If Memory Serves Me Well

8/17/2019 If Memory Serves Me Well

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Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/5099651 .

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category: F/M

Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire& Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)

Relationship: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark

Character: Sandor Clegane, Sansa Stark, The Elder Brother (ASoIaF), More i

don't know yet, Original Male Character(s), Brienne of Tarth, Podrick

Payne, Septon Meribald, Petyr Baelish, Lothor Brune, Mya Stone

Additional Tags: Amnesia, Reverse Amnesia, Say what - Freeform, Eventual Sansan,

sansan, Psychology, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Eventual

Romance, Eventual Smut, Action/Adventure

Stats: Published: 2015-10-29 Updated: 2016-04-30 Chapters: 5/? Words:18914

If Memory Serves Me Well

by naturesinmyeye

Summary

The Hound is dead. Sandor Clegane is at rest. Truly. The Hound took a hit to the head

after Arya leaves him. Sandor wakes on an Isle of monks with his memories scattered and

lost. But the one thing he can remember is Sansa Stark. She is clear and has the answers

Sandor seeks. A journey from the Quiet Isle to the Vale and beyond. Eventual, intense

Sansan goodness. Heavy book influence. Not much of the show to be found here.

"Sandor had deliberately waited to look at the last house of interest until Oswin had fallen

asleep. A wolf’s head sigil greeted him when he found the pages containing House Stark’s

history. And there, in the middle of a page, was a name that meant everything. She was all

he had now, the only memory worth keeping. There was a feeling, open and raw with

need, rooted inside him as solid as his bones and as profound as his soul. Sansa Stark was

important. She was something. Something essential and treasured. She was his. In some

way. If only he could remember how."

Notes

Trigger Warning? Thoughts of suicide.

http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Eventual%20Romancehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Amnesiahttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Reverse%20Amnesiahttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Say%20what%20-%20Freeformhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Eventual%20Sansanhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Podrick%20Paynehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Septon%20Meribaldhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Podrick%20Paynehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Petyr%20Baelishhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Podrick%20Paynehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Lothor%20Brunehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Podrick%20Paynehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Mya%20Stonehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Podrick%20Paynehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/More%20i%20don't%20know%20yethttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sandor%20Clegane*s*Sansa%20Starkhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/A%20Song%20of%20Ice%20and%20Fire%20*a*%20Related%20Fandomshttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/F*s*Mhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Choose%20Not%20To%20Use%20Archive%20Warningshttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Maturehttp://archiveofourown.org/http://archiveofourown.org/works/5099651http://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeyehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Action*s*Adventurehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Eventual%20Smuthttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Eventual%20Romancehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Angsthttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Hurt*s*Comforthttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Healinghttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Psychologyhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/sansanhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Eventual%20Sansanhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Say%20what%20-%20Freeformhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Reverse%20Amnesiahttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Amnesiahttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Mya%20Stonehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Lothor%20Brunehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Petyr%20Baelishhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Septon%20Meribaldhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Podrick%20Paynehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Brienne%20of%20Tarthhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Original%20Male%20Character(s)http://archiveofourown.org/tags/More%20i%20don't%20know%20yethttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/The%20Elder%20Brother%20(ASoIaF)http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sansa%20Starkhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sandor%20Cleganehttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sandor%20Clegane*s*Sansa%20Starkhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Game%20of%20Thrones%20(TV)http://archiveofourown.org/tags/A%20Song%20of%20Ice%20and%20Fire%20*a*%20Related%20Fandomshttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/A%20Song%20of%20Ice%20and%20Fire%20-%20George%20R*d*%20R*d*%20Martinhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/F*s*Mhttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Choose%20Not%20To%20Use%20Archive%20Warningshttp://archiveofourown.org/tags/Maturehttp://archiveofourown.org/works/5099651http://archiveofourown.org/


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Chapter 1

His leg was fire. Not the heart-stopping, terror-striking, piss-letting fire of his youth. This fire was

deep and aching. A wretched heat, with a molten core, that sent fingers of pain up and down his

body. The throb in his head and neck were dull compared to the stinging warmth in his leg.

Sandor had been sitting under the tree for an hour. There had been tears at first when he realized

he was going to die. He didn’t think he was afraid of death; it was the suffering he didn’t want.

He’d suffered before, in a bed as a child, for weeks. The thought of living out that nightmare again

terrified him. So he’d begged for mercy from the little she wolf and when that hadn’t worked, he’d

goaded her on with the most atrocious acts and thoughts his mind could come up with in his state.

I killed your butcher’s boy. . .

. . .I should have fucked her bloody.

None of it had worked. The Stark bitch had left him bloodied, weak and weeping. It would be

nightfall in a few more hours. Wolves would come prowling.

At least she had left him Stranger. She had ransacked his saddle bags first, taking what little he

had that would be useful to her. A horse and a skin of water; that was all he had left in the world

for the short time he would be in it.

He was thirsty, he realized. His mouth was the driest of sands. The water skin gave him relief for a

moment but there was nothing to be done about the fever that still boiled his mind. How long did

it take to die from rot and fever, he wondered. A day? Two? More? He’d started to weep again.

The wolves were going to be his mercy and that was going to be a sick way to go; all carnage and

gore. Probably wouldn’t be anything left of him in the end but bones. Nothing to alert anyone that

the Hound was dead; as if there was anyone to care anyway.

He couldn’t stand the thought. Arya had left him his dagger. Wouldn’t be too hard to slip it into

his own ribcage, would it? Or bleed himself out from the wrists? He could grant himself mercy

and end the suffering. He didn’t have many options and there was no way of stopping the sun

from setting.

Taking the blade from its sheath clumsily, he turned it over in his hands. He caught part of hisreflection in its silver length. It had been a long time since he’d had a good look at himself. His

appearance was worse than he remembered; blood was caked within his scars, marbling his skin

with black reds and rusty browns. There was a moment of complete self pity. What the fuck had

he been born for? What sort of depraved Gods sent a child into the world to be burned and


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abused, let him grow into a hateful man with a heart of rage and then let him pass through yet one

more suffrage to find the peace in death? What sort of holy beings made something and gave it no

joy except in the arms of the Stranger? Those cold arms were going to be the only place he ever

felt welcome, wanted or loved. Warm, living ones sure as hell had never given a fuck about him;

not unless there was gold to pass a palm with first.

Except for one, his heart reminded him. There had been one to reach out to him not once, buttwice. In his most sorrowful, frightened moments there had been one hand that had dared to touch

him. And what thanks did he give her? Cruel words and a fucking worthless cloak of lies.

He was a bloody travesty; a perverse mockery of life. Ribs or wrists, he mulled, trying to flip the

knife in his hands and failing. It thumped to the ground beside him. He moved to pick it back up

again but a great black hoof stomped on it before his hand could wrap around the handle.

“Stranger, you shit!” he yelled, though it was hardly more than a quiet rumble. His strength had

deserted him hours ago. The horse nickered at him and pawed at the ground, spinning the knife

and sending it several feet out of his grasp. “Mangy, son of a bitch!” he continued to curse. Was

he going to have to crawl on his belly for mercy?

The horse bent low to nudge him in the temple; its velvet nose soft on his skin. Warm air huffed in

his ear. The horse gave him a steadying whinny; a sound he usually heard after battle when he sat

in the straw of a stable’s stall with the beast. Wine for him; apples and oats for Stranger. Therewasn’t a wife to welcome him back after a fight. Only a brute of a horse that somehow tolerated

him. He felt pain both inside and out. His bruised head ached while more tears spilt from his eyes.

“It’s no use, you dumb beast. I’m dead. Get going and find a new master.” But the horse pushed

at him harder. He could feel the leather of Stranger’s reins brush against his hand. And something

inside him changed. How far was the next town exactly? If he could manage to stay on the animal

this time, could he make it? Maybe he wouldn’t live but someone there might be kinder than the

little wolf. There might be a bed, a warm hearth and milk of the poppy; a sweet dreamless sleep

instead of the cold snap of jaws.

“Alright,” he rasped, taking the reins in his hands, “alright horse! Up!” He bent his good leg

under him and grabbed onto the reins with all his might while Stranger jerked his head up. The

force pulled him up onto his good leg; the ruined one made him curse into the horse’s mane.

“Kneel, kneel!” he bellowed, smacking the horse’s neck while trying to breathe through the pain.

