Disclaimer: Yeah, what I said before. Not mine.
Sandor walked into camp, leading Stranger by his bridle. The destrier gave no reaction to his grisly burden, other than the usual resentment at having to carry a load like a lowly packhorse. They passed Eddard Stark, and the lord of Winterfell stared at the bloodied, blanket-wrapped corpse slung across Stranger's back in growing horror.
"The butcher's boy. You rode him down?"
"He ran," was Sandor's blunt retort, "Not very fast."
He felt Lord Stark's accusing gaze on his back, but refused to give any sort of response. He went straight to the inn where the royal family stayed and laid the body at the king's feet. King Robert stared grimly at the boy's corpse while Cersei and Joffrey smirked triumphantly. As if there was anything about the situation to boast about.
"We should hang the corpse from the nearest tree," the queen declared with a sadistic gleam in her eye, "as an example of what happens when commoners' oafish children attack the prince. Perhaps then they'll learn to control their urchins better."
Robert scowled at his wife. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you," his voice dripped with loathing. He turned to Sandor and barked, "Take the body to the butcher. Let him bury his son." The look the king gave his wife and son halted whatever protests they might have made.
Sandor covered the body in the blood-stained blanket once again and hefted it over his shoulder. Though his expression remained indifferent, secretly he was relieved not to have to string the child's corpse up. This entire shit situation was already testing his limits.
As soon as his son's body lay on the ground, the butcher threw himself onto the sad bundle and wailed like a woman. Sandor remained stone-faced as he turned and abruptly walked away. He marched straight for his tent where he flung off his armor and snarled at his squire to fetch him some wine. He drank heavily that night, and the next as well. It was the only way to hold back the dreams that were sure to haunt him later.
They left Oldtree a fortnight later. Arya, Rickon, and their men. Sandor, Sansa, and the children. The family borrowed a small cart and oxen from the woodcutters Bertra and Syman, and also arranged to have their cottage looked after by the neighbors. It would be several months before they saw home again.
The children were elated by the prospect of adventure, even Catelyn, who at least had some inkling of how long and tiring such a journey would be. Winterfell was so much farther away than Ironoak, almost within sight of the Wall. So many stories revolved around this ancient keep, from the ancient kings of the First Men, to the much beloved Robb Stark, the last King in the North. The thought of seeing the place for themselves was enough to tempt the youngsters into running ahead of the adults, who seemed to be taking far too long to get started.
Many villagers turned out to wish them a safe journey. Elanor gave Sansa a basket of medicinal herbs, ointments, and tinctures to aid in whatever mishaps might occur, while Maester Tolbert handed Sandor a cage of ravens, so that he and the rest of Oldtree be kept appraised of the family's progress.
Arya waited impatiently for everyone to finish their goodbyes so they could get started. She noticed Rickon had a few goodbyes of his own, namely with some of the local village girls. She rolled her eyes. Her little brother had grown into a handsome young man in recent years. Unfortunately, he was all too aware of this fact, always preening and flirting outrageously with every pretty maid in sight. It was so annoying.
Another mounted rider came up beside her. She ignored him, figuring it was one of the men of her and her brother's escort.
"Still playing the loner, Wolf Girl?"
Her head jerked around. The rider beside her was Clegane, sitting astride that monstrous russet she heard was called Demon. He was dressed in his usual roughspun clothes and a plain leather jerkin, his longsword strapped across his back. The smirk on his scarred face made the fingers of her left hand twitch.
"Are you planning to keep your distance for the journey as well?" he asked, his tone mocking.
"You should be glad I'm keeping my distance," she all but snarled.
Sandor scoffed. "I don't give a shit if you keep the whole of Westeros between us, but you're avoiding your sister as well, and it upsets her. She thinks you're angry with her for marrying me."
Arya's scowl deepened at his rebuke. "What goes on between me and my sister is none of your business, Hound."
She almost jumped when Sandor lunged towards her, bringing his horrible face to within inches of hers. "Your sister is my business, Wolf Girl," he growled, "When she's upset, I'm upset. And you do not want to see me upset."
"What're you going to do," she challenged, "Ride me down?"
Sandor leaned back in his saddle with a humorless chuckle. "Seven hells, I'm starting to think you enjoy being miserable." He kicked Demon into a trot before Arya had a chance to spit out a retort.
They were finally underway shortly after. Sansa drove the cart with Catelyn beside her. Baby Zander rode in the back, nestled amongst the softer bundles and peering out at the landscape in wide-eyed wonder. The two older boys hadn't wanted to ride in the cart - Eddard because he thought he was too big to ride with the baby, Morden because he always followed his elder brother's lead - so Sandor allowed Eddard to ride with him on Demon while Rickon took Morden. The boys were more than happy with this arrangement, at least for the first couple of leagues. Being unaccustomed to so much riding, it didn't take long for the boys to become saddle sore. The ended up riding in the cart after all, and by afternoon all the children were sound asleep.
Boredom was the worst enemy they had to contend with. The novelty of travel wore off all too soon. The children had far less patience with monotony than their elders and it was a constant challenge for the adults to find ways to keep the youngsters entertained.
