I'm staring at the mess I made

Sandor can hardly bear to look at the mark he has left on her face. Many times, he has seen Sansa bloody and bruised, and he thought badly enough of himself for watching. For allowing it to happen.

He never thought that he would be the one to do it. And it makes him feel a thousand times worse.

But they have reached a sort of balance. Of stilted-courtesy. It's as if they are strangers when they speak; polite and forced. And Sandor finds himself shocked that he's able to bullshit his way through these conversations. But he can. For her. Because of what he has done.

Now though, at least they have a plan. And a new car that Sandor stole from an American couple that were stupid enough to leave the keys in the ignition outside the station. It had been bothering Sandor, to drive a vehicle that belonged to the Lannisters, even though he had checked it for tracking devices daily. Realistically, he knew there was no amount of precautions he could take that would leave them totally secure.

Sandor tells her all he knows of the Faceless. They are based somewhere in South America, a group of elite and highly trained assassins. How he barely managed to make contact with the one who botched killing Joffrey. That the Faceless never made mistakes before that. And he recognized the symbol faintly embossed on Arya's letter; the V and M piercing the D.

"Valar morghulis." He tells her. "It's a dead language, means 'all men must die'."

"So…you think my sister has become an assassin? She's only sixteen. "

He nods. "They train them young, the Faceless. Make them into someone new. Someone…blank. That's what the name means. That they aren't anyone they used to be, so they can become anyone they need to be."

"If she's not who she once was, then why did she contact me? Why write this?"

He wants to tell Sansa that the note is hardly cause to expect a happy family reunion. But he holds his tongue. Polite, he reminds himself polite polite polite.

Sansa, I'm alive. I have needle. Do not try to find me. Return home.

"What's needle?" He had asked her, after their silent agreement to act as polite strangers than…whatever the hell it was they were.

"It's a dagger, strange I know. Our half-brother Jon made it for her. Nobody outside the family would know she calls it that. I think she included it so I would know it was her."

"Some things are harder to let go of than others." He says quietly, back in the moment, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

She nods, almost imperceptibly. "And now…where are we going?"

"A contact of mine. If anyone knows about the Faceless, he will. They move around, don't stay anywhere too long, so tracking them down will depend on some correct information, and a lot of luck. But my contact is in Guadalajara. Could have made it days ago, but with the false route north to shake Blount and Trant…it'll be a couple of days yet."

"And how will you contact him once we get there?"

For the first time in days Sandor passes what could almost be called a grin. "He'll hear about us the second we get into town, I don't doubt."