DISCLAIMER: Not mine :)

Here is Part Two- The Fallout! It's a very short chapter, I do apologise in advance! Regardless, I hope you enjoy it!

RECAP: Arya and Shireen talk about their pasts, and when Shireen tells her that everyone expects her and Gendry to wed soon, Arya freaks and runs outside. She sees Nymeria, who teases her that she might be pregnant, too, soon, and Arya runs out of the castle in a panic as the storm picks up. She goes to a dodgy tavern, where she recognises one of the customers.

The frumpy maid stared at her dumbly. "Water? You have ale."

Arya arched a brow and the maid backed down, scurrying off to fetch water. She returned moments later with a wooden pail, the handle bent and broken, the water somewhat stale. Arya nodded her thanks and strode over to the booth where the stranger was slumped over the table, still snoring. She looked around her, and set her tankard down on the table one over, not wishing to waste good ale. Well. Ale, at any rate.

She hesitated for a moment, before grasping the axe at his side and tossing it down beside her tankard. She would rather not be gutted before she could finish her drink. She grasped the pail, and after a slight pause, chucked it over the mass, backing away as soon as the bucket was empty.

The effect was immediate.

The man jumped to his feet with a mad roar, grasping blindly for his axe, and wiping his face roughly with one arm in fury. When no axe was to be found his hand went instead for the sword at his hip, which he unsheathed sharply and began swinging around in a drunken, teetering mess of rage, cursing loudly and violently as he did.

"Mercy be!" the maid shrieked, running back into the kitchen and out of sight.

His eyes finally landed on Arya, who he stared at blankly before he saw the pail hanging from her hand. "You!" he roared. Arya was aware of the other guests standing up warily. "What the fuck was that for?" he spat, his face mottled red and purple. Arya said nothing, simply watching him blankly as she took in the features of a very drunk, very angry, Sandor Clegane.

Once he sensed that no further threat seemed to be coming from her he sheathed his sword again, clumsily, and sat back down heavily, groaning. "What, they sending little girls out to round up the debtors, are they?" he snarled. "Well I haven't got any coin, so you can fuck off back to whoever sent you and-"

Arya raised a brow. "I'm not so little anymore," she replied coldly, "but I see you're still the same mad dog."

He glared at her for a moment, his eyes running over her form, taking in the grey eyes and slender build. He spat to the side. "I heard you were here," he growled. "Heard you were the young lord's new whore." Arya remained silent. His lips twitched with anger. "You left me to die," he said after a moment.

Arya grabbed his axe and threw it at him. "First I robbed you," she said, sitting down opposite him.

He glared at her, his hateful, angry eyes watching her blank face as if waiting for her to try and stab him, like she may have once. "You're a cold little bitch, aren't you?"

Arya shrugged. "You were dying," she stated. "I wasn't."

He snorted. "Perhaps I should have stayed that way," he grumbled, shooting a glare at the maid, who huffed and brought over a new tankard of ale.

Arya raised a brow as he began to slug it down messily. "Is that what you're trying to achieve here?" she asked.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he growled, slamming the half empty tankard back down.

Arya sipped at her own ale, debating his question. "Why are you here?" she asked, not answering his question.

He sneered at her. "I'd have thought that obvious," he said, spitting to the side again.

Arya was unimpressed by the man before her. Gendry had told her on their first day in the castle that he was here, drinking his way through every tavern, but she had not imagined this. She found it hard to reconcile the hard, strong man from her youth with this pathetic drunkard. "No," she said sharply, "I mean, why are you here? In the Stormlands?"

He seemed irritated by the question, before his eyes flashed with cruelty. "Heard the young lord was trying to find you," he growled. "Thought I would stick around to see him break you in. Bet you aren't happy about that, are you?" He snorted. "Of course you aren't. You always were a wild little she wolf bitch."

Arya was not upset by his hard words. He had always been like this. It almost made her smile. "Why do you think I'm here?" she asked, before taking a deep drink of her ale.

He eyed her sceptically. "You never used to like drink," he said.

Arya snorted. "I'm not drinking it for the taste." She was surprised he remembered. She thought back, to how he used to have to force wine down her throat when it was all they had, after she refused to drink it.

Sandor sat back heavily and regarded her, sucking at his teeth. "You've changed," he said finally.

Arya shrugged. "You haven't."

