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Chapter Text

What was it Beric used to say? The night is dark and full of terrors?

Well, it wasn't night, but it was getting dark thanks to the numerous blows he’d taken to the head, and Sandor Clegane was feeling something akin to terror.

He'd expected to die here. That much was certain. He knew he’d never really been capable of beating Gregor. Perhaps at one point he’d thought so, but Sandor had understood deep down that he hadn’t actually believed it. The truth was that he really just wanted to die. To be done with the fear and anger that had lived inside of him for so long, eating him up and spitting him out over and over again. Now, taking Gregor with him was just a bonus.

What he hadn't expected was that he would die so damn easily.

It was funny, really. Sandor had still thought this would at least be an equal fight. Instead he had become a plaything in his brother's hands, just like he had that night as a child. He could almost feel it again: his face held over the flame, skin boiling and hair burning; the smell of fear, piss and shit mingling with the rest. Sandor had screamed for mercy the entire time, and all Gregor had done was laugh.

Gregor was laughing now too, even as Sandor screamed again and again. There wasn't going to be any mercy this time either, he knew. He was going to die here, on his knees, and he wasn't even going to get to take the bastard with him. Sandor may have wanted to die, but he didn't want to go like this. Yet try as he might he knew there wasn’t going to be an alternative.

He struggled to get to his feet, but as he did a fist collided with his head causing light to explode behind his eyes. He grunted from the impact while his teeth rattled in his mouth. He tried, in his panic, to consider his next move, but found his limbs were becoming unresponsive. Defeat was weighing him down almost as much as exhaustion.

As he shook his head to regain himself he felt Gregor's weight shift above him, and prepared for another blow.

It never came.

Sandor, slowly, dared to look up. His head and neck ached and his vision swam from the motion. All of his pain was forgotten when he saw an arrow lodged in Gregor's right eye socket and buried halfway to the fletching. Gregor, momentarily frozen, seemed equally stunned by this turn of events.

Another arrow lodged centimeters away from the first. Then a third punched through his neck. A fourth hit his chest directly in the heart. A fifth hit his groin, making Sandor wince. The arrows struck true, each one of them. It was unfortunate that they had gone to waste, Sandor thought. Had they landed on a lesser foe, they’d have dropped their target like a stone.

That was not the case here, however.

Despite that, Gregor seemed irritated enough by this distraction to forget his brother for the time being. He let go of Sandor's head, who slid limp as a dead fish into the nearest solid wall. Sandor, meanwhile, felt more than saw his brother pass by him, and for the moment he was grateful. Then he heard the unearthly sound of Gregor’s voice. It wasn’t much more than a growl, but it was enough to send Sandor’s hair on end.

Sandor didn’t have too many guesses as to who might have thrown themselves into this fight in his defense. Fewer still when he considered the number of people who even knew he was here. When the fog from his brain cleared, he knew there wasn’t really even a question to ask. He had his answer all the same but turned his head anyway. Past the falling debris, the fire, and the blood that dripped into his eyes, Sandor could just make out her figure. Small. Lean. With wide brown eyes that held more fire than dragon breath.

“No…” he breathed, struggling to find his feet and failing. The pain was too much, and the world was spinning. He couldn't find the strength to push his battered body off the ground, but he knew he couldn't stay down. “No! No! No!” He screamed now, his lungs holding on to some vitality even as his body failed.

While Sandor wrestled his own fatigue, he watched Gregor approach Arya with the eerie calm of the grave. She responded with three more arrows fired at a speed Sandor wasn't sure he could have followed even with all his senses intact. When the hits made no difference in Gregor's pace, her expression began to falter. Her fierce grimace melted into something close to what Sandor had felt moments ago.

That feeling now dropped like ice into the pit of his stomach.

“No! Gregor! Here!” He yelled. He tried to throw debris to get his brother’s attention. He screamed and he swore, but it made no difference. Gregor would kill her, nothing more than a minor nuisance, then return to finish him off. He couldn't let that happen. This was his fight, damn it. Why was she even here? “Gregor! Gregor you bastard!”

Yet all of Sandor’s pleas fell on deaf ears.

He watched Arya lift her arm to knock another arrow, but her hand came back empty. The bow and quiver clattered to the ground, and even through his ringing ears he could hear the song of metal as it was unsheathed.

“No!” He wasn't speaking to Gregor anymore. He was yelling for Arya. “Get out! Get out of here you dumb bitch! He's going to kill you!”

Arya didn't even glance his way. Either she didn't hear, or she knew it was already too late.

Gregor swung. Arya ducked. She parried his other fist with a slice of her dagger and the momentum of her own weight, then twisted to stab deeply into muscle just below the breast. Too late, Arya learned what Sandor already knew.

The crack of fist to flesh was as painful to Sandor as if the blow had landed on him. He winced at the sound if it. Arya's sudden flight down the stairs, disappearing out of his view, happened with enough severity to know the blow had likely knocked her out cold.

“Gregor!”

For a second his brother turned to face him. Sandor almost wished he hadn’t. He watched, horrified as Gregor bore down on him with his black and red eyes. The rotted and mottled flesh twisted and bruised as his lips formed a smile. A smile! The fucker was smiling!

But of course he was. Gregor was in his natural element. He was killing with reckless abandon. And who was going to stop him? Not Sandor. That was what that smile said as Gregor lingered at the edge of the stairs. He could hear it in a voice from his childhood. A voice without affection. A voice well aware of its strength and the rights that strength afforded him.

"I'm going to kill her, and then I'm coming back for you."

Without another sound, Gregor turned and continued down the stairs.

Panic now mixed with the ice in Sandor’s belly.

He had begged, knowing that it would do no good. Sandor had begged Gregor to come for him and leave Arya alone. Now Gregor would kill her to break him, then return to finish the process himself.

“No!” He knew it was no use even has he screamed his pleas. “Gregor don't! It's me! You want me! Finish me!”

Gregor's shadow slipped down the stairs, not giving the slightest sign that he’d heard.

“Shit. Shit!” Sandor struggled to his feet. He sifted through the rubble, a growing effort as more continued to fall from the remains of the Red Keep. He needed the sword he’d dropped. He might be beaten senseless, but he wasn't going to lay on the ground while…

With a cry of triumph, Sandor found the blade. It was chipped and cracked but good enough for the moment providing he didn’t fall on it as he stumbled down the stairs.

“Gregor!” He yelled with all the air he had left in his lungs. When he reached the bottom step he caught sight of the stone in Gregor’s hands as it crashed down onto the floor with all the strength of his upper body behind it. Sandor’s heart stopped for a fleeting moment, but a flurry of noise and movement between Gregor’s legs told Sandor that Arya hadn’t been crushed beneath the blow, having moved just in time. Her grunts and gasps were enough to know that she wasn’t winning this fight, however. Small wonder, given that he wasn’t either.

Gregor bent over as Arya scrambled away. From this angle, Sandor could see that she was making a feeble grasp at her sword. She just missed it as Gregor slid her back towards him.

He flipped Arya over and wrapped his hands around her throat, then thrust her up into the air with terrible ease; high enough for Sandor to watch over his shoulder as he squeezed the life from her. No doubt that had been Gregor’s intent.

Sandor yelled and moved to charge but lost his balance when more debris crashed into him. Both he and his sword hit the floor in a heap of rubble and dirt. When he managed to regain himself, he was horrified to see that Arya’s face was reddening. Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy, and her lips were going blue. The veins of her forehead began to press against the thin flesh there. She made no noise that he could hear over the din of the dragon and the collapsing stone, but he could see the life leaving her as her grip slipped and her feet stilled.

Sandor was stilled too but by his own terror. He was, he realized with a sudden and overwhelming sense of despair, watching Arya die. It was the one thing Sandor had wanted to prevent by sending her away. There was plenty he’d endured and could endure still, he knew, but watching her die was the one thing he knew that would break him. And here it was occurring right before his eyes.

Her own eyes rolled and met his, just before her body went completely limp. That was when Sandor finally snapped out of his paralysis. He couldn’t tell what had been there in her expression, be it an apology or a plea, but it didn’t matter. With a rough sob, he pulled himself to his feet.

Drawing on all the strength he had left, he launched himself from the stairwell, shrieking as he swept the blade down across the rotted flesh of Gregor’s neck. The sword bit completely through, not even stopping at bone. His screams didn’t stop until Gregor’s head fell from his body.

For a moment Sandor had to process what he had just done. He looked, not fully believing that his brother could be dead. Yet his eyes told him that this was indeed true. Despite this, Sandor felt no relief. The rage wasn't quieted. The memory of all his pain did not abate. And when he remembered Arya, it swelled anew.

His brother temporarily forgotten, Sandor turned and bent over her. He choked as he saw the bruises on her neck. Her eyes gazed up sightlessly into his own while, try as he might, she responded to nothing he did to jumpstart her breathing. His shaking hands felt no pulse, and that final moment was what broke him. Sandor had always been a man haunted by ghosts. Now one more had been added to the pile, and its unmeasurable weight was what he finally collapsed beneath.

Sandor screamed again. He screamed and screamed, and as his eyes fell on the twisted smile on his brother’s rotted lips looking back at him, his screams became roars.

Sandor took the hilt of his sword and smashed it into his brother’s severed head. When there was nothing left of that but bone and pulp, he moved the blade to his brother’s corpse. With each intake of breath, he drove his blade in and out of the rank flesh. It split and oozed beneath his blows, but still Sandor went on. He hacked as if it were an axe and Gregor’s body a pile of wood. He struck at it until the blade broke, and then, still not satisfied, he began to use his fists. On his hands and knees, wailing at the slab of meat that was once his brother, and was now this thing. The monster both inside and out.

Sandor’s blood and tears mingled with Gregor’s own gore, but Sandor continued all the same, heedless to the world around him.

Arya was certain she’d never breathe again. All the air had been squeezed from her body. She had felt the growing pain of her throat being crushed and her spine protesting the pressure. The pain had continued until finally, it had just...stopped. She’d had the distinct sense of falling, and then nothing.

This was it then. This was death.

Only, death was noisy, which didn't seem right. And should death be painful?

Her throat still ached from The Mountain’s hands around her neck. It also felt as if she had gargled with sand and glass. Her head screamed in agony, as did her shoulder and chest — where she had been struck and fallen after The Mountain had sent her flying like a crow from a rookery.

No, Arya decided. This wasn’t death. She was alive. Barely.

Calmly, she forced air into her lungs. The breaths were short, wisping gasps at first, but both her inhalations and her body slowly regained some strength. Coughing, she opened her eyes. Something was happening nearby, she could feel it through the ground. It felt like a steady flow of rocks slamming into the floor around her, but the pattern was too rhythmic. She could also hear something howling. Or was it someone? It sounded human. Almost. Not the dragon, at least.

Remembering suddenly where she was Arya snapped her head up and instantly regretted it. Several of the vertebrae in her neck cracked painfully, and it was only her nearly crushed windpipe that silenced her cry of pain. With a considerable effort, she sat up and was met with a terrifying sight.

The Mountain was in pieces on the ground. A pool of black and congealed blood stained the stone floor and continued to slither out from underneath his remains. Kneeling in its midst was Sandor Clegane. The roars were coming from him, she realized. It was rage and pain and frustration made sound, and somehow it was coming from the depths of this one man.

She watched for a while, not sure what to do. Sandor was leveling blows against his brother’s corpse, but they were slow. Exhausted. Pained. He was too absorbed in his rage for her to approach him, and Arya didn’t trust her own strength to try and make him stop.

She was able to pull herself to her feet using what remained of the pillars in the room to steady herself. Slowly, she moved towards Sandor, careful to avoid the wide arcs of his fists as they continued their flurry. He didn’t seem to take any notice of her as she inched closer, but she could see more of him as she circled around the scene.

Sandor’s face was bloody and bruised. Tears mingled with his own blood and the black gore of his brother’s body. The roars, Arya was shocked to discover, were his sobs. His entire body shook with them as he continued to spend what was left of his strength into the corpse on the floor. Arya was stunned. She’d never seen anyone like this, much less Sandor Clegane.

When Sandor did finally cease, she reached out and lightly touched his shoulder. It seemed like the whole world had gone silent at that moment. All Arya was able to hear was his weeping.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her voice was barely a whisper, but all the same, it made Sandor start.

When she said it, it was meant as a means to apologize for the loss of a brother. Sandor may have hated him, but they were still family. That loss had to exist somewhere within him, and she was genuinely sorry for that pain. It was one she knew well, after all. Yet when his eyes snapped around to her, Arya second guessed herself.

At first the anger she saw there scared her. She hadn’t been scared of Sandor Clegane in a very long time, but the look in his face wasn’t that of a man. It was the look of something else. Something wild and broken.

Immediately Arya tried to jump away from him but stumbled in her haste. As she prepared to hit the floor — hard — Sandor’s bloody hand grasped her wrist and yanked her close. Arya was instantly enveloped in his giant frame. His arms closed like a cinch around her small and very sore body, holding her too close and too tight for comfort. She gasped, but made no sound that either of them could hear.

“I told you to go home, girl!” he snarled into her shoulder. “This was my fight!”

Arya straightened her head to rest it on Sandor's own shoulder. It was oddly comforting to do so. "You were losing,” she pointed out placidly.

“That’s my business.”

Smiling, Arya just managed to slip her arms out of Sandor’s vice-like embrace. Despite the pain, she was able to lift them and, ever so awkwardly, place them around Sandor’s large neck in an equally awkward embrace. The motion pained her, but she swallowed the agony.

“You told me not to die for my revenge. Now I’m returning the favor.”

Sandor was quiet at this, and Arya had the impression that he might be considering her words. In truth, he was probably seething with rage. She had essentially robbed him of his battle with Gregor Clegane, but the price to pay would have been higher had she not.

She would never apologize, she decided almost immediately. If he hated her for it, so be it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t taken her off the path of her goal too. If ending this cycle of revenge was what it took to save someone, she supposed it wasn’t that high of a price to pay in the end.

Eventually, Sandor released Arya. They stood, for one rare moment eye to eye. Arya could see the sadness and affection in his face. It was strange. Almost fatherly. Arya wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she knew thinking of him dead felt worse.
Seems like she had a lot of things to work out these days.

“Let’s go,” he said flatly. His face was still a mosaic of bruises and blood, but there were two clean lines running below his eyes and into his beard. Arya decided she wouldn't say anything.

