Chapter 2 – Obsession

Arya had considered untying him but the prospect brought too many variables, all of which could end with him killing her. Though there was a spark of care, with how he was acting, she was still wary of Sandor. It was like coming across a wounded dog and desiring to help it but not willing to take the risk of being bitten by it. He was still huge, formidable looking, terrifying – but he also looked so vulnerable and lost. Looking back at all their time together it was the first time she had seen him look like this. Even when he was under the tree, there hadn't been this level of vulnerability.

Sitting there under the soggy canopy, Arya allowed herself to relax her body against a tree. The hound stirred a little in his slumber at the sound of rustling leaves as she moved to get comfortable but his eyes never opened. So much had changed in the world but sitting there with him again it felt like they were back in the past, where he was her pseudo protector and she was his. Despite the age difference, her lack of experience, drastic size difference and conflicting interests – they really had taken care of one another very well. Truthfully, if he wasn't going completely mental, she would have been happy to have him join her.

Arya tipped her head to the side and stared at his sleeping form, long and hard. She liked working alone, if you worked alone then you weren't responsible for other people and that was something she enjoyed. Though, she did sometimes get lonely – a fact that she usually brushed off. It wasn't until that moment, with him sitting there asleep, that she began to see how alone she had really been.

It wouldn't be so bad, she mused, if he were to join her again. If there was some shred of rational thought left in that big head of his, then… well, she would have to see where all of this took her. She still had to bring him to King's Landing, to the queen but that, she hoped, wouldn't end too badly.

He was sleeping heavily, she could always tell when he was really asleep and just pretending to be sleeping. His breathing would change, something she was sure that he wasn't even aware of. He would take in a deep breath, hold it for a second and then let it out with a soft snore. It was something she had never mentioned to him – because she liked that she could tell if he was faking and she didn't need him changing how he pretended to sleep.

"You don't disserve mercy."

The words were harsh, rasped – though they were soft, they held venom and it struck Arya to her very core when they were uttered. Sandor slowly lifted his head to look at Arya. His eyes were dark and menacing but there was still that vulnerability there that shook her the most.

"What did you mean by that?" asked Sandor, an unpredictable danger lacing his wavering voice. "I sat there, for a long time, unable to do it myself, just thinking about what you could have meant. Did I not disserve mercy? Did I not protect you? Did I not take care of you? Then why would I not disserve mercy?"

Arya swallowed the lump forming in her throat as she recalled the last time they had seen one another. Somewhere in her memory the scene had played out much differently but now, with him bringing it up, she had to remember it how it really had been. Everything he was saying was the truth, she had looked at him and told him that he didn't disserve mercy – then she left him there. The memory made her eyes sting a little because, unknown to the hound, it had killed her to leave him there. He had become dear to her, despite all that he had done and the trouble he had caused her.

"What did you expect me to do?" Arya asked. She tried to keep her voice distant, detached but she was failing. "Would you prefer to be dead?"

Sandor wrung his hands against the ropes and kicked his feat, screaming. "Yes, I would have preferred to be dead!" he bellowed.

Arya was up in an instant with her sword in hand. If he kept at it she knew he had the strength to break the ropes. It had been her plan to poison him again or, if that failed, to kill him but she was glued to the spot – watching him. Through his screams, incoherent yelling, and grunts – she could hear his voice cracking. He was beginning to cry. Not soft sobbing, no, his tears were full of rage and betrayal. If anything, despite the danger, she wanted to reach out to him – explain to him why she had left him there, why she hadn't given him mercy.

She was so lost in the anguished look on his face that the world around her began to fade away. There was an inky dumb feeling that washed over her as she stared at him. It kept her from reacting when the first rope broke and the others followed.

"Wait," she only mumbled when he was up and charging at her.

There was never a person that made her feel as small as Sandor did when he stood beside her and she couldn't have felt smaller when he grabbed hold of her, wringing the sword from her hand.

Then everything went black.

"You don't disserve mercy," said Arya as she stood over the hound. She couldn't look him in the eye as she said it because she couldn't stand to see the desperation that was there.

He was in so much pain, she could tell by how he was acting. His voice was softer, his movements were sluggish and he was speaking to Arya in a way that he never had. She wasn't just some silly little girl anymore; she knew that to him, she was his partner. In a strange way, even though he never treated her as such, he saw her as his equal. It killed her.

