Disclaimer: Anything recognizable from the show or the books isn't mine.
"He's not going to shatter," Sansa laughed, watching her husband gingerly hold their newborn son with a look akin to terror. "You were never this nervous with Catelyn."
"I damn sure was," he said, "You just don't remember."
Eddard made a noise.
"He's crying!" Sandor's obvious panic was the most comical thing his wife had ever seen.
"He's not crying. That was more like a grunt," she smirked, "Takes after his father."
Sandor glared at her. "I don't know why the seven hells you want me to hold him anyway. Aren't you ready with that bath yet?"
"Yes, yes." Sansa poured the heated water into the basin, checking to make sure the temperature was just right. "And I asked you to hold him because you need to spend a little more time with your son. It's almost like you've been avoiding him." She threw him a knowing look.
Sandor frowned and stared down at the tiny infant cradled in his huge hands. He'd hoped for another daughter, but the fickle gods decided on a boy this time. Sandor's private belief that all the men of his family were cursed meant he was constantly fighting an internal battle against his feelings for the child. He wanted to love his son, but he didn't want his heart broken should the boy...go wrong. Part of him knew it was foolish. Yet when he looked at this helpless babe, he couldn't help but see the potential for another Gregor.
Eddard grunted again and wriggled in his father's grasp. His eyes blinked myopically up at the rough face that definitely was not his mother's. His tiny hand encountered a thumb, which he then reflexively squeezed.
Sandor looked down at the baby's innocently scrunched face. It was frightening how easily his son broke through his defenses without even trying.
"It's ready. Give him here." Sansa held out her arms. Sandor passed the baby to her and she gently lowered Eddard into the warm bath.
Four-year-old Catelyn came over and stood on tiptoe to peer at her brother. Ever since the infant was born, she was curious of him. More than once her parents found her sneaking over to the crib to peek in at Eddard while he slept.
"Would you like to help?" Sansa asked. The girl nodded. Sandor helped Cat up onto the table and Sansa handed the girl a washcloth. Following her mother's lead, Catelyn gently washed her baby brother.
Sandor watched this family tableau with a strange ache in his heart. He felt his resistance weaken in spite of himself, and even smiled when Eddard's flailing arm accidentally splashed water in Catelyn's face. When the bath was over, Sandor picked up the towel without being asked and accepted the wet infant once again. As he dried his son off, he looked into Eddard's sleepy eyes and decided there was nothing of Gregor in him.
Things came to a head between Arya and Sandor near the end of the months-long journey. They were days from Winterfell and the terrain was becoming more familiar to Sansa with every mile. She started pointing out landmarks she recognized with an innocent excitement the children found infectious. They were all chattering away as they rode together in the cart. That evening, after they made camp, Sansa told the youngsters more stories she recalled from her childhood in Winterfell. She also told her avid young audience what she remembered of the journey she and her sister and father made together on the kingsroad as they traveled with King Robert and his family to King's Landing. She failed to notice how Arya and Sandor got more and more tense the farther along in her story she went. She was too busy glossing over the unhappy moments, specifically the terrible events that followed the unfortunate day when she and Joffrey went for a walk and encountered Arya and the butcher's boy. She said only that her direwolf, Lady, died.
"How'd she die?" Eddard innocently asked.
Sansa glanced at her sister and chewed her lip. She didn't want to lie to her children, but did not feel they were old enough to really understand everything that had happened. "Queen Cersei...ordered her killed. Prince Joffrey had been bitten, and the queen punished Lady for it."
"Lady bit the prince?" Catelyn asked, "Why?"
Before Sansa could answer, Arya interjected, "It wasn't Lady who bit him. It was Nymeria. Lady wasn't even there when it happened. But I had Nymeria run away so she wouldn't get hurt, and the queen didn't care which direwolf got killed, so long as one of them died."
The children absorbed this grim revelation for a moment, then Cat asked again, "Why did she bite the prince?"
Arya looked at her sister. Sansa's eyes pleaded with her to keep it brief, but otherwise gave no sign that she would interfere. Arya shifted where she sat and began to tell her niece and nephews about that fateful time, "While the king's party made camp for the day, me and a friend, Micah, went off to practice sword fighting together. Just whacking each other with sticks, really. Then Joffrey shows up," she omitted the detail of Sansa being with him, "He started making fun of Micah for playing at being a knight. Joffrey drew his own sword - a real sword - and threatened Micah with it. So I hit him with my stick. Joffrey got angry and started coming after me. That's when Nymeria bit him. She was protecting me. Then Micah ran off in one direction, me and Nymeria in the other."
"They were missing for days," Sansa added, resigned to this story being told, "father's and the king's men searched all over the forest. They finally found Arya and brought her before King Robert, but Nymeria was gone."
"I knew they'd kill her for what she did," Arya continued, "So I made her run away. We didn't see each other again for several years.
