A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long! I wound up having to drop a class and try and scramble for another one, and that scramble has now landed me in three 400 level classes... and the heat in my dorm broke, so settling in wasn't quite as easy as I would have liked, and I didn't get nearly as much done last week as I would have liked. I hope all of you guys who are just starting spring semester got your semesters off to a good start! Thanks as usual to my beta, Mira (akissandacloak)

Trigger Warnings: This chapter will reference past instances of sexual abuse. Non-explicit, but there.

Thanks so much to my reviewers from the last chapter, AuroreMartell, xbecbebex, Meg, Nadeshiko-Nara, Winterwasp, Bloodsired, JuliaAurelia, Midnightdawn67, Guest, and crushnotsosecret. You guys keep me going!


CHAPTER SIX: THE JOURNEY BEGINS


When the party prepares to leave shortly after the sun reaches its zenith, Arya's hair is tucked up under a plain woolen cap, and the two are hidden away from the rest of the party and the nosy stable boys, outside an ice-crumbled section of the stable eagerly waiting to be rebuilt.

After stuntedly mounting Stranger, Sandor looks her up and down, nodding approvingly.

"Good," he says, after appraising her new attire: suede leggings, stiff leather boots, lined leather gloves, a muddied wool tunic, jerkin and cloak. Her chest had flattened, if not because of the thickness of her clothing, then because of some sort of binding. "Do I want to know where you got them, wolf brat?"

She snorts, shaking her head slightly before moving to load her supplies into her saddlebag.

Her tone, upon answering, is decidedly ambiguous. "Fucked a man and stole his clothes."

He looks at her like he doesn't know whether to believe her or not, before tilting his head, appreciative. "I can admire the cleverness in it. Leave him your skirts, then, did you?"

"His choices will be to walk back to his rooms arse naked or in my dress," she responds, saddling her own mount. "Serves him right for assuming I was a whore."

Sandor barks a laugh. "Took his coin, then? Or were his pants enough payment?"

Arya shakes her head, a small smile blooming on her lips. "My cunt for these tatters? Of course I took his coin."

"Was he a farmer?" Sandor asks with a laugh. If it's a game, he'll play it willingly. And if she really fucked a man into sleep to steal his clothes, then all the better for her and all the worse for the sap who propositioned a she wolf. "Or something higher? The innkeeper?"

"I would hope the innkeeper would have better clothes than these."

He continues as if he hasn't heard her. "He'd be a bigger man, though, than what would fit you. Mayhaps one of the innkeeper's lesser sons, then."

"Lesser? Would I accept lesser?" She would have, of course, and had. But this stupid, and frankly risky, conversation is the most fun she's almost had in years. "Do you know who my father was, Brother Sandor?"

"Well that depends on who you are, doesn't it?" he replies. "And who are you this time, little girl?"

Arya scoffs. "Little?"

He snorts. "You haven't gotten much taller, have you?"

She mounts the mare aptly and with flourish, raising an eyebrow in his direction, a flagrant challenge to his injured leg.

"I could still kick your skinny little ass," he growls.

"I'll run away."

He barks a laugh, before shaking his head again. "So what in Seven Hells are you supposed to be? You're dressed a bit smart to be some lowly stable boy."

"Of course not."

Sandor pulls his hood up tighter as they ride away from the shadows of the stable. "Then what the hell are you, boy?"

"One of the innkeeper's lesser sons, of course. Thinking about joining the faith, and all." She briefly considers riding her mount closer to his, but decides to stay out of hitting distance.

Although, she wonders, his leg may keep him from trying it. Although, if his leg's in that sorry shape, we're pretty fucking screwed. What an adventure… they're embarking on. "Don't know though, I'm pretty fond of my whoring."

"For such a small bugger?" She almost feels like laughing, and wonders if the process would bring up years of dust and neglect. A fleeting look of—something almost like happiness, yes, because they are almost, and never quite there, not anymore, not after.

"Why do you think my fa—"

She quiets quickly, the moment of laughter gone before it had the chance to come to fruition.

Hastily she tucks her face away into the shadows. She did not take a face to steal this time—again, for some reason, Sansa's consciousness had taken form in her mind, chiding her for the bloody thought. No, Sansa had been merciful. She will take care to practice her sister's mercy until she finds her again. Until she is free again.

Littlefucker rides past on his great steed, conducting a discussion of great import with the Elder Brother.

Arya casts her eyes back to Sandor, finding a similar posture on him as well. He gestures for continue.

"Do you think he—" she begins to ask, sidling up next to him.

"Stop talking," he hisses, looking very nearly to pushing her away from him. "And go away."

"The Elder Brother did say there were other—"

"Buggering hells," he hisses, pulling on Stranger's reigns to separate them. "Didn't you survive six years on your own? Stop talking."