The horse obeyed, kneeling as he’d taught it to do years ago. This was going to hurt like all

demons and devils in every single one of the Seven Hells, he thought. Placing the reins between

his teeth, he used his good leg to shove up off the ground and swung his hip as fast as he was

able. The pain was excruciating. He screamed and bit at the leather in his mouth. Moaning, he

breathed through his nose and waited. The world went blurry and for a moment he was certain he


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was going to pass out.

His vision cleared. His heart slowed its rapid pace and Stranger started to move. He slumped

completely over, holding the horse around its neck. The reins still lay sloppily in his mouth, drool

running out over his lips and dampening Stranger’s course hair. He couldn’t move. It took

everything in him just to keep breathing. Well, this wasn’t such a bad way to go, he thought, at

least I’m still on my horse. That was as decent enough of an end that any warrior could ask for.

There was really no way for him to tell how much time passed. It was still light. It had probably

only been minutes rather than the hours it felt like. Each step from the horse sent another bolt of

pain through his leg. Watching dirt and stone beneath him, he let the horse do as it would.

Stranger had always had good sense of direction. If there was help to be had, the horse was his

best chance at finding it. The pebbles on the road turned into small boulders as they moved

downhill. The shift in balance was one he could have easily handled if he’d been in better shape.

As it was, there were no muscles strong enough to keep him from sliding forward and to the side.

And then his view tilted and he was looking at sky; a sky with a blazing red sun, readying itself

for slumber. The last thing he thought, before he crashed to the ground, was how the red and blue

looked so very much like the Little Bird.

There was a blinding spike of pain to the back of his head. The world went dark.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

“Ah, I think he’s coming round. Elder Brother! He’s waking!”

There was sound but no sight. Nothing but searing white light came through his fluttering eyelids.

There were strange voices around him. He felt securely held down. Blankets, he realized. There

were blankets over top of him. He tried to roll over and cried out. Gods, his leg hurt terribly! Why

did it hurt? Where was he?

The white light started to fade into colored shapes. “There now, can you hear me?” a voice asked.

He choked on his thickened tongue and coughed violently. There was a cup at his chin. Cool

water ran past his parted lips and helped coax the stubborn words out of him.

“Where am I?” he croaked, sensing shapes now in the colors. For some reason he felt a sense of

danger and that he should do something about it. What, he didn’t know, but the urge to findsomething to defend himself with was undeniable.


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“You’re safe,” the voice said calmly. “On the mend too, it seems. Can you tell me who you are?”

“I . . .” he paused. The answer he wanted wasn’t there. There were flashes in his mind. Horrible

images of blood and piles of dead bodies; a suit of armor, the color yellow, a chair made up of

thousands of swords and a helm crafted to look like a snarling hound. But a name? A name to

place with all the images? There was none. “I don’t know,” he whispered, a thin line of panic

starting to creep in behind the sense of danger.

The face above him came into a focus. It was a man and he was frowning. It wasn’t the face of

anyone he knew. The face looked middle aged. Not youthful but not old yet either. There were

lines at the corners of the man’s eyes but his hair was a ruddy brown with no trace of gray within

it. The man opened his mouth again.

“It’s all right. You took a nasty bump to the head. Several times by the look of it. You might beconfused for a bit. Do you know where you come from?”

Again, no true answer came to him. In his mind’s eyes he saw a boot crushing a toy and

murderous black eyes. There were cold hallways and the feeling that something terrible was going

to happen at any moment. He shook his head in answer, wincing at the sharp pain the movement

caused.

“Try not to move so much. Not just yet,” the man instructed, furrowing his brow with worry. “We

found you on the side of the road. You had some nasty wounds that needed tending. You’ve been

out for nearly four days. Do you know how you were injured?”

Nothing. There was nothing where he was sure there was supposed to be something. A black

horse. A little girl with messy, short hair. Anger and hate and pain! He started to tremble. Why

were there so many missing pieces to him? Why were the ones he could find so dark?

“It’s all right, you’re safe, I’ve told you.” The man laid a hand on his shoulder. “Here try this.”

Another cup was brought to his lips. This one was warm and spiced. It tasted of sour fruit and he

found it far better than the water. “Not too much!” the voice warned. “You’ve had milk of the

poppy as well. Best not mix too much wine with it.”

Wine! Yes! That was a familiar word. He liked wine, didn’t he? Red as garnets and dry on his

tongue. Bottles of it sometimes!

“Is there nothing you can remember?” the man asked, wetting a cloth and touching it to his warm


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forehead.

He tried hard to think. To find one thing that was solid he could grasp onto.

A vision became crystal clear in his mind. A beautiful face; the face of something pure. It was agirl’s face but one that was growing older. There was a woman’s shape hiding under the girl’s

features waiting on another year or two to show itself. She had hair like the embers of a fire, all

orange, red and glowing in the torchlight on a stairway. Her eyes were blue. Blue and full of tears.

He felt the ghost of a palm on his cheek.

“Little Bird,” he said, his voice low with awe.

“A bird?” the man asked confused. “What kind of bird?”

He shook his head. “Not a bird, bird. A person. The Little Bird.”

“All right,” the man answered. “That’s a start, I suppose. Does the Little Bird have another

name?”

Winterfell! He could remember the name of a large stone keep with cold and snow all around it.

There had been wolves there. No! A single wolf on a piece of fabric. The Little Bird belonged to

the House of Wolves. She had owned one once, hadn’t she? When he spoke to her on the road?

And then it had done something wrong and it had died and he had been sent to . . .

He leaned over the bed and gagged. There was a bowl held under him by the strange man’s

hands. Most of the wine came back up as he saw the smashed-in face of a young boy slung overthe back of a black horse. His horse. He had done that! Why? And the blue eyes had cried and

cried but not over the boy. Over the wolf.

“S-Sansa,” he gasped, spitting into the bowl one last time. “I remember Sansa Stark.”


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Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Nod to And on the Seventh Day buried in there.

Three hundred and forty-two. There were three hundred and forty-two stones in the wall to his left

that he could see. He knew. He’d counted them many times over the past five days. Each one was

as gray and bleak as the blurred view of the world outside his window. Glass was a high-priced

commodity to the monks on the Isle he resided on; there wasn’t enough coin to afford clear glass,

it was explained to him when he’d complained about the lack of scenery. It probably hadn’t been

polite of him but there was little else to do but complain. Sleeping, counting and complaining.

Those were his days now. The Elder Brother, the name of the man who had been there when he

first woke without a title or knowledge, would probably add healing to the list of his activities butfor some reason the idea bothered him. He wanted real, tangible things he could measure to pass

the time with. Healing couldn’t be felt or seen, at least not fast enough for him to notice.

Healing bored him. He felt caged. There was a jumpy sort of energy inside him that, buggering

sore leg or not, wanted let loose. He had tried once, on the third day, to rise when there was no

one nearby to tell him to stop. That had been a stupendously stupid idea. The thigh muscles of his

bandaged leg had given out almost immediately after he’d put the slightest amount of pressure on

them. If it hadn’t been for his apparent superior upper body strength, quick reflexes he hadn’t been

aware that he possessed, and a sturdy bedpost, he would have ended up sprawled out helpless on

the floor.

His leg had burned angrily for hours after. He had asked for extra milk of the poppy, when the

Elder Brother came to check in on him. It made his head dizzy but it did a good job at clearing

away the throbbing agony in his leg for a time. The Elder Brother had tsked at him, spotting the

blood seeping through the edges of his linen bandages, and told him not to get up on his own

again. The man understood and saw far too much for his liking. Usually, he was given a single

dose of the flowery tasting syrup of the poppy in the morning and another at night to help himsleep. No more than that. The Elder Brother warned a man could become sick and dependent on it

otherwise. But he’d gotten half an extra dose of the poppy’s milk for his failed efforts, and that

was enough to keep his mouth shut and his complaints in his head for an evening.

The Elder Brother had taken hours to explain all he could to him on his second day awake on the

Isle. The Quiet Isle was its full name. And it was quiet. Quiet, dreary and wet all the time; a fine

mist from the sea surrounded it constantly, drifting in to cover anything and anyone. Even in his

supposedly dry and protected room there was always a moist feel in the air. Aside from himself and the Elder Brother, no one seemed to speak. The novice Brothers, those newest to the order of

salty, soggy monks, were forbidden to do so except on the first day of the week, and that was

usually only for prayer and confessions. The rest of the established Brothers chose to remain silent

and contemplative for the most part; emergencies and unavoidable conversations of money and


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chore rationing were the understood exceptions.

