Fanfiction only. I own no part of Game of Thrones.

Silence and Snarling

Arya knelt on the hearth and laid Clegane's fire. The man had been sleeping rough for months, and probably hadn't seen a featherbed since he'd left King's Landing. It seemed like the least she could do. The gods knew he'd shiver all night in his mail before he'd deign to light a fire for the sake of his own comfort.

Once the fire had been laid, Arya pulled a chair into the corner of the room and waited. When Larsa edged into the room with the wine, she didn't even notice Arya was there. Arya had learned many things in the House of Black and White, but nothing more than how to wait, how to fill her mind with nothing so that she could watch and listen and learn properly. The passage of time ceased to have meaning while she waited, and she lived out entire lives within her own mind.

Arya's stomach twisted painfully as she considered how Clegane might greet her. If he didn't kill her on sight, his familiar snarling would be a welcome respite to the silence within the smoking ruins of Winterfell.

Sansa brooded, Arya watched, and Bran . . . who could tell where Bran was? There was little of the boy that had once been Brandon Stark left in the Three Eyed Raven. The entire household mourned the loss of sweet Rickon, and though nothing was said outright, everyone was all too aware of the horrors that had befallen their beloved, porcelain Lady Sansa.

Arya grimaced. Sansa. She had turned out to be a pretty piece of work. Had he not been pissing himself in fear at her feet, Petyr Baelish would have been as proud of his icy, scheming protégé as if she'd been his own daughter true. Sometimes when she watched Sansa, Arya saw the tooth of the wolf beneath that perfect façade. Just like Littlefinger, Sansa smiled sweetly, placated every objection from every side, but kept her true thoughts locked up like a bird in a little golden cage. Arya wondered whether she and her sister had played Littlefinger, or if it was Sansa who had played Baelish and Arya alike.

Executing Littlefinger in the middle of her father's hall had endeared Arya to no one. In one stroke, Arya had eliminated the greatest threat to Sansa's power, solidified her sister's authority amongst their bannermen, and portrayed herself as little more than Sansa's bloodthirsty henchman.

Most of the northern lords went out of their way to avoid Arya, scandalized by her vulgarity and ruthlessness. Disguised as a stable boy, invisible as a chargirl, she had heard their whispers. Unnatural . . . craven . . . rabid . . . unhinged. Arya snorted in amusement. Sansa would be beside herself when she realized that there was no possibility whatever that any northern lord in their right mind would wed and bed Arya now. Arya smirked. She was virtually worthless to House Stark for building alliances. No great loss, as far as she was concerned.

When the latch of the door lifted, Arya melted back into the dusky shadows. The Hound bolted the door and dropped his saddlebags on the floor beside it. He was thinner than Arya remembered and somehow diminished. Perhaps it was only that she was not so small. More likely, she had lost the fear and hatred of him that had enlarged him in her mind. He approached the table where she'd set out the wine and goblet. He turned the goblet thoughtfully in his hand but replaced it firmly on the table without filling it.

Clegane pressed his hands into the surface of the table. "I'm glad you made it home, girl," he murmured bitterly, "even if I couldn't bring you the rest of the way."

"Brienne of Tarth should count herself lucky that she does not owe a life to the Many Faced God. And to me." Arya's tone was hard. Brienne's name was still pitch and gall on her tongue.

Clegane snorted and glanced up, his eyes sparkling with dark mirth. "That bitch has more honor than brains. I doubt it has even crossed her mind."

"Probably not." Arya studied his face, more deeply lined and windburned. "You are well?"

"Aye, as well as can be expected." He assessed her critically from beneath heavy brows. "You're different." He narrowed his eyes as he took in her face. "How many men have you sent to your Many Faced God since you left me?"

"The ones that deserved it. Walder Frey, Meryn Trant, others. One that didn't." Softly, she concluded, "The Hound . . . but I'm glad to see Sandor Clegane survived."

He nodded, acknowledging the difference. "Aye, you killed the Hound, alright. I can't say when exactly he died, but I'm still here. Come here, girl, I have something for you."

Arya took a step forward but froze when Clegane unbuckled his belt.

He glowered darkly at her. "You ought to know me better than that by now."

She approached cautiously. Beside his own blade another had been strapped to his belt, and he removed it and held it out to her.

"When we went back to King's Landing, I took this from the royal armory in the Red Keep. The Lannister cunts didn't deserve it, and I knew he'd have wanted you to have it."

Arya took the blade and turned it over in her hands. The hilt was wrapped in red leather with a huge ruby set between golden lion's paws stretching out to form the crossguard. She loosed the blade in the locket, and Valyrian steel slithered out.

"Why in seven hells would you bring me a Lannister sword?"

Clegane's eyes smoldered. "It's not Lannister steel. It's your father's blade, reforged into two smaller swords. Jamie Lannister gave one to Brienne of Tarth. This is the other." Darkly, he continued, "If you want both, I'll get you the other one too."

Arya shook her head slowly. "Father's bones didn't make it back to the North, but at least his blade did. I don't like her much, but if Brienne has pledged her blade to the North, she'll die defending it. Let her have the sword for now. At least it serves the North." She glanced up at Clegane. "How many men did you have to kill to get me this sword?"

"Does it matter?"

"No. It does not." Arya tipped the blade so that the last wisps of twilight and the ruddy glow of the fire skittered across its surface. The steel seemed to glow faintly red. Solemnly, Arya sheathed the blade and glanced up at Clegane. "For this, for the many times you bled for me, I will be forever in your debt."

Before he could stop her or protest, Arya closed the space between them and wrapped her arms tightly around Clegane. She was surprised how close they were in height now, her head fitting neatly a few inches beneath his chin. She remembered now his scent and the warmth that he exuded. It was still a comfort.

Arya smiled. To be honest, he stank to the seven hells. His brigadine exuded the odors of sweat, horse, wood smoke, and the tang of blood. It was the same as the night he had borne her away from the Red Wedding beneath a Frey banner. She had woken within his arms the next morning to the wretched, bitter realization that it was the only place in the world where she was safe. She'd learned to overlook most of the Hound's shortcomings, and in the process had glimpsed Sandor Clegane beneath them.

He patted her back awkwardly and mumbled, "Joffrey named it Widow's Wail."

Arya snorted and released Clegane. "Only cunts name their swords."

He grinned crookedly back. "Aye, lots of cunts. It's yours, now, my lady. What will you call it?"

"Don't do that." Arya grimaced sadly at him. "I don't need a title, and neither does my blade." She clutched what remained of her father's Valyrian steel to her breast. "Thank you for bringing Ice home, Sandor. I won't forget. Not ever."

Impulsively, Arya grabbed hold of the strap of Clegane's gorget and pulled him down to her. She laid a gentle kiss against his ruined face and released him. Arya fled the room before he could see her eyes overflow.