I'm going to kill you, she thinks, bringing her horse up behind Littlefinger, casting her head just so. I was going to do it for pushing her off the tower. Now I'm going to do it for keeping her there. She thinks it may almost be worse than causing her death. No, she knows that death is a gift. It is a mercy. One, she remembers, a small twinge rising up in her chest but petulantly refusing to spark into remorse, that she refused Clegane.

Littlefinger has never shown anyone mercy.

Arya fears what they might find up in the tower. She knows madness. She has seen it. She has almost lived it. She has rid the world of it, mercy by mercy, gift by gift. She saw Cersei Lannister die.

What has four years on her own done to her sister?

No matter the answer to that question, Arya resolves to love her and protect her. There is goodness in Sansa that only perished in Cersei Lannister.

The wind shifts, and Arya stops thinking. Instead, she listens.

"I will bring back the herbs we need for Lord Robert. I have been assured that they are available in the village, my lord," the Elder Brother says. "I am most honored that you have chosen to escort me and my humble brothers outside the Gates, my lord."

Arya sees the corner of a smile appear on Littlefinger's face. "I am most thankful for all that you have done for the boy, Brother. Now, you are certain that this trader is trustworthy? It would be… most unfortunate to be maligned by a liar or a thiever."

Something roots in the Elder Brother's expression, the line of his mouth tightening. "I can see no reason why the trader would risk harm to his liege lord."

"Ah…" Littlefucker's smile grows wry. Arya thinks that this must have been the expression on his face when he closed the door on her sister. "But Lord Robert is not his liege. You said the man is from the West."

"Still," the Elder Brother answers, frowning. "I see no reason why the trader would harm the lord of his sanctuary. It would seem unwise, when there is very little elsewhere to run."

"Well then," Littlefinger says smoothly. "I trust that nothing will go wrong with Lord Robert's new treatment. It would be most unfortunate."

"Yes…" the Elder Brother replies slowly. "Immensely unfortunate. The poor boy has been through enough, I would say."

Arya is forced to drop back as the party bottlenecks, reaching the edge of the village. Carefully, she worms her way closer again.

"So ten days?" Littlefucker asks. "And you're certain the supplies are adequate?"

The Elder Brother nods. "My brothers are men of the cloth. They do not require much in the way of material belongings. Merely enough to survive and minister to those who cannot survive without the mercy of great lords such as yourself, my lord."

I'll show you mercy, Arya thinks. There's a knife in her boot. She knows how to use it. A blade crosses the neck of a great lord just as easily as it does the small man's.

"I am to be a good and merciful lord, Brother," Littlefinger answers. Not quickly, not with haste. He is too good for urgency. "I will always answer the call of the people."

"And you have, my lord." Arya grates her teeth. "Look how the Vale prospers, even in this time of great hardship."

Littlefinger's death will be her gift to herself.

(And Sansa. Definitely Sansa.)

They reach the Gates, and pass through them. Arya pulls her cloak tighter around her. They'll have to ride on with a party for a while yet, with Littlefinger's men likely watching them. And then before dark, they'll turn around and make for the village again and start the ride up to the Eyrie.


She feels like singing. Dancing. She enjoyed it, once, before she had to worry about groping hands and cloying breath.

She remembers Sandor Clegane's knife to her throat, her voice shaking as she sang for mercy. For him, for her. For them all, as green flames danced through the startled sky.

Should she trust him?

She did not know what he was offering, at the moment when the offer was made. Drunk, and terrifying…even if she hadn't been so confused, would she have taken him up? It had looked like Stannis was sure to win, and Sandor Clegane had turned craven…

He must be better, now. Gentled. She knows of the Quiet Isle. And even before… he saved my life. It was all he could do, under Joffrey's watch. And whatever else… only when he was drunk. Because he had to be drunk.

The Lannisters never would have allowed his mercies otherwise. And so with his savings came his abuses. Sansa is not sure if she can yet forgive him for those abuses, but knowledge of his pains, his entrapment… she might understand them.

He is no longer the Lannister's dog.

But can she trust him?

Her survival is her upperhand. Her raven, her powers. Petyr thinks her trapped.

Would it be smart, to be rescued? Sandor Clegane is a fierce warrior, he could...

She has very few friends in the Vale, and none that know of her status. But still, she does not know when Petyr will act next, or what that act will be. Is it worth the risk? She knows, from Petyr, that he is not the Mad Dog of the Saltpans any more than she is the Lady of Lannister. That he "died" on the banks of the Trident.

Even if she did not wish for rescue, it would be nice… to have a friend. With Jaime, she negotiates. With Jon, she plans. With Sandor… she could write. Be a woman. Have a friend. He never held aspersions to the stature of her birth, either… at least, when he wasn't mocking them. And she isn't a silly little bird, anymore. No more than he is the Hound.

What would she write, though?

Sandor Clegane, I am writing to inform you that I am, in fact, not dead. It is my greatest wish that you finally make good on your drunken and slovenly offer to keep me safe.

"No."

