Author's Notes: Here we are, one more chapter...I know this must seem going slower than a snail in glue, but I do enjoy taking my time with them. After all, what there is to cover is quite big; the complete change of perceptions and attitudes for the both of them!

In case I haven't mentioned this before, this is not beta'ed and hence I apologise beforehand for any crimes against English language...


Sandor & Arya

"Look, here it is!"

"Seven hells, don't poke that stick into my face!"

"This is not a stick, it is my very own sword! I call it the Needle. Isn't it gorgeous?"

"Needle? What a stupid name for a sword, even for such a flimsy twig as yours. What kind of a cunt gives a name to a sword?"

"Many people do – all the finest swords have names. Ice, Longclaw, Dark Sister… Does your sword have a name?"

"Nah, this is just a piece of good steel I got from the Street of Steel. Only the best for the prince's dog."

"It should definitively have a name. What about Fangs or Claws? You being the Hound. Why does he call you a dog anyway, can't he call you Hound?"

"'Dog' has only three letters. Easier. Anyway, whatever you say; Fangs, Claws, fucking Balls if you want. I don't care."

"You can't call a sword Balls!"

"Why not? Man as sure as hells needs some if he is about the swing this tough bastard."

"If Septa Mordane would hear such talk…she would be horrified! Or Sansa! She would get so red, it would be fun to see."

"Aye, I have noticed. She gets flushed easily."

"Tell me about it. Every time when that stupid prince gets near her, she gets all flustered and silly. Oh sorry, I should not have called your master stupid, again."

"Not hair off my arse. And he is not my master. I only guard him."

"Well, then I shall call him stupid as much as I want. He is an arrogant jerk. I don't like him at all."

"Your sister seems to like him well enough for the both of you. Tell me, is it only a mummer's farce she is playing? Being all so polite and chirpy and happy about being betrothed to Joffrey?"

"No, that's how she really is. What can I say? She is really dull like that. I suppose we Northerners are not very good at lying."

"All the worse for her."

"Worse? What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Nevermind. Now, do you want to me show how to use that stick or not?"


Sansa

Sansa was beyond surprised when she noticed Arya starting to spend time with the Hound. First she believed it to be just a coincidence, the two of them seen together near the training yard or exchanging words in the corner of the Great Hall. Yet the more often it happened, the more baffled she became.

This particular morning she saw them again, Arya talking to him near the Sept of Winterfell waving her hands animatedly in the air. It was astonishing to see the big man responding to her uncouth little sister. Sansa frowned and tried to make sense of it. Yes, Arya had always been quick to make friends and consorted with most unlikely people – people Sansa felt were not truly suitable company for a noble maiden. But the Hound?!

She watched them and noticed how unperturbed Arya seemed to be in the presence of her unlikely companion. She had to crane her neck when she talked to him but under Sansa's observant eyes the Hound bent down, putting his large hands on his knees and addressing Arya from that semi-crouched position. He wore the same garb he always did; a light armour with a studded jerkin, brown breeches, heavy boots and a dark grey cloak on his shoulders. His armour wasn't polished and even Sansa's inexperienced eye could see that it was a soldier's attire, dented and scratched. She knew she was being unfair but she wondered why he had to look so…crude!

The Hound pointed towards the South Gate at the back of the yard and after Arya followed his gesture she turned back to him and smiled broadly. Then Hound stretched up to his full height and nodded at her, as serious as he would have addressed King Robert himself. Whatever they had been discussing, it was clear that it was over, as Arya turned around and started towards the direction of Sansa.

As her sister approached her Sansa couldn't help herself.

"What was that?"

"What?" Arya was genuinely taken aback by Sansa's sudden appearance.

"That. You talking to the Hound. I thought he doesn't like anyone, least of all a little girl like you."

"Well that's what you think. He likes me a lot, so you know." Arya continued walking and Sansa had to hurry to stay with her. Unladylike running steps and impractical satin shoes were not a good combination and she felt ridiculous. Contrary to her situation, her little sister had a new spring in her steps and carried a certain novel confidence. It irritated Sansa although she was not proud it. She was the one betrothed to a prince, she was to become the next queen of the realm. What was Arya's new friendship – if that was what it was – with the Hound compared to that?

Sansa glanced one last time behind her shoulder and saw that the man in question had turned towards them and stared straight at her. His eyes were as cool as ever and something in his gaze and its intensity made her shiver. Nobody had ever looked at her thus – even the admiring looks of the young men of the court were always courteous and seeking her approval for taking such liberties. A glance, a quick look away, a sudden turn of a head and finally a shy smile – she had learned how to respond to those wordless appeals.

