“Look into the flames, Clegane.”
The walls of the abandoned cottage felt less like home, more a prison. Perhaps it was the company Sandor kept while hiding from a storm that looked likely to stay till spring. He had stopped asking himself the point in accompanying Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr to the Wall. Or was it beyond? Clegane did not even know where at this point – all he knew was that it was somewhere north. His life was lost. If anyone gave him a task, he shut up and did it.
Somehow he thought telling Dondarrion would help, but the moment he had, he instantly regretted it. Dondarrion pounced on the chance like a dog on bones, giving him sermons on the Lord of Light and how Thoros changed his life (changed his deaths, rather), destiny, purpose and the rest of it. When Thoros joined in, Sandor ultimately relented. “Logs are burning,” he began his examination dismissively, but Dondarrion and Thoros urged him to persist. So he did. Besides, the two were shit for company.
It took him sooner than expected, but when he saw it, he knew they had to part ways. He did not know why, but he felt it not right to tell them where he was going. Thoros seemed more understanding than Dondarrion. “When the storm ends, go where the flames take you,” he said simply, “but no further.”
*
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