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“We’re not hiding this time around,” Sandor says as they stand in the place they’ve decided to stop for the night. “We can try to find somewhere to stay that has a bed.” He offers, feeling like a fucking twat for it. He misses when she’d make demands, show what in Seven Hells she wants from him.
Arya meets his eyes before pointedly dropping her pack on the ground. “I don’t need it.” She insists, as dramatic as she’s always been, even with this new attitude of hers.
Letting out a sigh, he watches as she goes over to the horses they’ve tied near. “Yeah, neither do I.” he mutters under his breath, throwing down his own pack.
She’s back to being mute as they set up a small camp. It grates on him how easy it is, how well they work together to get the fire going, the bedrolls out, even the fucking food they eat together. Her silence sets him on edge as much as her constant talk did though and he finds himself continually looking at her, checking on her.
“Did you ever get along with your brother?” she pipes up just as he’s trying to sleep. Now she talks.
“Not getting along with yours anymore? That why you decided to bother me?” he goads her, trying to get some kind of answer about what her problem is, why she’s here with him. She doesn’t respond and he’s sure he’s the only one of the two of them who feels the need to fill the silence. It pisses him off even more. It’s like when she sat down next to him on the outer wall, the night before the battle against the dead. Expectation that he never fucking asked for. Expectation that she’s somehow got in him. Expectation he has for himself. Fuck sake. “No, never.” He finally grumbles out, giving in.
“And there was no one else? No other family?” she asks flatly as if unaffected, confirming his thoughts about her lack of irritation at the silence.
“No.” he says. It’s fucking easier than fighting her. It’s his own fault; he’s the one who once let her in on this shit anyway.
“What about the Brotherhood? Is that why you joined them?” she continues her questions.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly with a long sigh. He turns to her, looking at her on the other side of the fire. “But they weren’t family, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.” He adds, wanting to find some control again.
“What was it like before Joffrey?” she asks next, side-stepping. He’s starting to wonder if she even gives a shit about the answer. “I mean…the King,” she says slowly, the first sign of any discomfort, any weakness, and Sandor starts to get what this is about. “What was he like?”
He keeps his laugh to himself. It’s the first time he doesn’t feel like he’s being led around by her. “Thinking about someone with a shiny, new lordship?” he digs at her, but just enough to show he’s not a fucking idiot and she better remember it.
“Is he like King Robert?” she asks straight away, apparently not offset by him narrowing down what’s she’s really getting at so easily. He couldn’t have imagined anything would annoy him like her old righteousness used to, but the confidence she’s turned up with from whatever in Seven Hells she’s been, is somehow worse.
With a roll of his eyes, he answers her. “Yes? No? I don’t fucking know,” he grumbles. He doesn’t know what to tell her. He isn’t even sure what she wants to hear, or what she doesn’t know already. He remembers the new Lord Baratheon beyond the wall, an anger about him that Sandor recognised. Wasn’t the fury of Robert Baratheon though – more petulance, more hurt. Little shit had stepped up too, fought at the front of the line both times, but he hadn’t led like Robert Baratheon had. Didn’t seem to want to either. That probably worked out well with Arya who was always going to be one who led between the two of them. “Should have known who the fucker was when I saw him with that hammer.” He mutters, the only real thing he can latch onto to tell her about. He was good with it. Better than someone who wasn’t a solider should have been. Sandor was sure he’d made the fucking thing too.
“King Robert used one.” She states, no question or confusion. As though she was working it through herself. He wonders how long she’s known who he was, how long the bastard had known. That’s why she was here? Because of the Baratheon bastard?
“What’d he do? Why are you here and not with him?” he asks. “Twat did something.” He pushes more, knowing it’s true. Sandor isn’t sure she’s going to tell him, but she does.
“He asked me to be his wife.” She reveals.
“Ha,” he can’t keep the bark of laughter to himself this time. “Of course he did.”
“I’m not a Lady.” She insists, an old huff in her voice that reminds him of who she was before. Ohh, so that’s what it is.