After his not-so-secret disaster of an attempt to leave his bed, the Elder Brother had brought him

two books, hoping they might settle his mind for a few more days and give his leg a proper chance

to mend itself. He hated them. Not because of their content. That was agreeable enough. One was

nothing more than a hymnal and the other a reflection on man’s place in the battle between the

heavens and hells. Nothing offensive was to be found in either book. He couldn’t remember if heenjoyed reading. He knew how, that was obvious. The letters on the page formed into words,

which grew into passages easily. But he still hated them and ended up ignoring them. There were

two things they did to him and he didn’t care for either one.

First, they reminded him that there were things he knew, but he didn’t know how he knew. He

saw his hands turn the pages. He knew they were his hands. They had to be. But he didn’t feel

connected to them. There was a scar in the webbing of his left hand, right above his thumb and no

matter how long he stared at it, it offered him no memory to explain its existence. And that led him

to thinking on other parts of his body. He knew legs were for walking, his back for supporting the

rest of him and the soft bit of flesh between his legs was for pissing out all the wastes in his body.

But there were no solid memories attached to any of these parts. Just fragments of scenes or

feelings that were as fragile as the dust motes in a ray of sunshine. If he looked at them from the

wrong angle they disappeared completely. And every angle seemed to be the wrong one.

The books reminded him of all the things he knew, but didn’t know the reasoning behind. Why

did the thought of runny eggs make his stomach heave? Why could he stand them if they were

burnt and had no business being called eggs any more? Why did he like beans over peas? Wasthere anyone looking for him? Was he supposed to be searching for someone? The girl? Was she

important?

And that was the second thing he hated about the books. The hymnal was a large, leather bound

tome. The leather had been stretched and dyed a pine needle green. When he held it in his hands,

a flash of something came to him so suddenly and intensely it had taken his breath away. The girl,

Sansa, the only name he had to place on his life before. She had been carrying a book like that

once. Only her book was full of fairy tales; stories about knights and fair maidens. Stories bursting

apart with kisses, romances, acts of courage and triumphant conclusions. He could remember

watching her suck her lower lip between her teeth as she read, sitting on plump, crushed velvet

cushions set inside a deep window well. Sunlight poured in over her. The colored glass around

her cast wild blues and purples into her already copper colored curls. He knew that the he in that

memory would have killed a hundred men for a chance at touching that hair.

It seemed like such a wonderful memory but then it changed. He stalked over to her, clanging

inside a suit of armor. The book fell to the floor when he smacked it out of her hands. Tears

gathered but didn’t spill from her eyes as she looked at him in both terror and pity. And he yelledat her! A pretty girl, trying to read, and he had barked at her to stop living inside of fantasies. Why

would he do that? What fulfillment could be found in crushing the dreams of such a delicate

creature?


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He didn’t know and it angered him. That was another thing to hate about the books. They told

him he’d done intentionally cruel things in his past. Things he didn’t want to know about. Where

were his happy memories? Did he have any? The thought depressed him, which gave more fuel to

the growing sense of frustration inside him. He fucking hated books.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

The crater in his upper thigh had been cleaned once since he’d woken. The Elder Brother had told

him there was a large hunk of flesh missing. When he had been found there was a putrid rot taking

hold and, in order to save the entire limb, dead meat had been cut and scraped away until the

wound had bleed bright red blood, and not pus, once again. He had, mercifully, slept through that

first part. Exhaustion and milk of the poppy had seen him through. While the monks poured

boiling wine deep into the wound, and packed it with herbal poultices, he had dreamt of nothing

but dark, unending spaces.

There was no sleeping through that first cleaning. He had nothing to gauge the pain against; no

memory to compare it to. And so, that day became the most horrible memory he had. The Elder

Brother had instructed two novice Brothers to hold a blanket up, preventing him from seeing what

exactly was going on. Two more tall, burly looking Brothers were told to take his arms and

shoulders and to hold him down if necessary.

“I am sorry for this,” the Elder brother apologized while giving him a hefty dose of milk of the

poppy. There was true sincerity in the man’s eyes. “I have to irrigate the wound, flush it out with

boiled wine once more and then bind it tightly to prevent rot. If there are any new dead pieces, I’ll

have to cut those away again. This is going to hurt.”

“How much?” he’d asked, somehow ashamed at the tremble in his voice. He didn’t understand

pain! Not like he should. He was frightened of the unknown words, “pain” and “hurt”. He knew

they were a bad thing, but how bad was a mystery.

“Can you remember something painful?” the Elder Brother asked him back. “Anything?” The

holy man’s eyes settled on his face and remained there for several moments.

He glanced down to his arm. There were scars there he didn’t understand. His gaze drifted over to

the hearth at the far end of his room. “Fire,” he whispered, almost unconsciously. “I think.”

“This will hurt worse,” the Elder Brother said dully, frowning and placing a strip of leather in his

mouth. “Bite on that. Scream if you have to. Try not to struggle. If you stay still, I can finish faster.


11/42

I’m sorry,” the man apologized to him once again.

He learned what screams were that day. Tears and cursing as well. There were words that spewed

forth from his mouth he hadn’t been aware that he knew, while hot water poured out of his eyes.

The Brothers at his arms held him tight and chanted something in a low tone, trying to calm him.

Their murmured prayers and the milk of the poppy did little to dull the sensations that erupted

throughout his body. It was hard to grasp why a pain in his leg should make his whole body twistand shake, but it did. It was made all the worse by not knowing. Not knowing if it could get any

worse. Not knowing if what he felt was normal or a signal that something was terribly wrong.

Not knowing if he was weak, strong, going to die or simply pass out.

Some sort of whimpered whines were all he could manage for an hour after the Elder Brother had

finished. He had been offered a cup of wine laced with calming valerian and skull cap but the

smell alone made him gag. Instead, the Elder Brother had sat with him, wiping the sweat and

mucus from his face, until his tremors subsided.

“Once more maybe,” the Elder Brother cautioned. The man’s voice was thick and his face pale. “I

may have to do it once more. It has started to crust over. Which is good. Very good. But there was

more dead flesh to remove, though not nearly as much as the first time. I’d like to check on it

again in a week. Pour the wine over it one more time to make sure we’ve won over the rot.”

He did pass out then. Out cold, he was told later, for a good fourteen hours. When he woke therewas a plate set on a table next to his bed. It was heaping over with sliced apples, brown bread, a

jar of honey and a small wheel of cheese tied up in a cloth. The cheese had garlic and fennel

somehow pressed inside it. It tasted more delicious than any other meal he could remember

having; which wasn’t really saying much, he mused darkly. A pitcher of ice cold water was on the

table as well. He polished half of it off greedily before noticing the mug of golden ale. It was

sweet, like the honey, pleasant and tingling on his tongue. It helped wash down the bread and

warm his belly.

His appetite had come back that day, his fifth since waking to a world he didn’t completelycomprehend. He demolished the plate that had been left for him. And when another was brought

hours later, he ate all of that as well, asking for a second helping. The Elder Brother smiled, glad

he was asking for true nourishment and not milk of the poppy any longer.

In his new, more aware state he realized something strange. His face felt stiff and numb, but only

on one side. The first few days of his confinement he had thought it a side effect from the milk of

the poppy. It made the rest of him feel vaguely desensitized and disconnected and so, he had

assumed that was what was wrong with his face. But now he didn’t take the poppy’s milk duringthe day and still half his face felt dead to him. His fingers crept up to feel for himself what was

causing the odd feeling.


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It was a horror. Even without his sense of sight to confirm it, he knew. He slid his fingers over to

the undamaged half of his face, slowly feeling the difference. Smooth skin covered that half. Not

soft. Hardly! It was a sun tanned plane of roughness with patches of whiskers near his jaw and

chin. But it was even and whole. The other side though – his hand shook as he touched it again-

that was not smooth. Not smooth at all. Rugged would have been a kind word to describe it. But it

was much, much worse than that. There were dips and cracks, ropes of fused together skin, and a

dent at his jaw. He could feel bones working against one another through a very fine layer of skin

when he clenched his teeth. There was no hair but half of an eyebrow. That was all. And it

stretched on and on, up into his hair. Except there was no hair! It was more of the gruesome,

numb feeling over half his scalp. He started to weep when his fingers swept over the place on his

head where an ear should have been.

What had happened to him? It couldn’t be from the same span of time as the wound in his leg.

That wound was fresh and the ones on his face had healed over long ago. This was an old hurt.

And one he didn’t remember receiving. The few Brothers he’d seen didn’t look like him. He was

sure of it. They had normal faces. His was a ruin.

