Chapter 43 — "Healer!"
By the shores of Gods Eye, two figures—one small, one large—rode the same horse, sneaking west along the lake's edge like thieves in the night.
The wind was icy, slicing across the water and whipping into Arya's face until she could barely keep her eyes open. She clung tightly to the saddle, lifting her head only enough to glimpse the Hound's burned profile.
In the moonlight, the scarred half of his face looked even more monstrous.
They rode in silence for a while… until Arya couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Hey!" she shouted over the wind. "How did you even get down from that tree?!"
"Heh." The Hound let out a cold laugh.
From inside the leather bracer at his wrist, he slid out a hidden dagger and flashed it with bitter satisfaction.
"You can thank Beric Dondarrion, that damned ghost who refuses to stay dead," he sneered. "Last time his men tied me up, I learned my lesson."
His dagger glinted.
"A man ought to keep a little something on him that can save his life. Don't you think?"
Then he lowered his gaze and glanced at the small girl sitting in front of him.
"But speaking of lessons…" His voice turned grudgingly sharp. "How'd you think to use that man—what was his name—Halsen?"
He paused, almost irritated by his own honesty.
"Seriously. That was a good move. Even I'm a little impressed."
At the mention of Halsen, Arya didn't answer.
Instead, she twisted around and looked back toward the woods—where distant screams and clashing steel still rang out in the darkness.
"We have to go back and help him."
Her tone was stubborn in a way that made Sandor think, against his will, of her father.
"Help him?" Sandor blinked once, then burst into a harsh laugh, loud enough to make Arya's ears ring.
"Oh, for gods' sake—look at us."
He jerked his chin at her like she was ridiculous.
"Little she-wolf… one of us has been beaten half to death."
His voice dropped into a brutal, mocking snarl.
"And the other one only crawled out alive because she whined, cried, and sold the world a pretty little sob story."
He barked another laugh.
"What exactly are we going back with, hm? Kind words?"
"But he helped me!" Arya snapped.
"That was his choice," Sandor growled, impatient now. "Not mine. And not yours."
Arya elbowed him hard in the stomach.
The blow landed against his chainmail and shocked pain straight back into her own arm, but she didn't care. She kept talking anyway—furious, relentless.
"Halsen is a northman! He's still loyal to House Stark! He kept his honor—"
"Honor?" The word hit Sandor like a spark on dry straw.
His temper detonated.
"Honor?" he roared, yanking the reins hard enough to slow the horse abruptly.
In the same motion, he raised the dagger and pressed the blunt spine of it against Arya's throat—just enough to make the message unmistakable.
"People who cling to honor are already dead, you stupid little wolf."
His voice was low and vicious, every word dripping with contempt.
"Rhaegar Targaryen fought with honor. He died screaming."
"Your father lived by honor. He died just as bloody."
Sandor leaned closer, his breath hot despite the cold.
"So don't you ever throw that horse-shit word at me again."
"Honor doesn't fill your belly."
"And it sure as hell won't keep you alive in a world like this."
He looked like he was trying to teach Arya his way of surviving the world—through sheer brutality.
But the moment the Hound mentioned her father, Arya's eyes reddened. Instinctively, she wanted to spit something vile back at him—something poisonous enough to hurt.
And then—
Whoosh—!
A sharp tearing sound cut through the air from behind.
Sandor's heart jolted. He didn't have time to dodge—
—but the arrow only skimmed past the horse and slammed into the mud ahead with a heavy thunk.
"NEEIIIGH—!"
The horse panicked, rearing violently, almost throwing them both. Sandor fought the reins with a curse, muscles screaming, until he finally forced the beast back under control.
He snapped his head around.
A tall northman stood not far away, bow already drawn again—an arrow nocked and aimed straight at Sandor's chest.
"Halsen!" Moonlight caught the man's face, and Arya shouted his name in relief.
The Hound only spat. He didn't say a word.
Seeing Arya still unharmed, Halsen exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for an hour.
Then his voice turned hard as iron.
"Don't you dare hurt Lady Stark, you filthy bastard. Let her go!"
"Hurt her?" Sandor's temper flared instantly.
"You blind?" he snarled. "Can't you see I'm protecting her?"
Halsen didn't answer. His eyes simply moved—quietly, coldly—to the dagger pressed against Arya's throat.