She sheathed both of her blades and then moved to his side as they walked. He placed a hand affectionately on her shoulder as they did, albeit stiffly and sometimes needing to stop and regain their balance or catch their breath. Each waited patiently for the other, in no hurry to rejoin the chaos outside.

When they did finally enter the streets of King’s Landing and the carnage that desecrated every corner of the city, Sandor inhaled through his teeth. “Fucking shit.”

Arya glanced around, unconsciously leaning closer to him as she began to make out the charred corpses among the ashes.

“One tyrant queen for another,” Arya whispered to herself. If Sandor heard, he didn’t say anything.

Chapter Text

Sandor couldn't tear his eyes away from the corpses littering the streets. At least, he thought they were corpses. Some clearly were, but others could hardly be distinguished from the rubble and debris. He winced whenever a wayward step brought something else to crumble underfoot. He’d never been too concerned with respecting the dead, but as he walked through a freshly laid mausoleum even he had to admit that the weight of it all made him uneasy. These were not soldiers. The bodies they passed were too varied in size. Clear remains of what had once been children were curled up besides adults, animals, and gods only knew what else. In the end, it hadn't mattered. They had all burned the same.

Sandor Clegane was a hard man, but the sight of all this made even him want to wretch. It made his scar tingle and itch and his palms sweat. He knew what it was to be burned, but this was something else.

As they moved he listened for any sign of approaching Dothraki or Unsullied. On occasion he thought he might have heard dragon wings, but no. King's Landing was deathly silent now. The only exceptions were his ragged breathing and the occasional collapse of buildings too weakened on their foundations to stand.

"Stay close, girl."

Sandor peered over at Arya when he didn't hear a reply. The girl had never outpaced him by more than an arm's reach, but in her head, it was clear she was miles away; her eyes glossy and distant. The thousand-yard stare he used to hear men call it. If that wasn’t enough, her hair and clothes were caked with falling ash and snow. If he hadn't known better he could have mistook her for a ghost.

"We need to find Jon."

“We need to leave,” Sandor growled. His tone brooked no argument, but of course, Arya argued anyway.

“She's going to kill him.”

Sandor sighed. He was too tired for this. Gods, he was too tired to do anything.

“He's fucking her. She won't kill him.”

“He's a threat.”

Sandor ducked his head and snorted. Mucus and blood shot from his nose, and for a moment he felt dizzy. “How's a bastard boy from Winterfell a threat?” An edged silence filled the space between them at his question. Arya looked as though she wanted to speak, began, and then stopped. She was weighing something in her mind. As her eyes danced across Sandor's face he was able to determine at least part of the tale for himself. “He's not a bastard, is he?”

She shook her head. Sandor began to laugh. He laughed until he wheezed. Until he coughed and spit blood. Until he couldn't breathe anymore. “You’re telling me your dad had a Targaryen?”

“His sister did.”

“So...your brother is actually your cousin?” Sandor kept laughing until he nearly fell over. Arya, no doubt angry and tired of this, rushed past him, a tiny shadow of frustration and defiance. He almost missed grabbing her to prevent her from running off. Gods, how was she able to move so fast after everything that had happened?

“Hey!” He yelled, a little louder than he meant. “If he's Targaryen then that means he's got the claim to the throne!”

Arya whirled on Sandor, her gaze hardened.

“That's why she's going to kill him, you idiot! She doesn't want to share power. She came to take it.” Arya gestured around them with the arm Sandor did not have hold of, “So far she's doing a pretty good job.”

“She's got a dragon, girl!” Sandor hissed. “You can't fight a fucking dragon! I don't care how good you are. You’re not going!”

The pain of his fight with Gregor was starting to thicken in his limbs and back now. He was too slow and too injured to do anything useful, and as the day grew longer he was only going to get worse. He knew that if Arya ran he wasn't going to be able to follow her. He also knew that if she went alone, she wasn't going to come back. Or if she did, she'd resemble the charred masses that surrounded them now.

“I'm not fighting a dragon.” She said, her face defiant. I'm killing a queen.”

Gods. He was going to have to beg her, wasn’t he? He glared down at Arya, breathing painstakingly through teeth that he knew were bleeding because red spittle frothed onto his face and beard. He wanted to sit. He wanted to lie down. He wanted to fucking die, but apparently, he couldn't yet because this little bitch was still set on getting herself killed first.

"Listen, girl, I—"

“Arya!”

It was the bastard.

Sandor dropped his head and breathed a sigh of relief. If he couldn't talk any sense into the girl, mayhap her brother could.

The duo turned to face Jon, who in turn was glaring at Sandor. Realizing how this scene must look: he, a giant hulk of a man, bloodied and bruised, leaning over his sister with a firm grasp on her wrist and a snarl on his face, Sandor released Arya's arm. “Good,” he bellowed. “You talk to her. Your sister seems set on suicide despite me trying to convince her otherwise.”

Jon's frown deepened. His eyes flickered back and forth between the two of them, all the while his hand maintained a firm grip on the hilt of his sword. “What are you doing here?”

Arya paused. It seemed she wasn't sure about how to answer.

“She came with me,” Sandor croaked in her stead, straightening himself to stand just beside her. “I was coming to kill my brother.”

Jon’s face furrowed. “You needed my sister for that?”

Sandor was about to argue, but when he thought about it, he laughed. “Apparently.”

“I was coming to kill Cersei," Arya added. "Your queen beat me to it.”

She seemed to understand that another question was being asked without words. Sandor himself sensed this, though didn’t know exactly what it was. "Sandor and I have traveled together before. I—" she paused. "He's saved my life. Several times. I trust him."

Ah. So that was it. Funny that neither Jon nor Sansa had much in the way of worrying whether or not they knew where Arya was, but when she was seen with questionable company, then the questions flew. Sandor growled, remembering how Ned Stark had once been frantic when Arya had been missing for two days. It seemed even the Starks weren't immune to putting personal desires over family in the end.

Jon, oblivious to Sandor's internal musings, processed Arya's answer with his ever-present frown, then finally nodded. “Take her home, Clegane.”

He wasn't keen on taking orders from this boy, but given it was in the girl's best interest he was happy to comply. "Gladly."

Jon turned to walk away, but Arya bolted after him.

"Jon, you have to stop her."

"She's the queen."

"Fuck the queen!"

Sandor grinned at that. Then he laughed out loud because technically the boy was, in fact, fucking the queen. No one seemed to notice.

"Arya —"

"Jon she's a killer! Look around you! Even Cersei never went this far!"

"She's —"

"If you don't, I will."

"No!"

Both men shouted at the exact same time. Arya frowned, her frustration palpable. Sandor, nervous Arya would bolt, lurched forward to close some space between them. Jon stepped toward her as well, his face pleading and his voice mewling. Fucking hell, this bastard was a giant whinging bitch, just like the other one. He was going to have to have a talk with Arya about the men she kept in her life.

"Arya, please. If you do this I can't protect you."

"If she's queen, you can't protect anyone. She knows who you are! She'll come for you. For all of us."

As much Sandor hated to admit it, she was right. If this boy was a Targaryen, the dragon woman had already shown that she won't stop until everything was burning. She'd build it back up to call herself a hero and tell herself she was loved when in truth she would be feared. Any threats would be cut down without hesitation. Sandor had seen it all before. Plus, was no good against a dragon.

"Look, kid. The girl is on to something. You know it. I know it." They turned to look at him. Arya's expression was grateful, almost smiling. Her brother's face, however, was dark. "You can get close to her. You can strike the blow. She'll smell something's up if it's anyone else."

Arya started when Sandor said that.

"That's not entirely true."

Sandor waited. What Arya said next was quite possibly the last thing he expected to hear.

Sandor had never been more grotesquely fascinated in his life. He and Jon both watched as Arya skillfully lifted the flesh of a man's face from his skull — one of the dead Unsullied in the streets. There was almost no blood on the extricated skin. It had come off like a sheet of parchment.

"Now what?" Jon asked, his voice betraying his queasiness.

She faced away from them and for a moment, both men could see only the briefest motion of her hands and arms. The person that turned back around was not, nor had it ever been, Arya Stark.

Sandor felt his jaw drop. Jon’s did too.

There wasn't even a hint of Arya in this person, he noted with awe. The stature had changed. So had the face, height, and hair.

"What fucking pig shite is this?" Sandor growled.

"I became a Faceless Man when I went to Braavos," said a voice that was as unlike Arya Stark as the face that spoke it. "That's where I went after…" the strange face looked down.

"So what's next?" Jon asked, clearly still uncomfortable.

"You and I approach the Queen. So long as she's alone or at least with a small retinue we can make quick work of killing her."

Sandor looked between the two of them. He waited. Then, when the information didn’t present itself, he asked, "Where do I fit into all this?"

Arya, who was not Arya, and Jon, looked at him.

"You don't."

Sandor felt a flare of rage at that. He knew he had no right to be angry. He couldn’t even fight in his current condition, but it didn’t stop him from being pissed off. "You aren't going off by your fucking self to do this!" He stepped forward and poked Arya in the chest, which was strange as she was now much taller than before.

"I'm not going to be by myself. I'm going with Jon."

Sandor turned and snarled at the bastard now. "Are you really gonna do this, bastard? Have you got the stones?"

"Sandor—"

He held up a hand to stop Arya. This entire situation already had his skin crawling. He didn't like the idea of them going into a dragon's den to kill a mad woman who had just laid waste to the capital of Westeros. He didn't like that this son of a bitch didn't appear to understand the severity of their situation. He didn't like that Arya was doing this without so much as a thought about whether or not her brother was going to be adequate backup in this fight. He hated that he was too injured to come with them.

"Do you?" He was snarling now. He watched as Jon's face dipped low like a kicked dog. That only served to make Sandor angrier. "Because let me tell you something. You march in there to kill that woman and you fail? You're dead. And so's your sister. If that dragon or any of her men sense something is up before you get to her? You're both dead."

"You think I don't know that?"

Sandor stepped closer. He made sure that there was no place Jon could look that wasn't at least partly occupied by his own large frame. "I think you're hoping it won't come to that. That your little lady will see the error of her ways. I don't know how you've lived this long and haven't figured out that that's not how this works. Something about you Starks makes you slow learners. But let me tell you something. I don’t give a fuck about you, you whinging little cunt. I don’t give a fuck about you, or dragons or Targaryens, or any of this shite." Sandor dropped his voice low now so that only Jon could hear it. "But if you get her killed?" He glanced over his shoulder to indicate Arya. "The things I do to you will make you wish that dragon had swallowed you down its gullet whole. Do you understand me?"

Jon looked up at him. There was rage and pain there, but there was something else too. Maybe Sandor had hit a nerve with his little speech. Good. Something needed to light a fire under the kid’s ass that didn't include the Targaryen women's cunt.

The next words Jon spoke were low and bristling. "If something happens to her, there's no coming back for any of them. I'll kill them myself. Every last one."

Sandor, satisfied with this, nodded. He stepped away from Jon and looked towards Arya.

"Next time I see you, you better be wearing your own godsdamned face. You hear?"

She nodded.

"And you better fucking be alive!"

Sandor watched as they disappeared beyond the smoke and ash of King’s Landing. He lost sight of them quickly.

When the sound of their steps was swallowed up as well, he took a moment to look around. The haze was isolating, as was the seemingly ever-present falling ash. For a moment, Sandor wondered if he was a ghost now too. Maybe he had died in his fight with Gregor after all. Maybe they were all dead already and just didn’t know it yet.

He looked back to where Arya and Jon had disappeared and began to weigh his options.

Chapter Text

"So you want to tell me what that was all about?" Asked Jon as they waded through the sea of soldiers.

"Not now." Arya snapped. "We can't afford to be suspicious. Treat me like you would any of the others."

"Right."

As they approached the dias where Daenerys addressed her soldiers, Jon felt like the eyes of the world were on him. They very well might have been. Certainly the gods were judging him, and the role he had played in all of this. He never would have believed that this was how King's Landing would be taken, yet he couldn't drown out the lingering warnings Sansa had issued him since Winterfell.

He should have listened.

They each worked their way through the swell of soldiers. The smell of horse and musk blended with the reek of burnt flesh and blood. The ground trembled with the sound of hooves and the roars of Drogon, so much so that Jon could feel it in his head and chest. King's Landing was unrecognizable. Jon had no idea how any of this was going to be fixed. If it even could be. They would never be hailed as the heroes that saved thousands from the rule of Cersei. They were invaders. They were murderers. And Jon had been a part of it all.

As they made their way to the forefront of the armies, Daenerys issued Jon a passing smile. Arya had fallen in with a small assembly of soldiers behind Grey Worm on the other side of the stairs. Jon glanced over at her nervously. Arya didn't so much as blink.

If Jon had had the time to process everything, he would have reflected on how changed she was. He was, to say the least, proud of her. She was a hero. A savior of men and all the realm. There would never be another person her equal in living memory, and likely even beyond that. Yet he was afraid for her, and dearly wished she had left with Clegane. He was afraid for himself, too. He was afraid for all of Westeros, and the people he had failed, and might fail again.

Tyrion Lannister came from behind the castle wall's remains as Daenerys finished her speech. Jon couldn't hear the exchange, but judging by both of their expressions, this was not a pleasant conversation. His assumption was affirmed as Tyrion was escorted away with Grey Worm's men. He afforded one last glance at Arya as she joined them, who, again, never returned it.

Sweat was beginning to pool along his back, and an ice cold sickness that had nothing to do with the temperature took root in his stomach. Was he really going to do this?

"Jon?"

He jumped at the sound of his name. Daenerys was a few feet away from him, her smile warm and bright. A direct contrast to the landscape they stood in.

"My Queen?"

"Walk with me."

Jon obeyed.

There was no conversation as they approached what remained of the Red Keep. Jon kept feeling the need for words, but didn't trust himself enough to voice them. His stomach had become a writhing pit of snakes while his limbs buzzed with fear. He couldn't do this.

He could not.

He had to.

As they entered, Jon was shocked to find what little was left of the throne room. He had never seen it before, but could imagine that at one point it must have been a very grand, albeit intimidating place. A layer of ash and snow had already fallen, giving the dilapidated space an even darker atmosphere. The scene was offsetting, as if Jon were somehow in a dream.

