his, turning her body towards him and tugging gently on his arm, a silent pleading gesture.

"Sandor, they're right. You said it yourself, our journey is dangerous. If leaving Stranger here means we'll draw less attention to ourselves then that is for the best, is it not? Besides, Stranger will be here when we get back."

Silently, Sandor nodded his head. Her words felt like a knife to his heart; the hopeful inflection in her voice, the sweetness interwoven as she said 'when we get back,' and the joy behind her smile. Behind her stood the Elder Brother, staring at him intently with displeasure creasing his face and ominous admonition radiating from his body.

The intensity of the moment was shattered as Brienne, Podrick, and Ser Hyle cantered up, hooves softly clopping against the ground. As Brienne swung from her horse, Sansa pulled away from Sandor and paced towards the Maid of Tarth.

"Lady Sansa, I wish you safe passage to Braavos. You are in good hands." Brienne lifted her eyes towards Sandor, nodding her head slightly and flashing a warm smile before turning back towards Sansa.

"Thank you, Lady Brienne. I will pray for your safe journey as well. Your kindness and willingness to help me in my cause will not be forgotten."

With that, Sansa turned her gaze towards Podrick and Ser Hyle, both still mounted on their horses.

"Podrick, Ser Hyle. Best of luck to you both." Ever the lady, Sansa bent slightly at the knees, giving a polite curtsey.

Flustered, Podrick blushed a deep shade of red and let his eyes dart about before mumbling an inaudible response. Ser Hyle reciprocated Sansa's icy courtesy and bowed at the waist before lifting his eyes to hers.

"My lady, I eagerly await our next meeting. It cannot come soon enough."

The man shifted his eyes towards Sandor with a devious smile plastered on his face, crooked teeth peering out from the devilish curve of his lips.

As the others exchanged farewells, Sandor came up to Sansa, his eyes still locked onto Ser Hyle, and looped his arm in hers, pulling her back a few paces as Ser Hyle swept his eyes up and down her form once more. I should have slit the bastard's throat in the night.

They watched as the trio set off towards the northern horizon until their forms disappeared in the fog, enveloped by the mist and no longer distinguishable. A subtle chill pervaded the air as the wind began to pick up, caressing the fabric of his cloak which rustled softly in response. As Sandor lifted his eyes to the sky, he saw that the sun had been blotted out by a layer of grey clouds steadily marching in from the north.

Sansa stirred beside him, shifting herself closer to his side in an effort to shield herself from the biting chill of the wind. Sandor let his eyes fall to her, watching as the breeze mingled about strands of her hair, auburn ribbons dancing in the wind and wrapping gently about his arms.

"Come, girl. Unless we plan on getting caught in a storm, we had best take our leave soon."

Septon Meribald nodded his head adamantly in agreement before clumsily climbing atop one of the rounceys, nearing falling off as the horse trotted forward a few paces whilst neighing in protest at the man's weight.

Arm still looped in hers, Sandor led Sansa to the mare and softly placed his hands about her waist and spied as her lips parted slightly and her chest tightened at his touch. Carefully, he lifted her to the saddle, her hands placed gently on his shoulders as she steadied herself until finding her balance. For a moment, she kept her hands at his shoulders, allowing her fingers to gingerly intertwine within the strands of his hair and staring at him sweetly with wide eyes. That look again. Seven fucking hells, that look.

With an unbidden fluttering in his chest and words fleeing his mind, Sandor retreated from her and pulled himself up onto the other rouncey in one sweeping motion. He was none too pleased to be leaving behind Stranger and riding the old and worn rouncey in his horse's place, but even he had to admit that Stranger was more than temperamental and posed a potential threat to his identity, as if his tell-tale scars weren't already damning.

The Elder Brother stepped towards Sansa, taking her hand in his and kissing it lightly.

"My Lady, I will send for you when word comes about your uncle or your sister or, Gods be good, both. May the old Gods and the new protect you all on this journey."

Before she could respond, the Elder Brother spun on his heel towards Sandor, his face darkening to a mask of somberness, seemingly portending some unforetold misfortune.

"Forget not what I have told you…all that I have told you."

The Elder Brother shifted his adamant stare towards Sansa, whose brow was furrowing in confusion as her eyes alternated back and forth between Sandor and the Elder Brother, not understanding the sudden attention that had been placed upon her.

Wordlessly, Sandor narrowed his eyes at the Elder Brother and curtly nodded his head in an abrupt farewell before digging his heels in the rouncey which bolted forward in a few quick paces. Septon Meribald and Sansa followed suit, trailing behind Sandor as they left the Elder Brother standing amongst wind and fog, his quietude apparently jarred and a foreboding uneasiness settled heavy in its place.

As the sun rode up in the sky, piercing through the smattering of grey clouds above them, Sandor pushed ahead at a speeding pace, knowing that Maidenpool was half a day's ride away from the Quiet Isle. With Randyll Tarly sending out men to scout the area near the Saltpans, Sandor knew passing by Maidenpool would be the most dangerous portion of their journey. If they find us, Sansa and I will be dragged back to King's Landing, our heads placed nicely on spikes outside the Red Keep.

With that thought hanging heavily in his mind, Sandor grinded his heels harder into the rouncey which neighed loudly in complaint yet stubbornly maintained the same pace. With his frustration growing, Sandor cursed into the wind, regretting his compliance to the suggestion that he leave Stranger behind. Septon Meribald and Sansa struggled to keep pace with Sandor, their horses slowing with exhaustion with each passing hour and the discomfort written clearly across Sansa's face.

When traveling to the Quiet Isle, Sandor had pushed Stranger at a speeding pace then. Prior to that, Sansa had ridden alongside Lord Royce, who had hurriedly pushed along their journey, no doubt. Likely, Sansa had never ridden this hard in her life and the fatigue was beginning to color her form. Sandor observed the subtle wincing each time her mare's hooves crashed to the ground. We can't slow our pace. Not now, anyway. Hang on, Little Bird.

The sight of her struggling in the saddle prompted Sandor to once more mutter his annoyance into the dead air in front of him. He should have had Sansa ride double with him so that she could succumb to her exhaustion, settle back into his arms and worry not about controlling the horse.

Sandor swept his eyes across the landscape surrounding them; the soft sloping of hills extended to their right, treeless lumps in the land that offered no protection from peering eyes and eager swords. To their left and about a half mile away, the shore of the bay extended alongside them, keeping pace as they raced forward in an open field. Unlike their journey to the Quiet Isle from the Vale, the landscape boasted no forest, rendering their path conspicuous, each of them easy targets contrasted against an open horizon.

Sandor liked it not and felt as his grip unwittingly tightened on the reins while his eyes anxiously darted about the open land in front and to the sides of them. He felt the warmth of the sun on his back as the clouds dissolved away, leaving a sky of blue in their absence. Bloody hell! We should have waited until nightfall to set out.

In the distance, Sandor spotted the castle of Maidenpool, sitting starkly at the top of a hill, its walls blackened by fire and pocked with the destruction that had ensued there. Abruptly, he pulled hard on the horse's reins, shifting their path to the south. The sight of the castle took him off guard and he felt as his heart began to beat hard against his chest. Sandor turned his head over his shoulder, ensuring that Septon Meribald and Sansa were quick behind him, and found as Sansa stared wide-eyed and terrified at the sight of Maidenpool so close to them. Biting her lip, she drove her heels into her mare, which replied instantaneously to her urging and bolted forward.

Sweeping to the south, Sandor put as much distance between them and Maidenpool as he could and taking advantage of the hills that lay to the south, riding up amongst them to gain whatever veil of protection they could. As Maidenpool faded into the distance behind them, Sandor breathed a sigh of relief. Once he was sure they were well past Maidenpool, Sandor slowed his pace slightly and shifted their direction of travel back towards the north, following along the shore of the bay which faithfully led their way.

As the sun descended behind them and the moon rode up in its place, Sandor searched out a place to rest for the evening. To his relief, the landscape ahead of them was folded with hills with thin clusters of tall trees dispersed at the bottom. The darkness began to enfold them and Sandor scanned the horizon surrounding them, seeking out any presence of fellow travelers; the flickering of flames, the rising of smoke, the sound of hooves. Thankfully, the area surrounding them was blessedly quiet and devoid of any traces of men.

Cantering into the largest cluster of trees he could find, Sandor slowed his rouncey to a stop and wheeled around, facing a visibly exhausted Sansa and an uncharacteristically irritated Septon Meribald. Sandor lowered himself from his horse, reining the beast to a tree before pacing towards Sansa's mare.

As Sandor gently pulled Sansa from the saddle, she winced in pain, her legs trembling from the incessant riding and clinging to him until she found her balance.

Septon Meribald slid off of the saddle, his legs wobbling as his feet hit the ground. The man stumbled towards Sandor, his finger wagging shamefully as he approached.

"You might have considered we have a lady traveling with us before you decided to proceed at a pace akin to a bat escaping one of the Seven Hells."

Sandor snorted an annoyed laugh before waving the man off and reining Sansa's mare to a tree.

"Have you considered what might happen to our Lady if Tarly's men came upon us? Or better yet, what might happen if bloody outlaws were to find us? I'm sure the Little Bird would prefer saddle sores over raping."

The foulness of Sandor's mood reverberated through his words and left the Septon agape at his vulgarity, his face darkening to a shade of red that Sandor never thought possible on the man.

"How dare you speak like that in front of Lady Sansa!"

The man charged towards Sandor, hands flailing in the air into an unbridled outburst of fury that Sandor found almost laughable.

In a few hurried stumbles, Sansa had placed herself between Sandor and the Septon, her arms reaching out towards the irate Septon and her voice thick with exhaustion yet pleading all the same.

"Stop, please. I do not need you to defend my honor. Although crudely put, Sandor speaks the truth; we needed to pass Maidenpool as quickly as possible."

As the flush of anger retreated from his face, the Septon begrudgingly backed away, turning towards his horse and rummaging through the saddle bag with a defeated scowl lingering on his weathered face.

With the strain of weariness ravaging her limbs, Sansa let her legs buckle from underneath her and slumped to the ground with a soft whimper. Sandor felt a pang of guilt as she gently rubbed her legs with tiny tears glistening in her eyes. As the Septon preoccupied himself with his horse, Sandor came kneeling in front of her, brushing his hand under her chin and lifting her gaze to meet his. With an embarrassed blush, she let her eyes fall away from his, twin tears spilling over her cheeks, one on each side.

"I'm fine. I'm just sore is all."

The softness of her voice did little to ease Sandor's mind. Desperately, he wanted to pull her into his arms, kiss away her tears, and caress away the pain he had inadvertently caused. Instead, he ran the back side of his hand over her cheeks, one at a time, wiping away the tears and letting his hand linger, catching each tear until no more came. Bloody buffoon! You broke your Little Bird.

"I'm sorry, Little Bird. I'm sorry. It's just that if anything had happened to you…" Sandor's voice trailed off, unwilling to finish his thoughts and distracted as her hands came up to meet his, her eyes searching his, seeing through to his center.

"It's okay. It really is. I'm fine."

With a deep sigh, she smiled sweetly, feigning a sort of bravery for his sake; a gesture which warmed his blood and inflamed his urge to kiss her, to press his lips against hers and show her how sorry he was. Cupping one hand on each of her cheeks, Sandor ran his thumb gently over her cheekbone and down towards the fullness of her lips, the lips he was intent on kissing. Seemingly understanding his gesture, Sandor saw as a desire matching his flooded her eyes and her lips parted slightly, her breath coming stifled in her chest. Sandor lingered for a moment until Sansa gave the slightest of nods, moving her head slowly up and down, urging him on. Entranced, Sandor moved his head towards her, tilting slightly and moving his thumbs from her lips as he felt the flush of heat from her face warm his hands.

"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but perhaps we should eat a bit of something. Our travel has been long and hard and I can scarcely imagine how hungry Lady Sansa must be."

Engrossed by Sansa and somehow entirely forgetting the Septon was meandering about, Sandor turned his head over his shoulder and saw Septon Meribald holding a bundle of bread, salted pork, and cheese along with a flagon of spiced ale.

Letting his head hang in frustration, Sandor let out a groan and chuckled quietly before lifting himself to his feet and extending his hand out to Sansa. As she placed her slender hand in his, Sandor pulled her to her feet and led her to where the Septon had cleared an area for them to eat.

Resting up against the trunk of a tree, Sandor sat across from the Septon, watching as the man avoided his stare, mindlessly arranging the food on a laid out piece of fabric. Sansa settled herself next to his side, wincing ever so softly as she lowered herself slowly to the ground. Trembling slightly as she struggled to maintain her balance, Sansa leaned forward as Septon Meribald extended his arm to hand her a chunk of bread and cheese.

They ate in a silence brought on by exhaustion, wordless until Septon Meribald began to speak, clearly uncomfortable at the silence, his words infused with the audible sounds of his chewing.

"I imagine we are a day away from Dyre Den, which works in our favor. If we can cross the Bay of Crabs by night, we should be able to disguise your identities."

In a sweeping motion, the Septon pointed at finger at both Sandor and Sansa before passing Sandor the flagon of spiced ale and beginning again.

"With her painted in Tully red and blue, and you with your…umm…hmm…scars, we had best make certain our passage to Gulltown is done by the darkness of night. I know a man in Dyre Den…what was his name?"

Sandor took a long pull of the ale, feeling his irritation growing with each passing second of the man's rambling. Undaunted, the Septon tugged lightly on his beard, mumbling softly to himself.

"Gods above, what is his name? Oh yes! Heavens, how could I have forgotten! Robert Stoneway. A bit shifty, he is a smuggler of sorts. But he has done well for himself ferrying the weary across the bay to Gulltown and I trust him well enough to believe he wouldn't do us any harm."

Half listening to the man, Sandor turned his attention to Sansa, who had lowered herself to the ground, cradling her head in her hands and with heavy eyes was swiftly drifting to sleep. Sandor pushed himself up and retreated to his rouncey, pulling off a bedroll and unrolling on the ground next to Sansa. Gently, Sandor slid one arm under her shoulders and the other under her legs, lifting her from the ground. With her eyes fluttering open, Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head heavily against his shoulder.

