He knew her name.
She kept her sword aimed at him, wishing she'd be yards away aiming an arrow at him. From what she'd seen of Jaqen, she wouldn't best him in a fight in her condition. One of the attackers she fought earlier had slashed her back while she was fighting another bastard.
That was not a good moment to lose trust in Jaqen. She faced him without flinching, aware that in a few moments the blood would start dripping off her clothes into the snow. She would have to kill him before he had the chance to see how weak she was. She couldn't imagine that anything he would show her would make her trust him again.
The man moved slowly, keenly away of her blade. He dug his fingers underneath his jaw and…
Arya gasped despite herself.
She looked from Sandor Clegane's face to the shriveled skin in his hand. She gripped the hilt of her sword convulsively. She should kill this shapeshifting thing, whatever it was. Although… his shape hadn't shifted. His body, which had reminded her of the Hound from the beginning of their journey, remained the same. He looked… complete.
"What kind of magic is this?" she asked.
"Braavosi magic."
His voice. Arya's soul reacted at the sound of his voice. This creature knew her weaknesses too well. She should kill it.
"I thought you were Lorathi," she said.
Why was she talking to it? He would see the blood soon, and pounce on her.
"I am Sandor Clegane," he said. "Born in Keep Clegane in 271 AC. I became no one in Braavos in year 300. And if it weren't for you, Arya Stark, I'd still be no one."
No one? What did that mean? In year 300, she'd joined the Night's Watch. Her vision blurred, and she passed out before she could ask do anything else.
SandorHe waited for her to make up her mind. He could all but see her decision to kill him in her cold grey eyes. When she suddenly collapsed, he caught her in his arms. The blood seeped through his sleeve. He hadn't even noticed she was hurt.
He carried her to their campsite and gently laid her face down on the blanket. His experience in the House of Black and White made him more adept at dealing with wounds than a Maester from the Citadel. He cleaned the ugly cut, thankful that she was passed out so she didn't feel the pain. He stitched the wound as fast as he could, so he'd be done by the time she came around.
She started to stir when he applied the balm over her skin. Its regenerative properties would speed up the healing.
"What are you?" she asked.
"I am a Faceless Man. You must have read about them in the book you kept inside the chair, in your secret reading spot."
She shrugged, and hissed in pain.
"You have his memories. Impressive."
"I am Sandor Clegane."
"Very good. You can do his voice, too."
"I'm not a thing impersonating a man," he said. "These are my memories, my voice, my body. I'm here, with you. Flesh and blood. "
She looked at him coldly. For weeks he had shown her another face, spoken to her in another different voice. No wonder she didn't believe him.
"I'm not asking you to believe me," he said. "If you wish, I will leave. And after I pay my second debt, I'll come back to you for the third name."
It hurt to make that promise. Despite his training, and his vows, he had grown attached to her. Much more than he allowed himself to admit. He wanted to protect her for as long as he could. The thought of Arya Stark riding north all by herself was more than he could stand. But if she commanded it, he would leave her side.
AryaCould it really be him?
When he spoke of his debt, she realized that in one regard, it didn't matter. She had set him an impossible task. Whatever he was, if he went after the Night King alone, he would die.
"I want to take the name back," she said.
"The name was given. The Many-Faced God expects the Night King."
She thought back at what she knew about the Faceless Men.
"Your god is Death. And death comes to us all. Your god will have the Night King, even if you're not the one to give him the gift."
He bowed his head.
"All men must die. And all men must serve. The contract was accepted."
"Why do you have to be so stubborn? You will die north of the Wall."
"Why do you care? You don't even believe I'm Sandor Clegane."
Arya looked into the flames, considering his question. Her heart wanted to believe it was really him.
"Whatever you are, I don't want your death on my conscience. But if I can't stop you, and you want to go north, we can ride together."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me," she said. "I'm not doing you any favors. I'm going back because I took an oath."
She closed her eyes, and thought about Braavos.
SandorHe had squandered her trust, but she still took him with her. Things north of the Wall must truly be desperate. A shadow seemed to float over her delicate features.
"Tell me about Braavos," she said, with her eyes closed.
He wished they were back in that cave where they had taken shelter from the storm. He wished he could feel her body relax next to his. He wanted her trust back, and he would do anything to earn it. He would start by telling her about his time in Braavos if that was what she wanted.