"When they brought me to see the king, Cersei and Joffrey were with him," her expression grew hard, "Joffrey lied, said that me and Micah attacked him for no reason and that I sicced the direwolf on him. I tried to tell King Robert what really happened, but he wouldn't listen. I was only a girl. Nobody was going to take my word over the prince's. So I was punished and Queen Cersei had Lady killed instead of Nymeria."
A somber quiet fell over the camp. Then Eddard asked the question Sansa had hoped would be overlooked, "What happened to Micah?"
This was it, Arya's chance to tell the children the truth about their father. But when she opened her mouth, the words didn't want to come. She struggled and grew angrier with each failed silence. Why wouldn't her mouth cooperate?
The children stared at her, expectant. Arya abruptly rose and stormed away, leaving their confusion in her wake.
Sansa shifted uncomfortably and finally answered for her sister, "Micah was killed by one of Joffrey's men while trying to run." It wasn't a lie. She told herself it was truth enough.
Arya didn't consciously know where she was going until she saw the looming silhouette ahead. Sandor, standing guard. He always stood guard first so he could join his family in their tent that much sooner.
"Come to growl at me some more, Wolf Girl?" He didn't move, just kept gazing out at the night. This only angered Arya more, like he was slighting her.
She opened her mouth. The words came this time, but not the ones she expected. "Why did you kill Micah? Did Joffrey order you to do it? Did Cersei?"
A sound like a low chuckle, devoid of humor or maliciousness. "You won't believe the truth when you hear it."
"As if someone like you can tell the truth," she spat.
A long, weary sigh escaped him. "I don't care what you believe," he murmured, "I'm tired of this shit. You want to know why your precious butcher's boy died? I'll tell you." The silhouette turned, and Arya knew he now faced her. "Your friend died because he ran. I found him cowering in the brush. He was filthy and half-starved by then. I remember thinking he looked like a rabbit, crouching there staring up at me with those big, frightened eyes. I told him it was over, he was caught. He might as well come quietly and accept whatever punishment the king gave him. But the little fool didn't listen. He was more rabbit than I thought, the way he bolted. Nothing but panic."
"So you rode him down," Arya accused.
"I chased him," Sandor corrected, "I was only going to knock him down, stun him so I could dismount and truss him up. But then he just dodged right in front of me, maybe trying to get to the deeper woods, I dunno. He did it too suddenly for me to swerve my horse. I damn near fell out of the saddle when Stranger trampled the boy."
Arya's hands clenched into fists.
"As soon as I got my horse under control I dismounted and went to check on the boy. He was still breathing, but he might as well have been dead. There was a dent in his head as big as my fist. I'd seen wounds like that before from men being kicked by horses. They never woke from it. Sometimes took weeks for their bodies to finally take the hint and die," Sandor paused for a significant beat, then said in a low voice, "So I saved everybody a long wait and ran him through with my sword."
Arya was trembling at this point. Her left hand itched to reach for her sword. "You're a liar."
"I didn't lie about you not believing me," he retorted.
"You murdered him. You're nothing but a killer!"
"And you hate me," Sandor responded in a tone that, from anyone else, would have been described as pitying, "So tell me, Wolf Girl, how much harm has your years of hatred inflicted on me? Until you showed up, I never gave a thought to you or your precious butcher's boy. Just as my brother never gave a thought to me, though there were times my hatred of him was all that kept me going. How you feel about me and what I did doesn't matter. Not to me, not to the Old Gods or the New. Hate me all you want, Wolf Girl. You're the only one who will suffer from it. And your friend will still be dead."
He turned his back on her then, dismissing her as he returned his attention to the night's potential dangers.
Arya's body was so tense she felt she might shake herself apart. Her hand went to the hilt of her sword, gripping it hard enough for her knuckles to turn white. She imagined herself drawing her sword and plunging it into Sandor's unguarded back. Once would not be enough for her, though. In her mind's eye she saw herself stabbing him over and over, screaming out her hatred while she butchered him. Butchered. Butcher's boy. Micah. It was her fault he was dead. She shouldn't have badgered him into her ridiculous game of "sword practice." All he wanted to do that day was hunt for frogs.
It was Arya's fault. She knew it, and she pushed the knowledge to the back of her mind, focusing instead on the prince and his Hound. She put all the blame on them so that she could avoid blaming herself. But it never worked, not really. It was her fault Micah was dead.
Arya spun away and ran, stumbling over the uneven ground, its obstacles unseen in the dark. Her throat burned and her face felt hot and strangely wet. She ran past the circle of tents and the tethered horses, beyond the faint glow of the dying campfire, until her legs finally gave out and she collapsed to her knees. She sat there, head bowed, for she knew not how long. Then she heard the familiar deep panting and felt a surprisingly gentle nudge at her shoulder. Without lifting her head, Arya reached out and wrapped her arms around Nymeria's neck. She buried her face in the direwolf's soft fur and, with great wracking sobs, finally mourned her childhood friend's death.