A Song of Ice and Fire, Westeros and all its characters are sole property of George RR Martin. I claim no ownership of them whatsoever; I'm like a kid playing with Barbies here.

A Song of Steel
Prologue

The digger huddled into his hood as the footsteps approached, but carried on with his work. These days, there were more devout pilgrims and fewer dead peasants, but there was still work for him to do. His spade gently scuffed the loose earth, looking for turnips in what was like to be the last crop before winter closed around the island. The markets were empty of winter provisions; war had only ended in the Riverlands when there was nothing left to burn. This was a place where the air was seldom encumbered with voices, so they carried, even above the lapping of the water.

"We live in ungodly times, my dear brother." The voice was unctuous and melodramatically mournful; the digger took an immediate dislike to it. "Before I felt the call, I was a successful merchant, but in this tide of sin, King's Landing is no place for a man who keeps the Seven. O brother! Atrocities without number!"

No place for a poor man, more like, thought the digger. Some miserly stallholder turned sparrow. The Faith sheltered its own - but more importantly, it feeds them.

"The Riverlands too have seen their fair share of evil," said the Elder Brother sagely, "though I fear the people suffer more than the gods."

"The Mother weeps for her children."

"No doubt. And the children weep for each other: the fallen, the sick, the maimed."

As the tall novice crouched among the furrows, he touched a hand to his robed thigh. Under the rough wool, the flesh at that spot bore a wide hollow, where mortified flesh had once been cut away and had not yet come back. The brothers had assured him he would not be lame, and to be sure the awkward lurching limp that had troubled him in the early months had left him, but he knew he would never regain his old stamina.

"Their lot is hard," agreed the sanctimonious sparrow. He continued with the theatricality of a street-corner preacher. "But it is the same even in distant lands. Before the city was torn apart, traders began to tell of slavers abound in the seas, pirates, war in the East, where a bloody flux is spreading. And darker tales, too: terrible creatures in the icy waters, monstrous beasts in the east… What hope has Westeros when when whores and necromancers control the Iron Throne? Abominations born of fell sorcery and incest!"

"Queen Cersei has asked for trial by battle," said the Elder Brother mildly, with only the barest hint of disapproval; "It is for the Seven to decide if she deserves the names you give her."

"Why, brother! Your sweet septry is aptly named. The trial is finished! The trial is why we fled. The whore of Lannister chose for her champion a knight eight feet tall, whom she named Ser Robert, but who could only have been the Mountain That Rides, born again of dark magic!"

The pilgrim trailed off dramatically and there was silence for a few seconds. "Brother, what you say borders on blasphemy. Do you really think some trickster is capable of cheating the Stranger?"

The digger tumbled his meagre harvest into a pail as the voices passed away. The turnips were already going soft, but they would serve. He slung the pail on his arm, letting its handle rub over the knobbly scars that covered his skin there, and brought his tools back to the shed. He had burned that arm once, and rough use before it could heal had made the scars thick and ugly. But they were not the deepest burns he'd ever had, and at least these ones did not continue to burn him once they'd healed. In fact, the area was a little dulled to the touch.

Sandor Clegane had been on the Quiet Isle a year, or near enough as made no matter, and he was a calmer man for it. He had not found the Seven as the Elder Brother had hoped, so there was little chance of his ever making peace with them. He had awoken here in pain, to the news that he had lost a sizeable chunk of his thigh, and more importantly, the chance to kill his brother.

When Sandor had last been abroad, his brother was castellan of Harrenhal and his pet savages were busy brutalising the Riverlands. Killing Gregor was a lifelong ambition, almost woven into the fabric of his being. His minions were a different story; ridding Westeros of the likes of Polliver and the Tickler just felt like an act of public decency.

The bastards got the better of me, though. Gregor's little monsters brought tidings from King's Landing, and he'd been too stunned to stay sober. Joffrey dead at the Imp's hand. The Imp's hand, and... Lucky for me, the wolf pup could bite.

She'd saved his skin that day, and for that she had his thanks - even if she'd left him to rot not long after. He'd cursed her at the time in his fever, but the girl had shown she was made of tougher stuff than most, and he supposed Arya Stark had had her own reasons to hate him. He'd often wondered how her pretty sister would have fared on the road, but doubted the little bird was capable of the same rage. She had a spark of her own, though: it had pleased him to provoke her, to make the mask slip and glimpse the angry girl beneath the courtly chatter. He'd liked to prove that Joffrey's favourite doll was made of flesh and blood, not porcelain. Of course, she wasn't Joffrey's doll any longer.

"The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter."