"It was just like you said. A city of free people. I could sense that in everything around me. As soon as I got off the ship, in Ragman Harbor, until the day I took the Canal of Heroes to get to the House of Black and White, everywhere I looked, I saw free people. The city is made up of hundreds of little islands. You can move between them by boat, through channels, or walk over stone bridges. They always have fresh fish and all sorts of other tiny sea animals I didn't even know existed. You can get fresh cockles from the vendors in the morning. You can go to tavern every day for a month, and never be served the same dish twice. Their ale is terrible, but the ships bring good Dornish wine."
She drew her blanket tighter around herself. He went to her and added his cloak over hers.
"Stay," she said. "It's so cold."
He moved his bedding next to hers, and, to his surprise, Arya raised the blanket to make room for him. She burrowed her head in his chest, and Sandor put an arm over her shoulders, careful not to touch the wound on her back.
"Everyone is accepted there. Braavos doesn't judge a man's past. Runaway slaves from Mereen and disgraced Westerosi noblemen, they can start a new life there. I walked those streets and people were not frightened or disgusted by my scars. Many of them wore signs of their former lives. They walked around with missing ears, or nose, or even limbs. I was just like them. I even got my hair cut there. Didn't need to hide that ugly part of me. Giving up my armor was more difficult. But the weather was hot, and it was much easier to move without it. I even learned Water Dancing, like you were practicing in the yard."
"Keep your armor on while you're here," she said, pressing her cheek against his chest. "Fighting in the snow is about endurance, not skill."
"I lived through nine winters," he said. "I fought a few battles while it snowed."
"Winter in the Seven Kingdoms is not the same as what's is like north of the Wall. Please don't take it lightly."
He heard a twang of desperation in her voice. Could she possibly care about him? She spoke as if she heard his thoughts.
"There are only two sides in this War. The living, and the dead. You have a heartbeat, and that's all that matters now."
She fell asleep in his arms, leaving him to ponder if his whole life's training had adequately prepared him for the contract he had taken.
In the end, it didn't matter.
'Valar dohaeris.'
#
The next day, during their ride, the wound on her back opened. He put his arms on her waist and got her down from her horse. They were too close to Winterfell to risk stopping in any villages until her wound heal. He opened the map, and traced the Kingsroad from where they were toward the Wall.
"I never intended to follow the Kingsroad all the way to the North," she said without looking at the map. "I planned to cross the White River, then the Weeping Water south enough from the Dreadfort not to run into the Boltons, then go up the Last River to the Last Hearth, and then get back onto the Kingsroad in the New Gift."
He trailed his finger over the map while she spoke. That would keep them far from Winterfell, but being off the Kingsroad meant harsh travelling conditions.
"We're close to the White Harbor," he said. "We can take a ship all the way to the Wall. Your wound will have time to heal."
She was as pale as the snow falling incessantly from the sky. She must have been in a great deal of pain because she appeared to consider his words.
"White Harbor is the seat of House Manderly," she said. "Not very likely that anyone there might recognize me."
"It will be difficult to find a ship that goes far north, but we'll manage," he said.
"Enough gold will take care of that. I can pay for a ship to take us to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."
He looked at her surprised, and curious. "I didn't know the Night's Watch pays so well."
Arya reached inside her cloak, and threw a bag at him. He recognized it as soon as he caught it. The gold he had given her before leaving Winterfell.
He folded the map, fighting the urge to pull her into a bear hug that would crack her bones and open the wound on her back even worse. He handed her back the gold.
Arya moved to get back on her horse, but Sandor stopped her holding her hand.
"I wish you had come south," he said. "To me."
He expected her to pull her hand away. Maybe even to slap him for his insolence. But whatever she had been through on the Wall, there was nothing left of her highborn education.
"I wish that, too," she said.
She was honest, but Sandor realized it was desperation, not trust that made her open up. They were going toward a battel she didn't believe they could win.
"You should ride with me," he said.
Arya nodded. "Until we get close to White Harbor," she said.
He got on his horse, and picked her up carefully. He sat her across the back of the horse, supporting her back gently with his left arm, while he kept the reins of her horse in his right hand. She made herself as comfortable as possible against his heavy armor.
In his youth, he had laughed at the ballads which spoke of beautiful ladies rescued by knights with pure hearts. The current situation proved him right. The beautiful lady in his arms was no helpless maiden. And his heart was far from being pure.
By nightfall, they had reached White Harbor. Arya's gold bought them passage on a ship that would take them in the morning all the way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.