Slowly Sandor lowered her to the bedroll, placing her softly on the ground and pulling his cloak from off his shoulders and covering her with it. With a sleepy sigh, she pulled his cloak tight around her body and within a few moments had succumb to her fatigue and drifted off to sleep, her breaths coming deep and steady.

It wasn't until Sandor lowered himself to the ground, leaning back against the tree once more and taking another deep pull of the ale that he realized the Septon had ceased his talking and was staring at Sandor, a slight smile playing about his lips.

"You seem to have quite an affection for her."

Sandor said nothing in reply, but instead hung his head, dodging the man's gaze which had come to quietly ponder him in something between admiration and hesitance.

"The Elder Brother informed me that you wish to stay behind in Braavos. It seems a ponderous thing to me. Why would a man in love do such a thing?"

As he took another pull from the flagon, Sandor finally met the Septon's stare, crossing his arms about his chest and trying to read the man's face through the veil of darkness between them.

"You are a presumptuous man, aren't you?"

The Septon shrugged his shoulders and bobbed his head from right to left.

"Some might say so. I fancy myself a mere observer, commenting on what I see. And what I see between you and Lady Sansa is quite remarkable. When you are together, it is as if nothing exists in the world, save the two of you. The rest of us are just shadows, a whisper in the winds."

Whether it was the ale or the way the Septon's words had resonated within him, Sandor's head was spinning, leaving him dazed and dizzy. When Sansa was around, it certainly felt as if they were the only two people in the world. Even in King's Landing he had felt that way, but had dismissed it; she was often alone in the Red Keep and he was often the one sent to guard her or retrieve her for one of Joffrey's sadistic whims so it was easy to feel as if it was just the two of them. Yet even now, the disconnect Sandor typically felt towards everyone was non-existent when it came to Sansa.

Between the Elder Brother and now Septon Meribald, his conversations seemed to consistently circle back to Sansa which then took the leap to love. Exhausted and unwilling to repeat an exchange similar to the one he had had with the Elder Brother, Sandor simply nodded his head and mumbled an 'aye' before lowering himself to the ground, laying on his back with his head cradled in his hands and staring up at the dusting of stars scattered about the sky.

Sandor watched as clouds passed over the stars, blotting them from his vision, as he listened to the soft sighing sounds that would every once in awhile escape Sansa's lips. He wondered of what she was dreaming that elicited such sweet sighs; perhaps she was in the body of a wolf once more or perhaps she was in the company of some beautiful knight. Although it crossed his mind in a fleeting thought, Sandor dare not let himself linger on the idea that she could be dreaming of him. Instead he yielded to his fatigue as his eyelids became heavier, opening and closing slower with each passing moment, until he drifted into sleep.

Not a second after he had shut his eyes, or so it seemed, Sandor felt a gentle prodding at his side, a steady pushing against his ribs that roused him from sleep. Reluctantly, Sandor opened his eyes and found the sun had begun to rise, casting dim shadows about the trees, and Septon Meribald standing over him, pushing the toes of his foot insistently at Sandor's side. Swatting away the man's foot, Sandor propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes adjusting slowly to the light.

"Alright. Stop that, I'm up."

Across from him sat Sansa with his cloak still wrapped about her shoulders, brushing out her hair with her fingers and scrunching up her face as she pulled through the knots. Sandor chuckled to himself at the sight of her, insistently working her fingers through her hair, bedecked in his cloak which eagerly swallowed her up. A direwolf by night, running wild through the woods. A lady by day, tending to her hair.

A smile crept about Sansa's face as she shifted her eyes sleepily to him, clearly having received little rest from the night before, but cheerful nonetheless.

"You're awake. Septon Meribald was afraid you had died in your sleep."

Laughing, her eyes flickered with sarcasm as she swept her stare towards Septon Meribald who still stood over Sandor, arms crossed sternly about his chest.

"We had best be on our way if we wish to reach Dyre Den by nightfall. I still feel it would be for the best if we crossed the Bay of Crabs by night to offer some disguise."

With a deep sigh, Sandor lifted himself to his feet, running his hands over his legs, brushing off chunks of dirt and leaves stuck in the wool of his breeches.

"Aye. I know, I know. Her beautiful red hair and blue eyes and my ugly face. I get it. Come on, Little Bird. I promise our pace will be slower today."

A slight blush flooded Sansa's cheeks as she abruptly stopped her fingers midway down the tumbling waves of her hair. Extending his hands to her, Sandor pulled Sansa to her feet, her knees buckling slightly as she stood. Sandor lifted her to her saddle and unbound her horse from the tree, handing the reins to her before swinging himself onto his own saddle.

True to his word, their pace was slower as Sandor led them at a canter towards the rising sun. Nonetheless, he could tell that riding was painful for Sansa; despite her best efforts to guise her whimpering with smiles and laughter at Septon Meribald's stories, Sandor could see the discomfort buried deep in her eyes, tears threatening to spill forth at any moment.

Helpless, there was little Sandor could do for her and he knew the Septon was right; their passage across the bay had best be done by night lest a passing vessel spot them. Still, the sight of her in such obvious agony elicited his own sort of aching; the yearning to ease away her pain and put an end to the tears welling up in her eyes.

As the sun rose high in the sky, the day grew unseasonably warm, bathing them in perpetual heat which was only periodically interrupted by gusts of wind. Adding to Sandor's own discomfort was Septon Meribald's incessant talking. The man had regaled him and Sansa with a catalogue of stories from his life; his impoverished upbringing in the Riverlands, his insatiable lust for maidens and the subsequent repentance which led him to a life of Godliness, his fondness for dogs, his distant connection to some long-forgotten river lord dead for hundreds of years.

By the time the man began yammering about the sure-fire way to tell a finch apart from a sparrow, Sandor felt he had reached his limit, ready to knock the man from his horse and sew his mouth shut. As he turned around, Sandor spotted Sansa, smiling sweetly and nodding her head, every now and then interjecting when she could with a steady circuit of responses, rotating from 'how delightful,' to 'that is so very interesting,' and ending with 'hmm, is that so?'

As the Septon continued on with his stories, Sansa kept up the rotation of her responses, her courtesies unwavering despite the obvious pain of her saddle sores. The sight of her obliging the man in such tedious conversation lightened Sandor's mood, bringing a subtle smile to his face as he turned his gaze back ahead of him. Always such a perfect lady.

By the time the sun hovered behind them, the Septon's stories came less frequently with long intervals of silence punctuating his chatting until finally he dozed off to sleep in the saddle, snoring softly as he bobbed back and forth with the movement of his horse.

Sandor slowed his pace until he came up along Sansa, his horse's pace matching her mare's. With an exhausted sigh, she turned her head towards him, giving him a soft smile and lifting her eyes to meet his. Sandor turned his gaze to the horizon and leaned slightly towards her, pointing towards the sky.

"You see that bird over there?"

Sansa squinted her eyes, seeking out the object at which he was pointing, furrowing her brow in concentration.

"I think so. Why?"

"Well, you see, I've been sitting here watching it. I was trying to decide if it's a finch or a sparrow. For the life of me I can't figure it out and I thought you might be able to help me."

Sandor turned towards her, the seriousness melting away from his face and giving way to a sweeping grin.

Rolling her eyes, Sansa gave him a playful, chiding smile before swatting at his arm.

"Be nice. He is a sweet man and he means well. He just has lots of stories to tell is all."

Leaning towards her once more and lightly jabbing her with his elbow, Sandor stifled a laugh as he summoned the best impersonation of her that he could.

"Hmm, is that so? How delightful! That's so very interesting."

Feigning offense, Sansa let her jaw drop open before tossing her head back in a cheerful laugh. Sandor watched her in wonderment; it had been so long since he heard Sansa laugh like that, whole heartedly and with the joy emanating from her. Startled, the Septon woke with a jolt and rubbed his eyes before turning towards Sansa and Sandor, groggily stumbling over his words.

"What…what…where are we?"

Sansa brought a hand up to cover her mouth, smothering the giggles as they erupted forth from her lips while Sandor cocked his head to the side, meeting the Septon's sleepy stare.

"I imagine we are a few hours ride from Dyre Den." Sandor rotated slightly in the saddle, evaluating the sun as it retreated behind them. "We should reach the bay right about at sunset."

To Sandor's chagrin, he had grossly miscalculated their arrival to Dyre Den and they approached the small fishing village long after the sun melted into the horizon behind them, bleeding its colors into the sky in hues of pink and violet.

For Sansa's sake, Sandor had let their pace slow a bit since they had made good time the day before. However, despite being such a large man, the Septon apparently possessed a bladder the size of an apricot and took advantage of their rambling pace to relieve himself at least once an hour.

Pulling slightly on the reins, Sandor slowed his horse to a stop and wheeled around towards Sansa and Septon Meribald, lifting the hood of his cloak up and around his head.

"The Septon speaks truly, Little Bird. Beautiful red-headed women with Tully blue eyes aren't exactly running rampant in the Seven Kingdoms, which makes you quite recognizable. It'd be best if you hid your hair and pulled up your hood too."

Flustered and blushing, Sansa darted her eyes about timidly before doing as she was bid, apparently once again taken aback that he had attested to her beauty. Sandor watched as she tucked her hair underneath her cloak and pulled the hood up around her face. She has no idea, not a clue, how gorgeous she is.

Still mounted on his rouncey, Sandor trotted to Septon Meribald's side as they headed towards the town.

"Sansa and I will hang back and try to remain as inconspicuous as possible. I will leave it up to you to do the talking. Do you know where to find this friend of yours? Robert Stoneway, you said his name was."

"Yes, yes! You and Lady Sansa let me do the talking, to be sure. Robert should be roaming about near the docks I would imagine."

Sandor winced as the man bellowed out his response, his voice echoing off of nearby cottages and permeating through the air such that half the village undoubtedly heard each and every word. True enough, the man meant well, but his fondness for talking, loudly at that, had begun to grate on Sandor's patience.

As they made their way through the village, interweaving between tiny stone cottages, Sandor was relieved to see that Dyre Den was seemingly a town of ghosts; each cottage window was tightly shuttered and the door sealed shut, the inhabitants tucked away for the evening, only periodically peaking through the cracks of a shutter to spy a look as they passed.

Much like the rest of the village, the town center was desolate; the smith shop doors barred with heavy wooden planks inlaid with iron, the market stands empty save a few pieces of rotten fruit and vegetables, even the Sept seemed abandoned, the passing of time reducing it to a decrepit eyesore at best.

The lifelessness of the village and town center which were all but deserted left Sandor ill at ease with a growing sense of foreboding swelling within him. As he shifted his gaze to Sansa and the Septon, Sandor found that they seemingly mimicked his uneasiness, each anxiously eyeing the darkness surrounding them and clutching tightly to the reins of their horses.

From the corner of his eye, Sandor spotted the faint flickering of lights softly cast about the waters of the bay which extended in front of them and alongside the dilapidated dock that extended out into the water.

Despite the darkness, he could make out the shifting shadows of men tying up small vessels, deftly and swiftly securing knots whilst others hurriedly unloaded bundles, casks, and trunks of goods with resounding thuds as they dropped the items to the dock.

As they neared the men, Sandor leaned in his saddle towards Sansa, keeping his eyes fixed on the men and his voice hardly above a whisper.

"Listen to me, girl. Whatever happens, you don't leave my side."

Wide-eyed, Sansa turned her head towards him, a mixture of fear and uncertainty besieging her eyes, her breath catching as her voice came tremulous from her lips.

"I wasn't planning on it."

Stopping several yards from the dock, Septon Meribald slowly lowered himself from his horse and methodically began towards the men, who were undeterred by the Septon's approach and continued about their work anchoring and unloading.

Stopping alongside Sansa's mare, Sandor took the reins from her and pulled their horses to a stop before hesitantly climbing off his rouncey and pacing around to Sansa's side.

Sandor watched as the Septon took a few more uneasy steps towards the men, extending his arms out in front of him in an amicable gesture and calling out to them as unassumingly as possible.

"Good evening! I am terribly sorry to interrupt, but I wish to speak with your captain."

At once, all the men, six in total, ceased their tasks at hand, some dropping goods to the ground and others looping the anchoring ropes around their hands and holding it taut before looking up towards the Septon.

Instantaneously, Sandor felt a tightening in his stomach, his instincts sorely cognizant of some impending danger and the urge to flee with Sansa bubbling up within him. A tall man with a set of cruel, black eyes, a weathered face and sinewy limbs stepped forward with a cagey smile creasing his gaunt face.

"Looking for the Captain, eh? Well, you're looking at him."

From behind the captain, a few of the other men chuckled darkly in unison, a cacophony of raspy laughs which did little to set Sandor at ease. The men who were not laughing sat silently evaluating the Septon, searching out his form for weapons or perhaps anything of value, before shifting their seedy stares in Sansa and Sandor's direction.

Taking slow, reluctant steps forward, the Septon came to stand in front of the captain, bowing slightly, not realizing courtesies would be lost on the sort of men that had come to gather around the weathered seaman.

"So very nice to make your acquaintance. My name is Meribald. I am a Septon of the Faith and I have come to seek passage across the bay to Gulltown. Perchance we could discuss the possibility that you would be so kind to ferry us across?"

With two swift steps, the captain was directly in front of the frightened Septon, his hand clutching and twisting the front of Septon Meribald's robe, pulling the Septon closer to him with a violent pull. The captain spat his words quite literally, spittle flying from his mouth and spattering the Septon's face before turning his heated gaze towards Sansa and Sandor.

"Us? Who the fuck is 'us'? I assume these cloaked creatures of the night behind you make up the 'us'?'"

From beneath his cloak, Sandor clutched the pommel of his sword, his fingers wrapping tightly around the steel and his eyes sizing up each of the men, silently ranking which he would have to cut through first.

"Y-y-yes. Heavens me, I should have been more clear. We require passage for the three of us. We have coin as well."

With a quick shove, the captain released his hold on the Septon, knocking the man to the ground which elicited a roar of laughter from the other men.

"Might be we can let you across, but first, first I want to meet your friends. Seeing as how you so rudely failed to introduce us, I imagine I will take charge of these introductions."