With the Hound anything of the sort was impossible – even had she wanted to. And she most certainly didn't. Sansa felt as if she was a doe and he was a hunter, assessing coldly whether she was worth the arrow and a kill.

Sansa shook the feeling away and turned back to Arya.

"What do you talk about? I have never seen him giving the time of the day to others – so why you?"

Arya smiled that irritating smile of hers, as if she knew something she didn't.

"Oh, this and that. Fighting, rebellions, that kind of things. Nothing you need to worry yourself about."

"Does he talk about Prince Joffrey? What does he say about him?"

At that Arya finally stopped and looked at Sansa. The expression of uncertainty clouded her features.

"Nothing much. He is his sworn shield, after all. Though…he didn't protest when I called Joffrey stupid."

Sansa felt her anger rising. It was quite ridiculous, really, after what she had learned of her golden betrothed just a few days ago. Yet, he was her betrothed and not for Arya to scold. "He is the prince of the Seven Kingdoms and our future king! He is not stupid!"

"Whatever you say – if it makes you happier to think so, who am I to prevent that?" A mischievous smile on her face Arya made an exaggerated bow and without waiting for her reply turned and run away.

Sansa was left seething to look at her retreating back. She hated the idea of her bright future being dismissed by her family or anyone. And if she was totally honest with herself, she hated the idea of others too seeing what she had been so slow to learn. She wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders and started towards the Great Hall deep in thought. She considered visiting the sept but as she turned around the corner towards its entrance she walked against the wall that shouldn't have been there.

Alarmed she raised her eyes and following the hard lines of cold metal she realised to her horror that she had walked straight into the very man she had just argued about with Arya. Gods, how he can stand so still! Any other man would have backed away instantly and offered his apologies for the intrusion, irrespective of whether the collision had been her fault or not. But not the Hound. He just stood there looking down at her, the corner of his burned mouth ticking but Sansa couldn't tell whether it was anger or amusement.

"Pardon me, ser." Sansa withdrew and despite her fluster, years of lessons in good manners kicked in.

"You know better than that, girl." His voice was low and gravelly but he didn't move. Sansa was uncertain for a moment; should she just move past him or should she wait for him to move? Good manners favoured the latter but there he just stood, staring at her. The moment was absurd; none of it fitted with the way how things were supposed to be. Sansa's head was suddenly empty and none of the usual courtesies she so readily offered to others seemed suitable for this occasion.

She refused to look at his face and instead studied his gorget and its leather fasteners. The end of one was not bent under the buckle and she stared at it, the leather strap dangling free. It irritated her. She didn't truly like the man although she felt a twinge of sorry for him. Yet she was disturbed by him – and she didn't like to see him so shabby.

Finally she muttered, lacking anything else and conditioned to always find something pleasant to say, "Thank you for being so kind to my sister. Not many men have patience with her. She can be quite testing."

"Aye, that she can be. A pain the arse." Still the man hadn't moved and next Sansa found herself staring at his throat, the sliver that was visible above his gorget. It was covered with coarse hair that blended smoothly with his beard. There was something obscene in that sight and his unnaturally still stance; he was truly like his name sake the hound, spotting its prey and with eternal patience of nature waiting for his chance. Sansa followed the line of the coarse bristles all the way until they abruptly ended where the deep undulations, tightly pulled hard skin and fibrous knotted mass of his scars started. The display of that horror so close up still made her shiver.

Sansa forced her gaze away and coughed nervously, hoping that he hadn't noticed her odd behaviour. None of the hundred things she might have expressed to any other man came to her mind; not a light query about how he found Winterfell and the North, not a question about his own house and family, not a comment about his armament – she had noticed men getting ridiculously pleased when someone asked them about those things. Yet her mind was completely blank.

Eventually she took a step away as if to turn around and at that the Hound finally seemed to summon up basic teachings of courtesy, as he turned sideways and pointed her to continue her path. She took the chance and slipped past him, a sense of being pinned down between him and the wall of the sept momentarily suffocating her. Then she had walked past him and was free.

Sansa didn't turn around to look at him but she felt his eyes on her back all the way until she finally ducked under the low door on the side of the hall. The feeling made her skin prickle under her dress and she had an instinct to reach and brush her back. Yet she realised she wouldn't get rid of that feeling quite as easily.

Whether the sensation was completely unpleasant was a different thing, but she refused to even let her mind wander in that direction.