The grey of the new world, born of fire and blood, permeated every corner of this room. Jon felt colder than he'd ever been in his life here. Amidst the ash and the ruin, he questioned everything he'd ever done. He wished for the briefest of moments that the Red Woman had never brought him back. This was not the world he had wanted to see. He'd just wanted things to be normal again. How foolish he had been. After everything he’d seen and done, there was no such thing as normal anymore. He thought of Arya and Sansa, changed and wise beyond their years for all the evils that had been done to them. Normal had been left behind at Winterfell the day he took the black.

How long ago had that been now?

"Do you know what my brother used to tell me?"

Jon glanced up, realizing only then that Daenerys had been speaking.

"Your grace?"

"My brother told me once that the throne was made of one thousand swords. At the time, I couldn't even count to twenty. I had no idea what that might even look like."

As Jon watched her, he heard the words Sandor spoke to him. The images of dead children, women, and civilians charred to ash in the streets flashed before his eyes. He still couldn’t believe what Daenerys had done. Now here she was, speaking to him about childhood stories as if those horrors outside weren’t real. As if she wasn’t the cause for them.

"Daenerys," his voice was a whisper, like wind rushing through a narrow valley. As he spoke, his resolve sifted out with his words. He was weakening. She was so beautiful. How could she have done something so awful? "King's Landing…"

Her face went slack, and Jon could smell a roiling danger underneath her placid gaze. It was the face of a predator. Jon had never seen her like this before, and was momentarily lost for words.

"It had to be done."

"The children? The women? Civilians, Dany?"

She began to speak again, but Jon was only aware of a ringing in his ears. Behind him, a small gathering of Unsullied filled the entryway and stopped only yards behind him. He turned to see. He could not tell if Arya was among them or not.

Daenerys' voice came back to him, and he realized that Arya had been right. Sansa had been right. Tyrion. Varys. If he didn't do this now, he was going to die, because Dany was going to kill him.

"We can't build a new world with people who were loyal to the old one," Daenerys said sternly. She was close. So close. "I came here to take what was mine, and break the wheel of oppression."

The grind of wood and the song of metal whispered behind Jon's back. They were preparing to strike. If Arya wasn't there at all —

A cry rang out.

Jon and Dany both looked over to see one of the foremost Unsullied soldiers with a spear through his chest. He fell, and his brothers looked back with confusion to the man who had murdered one of their own.

"What is the meaning of this?" Daenerys spat.

In one deft motion, the soldier's helmet dropped. With another, the face was peeled away to reveal Arya. She was in the Unsullied armor she had stolen while he and Clegane had played lookout for her to change, but her original weapons, the Valyrian dagger and Needle, were now visible on her belt as well. Her face was a snarling mask of rage. The Unsullied, usually unflappable, took measured steps away from this creature in their midst, clearly unsure of what to do.

For a moment, even with her true face, Jon didn't recognize her. He felt alone in that room for the briefest of moments, surrounded by strangers with familiar faces.

Daenerys seemed to sense what was happening and turned to him. She spoke his name, both a question and an accusation. Jon never answered. He stared at his sister, her face wild and insistent. He swallowed. Jon knew what he had to do, and he didn't want to do it.

An uproar happened all at once. The remaining Unsullied turned on Arya. With her weapons drawn she was able to parry most of their blows, but a spear sliced through her side and brought her momentarily to one knee.

Jon screamed, drew his sword and charged the frey. Arya was still managing against a handful of them despite the wound, but the rest turned on Jon as he approached. Daenerys, he saw from the corner of his eye, barely moved from where she stood, so confident was she in her soldiers' ability to protect her.

It wasn't until the first spear sliced a fine line over his shoulder that Jon realized both he and Arya might be in more trouble than they'd realized. He could see that of the ten Unsullied that had stepped into the room (counting Arya) she had killed three. There were still another three on her, as well as Jon. He deftly cut the legs from one nearby and silenced his cries with a strike to the chest, but Jon knew this would be no good. They were making too much noise. If any of this fight was overheard from the outer walls, they were going to be in a lot of trouble.

A shriek rang out, and Jon saw that Arya had felled one more Unsullied. Another fell immediately after, but not by Jon’s hand or Arya’s.

A large double bladed axe dropped as another soldier was crushed beneath a massively powerful blow. The moment caused combat to stop as both Starks looked up to see Sandor Clegane. The man looked like shit. He was covered in sweat and blood, and appeared nearly as rabid as his namesake with his wildly unkempt hair and beard. He heaved a great sigh and looked to each of them, frowning.

“You were supposed to leave!” Arya hissed. Her hand was at her waist, blood streaming between her fingers. Clegane ripped his axe from the felled Unsullied so violently that the limbs spasmed. He immediately struck down another that had run directly towards him. With a grunt he stood up stiffly and peered over his shoulder at her.

“And you weren’t supposed to die, yet here we are and you’re already bleeding all over everything.” Clegane spoke with a snarl, but there was something playful and familial in their glances and bickering. Jon felt a pang of jealousy at the private moment. Clearly they shared something that Jon didn't understand.

Arya, now smiling, sent a spear from one of the dead men into the soldier nearest Jon. That left him able to dispatch the final soldier. When the fighting was done, Jon turned to Daenerys. Her face was set in stone, but the fire of her bloodline burned in her eyes.

“Dany,” Jon whispered. “It didn’t have to be like this.”

“But it did.” The set of her jaw told Jon that she had no apologies for what she’d done. Those soldiers had been sent to kill him in the Throne chamber. Arya had been right. Jon felt like such a fool. “I will suffer no challenge to my claim to the Iron Throne. I’ve worked too hard! I’ve sacrificed everything!” Her voice rose until she was screaming. Eventually she was going to draw the attention of other soldiers if the din of combat hadn't done so already. Jon had to act now, but as he moved, the steady beat of something terrible met his ears. A black shadow, darker than death loomed into sight. Daenerys’ eyes burned bright as each person in the room beheld Drogon, landing just beyond the Throne, perching on a ledge that had once been wall. His eyes glanced to each of them, sizing up his foes with the calm of a bird of prey.

Clegane pulled Arya behind him, seeming almost by instinct. Jon was grateful for that, but knew that when Drogon’s fire flew, no human shield was adequate enough protection.

“You’ve woken the dragon.” Daenerys said with a twinge of irony in her voice. She had told Jon about the phrase her brother had used before he would beat her. It seemed villainous to use it here. It was the final motion that broke his heart.

Drogon lurched forward, his great scales shifting as his shoulders drew his full frame to bare. His neck arched while his body framed Daenerys, who stood motionless beneath her beast. The dragon’s head came down low, almost parallel with Jon.

“Dracarys.”

Jon prepared for the end. Hoped it would be swift. He prayed for forgiveness for taking Arya and, of all people, Sandor Clegane with him. But the fire never came. With a muted hiss an Unsullied spear struck true in Drogon’s eye before it could even open its mouth. The creature shrieked. Its head pulled back and let loose the flame into the sky instead. Jon turned. Daenerys glared. Even Sandor looked behind him in wonder. Arya was already on the move, grabbing another spear and leveling it for a second strike. “NOW!” she screamed.

Jon didn’t waste another moment. He ran, but Drogon was there waiting for him. So, as it turned out, was Arya. She missed his eye this time, but managed to catch him deep in the shoulder. The beast screamed and Jon thought his ears might implode from the force of it. Still, he managed to make his way to Daenerys. Her eyes widened as he plunged Longclaw deep within her. He wept as he did it, and more still when her body fell limp. He caught her and eased her to the ground slowly, her final breaths puffing out like candlelight.

He was not given time to mourn as Drogon’s gaze settled on the scene before him. The beast only had one good eye now thanks to Arya, but it was enough for him to process what had been done. Drogon screamed. Jon felt the blistering heat of dragon breath as it was summoned from deep within the dragon’s gullet.

Another spear ripped through the dragon's cheek. The beast screamed again and turned its head, forgetting Jon and Daenerys entirely. His head was so low that Clegane was able to charge the beast and force the spear into its eye and far back into its skull. As he did, Arya launched herself upward and planted a spear in its remaining good eye. The dragon was now unquestionably blinded. It was also, mercifully, dying. Two spear points directly into its brain would manage that just fine.

That didn’t stop its death rattles from echoing all across King’s Landing, however. The beast lurched, tossed and screamed. Fire ripped from its mouth and doused the hall. Arya and Sandor dove for cover beneath the beast’s thrashing legs and back against the southern wall, the larger man helping her along as they stumbled together. Jon was forced to release Daenerys’ body and seek cover at the northernmost part of the room. The dragon raged on. It beat its wings, tearing down more wall as it went. Its tail thrashed, destroying pillars and even knocking over the throne. A final blast of flame set it to melt along with half the stone along the western wall. Finally, it stumbled and plummeted into the sea, a solitary screech let out before it crashed and drowned beneath the waves.

For a moment Jon couldn’t move. He was too stunned and too heart wary. Debris covered much of the throne room that remained, coating everything in a fine dust that continued to mix with the falling snow. He gazed out toward where the dragon had fallen, then back over the room. Daenerys’ body remained in the center of everything, her eyes glaring up in fevered accusation. Out of the corner of his vision he saw stirring. Sandor Clegane was sitting up, Arya wrapped protectively in his arms. They too seemed to be taking in the destruction around them, each as stunned at Jon for being alive.

“We have to go,” Clegane announced gruffly. He was on his feet now and helping Arya to hers. She stood, wavering for a moment, then gained her balance. “Now.”

“I’m not going to argue that,” Arya’s voice was hoarse. Blood still dribbled down her brigandine, though it didn’t seem too serious of a wound to be concerned yet.

“Small miracles,” Clegane barked, then turned to Jon. “You’d better come with us for now. Her men come back to see her body and you with your sword in her belly, things won’t end well for you.” Jon nodded. He strode over to retrieve his sword, and with a final sad sigh, closed Daenerys’ eyes with his hand. “Hurry up, bastard.”

“Where do we go?” Jon asked, his face darting around to all the corners that remained.

“Follow me.”

They set off at a rapid pace but were eventually forced to slow. Not just for Arya’s sake, but Sandor too who was still sore from his earlier fight. He took them down miraculously still intact corridors and out through a stoney cliff face path that was as precarious as it was gainful. Over the course of an hour they marched through the hidden mazes of the Red Keep that could only have been known by someone who had spent a great many years behind its walls.

“It’s a good thing you’re here,” Jon mused as they stopped to catch their breath. Wherever they were now in the Keep, there was no way the Unsullied or Dothraki would find them. At least, not with any ease.

“Aye, you’re damn right about that.” He turned to Arya. “Still living, girl?”

“For now.” A slip of a smile danced over Sandor's face. Arya returned it. "We killed a dragon," she added, and for a moment she sounded just like Arya. Old Arya. The one Jon had loved with all his heart, whose hair he had tousled and whose sentences they had each completed.

"Pretty sure nothing is safe from you," he jested. Arya's grin widened slightly, and they spent a solid moment basking in each other's presence and their safety.

"So I'm going to have to hear this story someday," he said while wagging a finger between the two of them. Truly, he wanted to be friendly, but he still couldn't let his hackles lower just yet. Jon had trusted Sandor enough going beyond the wall, but it was entirely different for the man to be in his sister's company. Yet as he thought this, he watched Sandor place a shovel sized hand behind Arya's head to gently coax her forward. It was something their father used to do, he remembered. It made Jon feel suddenly very small and alone.

"If we live I'll tell you whatever the hell you want to hear," Sandor growled. Clearly, despite their own short history together, Clegane's affections were limited to one person at a time. Odd as it was, Jon was happy knowing that, if nothing else, Arya had people watching her back when he wasn't around.

He fell in behind them as they moved forward. Periodically Clegane would reach out to tap Arya's shoulder, while she in turn would do the same to his elbow. He wasn't sure if there was a language there, or just the reassurance of a comforting presence. Jon let it alone.

As their walk breached the daylight, they made a swift exit back to the city gates where much of the northern armies had fallen back. Jon left Arya and Sandor to tend to his men, and the mess that was coming after.

When Jon finally left, disappearing amongst the throngs if his bannermen, Sandor turned to Arya and gripped her arm with a gentle firmness and grumbled "Come on girl, let's get that wound looked at."

Arya complied, too tired to fight any longer. When she was appropriately stitched up and Sandor drugged beyond registering much of his pain, they claimed a small tent and fell immediately to sleep.

Chapter Text

It took weeks for the events of the sacking of King's Landing to be reduced to slightly less than the start of a peasant rebellion. Even with the dragon queen dead, the fact that so many Great Houses had banded around her until the end left the masses with little confidence in their guardians and liege lords. Jon inherited the throne with more ire than any king in known history, and it was no secret that his rule would face questioning at every turn.

Tyrion Lannister stayed on as his Hand, as much a punishment for the Lion as it was for the Wolf. Sansa had returned to the North with a small army of bannermen, leaving Brienne of Tarth to be Captain of the Kingsguard. Bronn of the Blackwater and Ser Davos Seaworth were now members of Jon's small council along with the recently fully fledged Maester Samwell Tarly. With two key positions left to be filled, however, the council could not yet be considered complete. Arya and Sandor Clegane had both been offered positions themselves; Arya as Master of Whispers, and Clegane as Master of Laws. Both had refused, having little taste for politics even under "The Bastard King" Jon Snow.

They remained in King's Landing long enough to help with various transfers. Sandor assisted in mapping out areas of the Red Keep that had been lost in the battle, while Arya kept her ears to the ground to soak up any whispers of dissent. She may not have officially accepted the Master of Whispers role, but there wasn't any reason to not play it for the time being.

Nights were spent eating quiet meals as two or three. Sandor and Arya often took theirs together. Jon would occasionally join in to pick their brains and subtly beg them to stay on, especially Arya.

"I need someone I can trust," he said one night. "And you're one of the few people I know would have my back no matter what."

"I can't stay in the same place father was executed," she finally said matter of factly. "Please stop asking, Jon. You weren't here. You don't know what it was like. This place is full of blood and ghosts and I've grown tired of both."

Sandor stared meaningfully at her until Jon left them alone. When finished, he asked casually "So what are your plans, then? You don't want to go home. You don't want to stay here. What's that leave for a lone wolf cub?"

Arya glanced up at him, then back down to her barely touched plate. She changed the topic near immediately.

