A Wolf and Her Dog
An alternate path that Arya Stark could have (and in my opinion should have) taken. The first tiny bit is almost verbatim of the Hound's final scene in ASOS, to set the mood, the rest is my own imagination. This is a one-shot, but I might continue it if there's enough interest.
Sunlight glinted off the surface of the river as Arya stark drew Needle. The sword was kept sharp by Polliver, even if the castleforged sword was too small to be of any use to the vile man. Her stance moved fluidly, surprising herself with how easily it all came back to her. She could kill him right here, like she killed the fat stable boy and the squire at the inn. It would be the same. It would be easier. She had prayed for the Hound's death every night, but had she ever expected it to be her who killed him?
His eyes opened suddenly, stopping Arya in her tracks. "You remember where the heart is?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"I... I was only..."
"Don't lie," he growled. "I hate liars. I hate gutless frauds even worse. Go on, do it."
Arya stood still, her eyes transfixed on his.
"I killed your butcher's boy. I cut him near in half, and laughed about it after." He made a queer sound, and it took her a moment to realize he was sobbing. "And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too, I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf." A spasm of pain twisted across his face. "Do you mean to make me beg, bitch? Do it. The gift of mercy... avenge your little Michael..."
"Mycah." Arya stepped away from him. "You don't deserve the gift of mercy."
She saddled Craven, tugging the ropes. When she mounted, the Hound said, "A real wolf would finish a wounded animal."
Arya gathered the reigns in her hand, staring down at the man she'd wished death on for so many nights. "You shouldn't have hit me with an axe," she said. "You should have saved my mother." She turned her horse and rode away from him, not looking back.
It was some time before she stopped Craven beside the river. Dismounting, she led the horse to the rivers edge to drink. The sun hung heavy in the sky, drooping downwards. Night would fall soon enough, and she would need to sleep. Needle nested in the scabbard at her side, but it wouldn't be enough if bandits or wolves came across her. She was even wary of the two-legged wolves. She couldn't keep going once the sun went down. It would be just as dangerous as sleeping, if her horse took a wrong step and broke a leg.
Do you know what dogs do to wolves?
Arya Stark kicked a stone and watched it sink beneath the waters of the river. She didn't know what dogs did to wolves, but she knew what wolves did to dogs. The Hound would die of his wounds, beneath a tree. The more she thought of it, the more fitting it seemed that the man she'd wished dead would die alone under a tree. Not with a blade in his hand and fire in his eyes, but dying of wounds.
Craven lifted her head when Arya turned away. The horse followed the girl closely as she walked up the bank to the road. As Arya climbed into the saddle, she looked back. For one moment, she looked back the way she had come and gave herself pause. She surprised herself when she set Craven back. The horse trotted down the road and Arya watched the hoofprints go the opposite direction.
She found the Hound beneath the tree where she had left him as the sun was vanishing beneath the horizon. In the gloom, she couldn't tell if he was awake, or even alive. She tied Craven to the tree and touched Sandor Clegane's neck. He was feverish, boiling to the touch, and still alive. As she pulled her hand away, his eyes flickered open.
"You came back," he croaked.
Arya didn't answer him, stepping back.
The Hound lifted his lip in a sneer as his eyes slid closed. "You're a coward, craven like your damn horse. You're no wolf."
"I am a wolf," Arya protested sharply. "Wolves have more honor than dogs."
Sandor didn't respond. When she kicked him, he didn't move. For a moment, she thought he was dead. The steady lift of his chest told her otherwise, but she knew he didn't have long before the fever killed him. What she was even doing here, she didn't know. Her eyes shifted to Craven. The mare whickered softly, as docile and easily frightened as a rabbit. Nothing at all like Arya, nothing at all like a wolf.
Setting her jaw, she reached out to shake the Hound. He slumped over with a groan, and Arya frowned in disappointment. How am I going to get him to a maester? She looked at the slumped dog, then to her own horse. Craven was too small to carry the weight of the Hound in his armor. Stranger, the black war stallion, was far better suited for the job, but his temper was worse than his rider's.
Arya grabbed the stallion's saddle and moved closer to the beast. Stranger snorted and wheeled, hooves flailing as his teeth snapped closed inches from Arya's face. She jumped back, losing the saddle to the dirt. "Stupid beast!" she yelled, scrambling to her feet. "You're just going to let him die?"
Not one to relent, Arya picked up the saddle and stepped closer. Stranger lifted his lips, an angry sound bubbling from his throat as he backed away, ears flattened and hooves poised to strike. Craven nickered, Stranger looked her way, and Arya threw the saddle over the war horse's back. With a startled scream, the horse bucked and thrashed, pulling the rope and branch clean off the tree. Arya yelped as she fell back, landing beside the Hound's limp body as Stranger's saddle fell to the ground and the tar-black warhorse bolted down the road into the thickening gloom.
Getting to her feet, Arya kicked the dropped saddle, hard, for good measure. So much for turning back. I could have been to Saltpans by now. Probably. She didn't know where the Saltpans were. She didn't know how far it was, or how long it would take her to travel, and she had been captured by too many men to taste freedom, only to have it taken away by someone else. The Hound helped her kill Polliver and the Tickler, and she had forgotten to say his name in her nightly prayer. Maybe he isn't as bad.
Refusing to think of it anymore, she tried to push the Hound back into a sitting position. His armor weighed him down, and the stench of his wounds got into her nose, gagging her. He dropped back to the ground as Arya turned away. Down the road, she heard hooves, and the sound of a man humming. Fear lunged into her chest, her hand went to Needle. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she commanded herself, drawing Needle.
Through the gloom, a man-shaped shadow walked beside a horse-shaped shadow. Arya had to squint to see them better, and when they came closer, she sucked in her breath. The man was big, almost as big as the Hound, but he didn't carry a sword. In fact, if it wasn't for his size, he would look no different than one of the Begging Brothers Arya had seen in King's Landing. Stranger was walking by his side, lead by his halter. Weirdly, Arya felt like she should hide the dogshead helm the Hound was so famous for. She turned, trying to find the ugly thing before the man came close. Spotting it beside the slumped figure of the Hound, she kicked the helm away, under Craven's hooves and behind the tree.
"Is this your horse, boy?" the stranger called, lifting a hand in friendly greeting.
"It... it is," Arya replied, holding Needle in front of her warily.
The large man stopped a distance away, eyes on the small sword. "You'll have no need for that," he said soothingly. His eyes moved from sword, to Arya, to the Hound. "He is wounded."
She didn't put Needle down, she learned enough to not trust strangers. "I was trying to get him to a Maester," she answered. "Stranger ran off when I tried saddling him."
The man looked at the horse beside him. "A blasphemous name," he said quietly. "It is a large task for a young girl."
Arya bristled, for the first time feeling angry that someone knew she was a girl. "I can handle myself."
The man tied Stranger to the tree and knelt next to the Hound. He hesitated only a moment before lifting the crude bandages Arya had wrapped around the man's head. His nose wrinkled, but his big hands didn't falter as he removed the bloody linen. "How long has he been like this?" he asked, though he didn't look up from his work.
"Since yesterday..."
"What did you use to stop the bleeding? To clean the wounds?"
"He just..." Arya stopped, looking to the Hound, a confused expression on her face. "He boiled wine."
The man shrugged a pack from his shoulders, opening it to dig through the contents. "Where is his helm?" he questioned.
"What helm?" Arya asked too quickly.
The man set aside clean strips of linen. As he pulled out a small vile, he smiled a small, sad smile. "I know this is Sandor Clegane, Joffrey's mad Hound."
"No, not Joffrey's anymore" Arya said firmly, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "He's my dog now."