The Elder Brother found him a short time later, sniffing and rubbing at his eyes. “What’s wrong

with me?” he asked his voice cracking as he pointed to his face. The Elder Brother’s features

softened. The man took in a breath, hesitated, and then spoke.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. I think, perhaps, they are burns? I know as much as you do,”

the man said, shaking his head sadly. “I wish I had more to offer you.”

“You do,” he answered, straightening his spine. “I want a mirror.”


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Chapter 3

“You’re certain?” the Elder Brother questioned. “You’re sure beyond any doubt? This is not a

matter to make a mistake in. The man is disorientated enough as it is. If we were to give him false

information, it would be a cruel thing.”

The Elder Brother eyed up the young the man across the table from him. He had years of practice

at seeing the truth in a man’s features. The novice across from him, Brother Oswin, didn’t twitch

or blink when he spoke. The boy’s gaze was clear and his voice was free of any tremble or stutter

as he shared his information. Brother Oswin had come to him early in the afternoon, begging to

speak, though it was not a day set aside for such things.

Yesterday, the young novice had helped hold the blanket up during the injured mystery man’s

treatment. Brother Oswin had stared down at the new arrival with wide eyes during the entire

event. Curious, the Elder Brother had allowed him the chance to say what was on his mind and he

was glad for it now. Praise be to the Seven, we may have a few answers for the poor man.

“Aye, I’m sure of it, may the Stranger have me if that’s not ‘im,” Brother Oswin said with

confidence. “I was near ‘im for close on two years when I squired. That’s the Hound of King’s

Landing you’ve been stitching up. Personal guard to the Queen when I saw ‘im last. Temper as

bad as all the Seven Hells put together. Made a mess of anyone who crossed ‘im. Once you’ve

seen it, you never forget that face!”

“He hasn’t shown much temper or violence here,” the Elder Brother mused out loud. “Nothing

more than what is expected from a bedbound, confused man.” The bumps on the Hound’s head

probably had something to do with that. Head injuries could throw a man’s mind into chaos for

unknown periods of time. They could cause pieces of spirit and personality to shift and change.

Sometimes there were skills and memories that never came back.

The Hound seemed physically fine, aside from the atrocious wound in his leg. It was his mind that

had been injured the worst. Yet, it really wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The Elder Brother

had seen men in battle left drooling and stammering nonsense for the rest of their lives. This

Hound had been beaten down but not left senseless or dull. If half the things Brother Oswin had

told him were true about this man, perhaps it was for the best. Here on the Isle, the injured man

could heal properly, slowly, with the aid of prayer and simple living. The Hound could be tamed

perhaps, and taught to grow into someone with a more goodly purpose.

The Elder Brother did hope for that possible outcome. The Quiet Isle tried not to be a boastful

place, yet they all took a small amount of pride in healing those in need of peace and clarity. He

had, of course, heard of the Hound of Westeros, though he could not recall ever seeing the man in

person. The snarling dog’s head helm that had been found several yards back from the Hound’s


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body seemed familiar though. The Elder Brother was sure he’d seen its terrible, shining face once

or twice before in his life on the battlefields, amidst blood and smoke. The Hound looked to be

roughly the same age as he and it was entirely possible their paths had crossed at one point or

another.

“What is his name?” the Elder Brother asked, growing more intrigued by the minute, “the Hound

can’t be his true one.”

“No, it’s not but don’t let ‘im hear otherwise. It’s Hound or dog. I’m telling you, you’ll end up

bloodied if you use his name without his say so.”

“I don’t fear his temper now. He’s forgotten himself and his anger for the time being. I’m sure the

man would like his given name.”

“It’s Clegane. Sandor Clegane. Second son of the house. Got an older brother who’s worse than

‘im if you can believe such a thing! They call that one the Mountain.”

Now more of the pieces to the puzzle were falling into place. House Clegane! The Elder Brother

had learned of it in his studies. His mind searched back for the slip of parchment he’d seen in a

book with the House Sigil upon it. Three dogs on yellow to stand for some sort of a rescue during

a hunt in years gone by. And out of the grateful purse of a noble, House Clegane was awarded

with land and a chance for the sons to become knights. That’s where the Elder Brother’s

knowledge stopped. Aside from The Mountain That Rides, that was. The Elder Brother

shuddered despite his warm room. He’d seen the first born Clegane in action and wished to all the

heavens that he could erase such memories from his mind. The Gods were being kind, in a strange

way, to grant him the chance at healing the younger brother.

Something else pricked at the back of the Elder Brother’s mind, though. He rose from his chair

and began to search through stacks of papers on warped shelves and bookcases all around hisroom. They were sorted by date. He went back a year, then two. Ah! There was the stack he’d

been looking for! Next, he searched by city, until he found those letters brought from the ravens of

King’s Landing. An announcement of King Joffrey’s rise to the Iron Throne was found near the

top of the stack. Farther down the page, there were more details of titles and positions and that’s

where the piece of information he’d wanted was hiding. The Hound had been elevated to

Kingsguard status, though, it was noted and underlined that “the cur” had refused to take any

knightly vows. Interesting.

“It says here Clegane was given a position in the royal Kingsguard but he refused to take any

vows,” the Elder Brother stated, waving the paper in his hands. Brother Oswin nodded his head in

agreement.


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“Sounds about right. He was always going on about how much he despised them. Vows and

knights. He hated them, Elder Brother. Hated them. He’d beat any of us young lads if we called

‘im Ser.” Brother Oswin then lowered his voice to a whisper and looked over his shoulder, as if

in fear that the man several rooms away could actually hear him. “We used to call him un-ser

behind his back.”

“Yes, well, you might want to refrain from that name for the time being,” the Elder Brother

scolded. Putting the note back within its place in the stack, he sighed, looking at all the other piles.

There was probably more to be found within them regarding the Hound, but it would take months

of searching. Perhaps he could task some of the novice Brothers with the chore.

Turning, he spoke to Brother Oswin once again. “I’m going to go check on Clegane. See where

his mindset is at the moment. I’ll see if he’s in a mood to hear some of what you’ve told me. Wait

here.”

Brother Oswin twitched nervously. “Begging pardon, Elder Brother, but I’d rather not. You don’t

understand how mean he can get. If I tell ‘im something he doesn’t like, he’s liable to snap both

our necks.”

Was the man truly that horrendous? It made the Elder Brother grow more concerned for his

charge. What sort of man could cause such fear in another man, even years after they had been

separated? “Listen carefully to me,” the Elder Brother spoke. “I’ve tried telling you, he doesn’t

have all his memories. He doesn’t know he’s the Hound or Sandor. I don’t think the man we’ve

taken in is the same as the one you remember. He’ll be glad for the information you give him, not

angry. And if he is, leave the room. It’s not as if he can follow you on that leg. Not for another

week or so. Stay here as I’ve asked.”

The Elder Brother didn’t wait for an answer. The young man would do as he was told or spend

the rest of the day on his knees in prayer. On stone, not padded cloth! The Hound’s door was two

down from the Elder Brother’s own quarters. Near enough to be heard if there was an urgent needfor assistance. Knocking lightly on Clegane’s door, the Elder Brother let himself in, ready to smile

and bring the man some good news. He stopped in the doorway.

From Brother Oswin’s descriptions one would have thought the Hound to be a man covered in the

blood of babes, with fangs hanging past the edge of his lip and eyes black as the pits of hell. But

that wasn’t the sight that greeted the Elder Brother. The fearsome Hound was sitting, hunched

over and weak looking. His nose was red as were the rims of his eyes as he continued to rub at

them fiercely. He looked like a boy, lost and alone.

“What’s wrong with me?” Clegane asked. There was water in his eyes and a thick sound in his

throat that betrayed earlier tears. He was pointing at his face. The Elder Brother had wondered if


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Clegane had been aware of the burns covering half of it. It was apparent now that he was not. The

Elder Brother felt a stab of guilt for not having said something sooner or being with the man as he

discovered his own features.

Taking a deep breath, the Elder Brother stopped short before he answered. His charge didn’t ask

what he looked like or how he’d been injured. The Hound had asked what was wrong with him.

It was a child’s question and the Elder Brother knew there were wounds going much deeper thanthose that could be observed on the surface. Clegane wasn’t looking for tired platitudes. It was

reassurance he was seeking. Or at least some part of him was. Something buried within him that

the eyes couldn’t see but a compassionate soul could sense.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” the Elder brother said, calmly and surely. That line of thinking

needed to be stamped out and the roots torn asunder before they had a chance at growing. Nothing

but thorns to pierce a man’s spirit would come of letting such thoughts blossom into larger, more

bitter tasting fruits. “I think, perhaps, they are burns? I know as much as you do. I wish I had

more to offer you,” he added, glumly. It might have given the injured man some peace if he could

at least know why he carried such a dreadful burden.