"What does the last son of House Clegane plan to do? I imagine Tyrion Lannister would reward you handsomely for your service to the Crown. There's gold and lands to be had, enough for you to become your own major House even."

"I've no interest to return to those halls," he growled while stabbing angrily at the remains of food on his plate. "Place reeks of Gregor. Probably find bodies in the wells and walls. I'd sooner see it burn."

"You haven't answered my question."

"Neither have you."

A grin flickered across Arya's face as he spoke. Few people were as attentive as Sandor Clegane, she knew. His many years at court were easy to forget about under that gruff visage and tongue. Still, he only ever seemed to ask pointed questions of her, which meant he was genuinely curious despite attempting to look uninterested.

"I think I'm going to leave Westeros." She said at last, her eyes panning out across the room.

"Back to your Braavosi god?" He grumbled, taking a swig of his ale.

Was that disappointment in his voice? She couldn't tell. She chose to ignore it for the time being. "No. I want to go west."

Whatever Sandor had expected as a reply, it hadn't been that. He choked and spluttered into his tankard and had to wipe his dripping beard clean before he could speak. Arya helped herself to his mug as he glared over at her through the mess.

"There's nothing west of Westeros," he growled.

"No. No one knows what's west of Westeros. Someone should find out."

Sandor's glare softened, but only slightly. "Why's it got to be you?"

"Because I don't think I can stay here anymore, Sandor." When he didn't press, she continued. "You heard me tell Jon that I can't stay in King's Landing. My father died here, as you well know. We all almost died here. But Westeros is full of ghosts from a life I never truly lived. Have I told you I can't even remember my father's face anymore?" She took a deep drag from the ale before continuing. "Or my mother's. Or Robb's. Rickon would be a man now, and I can't remember his laugh or smile, but I remember playing hide and seek in the godswood. I could show you every place we'd hide from Robb, or Jon when we played. I can almost hear them all whenever I stand beneath a weirwood tree.

"I can't recall my mother's scent or remember my father's embrace, but I can tell you what Walter Frey's face looked like when I slit his throat. I can tell you how many tears were on Petyr Baelish's face when I opened his throat too. I can tell you everything I've ever done to avenge a family that I can barely remember, and it didn't do anything in the end."

Sandor reached over to refill the ale mug before pushing it in Arya's direction with a sigh, having apparently decided that she needed it more right now.

"I could point out that every man, woman, and child in Westeros is alive because you put a dagger in the Night King." Arya looked up and was surprised to see Sandor smiling warmly at her. "So I wouldn't say it was for nothing. You saved my life a handful of times and that was before your fucking death cult. And twice after. Your brother is alive because of your counsel and your strength. You also killed a dragon."

"We killed a dragon."

Sandor ignored her. "You may not remember your father's face, girl. But eventually, no one does. You can't remember your mother's scent or your brother's laugh. So what? They'd never believe how far you've come because they would have never predicted the path set out for you. Whatever they looked like, they'd be smiling proud at you now if they could."

"I've done awful things."

"And?" Sandor grabbed himself another mug and topped it off. "We've all done awful things. You know how I know?"

Arya looked at him pointedly. "How?"

"Because we're fucking alive. This world doesn't let many people go their entire lives not having bloodied their hands once or twice. There's plenty of people who much prefer you breathing than rotting in the dirt or a tomb."

They drank and sat in an uneasy quiet. Outside, the waves of the Narrow Sea could be heard lapping at the shoreline. Further out, light music from a distant tavern wafted in on the cool winter air. King's Landing seemed almost normal at that moment. Everything seemed almost normal.

"So what will you do?" Arya asked again. Jenny of Oldstones was whistling up at them from the darkness, and it made her feel very forlorn. Sandor shrugged, peering down at the bottom of his tankard with mild irritation.

"Don't know." He grunted, pouring another glass full. He half-filled Arya's before the pitcher ran dry. Sandor grunted again, moving to order another before remembering they were alone.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Been asking me shit since we first met. Don't know why you're stopping now."

"Why did you keep me with you?" Sandor looked at her through a heavy brow, weighed down all the more by heavy drink. "After the Eyrie. I get before, but eventually I was no value to you. If anything I was a burden, and a dangerous one. You could have left me to die. You could have killed me. No one would have ever known."

"Is that the kind of man you take me for?" Sandor growled.

Arya raised a stern but placating hand. "That's not what I said. I'm saying you could have. Instead, you kept a second mouth to feed and another body to guard. I wasn't exactly kind to you, or even grateful, and I didn't exactly have any useful skills to offer. Why?"

Sandor huffed. His eyes never left her face while she spoke. Even now he only stared at her, no doubt choosing his next words with great care.

"You reminded me of myself," He said at last. When he didn't go on, Arya pushed him.

"That's it?"

"That's enough."

Arya glanced away. Secretly she was disappointed in Sandor's answer, but at the same time, she hadn't known what she expected. He wasn't a sentimental man, though she'd swear he once shed tears for her, along with a good deal of blood. Then again, perhaps that said more than words ever could. Arya supposed she should be grateful.

"Still do most days," he started again. Arya almost didn't hear him. The drink was making his voice low. Or maybe it was making her head buzz. Maybe both. "You're a firebrand. Your hate is powered by the fire of the seven hells when it gets hold of you, and by the gods, you do everything to get what you need to survive. It's harder for you being a girl, so that makes you tougher than most, maybe even me. You're what the world made you, and you don't apologize for it because who has the right to judge you after they mold you?

"You weren't at all like your sister. I wanted to protect her, I really did. But she didn't want to protect herself. I think her guilt laid her bare to her own suffering until she became strong enough to take it. Some people can be that. Not people like us."

Arya tilted her head, considering this. She idly spun her tankard with her left hand while her right drummed along to the song coming through the window.

"And what are we? What kind of people?"

"Killers." He smiled. "And we're damn good at it. We built the world, but it also built us. And we're going to keep building it." Sandor drained his tankard and then slammed it into the table. Arya didn't so much as flinch. "And…" he said, his words slurring only slightly. "I'm coming with you."

"What?"

"Don't fight me, girl,” he growled, pushing his tankard forward to emphasize his point. “I ain’t got nothing here to keep me. If you go wandering off I’ll just drink myself to an early grave.”

“Why don’t you return to Winterfell? Become Sansa’s sworn shield?”

Sandor raised an eyebrow at her over his tankard. “Would you prefer that?”

Arya didn’t have to search long within herself to find the answer. “No.”

That raised a laugh from the large man. There was something sly in his eyes that Arya wasn’t altogether displeased to see, but it made her feel vulnerable. She’d just admitted to something that she still hadn’t allowed herself to fully acknowledge until just now. In a rush, she sat up and reached a hand across the table. She grasped his wrist. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” They were staring at each other now. Arya fought to keep her face stern. “You don’t owe me anything. You don’t owe the Starks, or Winterfell, or Westeros anything. You can go home, Sandor. Retire. Die old and fat amongst your whores and your wine. It would be an easy life.”

“Aye,” He agreed. His normally fierce eyes softened, and he moved his hand to grasp hers in return. Her tiny palm nearly disappeared in his. “But I told you, we’re too similar. I know that look in your face, girl, because I had it most my life.”

“What’s that?”

“You said you had ghosts you’re trying to outrun. The only way you outrun the dead is by joining them. I’m not going to see you off to disappear in some unknown corner of the world. That’s a lonely life. You don’t want it. You think you do, but eventually, it catches up with you. It makes you funny.”

“Maybe I’ll start running around with a band of fire worshippers?” Her grin was devilish. Sandor laughed again.

“That you might. But like I said. I don’t have a home to go back to, and you don’t have one you’re ready to see just yet. I’ll go with you, if only to keep your nose out of trouble and your head on your shoulders.”

Arya offered him a wry smile and dismissed herself.

Jon had seen Arya off from King’s Landing. She was to embark from White Harbor, seen off there by her sister and brother as well as a list of bannermen and a fully equipped ship and crew.

“You’ll come back to visit, won’t you?” He half sobbed into her hair. Arya smiled sadly, though Jon couldn’t see it.

“Probably.” When she finally peeled himself from his arms, she was surprised to see genuine tears in his eyes. “You shouldn’t do that. Your people shouldn’t see their king cry.”

“No, but my little sister can.”

Arya smiled again and allowed herself to be embraced one more time. She never once corrected him on how they were technically cousins, if only because it didn’t feel like the truth. They had been raised as brother and sister. As far as Arya was concerned that was never going to change.

“I’ve seen you cry enough, Jon. Remember all those times I beat you at archery?” She felt the rumble of Jon’s laugh in her chest, and it warmed her in and out. She would miss him. “If I come back, perhaps I’ll take that Master of Whispers chair.”

Jon pulled her away at the shoulders. He cupped her face in his hands and leaned in close. “You’ll come back.” He said, leaving no room for questioning. “Just make sure you don’t take too long.”

“Is that an order from the King?”

He smiled. “If it has to be.”

Jon had insisted on a small guard for her and Sandor as they made their way north, but both had refused. They’d made the trek across Westeros, just the two of them, more times than they could count. They wouldn’t need guards. Jon was displeased, not least by the fact that Arya would be unaccompanied with no one but The Hound as a traveling companion, but her glance told Jon to not take the issue any further.

The two men had a quick and uncomfortable formal goodbye as Arya saddled her horse. She suspected more words were being shared between them that weren’t meant for her ears based on their body language and the concerned, glazed eyes of his Kingsguard — all save Brienne, who knew this dog and pony show well at this point.

The Kingsguard Captain had seen Arya off personally as well. “Give my affections to your sister,” she’d said. “And take care of each other.” Brienne looked over her shoulder at Sandor, who was still talking to Jon. “He’s a gruff man, but he cares about you more than he’ll ever admit.”

“How do you know?” Arya frowned up at the giant woman.

“When we met in King’s Landing to speak with Queen Cersei, I told him you were alive. He asked me what I was doing here instead of protecting you.” Arya’s eyes narrowed, though she believed Brienne’s words to be true. The knight had no reason to lie after all. “I told him the only person who needed protecting was the person that got in your way. His smile was…” Brienne trailed off. “Just know that he’s proud of you. I’m pretty sure you’re the reason he rode back with us to Winterfell. He needed to see you for himself.” Brienne bowed then and took her leave of Arya, who was left contemplating these words until Sandor finally joined her with Stranger saddled.

“Ready?” he barked.

She didn’t respond, instead guiding herself into the saddle of her own gelding. With one last glance toward Jon, Arya rode off in Sandor’s shadow.

Chapter Text

The journey to Winterfell was a long and quiet affair.

Most of the people of Westeros who had never been caught between the White Walkers or the battle in King’s Landing had continued to live, for the most part, blessedly normal lives. The only changes now were the snows that came further south than The Neck. Eventually even they would grow in severity, bringing travel to a halt, but for the time journeying in the south was manageable

Sandor and Arya made camp in fields and forests off of the Kingsroad most nights. Sometimes there was conversation, while other times they enjoyed an easy quiet. Now that Arya had a bow they didn’t have to worry about going hungry, save for the rare night when game was short. As the weeks went on they fell into an easy and familiar travelling routine and comradery.

One night, having grown tired of sleeping in the dirt, and with a few coins to their names, they stopped at the Inn at the Crossroads. While there, a fat boy recognized Arya and proceeded to talk her ear off through a good hour of their meal, managing to severely sour Sandor’s mood.

“You must not remember Hotpie,” she grinned after he had left. “I guess its been a while.”

Sandor stopped chewing and stared at Arya with a blunt expression. “Is that really his fucking name?”

“No. It’s just what everyone called him. He was with me and Gendry when the Brotherhood Without Banners captured all of us.”

Sandor did remember that. It hadn’t exactly been his best moment, and the sudden association of this place with Thoros and Beric made him wish they hadn’t already paid for a room. He clapped his fork on his plate and pushed it to the edge of the table, leaving much of the meal unfinished.

Arya raised an eyebrow at him while still stuffing her face. “Don’t like it?”

“Don’t like anything about this place,” he growled.

Her brow crinkled in confusion. “You were fine with it a minute ago.”

Sandor only huffed into his tankard as a response, then began to peer around the inn warily. Soon, the one Arya called Hotpie swept past the table again to take his plate, then stopped, giving Arya an up and down glance he no doubt thought was subtle. Sandor fought the urge to punch him.

“Hey!” The fatboy’s face lit up. “Whatever happened to Gendry? You ever see him around anymore?”

If he hadn’t been paying attention, Sandor would have missed Arya’s expression and voice going flat at the mention of the Baratheon bastard.

“He’s Lord Baratheon now. The dragon queen named him Lord of Storm’s End before they marched on King’s Landing.”

“Seven hells,” Hotpie breathed. “And your brother let him keep it?”

She shrugged, digging into her food a little too fiercely. “No reason not to. He helped Jon as much as he helped the dragon queen.”

Hotpie nodded thoughtfully, not sensing her mood change in the least. “Think he needs a kitchen cook out there at Storm’s End?” Arya shrugged a second time while licking food remnants from her thumb and forefinger. The boy started to speak again, but Sandor heard someone scream his ridiculous name from the kitchens and he waddled off.

“What’s that all about?” he asked after another moment of Arya destroying her plate.

“What?”

“Fat boy struck a nerve asking about your bastard.”

She looked away, feigning an air of nonchalance and letting her fork dance while she spoke. “Only bastard I have is my brother who, actually, is neither a bastard nor my brother.”

Sandor ignored the misdirection, but had enough sense to smell sensitive territory. “You could have married him once he was made Lord of Shit’s End.” The jab made Arya smile weakly. “What happened? He forget about you the minute he got his own name?” When she didn’t respond he huffed in disappointment. “Bah! You could do better anyway.”

Arya chewed thoughtfully for a moment, her gaze still cast outwards. “He asked me to marry him, actually.”

Sandor was glad he hadn’t taken a draft from his tankard at that moment, because it would have been the second time she’d made him wear his drink in as many months. His next words came out as a dry croak. “What?”

Arya shoved the rest of her plate away, apparently equally dissatisfied with the meal now too. “The minute Daenerys named him Lord Baratheon. Came to me and got down on one knee. Asked me to marry him right there in the fucking stables of Winterfell. Said it wouldn’t mean anything if I wasn’t his Lady.” She rolled her eyes, but Sandor could see them wetting just a little in the low light of the inn.

