Takes place while Arya and The Hound are traveling together; most likely before the Red Wedding. They have stopped to rest for the night.
Sandor Clegane leaned his head back, drinking deeply from the flask of wine he'd taken just that morning. He supposed the boy he'd run through with his sword had been lucky enough to come into a good bit of coin; wine like this wasn't the stuff of smallfolk.
Above him the stars were emerging, Stranger was tied up at the tree beside him, and in front of him a small fire danced below a roasting rabbit. Little Stark had proven more resourceful than he'd thought; she wandered away to make her water and came back with dinner.
He looked at her across the fire and the roasting rabbit and sipped his wine. She looked sullen and cross, staring into the embers as she stoked the small pile of fiery wood. She always seemed deep in thought and angry, although he supposed she had more right than most to be thoughtful and angry. Yet she was nothing like her sister. They were alike neither in temperament nor appearances. The little she-wolf was small and dark, thin and bony, unwashed and filthy. She looked more a dweller of Flea Bottom than a lady of House Stark, and she looked like her father to boot. Her sister, however … yes, the little bird was much different than her younger sibling. Where Arya was thin and bony, Sansa was curvier, with a more full-grown figure. Her hair was an auburn-red, almost copper, that was a halo around a face that would be beautiful when she was full grown. Even at such an age her face was milk-white and flawless. Sometimes he had caught himself wondering if her frequent cuts would leave scars on an otherwise unmarred face.
They hadn't. At least not when he last saw her in her room in the Red Keep. He'd gotten quite close to her face then. Even now if Sandor Clegane closed his eyes he could smell her bedsheets and pillows. They had smelled faintly of her still, of her soap and whatever perfume they'd daubed her slender neck with.
When she'd come into her room and he'd startled awake in a drunken stupor and grabbed her thin wrist, he'd smelled her up close. He offered to take her far away from King's Landing, promised to keep her safe, and she denied him. When he had pressed her into the bed and leaned over her, he'd seen her full lips trembling and heard her little whimper and he'd hated her. Hated her for being a silly girl, for being naive. He threatened to open her throat if she didn't sing, and sing she did; this small sound, delicate like fine china, singing such an innocent song. She'd promised him a song about a foolish knight and his foolish love, and she'd sung him a song of mercy instead.
He'd never admit to shedding a single tear, not out loud, but every man has his weakness. She had reached up, touched his ugliness, unflinching. There was a smear of blood on her bedsheet next to her face where his hand had been braced, and another smear of blood across her collarbone where his bloodied mail had brushed her as he held a knife to her throat. But she looked up at him after she'd finished her song and put her cool hand to his ruined cheek and in that small moment, the fire that raged within his scars was extinguished; her hand was an ice floe staunching the fierce burn, and for one short minute he was just a man baring his soul and his tears to a truly innocent young woman.
"Little bird," he'd rasped, throat tight. He ripped himself away from her, tossed his filthy, blood-stained white cloak to the floor, and left her where she lay.
How he regretted it.
"What are you staring at?" the wolf-bitch snapped, pulling him from his thoughts. "You're looking at me like you're going to eat me."
"And I might yet. Your scrawny rabbit isn't enough to feed a babe, let alone a dog," he told her, tipping his head back for another much-needed gulp of wine. His flask was empty.
Giving an angry sort of sigh, Sandor Clegane tossed the flask aside and reclined back against his pack, hands folded across his belly and eyes closed. "Wake me when the rabbit's done, girl. Leave me to my thoughts otherwise.
"I didn't know dogs had thoughts," the girl mumbled, turning the rabbit over the fire.
"Your sweet sister keeps a man's mind company," he told her with a smirk. Arya wrinkled her nose.
"You're vile."
Sandor Clegane chuckled as he settled down for a nap. Little Stark didn't know how right she was.