The Object of Her Affections

Arya scanned the crowd of people milling about in her parents' huge backyard with suspicion. Every man was potentially her target, and she had to be on the alert. She eyed an attractive man in his mid-twenties with suspicion, but then relaxed upon seeing a wedding ring on his hand. Not the man she was looking for.

Suddenly, she stiffened in surprise, narrowing her eyes at the tall, hulking figure of the Hound. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. The Hound often frequented the gym in which she studied marshal arts, and he was always making rude and disparaging comments about her ability, her form and her stance. She only put up with him because he gave very helpful tips on improving, and was patient in explaining where she went wrong. Still, she shouldn't have to put up with him outside of the gym.

"Hound!" she called, walking towards him, "What are you doing here?"

He scowled at her. "I was invited."

That didn't completely surprise her. The party to celebrate the end of winter was a long standing tradition of the Stark household, and it was always a big affair. The family lore was that in ancient times the nobles of House Stark would throw a feast every spring and invite all the smallfolk to partake. In this day and age it was mainly a loud bash with a lot of food and alcohol, and everyone her parents even remotely knew was invited. They had all but issued an invitation in the local newspaper. Still, Arya wondered who was stupid enough to invite the Hound.

The Hound frowned at her. "What are you doing here?"

Arya puffed up with indignation. "I live here. My parents are the ones throwing the party you were so graciously invited to."

He looked genuinely surprised at this. "Your last name is Stark?"

She nodded.

"You're Sansa's sister?" his tone was heavy with incredulity.

"Oh, do you know Sansa?" Arya asked vaguely. The mention of Sansa reminded Arya of her mission. "I'll tell you what," she informed the Hound, "I'll let you stay at our party as long as you help me out with something." Yes, he would do perfectly.

He quirked his good eyebrow at her. "Not that you can throw me out, but what do you need help with?"

"This is very important, Hound, so listen up. Sansa is in love with someone."

"She-" his voice broke, and he coughed to clear his throat. "She is?"

"Yes!" Arya replied with exasperation. "And she has horrible taste in men. He's probably a monumental cunt who won't treat her the way she deserves. I need you to shake him up a bit. Threaten him with bad things if he ever hurts Sansa. Put the fear of the old gods and the new into him."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Why can't you do it?"

She rolled her eyes, and gestured at her body. "I'm very short and I'm a girl. He wouldn't take me seriously." There were many advantages to being underestimated, but it was a current detriment in her task. "The most I can do is spy on him and ruin his life if her ever does anything to her, but I can't preemptively threaten him to any real effect. You on the other hand, are huge, ugly, and scary. If you have a little talk with him, he'll be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. So what do you say, are you up for it?"

He cracked his knuckles with relish. "I'll do it with pleasure. Where is he?"

He had stumbled upon the minor flaw in her plan. "I don't actually know who he is," she admitted to Sandor reluctantly. "I don't know his name, either."

"Are you serious?" he asked incredulously, "How do you even know he exists?"

"I know he exists because Sansa talks about him all the time!" Arya replied defensively, "All she can ever talk about it how wonderful he is, but how she doesn't know if her likes her back, and what should she make of the fact that he once touched her shoulder while talking to her. It's really irritating. She refuses to tell me his name, though, or any other identifying details. She says she doesn't want me harassing him or interfering."

"Well then, how am I supposed to know who to threaten?" he asked her, his mouth twitching furiously.

"I have general idea of what he looks like," Arya replied, Sansa having harped on about it endlessly. "He's extremely attractive, with longish black hair and 'stormy eyes'- which probably means that they're blue or grey."

"We're in the bloody north, wolf bitch," the Hound ground out, "Longish dark hair describes half the men here."

"Yes, but not every single man here is astoundingly hot, which he apparently is. That narrows the pool quite a bit. And I know some more details about him that Sansa let slip here and there. We just need to approach potential suspects, talk to them a bit, and see if they fit the bill."

The Hound nodded determinedly. "Alright then. What do you know about him?"

"Well, Sansa met him at a place she volunteers at. They help troubled children and youth through therapy with horses. I know that he works there, and that he has his own horse named Stranger." The Hound made a strange chocking noise, but Arya ignored him, wracking her mind for more details. "Oh! I know he has three dogs."

"Three dogs?" he repeated after her, idiotically.

"Yeah. They're really big, and they're named Drooly, Stinky, and Hairy. They're rescues from an underground dog fighting ring. She went on about how compassionate and caring he was for taking care of them for, like, two days. Anyways, all we need to do is ask any potential suspect where he works or if he has any pets, and we'll know if we have the right one."

"And she said that he's attractive?" The Hound asked, rubbing his scars absently.

"She said she'd never been as physically attracted to someone in her life," Arya replied, rolling her eyes. "And her first boyfriend was a real pretty boy. So the man we're looking for probably looks exactly like a ken doll."

The Hound was silent for a long moment, seemingly deep in thought. "You know," he finally said, sounding contemplative, "it's possible that she's learned from her mistakes with Joffrey, and that this man won't be like him. Maybe he's someone who genuinely cares for her, and will treat her with the love and care she deserves."

Arya snorted. "Sansa is far too naive and sweet to be a good judge of character. Besides, she said herself that he's an asshole."

The Hound scowled. "She did?"

"Well, not exactly," Arya admitted. "She said he likes to pretend that he's an asshole by acting all gruff, but when you actually get to know him he's the most amazing, sweet, brave, etc. etc. blah blah. He's probably just an asshole, though."

"It sounds as if she really cares for him," the Hound muttered gruffly.

"Yeah, she's completely in love with him. It's really sad." Arya shook her head at her sister's folly. "Oh, look! There she is now."

"I'm going to go talk to her," the Hound declared, pleasing Arya with how seriously he was taking his mission.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot to ask. How do you know Sansa?"

"From work," he replied vaguely, wandering away from her.

Arya didn't find that very informative, since she didn't know what he did for a living, but decided after a moment's contemplation to let it go. It wasn't like she cared to know anything about the Hound's personal life.

Two hours later, Arya was feeling severely discouraged. None of the handsome, dark haired men she had talked to worked with horses (one was a blacksmith, though!), and she couldn't find the Hound to ask him if he had discovered anything. She couldn't find Sansa either, for that matter.

Finally, as she fled to the kitchen for some reprieve from the noise of the party (as well as to drown her sorrows in the expensive whiskey her dad kept hidden from the masses) the Hound appeared, lumbering down from upstairs and heading straight towards the refrigerator.

"Any news?" Arya asked him, as he rummaged through the refrigerator and pulled out a container of lemon cakes. She considered telling him that the lemon cakes were meant to be a special treat for Sansa and that she would be very upset if someone else got to them, but then decided that having someone else eat her lemon cakes was a fitting punishment for being so uncooperative over telling her anything about the object of her affections.

"News about what?" the Hound asked absently, pulling two glasses from the cupboard. "Oh! The man she's in love with. Yes, I know who he is."

"And?" Arya asked impatiently.

"You don't need to worry about him ever hurting her. He'll be good to her; he really loves her."

Arya scowled irritably as he grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter and began heading back upstairs with his loot. "What I meant was: what is his name?" she called after him.

He paused on the stairs and turned back to her, grinning widely. "Sandor Clegane," he replied.

And before she could react, he bounded back upstairs, lemon cakes and wine under his arm.

The end. I hope you enjoyed.

Just to give credit where it's due- the inspiration for the Arya POV came from the fic 'A Dog-In-Law' by Amuscaria. The idea of Sandor adopting dogs rescued from a dog fighting ring is something I read in 'From Bad to Worse' by Dexidoodle and really liked.