I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who is bearing with me during the slightly slow start to this fic. The scope of it is much larger than any other one I've previously written, but I promise there is a point to it and that we will get there eventually :)


Though she hadn't entirely finished her training at the House of Black and White, she doubted that the kindly old man could have ever prepared her for this. No matter how much he knew, he couldn't have foreseen that she would want to visit the place where she'd left the Hound to die...that she would in turn come across the Elder Brother, who would somehow convince her to visit the Quiet Isle...where she would then learn that the Hound was alive and well, and be asked to let him tag along with her.

No, not even the kindly old man could have foreseen all of that.

Right?

The truth of the matter was that she didn't know, and probably never would. Arya found herself biting her lip as she mused angrily over how the Faceless Men could send her away like this, knowing that she likely would not return to them - and not caring about that one bit. And why should they care? You are no one!

And yet every day that she spent back in Westeros - her return to Saltpans, visiting what she'd thought was the Hound's final resting place, seeing him again and learning more of her sister's plight - reminded her over and over again who she truly was. Perhaps it would have helped if she'd refused Elder Brother's suggestion of letting the Hound tag along on her assignment, and she cursed herself for stupid for having let him convince her otherwise.

Though he's certainly a hell of a lot quieter than he was...before. Arya glanced back at the Hound's hulking form, sitting tall astride his courser Stranger. Sandor Clegane had put aside the brown robes of the brothers of the Quiet Isle and was once again clothed in boiled leather and steel plate, a large greatsword hanging at his side. Though he walked with a slight limp when his feet were on the ground, he still struck a formidable figure. Not that I need him for his sword or shield, Arya thought smugly.

Suddenly the Hound looked up and caught her watching him. He narrowed those gray eyes of his - gray eyes that had once held so much anger, but were now so very different. "You always did enjoy looking at my ugly face," he called out, his voice even more hoarse and gravelly than she remembered it being - likely from disuse, Arya reminded herself, thinking back on the eery quiet of the sept where he'd apparently resided for some time.

"I've never enjoyed it," she spat back, her lip automatically curling in distaste.

Sandor Clegane shrugged nonchalantly, which angered her even more. "So you say, yet you keep looking," he noted.

Arya huffed and turned her back on him, wondering what he would do if she simply left him behind in the middle of the night. She kept telling herself that she should do just that - and yet she never even attempted it. Arya wanted to believe that this was because Elder Brother had made the Hound's affection for - and willingness to help - Sansa Stark very, very clear. He'd even made Clegane explain why he'd said what he said to Arya, that day she'd left him to die...though even after hearing all of that, she had railed against the idea of taking Sandor Clegane with her.

Finally the Hound had chuckled and said, "If you don't take me willingly, I'll just follow you at a safe distance."

"You never would," Arya had snapped. "You don't know what I can do. You'd not be able to follow my tracks, because I won't leave any."

"Please," the Hound had snorted. "You aren't as smart as you think, you little wolf-bitch."

Her anger had flared again, but the Elder Brother had said softly, "That is enough. Lady Arya, I cannot force you to take Sandor Clegane on this journey of yours, but I implore you to think about what your sister would want you to do."

Arya had grimaced. "My sister loved songs and stories and handsome knights. I'm sure she wouldn't care a lick about the Hound."

"Not the Hound," the Elder Brother had reminded her. "Sandor Clegane. I ask you to rethink that claim, though." Here he had glanced at the Hound. "What was your sister's favorite song?"

Of course Arya knew that it was Florian and Jonquil...and that Florian was neither handsome, nor a knight. Damn him.

(She hadn't known whether she was damning Florian, Elder Brother, or the Hound himself, just then.)

She'd stood and paced back and forth in front of the two men. "I'll let him come with me - " she'd begun, only to be interrupted by a snort from Sandor Clegane.

"Let me," he'd mumbled. Arya had glared at him.

"Yes. I'll let you come. But no drinking - you're useless when you drink. And I don't care what either of you say about the things you told me about Sansa - I don't want you speaking of her to me. At all. Ever. Understood?"

At that point the Hound had grinned almost maniacally and turned to Elder Brother, saying, "Such an angry little wolf-bitch. You should keep her here for a while and teach her some manners...I can sort this out on my own."

"That's enough, Sandor," the Elder Brother had warned. "You do not need to worry about the drinking, Lady Arya. He hasn't touched a drop the entire time he's been here, at my behest, and I trust that he'll continue to abstain if it means the chance to right the wrongs he did to your sister." The Hound had grumbled at this, but hadn't disagreed.

The rest of the terms and information about their journey and their task had been settled over a simple but hot supper, and the very next morning Arya and the Hound had departed the Quiet Isle. Elder Brother watched them go, his brow furrowed in concern as if he wasn't sure he'd made the right decision. And even now, days later, Arya wasn't certain that she'd made the right decision. In general the Hound hadn't yet caused any trouble, but still she couldn't understand why he wanted to do this - especially considering that he had to do it with her, and he didn't seem to like her any more than she liked him.

Finally, after nearly a week of silent nights, one evening as Arya was stoking their camp fire she stated - quite matter-of-factly - "Just because you spent your time at the Quiet Isle atoning for your sins, it doesn't mean they're all forgiven. The Seven are next to nothing in terms of gods."

"Is that what they taught you in Braavos, girl?" The Hound wasn't looking at her, nor did he sound angry. In fact it was almost as if he didn't care at all that she'd just insulted the gods he'd spent all that time serving.

"It's what I learned in Braavos," she corrected him.

"If you say so." Sandor Clegane leaned back against a tree, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. Seeing him like that reminded Arya of how she'd left him to die. I should have killed him then. Should have given him the mercy he asked for. Suddenly she found herself on her feet, her hand clutching Needle's hilt. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow...Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. In the work of a moment she was standing over the Hound and had drawn Needle from its sheath, but before she could raise her hand to strike any sort of blow, his eyes opened. "You gonna kill me for real this time?" he asked. "Go ahead and do it, if it will make you feel better. Just make sure you tell your sister that I was going to come for her. That I wanted to help her, because I never helped her enough...before." There was no sadness, no anger or hatred or - well, anything - in his voice, and Arya found herself lowering her little sword.

"I should kill you, but I won't," she forced herself to say, though even as she spoke the words she realized that she didn't quite mean them.

"You keep telling yourself that, girl," Sandor Clegane replied cryptically. He closed his eyes again, and for a moment Arya's hand hovered over Needle's hilt...but finally she backed away and settled herself across the fire from the Hound. She didn't sleep at all that night, and though she told herself it was because someone needed to keep watch, deep down Arya knew that wasn't the only reason that her eyes refused to close.