Standard disclaimer:  None of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine, but are instead the property of George R. R. Martin.  No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

Author's note:  I wrote this because I was fascinated with the character of the Hound and frustrated that Martin was not letting us see inside his head.  I'm still not entirely satisfied with it—I feel the part with Arya goes on too long, and it's hard to write Sandor because we never get to see his thoughts, so I'm not sure he's consistent with what we see of him in the book.  However, I think it's about as good as it's going to get, so I decided to post it.

As far as I know, nothing in any of the Song of Ice and Fire books have shown anyone using tally sticks of any kind.  However, given the attitude toward battle in the Seven Kingdoms, I thought they were a logical extrapolation, especially for someone like Sandor who is very heavily invested in defining himself as a killer.  I just hope they're not too jarring for anyone who reads this.

The Hound was looking at her again.

Arya gave him a cold stare, and turned away.  He had been looking at her strangely off and on all day, ever since they had found the wounded man in the tree hollow.  As the Hound had pulled his dagger out of the man's chest, after granting his request for the gift of mercy, he had looked at her and told her, "That's where the heart is, girl.  That's how you kill a man."

Does he think I haven't killed before?  Does he think I'm a baby?  Stung, Arya had met his eyes squarely and replied icily, "That's one way."

He hadn't expected that, she could tell.  He stopped and looked at her for a long time, perhaps waiting for her to say something.  She had remained silent but met his eyes firmly.  At last he had looked away.  "We'd best go," he had said, turning his attention back to the dead man.  "First we rob him, though," and he began checking the man for valuables.

He had said nothing more about it, but throughout the day Arya had turned suddenly to find him watching her, a strange expression on his burned features.  She wasn't sure what it meant, and she was starting to get tired of it.

Finally, after they had stopped for the night, she looked up to see him staring at her again, across the fire, and she asked crossly, "What?"

He did not seem to have heard her at first; he watched her for a moment more, then said at last, "You said that's one way."

She knew at once what he meant.  "Yes," she agreed readily.

"You've done it another way?  You've done it at all?"

"Yes," she said again, nodding for emphasis.  I'm not a mouse, not even now; I'm a ghost, a direwolf.

Perhaps he sensed some of her thoughts; his mouth twitched briefly.  "Who was it that you killed, she-wolf?"

Arya started to answer at once, then stopped.  She had been holding the tale of her kills quiet for so long that it felt strange to consider giving them up now; not even Gendry and Hot Pie had known all of them.  They had seen the fighting she did at the tower, and they had known about the postern gate guard and the weasel soup, but they hadn't known about the stable-boy she killed that first day, nor about Jaqen H'ghar and how she had been the ghost in Harrenhal.  How could she tell anyone?  What would Mother and Father think?  Then she thought, that's silly, because her mother and father were dead.  But still…what would he think?  Would he believe her?  Would he be angry?  Would he leave her or let her go?

For a moment she considered not answering at all, but then she remembered.  You silly.  He's the Hound.  He said it himself, he killed Mycah and lots more besides.  She felt relieved, thinking about that.  He can't possibly get mad at me for killing, not after all the killing he's done.  He's probably killed a hundred times as many people as I have even if I counted Jaqen H'ghar, and she wasn't sure she should.  He'd done so many bad things himself he couldn't possibly sit in judgement on her.

A lightness came over her as she thought of that; suddenly she was no longer unsure.  She looked up and met his eyes confidently.  "The first person I killed," she said readily, "was the day the red-cloaks came to get me." 

"The first person?"  She nodded and his mouth twitched.  "Go on."

So she did; she told him about how she had gone down by the gates but the stable-boy had grabbed her, and how she had stuck him with the pointy end, just as Jon had told her; she told him about how she had taken the secret tunnel out through the dragon room, and being afraid that the stable-boy's ghost would come to get her, but how she had remembered Robb and Jon and Sansa, and then had felt better; how she had thought that if his ghost tried to get her she would kill him again, and how that had kept her from fear until she got outside.  "And that was the first person I killed," she finished, and looked up at him to see his reaction.

