A/N: Hello. No notes for this one because it's all explained, but this one is a little longer than most of the others. Hope you enjoy reading. As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.
Rating: T for brief, mild language and the consumption of alcohol.
"Talos help us...it's true then."
The ground was still trembling slightly when the jarl appeared, his face pale. Sandor had never seen Balgruuf the Greater afraid of anything in his life. Even when the young guard had come with news of the dragon at the Western Watchtower, his commands had come easily, and without hesitation. But now, the fear and awe in his eyes was unmistakable, and they were fixed sharply on Daenerys.
"That was the voice of the Greybeards," Farengar said quietly, eyes wide. "Summoning you to High Hrothgar. This hasn't happened in...centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora." His voice faded to a murmur and he hurried away to his adjoining chambers, searching frantically among the shelves of books.
Sandor knew of the Greybeards, of course, as did any Nord. A group of old and supposedly very powerful men, high at the top of the Throat of the World, just waiting, biding their time until their mastery of the Voice was needed once more.
"Whatever happened to you when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it," Balgruuf explained. "If they think you're Dragonborn, there's no use in you denying it. You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor."
Dany opened her mouth to speak, her confusion evident, but Proventus appeared in the doorway before she could utter a word.
"My lord, the Legionnaires have been spotted just west of the farmlands. They'll be arriving at the gates within the hour."
Sighing, Balgruuf nodded, his gaze clearing as his need to command returned once more. "Very well. Have Irileth meet them at the gate. I will receive them here." When Proventus disappeared once more, the jarl turned back to his guests.
"Tywin Lannister is like to remember your face from his execution block, my lady," he said gravely. "And he has no fondness for deserters. Go now, and may the gods be with you."
They had been on the road for nearly an hour when Daenerys finally broke the silence that she had fallen into the moment they had passed the city gates. "Who are the Greybeards?"
Sandor sighed and stayed quiet for a moment before replying. "They're an ancient order of monks, masters in the way of the Thu'um, or, the Voice, as it's called." He glanced over at his companion. "That's what they call the power you have inside of you. The legends say it's the language of the dragons that gives such power, and like any language, it can be learned, with training and discipline.
"Ulfric Stormcloak spent his youth at High Hrothgar, and then used what he learned of the Voice to murder High King Torryg. Unlike him, the power to use the Thu'um is a part of you, which could prove dangerous. No doubt the Greybeards want to know exactly what kind of threat you pose. They can train you to control it, and teach you how to use it."
When Dany didn't respond, he shrugged slightly, steering Stranger onto the fork that pointed the way to Ivarstead. "I never really believed it all. Not the part about the dragons or the Dragonborn anyway. I don't think many did. They were simply stories."
"But now?" she asked quietly, meeting his gaze.
"Aye," he replied honestly. "Now I do."
Another lengthy silence stretched between them before Daenerys spoke once more. "May I be honest with you, Clegane?"
Sandor nodded.
Sighing heavily, Dany shook her head. "I don't want this. I don't want any of this. I wish I could go back to the time when the only dragons I knew existed were those on the banner of House Targaryen. I want to be back at my husband's side. I want to mourn the death of my child. I want to feel desired again for more than whatever it is inside of me that I do not understand and that I did not ask for. You Nords can keep your legends. I just want my life back."
Sandor considered his words carefully before responding. "I don't believe in fate, or in the gods, but I did learn from a young age that what you want in life is rarely what comes of it in the end. I don't want this anymore than you do, girl. The woman I love believes me dead, and is married to another man, who spends his nights raping and abusing her. So if getting you to High Hrothgar keeps her safe in whatever kind of hell we're headed towards, then by the gods, I'll drag you there if I have to."
Her lavender eyes flashed with anger for a brief moment before her ardor passed and she nodded in defeat. "I suppose we have little choice then. If the fate of Skyrim rests in the hands of you and I, so be it."
Whiterun was far behind them when they reached the second signpost, pointing the way to the village at the bottom of the mountain.
"We'll push through to Ivarstead," Sandor said gruffly. "And then rest there for the night before we climb."
The journey to High Hrothgar would be a difficult one, he knew, but one he was willing to make. It would be many long moons before he was able to hold Sansa in his arms once more, and if climbing the 7,000 steps would return another's man love to him, he would make the climb, one step at a time.
"What fort is this?" Daenerys asked, breaking him from his thoughts.
Turning his head, he looked at the structure to the side of the road, its battlements free of banners and crumbling with age.
"Fort Amol," he replied, looking to the road once more. "The Legion tried to capture it in an attempt to pressure Whiterun into taking a side, but we were driven out by a band of mages, rejects from the College most like. In the end, Tywin Lannister had better things to spend his time and energy on."