Even as he started to get angry, started to curse her name, she wouldn't look at him – not directly. She left his horse there with him and pulled herself up onto her own.

"Arya," he croaked miserably but she didn't look back.

She couldn't look back.

It was early morning, she could tell from how the light was falling across the bed. It was a soft blue that only comes with the first morning light. In her haze she recalled how her mother would say that this kind of light was special – it was the light of the fae. It was a notion that hadn't crossed her mind in a long time; she had put aside all silly childish thoughts like that. There's no room for them in a war.

As she started at the thin beam of light running across her lap she started to realize how strange it was. She was somewhere comfortable, very comfortable – the kind of comfort that only comes from a bed. Her vision was blurred but as her eyes darted around the room she started to see shapes with more detail. It was a bedroom, worn and dusty but still rather nice. It smelled of slight decay, which was probably coming from the leaves that scattered the floor.

Had someone rescued her? It had to be someone of fairly high stature because the room was definitely more put together than most taverns and inns she had been to.

Arya tried to sit up but when she did, she felt the thick leather strips keeping her arms up above her head. No, she hadn't been rescued, she was a prisoner. The idea of being in a bed caused her more panic now. Her body was sore and she feared the worst. Though she was tied down pretty tightly she was still able to wiggle her hips around. After a few moments she breathed a sigh of relief.

She had never bothered with physical or romantic relationships and although she was older and rode a horse on a regular basis, she assumed that if they had taken advantage of her physically then there would have been some kind of pain…in that region.

Her momentary relief was short though. As she settled back down on the bed and started to look for a way to free her hands, she could hear heavy footsteps coming close and closer to the room. From the sound, she had to guess that she was upstairs because the thud of boots on wood seemed to be coming from below and then they moved upwards. For whatever reason she assumed it had be a person that had taken her from Sandor, either willingly or by force. So, when he opened the door she was rather surprised.

He was cleaner than she remembered seeing him – ever. His armor was gone and instead he wore a dark blue shirt, breeches and of course his boots. He looked rather nice, she had to admit. It was almost a comfort to see him more put together, after his outburst and the total breakdown she had witnessed earlier. At that though she snapped out of her consideration of him and jerked at her restraints.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" she snapped.

The hound stopped in his approach and laughed a little – though rather bitterly.

"Such language," he mocked. "You always were a snarky little brat but a well spoken one. Has the world finally corrupted those insufferable manners of yours?"

Arya glared at him, then, in a tone more similar to the one her sister would use, she said, "Dear sir, pray tell why you have tied me to this bed and what is it that you wish to accomplish from such an endeavor?"

The hound nodded and pulled a chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed. "Well, I was going to kill you and I still might but I may complete our little journey from years ago – You know, I'm not the only one with a pretty bounty on my head. With how much trouble I went through back then, I never did get the silver I had hoped I would get."

Arya could feel the color draining from her face. When they traveled together back then it had been different – sure, he had tried handing her in for silver but only to her family. Anyone putting a bounty on her head now was sure to want her dead. That or they were part of the dwindling rebel forces that planned on torturing her for information.

"I figured it would be fair. You planned on doing the same with me," said Sandor.

"To the Queen," Arya growled. "Not to some kind of sick scum."

"Who says their scum?" asked Sandor innocently.

"If they want me, they're scum!"

"Oh really? Well, that will be your problem, not mine."

"Who?" Arya demanded and Sandor smirked.

"Ah well, I haven't decided on that yet. Whoever has the highest bounty, I guess. Hadn't really thought about it till now. I mean, I heard rumors and even had some offers but I didn't plan on taking any of them – not till you told me what you had planned."

Arya started to pull at her restrains again, twisting her hands in a poor attempt to free herself. Sandor watched her with mock patience and laughed.

"Unlike you, little girl, I actually know how to subdue someone. I'd give up now, before you hurt yourself," he laughed.

"Fuck you!" Arya screamed.

Three hours, you would think her voice would go out after screaming for so long but she was still at it. Sandor tried to block out the noise but it was useless, even when he went outside he could still hear her. Luckily, his little retreat was a few miles away from any other home or village. When he had first acquired the house, he wondered why he even bothered taking it but now he was sort of happy he had. It had belonged to a sickly old woman and because of its rather remote and hidden location it remained untouched during the war. The woman had only been vaguely aware of the turmoil surrounding her – her only concern being that her son had stopped bringing her provisions.