He looked at her thoughtfully.  "So that's how you got out, little she-wolf," he murmured, and gave his rough laugh.  "Well, go on; say the rest of it.  How many?  Tell me all of them, girl."

With that, she was encouraged; she told him about Yoren, and how he had snuck her out of the city with the Night's Watch—he laughed at that too, and called the gold-cloaks "bloody blind fools"—she told him about meeting Gendry and Hot Pie there, and the troubles they had had on the road; she mentioned the cage where Yoren kept Rorge and Biter and Jaqen H'ghar—she hesitated a little before she spoke of that, but it was important, she reminded herself, and maybe he could tell her if Jaqen's kills counted, when she finally came to talk of them.  She talked about how Ser Amory Lorch had caught them in the holdfast, and the battle that night, and the bald and scared man she had killed there—"I think I killed more than him, but I can't be sure," she told him, "because everything kind of got confused.  So even though I can probably count more, I only count him, because that's fair."  He seemed to understand; he nodded at least, and she went on.  She took hold of Jaqen's coin in her pocket to give her courage as she got to the part about the burning barn; how Jaqen had called for help and so she had run out to get the axe.  "Going back in was kind of scary," she remembered.  Well, more than kind of, but she didn't want to say so.  She clutched Jaqen's coin tight in her hand.  "There was so much smoke that I couldn't see anything, but I could hear the animals screaming and hot things were dropping down on top of my head.  So I threw the axe into the wagon and I heard Rorge or somebody start chopping at it, but I didn't wait around to see if they got out, I just dove through the trap door as fast as I could."  She paused a moment.  "That was scary," she admitted.  "I don't know if I could do that again.  That was kind of scary.  But it's important because then when I saw Jaqen again he owed me a favor.  Or I owed him one.  He said I owed him one but it actually worked out that he did a favor for me."  Valar morghulis.  "And that was the second person I killed.  Probably more than second, but like I said, I only remember one." 

She paused again and looked up at him; he was staring at her, his face frozen, but the side that wasn't scarred was oddly pale.  "What?"

"Go on," was all he said.

Arya watched him for a moment, and said nothing.  He gave her a look, but she still hesitated, gathering her thoughts and her courage.  She hadn't told anyone about Jaqen and what he had done for her, not even Gendry and Hot Pie, not even when she still thought they were her pack.  Also the next part involved the Mountain, and she felt a little funny talking about him, even though the Hound hadn't mentioned him once since the Twins.  He can't really want to kill him, can he?  But he was obviously waiting, and she had already started when she had told about how Jaqen had done her a favor.  Also maybe he can tell me if they count, she thought, and went on.

"The next ones I'm not really sure are mine," she began.  She skipped over most of how the Mountain had caught them and taken them to Harrenhal—his mouth twitched unpleasantly when she mentioned the Mountain, she saw; she doubted he was even aware of it though—only telling about how Polliver had taken Needle away and how mad that had made her; she went on to talk about how Ser Amory had come with Jaqen and Rorge and Biter, and how Jaqen had come to her in the night to tell her that she owed the Red God three deaths for the lives she had saved.  "But I wasted them," she said angrily, clutching Jaqen's coin tightly.  "I wasted them because I was too stupid to know any better," and she told how she had said Chiswyck because of a story, and Weese because he had made her mad.  She looked up at him to see what he thought, but his expression was unreadable; he only nodded and gestured for her to go on.

 "The last one I thought I did better on but it turned out I didn't," she continued. Arya hoped he didn't think she was bragging as she told about how she had finally tricked Jaqen into helping her; but she was sort of proud of herself for thinking of it.  She had read something like it in a story once and that had been what gave her the idea.  "—so I had him swear it by all the gods, and he did, and then he asked me who it was, and I said, It's Jaqen H'ghar," she said, looking up at the Hound and smiling; she couldn't help it.  The Hound was looking at her strangely again.  Arya wondered what he was thinking.  Does he think I'm lying? she wondered.  Then she went on.  "And he got really upset and he asked was I making a jest and I said no," she said vehemently.  "I said, You said anyone and I said you.  You swore it.  And then he said, 'A girl will lose her only friend,' and I said, 'No.  You're not my friend.  If you were really my friend you'd help me.'  Then I said, 'I'd never kill a friend.'  So then he saw what I meant and he asked if I would take it back if a friend did help.  So I said, yes, a girl might, if a friend did help.  So then he said come on, and he went to do it. 