Dany nodded in understanding, her gaze moving to the waterfall on their right as they passed over a river, a brief smile crossing her features as she was misted with its bubbling foam.
"You have a beautiful home. I see why so many Nords are fiercely loyal to it."
Sandor snorted. "It's just a waterfall, girl. I think all of Nirn has those."
Daenerys' gaze was not amused when she looked over at him and he raised his eyebrow in challenge. After a moment, she sighed. "I have no memories of High Rock other than those of pain and fear. I simply meant that you were fortunate to have such a place to call home. A life spent in Riften's walls has not made it home to me."
Unsure how to respond, Sandor nodded. He supposed Skyrim was as good a place as any to live, and she was certainly right about its inhabitants' loyalty. Those for whom the call of gold was not so strong, at least, he thought bitterly. He had been the face of the Legion's cruelty for much of his service, a Nord betraying his homeland for enough coin to drink and fuck at his leisure.
The familiar rhythm of hundreds of boots upon the earth caught his attention and he looked up sharply, catching a flash of blue between the trees.
"Move off the road," he hissed sharply, steering Stranger into the cover of a nearby glade. Dany followed obediently, though the fear was plain on her face as she peered down to the road.
Only a few minutes passed before the first banner showed around the bend, deep blue, with a snarling golden bear in its center. It seemed the Stormcloaks were much closer than the Imperials had anticipated, and the battle for Whiterun was nigh.
Row after row of men and women marched by, their armor gleaming and their heads held high. Every so often, a cry would ring out. "For Ulfric! For Skyrim!" And the answer of a hundred voices would follow.
He was considering dismounting and leading their horses through the underbrush until the road was clear further on, but the sound of hooves stopped him and he looked to the soldiers once more. At their rear, astride a silky chestnut courser, sat Ulfric Stormcloak himself, an axe strapped across his shoulders.
A deep, suppressed rage rose in Sandor's chest and his hand moved to the sword at his hip, loosening it from its scabbard.
Before he could draw it, he felt a gentle hand on his arm, and when he met her gaze, she shook her head slowly. "She only thinks you dead," she whispered. "If you move, it will be so."
Though it pained him to admit that she was right, he slowly removed his hand. Acting would surely mean his death, no matter how desperately he wanted to sink his sword into Stormcloak's heart. Like Gerthland and Madylina, the two lovers were as of yet still fated to be apart, Hergen's cruelty keeping them from each other's arms.
They remained hidden for a long while after the soldiers had passed, waiting until the sound of their boots could no longer be heard in the distance before returning to the road. A signpost marking their progress lie just beyond, and Sandor stared at it for a moment in contemplation. If they continued onward, the road would take them to Windhelm where Sansa was, and Ulfric wasn't, for the time being. It would be so simple to just keep riding north until he reached her side again.
"Clegane," Dany was looking at the sign as well, though her gaze was trained to the East, up the mountain toward Ivarstead. Tearing his eyes from the northern path, he nodded and followed her lead.
They reached Ivarstead nearly seven hours after their departure from Whiterun, weary from the pace that they had set. The sight of the thatched roofs on the horizon were a relief, and Sandor was very much looking forward to spending what little coin he had on a few strong bottles of mead.
Swinging off from Stranger's back, he helped Daenerys' from her saddle before taking both horses' reins in hand. "I'll find somewhere to tie them up. You get a room and something to eat. You'll need your strength for the morning."
Nodding, she obeyed silently, exhaustion evident on her features.
Sighing, Sandor looked about before moving toward a farm beside the inn. Though it was small, it had a corral attached, and only one shaggy cow using the space. If the farmer was kind, as many in remote towns were, it might be able to hold their mounts as well, assuming Stranger would assent to the penning.
The farmer looked up from his crops as he approached, wiping the sweat from his brow and smiling by way of greeting. "Hail, stranger. The name's Jofthor. What brings you to Ivarstead?"
"The journey to High Hrothgar," Sandor replied gruffly, absently moving a hand to Stranger's mane when the warhorse gave an ill-tempered snort. "I'm a sellsword and the woman I'm working for is looking to stay the night in your inn. Might we pay you to tether our mounts for the evening?"
Jofthor propped his hoe against the side of his house and crossed his arms over his chest. "The 7,000 steps, eh? That's not an easy journey to make, particularly on horseback. You'll be needing them to stay here for longer than a night, son."
Sandor bristled slightly at the address, and replied through clenched teeth. "May we pay you for longer then?"
The older man nodded slowly. "Aye, you could. Or, if you're interested, you could work for their keep. You're a much younger and stronger man than I, and you could harvest my crops for me in half the time that my wife and I can. Do that for us and we'll make sure that they stay tethered and safe until you return."