“Why didn’t you say yes, girl? You could have been happy.”

“I wouldn’t have been happy,” she snapped, but immediately winced at the harshness of her reply. She glanced at him in a tacitly understood apology. “That life isn’t for me. It never was.”

Sandor considered her for a moment, watching. Her shoulders had bunched up beneath her ears as she spoke, and the toned muscles in her upper arms tensed. Whatever she said about the bastard was betrayed by her body’s visceral reaction to the thought of him. Sandor huffed. “But in the end it still meant something to him then, huh? Because he’s still Lord Baratheon, and not Gendry Waters who follows around in the Stark girl’s shadow.” Arya said nothing, instead taking a deep drag from her tankard.

Sandor hadn’t liked the boy when he met him. Had liked him even less when their dealings beyond the Wall concluded. Sandor hadn’t thought the bastard could have dropped any lower on his list of people he didn’t give a shit about, but here he was listening to Arya not so much talk, but perform the pain he had caused her by choosing a new life over her. Sandor wanted to rant and bitch about the little shit, but even he had the wherewithal to know that whatever his feelings were about Gendry, Arya had clearly, at one time, felt something for him, so maybe he hadn’t been all bad. That didn't mean he would forgive the bastard, but Sandor could tell any further criticism would not ease Arya's pain. Instead he gentled his voice as best he could and leaned over with a wicked grin. “Want to go kill him?”

Arya’s face lit up in a smile while she simultaneously choked on a combination of laughter and drink. Her mirth didn't fade as she looked up at him while wiping ale from her chin with her sleeve.

“Nah. Let him have his stupid castle at Shit’s End. Where we’re going will be a lot more interesting.”

Sandor raised his mug and they toasted, finishing off their drinks before heading to bed.

Winterfell had gained nearly two feet of snow since Sandor and Arya had last been north. It was hell to slug through, and Sandor was glad that they weren’t making the way on foot. Still, it made for shit sleeping at night. They shared a tent and warmth as best they could in any way that wasn’t awkward or inappropriate, but in the end they spent more time shivering than sleeping. They both almost wept with relief when the grey walls of the Stark ancestral home grew out of the snow and the thinning night sky.

“Gods I need a bath,” Arya hissed as she lead her gelding into the stables.

Sandor stretched and shivered in the morning air, his eyes peeling around at the remaining destruction from the White Walker attack. It seemed recovery was slow going even in Winterfell. “Your sister not greeting us at the gates?” he asked.

Arya cast him a sly grin. Sandor shifted his feet. “We were only two on the road, and more than likely Jon’s court is too busy to have actually remembered to send a raven. Sansa is going to be surprised at our arrival, no doubt.”

She had been correct. Lady Sansa of Winterfell received her sister and Sandor Clegane with a flustered grace that he suspected few got to see. She saw them to one of the central rooms that received most of its heat from the hot springs Winterfell had been built upon, so there was no need for a fire save for light. Sandor wondered if this had been done on purpose for his comfort.

“Please accept my apologies,” she spoke genteely, waving them into seats at a long table. “We don’t have rooms ready at the moment, but that will be remedied before dinner. In the meantime I’ve asked the kitchen to scrape something together for you both. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

In the tight confines of the room Sandor was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was alone with two young women who were not only Ladies of the House in which he stood, but princesses of the realm. He’d spent enough time at court for this to not be an issue, but was appalled that Winterfell was apparently lacking the appropriate security measures given these facts. When Sandor commented on this, Sansa only smiled.

"Am I in any danger while in the presence of my sister and yourself?"

Sandor frowned, playing delicately with answer in his head. Before he could reply, however, Arya beat him to it. "You're the safest you'll ever be, but that doesn't make up for the fact that you didn't dismiss any guards the entire time we've been here with you."

Sandor nodded with a huff. "She's right. Are your people really that useless or did we miss them when you greeted us?"

Sansa's smile was grim. "I'm home. I'm safe here."

"Bran was home when Jamie Lannister pushed him out a tower window."

Sansa shot Arya an icy glare. Sandor sighed. "She's right," he repeated, softly enough to hopefully defuse some of the tension. "You need your men trained. Or better men entirely."

"And where am I going to find someone to do that? The men we have here now aren't the ones we had before. They know how to fight, but that's about it. Anything beyond that…" Sansa trailed off.

Sandor felt a discomfort grow in his belly that had nothing to do with the food or exhaustion. He realized then that when Jon Snow had left for King's Landing he had unwittingly taken their best men with him, leaving his sisters almost completely unprotected in their own home.

"I could train them." Both women glanced up at him, apparently surprised by the offer.

Arya's expression was pensive, but as she sat it transmuted into satisfaction. "He could. Sandor was Joffrey's sworn shield, and an honorary Kingsguard. He's probably the best person to do it in over a thousand miles."

"But you'll be leaving soon."

"Far from soon," Arya stated matter-of-factly. "I have a lot of planning to do, including buying a ship, hiring on a crew, and purchasing supplies. We likely won't leave before the year is out."

Sansa nodded, then turned to Sandor reproachfully. He sat back in his seat. "I understand you'll be joining my sister on this mad quest of hers. Will you have the time to handle our men?"

He nodded, almost bowing. "I believe so. Lady Arya accepted my services when I offered them, but I don't have any duties under her command yet."

“Lady Arya now, is it?” Sansa asked of her little sister, raising her brow and a corner of her mouth in an inquisitive playfulness.

“Only now, apparently. It’s been "girl” the whole way up here.” Arya emphasized the word with a deep, crackling voice that was supposed to sound like him, albeit with a comedic note. She glanced at him as she did and their eyes met. There was a rare smile there, and even though he grumbled his response he couldn't help but find one for himself. "And for what it's worth, he didn't so much offer as tell me he was coming."

Now grinning in full too, Sansa said, "If you're so keen to have extra work, far be it from me to stop you. I'll inform our Master at Arms to meet with you on the morrow."

Sandor nodded his assent and dismissed himself from their company, intent on inspecting the castle grounds before he lost the sun.

He was in the stables brushing down Stranger when Sansa found him later. The smile he’d left her with was still on her face, and a rosiness had joined it on her cheeks. He suspected she and Arya had enjoyed some wine before she had come to seek him out.

“I have to say I didn’t expect to see you in the North ever again.”

Sandor grunted, not meeting her eyes, though he could see the figure she cut even from his peripheral vision. Still beautiful. Still one of the tallest women he'd ever seen. Still making him feel small and worthless in the abundance of all her majesty. “Nor did I.”

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well.” He stayed silent, not out of rudeness, but uncertainty. “Can I ask why you’re going with Arya?”

Sighing, Sandor threw the borrowed brush into the stables where it landed in a pile of hay and disappeared. “Someone has to, don’t they?”

“She’s not a little girl anymore.”

“Aye. Neither of you are little girls anymore. You’re women, and you both know what the world does to women when they’re alone.”

“We don’t have to be alone for the world to have it’s way with us when it wants to.”

A surge of grief and knowing ground against Sandor’s heart. He recollected the stories he’d heard of the Bolton bastard and Sansa. He recalled too the slip of flesh that had shown a field of scars on Arya’s belly as she slept, not wanting to ask who or what had done that to her just yet, only because he couldn’t bear to hear the answer. He thought of his sister, long dead, and his mother too, and all the women of the court who had arrived every day bruised, wincing at the slightest move of their husband’s hand. Even Queen Cersei had not been above being brutalized by King Robert, and his honor had been sworn on by Ned Stark once.

“True,” Sandor acquiesced. “But I’m a big, scary fucker, and hopefully most people will keep their distance when they spy me in her shadow.”

Sansa smiled, stepping closer and placing a hand on Stranger’s nose. Surprisingly, the stallion didn’t seem to mind the touch.

“I wanted to talk to you, actually. You are planning on coming back, I assume?” Sandor watched her and nodded. She nodded in return, seeming to measure her words. “For a long time, it was dangerous to be a Stark. Even now we don’t have many friends, not like we once did. We have our home again, but we’ve fallen low. To make things worse, many of our old allies are dead or gone, having either betrayed us or died in the wake of those who did.”

Sandor nodded again to show his understanding, though he was uncertain of where this was going.

“There were those who did what was right by us even when they had nothing to gain.” Sansa met his eyes now, her face stony. “I know you’ll never believe it, but you’re a good man, Sandor Clegane. You protected me as best you could in King’s Landing. You protected Arya against, well, everyone else by how she tells it. When the North asked for your sword, you gave it. You served Jon beyond the Wall, and even now you offer to keep Arya safe while she does...whatever it is Arya does. When you come back, I think you would do well up here with us.”

“What are you asking, Lady Sansa?”

“Arya and I spoke. As the Lady of both Winterfell and the Dreadfort by marriage, I cannot effectively hold both. Therefore, it’s within my right to give it to someone I deem worthy. It’s east of Winterfell, and will need castle staff, but that's easily done. It’s the best we can offer you without infighting over who else can lay claim to the estate, which is not the case for Bear Island, Karhold, and Last Hearth. If you prefer, we may be able to arrange for one of those Holds instead, but I can’t guarantee anything as there are minor ancestral houses here that have decent claims to them, even if by the most distant of relations.”

Sandor stared hard at Sansa. “You’re offering me, a Lannister man, a Northern Hold and Lordship?”

“You’re not a Lannister man any longer. And before you argue,” Sansa met his stare with utter sincerity. “Without you, there likely wouldn’t be a House Stark. So yes, Arya, Bran, and I have decided that we wanted to award you this. Arya said you had no interest in returning to Clegane’s Keep. If that’s true, please allow us to do so?”

“I’d have to remain here, though.” Sandor's perpetual frown lengthened. He felt like he was being led into a trap. Abandon Arya to please Sansa, or vice versa. His gut roiled.

“No." She said at once, sensing his apprehension. "We would hold it until your return. You can see it for yourself before setting off if you want to wait to make a decision. Arya says you have at least a year before you set sail. That should give you more than enough time, though I fear it will add to your undoubtedly growing list of responsibilities.”

Sandor had to fight to maintain his manners over his incredulity. It wasn't the work he was worried about, it was the backlash of their decision. Sansa had already unwittingly displayed little help she had in Winterfell. What dissent would a decision like this potentially sow?

“You’re offering up a lot to a man who isn’t even a knight, Lady Stark. Surely there is someone else —”

“There is no one else we want, Lord Clegane,” she spoke sternly and fixed him with a steely gaze, placing an additional emphasis on his new, potential, title. “The Lannisters may pay their debts, but the North remembers. We remember who stood by us, and to whom we owe debts. You, Sandor Clegane, single-handedly, and without any promise of gain, kept both myself and my sister safe, and pledged your sword to Winterfell in the war against the dead. We are forever in your debt.”

“Just take the damn castle, Sandor.”

Both Sansa and Sandor started. He peered over to see Arya leaning against one of the stable posts. Gods knew how long she’d been there. She hadn’t made a single noise up until that moment, even as she stuffed a chicken wing into her mouth.

The corner of Sansa’s mouth turned up in a disapproving smirk, but as she faced Sandor it became a genuine, pleasant grin. “You would honor us by becoming a trusted vassal of House Stark, Sandor Clegane.”

He took a moment, looking between the two women who waited expectantly for his response. Wheels were spinning in his brain. The Dreadfort. His own House. A lordship. None of these were things Sandor had particularly wanted, but he knew how foolish it was to turn down the offer. Undoubtedly he would offend House Stark by refusing what so many would have literally killed for, even now. At the same time, the idea of remaining close to both Arya and Sansa kindled something warm in him, and with Jon Snow gone, these women had few people they could rely on. They needed him, he realized suddenly, and Sandor knew he couldn’t bear to leave them with their backs to the cold.

Sandor Clegane bowed his head low. “I accept, Lady Sansa.”

The sun might have shone from Sansa’s face were it possible. “Good. We’ll start by assigning men to your keep and banner which…” she trailed off. “Will you wish to keep your old sigil?”

“Gods, no. Feel free to have another one made up for me.”

“And your words?”

“Clegane House was only Landed Knights. We had no words.”

Sansa nodded. “We’ll sort that later, then. In the meantime —”

“A Shield in the Dark.” They looked to Arya again, this time with raised eyebrows. She didn’t seem to notice her sister’s frustrated expression. “Unless you prefer Give Me Your Fucking Chickens.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed in confusion, but Sandor laughed heartily. “That’ll do.”

In the weeks that followed Arya didn't rush Sandor as he laid down plans for the Dreadfort, which proved to be a relief as Sansa questioned him every chance she got. Since he would be gone for an indeterminate amount of time, many of the trusts and duties would be reported on to Lady Sansa until he returned, but she still wanted as much of his input as possible before he took to foreign shores.

There was no pomp and circumstance when the time came to accept his title and hold, of which Sandor approved. Instead, a feast was hosted at Winterfell where he was given the seat of honor between the two Stark sisters, one of whom chatted his ear off contentedly, the other keeping a careful eye over her sister's men. It seemed even at home Arya was forever watchful of knives in the dark. That's not to say she didn't have her reasons. When it was learned that Sandor Clegane was going to be given one of the most defensible and ancient castles in the North, many had not been happy to hear it. Sansa had been forced to wade through seven hells of shit just to convince their vassals that Clegane house would owe fealty to the North alone, and that this wasn't a way for Lannister control to insert itself again, as had been the case with the Boltons. Questions had flown about whether or not the Imp, Sansa's first husband, had influenced this decision. Arya had further reported on less savory things that had been said outside of Sansa's presence. As such, House Stark had dealt with its fair share of frustration before tonight. Sandor was warmed at their staunch defense of him, but also fearful of what might happen when he left.

Later, as he traversed the castle grounds, he was surprised that he couldn’t find Arya. Sansa had retreated to her quarters for the night, giving Sandor a soft smile and a touch on the shoulder. His skin buzzed with the memory of it, but Arya's absence nagged too strongly at his mind and he couldn't wrestle it away. He tried to bury his worries, but as the evening lengthened into night concern gripped his chest. The idea that those who were displeased with Sandor's appointment as Lord of the Dreadfort might take action against the Starks began to sit heavily in his mind. It spurred his feet to move faster as he sought Arya within the darker corners of Winterfell.