As the Septon struggled feebly to his feet, the captain took slow, sauntering steps towards where Sandor was standing next to Sansa, whistling a sea shanty and tottering with drunkenness as he came. Sandor could smell the sickening stench of wine and sweat and salt on the captain as the man came to stand in front of him and began slurring his words as he shouted them over his shoulder at his men.

"This man here is the largest man I've seen in a long time. What do you think, boys?"

Sandor saw as a rotund, squat man stalked towards the captain, patting his fat belly as he came. When the man approached, Sandor saw that he was bald and had a mouth half full of rotten teeth.

"Only a few men in the Seven Kingdoms are that large, Cap'n. He ain't quite as large as the Mountain, but perhaps near the size of his brother, the Hound, wouldn't you say?"

Nodding his head deliberately, the captain took a step closer to Sandor, lowering his head in an effort to peer underneath the hood of Sandor's cloak.

"Aye, I would. I have this rule, you see. I want to look upon the faces of those I ferry across. These days a man will slit your throat from ear to ear and take the coin right out of your pockets, if you're not careful. Tell me your name, large man."

Unwavering, Sandor kept his head down, thankful for the guise of darkness that enveloped him, and felt as his hand squeezed tighter around his sword, internally begging the man to make a move so he could cut through him and be done with it.

For many moments, the captain stared icily at Sandor, his eyes narrow slits piercing through the night. Stumbling backwards a few paces, the man staggered into Sansa's mare which neighed softly in complaint. Snorting out a laugh, the captain shifted his stare up to Sansa, whose cloak was visibly rising and falling as she took frantic breaths.

"No matter, it's not you I'm interested in anyhow, but rather this sweet little thing right next to you."

Sandor felt his blood run boiling hot through his body as he heard a whimpering gasp escape Sansa's lips as the captain placed a wind-worn hand heavily on her leg. Panicked, Septon Meribald stumbled over his own feet as he took hurried steps towards Sansa.

"We wish you no harm! We are just weary travelers, seeking passage across the bay. We have coin to pay you!"

Pulling his hand away from Sansa's leg, the captain spun around and doubled over, howling out laughter which the other men eagerly joined in on. Circling around the Septon, the captain tossed his head back and shouted into the night.

"Grey Tom, is it coin that we need?"

A man seated at the dock abruptly pushed himself to his feet, his face half covered in grey scale and one arm ending in a stump.

"No Cap'n. We've got mountains o' coin. Might be we are richer than the bloody Lannisters."

The captain kicked up dirt as he took sweeping steps towards Sandor and cocked his head towards Sansa, slathering his lips with spit as he licked them.

"Aye, we don't want your coin. Women. That's what we want. Seems where we're rich in coin, we're poor in women. I bet you got this one nice and wet between the legs. Many thanks in advance."

With frightened breaths, Sansa wriggled away from the captain as the man once again ran a hand up her leg.

"What's the matter, darling? Never been fucked before, is that it? Well, I promise to be gentle."

In a blur of rage, Sandor saw as his hand flew from underneath his cloak and wrapped easily around the man's slender neck. Undaunted as the captain's men came running towards him, Sandor squeezed hard around as the man choked for air, emitting gurgling sounds and clawing futilely at Sandor's hand. Holding the man steady by his neck, Sandor swung his other arm behind him before letting his fist meet the captain's face.

"Enough! What in Seven Hells is going on out here? I leave you all for mere moments and you're already finding trouble."

Sandor released his hold on the captain, letting him slump to the ground, gasping for air and spitting out blood and bits of teeth to the dirt in front of him. In a frenzy, a grey-haired, middle aged man had emerged from one of the anchored vessels, his face colored in red and in stark contrast with the white of his closely trimmed beard.

A silence had descended over the other men as they slunk away, resuming their tasks or busying themselves with new ones. With deliberate, furious paces, the grey-haired man came to stand over the captain who was groaning, still on hands and knees and spitting up blood.

"What in the Gods' names happened here? Get to your feet, sailor, and get back to work before I cut your belly open and let the crabs feast on your entrails."

The captain stumbled to his feet, clutching at his jaw and walked in swerving steps back towards the dock while the grey-haired man watched, a scowl set firmly about his face before turning towards Sandor.

Before the man could say anything, Septon Meribald stepped forward, seemingly appearing from the shadows.

"Robert Stoneway. I met you in the riverlands, long ago. I am the traveling Septon. I make my circuit from Maidenpool around the riverlands."

The Septon's voice flickered with doubt, clearly uncertain whether or not the man would recognize him. At once, Robert's furrowed brow smoothed over to a blank expression which then slowly gave way to recognition.

"Meribald. Yes, of course I remember."

Sighing his relief, Septon Meribald stepped forward, clapping Robert on the back before giving a nervous laugh.

"We are seeking passage across the bay, to Gulltown. I had hoped to find you down at the docks. For a moment there, that prospect was looking terribly grim."

Shaking his head, Robert huffed out a bitter laugh before sweeping his stare over the men working at the docks behind him, narrowing his eyes as he evaluated each of them in turn.

"My apologies. These men are a motley bunch. I've lost too many good men to the seas. I'm afraid all I'm left with are robbers and rapers to fill my ranks."

"You are the captain then, not that other man?"

"Aye, I am the captain of these vessels. Lank is the other man's name. Bloody bastard is itching to take my title for himself. For two turns of the moon, I've had to sleep with one eye open lest the fool slit my throat in the night. Perhaps your large friend here knocked some sense into the bumbling idiot!"

Robert spat a clump of phlegm to the ground in the direction of Lank who was glaring darkly as they walked towards a small cog boat at the dock.

"For the right price, I can arrange for your passage. These boats are fast and the winds are in our favor, but the horses will be stabled here. If you mean to leave this night, that will cost double. Consider that the price for a friend."

Turning his head slightly over his shoulder, Septon Meribald locked eyes with Sandor, searching his face for disapproval at the arrangement. While he was none too pleased at their welcome to Dyre Den and he certainly did not trust Robert, it was clear that there was no other option for crossing the bay. Reluctantly, Sandor gave a terse nod.

With that, Septon Meribald extended his hand to Robert, sealing the arrangement with a hand shake.

"Yes, the horses shall be stabled here. We have a deal then. You will be paid handsomely when we reach the other side."

Through the shade of night, they crossed the bay to Gulltown with a chilly wind lashing about the small trade cog as it cut through the water.

The moon above was obscured by a curtain of clouds which passed in front, darkening the night to pitch. With her hood still up around her face, Sansa sat close to Sandor, her shoulder pressed up against his arm and looking off towards the horizon with a thousand-league away stare.

Even Septon Meribald remained quiet, succumbing to exhaustion and dozing off with his head hung and his snores coming softly. From under the hood of his cloak, Sandor eyed Robert carefully, and followed as best he could the direction in which they were heading. It would be all to easy for the man to use the moonless sky to his advantage and subtly shift their path towards some unknown location. While the man had intervened in Dyre Den, stepping in as the situation had begun to escalate, Sandor still considered him with wary reservation. A man is the company he keeps. And this man kept foul company.

He knew not when or how, but at some point in the night Sandor had drifted into a dreamless sleep; perhaps lulled by the methodical cutting of the waves against the cog or the gentle snoring of Septon Meribald. When he awoke, the sun was peaking over the eastern horizon where the Bay of Crabs opened up into the narrow sea and in front of them was the shadow of Gulltown.

With one arm draped over her, Sansa was curled up next to him, her body pulled tightly into the nook underneath his arm and her face nuzzled in his chest. Strands of her hair pulled free from underneath her hood and were rustling with the gentle breeze that was pushing them towards shore.

As Sandor spotted her hair, he lifted his eyes to Robert who eyed the loose strands before meeting Sandor's gaze shaking his head.

"She's a pretty one. Seems to be fond of you. You had best thank the Seven above that I stepped in when I did or surely my men would have descended upon her like a pack of wolves."

With a grunt Sandor narrowed his eyes at Robert.

"I would have liked to see them try. You'd be short a fucking crew. I ought to put my sword in your belly and send you back across the bay to your 'men' in bloody pieces."

With a hearty laugh, Robert tilted his hat towards Sandor.

"For a man who has worked so very hard at masking his identity, your foul temper betrays you. So does your size. I'd be careful throwing around threats like that, big man."

Sandor contemplated Robert and considered spanning the distance between them to shove the man overboard. Instead he bit his tongue and remained where he was, but not before lifting his cloak from off his hip and loosening his sword from the scabbard with a slight jiggle, all while holding Robert's steadfast stare.

As the sun hovered above the horizon, they sailed into Gulltown from the south, approaching from the tiny inlet that was dotted with docks. Although unmoving, Sansa was awake, silently watching the larger ships as they passed by and remaining tucked underneath Sandor's arm. As they came in flush with a small dock, Robert jumped from the cog to the dock and pulled the vessel in before securing the boat with a thick rope.

Sandor rose to his feet, lifting Sansa with him and pulling her close to his chest before whispering in her ear.

"Listen to me and listen to me well. Your hair needs to be hidden. Keep your head down and stay by my side. If anyone talks to you, you ignore them. If anyone looks at you, you look away. Is that understood?"

What Sandor did not mention, what he felt compelled to leave out, was that their time in Gulltown, however brief, would be the most dangerous part of their journey. The city was arguably the biggest port in Westeros and uncomfortably close to King's Landing, besides. Despite his omission, Sansa seemed to understand all the same.

With a stoic nod, she tucked the loose strands of her hair back underneath her cloak and pulled her hood further over her head. With his hand in hers, Sandor pulled Sansa from the cog and onto the dock. Septon Meribald gathered the saddle bag contents and shoved a small bundle of coins into Robert's open hand.

"Robert Stoneway, you have done us tremendous kindness. It will not be forgotten. I trust you will find this payment suitable for your troubles."

Eagerly, Robert opened the bundle and peered inside. Shaking his head, he flashed an angry glare at the Septon.

"You old fool! Don't butter me up with your blundering courtesies! We agreed on double for passage by night."

Once again, Sandor pushed away his cloak and wrapped his hand tightly around the pommel of the sword, a gesture which promised the man pain should he press the matter any further.

With an immediate understanding and fury gleaming in his eyes, Robert hurriedly untied his boat from the dock before jumping into the cog and pushing away into the open water, staring daggers through Sandor as the wind carried him away.

As the morning swelled with light, they made their way past the docks containing cogs and other smaller vessels towards the main harbor where free city ships congregated amongst their Westerosi cousins. A flurry of activity bustled about them; wine traders from Dorne loading casks on to docks, fisherman hauling in their catch, the scent of exotic spices drifting through the air, the cacophony of a dozen foreign tongues meeting their ears from all around.

Wide-eyed, Sansa stayed fast by Sandor's side, now profoundly aware of how easily her or Sandor could be recognized and clearly uncomfortable as they pushed through crowds of fishermen, traders, sailors, and captains. A few steps ahead of them, Septon Meribald stopped and turned towards Sandor, keeping his voice down the best he could.

"I've spotted a number of ships with purple hulls, Braavosi ships. I will find us passage on one of these ships and come for you when I am finished. Gods be good, it will not take long."

With a nod, the Septon wandered off towards the cluster of ships lined in rows about the harbor. Once Septon Meribald disappeared amongst the crowd, Sandor pulled Sansa off to the side towards the shade of a nearby oak tree.

As Sandor leaned up against the tree, he watched as people passed by, going about their business and hardly noticing him or Sansa. As Sandor sat watching, he felt a pair of eyes on him from a distance. Seven bloody hells. I'm being watched. Ignoring the sensation the best he could, Sandor waited for it to pass, for whom ever was staring through him to move on and go about their business.

For long moments Sandor waited until finally, from some strange place within him, he felt compelled to look. When he did, Sandor was relieved to find he did not recognize the man yet this did little to quell the unease he felt as the man kept his stare steadfast on him. Sandor could not place the man's age, although he assumed he was well beyond five-and-sixty. With straight white hair that reached past his shoulder and a matching beard that fell to the middle of his belly, the old man watched with piercing green eyes, standing completely still as the harbor bustled with activity around him. A shout from his left roused Sandor's concentration as he snapped his head to the left to find a man berating a younger boy who had dropped a cask of wine, spilling its contents across the ground. When Sandor turned his head back towards the old man, he was gone, seemingly vanished into thin air.

Sandor suddenly felt chilly as the wind picked up about the harbor. Silently, he searched out the old man until a nagging sense of despair began forming within him; small at first but churning until it manifested as an overwhelming presence. For many moments, Sandor tried to place the feeling, seeking out its genesis but to no avail.

Somehow Sansa seemed to sense his unrest or perhaps it was her own unrest that made her speak. As she began, her voice was solemn and her gaze was placed in front of her, mindlessly watching the harbor astir in front of her.

"When we left the Quiet Isle, the Elder Brother told you not to forget what he told you. What did he tell you?"

Sandor was taken aback; he had hardly thought that Sansa picked up on his subtle exchange with the Elder Brother yet her crystalline perceptions left him as equally stunned as he was agitated. Through a clenched jaw, Sandor hissed out a response, unwilling to meet her stare as she turned towards him.

"Nothing that you should be concerned with."

Undaunted and unwilling to let go of it, Sansa met his irritation with defiance, something she was becoming more accustomed to as of late.

"If it does not concern me then why did he look at me as he said it?"

You could tell her, Dog. You could her all. How badly you wish she could be yours, how much you want to protect her and be what is right for her. And how, like the dog you are, you plan to stay in Braavos, tail between the legs and licking some imagined wound. He wanted to tell her and he would have, but the way she looked at him stymied the words as they formed on his lips; a look which intimated that somehow and somewhere within her she already knew and was wishing it wasn't true, clinging to whatever reassurance she could. Would if he could give her that reassurance, but instead the words that came were harsh and bitter and he felt powerless to stop them as they poured out of lungs in a thick rasp.

"Believe it or not, my Lady, not everything has to do with you."

With wounded eyes and her mouth agape, she turned away from him, scooting herself as far away as she dared and crossed her arms about her chest, biting her lip.

