Sandor Clegane slammed his fist down on his tactics board, hissed something through clenched teeth, then turned his attention to his companion. "There'll be lots of rats trying to snatch up this job, Runt, but you need to be the first. You need to be the best." The Hound was very picky about his vocabulary.

Most of the wooden pieces set on the table to represent him and his employees had fallen, rolling back and forth defeatedly, but his and Arya's pieces were still standing. "What if he gets to it first?" The girl piped up. She didn't speak his name, for fear of the vile word poisoning the air she breathed.

"That won't happen. You won't let it. I haven't seen much of you, but from what I have, I know you could slit that fucker's throat without him even sniffing the steel." In her captor's voice was a command, but peel away the layers of harshness, there was faith. Captor or friend, she still hadn't decided what he was to her. He fed her and housed her (most of the time), but he also sent her to do dirty work that could get her executed before she could name him an accomplice.

The only other piece still standing represented Robert Baratheon. He had been stealing priceless jewels since Arya was squalling and swaddled. Thieves, good folks, and officers of the law knew his name well- it was never far from wanted boards or envious lips, never sounded right, and never sounded wrong in the same. The wolf girl had even known about him when she was on the streets.

She hadn't heard much of him lately, she suspected maybe his experiences in prison left him a law abiding man, but there were still whispers that he was at it again. He may be, and if he is, it doesn't matter. He's old and fat, and I'm young and quick, she reassured herself. Anything he can do, so can I. She told herself it was like chasing a slower, fatter cat, like she used to do in her dancing lessons. She winced at the memory.

In his youth, he'd been muscular, barrel chested, and loud. Some said he went bad after his wife, Lyanna caught ill and died, and some said he was always bad. At least, that's what the Hound had told her, among the frequent mutterings about how 'bloody gallant' he was, or how he 'bled wine and shit gold'. To which, she'd interrupted with, "I thought that was Tywin Lannister?". The Hound swatted her response away with another sharp remark. "Fine then, he shits Tywin Lannister's gold. That's how good of a bloody rat he is. Or was, I suppose."

Some years ago, when Arya was still only stealing her dinner, she'd heard that he'd been caught in some baron's mansion. Seeing as he was practically the baron of thieves, she investigated further. She took down a fat pidgeon and sold it to one of the poorer officers for information on this notorious criminal, who'd somehow been caught.

"Yeah, that growin' belly of 'is got in the way and triggered an alarm." He leaned in closer to her, and she caught the scent of whisky heavy on his breath. "Apparently so drunk he couldn't see straight, like that brother of his." He winked sluggishly, and laughed to himself. "Rainbow guard, is that what he's calling it now?" He sniggered. "I know what colour that Tyrell boy'd be." Arya rolled her eyes when he wasn't looking and bid him a good day, facing the cool night air, which seemed to cling to 1823 like there wouldn't be another year for it.

Sandor chewed his sourleaf for a moment more, beady eyes so intently fixed on the board that Arya was sure he'd burn a hole through it. Finally, he straightened, rolling his shoulders. "No time to worry about that now, Runt. We have someone to go see in Journeyman's Quarter." He barked, shrugging on his tattered trench coat.

Arya, without realizing it, mimicked him, adjusting her own leather back into place. The clothes she wore were dangerous and definitely not warm enough, but they were quiet and dark. Just what she needed. Quick like a shadow, she was. "Journeyman's Quarter? What for?" Journeyman's Quarter was one of the richer parts of Thatching, her and the Hound making an appearance there would be like two fish climbing willingly out of water.

Sandor held open the door for her, eyes to the ground. He wasn't usually this nice to her, clearly he wanted something, something big. There was a job waiting for her in Journeyman's Quarter, she knew it.

Outside she was greeted with the usual array of filth, the brothel down the street always provided some, but that didn't bother her. She was too numb. Rain touched her face ever so gently, the cobblestone beneath her wet and long since riddled with cracks and breaks she'd learnt to dodge.

Homeless jingled coins in their cups to the rhythm of their repeated "spare some"s and "I've got kids"s, even though they knew no one had anything to spare, and that everyone knew they did not have any children. Unless said children lived in the opium den down the street.

Arya had to walk doubly fast to keep up with the Hound's long strides. He turned his collar up, but Arya had long since built an immunity to the weather. She was, after all, a thief; her kind could not afford to feel the cold.

The train they hopped on didn't bother to ask their purpose in the Quarter, nor their names. How they were related. No one cared here, as long as they could go home at night, you were not their problem. They had too many already on their plate, food, ironically, being one of them.

Arya was beginning to drift off, her head lolling on to the window, eyes drooping closed, when Sandor yanked her back into consciousness. "Know that crooked blacksmith? The one whose son jumped into the Thames and never returned?" He didn't look at her, but rather watched the dreary hills of yellowed grass stretch outside his window. Arya nodded wordlessly.