Relieved to be doing something with his hands once again, Sandor nodded in acceptance and shook the man's hand. "We thank you."
As the farmer took Stranger and the mare, Sandor walked to the inn, finding Dany at a table just inside. She moved over on the bench when he approached but continued to eat the bowl of steaming stew in front of her. The smell of it made Sandor's stomach grumble in dissent.
"The farmer at the edge of town is keeping the horses for us until we come back down the mountain in exchange for my help with his crops. You keep your head down while I pay my debt to him and we'll continue at sunrise."
Dany nodded absently and watched the steam rise from her dinner for a moment before speaking. "Are there truly 7,000 steps between us and High Hrothgar?"
Raising his hand for a drink, Sandor nodded. "Aye, so they say. Not one over or under. Supposed to be hell on any man."
The woman beside him looked more like the scared, lonely child that she was than she had in any other moment since their first meeting, and he felt a fleeting pity as she let out a heavy sigh. Finally, after strengthening her will with another spoonful, she responded. "Very well."
After paying for a meal of his own and finishing a full tankard of mead, Sandor left her alone once more, returning to the farm at the outskirts of the town. The farmer was waiting for him and gave him a brief description of his duties before retiring for supper with his wife and daughter.
Hefting a bushel of wheat onto the nearby grain mill, he grasped the handle and pushed until it groaned to a start, grinding the crop beneath its weight.
As he continued the mindless circle around the mill, adding bushel after bushel until the field had been cleared, his mind wandered to one of the last times he had accepted pay for physical labor, something he had done often after his departure from Lannister's army.
It was the morning in Dragon Bridge that came to mind, only hours after their flight from the burning rubble that had once been King's Landing. He remembered the way that the little bird had looked in her new light blue dress, her eyes wide and naïve as she watched him chop wood for Horgeir at the mill. She had still blushed at the sight of him bare-chested then, and the thought made his chest feel tight.
She had sung to him then too, a song that he hadn't believed in.
"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart. I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes."
Her gaze had been so full of pity and sadness when he told her that her stories were just that and nothing more. Now, after watching his Breton companion consume the very soul of a beast he hadn't dared to believe in, he would give anything to tell her that he had been wrong. About so many things.
"You do the work of twenty men," came a voice from behind him, breaking him from his memories. "That ought to give Wilhelm enough flour for a moon's worth of baking. And it's more than earned your horses' keep."
The middle-aged Nord walked over and held out a hand, a few septims gleaming in his palm. "I know it isn't much and that you weren't working for pay, but please. Take it. You've saved me a lot of work and trouble, lad, and this coin should be enough to fill your belly. You'll want your strength for the climb, that's for sure."
"Thank you," Sandor grumbled, uncomfortable in the face of the man's hospitality. He pocketed the coins and then gave an awkward farewell before returning to the inn. Daenerys had already retired for the evening, and after too many tankards of mead, he too let exhaustion take him.
"This way, quickly."
The halls were dark and eerily silent, and Sandor followed the two men blindly, letting the sound of their voices guide the way. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but each faded before they could form as his mind remained consumed with the thought of Sansa.
Ahead of him, the smaller man spoke quietly to his companion. "Which cell?"
"This one," the other responded, gesturing toward one nearby.
"Good." His dark eyes searched the space behind the bars and he nodded in what looked almost like approval before turning back, nearly invisible in the blackness of the dungeon.
He approached Sandor, his steps silent, and stopped just before him, lifting a hand to trace the burns across his face. He flinched at the touch of the cold fingertips, but did not shy away.
"This is a face that is hard to hide, and one that is known to many. But news of the Hound's death will spread swiftly, so many will see only what they wish to: a man with the marks of battle." The empty, ocean blue eyes held his stare evenly. "Keep your name close and only within the confidence of friends."
When Sandor nodded numbly, he turned away and looked to the soldier, his sharp features grim. "Go. A man's duty is not with what lies ahead. Keep this man safe and on the morrow, Stormcloak will get his execution."
As he approached the cell once more, Sandor's remaining companion gripped his arm firmly and pulled him away. "Come. He will do his work."
Sandor opened his mouth to reply, but a strange voice came out, speaking his own name. "Clegane. Clegane!"
"Wake up!"
His hand closed around the hilt of the dagger beneath his pillow, but when he opened his eyes, it was a familiar pair of lavender eyes that held his gaze, and he relaxed his grip.
"It's nearly sunrise," Daenerys said quietly.
Nodding, he sat up and swung his feet onto the floor, running a hand back through his hair and sighing. Each time that his dreams returned him to that night, he woke up feeling as though he had never slept, and the pain of his separation from Sansa burned sharp and hot in his chest.
"We should be on our way then," Sandor replied, his voice still hoarse. He cleared his throat and rose, buckling on his armor and cinching his sword belt around his waist. "Have you broken your fast?"