Clegane seemed to regain his composure. His spine straightened and then he spoke. “You do. I

want a mirror.”

The Elder Brother frowned. That didn’t seem like a good idea at the moment. “Later, would bebetter,” he replied. “I have news for-“

“Not later! Now!” Clegane snapped. There was a shadow of the Hound Oswin had spoken of.

“I’ll find it on my own if you won’t bring it!” The Hound started to rise from the bed, wincing

and snarling as he grabbed onto a bedpost.

“Alright, alright!” the Elder Brother shouted. “Sit! You’re not ready for walking yet! A few moredays and we’ll bring some crutches but please, not yet!” The Hound sat but stared at him angrily.

“Give me a few minutes. I have a small one in my room. I’ll bring it if you promise to sit still.”

The Hound grunted his agreement.

The Elder took off at a brisk walk back down the hallway. In his room, Brother Oswin stood to

greet him. “That didn’t go at all as I planned,” the Elder Brother explained, starting to rummage

through his few possessions. “He wants a mirror and won’t settle until I’ve brought him one. Do

you have scissors?” Brother Oswin nodded. “Go and fetch them. Quickly! And bring them to

Clegane’s room. The man’s a wreck and I won’t have him looking in a mirror until we’ve done

something about it.” Brother Oswin dashed from the room to do as he’d been asked. Once the

Elder Brother had collected all he could from his room that might be helpful, he made his was

back to Clegane’s room. The man was still sitting, perched at the edge of the bed and glaring.


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“What’s all that?” Clegane asked, pointing at the bundle in the Elder Brother’s arm.

“You’ve not had a proper shave or hair cut since you arrived. And by the looks of you, it’s been

months before that,” the Elder Brother chattered while he dumped his armload onto the bed. There

was a small piece of looking glass in the pile. Clegane dove for it but the Elder Brother was faster.“After we’ve cleaned you up a bit,” he cautioned, pocketing the mirror. “There’s no sense in not

taking a bit of pride in your looks first.”

Clegane snorted and rubbed his hand down over his burns. “I don’t think there’s any help for this.

Feels like something dead.”

“You haven’t seen your hair,” the Elder Brother quipped. “Here,” he said, tossing a comb atClegane. “Start working on it while I mix some lather for your face. You’ve got half a beard. Do

you want it trimmed or the whole thing gone?”

“Gone?” Clegane asked uncertainly. The Elder Brother gave a quick nod of agreement. Half

looked odd and drew unnecessary attention to the scars. Better to do away with the whole thing.

There was a knock at the door. Brother Oswin entered and approached with a small pair of shears.“Do you know how to cut hair?” the Elder Brother asked him.

“You want me to cut the Hound’s hair?!” Brother Oswin shrieked. He sounded as if someone had

asked him to dip his manhood in ice water.

“Hound? Who’s that?” Clegane barked.

“Well, that would be -“ the Elder Brother started.

“That’s you! Didn’t he tell you? He said he would!” Brother Oswin squeaked. “I’m sorry!” The

Elder Brother rolled his eyes. Brother Oswin was a hard worker and had a good heart. But

sometimes he wasn’t the quickest to catch on. Either that or he had a problem with listening

altogether.

“I’ve told you, he doesn’t remember!” the Elder Brother shouted.


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Clegane’s eyes narrowed at Brother Oswin. “You calling me a dog?” There was a silent threat

that every man in the room could hear. The Elder Brother wondered why it should send a chill up

his spine. Clegane was quite clearly lame and powerless to take anyone on, yet, the Elder Brother

wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t try if provoked.

“Yes!” Brother Oswin yelped. “I mean, no! That is . . .” Brother Oswin looked at the Elder

Brother pleadingly.

“Alright! Stop, the both of you,” the Elder Brother ordered. They both went silent. Brother Oswin

shifted uncomfortably on his feet while Clegane quirked an eyebrow at him. “This is Brother

Oswin,” the Elder Brother began to explain. “He’s been with us nearly a year now. He’s set to

take his vows soon. He used to soldier and before that he squired in a city called King’s Landing.

He says he knows you.”

Clegane’s head whipped around to look at Brother Oswin once again. “You know who I am?”

“Only me and every person in the city! And more outside the city, too! You’ve got a reputation,

you know!”

“No, I don’t,” Clegane said acidly. “So are you going to tell me, or am I going to beat it out of

you?”

“I told you!” Brother Oswin shrieked again, throwing his hands up and taking a step back towards

the door. Clegane tried to stand.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” the Elder Brother said, shoving a hand into Clegane’s chest. “You! Sit!”

He turned his attention to Brother Oswin. “And you! Stop stalling and tell the man!”

“You’re Sandor Clegane!” Brother Oswin sputtered. “A second son. But you hated it when we

called you by your birth name. Wouldn’t let us call you Ser, none either. It was Hound or dog.”

“Clegane,” Sandor said slowly, trying the word out with his own voice. The Elder Brotherwatched for any spark of memory and saw none.

“Hound,” Brother Oswin corrected.


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“No, it’s Clegane here. Or Sandor,” the Elder Brother stated. “The Hound is gone for now. Lost

in missing memories. Sandor Clegane is a guest of the Isle while he heals. Is that understood?”

Brother Oswin nodded his head, a contrite look on his face.

“Why Hound?” Clegane asked, genuine confusion in his voice.

Brother Oswin seemed to hesitate but spoke when the Elder Brother waved a hand at him to

continue. “You’ve got . . .well, you had a terrible temper. Always barking out orders and

thrashing anyone you didn’t take a liking to. Which was a lot of men. Women too, sometimes.”

Clegane’s face sank and Brother Oswin looked at him with an apology on his face. “I broke a

tooth once when you clapped me over the head. And I considered myself lucky! Used the wrong

oil on your saddle.”

“You were my squire!”

“Ha! Gods, no! You wouldn’t have one. But you let some of us tend to your riding gear at least.

But not the horse. You took care of the horse on your own.”

“Horse?”

“Aye, it was a brown stallion back then. Abyss you called it, maybe? I can’t remember. That one

fell and then you took on the black one, Stranger. That one’s a beast worse than you ever were.

But it listened to you. Tried to kill all the rest of us. They’ve got it in the stables now though

Brother Addison’s got a broken rib for his trouble.”

Clegane had set his head in his hands, leaning over. “There’s a horse? My horse?” his muffled

voice asked.

“There is,” the Elder Brother chimed in. “You were found with a black stallion nearby. It

wouldn’t leave you and followed us when we brought you here. It’s clearly your steed. It’s

comfortable. We’ve been calling him Driftwood. Stranger! What a terrible name to burden an

animal with.”

Clegane lifted his head, but kept his chin cupped in his hands. “So, I was a soldier?”

“Personal body guard to the Queen,” Brother Oswin answered, his eyes widening with


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admiration. “Not many men get to claim that title in their lifetime. You were bad company but no

one fought as well as you. You were good. Damned good.”

“Oswin!” the Elder Brother scolded.

“Well, he was,” Brother Oswin grumbled. “Sorry, Elder Brother.”

The Elder Bother spoke to Clegane. “I have records from the City of King’s Landing. Several

years after Oswin left, apparently you were given the job of guarding the future King. And once

the Prince had been named King you were placed on his personal guard. Whatever scandalous

reputation the Hound may have, you were a talented and feared warrior, that much is clear.”

“What else did they tell you?” Clegane asked eagerly. “The records?”

“I haven’t yet had a chance to go through them,” the Elder Brother explained hastily. “It will take

some time. If you’ve been there since Oswin’s service that’s” –he paused to count and think-

“eight years? Is that right?” he asked Brother Oswin.

“About,” Brother Oswin agreed. “I squired at fifteen and left the city when I was nineteen. Twoyears a soldier and one here.”

“How old am I?” Clegane’s questions showed no signs of stopping.

Brother Oswin shrugged. “Older than me is all I know. I just saw a name day. Twenty-two now.

You were probably that when we met so twenty-eight? Thirty, might be?”

“Still young enough,” the Elder Brother soothed. “I myself am just past forty. You don’t look my

age.”

“You never talked about name days. You never talked about much really. Just orders for the

horse’s gear and wine. Sometimes whores,” Brother Oswin started to ramble. Clegane’s head shot

up from his hands.