"He called me an evil child," she said suddenly, remembering.  It made her unhappy to remember that.  "That wasn't fair.  I'm not an evil child.  I'm a little girl."   But she went on and told the rest of it, about Hoat and the northmen and the weasel soup; she told about how Jaqen had asked her to go to Braavos with him afterward, though she left out the part about how he had changed his face and the coin he had given her.  "I should have gone to Braavos with him," she added vehemently, her face darkening.  She hadn't thought about it until now, but actually she probably would have been better off.  Not too late, she reminded herself, running her fingers over the worn surface of the iron coin. Valar morghulis.  "Anyway, those are the ones I'm not sure are really mine.  So I feel like maybe I shouldn't count those because I didn't actually kill them, but they wouldn't have died if I hadn't said, so maybe I can."

She paused, waiting to see if he was going to say anything about them, but he was just watching her with that unreadable expression.  He didn't say anything, just motioned for her to continue, so she did.

"The last person I killed was a gate guard," she began, and she told about Lord Bolton and Vargo Hoat, how she had convinced Gendry and Hot Pie to help her escape, and how she had gotten them past the postern guard.  "I knew I would have to do him right away without him even having time to call out, and I could see he was wearing mail, so I thought that it would have to be the throat, but he was a lot bigger than me and there was no way I could reach it.  I was almost scared," she remembered, "but then I just told him, Lord Bolton sent me to give the guards a silver piece for their service."  She was sort of proud of herself for this too; she thought this part was kind of clever.  "So I took out a coin to give him but then I pretended to drop it.  And when he bent down to pick it up I went like—"  She had taken a dagger from the dead man the Hound had killed; now she drew it and mimed the motion.  "It was really easy.  And then Gendry and Hot Pie came up and they were all surprised, like, 'You killed him!'  And I said, Well of course I did, stupids, what did you think I would do?  And that was the last person I killed."  She paused a minute, thinking,  "I just hope they didn't hurt the stableboy," she said, frowning again.  "I tricked him into getting us horses, it wasn't his fault, so I hope they didn't hurt him but they probably did.  Anyway, those are all the people I've killed.  Except I'm not sure I can count the ones with Jaqen.  I don't know.  But maybe I can." 

She finished, and looked up at him to see his reaction, feeling uncertain again; she had never told anyone all of her kills before.  Valar morghulis, she thought.  Maybe someday she would learn what that meant.

The Hound said nothing, but continued to look at her for a long time.  Arya bit her lip and felt like squirming.  Why is he looking at me like that?  Is he mad at me?  Does he think I'm lying?  Is he going to shout at me?  He was the Hound, he had killed way more than her, how could he be mad at her for killing?  She was angry too, she realized.  Well, what else was I supposed to do?  I'd like to see him get through all that without killing anyone.

The silence went on and on between them until Arya felt she would scream.  If he's going to yell at me I wish he'd just do it.  Then she could yell back at him and feel better.  When he finally spoke, what he said was so far away from what she had been expecting that she didn't understand it.  "You should keep a tally," he said.

"A what?"  She didn't understand what he meant.

"A tally," he repeated, his voice rough with irritation.  She was glad to hear it; this she understood.  "A count of all your kills," he continued, seeing her blank look.

"Oh.  I do," she insisted.  "I remember them all, except for the ones with Jaqen and I'm not sure—"

"Not in your head, girl," he rasped.  "Sticks are the usual way.  Something you can hold.  For when you've killed too many to remember each one."

"Sticks?  What, you mean, like—one stick for each kill?" she asked, baffled. She felt stupid.