Wife to the Imp, wedded and bedded. Her chance of becoming Joff's queen died with her father, but for a while Sandor had assumed she'd be kept as a fine prize for one of Cersei's leal lickspittles. Lancel maybe, or one of those sharp-as-marbles Kettleblacks. More than once, Littlefinger had cast an appraising eye over her when he thought no-one was watching, though the gods alone knew if it was Cersei he answered to, or anyone else. Sandor had even amused himself with the notion that when a more suitable match was found for Joffrey, they might give that choice little scrap to some good dog who begged. Luckily for Sansa Stark, they'd given the Hound a white cloak instead, and last time he'd checked, his brother still had a wife. He doubted either of them were like the princes in her songs.

Then again, he was quite sure the princes in the stories were comely, and wont to top five feet - not drunken, whoring schemers too highborn to guard their tongues. Sandor supposed the girl became a much juicier prize when the Ironborn and Freys slew her brothers, making her heir to whatever was left of Winterfell and the North. He wondered how many times the Imp had bedded her before she'd had the good sense to escape. Sandor had offered to take her away himself back when she was still betrothed to Joffrey, on the night he fled the battlefield, the burning city, and the house he'd served for more than half his life. She'd refused him.

Had she known then that she was intended for the Imp? Would it have made any difference?

But the little bird must had another offer, more to her liking than his, for someone else had spirited her away. Varys the Spider was offering a purse for her captor, and from time to time the Quiet Isle received fortune-hunters seeking her trail, even now. It seemed she'd vanished without a trace and abandoned her Imp husband to his black fate, sealed when Gregor Clegane stoved in Oberyn Martell's head.

The Elder Brother told Sandor his own elder brother died slowly, in great agony, and urged him to pray that the Seven would have mercy on Gregor's soul. Sandor had still been angry then. He'd been robbed of the vengeance that had been his life's goal and he brooded over every missed opportunity to slay his brother. But as time passed, he began to accept that their ancient hatred would never be resolved in the mortal combat he'd dreamed of, the rage began to ebb away. He wondered if it was ever hate that had driven him: maybe all he'd really wanted was justice, to be the man to mete out the punishment Gregor had earned in a lifetime of cruelty.

Silence had suited Sandor, for a time.

But now it was as if all those thoughts had never occurred to him. The old wound was reopened; the hunt was back on. The only natural step was to leave this place, find whatever was left of his brother, and kill him if he could. After his run-in with Dondarrion, Sandor had no trouble believing any pilgrim's story about necromancy and resurrection. It seemed the Stranger was sleeping on the job of late. I damn near cut that bastard marcher lord in two, and minutes later he was back on his feet. Ordinary rules had never applied to Gregor, and if truth be told, this new Gregor didn't sound much more monstrous than the old one.

Four days after the odious pilgrim arrived, Sandor Clegane donned his novice's robe and presented himself to the Elder Brother.

"The tale you heard told it true," said the monk, eventually. "The necromancer Qyburn has confessed to the High Septon that he dishonoured your brother's remains to create an unnatural creature possessed of brutish strength and no conscience. It seems the champion of the Faith, Ser Lancel of the Warrior's Sons, drove his enemy too close to the crowd during the trial. A number of spectators were slain, including the young King Tommen. I pray the Seven will have mercy on his innocent soul. Queen Margaery is said to be wounded."

Sandor said nothing.

"Queen Cersei is thought to have escaped in the confusion. The High Septon writes that as Ser Lancel was also killed, she is hereby acquitted of all charges laid against her. But he has helpfully enclosed a second parchment listing all the new crimes of which she is accused."

"And Gregor?"

"No one can recall seeing him leave the tourney ground." Sandor could guess the fate of anyone who did see him. The Elder Brother sighed. "There is still a place for you here, Sandor."

"I'm done with digging. And I took no vows." He paused, feeling ill at ease. "I... am grateful-"

"Then show it. Heed my words, Sandor. Stay, and absolve your soul of the sins you committed as a lesser man. Do not resurrect the Hound."

"Someone resurrected my brother."

"This creature you would seek is not your brother. It is not a man, but a monster, a stain on the world the gods created."

That sounds a great deal like the brother I know. "All the more reason to kill him," he growled, "And make sure he stays dead this time."

The island's silence returned to the room for a while. The Elder Brother slumped and moved to the window. The sea beyond was still now.

"I cannot stop you from doing this thing. I would offer to armour you as one of the Faith Militant, but even if you accepted I fear it would be false." Sandor bowed his head. The Elder Brother turned. "I will not wish you luck, but I will pray for you. Take such provisions as you may need. But you will not be welcome on this island again, unless you return as a man of peace."

Snow fell gently on the town of Saltpans, on ground still too damp and salty to let it stick. Stranger's hooves sank and slipped in the mud near the riverbank, but they reached the road soon enough. Sandor wore the clothes the Hound had died in. It felt good to wear armour again, to sit a horse with a sword at his side. It would be some time before he was ready for a proper opponent, but some time on the road would knock the rust from his instincts. After a year of silence, he longed for the song of steel.