She took another swig of her drink as they sat in silence, her eyes taking the sight of him in. His horrendous, burnt face and thin hair, the cruel twist to his lips, and the metallic glint in his eyes. He wasn't as big as she remembered. He was still huge and strong, though if Arya were to guess it, beneath his stained jerkin his muscles had turned to waste from the drink, but he had seemed half a giant when she was his captive. He had been a hard, cruel man, and she had hated him, but she had respected him, however grudgingly, but now- now he was just sad.

"What, you never used to shut up, and now you're a bloody mute?" he growled suddenly, after a few minutes of tense silence.

Arya did not smile. "It's as you said," she replied, her tone blank, "I've changed." That was certainly true. At eleven she had no longer been a child, not after everything she had witnessed, not after everything she had endured, but she hadn't been as she was now. Broken. Damaged.

"I take it your brother found you then?" he said after a pause.

Arya sipped her ale. "He did."

"And?"

"And now I'm here."

He raised his one brow dubiously. "Willingly?" he asked, though Arya could see from the look in his eye that he already knew the answer.

She quirked her lip. "Not quite," she said. Then she frowned. "How did you know that Jon found me?" Rain began to patter outside the tavern, spitting against the windows in little flecks.

He chugged down more of his drink, and Arya quietly admitted that she was impressed. For a man already so drunk that he had been passed out cold not moments prior, he was downing his drink faster than he had any right to.

"I was up north when some ranger sighted you over the Wall," he said. "Thought it would turn out to be another dead end."

Arya smirked slightly. "Been keeping tabs on me, have you?" She turned and nodded at the maid, who huffed, clearly irritated at their constant order. "Rum," she called, tossing two more coins across the room at the wench, who reached for them clumsily. Arya watched with amusement when she put the coins not in the back room, but down her shirt. The rain sounded heavier now, hitting the roof and rolling down like rice thrown at a drum. There was a roll of thunder over head.

"Surprised?" he asked bitterly. "Why are you here then, if not to marry that cunt?"

Arya frowned. "He's not a cunt," she said sharply, a spike of hot anger pulsing through her chest at the insult. Sandor threw his head back with laughter. "What?" she asked.

"You really have changed," he said, his hateful eyes narrowed on her. "Once not that long ago, you would have denied it rather than defend him." He sneered at her. "Maybe he's already broken you in. Rough, I would say, to change your tune so thoroughly."

Arya's lips twitched into a snarl at the words. "Maybe I should have killed you after all," she said nastily, remembering him begging her to finish him off. His face turned stony at the words, and she realised with a cruel jolt of satisfaction that she had struck a nerve. "I remember it so clearly. You and your pathetic pleading for me to end it for you. The great Hound, begging an eleven year old girl to put him out of his misery." A lick of satisfaction stroked her ego when she saw the way his fingers tightened around his tankard, but as she watched his face she was suddenly struck with sadness, at how low this once great warrior had been brought. "Maybe it wasn't me they broke," she whispered.

Another person may have stood up and walked away, satisfied with the win, but Arya remained in her seat. Her trained eye saw the way his fingers reached towards his axe, and she lowered her hand to the knife at her belt. She doubted he would attack her, but mad dogs sometimes lashed out without rational thought. When he made no move, either to attack her or leave, she reached for the jug and poured him a fresh drink, not taking her eyes off of his for once second. She pushed it towards him roughly.

A muscle near his temple twitched, but still he didn't move, his face as hard as stone as he regarded her. A weaker person would have flinched away, but Arya was unafraid. After all, she had bore the brunt of his anger many times before as a defenceless child, and never had she backed down once, so she would not now.

Finally, he reached for his drink, and Arya relaxed at the sign that he would not react aggressively, and followed his lead, reaching for her own drink. They drank together in silence, neither of them needing to say anything that hadn't already been said. Arya didn't know when, or indeed if, she would ever speak to him again, but he had said his piece and so had she, and that was enough.

The tavern emptied once, and then filled again, as customers traipsed across the dirty floor, some of them sombre, some of them merry, and through it all the two companions sat in silence, each reflecting on their troubled thoughts, the bigger of the two wondering how he had fallen so low and how this once wild and raging child had grown into a cold and composed young woman; the smaller wondering why, of all the reunions she had had over the last few months, this one was the most natural.

