"And what are you going to do," the she-wolf asked, her eyes blazing, accusing and incredulous at once. And that was the question, wasn't it? What was the Hound going to do? Offer himself to the Young Wolf, of course – if he was going to go traitor he might as well go all the way. Wouldn't that be a pleasant surprise for the Lannisters, to find their loyal retainer turned wild dog…turned wolf…

Sandor snorted, almost, amused in his wry and bitter way.

It was strange. For the first time in his life he had no ties, no obligations, no master but himself. His mouth quirked; the dog had been let off the leash. Had broken his chain, rather. And now he didn't have the first idea what to do with himself.

There was nothing to stop him from simply going to kill Gregor. Except that it was likely paramount to suicide, and despite everything, he hadn't slipped that far yet.

"What are you going to do," he growled, eventually, in answer, narrowing his eyes at the little she-wolf. She glared at him. Not the same stock as her sister, this one; far more wolf and far less fluttering little bird or butterfly. It was no real wonder they'd never gotten on.

Her eyes snapped and he half expected to see sparks. "What am I going to do when," she shot back. The girl had guts, he'd give her that. She looked straight at his face without flinching and snarled back more often than not.

"When do you think? When you get back to your family, you little idiot." He leaned back, watching her with narrowed eyes.

The she-wolf eyed him back, suspicious, looking for some hint of mockery or ulterior motive, he supposed. Eventually she tossed her hair back, a bit of haughty pride creeping into her voice. "What does it matter to you?"

"A question for a question," Sandor snapped. "Sure you've heard that before." His voice was, perhaps, sharper than necessary, but for a moment he wondered why he had asked. There were other ways to avoid answering himself, which assuredly he didn't want to.

Perhaps, the niggling thought occurred to him, he'd asked because he had no idea what it would be like to have a family to return to. The she-wolf glared at him more, then snapped, "Perhaps I'll ask my brother to kill you. Maybe I'll kill you myself."

He laughed at her, openly. "I hope for your sake you have more brains than that." She looked on the verge of spitting at him, for that.

"You haven't said what you would do," she accused. Sandor looked up and grinned at her, baring his teeth savagely.

"Maybe I'll kill you and run." He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes and let his mouth quirk. "What I'll do is my business, not yours, little wolf."

"I'm not so little anymore."

"You look little to me." Sandor rolled his shoulders back, lazily, and started to stand. "Go to sleep."

"Are you going to kill your brother?"

He stopped and turned to face her, smoothing his expression though he felt his jaw clench, teeth gritted. She had stayed sitting, and was looking up at him with that same recklessly fearless attitude that half made him want to laugh and ruffle her hair for how much she reminded him of himself sometimes. "Why do you ask that?"

"You said you would. 'When I carve his heart out,' you said. Are you going to kill Ser Gregor once you get rid of me?"

Sandor smiled, wryly. "Why? Do you want to come too?" He spat. "Somehow I don't think your mother would approve."

"He'll flatten you." She sounded half viciously pleased, half almost apprehensive. "Like a little fly."

He felt more than heard the rumble of the snarl in his throat. "You know nothing of killing, girl." She looked annoyed.

"I've killed before. I bet I could kill your brother." Sandor snorted.

"You don't know my brother."

"Well?" She asked, and he thought there was a note of eagerness to her voice. "Are you going to kill him?"

For a moment, he considered it. He could. It was, after all, what he'd dreamed about since he'd been old enough to kill, and there was no use pretending it wouldn't be a service…killing the Mountain would surely be good enough to warrant acceptance from the Young Wolf, no matter how grudging. If he survived.

He had a thought, suddenly, for a day a long time ago when he had watched Gregor pull his first puppy apart as it cried helplessly, shrieking in horribly human pain and Sandor had cried and screamed with it, too scared to try to interfere. He'll flatten you.

There was satisfaction in the she-wolf's voice. "You're scared of him. You pretend you're not scared of anything but you're scared of him, aren't you?"

He wheeled on her with a snarl. "Shut up."

She backed up a few steps, but her eyes glittered, gloating. "No. You're not going to kill him because you're too scared. I'd kill him if I were you. But all you can do is snarl about how you'll kill him some day and run-"

"Girl," he growled, fury rising in surges and waves. "Shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you. I have to keep you alive. That doesn't necessarily mean untouched."

Her chin lifted defiantly. "Does that make you feel better? If you're scared of him at least you're not scared of me?" She bared her teeth. "I'm not scared of you, Hound. I'm not scared of anything."

"The more fool you, then," he snapped, "You can show your teeth at me all you want, but it's me that's taking you home."

"I don't owe you anything," she spat, angrily. "Not you. Craven. I don't think you even mean it, about killing him, I think you're just saying-"

He seized her shirt front, dragged her up off her feet, and snarled, face inches from hers. "Shut up, wolf girl," he said, viciously. "I'm not craven and I'm not going to put up with you. Silence or I'll gag you. And I don't just talk. I'll drop my knightly brother's head at your feet someday soon, and then we'll see who's craven and who's not."

Furious, he flung her down, stalking away, half waiting for her to say more so he could gag the little brat, but she seemed to have taken his threat seriously and was silent.

Sandor didn't sleep that night. He glared into the distance, thinking. So he would get the girl to the Twins and then go south again to hunt the Mountain. For his own vindication.

Not because a little girl had accused him of cowardice. Not because she'd claimed she could do what he hadn't in over twenty years and he believed that she would have.

By morning, for all his thought, all he had was a pounding headache. He kicked the little she-wolf awake. "Up," he snapped, "We need to get moving."

To his relief, she didn't bring up his brother again.