Chapter Text
Sandor trudged through the rain, the ground boggy beneath his feet – he was growing weary, and the wind howled and whipped at the land.
It was almost entirely dark now. Sandor was dropping off firewood to the cottages occupied by children and women. Usually, only a few cottages were housing them at any given time, so he knew it would be short work.
Soon, he would get out of the rain, dry up before a fire and get some stew for dinner. Stranger seemed eager to get out of the elements, too. It had been a long day for both of them, and his flanks glistened with sea salt and heavy rain. He brayed rebelliously occasionally, but under his master's guidance, the war horse pulled the cart loaded with firewood along the rough-hewn path.
Sandor knew the cottages for women, children, and the sick were on the island's far side. They were small, round structures made of clay - never intended for men, certainly not men of his height. Sandor had to stoop to get inside them, almost double over.
Usually, he saw fit to dump the firewood outside the cottages, but the nights were growing colder, and he wouldn't wish the fuel to get soaked on the ground, so he knocked on each door as he passed.
At the last cottage, his knock went unanswered. He was reluctant to enter; he didn't wish to frighten a lame or sick person nor make any women or children faint away from the sight of his fire-ravaged face.
Still, after knocking heavily on the door yielded no response, he opened the barrier slightly, growing concerned that the occupant might be mortally wounded and need a maester.
He heard singing within - over the howling wind and the rain came such soft, sweet notes. He had not talked with anyone in so long. All speech was discouraged in the quiet isles, and singing was rare.
He pulled his hood up over his head, knowing he was approaching a young woman, and stepped further inside the cottage.
She was singing before a fire, seated facing away from him. He didn't mean to steal upon her or sneak, but he couldn't help listening in.
The song was familiar, or maybe it was the voice; he couldn't tell, but he was sure he knew the lyrics from somewhere.
'I loved a maid as fair as summer,
With sunlight in her hair.
I loved a maid as red as autumn,
With sunset in her hair.
I loved a maid as white as winter,
With moonglow in her hair.'
He felt like a brute interrupting this sweet song but could not linger. When he cleared his throat, the dark-haired woman jumped up from her seat, startled.
'Firewood', he rasped in explanation, hanging his head low, his face hidden by his rough hood.
'I thank you', she responded; again, the voice was familiar to him. He did not look at her face but could see that she held a sewing needle.
He wanted to ask about the song, ask where she knew it from, but he didn't dare. He didn't want to draw attention to himself.
She followed him to the door and watched as he stooped on his way out. He thought he was free to retire for the night when she suddenly spoke up again.
'Excuse me, this horse – can you tell me how you came by it?'
He froze in place; the voice suddenly registered. He turned back towards the young woman and squinted through the darkness and rain.
'Sansa?'
'Is it you, Sandor Clegane? Is it you?' she demanded; he ducked back inside the cottage and removed his hood.
She gasped with surprise, and he felt like maybe he'd died from his injuries as she smiled happily at the sight of him.
'How is it that you're here, little bird?'
'My father sent me here to do penance. I've been here twelve days and will remain while he settles some business in the Eyrie.'
'Your father? The dead are rising again now, are they?'
'No.' she remarked sadly, shaking her head.
'I was told that there was a bastard girl named Alayne Stone here.'
'That is what Lord Baelish calls me. He says I should keep hiding my true identity until I am married and safe.'
'Lord Baelish? Did he see fit to change your hair as well?'
'He did.'
'And he's who you call father these days?'
'Yes, he tells everyone that I am his daughter. He married my Aunt Lysa in the Vale. She is dead now.'
'What happened?'
'He killed her,' she responded quietly. Sandor shut the door at those words and beckoned her closer towards the fire.
'You're sure of this, are you?'
'Yes. Aunt Lysa saw him kiss me; she was so angry and would have thrown me out of the moon door if he'd not stopped her.'
'He married her but kissed you?'
'Yes, I don't know why. Aunt Lysa and Littlefinger seemed very happy together; at night, they were so – loud.'
Sandor shook his head, looking into the fire and then back at her with a strange light in his eyes. He was suddenly starting to recall her innocence, and he found it as unsettling as he did reassuring.
'My friend Myranda Royce thinks that I remind him of my mother. I heard that he loved her when they were children. That maybe he loves her still. He asked me to lie about how Aunt Lysa died, and I did as he said I should.'
'She was a mad bitch, your aunt. I suppose that was not so hard a lie to spin.'
'The council believed us, and my father is now the Lord of the Vale.'
'Stop calling him that! He might have bedded your aunt, but he's not your family, do you hear me?'
'Why are you so angry?'
'Because you're running out of family fast, girl. Don't you see that Baelish is not your proper guardian?'
'He promised to find a suitable husband for me.'
'Suitable for him. He won't choose a match for you that doesn't suit his needs, Sansa. He's a rat, always has been.'
'I am afraid of him. There are moments when I think he's not my friend at all. Other times, when he kisses me, I feel he may wish to do more.'
'There's no other way – I've got to get you out of here', Sandor declared suddenly; Sansa looked up sharply at his words.
'How?'
'I don't know yet. You refused to come with me on the night they burned the blackwater. Say you will come with me now.'
'I can't! Baelish arrives tomorrow with the knights of the Vale. He wrote to tell me he purchased a new pleasure house in Lys. He wishes to take me there by ship. He says I will be safe out there while he secures me a husband. If I am missing tomorrow morning, they will surely find us before we can journey far.'
'I have not much coin either', he remarked, deep in thought and staring into the fire.
'Can you make it out there? To Lys?' she pressed, seeming inspired suddenly.
'It might take me time to find the silver for such a journey.'
'Take this as well.' Sansa went into a nearby trunk and returned to him with a lovely gold necklace.
'Lannister gold.' he observed as she placed it into his massive hand.
'Joffrey gave it to me. The notion that it might bring you back to me again gives me hope. It has been such a wretched thing to me until now.'
He felt his heart swell at this admission; he pocketed it and reached another practical point.
'What will this pleasure house be called? Lys is said to be full of them.'
'I am not sure yet. Please come to drink wine at each around midnight – be wearing a black hood. I will find a way to speak to you. Do you have any other clothes?' she questioned, looking up at his rough spun tunic. All the monks on the island tended to wear the same thing. It was hardly inconspicuous.
'No.'
'I still have your cloak', she announced, returning to her trunk. Sandor was surprised but also scoffed at this idea.
'I don't think I'll travel far undetected wearing my Kings Guard cloak, Sansa.'
'I dyed it green. No one will know.' Sansa smiled as she handed it over to him; he caught a floral aroma and shook his head in disbelief.
'Why is it that you kept this?'
'I can't say,' she responded, slightly bewildered by the question. Sandor shrugged at this response and tucked it away under his arm.
'Are you sure about this, Sansa?'
'If you are', she reasoned; he nodded and turned to walk away without another word. He paused briefly at the door, though, thoughtful suddenly.
'That song you were singing, little bird. What was it called?'
'Seasons of My Love' was played when Aunt Lysa married Baelish.'
'Stay safe', he warned, finally walking back into the stormy night.
Sandor sat up most of the night, pondering over the journey he had to make. He would not risk leaving the Isle the following day.
Instead, Sandor would take his leave when Baelish and the Vale men were well clear of the place. Then, he would travel to another free city and try to find her again.