Summary: He fought in all the Free Cities, then went across Dothraki Sea to Slaver's Bay, spent many years in Lhazar and finally ended up near Asshai. He fought for political factions, for religious sects, for trade guilds – he didn't care, as long as they paid him enough and provided him with battles in which to practice his deadly trade.

Sandor

Sandor had never been used to sitting idle with nothing but his own thoughts keeping him company. The last time had been after Gregor had burned his face and killed his childhood. Was there anything left in him to be destroyed, he wondered during long hours of restless agony in his bed.

The silent men had found him on the battlefield, days after a savage conflict had taken place. The surviving members of the sellsword company he had belonged to had escaped, taking with them only the walking wounded. The victorious armies of Asshai had collected their own dead and left those of their enemies to rot where they had fallen.

Sandor should have died there, of the wounds on his body and the pestilence in his blood. Despite all that he had not, and when the silent men saw him moving, they took him to their community. He had almost died there too, but the tireless care by the community elder had brought him back. However, although his life had been saved, the great wound in his leg required a long recovery.

At times he cursed his saviours. He would have preferred to die on the field, as was his fate. He had known that since he had first taken a life and been rewarded for it. He had realised that his life had no other purpose but to fulfil the orders of others and forget he had ever been anything else but a remorseless weapon of war.

He had been good at his role as a Lannister man-at-arms; pragmatic, unemotional and efficient. Any shred of care and compassion he might have felt when he was younger towards a defenceless animal or a child, had died – just like stray dogs and kittens he had befriended during his lonely childhood. They had all been slaughtered, first by Gregor, later by cruel squires and stableboys at Casterly Rock, just to torment the ugly monster amongst them. By the time he had grown strong enough to punish them, his heart had hardened and his eyes didn't see the sweet innocence and vulnerability of such creatures anymore.

Sometimes people misjudged him and thought he hated everything and everyone. They were wrong. He didn't hate – he just didn't care. He had thought he would live for the rest of his life thus, without emotions, knowing it would end with the strike of a sword or the thrust of a dagger.

Then Sansa Stark had entered his life.

He hadn't paid attention to her for a long time, really. She had been pretty and defenceless with her big blue eyes and the look of a startled animal, but that hadn't appealed to him. If anything, he had been curious to see how long she would last. How long would it take before she crumbled and broke into pieces and her still breathing body, dead from the inside, was displayed for the whole court to see as a trophy for the Lannisters?

Except it hadn't happened.

She had endured all that had been put to her; the execution of her father, Cersei's mistreatment and Joffrey's tortures – and she hadn't shattered. More than that, she had still had empathy for others; for Tommen, for Myrcella, even for him. Sandor couldn't understand that. And so, ever so subtly, Sansa Stark started to penetrate his defences, bit by bit breaching layers that hadn't been disturbed for years.

Looking back, Sandor couldn't have said what made him go to her that night, or why he had taken her with him when leaving the city. On some days he prided himself on his pragmatism, how he had secured a piece of the game for himself. A pawn to be used when needed, after he had left the only masters he had ever known. On some days he admitted to himself that his instinct on that horror-filled night had been to seek comfort anyway he could, even if it meant ripping it out of the soft body of a girl who had been shown to possess an endless pool of compassion. Still on some days he acknowledged that a force stronger than himself had directed his steps, and he had been helpless to resist it. Solace, consolation, affirmation that his life was worth something – those things he had searched for.

As unaccustomed to voicing such matters as he was, he had resorted to the only language he knew - that of cynicism, threats and violence. Despite all that, she had gone with him.

After leaving King's Landing Sandor had eventually recovered his wits as he had sobered up. He decided to take the girl to her relatives, then leave and seek his fortune across the sea. He knew that sellsword companies needed men like him just as he knew that he wouldn't be welcomed by Robb Stark, even if he had saved his precious sister. The Young Wolf might pay him a hefty reward, but would send him away just the same, keen to get rid of the Lannister dog.

