A/N: This takes place some years after Over the River and There's People Coming, but it can also be read by itself.

This chapter is a little glimpse of Arya & Sandor at home. I'm not specifying where home is or what their relative positions are, because that would be spoilers in case I ever decide to write the story of how they ended up there :o)

It's not fluffy, though. There's discussion of some ugly skeletons in the Hound's closet.

Boy, Arya thought when she looked him over. Anyone younger than she was was still a boy to her, even though this one was probably approaching twenty. He had his height already – impressive height, and it took a lot of height to impress Arya given who she spent her days with – but he didn't yet have all his muscle. In another few years his chest and shoulders would bulk up, and then he'd be impressively strong, too. His name said he was a bastard from the Riverlands. She'd never seen him before.

She smiled at him. "Thank you," she said. "I know firsthand that caring for a direwolf cub isn't easy. I really appreciate the trouble you must have taken to bring her all the way here to me."

Sandor spoke up next. This surprised her; he usually sat through guests in sullen silence. "The gift of a puppy is the way into the lady's heart – not mine," he growled. "Why'd you ask to see the both of us at once?"

The boy drew himself up. "My house has been burned down and I've been chased from my village. I want you to take me in."

Sandor laughed. "Half of fucking Westeros has had its house burned down, boy. Do we look like an orphanage to you?"

The boy wasn't cowed – in fact, he firmed up his stance even more, and something about his scowl… "It's your fault my house was burned."

"The fuck it is. I don't set fires."

"It's still your fault. My house was burned because you have enemies. An awful lot of people hate you. And somehow, despite my best efforts to keep it quiet, some of these people found out that I'm your nephew."

A long silence. "My nephew," Sandor said at last. Low and raspy. "Gregor's get."

"Yes, my lord." The boy hazarded a smile. "My lord uncle."

Sandor sat still a moment – too still – and then before Arya could speak up, rose from his chair and started walking around the big table to the front. Scooping up his sword as he went.

"No – Sandor!" Arya jumped up too, dove under the table and scrambled out the other side. Not quick enough; she was behind him and he was just a few steps away from the stupid boy, who just stood staring wide-eyed like he didn't believe he was about to get beheaded.

Needle was already in her hand as she charged him, and when he raised his arm to swing she went in under his armpit – jabbed the point in and ripped open a gash beside his ribs. He roared and turned. She dove past him, somersaulting on the hard floor… and came up right between Sandor Clegane and his prey. Not a good place to be.

"Go," she barked over her shoulder. "Run." She heard the footsteps; the boy was obeying.

She stood breathing hard, still holding her blade, but balanced and ready to dive aside. How enraged was he? She wasn't dressed or armed to withstand him if he attacked; why didn't she ever carry her big fucking sword with her?

His chest was heaving too. But after a moment he threw his sword to the ground and spread his hands. "No."

She put Needle away and breathed slow and deep until she'd calmed down. He was doing the same thing, standing far away from her, staring out the window. She approached him slowly. "Sandor? You're cut – let me see."

He shook his head.

"Come on – don't be-"

"I'll go to the fucking maester," he said over her – short and sharp.

She swallowed. He never volunteered to see the maester. He must be deeply upset with her. "I'm sorry."

He was still facing away. "Never mind that," he said more quietly. "Go see to the boy. Have him locked up." He sighed, then added: "If you let him go instead, I'll hunt him down and it won't be pretty. Is that clear?"

He wouldn't appreciate any further attempts to make nice. "Yes," she said, just as quiet, and went out.

The boy was in the hall, unconscious. "He ran," one of the guards explained. "We heard you and Sandor shouting, and we thought..."

"Sandor was shouting because I stabbed him," she said shortly. "The boy didn't do anything wrong." The guards looked a little concerned by that. "Listen: he's to be locked up. Somewhere where Sandor can't get to him. Until we can agree on what to do he's not to be harmed – by anyone. Is that clear?"

They both yes milady'd her and dragged the boy away.

He went to the maester alone and took his stitches sober – penance, really. A sort of half-baked hope that the gods would be a little kinder with him when it came time to face Arya again.

The gods didn't seem to be listening, though: she came by almost as soon as he was back in his room. It hadn't taken her long at all to think of the question.

"Have there been others?" she said.

"Other whats?" he said, without any hope that he was misunderstanding.

"Other bastards of Gregor's. Or yours, I guess."

He'd tried to prepare himself but still it wasn't pleasant to talk about. And she was not going to be happy when he did. She knew already that he'd kill children when he needed to, but... "Gregor had two others that I found."

"Did you kill them?" Her voice was low and measured – rehearsed. There was no point asking her Are you sure you want to know; clearly, she was sure.

"The first was a girl. I paid the mother, had her swear that at the first sign there was something wrong with the babe she'd drown it. But it was a girl, so..." he shook his head. "I let it live."

(Now, knowing Arya, he knew that girls were nothing to trifle with and he shouldn't have taken chances. But Arya would not appreciate that, so he kept his mouth shut.)

"What about the second one?"

"Second one was a boy."

She didn't make him say any more than that, but then, she of all people would be able to fill in the details for herself. He badly wanted a drink. The wine on the table was calling to him. He didn't go to it.

"And what about you?" she said. "Have you had any children of your own?"

He shook his head. "I've always just bedded whores. They know to be careful."

"What about-..." Arya stopped, and went for the wine herself. Poured it, took a long sip...

And held the rest of the glass out to him. "It wasn't always just whores," she went on. "You told me once that you raped a couple of girls when you were younger. What happened with them?"

He poured the whole glass down his throat before trying to answer. "They didn't have any children."

"Why? Did you kill them?" Then she put her hand on his arm. "No – never mind. It's not my business."

He knew it was showing on his face; there was no point hiding from it. Anyway she had a right: she was laying with him, it was only fair that she know what happened to the ones who came before. "Aye, I killed them."

She didn't say anything.

"Clean, if that matters," he added. "Gregor wanted to... do things, but..." he shook his head.

"Is that why?" she asked. "Is that why you killed them – so that he couldn't?"

She wanted to think he'd only been saving them, sparing them something worse. He wished he could let her, but he'd never been a very good liar. "No." She was waiting. "Gregor said maybe we've put sons in them. He said Do you think they'll look more like me, or like you? I thought about that for a second, and then…" He shrugged. "Got my sword."

He could still remember little bits about the girls, if he tried. The one he'd taken first, black hair, had had his bloody handprint spanning both cheeks. The other had come to him with her jaw already broken; apparently she'd screamed too loud for Gregor. They'd been no older than Arya was the first time he took her to bed. He remembered wondering whether they'd even had their blood yet... and Gregor had laughed about that. We'll give them blood enough, brother.

Arya was still looking at him. He turned away from her so that she couldn't, but she hugged him from behind. "I love you," she said quietly, and that wasn't good: she didn't say it often, and when she did it was usually to brace him up for something awful. "But you're an idiot. That's not a good reason to kill someone."

He sincerely doubted there was any reason good enough for everything they'd done that day. But he didn't tell her any more. He just nodded and closed his hand over her arm, pathetically grateful for the contact.

"We are not going to slaughter your nephew for no reason. Let's get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning."

The End.

So… I'm really trying to be done writing this pairing. But never say never and all, so who knows! (I do have an idea for putting Ramsay and Sandor and Arya in the same room, and I kinda love it.) For now, though, this is the end. Thanks so much to everyone who gave comments. Hope you enjoyed!