Dany shook her head. "The common room was empty when I rose, and I didn't want to disturb the innkeeper."
Sandor nodded again and waved her toward the door. "Go wake him up, girl. A man doesn't become an innkeeper without being accustomed to early hours." She left obediently though she still looked hesitant, and he hoped that Wilhelm would be behind the bar when he joined her.
As the door closed behind her, he moved to the chamber pot in the corner and quickly relieved himself before walking into the common room. The innkeeper was indeed awake, though still noticeably disheveled, and he passed Daenerys a sack of food as she counted out a handful of coins onto the counter.
"The girl says you're headed to High Hrothgar," Wilhelm said through a yawn, looking to Sandor. When he nodded, the younger man sighed. "Then may the gods be with you. Many a pilgrim has passed through here on the way to the summit, and all of them have returned disappointed."
"We may be seeing you again soon then," Sandor replied, taking the sack from Dany and throwing it easily over his shoulder.
"You won't want to carry much up those steps, girl," he warned as they walked toward the horses. "Take only what you need, and nothing more."
Nodding in understanding, she rummaged through the belongings in her pack, withdrawing only her skin of water before stroking her mare's neck and murmuring to it softly. Sandor nodded in approval when she moved away and turned to the road before them.
"I don't know if I'm ready, Clegane," she said quietly, gazing across the bridge to the first set of ancient stone steps.
"You are, girl," he replied gruffly, taking the first step toward the mountain. "And...if we survive this...just call me Sandor."
That brought the slightest hint of a smile to her lips, and she followed, her steps a bit lighter than they had been.
They had barely started their ascent when they reached the first of the etched stone tablets that lined the steps. Sandor had heard of them, and knew they were the cause of the many pilgrimages up the steps, but hadn't ever thought to ask what significance they held.
Silently, Daenerys veered from their path to approach it and stood before it for a moment before reading aloud. "Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus. Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs. For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land."
Sandor grunted as they continued to climb. "Don't you go doing any flooding, you hear?"
Dany's mouth quirked into a small smile and she shrugged. "I can't promise anything."
The path up the Throat of the World was not an easy one. Half of the steps had long since crumbled with age, forcing them to navigate the rocky terrain that remained where they had once been. Ivarstead was a mere speck on the horizon when the first snow began to fall, and with each step forward, it grew thicker.
The higher they rose, the louder the wind howled around them, tugging at their clothes and trying to force them back the way they had come. And yet, they continued.
Men were born and spread over the face of Mundus. The Dragons presided over the crawling masses. Men were weak then, and had no Voice.
They struggled to see more than a few feet before them, squinting into the torrent of rain and snow. At one step, Dany stumbled, crying out in pain when her knees struck the hard stone carved into the mountain. Sandor helped her to her feet and with her arm around his shoulders they continued, moving ever upward.
The fledgling spirits of Men were strong in Old Times, unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voices. But the Dragons only shouted them down and broke their hearts.
Her blood stained the snow crimson where it fell, but she did not falter. They were both weary, and wanted nothing more than to rest, but they did not stop.
Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied Man. Together they taught Men to use the Voice. Then Dragon War raged, Dragon against Tongue.
The sleet beat down on their faces, leaving their eyes wet with tears and their clothes soaked through. Dany shivered with every step, her cloak clutched tightly around her, but the chill would not leave them. Still, they climbed.
Man prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world, proving for all that their Voice too was strong. Although their sacrifices were many-fold.
A terrible roar echoed from the tops of the cliffs, and the song of steel joined the rumbling of the wind. Sandor's blade dripped red, falling to rest on the four thousandth step.
With roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquer, founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice whilst the Dragons withdrew from this World.
Their feet were sore, their mouths were dry, and their stomachs growled, but they did not pause. High above them, High Hrothgar sat, and it was there that they would rest.
The Tongues at Red Mountain went away humbled. Jurgen Windcaller began His Seven Year Meditation to understand how Strong Voices could fail.
Each step they took grew heavier than the last, dragging them down. Each breath grew more labored, their lungs burning in the thin air. He wanted to sleep and never wake. She wanted to wake and find that the nightmare was over.
Jurgen Windcaller chose silence and returned. The seventeen disputants could not shout Him down. Jurgen the Calm built his home on the Throat of the World.
It seemed impossible. After what felt like years, they were sure that they would die on the mountain before they ever reached the top. And yet, they walked. From Ivarstead to the last of the seven thousand steps.
For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name. Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar. They blessed and named him Dovahkiin.
Out of the gloom, High Hrothgar rose to meet them, and at its foot, a final tablet completed the tale.
The Voice is worship. Follow the Inner path. Speak only in True Need.