He scoffs, getting as comfortable as he can in the bedroll. It’s still fucking freezing, even after a week out of Winterfell. They haven’t been able to let any fire go out, but at least this time they have everything they need. No sharing, no rags. No, she’s been the infamous Arya Stark this time round, with all the fucking trimmings even if she thinks differently. “No, and best prove it by sleeping on the ground, making sure that sword is in your reach all the time. Doing whatever the fuck you want all day,” he gripes, leaning his head back and closing his eyes again. How has she learned so much, and so little at the same time? “You think any cunt can do whatever they like, when they like? You weren’t even there to greet the Dragon Queen. Got a whole fucking room to cheer your name and you weren’t even there. Think anyone else can get away with doing that?” he berates her. There’s some disappointment in him, he thinks, about how naive she still is. Disappointment, and gratefulness. She kept some of that naivety. No matter what the fuck happened to her to make her the cold bitch she is now, she’s still an entitled noble who thinks she can demand her way to what she wants. She’s kept that, through all of it. It wasn’t beaten out of her. He’s glad for that, he is, but it’s also fucking irritating. If she hasn’t learned it by now, will she ever? She’d probably still whine and argue about that friend of hers he killed if he brought up the fat little fuck. She’s learned power, but still doesn’t understand that she has power few else ever will.
“I can’t be what he wants me to be.” She continues and Sandor realises that his irritation with her at least overrides how unsure he is of how to deal with her silence.
“That right?” he mutters as if he doesn’t give a fuck, feeling more settled by how obvious she is again, even through her new detached nature.
“I’d be Lady of Storm’s End. The Lady,” she says, and he hears the first annoyance from her. Good. “I’d have to take on responsibilities that I don’t want, that aren’t me. I’d have to be like my sister.”
“Hm, and you don’t think she’s changed too?” he voices, thinking of Sansa Stark speaking over both her brothers, happily towering over half the twats and not caring, not trying to make herself small or dainty or whatever the fuck else a Lady is supposed to be. “Fuck sake, one Queen fucks her brother, your bastard brother was King, Wildlings are all over the fucking place, the next Queen is some dragon-laying bitch. Want to talk about Baratheons? Renly loved a man and put a woman in his Kingsquard, and Stannis…he killed his own daughter,” he lists, trying not to think about such a fiery death, and the pain he knows she would have experienced. “And you’re complaining about…what? Being a wife?” he opens his eyes and turns to her again. “You either want the stupid cunt, or you don’t. If you don’t, stop thinking about him. If he’s still not good enough for you, fucking tell him that.” He rants at her, closing his eyes and straightening again.
“That’s never been true!” she shouts back at him, angry and righteous, showing that she’s still the same under it all, even if it is buried deep under layers of new competence and indifference. “I’ve always…” she cuts herself off, but she’s already given it away.
Smirking to himself, he feels validation as she shows herself. It’s only taken a fucking week. “He’ll see it that way.” He says simply.
“No, he won’t. He knows that’s not true.” She argues, the annoyance still there, but so is something else. She’s unsure. First time he’s seen any real sign of it. Even when he dragged her away from the dead that took down Beric, she was still trying like she knew what she was supposed to do at least. She was still fighting, even if she was shaken. And she got it together again, enough to save every fucker. This is different.
“Does he? He gets made a Lord and the first thing he does is try to wed you?” he says, pointing out the obvious she’s too smart to miss. “You’ve never been stupid.”
Even with his eyes closed, he can feel her glaring at him. “I chose him before I knew he was the bastard of a King.” She states in defence of herself. Pride fills her voice this time. First time she’s really displayed how she feels about the bastard too. Poor fucker probably thought he’d won the whole Seven Kingdoms when he was given that Lordship. A chance to be on equal footing with Arya Stark, in everyone else’s eyes except hers that is. How many women get to actually choose someone? But she’s complaining he’s now too noble for her?