Sandor hadn't taken into consideration, however, how his defensive armour got chipped away chink by chink by her presence and the way she looked at him like he was actually worth something. Nobody had seen him that way before, and like a cold and weary traveller seeing a warm, welcoming fire, he felt drawn towards her.

Despite accepting his softening stance towards her, he didn't lose his pragmatism. He knew his life and fate had been set a long time ago and all he could aim for was to do this one good deed and then be gone. When the girl started chirping about wanting him to stay, he had to set her straight. Sandor was well aware of what would happen otherwise. Even in the unlikely event that he was accepted to the service of House Stark, he would always be despised for what he was. He didn't care about that; he was used to it and had endured much worse. The only look of distaste he knew he couldn't bear was hers.

He recognised that just like a shipwrecked man desperate to hold on to something – anything - to keep him floating, the little bird had clung to him in her own despair. He had been like an old, dented wine cask, seemingly a gift from the gods in the middle of the ocean. Yet when a man reached dry land and saw what he had been clutching, he let it go and walked away and Sandor knew that one day she would do the same. She would stare at him with disdain and turn from him, and he didn't want to see that realisation in her eyes. No, he would leave before that could happen.

So he japed with her about the song. The song of the Little Bird and the Hound. Who had ever heard of such a song? Yet it worked and shut her up.

Sandor was a man who prided himself on always being in control of everything he did. Even when he drank and got caught up in a mindless fight, or passed out in the corridors of Red Keep, he was in control as he had chosen to let himself do that. He had planned to forget everything for a night of wine-fuelled stupor. When he woke up the next morning with dried vomit caked across his chest, he picked himself up and continued his life as before; efficiently, with a purpose.

Hence that last night of their journey brought with it the two most profound shocks of his life; the complete loss of his iron-willed control and the purest ecstasy he had ever experienced. The two of them intermingled in his mind even as it happened, making him hate himself and yet love every moment at the same time.

Aye, he was a man and his cock had hardened at the curve of her bottom as she bent to pick up something, or at the way her breasts pressed against her tattered dress. He ignored it though, swearing to himself that he would not sully her, nor turn into one of those beasts she was running away from.

He intended only to teach her a lesson; how she couldn't go about touching men with her soft hands and expect nothing to happen. Instead of shrinking away in fear as he expected, Sansa surprised him by yielding to his touch and opening herself in a way that was both innocent and seductive. Something inside Sandor broke then and a rush of desire and yearning washed over him, drowning every cool thought in his head.

As soon as the dreamlike encounter on that fateful night was over, reality seized Sandor in its cold hard grip. He had raped the girl, and with that shown himself to be as evil as those she had left behind. Even if for a shortest moment on their travels he had given in to the thought that it was not too late, perhaps he could still become a different man, he knew then that it was not to be.

The only thing he could do was to get away from her and disappear for good. Sansa would never get back what he had so thoughtlessly stolen, but in time she would heal and move on with her life.

Before he left, he fulfilled his promise. That was the last act of good he could ever do for her, and even though it could never compensate for the harm he had done, at least he would know she was safe. After announcing her whereabouts to her astonished brother, Sandor guarded her from a distance until her brother reached her. He observed their meeting from afar and saw Sansa's happiness in the way she ran to him. The flash of red hair trailing behind her slight frame was the last image of her he took with him, as he turned his horse and started his flight away from the only good thing he had ever had.

He travelled across the Narrow Sea, fighting his way from one sellsword company to another. He joined the Golden Company first, but when they announced their intention to cross the sea to Westeros, he left them for the Second Sons. He fought in all the Free Cities, then went across Dothraki Sea to Slaver's Bay, spent many years in Lhazar and finally ended up near Asshai. He fought for political factions, for religious sects, for trade guilds – he didn't care, as long as they paid him enough and provided him with battles in which to practice his deadly trade.

Gradually Sandor started to move around among the silent men, taking up light duties to exercise his wasted muscles. The community consisted of those who had come together under no religious flag; just men who had seen too much and who wanted to spend the rest of their days in quiet contemplation. Their elder spent many evenings with Sandor talking about religion and philosophy, and in his crippled state Sandor couldn't escape and was forced to hear his words.