"Notched sticks."  He paused—seemed almost to hesitate for a moment.  "Like these."  He had been leaning back against his saddle; now he turned and dug into his saddlebags, searching.  After a moment he pulled out a cloth bundle and tossed it to her.  She opened it to find half a dozen sticks inside, polished, each twice as long as her hand and covered with closely-spaced notches.  "One notch for each kill, that's your tally."  He seemed to expect something as he watched her, but Arya didn't know what.  She looked down at the sticks without comment.

"Oh.  All right," she said, and handed them back.  He took them, looking at her strangely; he glanced at the sticks, then tossed them down by his feet.  "I'll start tomorrow.  Will you help me?" she asked.

His mouth twitched.  "Why not," he growled, and settled back down against his saddle.

"And do you think I can count the ones with Jaqen?"  This had been bothering her since Harrenhal.

"Why not," he said again.  He saw her start to speak and cut her off.  "Count 'em or don't, I don't give a shit either way.  Now shut up and go to sleep, I'm sick of listening to you talk."  He had been sharpening the longaxe he had taken at the Twins; now he picked it and the oilstone up again and turned his attention to them, ignoring her. 

Arya glared at him, though he never saw it; then she did as he said, settling back down into her cloak.  Well, I'll just count the three, she thought as she wrapped her cloak around herself. Jaqen only gave me three, so I'll count them but not the extra ones he killed.  She yawned, and ran her thumb over Jaqen's iron coin.  Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling.  Ser Gregor the Mountain, the Tickler and the Hound.  Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei.  Valar morghulis.

The sound of the oilstone on metal followed her down into sleep.

*

The little she-wolf was nothing but a shape on the other side of the dying fire, tucked under her cloak, her breaths coming long and even with sleep.  Sandor's eyes rested on her but he barely saw her, as his hands moved sure and mechanically over the blade of the long axe.  Stone and steel sang in the night air.

So that's why she's not afraid of me, little she-wolf.  You could tell, after a while, when someone had killed.  It was a feeling, more than anything else; there wasn't one thing to point to and say that's how you knew.  He had guessed that she'd killed before, but he'd never suspected the tale she'd told.  If she offers you a coin, don't take it.  His mouth twitched with sour amusement.

He wondered if she knew that her Jaqen H'ghar had been a Faceless Man.  He couldn't be certain himself, but all that about the Red God and three deaths being owed sounded like the sort of swill they believed, and then she had said he had gone to Braavos after.  She was lucky to escape with her life, dealing with one of them, the stupid little bitch.  Lucky, indeed.  If she hadn't saved that Jaqen from the fire—

He stopped there, clenching his fists on axe and stone, and stared into the distance, unseeing.

This she-wolf was not what he would have expected at all.  Not for the little bird's sister.  He'd seen by the end of the first day that she seemed to have no fear at all, and no knowledge of when she was outmatched.  Can't see this one standing by tamely and letting them beat her—

Standing by and letting them beat her.  He closed his eyes, snarling silently to himself.   

He had closed his eyes then too, when they were beating her, the little bird. Closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, turned away or stared over Joff's head at the stones of the castle wall or over the parapet, trying to pretend he was somewhere, anywhere else.  It hadn't worked.  He had stood there, dreading the day he would hear the command, "Dog, hit her," wondering what would happen when he did.  He knew he would never hit the pretty little bird, no matter what Joff ordered.  He knew it.  Knew it, and hoped he wouldn't.  He had watched her avoid looking at his face, with something between annoyance and anger, but on the day news of the Young Wolf's victory had reached them—that awful day—he had been the one who had not dared meet her eyes directly, afraid of what he would see there.  Draw your sword, he had told himself, staring over her head, hearing her cries of pain and the blows from the flat of Boros's sword.  Draw it, damn you.  Draw it, take her by the arm, and cut through them all—you know you can, they're no match for you—cut through them and carry her away—away.  Do it, damn you, do it.  He hadn't.  Can't do that? he had snarled at himself.  Then kill Boros at least, he's no match for you, do that at least.  Kill Joff.  Or draw your sword, stand over her, and tell them the next one that touches her dies. Get that sword out.   Do it.  Do it now.  He hadn't done that either.  He had stood there, willing himself to do something, anything, even to say something, willing it as fiercely as he had ever willed anything in his life, and nothing had happened.  The white cloak had dragged at his shoulders, weighing him down, trapping him, and he could not move.  His hand had twitched.  He remembered that clearly.  His hand had twitched and that was all.  Finally, after what seemed forever, he had managed to get his mouth open and at least say something—one word.  That was it.  One word.  And he had been paid no more heed than the dog he was.  It had been the Imp that had finally put a stop to it, not him.  The Imp, that bloody gargoyle, and I—