His first instinct had been to just kill her and take the house but he decided against it. He wasn't sure if she still had family but he didn't need them showing up later and causing him trouble – so he let her live. It was just after the wars ended and the queen took the Iron Throne. He brought the old woman the provisions she had been so desperately needing and each time he came he would ask if anyone else had stopped by the house. This went on for about a year and by that time he had already started to earn himself a small fortune.

He could have found another home, even one closer to a village but this one seemed so perfect. As far as the rest of the world knew, it didn't exist. It was also it pretty good shape, not the kind of hovels that some lived in.

Then, when he returned again, he found the woman in the same bed he had Arya tied to. It was obvious she was dying but he had to give her credit, she was going out in style. The whole house had been cleaned, from top to bottom and she was bathed and dressed in her finest gown. He remembered walking into her room and seeing her give a small smile. She beckoned him closer and then took his hand.

"I must thank you," she wheezed. "I know why you've been coming to see me and you must be happy to see that this day has finally come."

Though he hated to admit it, he had felt a small twinge of guilt.

"But you didn't kill me, you at least waited. It would seem that my son is never going to come back, so, with him gone – I think I would like for you to stay here. My great-grandfather built this house, away from everything, always hidden…my guess is that he was a lot like you – he didn't want to be found. It seems only natural for the house to once again become a refuge."

Sandor shook his head and chuckled a little at the memory. The old woman had given him a full history of her family, what the house had seen, what she had seen – her life story pretty much. Then, as she was dwindling she looked at him and whispered something.

"He was a hard man, just like you but he was able to find joy in his family. I hope that you can one day find something that would bring back joy to you as well. I'd very much like to see children in this house again."

Settle down, find a wife and bring little monsters into this god-forsaken world – that's pretty much what she said before she died. He shuttered to think of what she would say if she could see how he was using the house now. It would be a gloried prison for Arya until he decided on what he wanted to do with her. At the moment, with her constant screeching, he almost considered just leaving her tied up there on that bed. It would serve her right for leaving him to die and subconsciously that's what he really wanted – he wanted her to know what it's like to be left behind to die a miserable death.

With that in mind, Sandor stood from his place in the overgrown garden and marched into the house. He was in one of his moods but unlike his other moods, now Arya was here to listen to what he had to say. He clunked through the dusty house, up the stairs and back into her room. She stopped screaming for just a moment and then started up again. Every curse ever imagined was being hurled his way but didn't care. He stalked over to her bed, not even caring that her wrists had been rubbed so raw that they were bleeding. He reached down, grabbed her by the throat and glowered down at her.

Her screaming stopped then, turning into choked gasps. "Beg me for mercy," he growled.

He was satisfied to see the confusion and pain in her grey eyes and he tightened his grip on her throat. "I'm going to leave you here to rot unless you beg me for mercy."

This was the moment, finally the moment and he was so close to getting the release that he so desperately wanted. She had broken his heart, left him there to die and now he was going to do the same. Of all the ideas he had come up with, this is the one that brought him the most satisfaction. He let go of her and took a few steps back, breathing heavily, waiting for her to do as he said.

Several moments went by and she didn't say anything at all – she just stared up at him with a bewildered but calculating expression. He didn't like the look at all; it felt like she was picking him apart. Didn't she understand? Why wasn't she saying anything?

"You either die up here of starvation or I'll kill you quickly!" he screamed, making Arya jump. "Now beg for mercy!"

Silence.

The hound could feel his whole body tensing. She wasn't giving him what he wanted. Even when he had the upper hand, she was still denying him mercy. Why didn't she understand why he needed this? Why was she so cold to him?

Silence.

He wanted to reach down and strangle her but he refrained. One way or another he was going to get what he wanted. He was going to do everything to make her life miserable, until she finally begged him for mercy – and then he could refuse…and leave her there to die.

"Fine!" he screamed and then he was gone.

Her throat hurt, her wrists hurts but the pain didn't really register. Arya stopped in her struggling and relaxed into the bed. Though she didn't understand why, she felt guilty. He was looking to do the same thing to her as she had done to him. Did he think that it would bring him some kind of closure? What exactly was he looking for? It made her chest ache to see him like this, he looked put together but she knew he wasn't there mentally. He was lost somewhere in the bitterness that festered from being left alone like that.