Evenings, when they made camp or stayed at the occasional inn, were far less stressful. The children could stretch their legs and play games while the adults took their turns at various tasks and set up their tents. When night fell, they all gathered around the fire to eat and relax while exchanging stories. Rickon usually had the most outrageous stories which he swore were true, mainly about himself, Bran, Hodor, and Osha and their journey across the Northern lands after their escape from Winterfell. These stories almost always ended with everyone laughing hysterically (even the ever-dour Arya).
Arya did make an effort to get more involved with Sansa and the youngsters. She never approached them when Sandor was near, but if he was on guard duty or handling some other task, Arya would sit with her sister's family and talk. She told them about her adventures with Gendry and Hot Pie, glossing over the worst moments, such as their time at Harrenhal. Arya was surprised to find herself becoming almost wistful at times. Those years on the run were the hardest of her life, but there were moments that could be considered good. She found that she missed Gendry's companionship. He aggravated her sometimes, but he was always steadfast and reliable in bad situations. She even missed Hot Pie, a little, if only for the unintentional comedy he provided. Hot Pie had chosen to remain at Riverrun, working in the kitchens as head cook.
"I was about your age when my father hired a Braavosi Dancing Master to teach me to use a sword," she told Catelyn one evening. The girl's eyes lit up at this revelation.
Sansa's eyes widened as well. "You mean that 'dancing instructor' you had back in King's Landing was really a swordsman?"
Arya smirked. "You thought I was just clumsy, coming home everyday covered in bruises and scrapes."
Her sister uttered a self-effacing laugh. "You hated learning anything remotely ladylike. I should have realized something was off when you kept going on about your dancing lessons with such enthusiasm."
"What was it like?" Catelyn asked. She leaned forward in eagerness. She'd never heard of a woman other than Brienne of Tarth who knew how to use a sword. The fact that her own aunt received such training thrilled her.
"It was hard," was Arya's frank response, "Syrio Forel, my teacher, never held back just because I was young or a girl. And some of his most difficult lessons didn't have anything to do with swordplay. At least, not directly. Like learning to sneak up on cats and standing on one toe for minutes at a time. All these things taught me to be swift and silent, invisible to the enemy and able to dodge their blades with amazing agility. And I was so eager to learn."
"So that you could be a great hero?" Cat asked.
Arya shook her head. "So that I could protect the people I cared about." Her eyes flicked to the broad silhouette of Sandor, standing apart from the group while he guarded the camp. She had a feeling he heard every word she said.
"Can I learn?" Catelyn blurted, startling Arya from her distracted thoughts, "Will you teach me?"
"Erm..." Arya met her sister's gaze.
"You'll have to ask your father," Sansa told the girl, "But if he agrees, and Arya's comfortable with it, then I have no objection."
Arya was surprised. The Sansa she remembered never would have said such a thing. The very idea of a girl learning to use a sword would have been too outrageous.
"Can I ask him now, Mum?"
"In the morning," Sansa brushed the girl's hair back from her forehead, "Now, it's off to bed with you."
The child grumbled, though she obeyed and went to join her younger brothers already passed out in their bedrolls. The adults did not stay up for much longer. Travel left everyone weary at day's end. Those who weren't standing guard crawled into their tents or curled up beside the campfire's embers. Arya was among the latter. She preferred the open sky to a stuffy tent, so long as the weather was pleasant enough. She was just drifting off when a sound of movement caused her to tense.
"Arya?" a small voice whispered, "You still awake?"
She relaxed with a sigh. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
"I couldn't sleep," Cat replied, ignoring the fact that she'd only just lay down moments ago, "I wanted to ask you something."
"What's that?" Arya mumbled, already dozing off once again.
The girl hesitated, then asked, "Why're you mad at Papa?"
The question woke Arya right up. "What makes you think I'm mad at him?"
"I heard you yellin' the first day you came to our house," Catelyn said, "And sometimes I see you giving Papa these real mean looks, like you wanna hit him or something."
Arya sat up and twisted around to face the shadowy little figure crouched beside her. Part of her was tempted to spill it all out to the girl, but another part of her, the part that remembered what it was like to love her father, held the words back. "Maybe you should ask your father about it."
The girl shifted uncomfortably. "I...don't really want to."
"Are you afraid to?" Arya's left hand twitched.
"No," Cat replied, "I just...don't like seeing him sad."
Sad? What the seven hells was she talking about, sad? "What do you mean?"
"Papa gets sad a lot. He hides it most times, but I can see it. I asked Mum about it and she said it was because he felt bad about the things he used to do, before he 'n' Mum got married. That's why they almost never talk about it."
Arya wanted to scoff at the notion of the Hound showing remorse for anything he'd done. Either that or say good, I hope he's haunted forever. Instead, she said, "I really can't tell you much. You'd have to ask your parents about it. All I can say is your papa wasn't always a good man."
The girl was silent for a long moment, pondering her words. Finally, she stood and headed back towards her tent. "G'night, Arya."
"Night."
Arya lay back down and drew the blanket around her. Her eyes were drawn to the stars peering through the overhanging tree branches, as sharp and clear as diamonds. It was a long time before she finally slept.