Sandor Clegane and Arya Stark were the oddest of allies. No one could have accused them of friendship lest they could easily lose their head. However, as fate had done before, they found themselves alone together on the same path, both seeking the same outcome; death to their final enemies.
By the time Brienne and Jaime had reached White Harbor, Arya and Sandor had already made their way through The Neck and down to Greywater Watch, where they'd abandoned their horses for a boat. They saved days of travel by simply allowing the waters to carry them, all the way to the now deserted Twins—save for servants and the many daughters of Walder Frey. Their passage beyond into the Green Fork was unrestricted, as their stealth was only matched by Arya's ability to change into anyone she wanted or rather, anyone she chose to kill in order to gain passage.
If Sandor Clegane was frightened by her transformations, he never showed it. The mission was the only thought in his mind. The other thought was always hunger, and the banks of the river were still teaming with game and the Riverlands were crowded with taverns and inns.
"We'll stop here," he said to Arya, as he turned his oar in the murky green water, now almost black as the night crept over the sky.
"Seems as good a place as any. Torchlights, there," she pointed to the east bank. "No more than a quarter mile.
They pulled their boat, a twenty-foot skiff with a thick canvas canopy, onto the shore and covered it with fallen branches to keep it hidden. "There's no moon or stars. We'll need a torch," Arya said, fashioning one from a broken tree limb and dried moss, held together with a thick vine. "Here, hold this," she said, handing it to him so she could light it. He held it as far away from himself as he could; which was a great distance as his arms were nearly three feet long.
He followed behind her through the wet brush, until they came upon a small clearing, leading to a hovel of a place with a lone torchlight at the door. Arya crept to the small front window and peered in, finding only four empty tables and a barking dog. She turned and nodded at Sandor to enter and placed her own torch on the ground.
As the door opened, the mongrel of a mutt ran up to them, barking loudly yet his tail wagged so fiercely he could barely keep on his feet. He was small, maybe twenty pounds and had wiry black fur with wisps of silver throughout. "Good dog," Sandor said, brushing the dog aside gently with his boot.
"Who is it, Woody?" asked the aged yet fit man now entering from what they believed to be a kitchen. There was a thick and hearty aroma of roasted chicken and pies. They'd definitely be staying a bit. "Good evening sir and madam. May I bring ye some ale?"
"Yes, and keep it coming," Sandor said, pulling out a chair to sit and Arya did as well. "Is that chicken I smell?"
"Yes sir it is. I've just taken them out of the oven," the man replied, setting two cups in front of them and filling each of them to the brim with ale.
"How many?" Sandor asked, then finished off his first cup.
"I wasn't expecting company sir, so only four," the man answered, backing away slightly as Sandor glared at him.
"Put in four more. What we don't eat we'll carry with us. And leave the pitcher." Sandor reached into his belt and slammed two golden dragons down on the table.
"S...sir, that's far too much for eight chickens and a pitcher of ale," the man stammered.
"Who said anything about one pitcher?"
"Yes, yes sir. I'll bring the chickens right away, sir." The man stumbled a bit backwards and turned and rushed to the kitchen.
"Where'd you get the money?" Arya asked, to which Sandor grinned slightly, tight-lipped. "It doesn't matter. I'm starving."
"We'll take all the bread as well. I don't want to stop again until we reach Lord Harraways Town."
"Lord Harraways? That's close to the Kingsroad and," Arya stopped. She stared off for a moment. "The Inn at the Crossroads is just across the river from there."
"There's no way we'll be stopping there. The last time didn't end so well." Sandor looked at her from over his cup.
"You don't have to. You can wait with the boat. I'll go. I need to check on an old friend."
"Here ye are," the man said, placing a platter loaded with chicken and hot bread on the table before them. "The chickens are in the oven. I'll wrap them up good and tight for your journey." He bowed and returned to his work.
"There ain't no more old friends girl. Anyone worth a shit and can hold a sword is headed north. That's if they haven't been pressed to fight for the fucking Lannisters."
"He's not a fighter. He's a cook. He'd put these crows to shame," she said, picking off a chicken leg and pointing it at Sandor. "It doesn't matter what you want. I'm going to see him. It may be the last time. I saw him months ago when I was heading to Kings Landing the first time. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't know Winterfell was back under Stark control and gone to see what's left of my family."
"You mean you've tried this before?"
"No. I wanted to. I believed my whole family was dead. I had nothing left to lose except my own life. I was going to kill Cersei or die trying."
"Timing is everything girl. Now you know better." He spoke with mouthfuls of food and chewed with his mouth open as well.
"You're repulsive you know that?"
"I'm hungry. Do you think I care what I look like?"
"Obviously not. No wonder you've never had a woman." Arya rolled her eyes and stuffed a hunk of chicken in her mouth.
"Ha! I'm a hound and you eat like a dog. Aren't you supposed to be a lady, my Lady?" he laughed, plucking off a thick piece of meat and tossing it to the ragged mutt who'd been lingering at his ankles.
"My sister is a Lady. I'm no one—no one like her."
"I'll drink to that. There's no one like your sister."
"What do you mean by that!" she snapped at him.
"I could tell you stories about your sister. Ah, you wouldn't believe me anyway," he said, ripping off a piece of bread and smashing it into the chicken grease pooling on his plate.
"Try me. I'd be interested in hearing one."