Sandor looked around him; first the sky above, then the ground below, and finally the waters of the bay as they lapped against the docks. Suddenly, he became aware of the origin of his growing disquiet. For how long, I don't know, but this is the last time I shall set foot in Westeros.

As he glanced over at Sansa, her face was obscured by the hood of her cloak, yet he saw the heaving rise and fall of her chest that suggested silent tears were falling from her eyes. Feeling sick to his stomach, Sandor thought he might retch. It pained him in ways he could not have imagined to glimpse, even for a fleeting moment, the distress, the fear, and the ache he saw in Sansa as she asked him what the Elder Brother had said to him, seeming to have the answer already.

Lost in tormented thoughts, Sandor did not see as the Septon approached, beckoning him and Sansa to follow him towards the ship that would presumably take them to Braavos, sealing their fates as he and Sansa silently followed.

He had been called a Dog. He had been called a Hound. He had been called a Monster. Never in his life did Sandor feel more like a dog, a hound, a monster than he did in this moment with Sansa by his side, wordlessly and somberly heading towards the ship with a steady stream of tears falling down her cheeks, over the curve of her lips and pattering the ground where she walked.

---

'You look prettier with your mouth closed, Sansa.' Cersei had told her that once. Since then, Sansa had made certain to keep her mouth closed, no matter how horrified or confused or petrified she was.

'Believe it or not, my Lady, not everything has to do with you.' She couldn't help it as her jaw dropped open as Sandor growled out those words, the 'my Lady' punctuated with sardonic inflection. What more, her eyes had begun to well up with tears; angry tears, embarrassed tears. Frustrated with herself, more tears fell which gave way to embarrassment which produced even more tears. On the cycle went as Septon Meribald led them towards a ship with a hull painted a deep color of purple.

With deep breaths, Sansa tried her best to quell the tears. Quit crying. Stop crying. You aren't a child anymore, Sansa Stark. Quit crying.

She knew not why she had begun to cry. It wasn't as if Sandor had never snapped at her before or spat hateful words at her. Perhaps it was the exhaustion that had come to ravage her body or the grumbling of her stomach as it protested the lack of food. Regardless, she felt ashamed for crying, her limbs ached from riding, her hair was a knotted mess, and her dress was stained with dirt and sweat. And then there was Sandor, brooding and swathed in irritation with his mood darkening. Desperately, she wanted to sleep, to drift off into a slumber and let it all melt away into a dream.

In broken common tongue, the Braavosi captain welcomed her aboard his ship, Jade Titan, and ushered her on deck. He was a short man, falling a few inches shorter than Sansa, with a weathered face, a warm smile, and thick, black curls peppered with grey framing his face.

"Beautiful lady, very tired, no? Need sleep, yes?" Gratuitously, the captain smiled and nodded his head, his accent lush and completely foreign to Sansa. Septon Meribald stepped forward and rested his large hand softly on her shoulder.

"My Lady, our journey has been hard and has taken its toll on you. Rest now and get some sleep."

With a shy smile, Sansa gently nodded her head before glancing towards Sandor. With a clenched jaw and the burned side of his mouth twitching, he refused to meet her eyes and instead stared off towards the narrow sea.

The Braavosi led her down a narrow set of stairs below deck and towards the captain's cabin, his cabin.

"Beautiful lady, have my cabin for journey. Sleep now, yes?"

As he led her into his cabin, the Braavosi crossed the room in a few quick strides, tidying up as he went, picking up stray pieces of clothes and tossing pillows back onto the bed. With an embarrassed laugh, the captain turned back towards her.

"Very sorry, Lady of Westeros. I not very…uhmm…hmm."

Sansa watched as he struggled to find the word in the common tongue, scratching his head and scrunching up his face before a sweeping smile cracked across his wind chapped lips.

"I make big mess."

Sansa let out a giggle. The man was weathered on the outside, his skin like boiled leather, but possessed a gentle heart beneath it all. The captain rummaged through a small armoire before pulling out a long woolen dress, plain, but somehow beautiful in the way the skirt pleated and the way the sleeves had been embellished with embroidering.

The captain draped the dress over the back of a chair in the corner of the room and paced towards the door.

"When Lady of Westeros wake from long sleep, can change in this dress. Not good match for lady's beauty, no, but very warm, yes. Much water for bath and food, yes, when you wake. Sleep now, Lady of Westeros."

And sleep she did, but not the deep sleep, dreamless and dark, that she had hoped for. Rather, her sleep was fitful as she tossed and turned, sleeping for an hour or so at a time before being roused again. Finally, she drifted away into a sleep filled with strange visions. When she did awake, she knew not how long she had slept; perhaps an hour, maybe a day, possibly two days. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the cabin, Sansa tried to move her legs, but found that as she did, the aching panged through her limbs worse than before. Little by little, she scooted her throbbing legs to the edge of the bed before slowly propping herself up and pushing the blankets from off her legs.

With arms extended in front of her, she felt her way through the darkness, stumbling here and there as she walked into pieces of furniture. When she reached the cabin door and pulled it open, she could see up the small set of stairs to darkness of night above deck. Is it night already? Or perhaps its closer to dawn.

Before she could ponder it much further, a voice came from down the corridor to her right, another voice flavored in a Braavosi accent but not nearly as broken as the captain's.

"My Lady, will you be wanting a bath? You must also be hungry as well."

Squinting her eyes to peer through the darkness, Sansa saw as a woman approached, a shadow moving towards her until the light of the moon above illuminated her. Wide of hips and her skin a dark olive, the woman stood placidly in front of her, a maternal presence that instantaneously set Sansa at ease.

"Yes, thank you. A bath and food would be most appreciated."

Sansa smiled sweetly as the woman brushed a knot of hair from off her face.

"My brother was right, you are quite beautiful."

Taking Sansa by the arm, the woman led her down the corridor to a tiny bath chamber, just big enough to house a small tub and stool.

"My brother is the captain of Jade Titan. We come from a family with a long tradition of sea faring. This was my father's ship and his father's before him."

As the woman talked, she helped Sansa from her dress and eased her into the tub, the water fragrant with some exotic spice Sansa was unfamiliar with, floral yet deep and musky. Methodical and gently, the woman brushed through Sansa's hair, humming a song Sansa had never heard before, perhaps a Braavosi hymn or a sailor's song.

Suddenly remembering her courtesies and embarrassed she had even forgotten them in the first place, Sansa turned towards the woman.

"Forgive me, what is your name? You have been so kind to me."

With a warm smile, the woman patted Sansa's hand.

"Such a sweet child. My name is Mirriah. And your's, my Lady?"

Startled, Sansa hadn't considered what to tell the woman. Perhaps she had already said too much. Sandor had told her to not talk to anyone, but surely Mirriah meant her no harm. But then, how often have I thought that only to be grievously mistaken?

With a cool politeness, Sansa settled back in the tub, letting the soreness escape from her limbs and dissolve in the water.

"Your brother calls me Lady of Westeros. He is a kind man."

Mirriah let the brush stop in her hands and eyed Sansa, but did not push any further and instead shrugged her shoulders before working through the last of the stubborn knots in Sansa's hair.

When Sansa emerged from the tub, her skin glowed, a radiance that seemed to emanate from within as she felt instantaneously better now that she had washed away the dirt and sweat from her body.

After slipping into the woolen dress the captain had laid out for her, Sansa ate a meal of salted pork, olives, and sharp cheese in silence, feeling as if the days traveling to Gulltown were a long past dream.

Since emerging from the captain's cabin, she had not seen Sandor or the Septon for that matter. Sansa ascended the narrow set of stairs and out onto the deck of the ship. Save a few crew members, the deck was deserted and blanketed in darkness that seemed to surround them. The sky above was clear, a smattering of stars twinkling brightly across the sky and a moon hung above, lovingly smiling down from above.

Sansa approached the side of the ship and looked to the black water below which met the darkness of the sky. As she searched the deck with her eyes, Sansa did not spot Sandor. Even if she had, she knew not what she might say to him. As of late, his demeanor endlessly oscillated between gentle warmth to silent brooding to icy aloofness, leaving her with nothing to do but ride out the ebb and flow of his fickle and wholly unpredictable moods. Once more, she was resigned to wait, wait for the sourness of his temper to pass, but something remained troubled within her. Since coming upon her in the Vale, Sandor had hardly left her side, even when she slept she had often woken next to him or tucked under his arm or with him hovering above her. Something between them had shifted, leaving her feeling listless and wrought.

"My lady, the night had grown cold. Why are you not below deck, in the warmth of your cabin?"

In the periphery of her vision, Septon Meribald had approached, standing next to her and gently resting his hands on the railing of the ship. Sansa let her stare linger over the waters which lapped at the sides of the ship with a sloshing sound.

"So it is night then. I didn't know how long I had slept. Where is Sandor?"

"Yes, Lady Sansa. You slept through the day and half through the night. The captain says we will arrive in Braavos by midday tomorrow. As for Sandor, he was whisked away to sleep on a sea of wine. The man downed an entire flagon in a few gulps. Extraordinary, really."

Wordlessly, Sansa nodded her head, trying not to let her disappointment show as she turned her gaze towards the water once more.

"I've never seen the sea before. Not like this."

Septon Meribald shifted, now leaning against the rail of the ship, gazing dreamily at the stars above.

"I remember the first time I was aboard a ship. Long years ago, but the memory remains. It was a night much like this; the seas tranquil, the darkness of the water meeting the darkness of the sky which was lit with stars. I imagined I was flying through the sky, soaring amongst the heavens above."

Peaking her head over the side of the ship, Sansa let the horizon melt away, envisioning the sky and water as one, stitched together until they were uniform.

"It does feel a bit like flying."

A solemn smile pulled at her lips, tugging them up ever so slightly at the corners.

"And if you could fly, Lady Sansa, where would your wings take you?"

The question caught her off guard, but she knew the answer and without skipping a beat, lifted her eyes to the heavens.

"Up there. Somewhere up there."

"You would not fly home, my Lady? To Winterfell?"

Sansa considered his words and searched her heart.

"This world is full of killing, death, sadness. I thought life was supposed to be like the songs; dancing and love and honor. It seems I have nothing left to hold on to."

Sansa folded her hands in front of her as unbidden tears began to sting her eyes. Not again. No more crying. I should be out of tears by now.

Reassuringly, Septon Meribald inched towards Sansa and placed a hand on her shoulder, but said nothing. Patiently, he waited until finally Sansa spoke, her voice strained and somber and her words coming jagged and disjointed from her lips.

"I did not sleep well. I hoped that I would. The problem…well…you see it's just that for the past four nights or so, Sandor has been with me while I've slept…I just feel…I don't know…safe, I suppose, when he's there. It's ridiculous really. You must think me mad."

With an uncomfortable and nervous laugh, Sansa shook her head, trying to desperately to clear her mind and erase her troubled thoughts, letting them float into the empty expanse through which they were sailing. For many moments, Septon Meribald remained quiet, yet his mind was running, Sansa could tell by the way his brow furrowed and he lifted his eyes to stars above.

"Not long ago you said that your fate is your own. Are you familiar with the story of our souls, my Lady?"

Sansa rummaged through the recesses of her mind, seeking it out, but did not find any remembrance there. She shook her head.

"No, I don't believe I have."

Septon Meribald smiled softly and nodded his head.

"You will not find this story in The Seven-Pointed Star or any other text of the Faith. I have sought out its origins, but find that I come up empty handed at every turn. It seems the story of our souls seeks us out. It is a whisper from the heavens to those who need its message.

The Seven above are but seven faces of one God; a prism of colors, each a different hue, but reflected from the same crystal. The Seven wove the fabric of the Universe and unfolded it into an infinite expanse. The breadth of their work was impressive to behold, but the Gods found it was much too plain; devoid of light, a lonely darkness even they agreed would not do.

And so they breathed fire into many handfuls of crystals and scattered them about the sky, illuminating the heaves above with stars. The beauty of their work was impressive to behold, but the Gods found the stars much too static; devoid of dancing, a silent stillness even they agreed would not do.

And so they plucked the two most beautiful crystals from the sky and hung them lovingly in the expanse above our world as the sun and the moon and set them endlessly dancing about one another in a perpetual waltz. The cleverness of their work was impressive to behold, but the Gods found the sun and the moon each too fickle in its own right; the moon waxing to a serene fullness before waning to a shadow of itself and the sun kissing the earth with the splendid warmth of summer before retracting its affection with the icy gusts of winter. Once more, even the Gods agreed this just would not do.

By this time the Gods were exasperated, wrought with frustration. And so they convened one last time, determined to craft the most wondrous of creations; a being that would make the stars weep tears of fire and the sun and the moon cease their endless dancing to glimpse the exquisiteness of the Gods' creation.

The Gods worked tirelessly, forming and reshaping their being, seeking perfection and each God contributing a small piece of themselves to the final creation. However, something was still missing.

For long nights, the Gods deliberated until finally coming to a realization that their creation should be a reflection of themselves. The pairing of the Gods is no coincidence; the Father and the Mother, the Smith and the Crone, the Warrior and the Maiden. Each possesses what the other lacks, two matching pieces of the same mold; one cannot exist without the other, for should they separate they are destroyed.

And so it came to be that our souls were born. In that moment, the duality of the Gods, light and dark, masculine and feminine, was united in our souls and thus creating an image of the Gods within each of us. Truly, our souls were breathtaking to behold and the stars wept fiery rivers through the heavens and the sun and the moon ceased their infinite waltz, stopping to gaze upon the most wondrous of creations the Universe could hope to know.

Now, I know what you must be thinking; there are seven Gods, not six."

Sansa nodded her head, entranced by the story.

"This story does not end here, I am afraid. The seventh God, the God which all the others feared, did not have his say, his contribution seemingly ignored. He is the God of destruction and death and the task at hand was a task of creation, the other Gods tried to explain. But they could do little and less to quell his mighty rage which was threatening to tear apart the very fabric of the Universe.

In his fury, the Stranger was determined to have his say and make his contribution. The Stranger is the God of destruction and destroy he did. In his ballistic rage, the Stranger ripped the souls apart into two separate pieces; light separated from dark, masculine separated from feminine.

