Chapter Text
A compulsion stronger than thirst, hunger, or lust spurred the lone horseman north and east.
Where the River Road passed through Sarsfield, they tried to ask his business, but none were brave or foolish enough to stop him when they received only grunts in reply. He was a man no one trifled with, a dog off his leash.
It was true they thought of this man as a dog, because he was as dangerous as one, as ill-mannered as one, and allegedly as loyal as one – loyal to the man feared more than anyone else in the realm. But what they didn’t know was that dogs were never truly owned. They would willfully submit to the right master, but submission and possession were not the same thing, as Tywin Lannister learned when he watched his fiercest dog run away as if his hind end was on fire. Those who saw the giant of a man ride by on the giant of a horse wondered if invisible hell hounds were chasing him. Until they remembered, he was the hound, and he brought the hell.
Others wondered if the man’s true nature was finally revealed. Had he bit the hand that fed him and was now running from his master? But no men bedecked in crimson and gold were giving chase, and why would the man keep to the roads if he knew he was a wanted man?
Past Golden Tooth, white foam coated the beast’s lips and the rider, who seemed oblivious to everything but his destination, dismounted and brought the horse to the village stables. What the trembling stable hand didn’t know as he led the black destrier into a stall was that ordinarily the horse would bite or kick anyone but its master. That day, the same horse was almost affectionate, grateful as it was to the boy who led him to a big trough of water.
Man and horse alike slept in the stables that night. No one in the village had the courage to wake the former, who collapsed into clean hay and fell into some type of fever sleep. The noises of the boys tending the horses the next morning didn’t wake him, nor did their whispers about the giant man who was grunting and moaning in his slumber and had the biggest bulge at the front of his leather breeches any of the lads had ever seen.
When the man didn’t wake by midday, one of the boys had the brains to summon the local wisewoman. He told her about the stranger’s arrival late the previous afternoon, how he’d said not a word before collapsing into a fitful sleep.
None of the boys were brave enough to stay with Fiyonna when she decided to wake the man. Instead they stood outside listening to confused murmuring then angry cursing then something being broken.
In Fiyonna’s forty years practicing the healing arts, she’d never seen such an affliction. The man was soaked with perspiration and hot to the touch but had no chills or trembles so she ruled out a true fever. He was initially incoherent when she finally lulled him from sleep, then immediately began cursing and shouting about what day was it and what time was it and where was he and get him some water.
She let him drink from her own water skin, water she spoke an ancient prayer over daily to protect any souls who drank of it.
He guzzled it all, meaning another trip to the well for her, and another round of prayers.
“Where must you go, young man?” she asked gently.
“I don’t bloody know, woods witch! Now begone!”
“I am a healer, not a witch. And you most certainly are in need of healing.”
“You can’t heal what ails me.”
“And what ails you?”
“Fuck if I know,” the man began saddling his horse, which glared at Fiyonna bitterly as if it were all her fault. Which in this case, it was.
“Tell me what you feel,” she insisted.
The man ignored her as he toiled, the horse nipping at him but the man ignored that, too.
She sighed and pressed on, “The lads say you rode in as if being chased, but clearly no one has caught up with you in nearly a full turn of the sun. So you are not running from something – you are riding toward something.”
Still the man didn’t speak.
“You will not tell me where you are going?”
“I don’t bloody know, woman!” he roared.
She narrowed her eyes at him, “It is a vision that propels you, then. A vague vision, but no less compelling. Tell me of it.”
He snorted a bitter laugh, “Aye, I’ll tell you. I see red and white blurred together. I hear a woman calling me even though she doesn’t know my name. I can smell her sweat and her cunt. I can feel her ache.”
Fiyonna blinked at him, wondering if what she was hearing was possible. She’d only ever heard myths passed down from healer to healer over the generations.
“A woman you don’t know?” she asked.
He shrugged, “I don’t know many women, except whores, and a whore’s cunt would never smell so sweet.”
“You are heading northeast now – how do you know this is the right direction?”
He clenched his jaw, “I don’t bloody know. I just… I just started riding.”
She nodded and reached out to clasp the man’s hand, “Your intuition will guide you. Never doubt it. And here…” she searched through her satchel until she found the linen pouch she was looking for, “Ordinarily I brew it in a tea to give to men or women who are upset after some sort of trauma. But if you put a small pinch under your tongue, it may help relax your… agitated state.”
The man snorted again, “A whole barrelful wouldn’t relax my state, nor would it relax me if I bent you over that barrel right there.” He jerked his head toward the barrel the boys stored oats in, but Fiyonna didn’t blush.
Despite the man’s coarse language, he took the pouch and flicked a gold dragon into her hand, “Now begone woman, before I decide to try anyway.”
She shook her head, “This is too much. A stag would more than do.”
She followed the man as he led the horse out of the stables.
“Well then share it with the bloody lads,” he jerked his chin toward the stable boys who scurried away like rabbits when a hawk screeches overhead.
“Your journey may be long; you will need your gold, Ser.”
“Not a ser, and I’m hoping to fall from the horse and break my neck before I get there.”
“That would be most unwise. I believe you are needed there. Desperately needed, and more than your life and this woman’s life may be counting on your success.”
The man glared at her and she could see the question living on his tongue, but then he turned his face toward the north.
Without another word the man swung up into the saddle and kicked the horse into a trot which became a gallop after he passed the last buildings of the village.
She watched the impossibly large duo become nothing but a speck in the distance before pressing four fingers to her heart, “May the old gods bless your journey, Sandor Clegane.”