The night was cold along the lonely shoreline of Gods Eye Lake. Moonlight shimmered faintly across the dark water, and the wind hissed through the reeds like a whispering specter. A single horse trotted westward along the lakeside trail, carrying two figures—one towering and broad, the other small and thin—pressed together in silence.
Arya Stark squinted against the biting wind, her eyes watering from the sting of the cold air. She clung tightly to the saddle, doing everything she could to keep herself steady. Only by lifting her chin and stretching her neck could she barely make out the burned, twisted profile of the man in front of her—Sandor Clegane, the Hound. In the pale moonlight, the scarred half of his face looked even more monstrous, like a creature forged of fire and rage.
After a long stretch of silence, Arya finally shouted over the rushing wind, "Hey! How did you even get down from that tree?"
The Hound gave a low, humorless chuckle. With a sneer, he slipped a small dagger from the leather bracer strapped to his wrist and waved it lazily.
"I can thank that stubborn bitch Béric Dondarrion for this little trick," he growled. "After the last time his men tied me up, I learned my lesson well enough. You always keep something hidden—something that can save your life when you need it."
He paused, looking down at Arya with a sideways glance.
"But speaking of surprises… using that fellow named Halson the way you did?" His voice carried a trace of reluctant admiration. "That was clever—clever enough that even I'm impressed."
Arya stiffened. At the mention of Halson's name, she did not answer. Instead, she turned her head and looked back toward the forest behind them, where distant shouts, steel clashes, and screams drifted through the trees.
"We have to go back and help him!" she cried anxiously, her voice trembling with urgency.
Her defiant tone made something flicker behind the Hound's eyes—something almost like a memory. It reminded him of another Stark, one who had stood tall, spoke with honor, and died for it.
"Help him?" The Hound snorted, and then burst into a harsh laugh that echoed across the lake. "Look at us, little she-wolf. One of us was beaten half to death, and the other only escaped by acting like some helpless maiden. What exactly are we going to use to help him?"
"But he helped me!" Arya snapped back, her voice filled with raw emotion.
"That was his choice!" the Hound growled, impatience flaring. "It has nothing to do with me—and nothing to do with you!"
Fury surged through her. Arya elbowed him hard, but the mail beneath his clothes sent pain shooting through her arm instead. Teeth clenched, she ignored the sting and continued:
"Halson is a Northman! He was loyal to House Stark! He upheld his honor—"
"To hell with honor!"
The Hound's roar exploded like thunder. He jerked the reins, slowing the horse, while pressing the blunt backside of his dagger against Arya's neck.
"Those who cling to honor are dead, you foolish little girl!" he snarled, eyes burning.
"Rhaegar Targaryen fought honorably—and died horribly. Your father upheld his precious honor, and what did it get him? A traitor's death and a spike on the wall!"
"So don't speak to me about honor! Honor won't feed you, and it won't keep you alive in this rotten world!"
His voice was full of bitterness and something darker—experience, carved into him like his scars. Arya's eyes filled with tears at the mention of her father. She opened her mouth to unleash every insult she knew—
—when suddenly:
Whoosh!
A sharp whistle cut through the air. The Hound jerked in surprise, pulling the reins as an arrow sliced past them. It grazed the horse's flank and buried itself deep in the mud ahead.
The horse reared and screamed, nearly throwing them both off. The Hound fought hard, muscles straining, until he managed to steady it.
Spinning around, he saw a tall figure standing a short distance away, silhouetted by the moon. A bow was drawn, arrow nocked, aimed directly at him.
"Halson!" Arya gasped, relief flooding her face.
The Hound spat onto the ground, unimpressed.
Seeing Arya unharmed, Halson exhaled in visible relief before shouting, voice shaking with fury:
"Do not harm Miss Stark, you despicable brute! Release her at once!"
"Harm her?" The Hound snarled in outrage. "Are you blind, you idiot? I'm protecting her!"
Halson didn't answer. His eyes flicked to the dagger still hovering near Arya's throat.
The Hound swore and yanked the dagger away, shouting at Arya,
"Explain yourself, little she-wolf!"
But Arya did not forget. She remembered how the Hound had let the Karstark soldiers mock her—how he had cared only for gold. Now, anger boiled inside her, dark and sharp.
She turned and screamed:
"He kidnapped me! He wants to take me to Riverrun to ransom me to my brother! Save me!"
"Shit!"
The Hound grabbed her mouth instinctively, clamping down hard.
To Halson, it looked like confirmation of guilt.
"Stop!" Halson roared, eyes wild with rage. He dropped his bow, drew his sword, and charged forward on horseback.
"Damn it!" the Hound cursed. He pushed Arya aside and braced himself.
The horse thundered toward him. The Hound, weak from blood loss and exhaustion, barely managed to lift his sword.
Clang!
The force of the blow numbed his arm and hurled both him and Arya to the ground.
Halson wheeled the horse around for a killing strike.
But the Hound, through sheer instinct and fury, snatched the dagger from his bracer and hurled it—
Thwack!
The dagger buried itself in the horse's eye. The beast screamed and toppled, throwing Halson violently to the ground.
Struggling to his feet, the Hound staggered toward the fallen Northman, grabbing the sword from the dirt. Halson, dazed and unable to rise, looked up just as the shadow loomed over him.
"Don't kill him!" Arya screamed, scrambling upright.
But the Hound did not pause.
The blade plunged straight through Halson's chest.
A wet gasp escaped him—and then nothing.
"No!" Arya's scream ripped through the night. She rushed at the Hound, fists flying, kicking, hitting, sobbing with rage.
"You killed him! Why? Why did you kill him? You killed Mycah, and now Halson! You monster! You devil! Die!"
The Hound, already enraged, struck her with the back of his fist.
Arya collapsed, stunned, breath stolen.
He crouched down, burned face twisted like a demon's shadow in the moonlight. Fisting her collar, he growled:
"That fool tried to kill me—so I killed him! And you—" he jabbed a finger into her chest "—if you had spoken the truth, he'd still be alive! This is your fault. Do you understand?"
Arya trembled with fury and humiliation. Her hand instinctively reached for Needle—only to remember it was gone, taken when she was captured.
The two glared at each other, breaths harsh, hatred simmering—
Then, from the trees, came the sound of approaching hooves.
And then—clapping.
Slow. Deliberate. Mocking.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound echoed sharply against the still shoreline.
A lone rider emerged, stopping several paces away. Moonlight framed him like a figure from a stage.
A smooth, amused voice drifted through the night:
"That was truly spectacular, Sandor Clegane. I didn't expect you to fight with such strength while half-dead from your wounds."
A pause.
"But… this works just as well."
Both Arya and the Hound turned sharply toward the rider—eyes wide, voices overlapping in shock:
"The Doctor!"