As Arya's head began to grow woozy and her limbs heavy, it occurred to her that she should stop drinking, but the more she drank the harder it was to think about the decisions she had to make, dulling the fear and worry that had twisted itself around her heart, squeezing so tightly it felt like she couldn't breathe. When she turned her head the room tilted around her dangerously, and she realised with a start that she was drunk. She had never been drunk before, not once. Always she had been careful, wary of any substance that would weaken her and leave her vulnerable, yet here she was in a down town tavern, drinking with the man she had once hated with every fibre of her being. A worm of panic settled low in her gut, and she set the tankard down roughly on the table, disgusted with herself for her weakness, for succumbing to the flaws of weaker men. She grabbed her knife under the table and tested herself, twisting it and flipping it between her fingers to assure herself that she still had her wits about her enough that she was in no danger.

The Hound regarded her, his eyes fuzzy. "What happened to you, little wolf?" he asked dully. "What brought you here?"

Arya chewed her lip. "What does it matter?" she asked, defensively.

He was quiet again for a moment and she thought that he might not reply, but when he did his voice was quieter. "Maybe it wasn't the boy who broke you," he said. "But something did. Did it bad."

Arya didn't blink. "Yes," she said blankly. "Something did."

"What was it?" he asked. "It wasn't Ilyn Payne snipping off your daddy's head, and it wasn't the Frey's butchering your brother and mother. Something happened after that, after you left me. What?"

Arya closed her eyes and her head span. She really shouldn't have come here... "Lots of things," she replied. Then she opened her eyes and she knew that what she was about to say was true. "But I'll have my revenge."

The Hound sat back against the wall and watched her carefully. His one eyes slanted down where the skin was mottled and scarred, and for a moment Arya thought that it didn't make him look angry, but sad. "You still got names on that little list of yours?"

"Just three." Lightening flashed outside, turning the entire room a strange, white glow before it plunged back into semi darkness, which seemed darker than it had before.

He paused. "Is the Hound still one of them?"

Arya looked him dead in the eye. "He's not," she said firmly, and as she did a weight lifted off of her shoulders. It was absolution that they both needed.

Something in his expression changed, though Arya could not tell what it was. He took a deep drink from his tankard again. "So who're the poor fuckers left?"

It struck Arya suddenly that he was the first person that she had spoken to who understood her, even now, understood the desire for revenge, the only one who knew what it meant to desire it with mind, body and soul. "The Black Knight," she said.

He raised a brow at her sceptically. "Who the fuck is that?" he asked.

Arya hesitated. "I don't know," she admitted. "Just that he needs to be stopped."

His face remained like stone. "Who else is on your little list then?" he sneered. "Or do you not know them either?"

Arya almost didn't reply, and when she did she didn't know if it was because of the ale or because he was the only person in the world who might understand her. "Euron Greyjoy," she answered.

If he was surprised by her answer he didn't show it. "That cunt?" he asked with a snort. "What did he do to you?"

Arya exhaled and sat back on the barrel, waiting, watching. "Sold me into slavery," she answered plainly, knowing that she would get no pity from him, and glad for it. It wasn't pity she wanted. It was vengeance.

His mouth twitched. "Bet you weren't a very good one," he said. "You never used to follow orders. Had to beat you to get you to behave."

"I remember," she answered coldly. She remembered the first time he had, after he had found out she was carving her name into trees when he wasn't watching, in the hopes that the Brotherhood might find her. She had been black and blue for weeks. "And no. I wasn't that kind of slave. I was a gladiator."

He snorted with derision. "Guess that bloody water dancing did you good then."

Arya smirked. "You could say that." She leaned forwards. "What of you? Did you ever get your revenge?"

His lips turned down into a frown and he drank long and deep from his tankard, his eyes not meeting hers. "He's dead," he replied after a minute more of silence.

Arya raised a brow, surprised. She had expected him to say he was still alive, and that was why he was so miserable. "You killed him?"

He shook his head and a look so full of bitterness and loathing crossed his face. "I was close," he growled, leaning forwards. "So fucking close. I could see him, smell his rotten flesh. And that dragon cunt took him from me."

Arya frowned. "Daenerys did? How?"

He shook his head. "Not her. The other one. The greasy cunt from Essos." Aegon? Aegon had killed the Mountain? Arya doubted it, somehow. Aegon was tall and fast and strong, but he was no match for the Mountain, not by a long shot. "Cersei was dead. They were executing those who wouldn't kneel. I didn't have a chance to kill him myself." He cursed. "Burned him. Before I could get my revenge."