"Damn it…"
Sandor realized how it looked.
He yanked the dagger back at once, then leaned down and barked at Arya like she was a stray pup.
"Explain it, little she-wolf. Now."
But Sandor didn't understand something.
What he'd done earlier—how he'd let the Karstark men mock her while caring only about gold—had already cracked Arya's trust to pieces.
And now, as Halsen stood there with righteous fury… a wave of spite surged up inside her like fire.
She sucked in a breath and screamed at Halsen with all her strength:
"He kidnapped me!"
"He's taking me to Riverrun to ransom me to my brother! Help me!"
"FUCK—!"
The lie hit Sandor like a mace.
Without thinking, he clamped a hand over Arya's mouth to shut her up—
—and in Halsen's eyes, that single motion became proof of everything.
Proof of guilt.
Proof of a criminal trying to silence his victim.
"LET HER GO!"
Halsen's eyes went bloodshot with fury.
Arya was in the way—he couldn't risk loosing an arrow.
So he threw the bow aside, drew his sword, and spurred his horse forward into a full charge—
giving Sandor no time to explain.
"Gods damn it!"
Sandor cursed and shoved Arya aside, forced to fight.
Thud-thud-thud—!
Hooves thundered. The charge came fast.
And Sandor—already wounded, already weak from blood loss, starving and drained—was running on fumes.
CLANG!
Steel met steel.
Sandor's arm went numb from the impact.
He lost balance—
and the shock knocked him off the horse, dragging Arya down with him.
Halsen wheeled his horse around at once, preparing to finish it.
But as the horse surged toward him again—
Sandor hauled himself up.
His burned face twisted like a demon's mask.
From the leather bracer on his wrist, that hidden dagger flashed into his hand again.
And with the last of his strength—
he threw.
THUNK—SPLAT!
The dagger buried itself cleanly into the horse's eye.
The animal screamed and collapsed like a felled tree, slamming into the ground and hurling Halsen off with it.
Halsen hit the earth hard and didn't rise.
Sandor staggered, seized his dropped sword, and began walking forward—one slow step at a time—toward the northman.
Only then did Arya lift her head, seeing it clearly.
"No!" she screamed. "Don't kill him!"
But Sandor's face didn't change.
Not even a flicker.
He reached Halsen just as the man raised his head—
and Sandor drove the blade down without hesitation.
Straight into his chest.
Shhk—!
Halsen jerked violently.
Then went limp.
He didn't get back up.
"NO!!!"
Arya's anger exploded. She rushed Sandor like a wildcat, beating his chest with fists, kicking his legs—sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.
"Why did you kill him?! Why?!"
"You killed Mycah, and now Halsen too!"
"You monster! MONSTER! DIE!"
Sandor snapped.
He backhanded her.
BAM!
Arya staggered and collapsed onto the ground, stunned—eyes blank, ears ringing.
Sandor crouched over her. In the moonlight his burned face looked like something hell had spat out.
He grabbed her by the collar, voice low and vicious.
"Listen."
"That bastard tried to kill me—so I killed him."
Then he jabbed a finger hard into Arya's chest.
"And YOU…"
"If you'd said one damn word of truth back there…"
"…he'd still be alive."
His voice rose into a furious roar.
"This is YOUR fault. Understand?"
Arya's ears buzzed with the force of it.
Humiliation flooded her. Rage followed right behind.
Her hand shot toward her waist—toward the sewing needle—
and found nothing.
Only empty cloth.
Only then did she remember: her sword, Needle, had been taken the moment she was captured.
So she just stared up at him—
hatred trembling in her eyes—
while he stared down like a judge ready to crush her.
And then—
from the treeline…
came hoofbeats.
Slow. Controlled.
Clop… clop… clop…
Then—
clap. clap. clap.
Applause.
Measured and deliberate.
In the dead quiet of the lakeshore, it sounded unnaturally loud—like a knife scraping bone.
"Well done, Sandor Clegane."
The voice was amused.
Almost pleased.
"I didn't expect such fighting strength from you… not in your condition."
A pause.
Then a soft chuckle.
"But…"
"…this will do nicely."
Sandor and Arya whipped their heads around at the same time.
A rider approached at a trot and stopped around ten paces away.
They locked eyes—Hound and wolf-girl—
then both shouted at once:
"Healer!"