“That’s enough,” the Elder Brother warned sternly. “We can discuss such things later. Now then,

that shave and trim.”


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“Now, wait,” Clegane started, addressing Brother Oswin. “You said I’m a second son?” The

uneasy look on Brother Oswin’s face was back as the young man nodded once.

Clegane’s face broke into a cautious smile. “Then that means I have a brother?”


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Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Sooooo many Tumblr influences going on in this chapter. . .Also, Devilsbastion has

graciously agreed to help beta another story with me. So, if you enjoyed Prompt32

you know how well we work together and that this is only going to get better fromhere on out.

Clegane’s face broke into a cautious smile. “Then that means I have a brother?”

The Elder Brother’s labor-worn hands, busy moments before with mixing lather from bits of soap

and warm water from a kettle set over the hearth, stilled their activity. They had the same hands;

an observation Sandor made within his first day of waking. Not knowing what his life before the

Isle entailed meant looking to others for answers. Comparisons between himself and the men

around him could yield a glimpse into what he had once been.

The Elder Brother had the hands of a man who had known what it was to work until the body

was ready to fall over with exhaustion, to war with men and storm the lands. Hands that had bled,foraged for meals when meat was scarce, lifted the silver from dead men’s corpses many times

over, held the splintered wooden cups in an endless march of taverns and raised the skirts of paid

for women. They were the hands of a man who would do anything to keep from facing the reality

within. There were threadlike, white scars on both their knuckles, short nails and a crooked bend

to a few fingers that pointed towards breaks that had never healed quite right. The Elder Brother

had left that life behind but the scars remained to tell his story. Sandor’s own hands were lined

with secrets they tried to whisper to him. The scar in the webbing of his thumb he’d stared at for

so long, the scabbed over flesh at the base of his palm, the burns dripping down his forearm from

his left wrist. It all spoke to him in a language he did not yet understand.

Brother Oswin was back to shifting from one foot to the other, his thinly soled shoes striking a

nervous tempo. And Sandor –Clegane, Hound, whatever the Hells his true name was- waited for

someone to break the silence that adhered itself to each man’s voice as surely as their dun robes

clung to their bodies. The Elder Brother took a breath, tried to speak and frowned instead, the

lines of stress near his eyes becoming more pronounced. The hesitation irritated Sandor. If it were

bad news he’d rather have it done and over with.

“What?” Sandor asked after a lengthy pause. “He dead?” That would be his luck. The one person

he might be able to contact and ask aide of would be playing host underground.


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“No,” the Elder Brother replied. “Not dead. Not that I know of.” There was sadness in the man’s

eyes. Sandor’s confusion grew. If his brother wasn’t dead, why was each man avoiding taking the

conversation further?

Surprisingly, it was Brother Oswin that stepped forward and spoke next. “Alive, last I heard

anything about ‘im. Most everyone calls ‘im Ser or the Mountain.”

Sandor rubbed at his forehead. The dull throb of a headache was starting. “Mountain, Hound,

Elder Brother, Little Bird. Doesn’t anyone have a name in this bloody land?”

“Darren,” Brother Oswin chirped.

“What?”

“My name is Darren.” There was a grin on Brother Oswin’s face. Sandor had yet to figure out if

the man was simple or not. Then Oswin pointed at the Elder Brother. “His is Arthor but it’s

respectful to call ‘im by his title here. Your brother’s name is Gregor but he doesn’t allow anyone

to call ‘im that. It’s Clegane, Ser or Mountain. You two had that in common at least.”

Sandor was quick enough to catch the word “allow”. With Oswin’s description of himself there

had been the word “hated” in reference to his feelings towards his birth name. There was a

difference in not caring for something and completely denying it. There were clues, about his life

before, to be found and sewn together if he paid attention.

“And where is he? Is there a way to send word to him?”

The Elder Brother set the cup of lather down on a side table with a clunk. “That may not be

advisable at this time.” Brother Oswin’s head bobbed in agreement.

“You going to tell me why?” Sandor said, his voice falling into a low octave and a rasp overtaking

it. “Nothing you lot can do for me once the leg heals. I’ll need to move on at some point. If there’s

family out there I should go to them.”

“I don’t know exactly where he’s at. Usually he kept ‘imself holed up at your family’s Keep. But

sometimes he’d come to King’s Landing. For a Tourney or if there was a call to raise the banners.

You’re the more skilled fighter, and huge too, but your brother’s a giant! You look like a lad


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stacked next to ‘im and me a dwarf! And no one’s more brutal than ‘im. There wasn’t much

reason for ‘im to leave the Keep after your father’s death so-”

“My father’s dead?”

Brother Oswin’s face went pale, realizing the information he’d blurted out. His voice was small as

he answered. “Aye. Sorry for that. Your brother owns the Keep now. If he passes it would

rightfully go to you.”

“Are there any more of them? Family?”

Brother Oswin shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

The Elder Brother stood, sighing. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he spoke before exiting the room.

Sandor wondered if he had somehow angered the man. It wasn’t his intention to belittle the care

he’d been given thus far, but he knew charity couldn’t last forever. As a man, he should look to

the future and how he would one day support himself.

Sandor’s focus came back to Brother Oswin. “All right, so my brother’s a piece of shit, just like

you’ve made me out to be-“

“No, you’ve got it wrong. You were mean. You did as you were ordered, like all of us. He’s

something else. Something worse than the Stranger itself. I’ve seen your brother rape a mother in

front of her child. Seen ‘im do the reverse too. Seen him gag a man, tie ‘im down and take his

hands, and not for any other reason than he could . You struck a whore once for calling you

handsome and beat the life out of any man on the battlefields. But that’s where it stopped, do you

see?”

Sandor didn’t answer, taking a moment to consider the difference between his brother and himself.

Despite there being several chairs in the room, Oswin decided to take the bed opposite Sandor’s,

bouncing a few times in his seat and poking at the furs. Then he swiveled, kicking his feet up onto

the bed and laying flat out on his back, hands crossed on his stomach.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Sandor said, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

“The beds are nicer here in the sick rooms. We get old pallets on the floor in the novice’s rooms,”

Oswin observed. The young man started to wriggle on top of the furs, settling in it seemed.


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“I’m not interested in the state of your sleeping arrangements. You’re not bunking here.”

“Ah, now, come on. Just for a night? I can tell you more about your brother. I can tell you all sorts

of things about King’s Landing.”

Sandor decided perhaps Oswin wasn’t a half-wit after all. “Fine. Keep talking.”

“Well now,” Oswin started, staring at the rafters and tucking his laced fingers behind his head. “I

never knew either one of you well. You both kept to yourselves. I think that’s all you really

wanted. You just liked being on your own. You and people didn’t mix. Dogs and horses you got

along fine with. Hells, I saw you once give the leftovers on your plate to a cat whose ribs were

sticking out. Don’t tell Elder Brother I cursed! It’ll be extra chores all week if he finds out I’vedone it twice in a night.”

“I don’t care how much you buggering curse.”

“Right,” Oswin nodded. “I haven’t gotten a chance to talk this much in months. I think you liked

things that didn’t talk back. Or stare. That’s why the animals never got any anger from you. Not

unless they were being unruly. But with people? You were silent unless you had no choice. Thenit was only enough information to get someone off your back. Direct. Blunt. That was you.”

“And my brother?”

“He wasn’t around much. But the little I saw ‘im was enough to know I never wanted to be near

‘im if I could help it. Do you know he bashed in dog’s head ‘cause it startled his horse into

throwing him?”

“No, I don’t,” Sandor replied with a snarl. “There’s not much left I do remember.”

“Just a turn of phrase. I didn’t mean any offence by it,” Oswin apologized. “I’m surprised your

brother didn’t take the horse’s head as well for throwing ‘im. That’s the type of man your brother

is. And his part in claiming the Iron Throne for King Robert? Gods, it was a massacre. He took the Princess, right, and he-“

The door to Sandor’s room –there had not yet been a need for him to share the space with another


26/42

injured or ill man- gave a long creak from the half rusted hinges as the Elder Brother entered.

Brother Oswin sat up with haste, straightened his back and shook his robes out quickly. “Don’t

get comfortable, Oswin,” the Elder Brother scolded. There was a large tome in the man’s hands,

bound with thick chords of leather and nearly the size of Oswin’s torso.

“He wants me to stay!” Brother Oswin tried, pointing to Sandor. “I can tell ‘im things no one else

can. He said he wants me to stay.” There was a meaningful look from the younger man as theElder Brother grunted while placing the huge book on Sandor’s bed.