Before the Stranger could damage their precious creations any further, the other Gods desperately worked together to save the remnants of the souls. They had to work fast. Just as the Father cannot exist without the Mother, nor the Warrior without the Maiden, the Smith without the Crone, the two halves of the souls would not survive long without their counterpart.

The Warrior staved off the Stranger as best he could, sword against sword. The Mother protectively cradled the torn souls while the Smith swiftly crafted our human bodies from flesh, bone, and blood before placing one torn half of the soul into one body. When the Smith's work was done, the Father placed our bodies on earth, safely away from the Stranger's wrath.

The heavens wept at the thought of our souls torn in half and scattered about the earth, separated from the missing counterpart, which to them was an unimaginable punishment. To ease the pain, the Crone gifted our now human forms with her wisdom, an unwavering intuition which instantaneously recognizes the counterpart of our soul when our human forms come together and sent heavenly guides to wander the earth, helping the souls find one another.

The Maiden knew our human bodies wouldn't survive forever. The horrible thought that our human forms might perish before we find our other half was too much to bear. Her gift to us was this: should our human bodies die before we find our match, we shall be reborn again, living as many human lives as needed until we find our missing piece.

And so we wander this earth, each of us possessing one half of a whole soul. We ache for our other half and are compelled on an endless journey to seek out the individual who possesses that other half. The Gods look upon us in our journey, crafting our fates such that we are driven closer to whoever possesses our match. We cannot exist without our counterpart, not truly. And so we wander, through however many lifetimes it takes, until we are complete. Only then can we return to the heavens, united again as one soul, the way we were meant to be.

Only the heavens above will ever know why you and Sandor Clegane came colliding together once again. Perhaps your fate is not truly just your own, but rather is his fate as well. Perhaps you've both lived too many lifetimes without one another. Or perhaps in my old age I have become a romantic fool and this story is for love-sick oafs, such as myself. You say you have nothing left to hold on to, but if I was you, my Lady, I would hold on like hell to the man whose fate quite literally collided with yours not so long ago."

With that, Septon Meribald squeezed her hand and kissed her softly on the cheek before retreating off towards his cabin below deck, leaving Sansa dumbfounded and feeling as though the breath had been stolen from her lungs.

For many moments, she sat in a tranquil silence, gazing at the stars above her and pondering the story of our souls as Septon Meribald had relayed it to her.

Ever since she was a child, Sansa had a way of getting swept up in stories, the words seemingly whisking her away to a fantasy where knights were always honorable, maidens were always fair and virtuous, and love came easily, free of conflict. However, as the story of our souls settled deep within her mind, it managed to shake her to her core. The story was beautiful, to be sure, but the heaviness of its implications left Sansa stunned and reeling.

She was spellbound by the bittersweet idea of matching souls, pieces of the same mold separated and left to spend a lifetime or maybe many lifetimes in search of one another. 'Only the heavens above will ever know why you and Sandor Clegane came colliding together once again. Perhaps your fate is not truly just your own, but rather is his fate as well.'

Sansa understood on an intrinsic and profound level what Septon Meribald was suggesting, but found that she was deeply confounded by the suggestion. How can a man like Sandor Clegane be my match, my missing piece?

She worked through the memories emerging on the precipice of her waking mind, summoned from the deep subconscious recesses of her heart. When she had first encountered Sandor upon his arrival in Winterfell, she was terrified by his brutal reputation and repulsed by his gruesome scars. However, she had been a child then; a child utterly consumed by the romanticized visions of gallant, handsome knights and the idea of one day being Joffrey's queen. The memories of her own ignorance and superficiality made her shudder.

She had suffered unimaginable heartache and had been shown the bitter brutality of the world. She had changed, but something had changed in him too. The violent storm of fury that had raged within Sandor's being had somehow calmed, leaving behind a brooding stillness. How can a man, so different from me, possess my matching piece, and mine his?

'Each possesses what the other lacks, two matching pieces of the same mold; one cannot exist without the other…'

As the words echoed through her mind, Sansa began to understand. He is harsh, where I am gentle. He is strong, when I am weak. He teaches me resilience and I teach him compassion. He is dark, I am light. He is wholly masculine, I am purely feminine. We possess what the other lacks. We wouldn't fit, two pieces of the same mold, if we were exactly alike.

And then it came to her, screaming from the back of her mind and forming on her lips, spoken aloud and making her legs feel like globs of unworked dough, buckling at the knees.

"Look not with your eyes lest you will never see. Peer with your soul for it is now what it was always meant to be."

Sansa brought a trembling hand to meet her mouth as the words exited her lips, brought to life by her breaths. With tears in her eyes, she looked up the skies, to the stars above, and to the beings which were seemingly watching her, guiding her, leading her towards her fate.

True to the Braavosi captain's word, they approached Braavos as the sun rode to its peak in the sky. As they passed beneath the Titan of Braavos, Sansa felt her breath catch in her chest as she spied murder holes carved out beneath the massive stone structure. It seemed they reached Braavos at perhaps the busiest time of day, for a line of ships extended ahead and behind them, all being ushered into Chequy Port for inspections.

For an hour they waited for the Sealord's customs officers to board their ship and grant them passage to the purple harbor. When the officers finally climbed aboard, they made a brief exchange with the captain in Braavosi before laughing merrily and clapping the man on the back. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. They seem to know him. She had been terrified that the customs officers would somehow recognize her or Sandor and drag them back to King's Landing

Stumbling through his words in the common tongue, the captain explained that they would head towards the Purple Harbor where local ships were moored. As they approached Purple Harbor, Sansa understood where its name came from; in long rows ships with purple hulls dotted the harbor.

Sansa watched as seagulls circled over head, squawking loudly and diving down every now and then to collect bits of bread or fish that had been dropped to the ground. From all around, she heard the Braavos tongue, foreign words being shouted across ships, captains shouting orders to crew members. As Sansa watched the flurry of activity, a shadow had come to envelope her and as she flashed her eyes to the side, she saw Sandor standing next to her, still brooding and looking as if he had hardly slept.

Saying nothing to her, he eyed the harbor with disdain gleaming in his eyes before muttering curses under his breath. Suddenly, she felt invisible to him, a ghostly specter that he hadn't seen standing next to him. However, he did seem to see her. Pulling her by the arm, Sandor led her towards the wooden plank that declined from the ship to the dock below. The Braavosi captain stood at the top, smiling warmly as the Septon Meribald shook his hand and thanked him. With a gentle push at the small of her back, Sandor nudged her towards the plank, past the captain.

Turning around at once, Sansa pushed past Sandor who was behind her and headed back towards the captain. The man had shown her a great deal of kindness and she was not content to leave without thanking him. When Sansa came to stand in front of the captain she took his hands in hers and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you for everything. You were so very kind."

A bright smile flooded the man's face as he nodded his head.

"Lady of Westeros, beautiful and sweet. Farewell, my Lady."

Over the man's voice, Sansa heard Sandor snickering from the bottom of the plank as he stepped onto the dock, snorting out a mocking laugh before shaking his head. When Sansa reached the dock, Septon Meribald pointed in the direction of a domed structure placed on top of a hill. The glazed tiles that covered the dome shone like gold in the sun.

"That is the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea. Septon Harmon is a dear friend of mine."

With his arms cross about his chest, Sandor narrowed his eyes at Septon Meribald, before growling out his words acridly.

"Aye, a dear friend you say? Like Robert Stoneway, the man I almost had to butcher in half? That sort of friend?"

Turning red, Septon Meribald clenched his fists and snapped back.

"Septon Harmon is a man of the Gods. We will be in a Sept for heaven's sake. You would do well to remember that, Clegane. I will arrange our stay. You two stay behind and meet me at the Sept two hours hence."

With that Septon Meribald spun on his heel and made his way through the harbor and towards the domed Sept on the hill, his robe swaying about his legs and his pace quickened and resolute.

Sansa lifted her eyes to Sandor who was evaluating the crowd in front of them through narrowed eyes before seemingly feeling her stare and shifting his gaze down to her. After meeting his stare, Sansa let her eyes flee away, suddenly afraid at what he might say. Or worse, that he might say nothing at all and go on treating her as if she were an apparition.

He must have sensed her dilemma, something about the way she let her eyes fall away and her body tense, because she saw as his clenched jaw softened and his eyes flickered with something akin to guilt before she felt his arm gently loop into hers.

Sansa felt her heart beat faster and her stomach fill with butterflies at his touch, relieved that whatever dark mood had taken him had now passed. As they walked, arm in arm, through the harbor, Sansa was enchanted by the people she saw meandering about, a melting pot of the free city customs and cultures.

In Winterfell, the free cities and their inhabitants were something from the stories that Old Nan used to tell; far off lands thousands of leagues away with people who were entirely different than the Westerosi.

With two feet planted in Braavos, Sansa felt she was living in one of those stories. She watched as Bravos dueled in the streets, garbed in silken pants and shirts woven in the brightest colors she had ever seen. In Westeros, northerners wore drab colors of greys and blacks and greens. She never knew such vibrant colors even existed, much less existed as fabrics that could be made into clothing.

Sansa spotted several ebony-skinned men swathed in capes of bright feathers which swayed as they walked, making them appear as birds that might take flight at any moment.

As if the sights weren't enough, the smells that invaded her nose were like nothing she had experienced before. The marriage of cinnamon, clove, saffron, mulberry, and lemongrass wafted through the air, emanating from wooden casks unloaded on the dock from a dozen ships returning from all over the known world.

Making their way from the harbor, merchants had begun to line the streets and narrow alley ways, selling select items from off the ships. The market stalls were filled to the brim with vintage wines from the Summer Isles, Dorne, and Asshai. Fishermen pushed around carts with the catch of the day; mussels, crabs, cod, and scallops overflowed from the carts, the meaty flesh glistening in the sun. Other stalls contained three dozen or more spices from around Essos, some Sansa had never even heard of before.

The aqueducts that ran above them spilled forth fresh water at public fountains. At the fountains, children ran beneath the water, splashing it about their faces and giggling until they were breathless. Sansa smiled to herself, remembering far away memories of what it was like to be that carefree, to be a child.

As they approached an intersection of two streets, the crowd in front of them was halted, merchants, sailors, and locals alike looking in the same direction towards something Sansa could not yet see. Suddenly the crowd in front of her and Sandor began to part, each person stepping three paces back such that a path began to open.

The men standing in front of her stepped away, allowing Sansa to see what the crowd was so seemingly engrossed by. When Sansa looked up, she saw a woman making her way down the clearing that was made at her presence.

The woman was breathtaking, the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen. The delicate features of her face were emphasized tastefully with a staining of rouge on her cheeks and lips, her eyes outlined in kohl and framed by thick, darkened eyelashes. Her dress was like nothing Sansa had ever seen, its extravagance making Cersei Lannister's gowns seem like roughspun robes in comparison. The fabric was exquisite silk slashed with black satin stripes gathered about the woman's waist, accentuating her curves and adding to her feminine mystique. With tumbling waves, the woman's raven black hair swept to her waste, pulled back from her face on one side with a sapphire and ruby brooch embellished with golden feathers.

As the woman sauntered down the path that had been made for her, men went to their knees, begging for her favor in half a dozen foreign tongues. Graciously, the woman offered a gloved hand to each in turn, allowing them to kiss her hand.

From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Sandor shift, leaning in towards her as Sansa remained utterly entranced.

"She's a courtesan. They are treated like royalty in Braavos and the other Free Cities."

In Winterfell, Sansa had once overheard Theon Greyjoy boasting to Robb and Jon that he would one day bring a courtesan to his bed. Later at her needlework lesson, Sansa had asked Septa Mordane what a courtesan was, thinking that it was surely just a woman of the court, perhaps even the court at King's Landing. Scowling, Septa Mordane had scolded her about asking after such things and curtly told Sansa that courtesans were prostitutes dressed up like noble women. 'If you put a sow in a silk gown, rouge on its lips, and curls in its hair, it is still just a pig underneath. The same goes for courtesans. They may dress like high-born ladies, but they offer the same services that a common prostitute does.' The woman coming towards her certainly did not look like a prostitute and looked every bit like a royal should. However, Sansa knew what courtesans were, but was confounded by the amount of respect and adoration the crowd was paying this woman.

"Royalty? But they sell their bodies. How can they be viewed as royalty?"

As Sansa scrunched her face up, Sandor let out a chuckle, the rasping of his laugh filling her with a familiar warmth.

"No, Little Bird. Whores sell their bodies. Courtesans are gifted in the art of pleasure."

Sansa watched as the women kissed a boy, no more than four-and-ten, on the cheek and laughed merrily as the boy blushed an impossible shade of red.

"How can somebody be gifted in something like that?"

Sandor turned his body towards her, searching her face with an amused smile.

"In Winterfell, your septa taught you how to be a lady, did she not? She taught you your courtesies, taught you songs, things like that?"

Flustered, Sansa shook her head, failing to see the connection between her lessons as a lady and the courtesan woman's lessons at pleasure.

"Yes, but that's different." Her words left her lips in a huff, almost whining as she crossed her arms about her chest.

Clearly entertained by her bafflement, Sandor laughed out loud this time, his low rasping chuckle giving way to a hearty laugh which elicited a stubborn smile to crease her lips.

"Courtesans are just as diligent in their lessons as you were, Little Bird. The only difference is the subject matter. They learn not only how to please a man, but how to seduce, how to entice."

Biting her bottom lip, she stared up at the courtesan who was soaking up the attention from the crowd which was fawning over her.

"How to please a man…" Sansa's voice was soft and questioning as she pondered the thought. There can't be much to it. Look beautiful, praise him for being gallant and brave and smart, give him sons, kiss him sweetly.

Somehow reaching her mind, Sandor tilted his head slightly and gave her a sarcastically mocking glance with a mischievous smile playing about his lips.

"Surely, your septa or mother told you what happens on your wedding night, told you what your husband's rights will be."

Sansa felt the blood rush to her face as a wave of embarrassment crept over her.

"Oh. That. They said that it would be painful, but as a dutiful wife I would have to endure."

Shaking his head, Sandor laughed once more, his eyes flickering with something between amusement and passion.