Sandor tried to placate his growing fear with logic, reminding himself that sometimes Arya liked to disappear into the recesses of the castle and take in the happenings around her, but it was rare during those times that she didn’t make herself known to him. Eventually, with some non too friendly questioning of the on-duty guards, he learned that she had taken time to explore the crypts.

Those, unlike the rest of Winterfell, had been tended to very quickly in the days since the White Walker attack. That the Starks of old had risen up when the Night King came surprised far more people than it should have. In the end, out of respect, the remains of those entombed in the crypts had been burned separately, the ashes then returned to their respective places of rest.

By the time he had someone show him the entrance to the crypts, Sandor was growing steadily uncomfortable for wholly different reasons. A mood that was by no means improved as he traveled the labyrinthine underground with nothing to guide him but firelight. As he moved, the contrast of the white statues against the dark confines of the crypts made it seem as though each face was a ghost peering out at him from the shadows. He recognized none of them, but some of the names rang distant bells as he passed the marked vaults.

Sandor’s tension did not ease as he proceeded. The faces of the deceased were never-ending. He did not feel at ease until he turned to find the newest alcove of Stark dead. This was where he found Arya. Rickon had been laid to rest here, and though their bones were not present, two spaces were filled with the likeness of Ned and Robb Stark.

There was one additional vault that Arya seemed transfixed by, and as Sandor approached he realized why. Seeing it made his heart thud painfully against his chest. Before each of them, carved from the same stone as her ancestors’ tombs, was Arya’s own likeness, albeit at a younger age. The statue had Needle raised in a Braavosi salute, with a large direwolf curled around her feet and a disturbingly accurate rendition of her smirk against the phantom white eyes. Sandor froze. He took a shaky breath but said nothing. Somehow, it felt like speaking would lend credence to a bad omen if he did. Arya spoke instead, her voice distant.

“I learned in King's Landing that Jon had this made without Sansa’s knowledge. Apparently it was one of the first things he did after retaking Winterfell. He said he wanted to make sure I wasn’t forgotten.” Sandor didn’t know what to say, so he just stared. “All the times I thought I was going to die after leaving Winterfell. I never once had a thought for whether or not my bones would be brought back here to sleep with my family’s. My father’s bones never made it back. Nor did Robb’s. I always just assumed I’d be another lost Stark in the end.”

Dirt and stone echoed muted crunches as Sandor dragged his feet forward under the guise of admiring the finer details of the statue. What he actually needed was to stop himself from speaking, or looking back at Arya. The dancing flames gave her effigy an eerie, nearly alive aspect. If he looked hard enough it almost appeared as though the stone Arya's smirk had grown in a dark and secret knowing. Sandor had to stop himself from frantically checking over his shoulder to make sure the real Arya was the one in the shadows behind him, and not the illuminated alabaster figure before him.

As the heat from the lanterns grew and the silence became pregnant and thick, something close to an inexplicable dread filled him. He saw something in the flickering of the flame that danced around them and closed his eyes against it as it took shape. He saw Arya in that vision, and the dark emptiness of her eyes staring sightlessly back at him through the stone and shadow. He saw red waves, and dragons, and other beasts he could not name. He saw cliff faces and cities that were foreign to him, and the gleam of drawn steel in every corner.

As soon as they started, the visions ended, and Sandor was left feeling dizzy and ill, panting in the heat of the crypts and his own stifling terror.

"Let's go," he gasped suddenly. "I'm fucking sick of the dead."

She found him later in the dining hall. A few others were taking a late meal, but only Sandor sat alone with an ale and a frown. Even now, most people were too afraid of him to come close, and even now, that was how he preferred it.

"You all right?" She asked, sliding into a seat across from him. Sandor didn't look at her. He didn't want to see the stone grave marker in his mind, or the dancing shadows, which was why he'd spent the last few hours drinking.

"Fine."

"Clearly." Her tone was icy. "Did you see something?" Sandor still didn't answer. His eyes never left the dark hollow of his tankard. "Listen, if something’s wrong...if you don't want to do this —"

"Don't." Sandor cut her off immediately. "Don't fucking say it."

"Then tell me what's wrong. If I can't trust you to not get lost in your own thick skull then —"

"Piss off," he snarled. Arya looked at him with something between anger and surprise, but Sandor stalked off before she could slap him with any form of a retort.

He stormed out of the hall and into the courtyard where the winter winds blistered his exposed face. Servants and soldiers dodged his wide gait with gasps and snide remarks, but he paid them no mind. Every step he took echoed the maelstrom he had witnessed in the crypts that evening, and he desperately needed to find someplace where he wasn't walking on the dead.

Sandor knew Arya was following him. He'd have known even if there hadn't been an eerie calm and suspicious lack of sound behind him. There was no way she was going to leave that conversation alone he knew, so Sandor made his way to the one place that would be abandoned: the godswood.

He stopped beside the weirwood tree after more meandering than he had intended, likely due to the copious ale he had consumed, and waited until she allowed her footsteps to be heard crunching in the snow.

"You saw something, didn't you?" Arya's tone was flat, almost accusational. "In the crypts? The flames? The Lord of Light talks to you like he did Beric, and Thoros, and the Red Woman." Sandor nodded, keeping his face pointed forward and away from her. He didn't want to meet her gaze just yet. "Can you tell me?"

"Won't matter if I do or don't. Nothing I see is promised. Anything can change the vision. You're only ever shown the current path when you look into the fire."

Arya raised her chin, her mouth drooping into a questioning frown. "So what did you see?"

Sandor sighed. "I don't rightly know."

"Doesn't seem like a very helpful vision."

He snorted. "Most visions aren't."

Arya’s footsteps crunched as she came up onto his left side."You've done this before?"

"Aye." Sandor sniffed against the cold. "Once. Beric had me look to find the wight we brought to King's Landing when we went beyond the Wall."

"What's it like? Being able to see visions in the flame?"

"What's it like being a Faceless Man?" He countered.

Arya sighed. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"No more than you."

A smile broke through on her normally stoic face. Sandor cocked his head in her direction, finally possessing the courage to look at her while raising an eyebrow and responding with his own grin. They moved to sit side by side on the stump of a tree that acted as a bench beneath the weirwood. Settling in, each idly listened to the sounds of the godswood as the winter winds blew down on them. When the quiet and the cold nestled easily around them, Arya spoke.

"I'm sorry I left you for dead." The statement simultaneously broke the silence and Sandor's thoughts. He peered over at her, even though she was looking up towards the sky, almost as if she'd forgotten he was there. "There's few things I regretted more since then. You were a cunt and a shit, but you didn't deserve to be left to die like that."

Sandor sighed heavily through his nose and leaned forward, balancing his weight with his elbows on his knees. "Not sure what you could have done, girl. You couldn't exactly carry me to the next town over."

"No. But I could have gone for help. You told me before that a septon found you. Maybe I could have gotten him to you sooner."

"Or maybe you'd have run into a band of mercenaries that would have raped you bloody then left your corpse for the crows," he growled. Arya quietted. "Look. You didn't do anything I wouldn't have done in your stead.”

“Still,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I owed you more than that.”

“You remember that farmer I robbed?" She nodded. "I found them. Later. They were both dead. The father had killed the girl, then himself. They had been starving."

Arya frowned. "That's exactly what you said would happen."

"Aye, but if I hadn't taken their gold, maybe they wouldn't have. Maybe they'd have been able to leave. Go south. Or east. Somewhere survivable. Instead, they died. He had his daughter in his arms, and they were both rotted away to nothing. I buried them next to the house. Couldn't even be buggered to think of a prayer for them."

"Prayers are worthless to the dead. Besides, you don't seem like the praying type anyway."

Sandor's head dropped into his hands. He tried to close his eyes against the memory, but it flashed vibrantly behind his eyelids all the same. "I told them I was sorry they were dead. That they deserved better."

"That's — "

"But I was thinking of you." He huffed into his palms. "I kept thinking how when I was able to walk again I should have gone after you. I remembered you mentioning Braavos. I thought I could have trailed you there. Robbed some other poor fucker and taken a boat. Brought you home. I kept thinking I’d failed you, same as that father failed his daughter, by not being strong enough to do what was needed."

There was quiet for a moment. Arya watched his face, reading it carefully. The sounds of winter danced around them as the last vestiges of sunlight caressed the snow.

"That’s unfair," she whispered. Her eyes were far away all of a sudden, as if reliving a memory. "It's probably best you didn't find me anyway. I learned a lot at the House of Black and White, but I fought for every inch of it. I was beaten bloody, my bones were broken, my sight was taken, and they nearly gutted me towards the end." Her hand went absentmindedly to her belly. "I was glad no one was there to see. I don't think I could have handled a familiar face in that place."

Sandor turned his head and glared, eyes glistening with rage. “So that’s where those scars came from?”

"It doesn't matter. I was where I needed to be. I wouldn't have been able to kill the Night King or all the others without the knowledge I gained there. Just like you had to suffer to know you were capable of better too."

Arya blinked up at him, her teeth flashing with a quick grin. Sandor felt his anger subside at her expression, and he unwittingly returned the smile.

"Still wish I'd have been there for you. I never should have let you become a lost Stark."

"I'm not lost anymore. A lot of that is thanks to you."

He grunted. When the silence stretched too long Sandor cleared his throat.

“Don’t be sorry, girl. I’m glad you made it home. If anyone should be sorry, it's me."

Arya's brow furrowed. "Why?"

“For leaving you on your own.”

"It's not like you meant to," she said, her expression doleful. Her wide eyes had softened over the course of their conversation, the corners of her mouth turned down in a frown. "And you came back."

"Aye." He sighed. He felt her light touch on his forearm. Sandor glanced from her almost ludicrously tiny hand to her face. She was looking up at him plaintively, and something within him stirred. Carefully, gently, he closed the distance between them by placing a hand on her neck. Arya surprised him by leaning into the gesture, and he surprised himself more by planting a kiss on the crown of her head. Instead of tensing up, he felt her shoulders relax a little more. She leaned into him fully and wrapped her arms around is heavy torso in an embrace. Sandor sighed contentedly and did the same.

"Sandor?" She said after a long moment.

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

Chapter Text

Arya had been correct in her initial assessment. It had taken over a year to get all of the preparations sorted for their trip west. Sandor had made good use of the time, however. Since their arrival, Winterfell had gained a proficiently trained and active honor guard that he felt confident enough to leave behind. The months getting to that point had been arduous, though. Those who worked with Sandor had seen him as an upstart, someone who had been given that which the rest of the north had been obligated to earn. Over the months he was met with no shortage of rebellion and disrespect. Time, however, proved to be the best remedy to his problem.

Sandor had taken the necessary measures to establish himself as a Lord throughout this as well. By successfully managing and reestablishing the Dreadfort inbetween training drills and drills rebuilding of northern resources, the once thick tension between him and the other nobles began to dissipate until, eventually, all that remained was an uneasy comradery shared between strangers whose blood and been spilled and mixed in war.

From all this, House Clegane rose to become an esteemed vassal of House Stark in a very short amount of time, and the men who served its banner were proud and eager. Although Sandor not being a true northerner was now a point he was teased about and not sneered at, many whispered that when he took a northern woman as his wife even that would change.

Sandor had pointedly ignored those remarks, as well as the never-ending rumors that circled around himself and both Stark women. Gods knew he was too busy to wed, but the idea that some would be so bold to suggest he'd earned a Stark bride was presumptuous and disconcerting. Fortunately, neither Sansa or Arya seemed bothered by the rumors. Then again, they were as preoccupied as he was with their own duties, so likely didn't have the time to be concerned much less put forth an effort to dissuade them.

Arya was especially frantic as the day for her expedition drew near. Sandor often had to argue her away from her desk and into her bed when at Winterfell, she grumbling the entire way like a petulant child. It was worse when she would be gone to White Harbor for days at a time, returning with dark circles to match her equally dark mood.

“You’re a stubborn little bitch,” he growled at her at last one night. “Part of my coming along was so that you weren’t handling everything by yourself.”

“You’ll be busy from what I give you soon enough.” Her voice slurred as she spoke, but her tone informed him that she was done with their discussion.

Sansa wasn’t any better. Managing the recovery of both the White Walker attack and the resounding blowback from the King's Landing incursion meant that the Stark's, who had backed the dragon queen, however hesitantly, were faced with a lot of resistance. The fact that it had been nearly a decade since they'd held sway in the north at all left some of the more emboldened minor houses wondering whether or not there was any need for the Warden in the North. If that weren't enough, Winterfell’s repairs were still underway, and for every step forward on that endeavor, three steps were taken in reverse.

The White Walkers, as it turned out, could not take all the credit for Winterfell's condition. Much of it had been sustained under Bolton control, but the worst was seeing the defacing from the Ironborn raid years before. Arya grumbled about Theon Greyjoy being an ungrateful and treacherous piece of shit whenever these reports made it past her hawkish eyes, but never while Sansa was around. Sandor was inclined to agree with the younger Stark, but knew it was best to keep quiet.

In the midst of all this, he was forever busy with the Dreadfort, and while Arya eventually did follow through with allowing various tasks to be trickled to him before their departure — he had begun to worry that she was trying to find a way to dismiss him from her crew — these jobs managed to make their way to him at the worst possible times. Eventually, his own deep circles began to compete with Arya's as sleep became more and more of a luxury.

Despite all this, when Sandor would sit down to enjoy meals with either the Starks, his own men, or on rare occasions, alone, or when he found himself with a moment just to think, he could not remember a time in which he was happier.

Working with the Lannisters had provided Sandor a level of safety, ensuring he would never have to encounter Gregor without anyone at the very least bearing witness to his death. In their service he had been allowed to feed his own dark desires, and that had helped him cope for a time. Being a sworn shield to Joffrey had almost felt like a rewarding change, something to focus on and give him purpose, until the boy had grown up to be a monster. It wasn't until Winterfell, meeting Sansa and later caring for Arya, that he had truly felt that he was worth anything.

Despite his convictions a year ago, Sandor was happy he had taken Sansa's offer to stay with them.

On the rarest of occasions, he would run into Bran Stark, though there was never a conversation to be had with the strange young man. Bran seemed content most days to stare out windows, barely taking part in the comings and goings of his own home. Often, Sandor had wanted to remark on how, as a young lord, Winterfell was as much his responsibility as his sisters’ and he should be doing his part, but usually thought better of it. So it was odd one day for Sandor to find himself seated next to Bran early one morning as they broke their fast. The latter of whom seeming to uncharacteristically have a great deal to say.