Sandor wasn’t sure he wanted Oswin there with him all night. But he did want the information

running around in his skull. And a favor given now was something he could barter with down the

line, should he come to need one himself. He searched for the right words to say to grant him what

he wanted. Threats and brute strength were going to get him nowhere with the Elder Brother. And

what true threat was he at the moment? There wasn’t a chance in all the Seven Hells he could

make it across the room unaided in his present condition.

Once again, a vision of a red haired girl with a pretty face and even prettier words, spilling from

rose tinted lips, came to him. In his mind her mouth formed phrases like, “if it pleases you,”

“pardon me,” and “thank you, Ser”. He could almost feel the answering sneer his own mouth

gave to her in response to her polite chatter. The same girl changed in his mind, growing taller and

curved. The words from her mouth changed as well. She wanted to know why he was hateful,

mean and cruel. He had answers for her then, he was certain, but now those reasons abandoned

him or made no sense at all. Cruelty was the way the world worked, from Kings to wildlings, a

voice in his head spoke in a beastly growl. Yet, he’d been shown nothing but kindness and caresince he woke.

And there was a memory, just at the edge of his mind, a place thick with fog and muted sounds. A

memory full of fire and heat from a source that burned green. The stench of vomit and fresh blood

came clearly to him. The girl, grown and smelling of her own unique, woman’s blood was under

him –why the fuck was she under him- while he gripped a dagger that trapped her hair between

his threats and the pale, unblemished, perfect flesh of her throat. In the memory, her lips parted

while his heart raced and his stomach clenched in a way he knew had never happened before.

Sandor inhaled sharply, shaking his head. His heart continued with its rapid pace, though the

memory was fading back to wherever it had come from. There was fear – an immense amount of

fear- in that memory and he wanted nothing to do with it.

“Steady now,” Sandor heard the Elder Brother speak in a calm voice near him. “I don’t want to

nick you.” There was a straight razor in the Brother’s hand and lather on Sandor’s face. When had that happened?

“Take a deep breath,” the Elder Brother continued, lifting the razor up once again. “I went


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through too much trouble to keep you from the Stranger. I’d rather not stick you and have you

bleed out on the floor. It’s messy. And it would take five of us to carry you out of here to the

lichyard. My back’s not what it used to be.”

Sandor laughed though he didn’t know why, the black humor appealing to some part of him and

settling the flutter in his chest. His eyes landed on the cover of the tome the Elder Brother had

brought him. House History of Westeros had been burnt into the tanned leather of deep umber. “Isshe in there?” Sandor asked, leaning his head towards the book. “The Stark girl?”

“Certainly. House Stark is a great one that has been a part of the lands for thousands of years,” the

Elder Brother confirmed as he kept his eyes locked on Sandor’s jaw, “though I thought it would

be your own house you’d show more interest in.” The razor made a swift pass over the better half

of Sandor’s face as the Elder Brother spoke. Tilting his head left then right, pressing his lips firmly

together at times and stretching his jaw out, Sandor was intrigued by his body’s ability to

remember things his mind could not while the Elder Brother made quick work of shaving one side

of his face from ear level to the bottom of his chin. Obviously, he’d kept himself clean shaven in

the past; his current movements were too fluid and natural for a man who had kept a full, or in his

case, a half beard for most of his life.

“Hold still a moment more. There’s not much on the other side, but there’s some growth down

your neck,” the Elder Brother instructed, rinsing the razor in a bowl of water turned cloudy with

suds and black whiskers. An edge of cold metal pressed lightly at the side of his Adam’s apple.

Without thought, Sandor jerked back and away. Distrust welled from a source so deep there was

no bottom, first boiling up from his stomach and then seeping back down under his skin. Hecould hear the clanking chains of panic wind their way around his heart, constricting the lump of

flesh to the point of pain.

A blade near his face was one thing. A blade at his throat was unacceptable. In that moment,

Sandor was aware. Trust no one with your life. The urge to grab the Elder Brother’s wrist, and

twist until bones snapped, rode in on a tide born of anger. How dare the man try and slit his throat!

That was what was happening wasn’t it? It was all a ruse; the tools to groom himself, the help

with the chore, the tome. They meant to distract him and then rid themselves of him.

The Elder Brother had stepped back from him. Oswin was up off the opposite bed and each man

looked at him with concern. Then the Elder Brother slowly held the razor out, handle first to him.

“Take it,” the man said quietly. “No one’s trying to hurt you. You do it, if you don’t want me to.”

Sandor felt frozen, rage and hate telling him never to trust –not under any circumstances- while

blank memories couldn’t tell him why. Sandor’s fingers trembled as they clasped the razor’s bone

handle weakly. It didn’t make sense. Why would men save him then turn on him? Why place a

weapon in his hands if their intent was sinister? A sudden wave of nausea replaced the panic

crawling through his stomach. What was wrong with him?

“. . .sorry,” Sandor said in a hoarse voice, shame and confusion making him avert his eyes. There


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were words carved into the handle of the razor and his thumb stroked the unknown symbols.

“High Valyrian,” the Elder Brother explained. “It says, ‘Trust in action, not in words.’”

“It does?”

“No,” the Elder Brother said with a shake of his head. “It’s a man’s name and where his home is

located. I found it washed up on the shore years ago. But my version sounds better.” The man

kept a small smile on his face and offered a scrap of linen to Sandor. “Either clean up or shave and

we’ll move onto your hair. You’re not the first man here to take ill at certain times, Sandor.

Sounds, smells, a certain touch. All things that can unsettle a recovering soldier’s mind.”

Sandor could not say why the use of his given name felt as if he’d been presented with some sort

of prize, but there was warmth to replace the frigid feeling inside him upon hearing it. The name

Hound didn’t give him the same satisfaction. Instead, it offered a sense of ill-gotten pride, force

fed contempt and bloated with disdain, like a rancid animal carcass, swollen with decay in the heat

of summer. He was left to wonder why, in the past, he had insisted on being called that which

brought him no pleasure, as he stuck his chin up towards the roof and blindly scraped the razor

over his throat himself. His body filled in the gaps his mind struggled to find as one hand held the

skin on his neck taut. A few glides of the razor and his fingers told him no more hair remained on

his face.

Brother Oswin refused to go near his hair. Though they were apparently now on speaking terms,

Oswin still twitched with anxiety at the sound of his voice when he barked at either man, coming

no closer than the foot of his bed. The Elder Brother made due, though he warned Sandor he was

far from anything resembling a proper barber. Parting Sandor’s hair down the middle, the Elder

Brother let out an annoyed huff of air, until Oswin timidly suggested that he should try parting it to

the side. The Elder Brother did so and gave Sandor a smile that lifted one corner of his mouth. A

curtain of black hair fell into one eye, and Sandor blew at it to try and remove it from his line of

vision.

“It’s how you usually kept it,” Oswin mumbled.

“I think you tried using the hair to cover up a bit,” the Elder Brother said gently, gesturing to one

side of his face. Sandor grunted in reply. “I’ll only take off two or three finger’s width, to help

even it up. It looks as if an animal’s been gnawing at the ends. You probably went at it with a

knife at some point.”

For several minutes there was only the sound of steady, short clips from the small shears in the

Elder Brother’s hands. It was an even, soothing rhythm, like the sharp clicks of a horse’s hooves


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that had been set at a walk, or the rough grate of a sword over a grindstone. Sounds that felt more

like a pulse of life to him than bothersome commotion. It wasn’t long before the Elder Brother

finished his task and pulled the chipped piece of square looking glass from his pocket.

There was a moment, one fraction of a heartbeat, hardly measurable, in which Sandor hesitated.

Undoubtedly, he was going to see something he wouldn’t find anything close to the concept of

attractive. He’d count it a success if he could manage not to tremble and weep as he had earlier inthe day. The Elder Brother gave him an encouraging look. Oswin scratched at his hand, feigning

interest in his palm. Neither man in the room had seemed troubled by his looks, Sandor thought.

Perhaps it felt worse than it looked.

The mirror revealed a face that might have been considered agreeable . . . if it weren’t for the half

that looked like slop mucked up from the floor of a butcher’s shop. It was as gruesome as it felt,

mottled and unnatural looking. There was barely enough skin at his jaw to cover what lay

beneath, a thumbnail’s worth of white bone visible. A scraggly line of an eyebrow, a missing ear,

lips that smudged at the edge into scar tissue, an eyelid with a bit of droop to it, and between all of

it caustic tones of red made his skin look inflamed and sore.