“You’re back where you started,” he criticises her. “You think you can take and leave what you want, why? Because you’re a Stark. You can hit a Prince, befriend a nobody bastard, do whatever you want and everyone accepts it? You can leave, show up out of nowhere and everyone just welcomes you back, no questions. World doesn’t work that way for every other fucker,” he lecturers her. Pausing, he remembers how much has changed, is changing. He sighs. “It didn’t,” he corrects quietly. “Now you’re a hero, maybe you should use it to do whatever the fuck it is you truly want,” he continues. He’s seen her behave around people however she likes, but she still rejects some of the best influence she has. Maybe she should learn something from her sister after all. “Start thinking about what comes after you’ve crossed those names off your list, when there’s no names left,” He advises almost gently. He doesn’t want this for her. If everything is about to change…what happens to her afterwards? He assumes she thinks she’ll lose herself if she does marry the twat, that it’ll be giving in. He doesn’t see it. The bastard basically tried to brag about her to him. ‘I want to thank her’, he’d said. Wanted to celebrate her great kill like all the other Northerners. Like her brother who put a sword in her hand in the first place, like her father who’d let her run around with all sorts of folks, with a fucking direwolf for fuck sake. “He knew who you were, didn’t he? Before I gave away to The Brotherhood?” he asks when she’s still quiet.
“Yes.” She whispers.
“And he didn’t hand you over to any of the fucks who would have killed you?” he points out. She has no idea how lucky she is, how loved she is. He’s seen it around her and her whole bloody family more than he ever has anywhere. Warmth and hope and acceptance and shit that doesn’t exist in other households. Certainly didn’t exist in any Baratheon household he's ever known. Yet, she’s the key to that changing in the new one. He’s tried, for her. He’s tried to protect her, tried to give her something, something that will save her life. He hopes he’s been part of why and how she’s survived. But the end of all this mess is coming and none of what he’s given her will be what matters then. He can’t give her any kind of happiness. Warmth, hope, acceptance? What does he know about any of that? All he is is an example of a hateful, sorry life alone. It’s too late for him, but he’s watched her go back again and again, back to her family, pulled back just like he is to his own every fucking time. But for him, it’s the hate he has for his brother. Anger, resentment for the way his brother marked him. For her…it’s love, for the people she’s surrounded by who accept and celebrate everything she complains about being. And somehow, most of them have survived. She’s not like him. His revenge is for himself, because no one else ever fought for him. Hers is for other people, people she wants to fight for still, even though they’re dead. “Did he?” he repeats with some harshness, starting to get annoyed at her wilful stupidity.
“No.” she says numbly, as if his anger doesn’t mean much. She hasn’t been scared of him for a long time. Maybe ever, now that he thinks about it, but he fucking hopes she has at least some fear about becoming him.
He sighs, not knowing how he’s supposed to do this. He was a sworn shield, but he never really cared about actually taking care of anyone until her. He never really fought with his heart for someone, until her. More than once now. He never worried about someone, until her. She knows it too, for all the good it seems to do. “You think he wants to change you? You can always take a dagger to him if he tries,” he starts. “But that twat has been following around after you since I first met him. Long before, I’d guess,” he adds, remembering the bastard back at that inn, trailing after her as she squared up to Sandor, not noticing the shadow hovering worriedly behind her. And again, in that fucking Brotherhood cave. He’d stayed by her side, stepped in front of her when Sandor had taunted her. And then he’d grabbed her and dragged her away as she tried to come at him. Sandor had seen all of it. And then after, when he’d found her when she was alone…she was different. Some of the fight she’d had in that cave taken away from her. “Listened to your whining and complaining when you never shut up, still chasing you now when you’re silent. I don’t think it’s because he wants you to start sewing.”