Remembering that stung.  No, worse than stung, it burned; with a grimace he reached for the waterskin and drank deep, to distract himself.  Wish it was wine, though.  Wine would have been better, would have dulled his thoughts a little, given him some distance.  Why?  Why didn't you--  He still hadn't figured that out yet.  Maybe he never would.

But I saved her.  I saved her from the mob.  I did.  I did, he told himself.  He had; he had done that at least.  And she had sung for him later, a sweet little song; she had sung for him, and touched his face after, she had actually touched his face—not on the burned side, he wouldn't have felt that, but she had brushed his face with fingers as soft and gentle as a butterfly's wings.  He reached up half-aware at the memory, but his own fingers were rough and calloused, and it wasn't the same.  Her touch had been as light as a kiss, and maybe.  Maybe what?  Just maybe.  If things were different—If he hadn't run—if he had taken her with him, maybe, if—

If, if, if.  His mouth tightened in a snarl and he tossed the waterskin aside.  His eyes were stinging; too much green wood on the fire.  Too much smoke.  He looked across the remains of the fire at the small bundle of the sleeping she-wolf, and felt a sudden, almost overpowering urge to shake her awake and ask her what she would have done, about any of it.  It passed quickly enough.  She would have done it though.  Done something.  And probably gotten herself killed.

The tally sticks lay where he had left them, in a jumble by his feet.  He stared at them, wondering what they meant.  When he had showed them before—usually at the end of a long evening's drinking, to green squires, cocky sellswords who thought they were tough, or stupid, foolish knights—that'd be all of them—he had enjoyed watching their reactions, watching them turn pale and stammer or back away, and usually their eyes would glance off his face too, sometimes for the first time all evening.  Does it give you joy to scare people, the little bird had asked him once, and it did.  Killing's better, though.  He had told her that too, just to see what she would do and just as he had thought, she had paled, and backed up, and spouted some rot about duty.  He wondered what she would have done if he had shown them to her.  Screamed or fainted, probably, or come across with more of her empty-headed little cheeping.  She wouldn't have liked them, he could tell that without even having to wonder.  This one hadn't even blinked, just handed them back to him and asked about her own.

What do they mean? he thought now, looking at them.  He had been keeping them since his first kill at twelve, adding to them after every battle, every combat, every kill.  The she-wolf's butcher's boy was in there somewhere, notched in among the rest of them along with countless others—he had even added the one whose arm he had cut off to save the little bird, it was a fair guess that he had died, they didn't have maesters for commonfolk.  There was a time he could remember each notch and who it stood for, just like the she-wolf could count her kills, but that had been a long time ago.  They weren't faces anymore.  Now they were just marks.  Does that mean they don't count?

His hands tightened on the axe.  They were never faces in the first place, and you know it.  Only one.

Gregor.

He cursed under his breath, suddenly cold.  It was the truth, though. That was the secret behind the pile of tally sticks, the secret nobody but himself knew.  Maybe the little bird, if I had shown them to her.  They were all Gregor, each and every one.   All of them, and none of them.  He would have laughed, if it hadn't been so bloody true.  Kill Gregor?  Seven bloody hells, I kill him each time I go into battle.  Maybe someday I'll find the guts to kill him for real.

Oh, will you?  He fumbled for the skin again, only remembering that it was water and not wine as he raised it to his mouth.  He swallowed anyway, then closed his eyes, raising his hand to his cheek.  The damned smoke was stinging his eyes again.  All right.  All right.  Think about something else.  The little bird, think about her.