"Pour me some more ale and I'll tell you about how that Bastard Joffrey tortured that poor girl. He used that cunt, Trant, to beat her. Had him rip the dress from her back in front of the court and beat her with his sword. If it hadn't been for Lord Tyrion, things might have gotten even worse."
"Not anymore." Arya's eyes dimmed with the memory of dead Meryn Trant in Bravos, and then a smile of satisfaction relit them again.
"No, not anymore. She'll never have to suffer again. Once this deed is done, and we've rid ourselves of those dead bastards, I'll be free to go to Winterfell and serve King Snow. I don't mind the cold anymore."
"My brother, or my sister?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, downing his fourth cup of ale.
"You'd better slow down. I can't carry you back to the boat, and you know what I mean."
Sandor was in fact slipping deeper into his cups, and his words flowed freely. Arya filled his cup again and called for the man to bring another pitcher.
"You mean I want to serve your sister. Yes. At first, all those years ago, I thought she was just a stupid little bitch who lived in a dream world of being a queen, and crapping out Joffrey's babies. Then when I had to stand by and watch what they did to her, day after day, I realized she was just surviving them. Just like me."
"Surviving them?"
"Your sister was a prisoner girl. She was like an actress playing a part." He continued shoving food into his mouth and drinking his ale as he spoke. His eyes were lidded and his speech a bit slurred now. "The night of the Blackwater, I hid in her room."
"You told me this story before. You said you should have fucked her bloody. I wanted to kill you for that."
"You were so easy to provoke back then. I called her little bird." He closed his eyes for a second and smiled. "The most beautiful, perfect little bird I'd ever seen." He paused. "She said to me, 'I know you won't hurt me.' She was right. I'd have cut off my own hands before I could have ever hurt her. I wanted to kill anyone who ever did hurt her."
Arya held back the pitcher away from him. She'd decided hearing him speak of her sister this way was more than enough from him for one night. She called out to the old man, "Aye, those chickens ready yet?"
"I'm wrapping them up now miss. I'll be right there."
"Don't worry yourself girl. I know I'm not good enough for the fine Lady Sansa Stark. Why the fuck do you think I'm such a miserable bastard?" he asked over a laugh. "Could you imagine?" he asked and then his laughter stopped, and his face grew sullen and sad. "I've imagined it. I've seen it in my dreams and while I'm awake."
"Come on, let's go. You can sleep it off in the boat." Arya rose to her feet and took Sandor by the arm. "Let's go."
"Here miss. They're wrapped up good and tight," the man said, handing her a sack.
"Thank you."
In the distance, Jaime spotted the domed roof of the Sept of the Snows. He turned to Brienne and pointed her eyes towards it. "We're almost there." It was late evening and they still had a day's ride to reach their destination at the port, but Jaime's thoughts were of reaching the sept and fulfilling his vow to Brienne.
Once their camp was set up and secured, and food about to be eaten, Brienne, Jaime, Sansa and Podrick sat in a circle around their fire. Sansa told them her fonder memories of staying at the Vale. She told of the glorious views from every window, the snow-covered courtyards and the quiet. She remembered how quiet it was there and after having lived in Kings Landing, she was thankful for the peace. She raved over the excellent food, and how her cousin Robyn was such a sniveling little brat. She marveled at how regardless of the snake he was, Petyr Baelish had somehow managed to turn Robyn into a mature, capable Lord for the castle.
"Will you have to marry him?" Podrick asked.
"Podrick! That's hardly a proper question for a Lady," Brienne scolded.
"It's quite all right, Brienne. I don't have to marry anyone I don't want to ever again—or at all for that matter. Although, the thought of loving someone and being loved in return would be wonderful and certainly not out of the question."
Jaime reached over and held Brienne's hand for a moment and then spoke, "Speaking of love, would you both be so kind as to join Lady Brienne and I at the sept tomorrow when we reach White Harbor?"
Podrick and Sansa looked at each other curiously and then back at Jaime.
"Lady Brienne, having recently gone completely mad, has agreed to be my wife."
"What?" Sansa shouted. "That's…this is absolutely marvelous news! In the midst of all of this insanity, finally something to be happy about! Congratulations!"
Podrick looked down at the ground and then over at Sansa's glowing smile in the firelight. Brienne noticed his sullen and dejected expression and spoke directly to him. "Pod, don't worry, nothing will change. You'll always have a place with us."
He rose to his feet and dusted off his pants. "Thank you m'Lady. Congratulations to you and Ser Jaime. I wish you all the happiness in the world," he said with a bow and walked off to his tent.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think that young man is jealous," Jaime whispered close to Brienne's cheek and then kissed it.
"Don't be ridiculous. Look," she said, nodding her head towards Sansa, who was turned watching Podrick walk away. "What you saw was the broken heart of a young man who'll never have the woman he loves."
"Should I go and speak to him?"
"No. She'll do that herself. This is for them to figure out, Jaime. We have enough of our own circumstances to unravel."
"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll get some rest," Sansa said solemnly, rising to her feet and walking off.
"Looks like it's only us now. Come to bed with me," Jaime said, rising to his feet and pulling Brienne up as he stood.
"Do you think after the war, the world will change enough to allow love to win, regardless of houses and titles?"
Jaime's eyes pinched in thought as he took Brienne into his arms. "Hmm. Should we be happy when our beautiful, high born daughter chooses to marry a squire or God forbid, a smith someday?"
"The answer is yes. I'll simply be grateful if she doesn't have to wait half her life for the one she loves," Brienne whispered, and pressed her forehead to Jaime's.