I often think about staying on the Quiet Isle with Sandor forever... Can you imagine? Falling in love, building a small house, having one, maybe two kids, growing old together... sigh
When the brothers first bring him in, carried on a litter, he's more corpse than living man, feverish and broken and bloody after his battle with Brienne of Tarth. His leg is absolutely splintered along with his ruined face, though you suppose that is an older wound that cuts deeper than flesh.
He wakes on the second day with a roar and nearly throws you across the room before brother Ray can restrain him, calling you every foul name under the sun for trying to wipe his face clean. He often bares his teeth at you, calling you a stupid little wench as you bring him broth and change his bandages, his hands size of dinner plates flying up to backhand you but he never actually does.
Some evenings he growls at you, trying to shove you away as you apply the salves Ray provided you with, his voice bitter and mean, eyes bulging with sarcasm, and some he's just silent, his face turned away to the wall. You sit by his cot at night with a wet rag when the fever breaks and listen to him chant –Gregor, Gregor– in his sleep, before his eyes snap open and he shouts at you to get the fuck out. You stay anyway.
It's much later, after him healing, when they are outside of the half finished sept, Ray asks him whatever kept him going, so nonchalant as if he was talking about the weather. Sandor's answer is undoubtedly, as he stuffs his mouth with porridge, hate. The word is heavy and ugly in the isle's quiet piece, but the brother only nods.
As he grows stronger, Sandor is put to work, with his immense strength tasked to chop and haul wood. You often find reasons to be nearby. At first you think it's out of duty. Bringing water for the workers, or mending a torn tunic, or simply sitting and watching the waves. Sandor still scowls, still curses but the violence in him seems to be draining away, leaving something rawer and more lost behind. In rare instances when you talk, he tells you he never thought he'd be living like smallfolk, plowing the cabbage patches and building a sept, but the previous rage in him that used to chill you to the bone is gone. He watches the brothers pray and his expression is no longer of contempt but... almost wistful.
And he watches you as well, you notice his eyes following you as you go about your tasks when he has better work to do than stare. You only grin and in return he curses, turning away with something that just might look like shame. Telling you to bugger off when you come up to him, but not leaving when you stand and watch him chop wood with his axe.
You like watching him work, the muscles of his broad back and shoulders stretching the thin wool of his borrowed tunic that is unfit for the size of him. Your eyes track the damp cloth on his chest as he breaks a sweat and wipes his forehead. You don't think it's shameful at all.
He starts doing things, small courtesies that would've been impossible before when he was the Hound. Setting aside a second helping of his meal for you, claiming he's not that hungry. Carrying heavy baskets of herbs and vegetables form the garden, nearly tearing them away from your deft fingers. Once, when you're gathering briar roses for the sept's altar, you prick your finger on a thorn and he appears behind you with speed that defies the limp in his leg. It makes you gasp and he's already taking your hand in his enormous one.
"Fool woman," he says, dabbing at the blood with the edge of his sleeve. Your heart soars as you look at his furrowed brow, the good side of his face troubled and annoyed at the roses or you, you don't know.
"It's just a scratch," you breathe and he's so close, the warmth of his scarred fingers a comfortable weight against your hand, his bulk dwarfing you in the warm sunlight.
Sandor's eyes go wide when he meets yours half lidded ones and he drops your hand as if burned, stomping in the direction of the barracks.
Weeks later Ray finds him by the cliffs, watching the sun rise from the horizon, asking him about the hate he spoke of and if the need for vengeance on his brother is still there. Sandor doesn't answer. He doesn't look at Ray, at the sea, at the sky or at the path that leads to the boats.
His heavy stare fixes on the rosemary patch where you kneel with the farmer's giggling children, digging through dirt and moss with your bare hands, a white kerchief over your head. At your wind chapped lips and eyes that dare a shy glance up at him from a distance. The silence stretches, interrupted only by distant sounds of the camp and wind, and you smile at him at last, risking a small wave. Sandor doesn't say anything and he can't seem to tear his eyes away from you, their dark depths filled with such bare longing that it makes your breath catch and cheeks bloom.
He thought that hate was all he had. All he was good for. Was he wrong?
After a good moment he turns to find Ray looking at him with a knowing smirk.
"Ah," the brother's eyes follow to the patch, "I see."
"What? Meddling old man," Sandor mutters, but there's no heat in it at all.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees your familiar silhouette approach and his heart gives treacherous little leaps that make blood rush to his ears. There it is. A rustle of a wool dress that he'd come to crave. A voice like a ripple on the water. He looks up at you and grunts.
"Good morning," you say, hands fiddling with the herbs and Sandor hears himself answer.
"Morn," he clicks his tongue, and his eyes dart to your fingers, then back to your face, "You'll burn your fool neck sitting out there."
You beam at him and put a rosemary stem behind your ear. Bugger all, you know you undo him. Of course you do.
For the first time in his life he's not sure if hate is the answer.
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