"Pain, duty, endure. They make it sound as if you're going off to battle. It can be pleasurable for a woman too. That is, if a man cares enough to make it pleasurable and of course, if he knows what he's doing."

At once Sansa could feel the heat emanating from her face and spreading down her chest, positively certain she was blushing a deeper shade of red than the boy who took a kiss from the courtesan. The urge to ask Sandor what he meant conflicted with the urge to hide herself under a rock; the curiosity battled embarrassment within her, back and forth they went.

Distracted by the battle playing out within her, Sansa suddenly realized the courtesan was standing in front of her. Wide-eyed, Sansa stepped to the side, stumbling into Sandor who reached out with a heavy hand and steadied her by the shoulder as she bowed her head, her voice a whisper.

"Pardon me, my Lady."

The courtesan stopped in front of Sansa, taking a gloved hand and placing it under Sansa's chin, lifting her head up to meet the woman's gaze.

"Such natural beauty. Your skin is like butter, flawless. What I wouldn't give for fire to kiss my hair like it has yours."

Sansa could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Wearing the old woolen dress the captain had given her and with her hair tumbling about her body in unkempt waves, she felt entirely inadequate in front of the woman who was truly exquisite.

Flustered, Sansa let her eyes flicker away as the woman lowered her hand from underneath Sansa's chin.

Remembering her courtesies, Sansa bowed her head politely as she tugged at her dress.

"Thank you. You are so kind to say, but I'm not…"

Laughing sweetly, her voice like a song, the courtesan placed both hands on Sansa's hips, squeezing lightly as her words flowed like honey from her lips, flavored with an unfamiliar accent.

"You are, sweetling, I assure you. What a sweet disposition to match a lovely body which matches such a gorgeous face." Suddenly the courtesan lifted her stare over Sansa's shoulder to Sandor who was behind her.

"You are a lucky man, my Lord, to bring such beauty to your bed. Dare I admit, I am rather envious of you."

Before Sandor could respond, the woman kissed Sansa on the cheek, a soft, lingering kiss, before she strode off down the alley way, no longer stopping to offer her favor or kisses to the crowd. Stunned, Sansa brought her hand to her cheek, her skin burning like fire under her touch.

She felt as Sandor leaned into her, his chest flush against her back, before lowering his voice to a lusty rasp.

"I think she likes you."

Turning over her shoulder, Sansa gasped out a breathy reply in confusion and disbelief.

"What?...But…but I am woman. And besides, she thought that we were…that we…that we were well…together."

Sandor shrugged his shoulders and gave her a half smile before sweeping his eyes down the alley way towards the retreating courtesan.

"Indeed, you are a woman. And so is she. And some women enjoy the company of other women."

With that, he turned his stare back towards her, his eyes glazed with anticipation at her response. I'm burning alive in my own skin at this conversation while he is clearly and utterly amused.

Sandor looped his arm in hers before leading them on again, across the intersecting streets and towards the Sept on the hill.

Sansa huffed in frustration as the internal battle between embarrassment and curiosity raged within her. Suddenly a flush of boldness overcame her and her curiosity swelled within her.

"She thought you and I…well…that we…"

Shaking his head, Sandor let out a hearty chuckle before finishing her sentence.

"That I take you into my bed at night. What about it?"

"Assuming she might enjoy the company of other women sometimes, why would she approach me if she thought that you are the one who takes me into your bed?"

Sansa sighed deeply; it took all she had to form her sentence without stumbling over her words and blushing uncontrollably. Sandor remained quiet, pondering her question before shrugging his shoulders with a coy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Some men like to see women enjoying the company of other women."

Turning his head, Sandor let his eyes fall to her, searching her face. Sansa let her jaw drop open, not caring if she looked prettier with her mouth closed and felt as her eyes widened. The thought seemed perverse to her; the marriage bed was meant to be shared between two people, not three. Sansa smiled to herself. She could scarcely imagine what Septa Mordane would have to say if she knew Sansa was asking after such things. Suddenly, another flush of curiosity bubbled up from within and burst forth from her lips as another question.

"Do you like…I mean…nevermind."

This time she could not feign confidence, but instead decided that her curiosity had gotten the best of her and tried desperately to recant her words, stopping them midstream as they spilled from her lips. You are a lady. Ladies do not ask questions like this.

Unwilling to let her off so easily, Sandor shook his head.

"Out with it, Little Bird."

Yielding, Sansa sighed deeply. True enough, the questions she sought after were not befitting of the Lady Stark of Winterfell. But she wasn't in Winterfell and Septa Mordane was not here to scold her about such things.

"You said some men enjoy seeing two women together."

"Aye, I did. What of it?"

"Well, do you enjoy seeing two women together?"

Sansa lowered her voice, which trembled slightly. As she once again felt a blush kissing her face, Sansa couldn't bear to meet Sandor's eyes. She was afraid he would laugh at her, or scold her, or tell her she was being a stupid Little Bird. Instead, he did none of those things. When Sansa brought her eyes up to his face, she found that it was devoid of the playful smile that had been there and instead his eyes were colored with a strange somberness and now it was him that could not bear to look at her.

"No, Little Bird. One woman would be more than enough for me."

They remained quiet for the rest of their journey towards the Sept, their path zig-zagging as they head towards their destination in a step-wise manner, heading in the opposite direction before having to double back. When they finally approached the Sept, Sandor stopped abruptly mid step, his face becoming pale as milk and his mouth twitching slightly. With a steadfast stare, Sandor locked his gaze in front of him. When Sansa lifted her eyes in the direction Sandor was looking, she saw a man in the distance, staring intently at Sandor. The man reminded her of Maester Luwin, except with long white hair, a flowing beard, and eyes the greenest she had ever seen.

"Who is that? Do you know him?"

Through a clenched jaw, Sandor narrowed his eyes, his breaths rasping from his lungs in irritated spurts.

"I saw him in Gulltown. The fucker is following me. Or you. Or us. I don't bloody know, but I like it not."

"Here they are! Good Heavens above, such splendid timing!"

In unison, Sansa and Sandor lifted their eyes towards Septon Meribald as he descended the marble steps of the Sept, his arms flailing in the air as they often did when he was overcome with excitement.

Sandor paced towards him and Sansa followed after, but not before peering back in the direction of the old man. When Sansa looked, the man was gone, dissolving into the horizon that was framed by the descending sun. Confounded, she squinted her eyes, entirely certain that the man could not have slipped away so quickly.

"Lady Sansa, I would like to introduce to you my dear friend, Septon Harmon. Harmon, this is the Lady Sansa I spoke of earlier."

Gleaming with something between pride and joy, Septon Meribald extended his hand towards Sansa as his friend, Septon Harmon, bowed politely at the waist. The man looked as though he could pass as Septon Meribald's brother as both men shared similar features; faces lined with age and a hard life, steel grey hair and kind eyes.

"A true pleasure, my Lady. Septon Meribald has sung your praises in front of Gods and men alike."

With that, Septon Harmon turned towards Sandor and once again bowed at the waist, fully unaware that such courtesy was counterproductive with Sandor.

"And you must be Sandor Clegane."

Interjecting with a bitter laugh, Sandor crossed his arms about his chest and stared off towards the direction of where the old man had been standing not moments earlier.

"Don't tell me. Septon Meribald cursed my existence in front of Gods and men alike."

With a hearty laugh and wag of the finger, Septon Harmon turned towards his friend.

"He's witty! I do rather enjoy witty. Come now! Be welcome, friends. Septon Meribald has told me much and more of your journey to get here. Let us share a meal together and share our stories!"

Charmed by Septon Harmon's pleasant kindness, Sansa followed along with Septon Meribald, but Sandor did not and instead stood where he was, still scrutinizing the place where the old man had stood. Stopping and retreating back down the stairs, Sansa approached Sandor, gently touching one of his arms, which were still tightly folded across his chest.

"Aren't you coming?"

Brusquely, Sandor pulled away from her, keeping his glare steadily where it was.

"No. You go on. I will be back later."

As he paced off towards the direction of where the old man had been without giving her so much as a glance, Sansa felt her heart sink, settling sourly in her stomach and leaving her feeling as if she was riding the waves of his changing moods once more, waiting for a storm to pass.

With a sigh, she ascended the steps of the Sept and pushed through the enormous wooden doors. When she entered, her breath escaped her lungs as a gasp. The Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing had been breathtaking, but this was beyond words. Beneath the dome of the Sept was seven columns, in front of each a raised platform that held the likeliness of each of the Seven Gods. In the center of the open area, a lavish marble fountain spilled forth water from a large seven-sided crystal held up by a column set with moonstones. The ceiling of the dome was laid in a rainbow of mosaic tiles depicting each of the Gods. The floor of the Sept was made up of dark marble with a large in-laid golden star, each of the seven points emanating from the fountain and leading to the platforms of the Gods.

Beyond each of the seven columns, the walls of the Sept were encircled by open balconies which looked out onto the narrow sea and the city of Braavos below. Septon Harmon led them down a corridor which opened behind the platform of the Father and into what seemed to be the great hall of the Sept. Retaining all the loveliness of the rest of the Sept, the great hall was adorned in marble floors and a mosaic ceiling depicting the history of Braavos; from the Moonsingers leading refugees away from Valyria to the Titan of Braavos gallantly defending the city against Aegon's dragons.

A long glass table supported by ornate engraved wood sat at the center of the room and reflected a rainbow of colors about the walls as the retreating sun peered through the open balcony that extended the far side of the room. Septon Harmon bid them to sit as a Braavosi septa brought in a tray of candied plums, rye and brown bread, a variety of cheeses imported from Pentos, roasted duckling, and brined olives along with a flagon of sweet apricot wine.

Sansa ate in silence as Septon Harmon and Septon Meribald exchanged stories, laughing merrily until both were gasping for breaths. As Sansa watched the two men, she thought of her dearest friend, Jeyne Pool, who had been with her in King's Landing and in Winterfell before that. Sansa remembered laughing like that with Jeyne; breathless and stomach aching as they shared preposterous stories and silly secrets, swearing to each other that they would never tell.

As the laughter of the Septons faded into background noise, Sansa wondered what had become of Jeyne and what she might say if she knew Sansa had escaped Westeros with Sandor, the man who had smashed Jeyne's door down with a war hammer the day the Stark household was purged from King's Landing.

For many hours, the Septons swapped stories, each seeking to outdo one another and seeing how hard they could make the other laugh. Through those hours, Sansa remained silent, perhaps now and then smiling when Septon Meribald looked over at her, but her mind would quickly spin off, wondering where Sandor had went.

Long after the sun set and the moon had come to ride high in the sky, Septon Harmon and Septon Meribald escorted Sansa to a small bed chamber. As Septon Harmon bid her good evening, Septon Meribald stayed behind, a look of concern settling about the creases of his face.

"My Lady, you were rather quiet this evening. Is something the matter? I know Braavos is unknown to you, but you are safe within these walls. The worst of the journey is behind us now."

Letting her head hang, Sansa smiled bittersweetly, somehow feeling guilty for causing Septon Meribald to worry. Taking his hands in hers, Sansa lifted her eyes and feigned a look of exhaustion.

"Everything is fine. I'm just tired is all. Nothing a good night's rest won't fix."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Septon Meribald nodded his head.

"Good to hear, my Lady. Sleep well and I hope your dreams are sweet and fair."

As Sansa entered her bed chamber, she found she was not tired, not in the least. Rather, her mind was racing, stubbornly refusing to settle. Although her chamber was small, she was pleased to find it boasted a balcony which was hidden behind thick burgundy drapes. Pushing the drapes aside, Sansa stepped out onto the balcony as a gentle breeze enveloped her. The city below was segmented by canals which ran through like veins, all terminating in one central point beneath what appeared a temple. The heart of the city.

The top of the building was covered with black tiles and the walls boasted no windows. As Sansa looked around, all the other buildings contained at least one balcony and a handful of windows. The front side of the building contained a massive wooden door, almost as large as the doors of the Sept, set with weirwood and ebony, black on white. Sansa had never seen anything like it and pondered what it was. Her musing was roused by a knock at her door. Before she could lift herself from the balcony, the door opened and Sandor stumbled in, muttering curses under his breath.

Regaining his balance, Sandor walked towards her, one foot placed deliberately in front of the other. Sansa remained on the balcony, crossing her arms about her chest as she suddenly felt the chill of the wind. Something about him was beginning to scare her, perhaps the way he was walking towards her or maybe the look on his face. As he stood in front of her, she let her eyes fall away. She could smell the wine on him and knew he had found his way to a tavern in the city. Without looking at him, Sansa felt the question that burned in her mind tumble from her lips.

"Where did you go?"

Shaking his head slowly and snorting a dark laugh, Sandor took two shaky steps towards her, but said nothing. Flustered, Sansa back-peddled, trying to explain away the abruptness of her question and soften the pleading that reverberated through it.

"It's just that you left so suddenly. I was only wondering, but it makes no matter."

Still he said nothing and instead only stared at her, intently and drunkenly. Memories of the Battle of the Blackwater flashed through her mind and she understood immediately, feeling as if she had been ushered back in time when he stumbled into her room by the light of wildfire, threatening her life and forcing a song. Somehow this was different, yet similar. He was drunk and she was uneasy, much like that night, yet he said nothing and she found she did not fear him like she did back then.

As he stood there, his leering melted away to the same somber stare she had seen in him earlier and in the days before, an aching that seemed to consume him from within yet she did not know how to place it or even where it came from. The tension in his body seemed to flee as well and his features softened as his hands cupped her cheeks.

"Sansa." His voice was laced with yearning, his eyes considering her with desire.

He means to kiss me. He had meant to kiss her the night before they reached Dyre Den. He had run his fingertips lightly over her cheeks before brushing his thumb over her lips, beckoning them to part before he moved his head towards hers. She had wanted him to kiss her, her desire as strong as his. However, Septon Meribald had interjected much to both her and Sandor's chagrin.

And while Sandor was still regarding her with the same affection now as he was then, he was also drunk, she knew. If he means to kiss me, he had better find the time when he is not swaying with drunkenness.

"I need to sleep, Sandor. And so do you."