And he did, for a while; he sat there, eyes closed, brushing his cheek and thinking about the sweet little song she had sung for him.  But after a while the she-wolf came back to him.  Maybe he ought to tell her about Gregor, he mused distantly, he had told her sister, even though he wasn't sure why. What would she do if he told her, he wondered.  Probably ask why I haven't killed him yet.  Why haven't I?  Because….he's a lot bigger than me, that's why.  His mouth twitched with bitter humor.  No surprises there, the Mountain was bigger than everyone—always had been.  No one could withstand him, the little bird had said, and hadn't she been right.  He'd never met anyone brave enough to actually want to fight the Mountain; even the thought of it sent chills down his spine. 

I thought it would have to be the throat, the she-wolf's voice came back to him, but he was a lot bigger than me and there was no way I could reach it.  I was almost scared….I took out a coin to give him but then I pretended to drop it.  And when he bent down to pick it up I went like--  It was really easy.

His eyes snapped open at once; his head came up with a start and he stared at the sleeping form of the she-wolf, across the way.  No.  No!  It's not the same thing.  Why not?  It's not.  It's just not.  But she'd tried to kill him with a rock that first day, even though he was about as big to her as Gregor was to him— she'd wanted to go into the Twins to save her mother—and she had gone back into a burning barn, she'd gone into it twice to save her Faceless Man, while he had run from the fires at King's Landing—

His hand closed around the waterskin.  Suddenly furious that it wasn't wine, he threw it from him with all his strength.  It hit a rock and broke open, spilling its contents into the dirt.  He barely saw it.

They say I'm half a man, the Imp had said.  What does that make you?

The tally sticks lay there by his feet in the firelight, bearing their notches, one for each man he had killed.  He was furious at them too.  Furious, and sick of looking at them. They were lies, every one.  Every single one.  They were the record of a fighter, a killer, and what was he?  That damn bloody buggering Imp was more of a man than he was.  That little she-wolf too.  You could have killed them all, but instead you stood there and let them beat her, how do you mark that in your tally?  You ran from the fires at King's Landing.  You haven't even tried to kill Gregor—I bet that little she-wolf would have done it by now, if she were you.  I bet she would have.  How do you count those?  How do you count those, you gutless fraud?

He snatched them up in his hands and snapped them, then hurled them into the remains of the fire.  Sparks flew up from where they struck.  Within moments, the flames had consumed them.  That's fine.  The fire's taken everything else I had, it might as well have them too. 

He folded his arms across his knees and rested his forehead against them, drawing long, ragged breaths.  On the other side of the fire, the she-wolf stirred in her sleep and mumbled something indistinct, then lapsed back into silence.  He closed his eyes again and touched the good side of his face, thinking of the little bird's song.  After a while, he was calm again.

*

The next morning, Arya woke with a shock to the splash of icy water being poured over her head.  Soaking and furious, she bounced to her feet and tried to hit the Hound, only to have him grab her arm and shove her roughly away from him. She settled for glaring at him instead. "Get up, damn you," he rasped.  "We should have been gone hours ago.  I'm sick of waiting for you."

He seemed really angry about something, Arya observed as they broke their fast.  More so than usual.  She could see it in the short, sharp movements he made, in the way he yanked so hard at the ties of his saddlebag that one of them snapped, leaving him cursing.  Once she said, "I thought you were going to help me make tally sticks—" and then stopped and stepped back abruptly as he turned on her.

"Make them yourself," he snarled at her.  "They're your own damn kills so you keep track of them, I'm not going to help.  Do it yourself, you little bitch, and if you ever bother me about them again I'll beat you, I promise.  Now shut up and follow.  Or don't, for all I care."  So saying, he swung up onto Stranger and started off without even checking to see if she was behind him.  Arya glared at his back resentfully.  The Hound, she thought.  Valar morghulis.  She mounted Craven, and followed.

The weather was good that day, and they made good time.