"Arya will be leaving soon."

Sandor stopped with his food halfway to his mouth and peered over, stupefied. "I don't know about soon," he argued coolly. "But eventually."

Bran shook his head, a knowing lighting his otherwise dark eyes. "She's finished her preparations. You didn't know?"

"Aye," Sandor lied, though regretted it instantly. Undoubtedly, the young man knew he was being false.

A frown creased Bran's otherwise placid face, though Sandor wasn't sure if it was his attempted deception or something else that brought it on.

"She didn't tell you." It wasn't a question. There was a moment of silence as Bran's strange mind reached into the ethereal otherness that was the world he inhabited more than this one. When he returned, Sandor was made somehow more uneasy by the look on his face. "You need to speak with her."

"Clearly."

When the conversation didn't move forward, Sandor took it as a sign that he could continue eating. After a few bites, however, Bran spoke again.

"You care about her."

Gods damn the Starks, Sandor thought, and their unfailing talent to make him choke during nearly all of his meals. After a long drink to clear his throat, Sandor dragged his gaze back to Bran. His mouth curled. Bran's face, however, remained placid.

"Aye," Sandor grumbled bitterly.

"She cares about you too." Sandor could feel the blood rising in his face. "Try to remember that."

"What are you getting on about?" He finally growled impatiently.

"I just thought you should know. She's leaving tonight."

Sweat prickled on Sandor's hairline when he heard Bran say those words. It was his worst fear come to life. "How do you know?" He rasped.

"I saw it." Bran blinked. "She's already at the harbor."

Sandor spluttered. "She's in White Harbor?"

Arya wasn't due to return to White Harbor for another day. In fact, he was to meet her at the Dreadfort that evening to look over supply reports and finalize the last of the crew hires. Sandor's consternation brought his brain to cook in his own boiling blood.

Bran nodded, and that was all it took to cause Sandor Clegane to rip violently from the Great Hall and across the castle, scrambling in a panic on his way to the stables. As he did he screamed at a nearby servant to get a raven to the Harbor, informing the Lady Arya that if she left without Lord Clegane he would chase her down and nail her to her own bloody mast.

He heard nothing as he lumbered through Winterfell, only knowing that he had shouted again for someone to ready his horse. A high pitched ringing began in his ears and became a drumbeat in his chest. For a moment he thought his heart was attempting to crawl through his throat, but he tamped it down.

He tore through the gates of Winterfell and headed southeast. Sandor counted himself lucky for not being at the Dreadfort where he should have been. The time to get to the harbor from there would have been only ten miles more, but it was time he could not afford. He would already have to ride into the evening and without ceasing if he was going to have any hope of catching Arya. If she did not comply with his raven, she would be lost to him. That thought made his gut churn, and he fought to keep down the minimal breakfast he'd had the time to enjoy.

That Arya had done this was beyond the pale, yet as Sandor rode he had ample time to consider if the warning signs had always been there. Arya had been distant and irritable the last few months, but he chalked that up to her being preoccupied and exhausted. She had never once shown animosity or disfavor towards Sandor in the time since he had returned to Winterfell with her. As he racked his brain, all that came to him were the times he'd been certain they'd enjoyed each other's company. Not a few days ago they'd had an amicable dinner in her study, and before that he had succeeded in dragging her away from work long enough to go on a hunt, an attempt to make her take some semblance of a break that didn't consist of sleep alone. She had been frustrated at the interruption, but had eventually warmed, and by the end had bagged two bucks more than Sandor. What, then, would have inspired her to abandon him?

He prayed the gods would give him the opportunity to ask.

Sandor had ridden all the way to the port by mid-afternoon the following day. He'd slept in the saddle, something he hadn't managed in almost ten years, after being fortunate enough to find a fresh mount at a small tavern on the road. Sandor paid a farmhand handsomely for a newly broken in mare. In return, the farmhand had gotten a very valuable, if not very exhausted, gelding. The farmhand smiled, revealing a row of only three teeth when Sandor had made the exchange.

"Yer a gods damnable fool," the toothless man half whistled and half spit, clearly unaware of whom he was speaking with. Sandor had thanked the man profusely, not caring, before riding off toward White Harbor just as the first rays of dawn kissed the treetops.

When Sandor arrived at White Harbor and through the Seal Gate, he was exhausted and hungry, but even without these factors, he would have been fit to burst. His felt only a momentary relief at seeing the square-rigged caravel with its Stark banners still tied to the docks, fully loaded and ready to go. That too, however, was soon seared away in his blistering fury. He stalked up and down the docks, barking at sailors and anyone who had the courage to look into his dog mad eyes. When he didn't find Arya there, he stormed through the doors of the nearest harbor office which doubled as an inn. Sandor prepared himself to bellow her name, to begin tearing down the walls and the fixings if necessary, but was taken aback to find her standing in the foyer, her face a stoic mask staring up at him. After all of this, she had been right there waiting for him.

"It was easy to hear you coming," she offered, no doubt in response to his surprised expression. "And before you ask, I got your raven."

"I'm going to give you one chance," Sandor growled. His voice was thunder in his chest. "To explain this cocking fuckery you've been pulling behind my back, girl, or so help me—"

"Let's sit and eat first," she interrupted. Sandor was stunned at her dismissive attitude. He’d ridden day and night for her, and she could barely show an ounce of concern over it. Arya bid him follow, which he did despite his fury with her. "I'm sure you're starving, and you can't—"

"Out with it!" He barked. Sandor lunged, taking Arya's shoulder and near snapping her neck with the force of turning her to face him. Arya's dark eyes were ice as her glare floated up to match his. Around them, men began to stare. A few, off duty guards and some Manderley men, reached for their sword hilts, but Arya raised a hand.

"Stand down. He's a loud bastard, but he won't hurt me."

This distilled the tension but didn’t quell it. Many still cast Sandor questioning gazes as they returned to their own affairs. He snarled at each of them.

Arya sat at a low table in the corner of the inn. Sandor followed. "Eat," she chirped, and before Sandor could find the energy to argue, he did. She waited, allowing him to get some food and drink in his belly. He never released her from his glare, but even he could feel the severity of his rage lessen with the effect of a decent meal. She knew him too well, he thought as he inhaled a tankard of ale.

As he bore down on her, he noticed how tired she looked. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the circles under them that he’d become accustomed to seemed darker than ever. Her hair was slicked back in her classic taste, but the knotted bun at the base of her skull was fraying. Something wasn't right, he realized. Sandor immediately felt shame for his behavior and concern for her, but recalled that she'd been all but ready to leave him behind in Westeros. The anger returned, albeit diluted.

"Better?" She asked with a forced grin.

"No," Sandor said flatly. "I'm still pissed at you."

Arya looked away. "You have every right—"

"Don't tell me what I already know, girl. Enough with this shite. We both know each other better than this. What in the seven hells do you think you're doing? Why are you cutting me out?"

As he spoke, Sandor felt his rage begin to peel away into something else.

When Gregor had held his face to the flame as a child, their father had lied to cover it up. To all who asked, he said that Sandor's bedding had caught fire. Nothing more than that. While Sandor, a child, had mewled and wept for the pain, his family had done far worse by making him believe he was not worth the truth. It was an emotion that Sandor could not put into words, but it was a pain that still kindled an itch in the charred flesh of his face when he remembered it. He felt it acutely sitting there with Arya, who seemed to not quite comprehend what she was putting him through.

"I wasn't cutting you out."

"Then what the fuck do you call it?"

She sighed, a gust of air hissing through her nose. "I admit this was a piss poor way to go about it, but I thought I was doing you a favor."

"What favor is that?" Sandor asked, laughing bitterly.

"Leaving. Leaving you. Like a sharp cut, but one that would heal cleanly. Yes, you’d be angry with me. Maybe hate me, but you could continue the life you made here. Get yourself a pretty wife. Have children." Arya paused, taking a deep breath. "Sansa convinced me it was for the best. She said making you come was selfish. That I'm taking you on a suicide mission. That I should leave you alone. Relinquish my grasp on you. It...made sense. It still makes sense."

"I don't get to decide for myself?"

"Sansa—"

Sandor slammed his fist into the table. The wood panels cracked from the force of his blow. Splinters stuck in his knuckles and the tender flesh between his fingers, causing drops of blood to flower. "I don't give a damn about what Sansa said! What say do I get in this? What say do you have? It’s your fucking expedition, isn’t it?"

Arya blinked dazedly. "Me?" She whispered.

"Aye, girl! Aye! You!" Sandor threw both of his hands in her direction for emphasis. "If you don't want me, truly don't want me, I'll stay, but I'll be damned if you leave me behind because you think I don't want to follow."

"We might not come back, Sandor. No one—"

"WHY DO YOU THINK I'M GOING WITH YOU?!" He was roaring now, flying back on his feet despite the exhaustion from his furious trek here. "I know! It's suicide! And I know that's why you're going!"

For the first time since getting to White Harbor, Sandor saw Arya's stern countenance drop. She looked aghast. Her flesh went pale, then red from the fury of his outburst and accusation. At once she stood and stormed from the inn. All eyes watched Sandor has he flew after her.

"Wait!" He cried, suddenly alarmed at what he'd said and done. "Arya!"

She rounded on him as soon as they were outside. Fortunately, there were few witnesses on the docks. Sandor didn't want to have to deal with any reports detailing the Lord of the Dreadfort being in a public shouting match with Princess Arya Stark. While the nature of their friendship might not have left those close to either of them surprised, Sandor knew that this was hardly appropriate, even by the looser standards of the north.

"How dare you!" she snarled. "You know nothing! You—"

"I know!" He hissed. Sandor took her shoulders in his hands and shook her. He lowered his voice, hoping the lack of yelling would deter watchful eyes. "Gods help me girl, I know! I've known all my life what that feeling is, and I've seen it in you for too long!" Sandor was panting, his face inches away from hers. As he shook with the maelstrom of emotions that threatened to drown him, he watched Arya's sneer melt away to be replaced with confusion.

"What?"

“Godsdamnit girl, how stupid do you think I am? Your sister might not see it, your brothers might not see it, but I see it! It’s all over your stupid fucking face!” Arya flashed her teeth and tried to shake free of his grasp, but Sandor held her firm. He was calm now. For all his exhaustion, he was only, truly, bone-weary of fighting. Not Arya. He'd always fight her, he knew, or fight for her. That would remain true until his last breath. Sandor was tired of fighting the need to die. The wanting of it. He thought some days he'd been freed of it, but it would always crop up out of nowhere and dog him for months. He was barely able to fight at all some days, this ghost that haunted him and lured him to his own dark grave. Now someone he cared about, someone he loved, followed a siren's song to the Stranger's side just like he did, and it was the one thing he couldn't shield her from.

"I know how this goes, girl, and it only ends in death. I told you before. Remember? The only way you outrun the dead is by joining them, and I’m not letting you go like that." Sandor sighed. "Before you, all I had was my hate. You’re the one who changed that. You, and Beric, and Thoros, and all those other Brotherhood cunts. I'm not letting the last person I care about run away to be consumed by the same shit that nearly killed me. You hear me?" He shook her lightly to emphasize his point. "I'm not letting you do it! Just like you didn’t let me."

Tears welled up in Arya’s eyes, and without even willing it Sandor’s followed suit. She stared up at him as they spilled over onto her cheeks. He pulled her into him and wrapped his arms around her small frame. Arya melted into him. "I'd be naught more than a pile of ash if you hadn't come back for me."

“I’m sorry,” he heard her muffled voice from the confines of his arms. The corner of his mouth danced upwards in amusement. Apparently, Sandor had already forgiven her without ever realizing it, or maybe he hadn't and was only relieved she was still here. “Sometimes I’m so sure it’s the only thing left for me, and other times I’m not. I just know I don’t want to take you down that path with me.”

“You won’t,” he whispered into her hair. “Because I won’t let you take that path at all."

They stayed like that for a few moments before pulling away. Arya wiped her eyes and sighed. Sandor made sure no one was able to see until she was ready.

"You must be exhausted. I'll give you my room at the harbor inn while I tie up some loose ends." Sandor nodded, and as he did he straightened his aching back and grunted when the roll of cracks exploded up his spine. He tried to ignore the pain.

As Arya began to walk past him he stopped her with an arm on her shoulder. "I can trust you not to leave?"

Arya smiled up at him, her still wet eyes gleaming in the morning light. "Yes."

Arya was true to her word. She owed Sandor Clegane that much, she knew.

He'd surprised her showing up the way he did, all filled with rage and bluster. As she watched him now, passed out on a bed far too small for his body, she couldn't help but smile.

Arya hadn't really thought he'd come. She'd expected him to have changed his mind by now, and who could blame him? He had a castle. Respect. He was a lord now with close ties to one of the most powerful Houses in Westeros and the Crown. Why would anyone with all of that follow a woman barely in her twentieth year halfway across the world on a fool's errand?

Arya thought she had been doing each of them a favor. He wouldn't have to tell her he had changed his mind, and she wouldn't have to endure the disappointment of hearing it. After everything she'd been through, it was the one thing Arya couldn't bear. She knew taking Sandor was selfish, and most of her wanted him to stay put. But another part of her, the part of her that clung to life and hope, wanted Sandor to come because it meant someone cared enough to save her.

Apparently, he did, and now Arya had to struggle with what that meant to her.

Arya didn't have words for these thoughts, only feelings. She was equal parts terror and relief when Sandor had assured her he would come with her, and as she meandered through the hallway to the landing she drifted like a wraith with a smile on her face.

When Arya reached the end of the stairs, Pasha, who ran the harbor office, gave her a disapproving glance.

"You've another raven, m' lady," he sniffed.

This probably wasn't going to be good.

She thanked Pasha curtly, knowing damn well he had every right to be irritated with her for the damages and disturbance she had caused, but not caring. Taking the small scroll in her hands, she revisited the table Sandor had broken earlier that morning. Inside, her sister's smart handwriting was laid waste by a litany of frustration.

Sansa had every right to be embittered towards Arya, to a point. Sandor leaving the Dreadfort, and Westeros, was problematic. While many Lords left their holdings in the care of servants and family, Sandor doing so ran the risk of serving as an affront to northern sensibilities since he had not inherited his land and titles, but been awarded them. Yet as Arya read these reasonings, she grew tired.