It had been so easy to write to Jaime Lannister. (Truth be told, she had felt very little for Jaime Lannister. Sandor Clegane, on the other hand…)

Seven hells, to think that she had dreamt she kissed the man because he was the only one to try and step in and save her. How low had her standards been forced to go, with all traces of Sansa Stark gone and Petyr's minty breath and wandering hands at every private moment, every darkened corner of shared secrecy. Her innocence had been the price for his favor.

With Sandor, her innocence had never been a price…

But it seemed only after it was gone that he tried to protect it.

Sansa gives a short laugh. Well, it's all gone now. Not a drop left.

Perhaps he could take her case to the Elder Brother, even if he didn't wish to rescue her himself.

Or perhaps… there is no good way for her to rationalize it. Petyr Baelish is doomed to dream of her mother. Of a maid long gone. Of Catelyn Tully. But Sandor Clegane… he was a boy, then a boy gone and twisted, and now a man just begun.

The truth, she thinks. You know the truth of him. Because he has always told the truth to you. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. I am not Petyr.

She picks up her quill.

You only spent the entire morning worrying over this, and you'd worry the day away if you allowed yourself. Girl, don't become indecisive now.

Although, being decisive is what got her into this tower.

Do not blame yourself for that.

She has every right to be decisive.

"Gods," she mutters, voice tinging with the barest hint of a fond laugh. "I can't even start it Dear Ser. He'd never read it. He'd just chuck it into the fire."

She flattens out the parchment under the pads of her fingers.

Sandor Clegane—

Now what? He doesn't appreciate formality, so she cannot fall back upon that guise.

I am unsure as to how to write this letter. To start it. To even address it—because neither of us is supposed to have survived. That's the trick of it, I suppose. We're both victims, you and I. The world would be aghast to know that it's let us live.

This is (her hand hesitates, ink dripping from the quill, blotting the paper. For some reason, Sansa tenses at the slight imperfection. The mess. She can barely move her neck, her shoulders.) Sansa Stark. And I am alive. And I am in the Eyrie. And I know that you are lodged at the Gates of the Moon, with a company of men of the faith from the Quiet Isle. I cannot properly explain how I know this—I fear you would scoff and call me a silly and rather delusional little bird who has spent too much time on her own.

You once offered to take me with you, at a time when the world burned and we were two very different people, or so I would hope. I have prayed for you, that you have become gentler and kinder, a better and healthier man, if only for your own sake. I pray that to hold true, and that your time on the Quiet Isle has served you well.

There is a story that the smallfolk tell, about the night I supposedly flung myself from the tower. And subsequently, about the light that can be seen shining from it. (And no, I will not yet tell you how I know that, as well.) I think that, if you have spent any time in an inn at night, you will have heard the story of my… fall from grace. The truth of the mettle of the story is inconsequential—but the fact of it is that I have never left this tower.

And now, Sandor Clegane. I beseech you—whatever compelled you that night to come to my room, may you find it within yourself now.

You once said that you dreamed of being a knight. You may still not be that, or never be that. But I hope that you could be true, for I am once again in need of being rescued.

Enclosed is a lock of my hair, to fulfill the burden of proof of the honesty of this document.

Regards,

Sansa Stark
Lady of Winterfell

She freezes after signing the missive with her signature flourish. Her hand begins to shake.

"I have nothing to cut my hair with," she says. "How could I have…"

Stupid, she thinks.

"But…"

She sighs, moving to seat herself in front of her vanity. Perhaps I could break the mirror? But the maid could see, and that is too much of a risk. Even more of a risk than this… letter. No, I'll have to…

Carefully, she parts her hair, reaching for the bottom of it, where the maid could not see, and begins to pluck out strand after strand. Brushing her mind against the raven's, she brings her friend to her room if only to keep herself outside of her body and away from the sting, until her hand is filled with a hock of long, auburn hair thick enough to prove her word. She folds it lengthwise three times, and tucks into the crease of the parchment, and seals it.

After fastening it to her friend's leg, she flies with him down the mountain to take him to the room that must be his.


They double back at nearly sunset, and whatever feelings of camaraderie felt in that moment have been replaced by Arya's doubt.

Why should she trust him?

And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf.

But he had been dying, had been sobbing. Had been trying to edge her into giving him mercy, even as she was loathe to give it. So he wanted her anger.

But still, even a dying man's words are rooted in truth.

What is the truth of his, then?

They ride silently on, through the village, their costumes changed and faces concealed. The Gates are open, as the Elder Brother had planned.

I'll have it from him. I won't let Sansa be around him if he meant what he said. I'll protect her from even him, if I have to.

God, what dark days they were, with even dark yet to come. Should she have stayed with him? Waited and been found by the Elder Brother? What fate would have been hers? His?

The gate squeals as it opens. Fearlessly, and without looking back, they pass through.

And so they begin their journey on the road to the Eyrie.

Unaware that they are being watched.


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