Arya barely had time to react when he stood up violently and threw the empty jug across the room. It shattered against the wall as he roared with rage, so loud that Arya almost didn't hear the serving wench shriek with terror. He slammed his hands against the table. Arya didn't flinch. "You want to know why I'm here?" he growled. "I'm here because I have nothing left. Revenge... it was all that kept me going. Every night, every minute of every day, all I wanted was to have my shot at vengeance, and it was taken from me." He lashed out and swiped their tankards off the table so that they clattered against the floor loudly. "That's why I'm like this."

He sat back down, and Arya watched in silence as bitterness and hatred and all things bad filled his eyes so completely that she was shocked, and numbly wondered if this was what she looked like to Gendry. Filled with anger. Hatred. Neither of them said anything for a long while.

"Who's the last fucker on your list?" he asked after a while, and Arya looked up from his hands, which he was clenching and flexing in succession, probably to stop him from smashing anything else up.

"You wouldn't know him," she said, looking away. Her head felt heavy.

He grunted. "How do you know who the fuck I know?"

Arya waited a beat. "You can't know him," she said. "I don't know him. He's no one. Nothing."

He grunted again, before shooting a glare at the serving wench, who jumped and busied herself with fetching a fresh pitcher of ale. He turned back to her, watching her with flat, dead eyes. "Whoever he is, kill him," he said lowly. "Kill all of them, and don't stop until you do, or you'll end up like me."

There was a pause and Arya jumped slightly at the loud rumble of thunder over head. It was growing nearer now. Or you'll end up like me... Arya looked at the broken man in front of her, and dread filled her entire body, waking her up, breaking her down. She wanted to run again. Run fast and never stop. He's right, she realised numbly. If she stayed she would never be happy, never be content, always waiting for something to happen.

She sat in frozen silence as he snatched the drinks from the wench, who hurried off as if she thought he might bite her. She didn't move as he downed cup after cup after cup, a man drinking to forget his woes and enter the sweet oblivion of induced sleep, numbness to the world. She remained silent as his eyes began to droop and only looked up when he slumped over the table once more.

She shook herself roughly and stood up, though her insides felt like ice. She waved the wench over and gestured at the broken man. "What does he owe?" she asked.

"E' do owe seven silver stags and three groats," she said, her hands on her hips, brave now that the big, hideous ex-soldier was unconscious. Arya wondered if the wench knew who was truly the more deadly of the two. "I'll have the guards after him!"

"You'll do no such thing," Arya warned, fishing out her coin purse. She pressed the coins into the maids hands, which fumbled to hold the more than modest fare. "Make sure he wakes up," she said, before pushing past her and striding out the door.

The rain fell hard and cold, swept asunder by sharp gusts of icy wind. Arya turned her face up to the the black sky, and let the water fall on her face, running down her cheeks like tears. She turned her hood up, having to hold it to keep it from billowing wildly in the wind. The rest of her cloak flapped behind her as she began to stride back up through the streets to the castle, like a flag caught in a storm before a battle.

People ran past her, sheltering themselves with old sacks and wooden trays to protect them from the driving rain, and street marketeers rushed to pack their wares away. A child ran past her with a brown dog running at his heels, barking. It reminded her a little of how Nymeria used to run at her heels as a pup, barking and wagging her tail with excitement at whatever mischief her mistress was up to at the time.

But she isn't here, Arya thought. She's far and away now. You sent her away, again.

Her stomach rolled and twisted uncomfortably as she thought about the Hound, and his final words to her, that she would end up like him if she didn't get her vengeance. I've been a fool, she thought miserably. A stupid fool, to ever think I could live a different life. To think she could ever be the lady of Storms End, that she could ever be anyone but who she was, live a life that wasn't this. But what exactly was this?

Duty, she thought. Duty to mother and father and Robb, for all of them, duty to avenge them. She had been remiss, she could see that now, to ever imagine otherwise.

But wouldn't they say that her duty was to be happy? Gendry's words came to her then, telling her to do whatever it was that could bring her peace, but she would never be at peace. Could never be at peace. She had too many daemons, too many ghosts. No, she would always be locked in battle with her past... and she couldn't do that to Gendry, not when he had worked so hard to bring about peace.