“Maybe I’m not good enough for him,” she admits after yet more silence. Opening his eyes again, Sandor lazily turns his head in her direction, waiting for what else she’ll finally be honest about. The fire between them still blocks some of her from view, and he’s sure she's aware of it. Probably half the reasons she’s started speaking some truth. “He might not be safe with me,” she continues, spoken in a quiet seriousness, making him frown, not sure what she’s going on about with that. She continues before he can think it through further. “He’d never have a proper Lady, be like the other Lords, if I was with him. He has the chance to have everything he’s ever wanted now, everything he’s never had before.” She finishes her reasons, a whole other list she’s apparently started – he’d guess she’d started both of them around the same time. He’d also guess this is the first time this one has been spoken out loud, unlike her death one he had a place on.
“Except you?” he points out the absence in her excuses. “You’re so about making your own decisions, not needing anyone else…” he continues but even he can hear how little bite the taunt has; he deflates “Maybe let him have the same thing,” he mutters. A scowl sets on his face at his advice, annoyed at trying to help some stupid bastard he doesn’t give a shit about. He burrows back against his bedding, closing his eyes once again even as his scowl remains. “You don’t want to go back to Winterfell, you don’t want to be with your brother, but you’re here making me talk this shit out, so you don’t want to be alone again either.” He huffs, trying to bring back some of his defence. Fucking Stark bitch, constantly getting to him.
“I’m not making you do anything.” She bites back at him.
He snorts out a dismissal. “Yes, you bloody are.” He says flippantly, but he shakes his head at her still not getting it, still oblivious to her title and what it truly makes her.
She’s quiet, apparently choosing not to argue with him. Maybe she is starting to get it after all. “Why are you being nice about him?” she asks, confusion plain in her tone.
Now it’s his turn to pause. He forces himself not to move a fucking inch, to not give his discomfort away so easily, as he thinks about how to deflect. “He’s put up with you. I know that pain,” he snipes, but like before, it’s weak, and he’s sure the fact that she doesn’t even try to fight him on it means she knows it too. He lets out a loud, hassled sigh as he blinks his eyes open and stares up. “He’s a decent fighter, he didn’t do too badly,” he finally gives. “The axe he made held too.” He adds, more out of pushback of his “niceness” than an actual compliment to the new Baratheon.
“He’s a good smith.” She says quietly, softly. Obvious pride and fondness in those few words. And without the aggressive righteousness that all her own pushback came with before, where she’d rant high and mighty about her brother, or her dead father – without that need to defend them, to stand up for them against his griping and attacks, the fondness strikes even more. She’s so blatant in how she feels – what the fuck is she doing out here when it would be obvious to a dead man where she wants to be? Her need for revenge will have her live as miserable as he has.
“Stick a title on him all they like, doesn’t mean he’s different. He’ll still be the same bastard smith who won’t have any idea how to be a lord,” he keeps on, trying to turn her away from what he knows is death. “Fuck knows what state Storm’s End in. You can re-make it how you want. Good enough place to stay away from all the shit that’s going to happen in the south. Be the odd fucks of the Lords and Ladies, be different if you want to be different. Nothing’s ever stopped you before.” He finishes.
“Thanks for your confidence.” she quietly dismisses with a try for spite that fails. It’d be easier if he believed she’s just the cold bitch she’s trying to pretend to be and that was all that was left of her, but the care is still in her voice. The self-doubt in her voice is more cutting than the weak attempt to hide her insecurity.
He sits up, eyeing her across from him, able to see her fully again with the fire to the side. He glares in her direction. “If it’s hate you chose, you better make sure it’s enough. It better be what you want more than anything else,” he warns. “And driving that fucking sword of yours through her heart better be enough to get you through the rest of your miserable fucking days.” He rants at her.
Silence is the response again, the crackling fire even louder this time as he continues to glare at her. He can see the shine of her eyes, facing him, but she doesn’t say a fucking word and if her expression changes, he can’t tell. Finally she turns her head, facing the sky above. “Cersei, The Mountain.” She lists in that flat tone again.
The sigh Sandor gives this time is filled with disappointment, in her, in himself. She might be as stubborn as he is. She’s still the bravest thing he’s known, but not brave enough to choose differently. He lowers himself down to the ground again. “See you soon, big brother.” He mutters, recognising her choice.