Chapter Text
A few moons have passed since the Seven had visited Sandor in his dreams. Much of what was before was the same now; but if one could measure such abstract notions, they might find that his heart was lighter, and his morale less bleak. More often then not, he would even take the Elder Brother's advice, and meditate at night.
He always prayed for the Maiden to visit again, though she never did (and neither did the others); and perhaps this marred the point of meditating, but he found that her favor was always with him as he awoke, so perhaps the gods did not mind.
It was true Sandor could no longer deny the gods' existence, though the fancy stories still irked him and all the mindless traditions did not inspire him as of yet. His mind would drift, though perhaps that was best, for he found that that was when he though of the others besides the blushing Maiden: of what they had to say. He still had arguments with them, they through the voice of the patient Elder Brother. Perhaps the gods would be angry that he did not take all to heart, but perhaps they were happy that his path was straighter, and knew it would eventually lead him to a peace he could not know now. But only the ethereal could tell these things.
If those on the physical plane could measure the amount of times he smiled, they would see he did so more often.
If they could measure his senses, they would find them honed, perfected, and sharpened.
If he thought of the seasons, he would find that his taste for spring overshadowed his usual preference for winter.
But only the abstract beings could tell these things, not any earthly man.
He swung the shovel as he would a sword, walking between digging graves, and when he held a blunt sword to practice, the change of balance did not confuse his strong arms, or his steady stance. The brothers, they could see the increase of graves, but not of his strength.
He had listened, he had heard, and now he waited.
His time on the isle had not been devoid of news, and the gods were not the only beings Sandor listened too: the river not only dumped objects, but the isle seemed a hotspot of information, strange as it was. Visitors told their confessions, and as thanks, shared news with the seemingly bored brothers. Even the warrior maiden had given a confession, though that was not her original intent. Sandor had been glad she did not recognize him, but had worried that while she was looking for Sansa, she might get to his little bird first. Very quickly, he was drowning in doubts again. But no sooner had she left, then other news followed.
Peasantry from the Vale of Arryn were making their way south. Some to flock to warmer climes for the coming winter; some came to gather supplies to take back for an event such that hasn't been seen since Lord Arryn married himself. Jon Arryn's heir (should his son Robert Arryn die) was to marry. This one "Harrold Hardyng" was betrothed to one "Alayne Stone", bastard daughter to Petyr... fucking... Baelish.
There was no time to ponder the lack of facts surrounding the wild instinct that Alayne was really Sansa; there was only faith that it was truth.
That night, he dreamed that he was in a copse of flowering trees, a multitude of colorful birds singing in the air. He was a dog, in this dream, but a calm and patient mutt. Though the bird song was musical and entrancing, there was only one bird he wanted to see. He wagged his tail hesitatingly, unsure where to turn, when he saw a lantern floating in mid air. He followed. Soon enough, the lantern led him to a high and old sentinel, devoid of flowers. Upon one of the highest branches, there sat a bright red bird; smaller then a parrot, but bigger then a cardinal. His tail wagged fast now, and he stood on his haunches, barking in excitement. The little red bird floated down from the high branch, singing her song, and soon enough she was teasing the dog, always just out of his reach. He playfully followed her, loping and jumping and giving chase, tongue sticking out of his maw, tail wagging excitedly. And when Sandor awoke, he knew that the time to chase his Little Bird for true had come, if not in such an embarrassingly saccharine way.
That morning: his armor restored, a sharpened sword borrowed, his horse accompanying him, the Hound dead and in heaven chasing godly birds; Sandor Clegane left the Elder Brother with a hand shake and a vow.
By the gods, he will save Sansa. And, mayhaps, save himself too.