In one swift motion, Sansa pulled away from him, ducking beneath his arm and pacing towards her bed, pulling back the covers and readjusting the pillows, busying herself with mindless tasks until he moved from where he stood.

As he walked past her, Sansa felt her gaze move up his form until her stare met his. Sandor's eyes flashed with a burning fury, astir with frustration, rejection, and rage all at once. When he left her room, she heard the door close behind her with a resounding thud, one which rattled the very walls of her chamber. Sansa crawled into her bed and pulled the covers up over her head as tears formed in her eyes, tears which lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

When she awoke, Sansa broke her fast with Septon Meribald and Septon Harmon. Sandor, she was told, had already broken his fast and had set off into the city offering no details except that he would return after night had fallen.

In an effort to disguise her disappointment, Sansa took a deep breath and turned towards Septon Harmon.

"Septon, the balcony of my bed chamber offers such a beautiful view of the city. I spotted a strange building last night and thought you might know what this building is. It had a very large door, ebony and weirwood, black interlaid on white, white on black. It looked to be a temple of some sort. Do you know this building?"

Chomping on a slice of honeyed brown bread with cheese, Septon Harmon coughed to clear his throat, morsels of food flying from his mouth.

"Oh yes. The House of Black and White. And right you are, it is a temple of the Many-Faced God."

Spying Sansa's furrowed brow, the Septon continued, his hands waving animatingly in the air.

"The Many-Faced God is worshipped by the Faceless men, a guild of assassins who believe that death is the sweetest gift of all. They give it freely as an offering to their God. You may have noticed the temple boasts no windows. It seems these followers are a secretive lot, preferring to remain in the shadows, to remain nameless, and…well…faceless for that matter."

With a sweeping of his hand, the Septon looked about the great hall in which they were seated, motioning towards the open balcony.

"I prefer the openness of the Sept. The goings-on here are clear for Gods and men alike to see."

For the rest of the day, Sansa wandered about the balconies that circumvented the outside of the Sept, watching as the city bustled below and feeling like a forgotten maiden trapped in a tower, condemned to look upon the others below but share no part in their activities. When the wind picked up and lashed about her legs, Sansa retreated back into the Sept and lit a candle at the feet of each of the Gods, even the Stranger, the God who looked over lost souls because she herself felt lost, listless, and wandering.

True to his word, Sandor did not return until well after nightfall. When she heard the knock at her door, her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, sick at the thought he might come to her in a drunken haze like he did the night before.

Instead, he was entirely sober, brooding even, swathed in icy aloofness. He asked her if she was doing well and if she needed anything. With a 'yes' and a 'no' she answered his questions, waiting for something else, anything else, but it never came. Instead, he gave her a nod and left her room.

A week passed this way; solemn mornings breaking her fast with the Septon's who had both confessed that they were growing deeply concerned about her, days wandering about the Sept or the courtyard beyond, and nights where Sandor would come, asking the same two questions before leaving. Septon Harmon had tried to cheer her up by having his septa bring her two silken gowns, one a vibrant blue which complemented her complexion and eyes and another in silver which gave her a lunar glow. The dresses were gorgeous and felt marvelous against her skin yet did little to pierce through the melancholy that had come to consume her.

When she lay in bed at night, Sansa thought of the stories she heard of Lyanna Stark, her father's beloved sister. All her life she had heard the whispers around Winterfell, the story of how Prince Rhaeger had carried Lyanna off, his northern beauty, his one true love, so that they could live out their days together. Unwittingly, he had set Robert's Rebellion and the eventual downfall of the Targaryen dynasty in motion. All for his love of her. Even at the Tourney of Harrenhal he crowned Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty, passing over his own wife.

Sandor was certainly no Targaryen prince, but she imagined him all the same, carrying her off in the night, stealing her away so that they may hide from the world together. And they were together, her and Sandor, in this foreign city, so rich in culture and different from the life she had always known, yet Sansa felt they were separated by a thousand leagues or more. He was a world away from her and she knew not how to reach him. It felt as if a pane of glass separated them and was growing thicker by the day. Each time she tried to break through, she was left frustrated and distraught, but nonetheless she kept trying, futile as it was. Night after night, exasperated tears would fall from her eyes and once again Sansa would be whisked away to sleep by those tears which saturated her pillow and stained her cheeks.

After a week, she had had enough and resolved to try, one last time, to break through and reach him, wherever it was that he had slipped away to. She waited on her balcony, as she always did, listening for the knock. When it finally came, Sansa called him in, remaining on the balcony and looking off towards the House of Black and White which had somehow come to fascinate Sansa.

Like every night, Sandor asked the same two questions; 'Are you doing well?' and 'Do you need anything?' Just like the questions, her answers were always the same. However, as he turned to leave, Sansa turned from the balcony, the silken skirt of her dress whirling about her legs which felt as though they might melt from underneath her.

"The night Stannis tried to take King's Landing, you came for me. You could have left the city, but you came to me. Why?"

Sandor stopped in mid stride and although his back was turned, she saw as he dropped his head before turning around slowly to meet her hopeful stare.

"I was drunk and delirious, from wine and from battle. At the time, it seemed a good idea."

True enough, he had been drunk when he came to her that night yet by the way he stood before her now and they way he could no longer look her in the eye, she knew he wasn't telling her something.

Relenting, he shrugged his shoulders in resignation before shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Little Bird, I…"

Sansa interjected, involuntarily cutting off his words and filling the room with her own truth, hoping it would bring them closer.

"I regretted not leaving with you. So many times, in King's Landing and in the Eyrie, I wondered if I had been wise by staying behind."

As hard as she tried to shatter through the pane of glass between them, it seemed Sandor was working just as hard to maintain it. He lowered his voice, still unable to look at her.

"It was probably for the best that you didn't come with me."

Frustrated, Sansa bit her bottom lip before taking slow steps until she stood in front of him and forced his eyes to meet hers. When his eyes finally did settle onto hers, they were glazed with a strange anguish she could still not place.

"I kept the cloak. The white one, the one you left behind. I didn't know why I kept it, not then. But I know now. I felt safe with you. And I feel safe with you. I feel protected, cared for. So I kept the cloak."

Wordless, Sandor shook his head and for a fleeting moment Sansa thought she saw the anguish behind his eyes give way to joy, but no sooner did she spot this, it was gone. Like so many times before, he laughed bitterly, his voice a low growl from his lungs.

"Protected. Like all those times I protected you from Joffrey, from Boros and Meryn and all the other Sers who were ordered to beat you. They say I turned craven the night the Blackwater was alight with wildfire. Craven…the only time I've ever felt craven was watching as you whimpered, cried, and bled as they beat you while I stood by and did nothing. Bugger me. I sound like one of those pretty fucking knights from the songs you love so much."

Sansa felt her heart beat hard against her chest at his words, the way he somehow managed to lace them with cruelty before spitting them out at her. Her despair was overshadowed by a sudden flush of anger.

Remembering to wear her courtesies as armor, Sansa walked to the door, her head held up, refusing to sulk away as his temper flared. She regarded him with a cool stare as she opened the door.

"Thank you for checking on me. I appreciate your kindness."

In a few frenzied paces, Sandor reached the door, slamming it shut and grabbing her by the arms, pulling her into him.

"Don't do that. Not with me."

Sansa wriggled free from his grasp, taking two steps away from him as he took one step towards her. Suddenly, she felt as if she was plucked from Braavos and put right back in King's Landing, back when she wore her armor of courtesy and Sandor swathed himself in rage.

"Goodnight, Sandor."

With his mouth twitching and his eyes ablaze with a fury like she hadn't seen before, Sandor yanked the door open and left the room seething.

The next night she only half expected him to come. Her mother once told her that all men are like wolves; if their pride is wounded, they slink away, preferring to lick their wounds in private. If you try to approach and help, they are likely to snarl their teeth and snap at you. Sansa knew not whether Sandor's pride had been wounded, but for long hours she waited for him to come, to hear the knock at her door. And for long hours the knock did not come. As Sansa stared out over her balcony, she saw the large wooden doors of the House of Black and White open, a sliver of light coming from within. Sansa squinted her eyes, willing herself to see what was inside, but before she could see anything, the doors slammed shut.

Feeling restless, tired of waiting, and curious, Sansa dashed towards the door of her chamber and set off down the corridor to open area of the Sept. The Seven watched as Sansa pushed open the door of the Sept and set off into the night. As she reached the bottom of the Sept steps, she could barely see the House of Black and White; although it sat on top of a stony knoll, from the ground below her balcony she could only see two or three rows of the shiny black tiles that covered the roof of temple.

Undaunted and resolved to find it, Sansa cut through the marble courtyard that extended in front of the Sept and towards the general direction of the temple. The streets and alley ways of Braavos ran in diagonals, while others zig-zagged around hills, doubling back on themselves before running straight once more.

The House of Black and White couldn't have been more than a mile from the Sept, yet Sansa felt as though she had traveled two miles. Coming to a canal, Sansa decided to follow alongside it, remembering that the canals she spotted from her balcony all convened at the temple. The heart of the city.

The longer she followed the canal, the more she regretted the idea of setting off in the night. The stone buildings were becoming more dilapidated, the looks of the people she passed became more hostile and lingering. In the distance, a few blocks down, Sansa saw a building with light and laughter pouring from it. As she neared the building, Sansa heard music, the soft sound of a lute and a man singing a bawdy Westerosi tune.

Suddenly, a man burst through the door, stumbling and laughing as a woman clung to his side, her breasts exposed and bouncing as they tumbling into the side of the building. This is a brothel and that woman is a prostitute.

Feeling her stomach knot nervously, Sansa was desperate to find her way back to the Sept and was internally chiding herself at the stupidity of leaving in the first place. As she was turning to leave, a heavy silhouette obscured the light that had been pouring from the open door of the brothel. Sansa felt the breath coming jagged from her lungs as she began to tremble.

She didn't want to look. She wanted to walk away and pretend she never saw, but she couldn't, she wouldn't. Instead, she turned her stare to the door of the brothel and found Sandor standing there, eyes wide and jaw clenched tightly as he pulled free from a whore who was thanking him as he left.

She felt as though she took a punch to the gut, yet the pain she felt now was entirely different from the pain she had felt when Ser Meryn delivered a mailed fist to her stomach. Both had left her breathless, gasping for air that seemingly wouldn't fill her lungs. She turned away, taking quick, long strides back from where she came along the canal, but he was fast on her heels, calling after her.

"Sansa. Sansa, stop."

She refused to turn around, to let him see as tears spilled over her cheeks and her heart ripped to pieces in her chest.

"No. Please. Just leave me be."

She didn't know how or when, but her legs had decided she needed to flee, to leave as quickly as she could. So she ran along the canals, as fast as her burning legs would take her.

He was behind her, calling after her, demanding her to stop, but she didn't stop. She kept running, darting down alley ways, weaving her way towards some unknown place, a place that would allow her to hide away, to lick her wounds in solitude. Not the wounds of a damaged pride, but the wounds of a broken heart.

---

Sandor loathed running. He never needed to run. He could walk faster than most men ran, his legs carrying him farther in one stride than the scampering of a normal-sized man. Yet he ran after Sansa, gaining on her as she fled from him.

Since well before the Elder Brother found him on the Trident, Sandor had not been with a women. Consumed and distracted by his thoughts of Sansa, it hadn't occurred to him, the urge for another woman hadn't even been there. In King's Landing, he frequented the brothels, drowning himself in wine and seeking an empty release with whichever whore disguised her disgust at his face the best.

His time in Braavos had been largely spent alone, wandering the streets, little by little distancing himself from Sansa the best he could. He told himself it would be easier that way. Indeed, it would be easier in the long run, he knew, no matter how difficult it was in the present. He felt it impossible to stay away from her; like a moth to the flame, he wanted to bathe in her light, to stay by her side, to make her laugh, to show her the city. Deciding that he could not completely deny himself his Little Bird, Sandor made it a point to see Sansa each night, to make sure she was doing well and that she had everything she needed. Each and every night, he went to her and forced himself to pull away despite the confusion it was causing her.

Each and every morning, Septon Meribald chided him, telling him how much his absence had affected Sansa and how if he truly meant to stay behind in Braavos, he needed to tell her, to make her understand. Sandor knew the man spoke truly, he would need to tell Sansa, but the courage he built up to try was instantaneously destroyed when he would see her. His kept his interactions with her were brief lest he crumble and lose himself. As he continued to pull away, Sansa's light began to dim, her joy slowly extinguished by his absence. He felt like a monster, worse than a dog, craven and afraid. Like he had done in King's Landing, Sandor tried desperately to drown it all away with wine yet found it did little to ease the dull aching he felt.

And so, for the first time in a very long time, Sandor stumbled into a brothel, seeking his release, desperate for something to ease away the ache he felt. Like all the others, the whore had turned away from him, disgust gleaming in her eyes which was poorly guised by a feigned enjoyment. As he rode out his climax, Sandor felt the internal, nagging ache and tortuous emptiness fill him once more. Shaking his head, he pulled back on his breeches and tossed the whore a couple of coppers as she lay panting and sprawled across the bed.

Horribly timed, Sandor emerged from the brothel to find Sansa standing by the canal, her chest heaving with disbelieving breaths and her eyes filling with tears.

She ran from him, down narrow alleys, between the stone buildings, over bridges that connected the cluster of isles that made up Braavos. He knew not where she was going, but he kept with her until she stopped, suddenly aware that she had somehow managed to find her way back to the Sept.

Panting, Sandor took her by the arm and pulled her around to look at him. Refusing to meet his eyes and wiping away tears with the back of her hand, Sansa turned away from him once more.

"I shouldn't have left. Just let me go."

Frantically, Sandor caught her by the arm as she tried to make for the stairs leading up to the Sept door. She let out a squeal as she struggled feebly against his grasp, pushing him away with an elbow and pulling desperately to free herself.

"Sansa, stop it."

With a determination flashing in her eyes, Sansa turned towards him and shoved him away with as much force as she could, losing her balance and stumbling into him. As he caught her, he pulled her into him.

"Sansa…Littl-"

Pushing away from him, Sansa wriggled from his grasp, meeting his eyes with a disdainful glare.