Some of them stuck, some didn't. Whether it was those words or the way he felt compelled to look back at his life, slowly he realised that his desire to go back to fighting had started to diminish. Maybe there was another way to live. Maybe these men were not so stupid after all.

So Sandor stayed, finding his place in doing all the hard work requiring strength and perseverance; building, digging graves, clearing the land for their modest crops. He grew stronger and his leg healed. Although called silent men, his companions were not bound by a vow of silence, and conversations with them allowed him to learn more about them. Many were like him, cynical men who had thought themselves lost from the world. Some were remorseful about the bad deeds of their past while some accepted that their fate had been in the hands of gods.

He realised then that he was not the only displaced soul and that others had suffered and hardened themselves like he had. They had found peace, so maybe it was not too late for him. Against his expectations, little by little, he left his old life behind and accepted a new way of living.

One of Sandor's tasks in the community was to go the city every now and then for supplies. On one of these trips, to his surprise, he heard a familiar language. It had been years since he had heard the lilt of the Common Tongue, and out of curiosity he followed the voices.

Soon he found himself with a small group of adventurous merchants on their journey to trade with exotic spices. They welcomed him warmly enough, astounded to find a fellow countryman so far away from the Seven Kingdoms. Sandor spent an evening hearing their news and the stories travellers in faraway lands tended to share about their adventures. He had heard already that House Targaryen had returned to the Iron Throne, but now he discovered that with them Westeros had finally reached a peace that had already lasted several years. Prosperity had returned and all kingdoms were united.

At the end of the evening and after several cups of sweet wine from Asshai, the mood turned wistful. They were all strangers in a foreign land, and on a break from their exertions they looked back on their faraway home. Among the merchants was a singer, who took out his harp and started to pluck its chords. The others began to shout suggestions for the songs he should play.

"Sing us 'The Dornishman's Wife'," called a youth from Dorne.

"Give us 'My Lady Wife'," bellowed an old man from the Riverlands.

"Why don't you sing 'The Little Bird and the Hound'," urged a fat man from the Crownlands.

Sandor's head shot up. What in seven hells? He turned to the man and growled, "What song is that? I travelled widely across Westeros in my time and I never heard that song."

The man looked at him in surprise. "'The Little Bird and the Hound' is a famous song. You really haven't heard it before?"

"No, I can't say I have. What kind of a song is it?"

"It is a love story, and a sad one, as the best ones always are. It tells about a little bird and a hound, who travel together, the hound protecting the bird. They fall in love but then the hound leaves, leaving the bird alone and breaking her heart. I'm afraid it doesn't have a happy ending."

Sandor's head buzzed. Could that be just a coincidence? He moved closer to the fat merchant, who looked uncomfortable about the attention the huge, scarred man was paying to him.

"Tell me more. Tell me everything you know about that song." His voice was low and intense, and the merchant was eyeing him with increasing concern.

"Well…I don't know that much about it, really. It became popular many years ago, maybe five years or more. I heard it said that a noble lady from the north invited singers to her castle and asked them to write a song. After the winning song was chosen, she sent all of them to different parts of Westeros to sing it in taverns and markets." As Sandor didn't show any further aggression, he regained his composure and continued more confidently.

"Nobody really knows why it is the bird and the hound, such an unlikely pairing. One would understand if it was the dragon and the falcon, or the stag and the wolf, but over time people got used to it. It really has become one of the most popular songs in the realm. Heartbroken lovers especially are taken by it." He squinted his eyes, looking thoughtful.

"I think I also heard that the lady in question had a wolf as her sigil, and hence it was even more mysterious why the song is about the hound and not the wolf. Not that the wolf and the bird would be any less unlikely …" He continued talking, but Sandor didn't listen anymore, stunned by what he was hearing.

"Listen, he is starting to sing it now! Hear it yourself," the fat man tugged Sandor's arm. The singer plucked the harp and started with his melodious voice:

"Together they travelled, the little bird and the hound,

Across the land, unlikely passion they found…"