It wasn't fair to drag him into her battles. This war that she was fighting with Euron- it had already brought so much trouble to the kingdoms, enough that Jon was concerned about there being a war, enough that Gendry took a veritable army just to escort her safely. No wonder he had been so furious when she risked her life anyway.

But that was just it; she would always be risking her life. Whether it was against the Black Knight or Euron, or other ghosts from her past, she would never be able to keep away from danger, and that put him at risk too, and she wouldn't ever do that. She knew him, as she always had; he would fight for her, without question, without hesitation, and how could she ever repay him? With doing the same thing, over and over? It wasn't fair.

And then, of course, his affiliation with her put a direct target on his back. Her enemies would use him to get to her. Euron was a mad dog, and he would lash out however he saw fit- hells, he had slaughtered an entire village just to send her a message. What would he do to Gendry, if he thought it would force her hand?

No. The only thing she could do was attack, attack first and hope she struck true enough that she could cross another name from her list. It was the only choice she had that would keep Gendry safe, keep him from harm.

And abandoning him now? said the snide voice at the back of her mind. How much would that hurt him?

Arya didn't want to picture it. He would be... heart broken. Heart broken, but alive.

But was that what he would choose? Arya knew it wasn't, but she didn't care. He would choose her, even if it meant dying, but Arya would not allow that. She had lost too many people that she loved, and she would not lose another. Not because of her own stupid, selfish fault.

And you? How will you survive? came the voice again. How will you survive doing this to yourself, and him?

For a moment Arya entertained the idea of choosing to stay. She would marry Gendry, and be with him, and they would bear the brunt of the storm brought by the Crow's Eye together. United. They would go to war against him, and come out victorious, and then live together happily, and their children would play with Jon's and Sansa's and they would take a ship once a year to visit Winterfell, and Bran would tell them stories, and everything would be perfect.

But perfection never lasted, if it existed at all. Gendry would fall to an enemy sword, and she would lose him, and that... that would break her. And even if, by some miracle sent by the gods, they both survived, heartbreak would still ensue. Whatever gods there were up there were cruel, and anything they ever gave was only so they could snatch it away again. Because that kind of happiness... it never lasted.

Have you forgotten the price you paid? The promise you made?

Gendry would never forgive her.

She pictured him, staring at her with blank, empty eyes, as if she were a stranger. Him, screaming at her, turning his back to her and leaving her alone with blood on her hands. It would kill her. But if by leaving him she could keep him safe... he would hate her, but if he was alive she could live with that.

As Arya rounded a corner of a now empty street, and jogged her way up a flight of stone steps, she supposed that, if she were truly being honest, she would be doing it not only to keep Gendry safe but... to get away. She knew the moment the words ran through her mind that it was true. She needed to leave. She wasn't ready to stay, she still had things to do, and, truthfully, she was afraid. Afraid of becoming someone else. She had already changed so much since Gendry re-entered her life again all those months ago, and it frightened her. For years, as long as she could remember, she had never allowed anyone to get close. No one. She had kept herself distant, the rest of the world at arms length. When she was alone, she was strong, had no weaknesses. Attached... she was vulnerable, vulnerable to pain. And Gendry had attached himself so fully to her that no matter what she chose, Arya knew there was suffering to be had and loss to be felt.

She should never have allowed it in the first place. Never have allowed herself to grow happy with him. Because in doing so, not only did she dishonour those she had loved and lost through moving on, but she also defied the promise she had made, those years ago. A lost little girl, bargaining away everything she held dear to bring back the one person who remained to her, even as far away from her he was. And that promise... it demanded to be upheld. The debt must be paid.

And she would make certain that Gendry would not be that price.

Maybe one day. If she was ready... though she felt that perhaps she never really would be. This wasn't a life she wanted. There was only one life she truly wanted, and she couldn't have it. A life, with all of her family, safe and whole and happy. Maybe then she could have been with Gendry, but not now, not in this life. It wasn't her.

Wow, ok, so this chapter dropped a couple of bombshells...

I had originally planned to do this all in one chapter, but ummmm... yeah, I got carried away. Once this chapter reached 35 pages I realised I may have to rethink that plan... hence the shortness! Sorry!

Anyhoo, I really hope you guys liked it, I was so nervous writing it! Drop a review and let me know what you guys think, I'd love to hear any thoughts or theories. As always, thank you so much to my reviewers and messagers! Your comments really make me smile! I do try to reply to those of you who I can, but for the guests who I can't pm- thank you!

Over and Out xox