For the first time she put herself in his position and began to work from there. She recalled everything he had told her about his life, what his brother had done, how his father had treated him, how other people had regarded him. At one point in time he had even confided in her on his attachment to her sister. All of it pieced together into a larger picture. On the outside he seemed to be a cold and heartless individual but… there was something more there. He was lonely, he was betrayed, he was hurt and what she had done to him had pushed him over the edge. She took for granted her own willingness to speak about her life and never stopped to consider how much it had taken for Sandor to open up to her the way that he had – then she betrayed that trust and abandoned him.

In the silence of her room she could feel tears begin to dampen her cheeks. For the first time in their long history, she no longer saw him as the monster – she saw herself as the monster.

The room was dark; there wasn't even a trace of moonlight. If it weren't for the fact that she could feel herself blinking she would have sworn that her eyes were still closed. But she had to stay quite because she knew, somewhere to her right, he was there.

His breathing was erratic and she could occasionally make out a soft whining noise – like the whimpering of a dog. It seemed like a bizarre notion but there was no denying it, he was crying. It wasn't like the angry tears that she had witnessed the day before, no, these were softer and she could hear the pain. The idea of saying something kept nagging at her but she wasn't sure what to say – she was still frightened of his mental state. The last thing she wanted to do was to make him angry but as the soft sounds continued she could feel the tightening in her chest steadily rising. She had to say something.

"Do you want to know why I didn't kill you?" she asked.

There was a muffled sniffle and then silence. She supposed that he didn't like that she had heard him. He probably thought that she was still asleep. He didn't respond but she couldn't hear him moving either. Maybe he was trying to pretend like he wasn't there at all.

"I couldn't," she said when it became apparent that she wasn't going to get a response. "I know it seemed heartless but that's because that's how I wanted it to be. I thought that maybe, if I acted like I didn't care then I would stop caring. Killing you would have been like killing one of my brothers, or my father… I know you needed me to but I couldn't do it. I told you that you didn't disserve mercy and that was a lie, just something to say, something I knew you wouldn't object to…I didn't want you to beg and if I didn't act like that…if I didn't leave…I knew you would…and my heart couldn't take it."

There was a shuffling sound and it unnerved her a little bit. She knew he was moving closer to her but she wasn't sure what to expect. Would he hit her? Try strangling her again? Stab her? Slit her throat?

He was right beside the bed, she could tell by the feeling of heat and the muffling of sound by her right side. Then, there was more shuffling… then a thud that shook the bed.

Her whole body was trembling as she tried to mentally prepare herself for whatever it was that he planned on doing. But he did something she did not foresee – he dropped his head to her stomach, resting it there and then he began to cry again. She couldn't hear him this time but she could tell by the rhythmic shuttering that he was indeed crying.

It shocked her.

She wasn't sure if she should say anything, if she should try soothing him – so she remained silent and stared up into the darkness. Even after the shuttering stopped and his breathing softened, she remained still.

Somewhere in the night sleep overcame her, taking her till first light spilled into the room once again. The sight she awoke to was hard to process. He was still there, somewhat kneeling with his upper body resting against the bed and her midsection. His heavy head was still pressed to her stomach but now he had an arm curled up and around her – like she was a pillow.

The sound of him crying began to play again in her head, causing her heart to writhe and twist in her chest. The situation was more than disturbing but the compassion she felt for him overrided the reality of it all. If anything, her greatest desire was to reach down and smooth out his tangled hair in a small attempt to take away the pain that she had apparently caused him.

Somehow, she was going to make it right again.

AN: Thank you much for the reviews; they are a great encouragement for me :)

Now, Sandor may seem a little weird and at first I wasn't sure I wanted to take the story in this direction – thus the reason for this chapter taking so long. Originally I planned on going for a less psychological route but as I re-evaluated his character I knew this is the way I needed and wanted to go. In the series and in the books he shows a lot of obsessive characteristics – like this his relationship with Sansa and later his attachment to Arya. I see him as an individual that does have obsessive compulsive issues stemmed from a lot of trauma in his life.

One of my inspirations for this story, and you can watch it over on youtube, is a small documentary on a lioness that adopts a baby antelope. It seems really really sweet and all… until you look into psychology of it. It reminded me a lot of Sandor.

It will get less creepy as the story goes on though – so stick with me!

It has a good ending, I swear!...Maybe…