That was his face.

“. . . fuck me,” Sandor said in a whisper, shock making any true emotion impossible.

The Elder Brother frowned but didn’t correct Sandor’s curse, as he might have with Brother

Oswin. Instead, the man bestowed him with an unblinking, understanding stare as he spoke.

“You’ve faced a trial in your life and survived. Don’t forget that. One patch of skin is not the

definition of a man. It is a piece, not the whole.”

Sandor swallowed and dared to look into the mirror once again, though a large part of him wanted

to hurl it into the fire, watch it shatter and burn till there was nothing left but a bad memory of what he had seen. A piece, not the whole, he repeated silently to himself. If the burnt half was

ignored, he was left with something far less displeasing. A prominent nose, strong chin and jaw

line would be considered on the verge of comely to some. His eyes were a slate gray; a shade he

hadn’t seen on any other man since he woke. That was at least one unique thing he could offer, it

seemed. There was no great beauty about him but his profile was decent from a certain angle.

But, the Seven help him, it all hardly mattered when paired with the deformity of the other half,

Sandor thought darkly.

His hair came down past his shoulders, straight and smooth looking; his own personal sheet of

shadow to hide behind if he wished. It still lay over one eye, making him blink and causing the

skin on his neck and forehead itch. It was going to get in his food, knot in his sleep and risk

getting burnt every time he leaned over a candle’s flame. The advantage of staying hidden didn’t

seem worth the bother to Sandor.


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A sharp nail of pain struck his temple. Sandor remembered walking the length of a corridor and,

upon hearing a girl’s laughter, pausing to listen outside of a door. “Isn’t he the most handsome

Prince in all the world?” the memory of Sansa’s voice cried out delightedly. “Our sons will have

his golden locks one day and I’ll keep it curled to their chins. I do so love a fair crown of hair.

Any longer and a man looks like a shaggy bear!” There was the sound of a presumed

companion’s giggle and Sandor had stormed off in a fury. Black, straight and long couldn’tcompete with what young ladies swooned over.

Willful tenacity lashed back at the knowledge that he had submitted. He had let himself become

defeated. Because of his face. Because of his hair. Because of all that he was he had turned his

back on happiness and settled for loneliness. Bugger that! He wasn’t the same person as the one in

the memory, yet, he wasn’t completely different either. The Hound stubbornly chose to snap and

snarl, to brood and rage. Sandor could choose his path as well.

Sandor raised his eyes from the man in the looking glass and tugged at his hair. “Make it shorter,”

he said to the Elder Brother, a rebellious joy blooming in his chest.

********

The wheezing inhales and whistled exhales of Brother Oswin’s snoring were the only sounds in

the room. The logs in the hearth had long ago burned down to coals and those had eventually

snuffed themselves out, leaving nothing but ashes and smoke. Dawn was on its way, an oily

purple winning out over the black of night. The few stars Sandor could observe from his window

were dimming in their journey to whereever it was they went when the sun shined brightest. There

would be a novice Brother soon, to build the fire back up for the day, bring him fresh water and

empty the bucket by his bedside. Though he still needed someone to haul its contents out to themidden heap, at least he could manage filling it on his own now, small blessing that it was. Sandor

hated the smell of piss in the room. Shit was worse, and he swore he’d be walking to the latrine on

his own within the next week no matter what his leg had to say about it.

He should try and stay awake until after the first Brother, Sandor thought, eyelids lowering

slowly, trying to fight off sleep. After the novice preformed his chores in silence, bells would ring

for morning prayers. Following that, the Elder Brother would bring a bowl of porridge made thick

with goat’s milk to break his fast with. If there was time in his schedule, the man would stay and

talk. If not, the Elder Brother left him with apologies and a covered plate of cured meats, dried

fruits and a heel of bread for later on. Sandor was on his own on those days, with his books and

his stone counting and his boredom until late afternoon.


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The history book lay open next to Sandor on his bed. The words on the page in front of him

blurred and crashed together to form nonsense. He was far too tired to make anything out of the

pictures and letters before him. It hadn’t taken much to persuade the Elder Brother to let Oswin

stay in the room with him overnight; the young Brother’s convenient position in King’s Landing

proving to be a useful insight into a section of Sandor’s life. The Elder Brother allowed the both of

them a chance to speak throughout the night. Sandor’s questions were never ending as Oswin

hovered nearby and turned to certain pages within the large tome the Elder Brother had left them,

pointing out one House after another that should have had some meaning to him. The ElderBrother brought them a tray of salted fish, stuffed with herbs and surrounded by vegetables from

the dining hall. There were two sizable pitchers of the spiced honey ale the Brothers brewed as

well. Soon after the first jug had been drunk, Oswin was sitting on Sandor’s bed, his cheeks

flushed, snorting over the sigils of some of the Houses. Sandor didn’t stop with his inquiries until

Oswin yawned and stretched deeply before nearly passing out on Sandor’s shoulder. Flinching at

the touch, Sandor pushed the man onto the floor without guilt and Oswin had clambered up into

the opposite bed to sleep away what little of the night remained.

Lannister, Baratheon, Clegane, Stark. Sandor repeated the names to himself.

Oswin had explained other houses to him but those four were the ones he found himself most

curious about. His own House was new to the realm, just three generations strong. Fifty years ago

there had been no Sers, no banner of yellow and black. House Clegane’s page in the book was

exactly that. A single page of names crossed off until only two remained. It saddened him,

somewhere in his lost heart, to see the name of a mother and sister marked off as well as hisfather’s. Oswin could only tell him how his house had come to be, not the fate of those within it.

It had taken time and many dregs of ale for Oswin to explain all he knew of Sandor’s role in

serving first the Lannister household and then the crowned Prince, Joffrey Baratheon. The young

Brother knew more about Sandor’s use as a sworn shield to Queen Cersei then he did of Sandor’s

time spent protecting the future King. Sandor listened, equally enthralled and appalled at the

stories and rumors Oswin had to share. He’d been significant. By all the Gods, he had been the

one tasked with keeping first a Queen and then a Prince safe from harm! He was the sword

ensuring the rule of an entire land stay within the Baratheon’s grasp.

But why was he no longer engaged in their service? Why was he sucking down ale instead of

wine and keeping company with monks and not slags? What had happened between then and

now? Oswin had no answers for him. The Brother apologized –Gods, he was sick of everyone

apologizing to him- and suggested they ask the Elder Brother in the morning. The leader of the

silent men kept ravens and tried to stay in touch with the world beyond the swamp-like shores of

the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother didn’t share much of the information he collected with novices,

but Oswin was certain the man would help him.

Sandor had deliberately waited to look at the last house of interest until Oswin had fallen asleep. A


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wolf’s head sigil greeted him when he found the pages containing House Stark’s history. And

there, in the middle of a page, was a name that meant everything. She was all he had now, the

only memory worth keeping. There was a feeling, open and raw with need, rooted inside him as

solid as his bones and as profound as his soul. Sansa Stark was important. She was something.

Something essential and treasured. She was his. In some way. If only he could remember how.


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Chapter 5

The attempt to stay awake throughout the night and morning had been in vain. Perhaps Sandorhad been able to perform such a feat before, but now, with a body still struggling to keep up with

healing, there was no fending off sleep indefinitely. Sandor dreamt, though he could not

remember finally succumbing to sleep. Milk of the poppy had kept dreams from him, but without

it, vivid pictures came to him while resting.

In his dream, a tree, white as the beaten sands of a shore and with the face of an elderly man

carved into it, cried tears the color of rubies. At the base of the tree, a she-wolf sat, barely bigger

than a newborn pup and gray in color with the lightest of blue eyes. A child would have called it

precious. It looked weak and pathetic to Sandor. Trying to lick at its belly, the pup ended up

rolling head over heels and Sandor knew it would never survive on its own. Better to slit its throat

than let starvation have at it. He wasn’t a wolf-bitch. There was no way for him to suckle and care

for it.

As he approached the little wolf, tracks of blood-tears ran down the trunk of the tree, catching in

the grooves of the bark and slowly trickling into the wolf’s fur. As the first few drops dripped onto

the pup’s head, she yipped and leapt in the air, snapping at nothing but the winds around her. With

each jump she grew larger and the color of her fur shifted from gray to a dazzling mix betweenscarlet and amber; living, breathing, glowing fire. A last flick of her tail, a hard toss of her head,

and there was a creature of impres

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If Memory Serves Me Well