"Word is he heard something in his shop a fortnight past, a rustling, something dropping. Says there was a thief, and not one of ours."

Sandor ran a network of people, all engaged in his crimes, all other links in his chain. They either whispered in certain ears and spread rumours that would cover his trail, or they snatched his salvation in the dead of night. In return, he kept them alive. In Thatching, that was a well valued prize. "So? Why-" She stopped herself after being given a pointed look. He'd been trying to teach her not to ask questions she hadn't already thought about, apparently not everyone would put up with it. So she pondered his words for a moment more.

His network was large, most of Beggars Round belonged to him, but even so, there were stragglers. Unpredictables. Only they were found. "Was he caught? Did anyone find him after that?" She pursed her lips. Sandor shook his head.

The train screeched to a halt as the Hound opened his mouth to speak again. He creaked to his feet, placing his beaten tophat on his head, tilting it over the burnt side of his face. "You'll see." He croaked. Arya trailed behind him, suddenly aware of her exposed shoulders. She tucked her polished daggers farther into her boots, feeling the tips prod her bare ankles.

In the streets of the Quarter, crier's wailed the day's news, waving sodden papers in the faces of those stupid enough to pay attention. Homeless still littered the streets, but less than home, Arya observed. They didn't beg. Most of them slept, if they could. Arya saw a woman drop a coin in man's cup. Yes, she thought, that one has the right of it. People don't like to give unless it's their idea.

The Hound led her through crooked alleyways and under frozen pipes, over the sick and under the wealthy, until they reached the blacksmith's shop. A bell tinkled overhead as they entered, and immediately Arya was hooked.

Weapons of all sorts were strewn about the leaning shack, hung on the walls, laying carelessly on the floor. She made a point to inspect each one of them, her black leather jerkin groaning as she bent down to look at a set of daggers on the ground.

She shot to her feet as a tall, greying man strolled out from beneath a curtain at the other side of the shop. "Can I help you?" His accent was thick, but there was no malice to his voice.

Sandor gestured to a musket on the wall. "How much for that hunk of junk?" He rasped. Arya pursed her lips.

The blacksmith seemed rather taken aback. "I do believe my works are more than beaten steel, but it's two silver bits. One for guards." He explained, glancing up at the gun almost self consciously.

The Hound squinted. "Right." He said quietly. He'd done work for the guard, years ago, but he'd never said the vows. It had cost him, but he was glad for his choice. He might have said them, but when he saved Sansa Stark, Arya's sister, from a group of rapers, he closed that door completely. The Lannister househould could use her sister, but loved her even less than Arya did. She winced at the thought, her heart panging. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought. I was just a stupid little girl. She missed her sister, however different they may be. Wolfs blood ran in the redhead's veins and called to her own, but Sansa was out of reach. Arya hadn't seen her in years, but oh gods, what she would give to see her again. "I'm going to be honest with you and tell you I'm not here for your shit works, I'm here for information. One of my little mice told me there was a thief in here last night." He quirked a brow.

The blacksmith opened his mouth and then closed it again, searching for the right words. His eyes flit over the Hound's hulking frame, and then to Arya, who was positive that even for her small stature, she still looked menacing enough. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you anything about that."

Arya stepped forward, ignoring Sandor's negative response. "You can, and you will." She flashed the hilt of the dagger stored in her shirt, right at her heart. She don't know why she kept it there, but it seemed right. Its presence was comforting. She was cold hard steel inside and out.

The blacksmith's pale blue eyes widened as he gulped, nodding slowly. "Okay, okay. Take a seat, then." Neither of them sat.

"Suit yourself. Last night,the wee hours of the morning, I heard something in my shop from upstairs where I sleep. I heard something fall and went down to investigate; I thought maybe some critters had gotten into my ale." He paused, shaking his head. "When I got down there, there were no critters, but a bottle of polish was tipped over and nearly empty, and there was a rag soaking in it. I flashed my torch over the corner nearest- and there he was." The room had gone silent, apart from Sandor's heavy breathing.

"There who was?" Arya sliced through the quiet.

"Robert Baratheon."

-
Well, guys. It's been a couple months, I've been writing mostly poetry and getting into new stuff. I'm sorry I dropped my other fic, but I'll be picking something else up soon along the same lines. Anyway, here's some Gendrya to soothe your shipper hearts, though you'll have to be patient cause it doesn't start until chapter 2. Also I'm wondering what to rate this. There isn't gonna be any smut, but you know there's gonna be some swearing with the good ol' Hound in your fic. I don't really get the fanfiction ratings though- anyone mind dropping a suggestion in the reviews?
Next chapter: In which Arya is not quick enough, and Robert Baratheon isn't who he seems.

ps; I fixed it. Copy and paste is a finicky lil bitch :)