"You always said you were a dog. Now I believe it."

Furious, Sandor caught her by the arm as she tried to run away from him, yanking her from the steps and back towards him.

"What the hell do you expect, girl?"

Narrowing her eyes at him and crossing her arms about her chest, she said nothing.

"Aye, I get it. You expect me to be your dog, just like I was Joffrey's and Cersei's before that. Is that the way of it? You want me to follow you around like some pup, scampering at your heels? Come into your bed at night when you're afraid and alone, offer you comfort, a shoulder to cry on until some bloody highborn lord decides he wants to marry you? And then what, Sansa? I wait outside your bedroom, like a dog thrown out, listening to your moans while he fucks you? That's what you want, isn't it?"

His voice was thick with fury, his tone mocking, and his hands curling into fists as he felt the anger pumping through his veins. As she stepped away from beneath the shadow he cast about her, Sandor saw the tears streaming down her face and heard a pained whimper exit her lips. Turning from him, she fled up the stairs of the Sept, choking out sobs as she went.

Watching as she pushed through the Sept doors, Sandor cursed himself under his breath, hating and loathing that he had caused all of this. He couldn't stand to see her cry, but found himself in a complete and utter frenzy at the thought that he had caused her tears.

Taking his steps two at a time, Sandor bounded into the Sept and found Sansa sitting beneath the statue of the Mother, her head resting in the palms of her hands and her soft cries echoing throughout the Sept. As Sandor approached, Sansa waved him away with one hand, the other still cradling her face.

Standing next to her, Sandor's shadow enveloped her, bathing her in a shade of darkness.

"Seven Hells, Sansa. Why do you think I was in the Vale the night I found you? It wasn't because I wanted to be some bloody sellsword. I was looking for you."

Lifting her head from her hands, she looked up at him with confusion through eyes wet with tears, sniffling quietly before speaking, her voice quivering.

"How did you know I was in the Vale, at the Eyrie?"

Wiping away the tears still lingering on her cheeks, Sansa pushed herself to her feet and stood in front of him, her stare beckoning him to continue.

"I didn't know. I had no fucking clue where you were, no more than anyone else. It didn't matter. I needed to look for you, needed to find you. So I left the Quiet Isle to search for you, the Little Bird that flew away.

When I was dying on the Trident, do you know whose name I was crying out, screaming so that they might hear? It was yours. You asked why I came to you the night that fucking Imp set the Blackwater ablaze with wildfire. Aye, I was drunk, delirious from battle and wine, but that wasn't why I came. It was you. I could have left the city without going back and I would have if you weren't there. I went back for the only thing that mattered, the only thing I've ever wanted to keep."

With her voice scarcely above a whisper, Sansa let her eyes fall to the floor.

"Me. You wanted to keep me?" With incredulous eyes, she searched his face, almost disbelieving all he had told her.

He knew he needed to tell her, to tell her everything. That he wanted to keep her, he had always wanted to keep her, but also to keep her safe and to give her everything she deserved, but that he was afraid he couldn't, terrified he would just keep hurting her. And because of that he would need to let go, to give her a chance at the happiness she deserved and to find someone that could give her everything he couldn't.

Reeling and feeling as though he might retch, Sandor stepped towards her, taking her tiny hands into his.

"Aye, Little Bird. More than anything, I want to keep you, but I need to tell you something."

"There you both are! I have word from the Elder Brother. He sent a raven from Gulltown. He made the journey to Braavos last night. We are to meet him at the harbor straight away."

Septon Meribald's delighted voice echoed throughout the Sept as he approached hurriedly and out of breath. Sandor groaned at the man's seemingly impeccable timing which once again shattered the moment. With bouncing steps, Sansa spanned the distance between her and the Septon, who took Sansa's hands in his own when they came together.

"The Elder Brother says he has good news, but would not elaborate in the letter."

With a radiant smile flooding her face, Sansa turned towards Sandor, breathless.

"Sandor, we get to go back! The Elder Brother has good news!"

Before Sandor could respond, Sansa was whisked away by Septon Meribald, arm in arm and pondering what news the Elder Brother might have.

After a lengthy farewell between Septon Meribald and Septon Harmon, they set off for the harbor. Sandor slowed his steps, setting the pace as they walked through the streets, clinging to what little time he had left with her and thinking of the words he might say when they reached the harbor.

He had not expected the Elder Brother to send for them so soon; it had only been a week and a few days since they reached Braavos. Unless the Blackfish fell into Brienne's lap on the day after she set out, there was no possible way the Elder Brother was coming with news of Brynden Tully. Maybe the Maid of Tarth found herself a she-wolf, the little sister. Sandor doubted Arya was in the Riverlands. The girl had seen firsthand how the Riverlands had been torn apart by war. Doubtless, she had had a belly-full and would have left.

Either way, if the news was good, it meant either the Blackfish or Arya were found and that was enough to add a bit of resolve to what Sandor would need to do once they reached the harbor. Sansa would be in good hands, she would be taken care of, and eventually she would find her happiness without him lurking about, making her cry and causing her pain.

The walk to the harbor was agonizing, each step bringing him closer to the hardest thing he would ever have to do. As the distance between the Sept and harbor melted away, Sandor felt his stomach knotting sourly and his breath quickening in time with the beating of his heart.

In the thickness of night, they reached the purple harbor, devoid of the typical bustling of activity and deadly quiet, save the scurrying of rats seeking morsels of food and the prowling of alley cats hunting the harbor rats.

A few ships dotted the harbor, crew members inspecting sails or loading casks and crates of goods from the dock to the ship deck, captains shouting out orders here and there while inventorying the cargo. They paid no mind to them as they approached a small ship tucked away in the far right side of the harbor, its hull painted in purple like all the others.

The Elder Brother stood on the dock next to the ship, his body tense and his jaw clenched as they approached, clearly not partaking in the excitement passing between Sansa and Septon Meribald. When they approached, it was Sandor that the Elder Brother stared intently at, searching his face with solemn eyes. He knows. And he won't make this any easier.

With the silk of her dress swaying with the gusts of winds, Sansa approached the Elder Brother and kissed him on the cheek with a sweet smile.

"I am so happy to see you again, Elder Brother. And so soon, no less. The news is good?"

Dropping his eyes and with a deep sigh, the Elder Brother took Sansa's hands into his own, contemplating them with his head hung down.

"Yes, my Lady. The news is good. I will tell you all of it once we set sail to the wind."

With her smile melting away, Sansa searched his face, matching her eyes to his.

"It does not seem as if the news is good. Is something the matter? Is there bad news as well as good?"

Slowly, the Elder Brother lifted his stare to Sandor, his eyes filled with desperation, pleading with Sandor and silently repeating all of the admonitions he had given him, all the recounting of his own tragic past.

With her gaze passing back and forth between himself and the Elder Brother, Sansa watched as the men exchanged glances, communicating so much with just a solemn stare.

"What is it? What is going on?" Her voice was breathless, trembling as she seemingly understood without really knowing.

Neither himself nor the Elder Brother said anything, but instead held each other's stare before the Elder Brother relented and looked off towards the desolate harbor and leaving Sandor to turn towards Sansa. Reluctantly, Sandor shifted his weight from one leg to the other and with a deep sigh, he began.

"Sansa, Little Bird. I'm not…I'm staying in Braavos. I'm not going back to Westeros."

For a long moment, she stood completely still, her eyes drifting up and down his form, disbelieving before she shook her head and gave a nervous laugh, furrowing her brow.

"You…you can't be serious. Don't be ridiculous, we've come all this way. You can't stay here. You're coming with us. This is just a jape. Isn't it?"

Once again, Sansa shifted her gaze first towards the Elder Brother and then towards Septon Meribald, both men refusing to meet her stare and letting their heads hang down and their eyes fall away.

Shaking like a leaf, she turned her stare back towards Sandor, her eyes welling with tears and gasping for breaths.

"Oh Gods. You mean it. And you knew. This entire time you knew…you had this planned."

Her voice drifted off as she let her eyes fall to the deck and brought her trembling hands up to catch the tears that were spilling. Sandor felt a sharp pain reverberate through his chest, his own breath coming labored and his heart beating a thousand times per second, or so it seemed.

As he stepped towards her, he felt as though his legs were going to give out beneath him, that he would collapse to his knees in front of her.

"Little Bird, I want what is best for you. And I believe that this is for the best."

Angry, her head snapped up and looked him square in the eyes, her lips trembling as she choked out the words through sobs.

"For who? For you? Why are you doing this?"

Her chest heaved as her body was wracked with sobs. Sandor felt a frenzy within him; an urge to pull her into his arms and hold her there until the crying stopped and the pain melted away. He felt dizzy, felt as though he was spinning out of control.

Instead, the Elder Brother approached Sansa, taking her by the arms.

"My Lady, perhaps you should board the ship. A cabin has been prepared for you."

Shrugging off the Elder Brother, Sansa paced towards Sandor, her fists clenched and angry tears streaming out of her eyes.

"No! I want to hear it from him. Why? Go on, say it."

He wished he could cut open his own heart, show her all that was inside; everything he felt for her, everything he wanted for her, everything he wished he could be the one to give her. Even if it meant bleeding out, he would do it for her so that she could understand and rest a little easier knowing that all he ever wanted was to keep her.

He had spent his days in Braavos wandering the streets, thinking of all the words he might say in this moment, but those words betrayed him, fleeing his mind when he needed them the most and leaving him standing in silence.

With a pained look that hit him like a punch to the gut, Sansa began taking backwards steps away from him, with each step the cries coming louder and her gasps for breath becoming harder. Finally, she turned from him, running off across the dock and up the plank to the ship, disappearing from his sight with Septon Meribald heading off after her.

A thud and a splintering sound broke through the air. Sandor saw as a furious Elder Brother clutched his fist which was bloodied from punching a wooden barrel that was placed next to him. The man's face was turning a deep shade of red and his eyes were glazed with fury, his voice bellowing loudly from his lungs as he lunged at Sandor and he pointed his finger towards the ship.

"How can you be so blind? Look, Gods damn you! Is that the happiness you so desperately wanted for her? Is that what it looks like, you bloody fool?"

Sandor stumbling forward, feeling as though he might fall and feeling as if his lungs were burning within him.

"I never wanted to hurt her…never. I never meant to hurt her."

In a daze, he began back towards the harbor, mumbling his words as his vision became blurred. From behind him, the Elder Brother shouted after him, stomping his feet against the dock.

"You will regret this day. On your dying day, it is this moment which will haunt you. It will haunt you, Clegane, and her as well!"

Taking a deep breath and gulping the air down, Sandor steadied his focus in front of him. He knew not where he was heading; never had he felt so lost, so much a wanderer with nowhere to go. The harbor around him was deserted, not another soul in sight except his, or so he thought.

As he lifted his gaze ahead of him, a set of piercing green eyes met his, the old man in front of him unblinking as he regarded Sandor with an otherworldly perception, his presence ethereal and almost vaporous. In an instant, Sandor tensed and his vision came into focus, the fog lifting.

"It's you. You've been following me, haven't you? Well then, old man, I'll ask you this once. Who in Seven Hells are you and what the fuck do you want of me?"

Unmoving and with his eyes rippled with a strange stirring, the man began to speak, his voice clear as a bell and ringing through Sandor's ears.

"I haven't a name. No more than the gusting of the wind, or the salt of the sea, or the fire of stars."

Sandor could have snorted a laugh. He could have come up with a cutting quip to spit back at the man. But he didn't. He remained quiet, something beckoning for him to listen and to listen well to the man.

"The Elder Brother speaks truly. You are blind, Sandor Clegane. Blind to what is in front of you."

Feeling as though he was melting under the man's unearthly stare, Sandor let his eyes fall away.

"My eyes work just fine."

Although Sandor had turned his gaze away, the old man still remained in his vision, floating and shifting like a mist to wherever Sandor let his eyes wander.

"Look not with your eyes lest you will never see. Peer with your soul for it is now what it was always meant to be. To stay here, you shall wander lost. Oh such a grievous cost! Go now and you shall be set free."

As Sandor looked up, the old man was directly in front of him and somehow grew to stand at a height with Sandor, his green eyes glowing like wildfire. In an instant, Sandor understood and felt as though he was, for the first time, truly seeing.

"Look not with your eyes, Sandor Clegane, lest you will never see. You must go now before it is too late."

Frantic, Sandor snapped his head over his shoulder and saw as the ship was pulling away from the dock. When Sandor turned his head back towards the old man, he was gone, vanishing into the night, leaving an eerie emptiness behind.

What the hell am I doing? No, this isn't right.

He may not be a knight and he may not be a Lord, but he loved her and that was more than he needed to know. 'And love is enough. It just is.'

The Elder Brother's words pierced through his mind as Sandor ran back towards the dock, as fast as his legs could carry him. Sandor loathed running, but in this moment he felt his life depended on speed, on reaching the ship before it was too late, before the only thing he ever wanted to keep, the only thing he had ever loved, slipped through his hands all because he had been blind, so very blind, to what was in front of him.

---

Holy hanging off a cliff, Batman. (IlyseThain, you posted a review where you said you didn't like cliffhangers quite literally right as I finished writing the cliff hanger. Gahhh! Sorry! I don't like them either, but I had to stop the chapter there. Can you forgive me?)

The more I read about Sandor Clegane, the more I realize how much of a traumatized and tortured soul he is. And of course, it isn't as if he could have gone skipping into the local psychiatrists' office to talk it out and get a 'scrip for anxiety medication. Therefore, he's gotta work through it the old fashioned way and I think Sansa will do wonders for that and is the best thing for him. But, BUT is he the best thing for her? Well, he certainly has the ability to be, but homeboy has to step it up and get it together! And I think he will... I really don't like fics that bring them together when he's still so disturbed and allow him to treat her poorly. Therefore, he will be spending some time proving himself to our girl and doing some much needed damage control.

Sansa's warg anthem: "Skin of the Night" by M83. Just thought I'd put that out there...

The story of our souls is an adaption of Aristophane's speech in Plato's "Symposium" with some Westerosi flavor to it, of course.

Thank you again for all the love. I am soaking it up and it is the fuel to the Muse.