Sandor was a Lord, a vassal of House Stark, and while he owed them fealty and allegiance he did not owe them servitude like a common serf. Sansa was coming from a place of concern Arya knew, because she cared about Sandor. They both did, and while her sister had apparently given up on her, Sansa had clearly thought that all she had done for Sandor would at least make him want to stay.

Frowning, Arya tucked the letter away and stared out the window for a while.

She could leave. Right now. She could gather her men, the last of the supplies waiting to be loaded, and ride off. They had enough daylight to make good headway. Sandor would never be the wiser. This way, Sansa would get what she wanted and Arya would get to fade away across the Sunset Sea, but she feared what that might do.

Sandor said he knew what she was feeling because he felt it once too. If Arya left him here, breaking another promise, how would that affect him? He might not forgive her. If she found the strength to come back, would she only lose him in an entirely different manner? That worried Arya even more. She was strong enough to withstand his anger, but she couldn't bear to be the subject of his hate. Would it be worth returning knowing that someone who meant so much to her was so hurt by her actions that they didn't want her anymore?

The thought filled her eyes with fresh, hot tears. Arya sniffed and rubbed them away, lest anyone see.

She hated that she was like this. Before, the last time Arya cried had been when her mother and brother were killed. It had been years since that night, but now her emotions were a bubble threatening to pop at any moment. Anything or nothing might cut into the well of torrential water inside of her. She missed being a pillar of stone, unflappable in the face of all things, including death. This new form Arya had taken felt small and battered, eroded away like a cliff face from all the things done to her and by her. She longed for the eternal slumber granted to so many in the Hall of Faces.

Arya knew one day she would return there. Her face was owed to the Many-Faced God, and one day it would be called to serve one last time. Not today, she thought with a smile. But someday.

Sighing, Arya stood and exited the Harbor Inn. She left a message with Pasha to tell Sandor, should he wake and come looking for her, that he would find her about in The Castle Stair paying for a raven to send to Winterfell, and that she would be true to her word and not leave without him.

Chapter Text

In the end, almost every familiar face came to see Arya off. Jon was there, even though they'd said their official goodbye over a year ago. Sansa had of course shown, her mild frustration with Arya palpable, but not so much as to spoil each other's company. Ser Davos Seaworth and Ser Brienne of Tarth had also attended, the former gifting her with additional maps, navigational tools, and a world's worth of knowledge on how to read the seas. She immediately regretted not having had enough time to get to know the Master of Ships better. He seemed like a good man, and she was happy Jon had his loyalty.

Brienne was all full of motherly tears, informing Arya that Catelyn Stark would have been proud of her. Arya doubted that immensely but deigned it inappropriate to argue the well-intentioned compliment.

Jon had similar sentiments to share. The two spent some time reminiscing over Ned Stark and what he would think of all this. "He'd have never allowed it," Jon said at once. He had a wide smile that was poorly masking his pain at Arya's leaving. "You were his favorite. There's no way he would have let you do this. Especially with…" Jon trailed off, but as Arya followed his eyes she saw they fell on Sandor Clegane who was spending the majority of his time glaring reproachfully at the crowd around him.

"He's not a bad man," Arya argued, though it came out as more of a sigh. "I wish you all could see that."

"I don't think he took to the rest of us the way he did to you and Sansa." Jon paused for a moment, still watching Sandor with a critical eye. "Brienne told me about their fight in the Riverlands."

Arya groaned.

Jon laughed. "What?"

"That was a dark time. I'd prefer to not think too much about it." Her brother nodded his head in acknowledgement and changed the subject.

"You trust him?"

"With my life."

"Well, I hope you're right because that's exactly what you're trusting him with."

As Arya made her way around the docks, she did her best not to make eye contact with too many people. Most were well wishers, but investors and merchants were always angling to get a final word in, so much so that Sandor started playing bodyguard to scare them off.

When Gendry Baratheon made his way over, she was not only surprised but flustered that Sandor's presence hadn't been enough of a deterrent for him. Perhaps being Lord Baratheon had bolstered his confidence, or perhaps their one night together made him feel entitled.

"So, you really are doing this?" He asked with a bemused smile. "Can't say this is where I saw you all those years ago."

Arya offered a strained smile of her own. She could sense Sandor tensing behind her, but refused to acknowledge him just yet. "It's hard to share all of one's interests when you spend much of your time together running for your life."

Gendry pointed his chin over her shoulder towards Sandor. "Seemed to do just fine with him."

Ice shot through Arya's chest. She wanted to slap him, but knew better of it. Even as a princess that could cause trouble for her, and for Jon. Instead, Arya decided that the best angle was the truth. "You're right. It did. Turns out one blackened soul compliments another just fine." Sandor rumbled behind her. She couldn't tell if it was from approval or not.

Gendry's face sagged. "That—That's not what I meant —"

"No, it isn't," Arya agreed calmly. Her face became a lake surface, hiding a thousand raging thoughts in its depths. The boy that had left her for the Red Woman, the man that had left her for a Lordship, was here now making snide remarks about the only man that hadn't abandoned her save for when death nearly took him. "But it's the truth. We've done things to survive that you couldn't summon in your nightmares. Because of that, we understand each other, Lord Baratheon."

Gendry looked like he wanted to argue, but a shadow passed over his face as Sandor Clegane moved to stand at Arya's back. "Think it's high time we got moving, girl."

Arya was about to respond when Gendry, likely in a fluster, turned to Clegane and sneered, "Officially she's a princess, and you should address her as such!"

Arya could just see Sandor from the corner of her eye. The large man blinked, and something akin to a smile was growing on his bearded face. It wasn't a smile issued out of respect.

For a moment, Arya was reminded of the fight with Daenerys' dragon in the Red Keep. The look of a confident predator sizing up helpless prey. That was the look Arya saw in Sandor's eyes just then.

"Officially," she lowered her voice. "You can eat shit, Lord Baratheon." Arya then cleared her throat, and more loudly proclaimed. "May Storm's End and the bounties of your status give you all that you deserve." Arya bowed low, turned on her heel, and left without a look back at either man.

She could hear Sandor's raucous laughter all the way down the docks.

Westeros would be visible on their starboard side for at least three months. While Arya would have been just as happy to have it behind her immediately, she knew this was beneficial for the time being. In the end, she settled for being glad just to have the sea beneath her feet. This was a giant leap, and she couldn't be happier that she was here. If that happiness lasted remained to be seen.

As she surveyed the deck and crew, a giddy nervousness overtook her, and for the first time in months a genuine smile crept over her face, unbidden by anything save her own moods. The crew was small, around 35 total counting herself and Sandor, who at that moment was nowhere to be seen.

He'd surprised Arya by admitting that he had never set foot on a ship before. This had made her nervous, as there were some that were simply not cut out for sailing, but he had taken well to sea legs, only throwing his meals up over the gunwale for the first two nights. After that, he'd settled down and set himself to complaining about the food and the boredom.

That was going to be another battle, she knew. With no designated sailing duration, the crew might become restless. At what point in time did she decide they return?

Were it just herself, Arya would have continued on until supplies or her will ran out, but she had a crew to think of who would, understandably, not be so keen to execute this ideology. Speaking with the captain, Arya had been told that once on the Sunset Sea, if they restocked at King's Landing, they could easily sail on for four to five months, possible six with careful rationing. Given that everyone who sailed beyond the Sunset Sea had never returned, Arya had no idea if this was enough. She supposed they would find out in due time.

The first mate - once a captain of his own ship - was a grizzled White Harbor native by the name of Gidden Erol. He had been eager to join Arya's expedition, but was weary of just about everything else. She remembered Ser Davos warning her that nearly all sailors were a superstitious lot, and Gidden appeared to be no different. Arya almost immediately liked him. He was boorish and smelled almost entirely of sea salt, sweat, and rum, but he was capable and complained very little.

"Have you ever been to the islands Elissa Farman discovered?" Gidden was nearby, and his eyes sparkled as Arya mentioned them.

"Nope, but always wanted to. Heard tales of men setting foot on them, but sailing out that way used to put you at risk of Iron Island raiders." Arya nodded. "But, shouldn't be a problem anymore. Queen Yara held the agreement she made with the dragon queen with the bastard king to no longer pillage and raid the coast and other ships, so really the only thing left to fear that way is the unknown."

"Not for much longer," Arya whispered to herself.

King’s Landing was their last stop before sailing out. Naturally, Arya and Sandor were arguing.

“This is probably going to be your final chance to change your mind.”

Arya frowned as they took on their last supplies at the King’s Landing port. Over the course of their trip between White Harbor and here, she had worked out with the bosun and Gidden if livestock would be an option for their journey. The caravel had a lot of room, and with their smaller crew, it wasn’t impossible to convert some of the lower storage into a small chicken coop. Now, however, as she watched men struggle to hold the chickens down while they were placed in cages, she wondered if it was going to be worth it. She hadn’t considered the shit, or the smell that would mix with months' worth of unwashed sailors. It was going to reek.

“I’m not having this discussion,” Sandor growled, breaking her thoughts. He was currently wrestling with ropes and rigging, and his frustration was being exhausted there instead of in his words toward her. Still, Arya could tell the question irritated him. “We’ve had it more times than I can fucking count. I’m not having it anymore. You mention it again, I’m throwing you off your own gods-damned boat, you hear me?”

Arya couldn’t hide the smile but quelled it enough so only one corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk.

“You say that now, but wait until the smell and the boredom creeps up on you.”

“Been used to that all my life, girl. Ain’t gonna start bothering me now.”

“And when the chickens run out?” She was joking now, and Sandor knew it.

“Guess I’ll start eating the crew.”

“That won’t hold well if we have to turn around.”

“We’ll manage.” A long silence drew itself between them. Arya watched Sandor as he wound long coils of rope in his large hands absentmindedly, watching the men bring in barrels of freshwater and cages full of chickens.

As her quartermaster he was in charge of handling the ships supplies, and he’d done an excellent job of it. Perhaps the practice of running the Dreadfort had helped prepare him, but he’d taken to both so quickly Arya had come to believe that he was just naturally gifted. She smiled as she considered how wasted he’d been as a spoiled king’s sworn shield. Big though he might be, Sandor was as cunning as he was intelligent.

She was also pleased to see that something about the work was bringing a shine to his eyes. Sandor seemed to be enjoying himself, marked most noticeably by his decrease in complaining.

Arya enjoyed watching him as he assisted with various duties on deck. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe it had been the fear when they had travelled together. Fear of him. Fear of death. Fear of failure. Now as Arya was able to fully appreciate Sandor’s company, she couldn’t help but wonder why he’d never married. He wasn’t an unattractive man, and while his personality certainly took some adjusting to, surely there must be a lady somewhere that would love him? Had he no desire to settle down? Why had he not taken a wife and remained Lord of the Dreadfort? She knew his burn scar bothered him, no matter how much he argued otherwise, but far uglier men than Sandor Clegane had been happily married in their lifetimes.

Arya had also noticed that he'd tanned during their time at sea, and as a result, he looked healthier and, dare she say, even happier. His shoulders had become more defined with the heavy lifting that came with his work, while the diet had leaned him out. He was still a large fucker, but something about him was almost appealing to Arya as she watched him now. Both of them had started to remove the layers they had worn at the beginning of winter, as the season had turned preternaturally warm over the last few months. Their padded jackets gave way to light tunics and leathers and, in Sandor's case, the occasional bare chest.

She didn’t realize she’d been smiling at him until he met her gaze and raised an eyebrow at her. “What’s on your mind, girl?”

Arya was snapped out of her reverie immediately, realizing how ridiculous she must have looked. “Nothing.” She blurted it out too quickly to be believed. Panicking, she tried to think of something else. “Just that you’ve done better than I thought you would being cramped up with a bunch of strangers.”

Sandor harrumphed, but there was a grin on his face that told her he was amused.

Embarrassed, Arya left the deck and returned to her cabin, trusting Sandor to handle any issues that cropped up with inventory before they left port and officially sailed west.

It was a modestly sized cabin that more than suited Arya’s needs. Originally she had opted to sleep with the crew, knowing full well that storage was going to be far more important than her comfort. Both Gidden and Sandor had vehemently objected. Arya, knowing when to pick her battles acquiesced with a bitter grace.

She hadn’t brought much with her from Winterfell. Most of what she possessed was in a locked trunk at the foot of her bed. The bulk of her cabin was instead taken up by a large table that was littered with maps and navigation tools. Gidden had equipped her with an ancient and, she suspected, partially broken astrolabe, but next to that sat the sextant Ser Davos had gifted her before leaving White Harbor. The Master of Ships had also taught her how to use it which she hoped would not be the boone she suspected it might become.

As Arya pored over the various maps, a sudden calm before the storm brewed in her chest. In a few hours, they'd be setting sail onto the Sunset Sea. Countless before her, including her own ancestor Bran the Shipwright, had sought the lands beyond Westeros. None had ever returned. Whether that was going to be said about her in the coming centuries, she didn't know. What she did know was that committing herself to this quest silenced the war inside of her. The one she fought daily to keep herself going. Sandor had touched on it and struck a deep chord during their argument in White Harbor.

She did want to die, but she didn't. Arya simply hadn't planned for a life beyond her revenge, assuming that it would kill her long before she was paid the blood debts owed to her. When the final two names had been struck from her list, Arya was lost. She felt as though she'd cheated fate and stolen a face from the Many-Faced god — her own. So west it had been. She couldn't stay in Westeros, but Essos held no interest for her anymore, and Asshai was already known, if still steeped in mystery. The only fate that was good enough for her was the one Arya would choose for herself, and that would be wherever the Sunset Sea ended.

Either she would find a new land, or fall off the edge of the world. No matter what befell her, at least the war within her would end.

A knock sounded on her door. Before she could answer, Sandor spoke. "We're ready to shove off, girl. Gidden's looking for you."

"I'll be right out."

Arya heard Sandor's booted steps as he walked away. She sighed.

Danaerys had said that the battle against Cersei would be the final war, but that hadn't been true. The final war was the one you fought inside yourself every day. You either won, or you died. Arya was still here, so, for now, she was winning, but she knew the tide of battle was a constant ebb and flow, like the shoreline she was now departing.

Her war wasn't over yet.