Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1481554.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of
      Violence
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Arya_Stark, Arya_Stark/Gendry_Waters
  Character:
      Arya_Stark, Sandor_Clegane, Gendry_Waters, Tobho_Mott
  Additional Tags:
      Self-Discovery, Love/Hate, Explicit_Language, Explicit_Sexual_Content,
      Violence, Dubious_Consent, Eventual_Smut, Lust
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-18 Completed: 2017-11-14 Chapters: 14/14 Words: 38036
****** "You wouldn't be my family, you'd be my lady" ******
by AryaGEN
Summary
     A retelling of the journey undertaken by Arya and the Hound as they
     cross Westeros inspired by the events of Game of Thrones Season 4 and
     my own imagination. Mild Arya/Gendry references at the beginning that
     give way to the main storyline featuring strong Arya/The Hound later.
     Warning, contains (eventual but graphic) smut and violence.
     Discretion advised.
     (First fic - finally finished)
***** The Wolf and the Hound *****
Chapter Notes
     Loosely follows Season 4 of Game of Thrones.
     First chapters were updated daily (hence they're much shorter),
     currently updating weekly (now longer chapters)...
See the end of the chapter for more notes
You wouldn’t be my family, you’d be my lady.
 
It would be dawn soon; Arya didn’t have to open her eyes to know she did not
have long before they had to move again. She was tired, aching and hungry,
though she had never much cared for her appearance even she had to admit that
if Sansa could see her now she’d probably faint. Sansa.Arya felt a stab of
longing – the last time she’d seen Sansa she’d collapsed on the platform. Yoren
may have blocked her eyes but she would never escape from that… that sound, and
the moment that Sansa had stopped screaming shortly after. Before, she had
always thought her sister weak but if she’d had to, to watch, well she didn’t
know if she wouldn’t have fainted too. No Arya thought, I am stronger… I killed
the stableboy, I survived Harrenhal, I murdered the Frey man and Polliver.
 
Her eyes stung against the cold early morning air: her dry, cracked lips parted
as the memories stirred a wave of emotion – Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne… she
muttered her names into the darkness, the names of all the people she was going
to kill. The Hound…Arya’s voice faltered slightly, the Hound she repeated with
conviction. She had been travelling with him for weeks, ever since she left the
Brotherhood – even now she could hear his rasps and snores disrupting their
otherwise quiet surroundings. He killed Mycah she said out loud in barely a
whisper, then again with as much strength as her parched throat could muster.
She gripped Needle, kept ever at her side since she had got it back; she knew
she should walk over to him and stick him with the pointy end – that he’d wake
up with just enough time to see her smile. She knew she should cross another
name off her list, the Tickler, Polliver, and the Hound. She should walk over
and strike the life from him before he could even grip for his sword – they
were close enough to the Eyrie for her to make it there without him.
 
You’re afraid you won’t make it. She heard his voice echo back from her
memories, she had been staring at the Twins for Mother, for Robb…
 
She blearily opened her eyes and squinted across at the Hound. It was not dawn,
she could only make out the faint outline of him but sure enough, there he was.
These past few weeks he had been different, before he had been the King’s dog,
loyal and obedient to a fault. He was a man without honour, and yet, he had
come closer to getting her back to her family than any other: Yoren had tried
but he was no longer here. Gendry had… Gendry.
 
I can be your family
You wouldn’t be my family, you’d be my lady
 
She would not think of Gendry. He had left HER, he abandoned her even before he
was taken by the Red woman. The Hound was all she had. The wolf and the Hound,
that was her pack now. While drunk, for they seldom spoke otherwise, the Hound
had told her of Sansa, tortured by Joffrey in the capital and of the Battle of
Blackwater where the flames had swallowed ships whole. She hated him, nothing
could undo that, but he seemed changed somehow – he was his own master, he had
cut his leash. Even if he intended to sell her to Aunt Lysa for his own profit,
she was sure he would at least get her there, or die trying.
 
She closed her eyes, despite her body aching from riding and hunger – it had
been a week since her last full stomach at the Inn at the Crossroads – she felt
a brief moment of happiness. The cold and swirling winds reminded her of
Winterfell, before Father had been killed, before Mother and Robb, before Jon
had moved North and Sansa had been trapped in Kings Landing and Bran’s fall…
they were all standing in the courtyard of Winterfell, Mother and Father on the
terrace with Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick, Robb, Jon and Bran practicing
archery… She drifted off to sleep…
Chapter End Notes
     First fiction, will update according to where Season 4 of the show
     goes. Hope you like it, it will get smutty later into the story but
     for now I wanted to just test getting the tone right/writing style.
***** The Golden Stag *****
Chapter Notes
     Contains spoilers from Seasons 1-4 of Game of Thrones.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Arya watched her prey, her great paws lightly padding across the soft, wet
earth; she crept forward, keeping low, and cautiously moved out from the dense
bushes into the glade. She eyed a golden stag, silhouetted by the light of an
evening sun; proud and graceful. She admired its delicate movement and pulled
herself slowly, but carefully, towards it. The slightest sound would give her
away, she had to be silent, she had to hit it at the opportune moment – she was
hungry, she couldn’t risk alerting it. She flexed her muscles, her claws dug
deep into the earth and she bared her sharp teeth. She was ready to pounce…
 
The dear turned startled as three enormous black dogs entered the clearing from
the other side, giving chase to the stag. It reared and bolted wildly before
bounding towards Arya in a panic stricken madness, not knowing she was there.
Arya sprung out and in one swift movement brought the stag crashing down, her
teeth flashed and she spun in for the kill but something stopped her. His
eyes.The stag stared at her with eyes of steely blue flame. Power and Fear. It
was a gaze she knew from another life, majestic and strong yet fearful. His
eyes.
 
The dogs were closing in, snarling and snapping, she reared up to full height
and growled with a force she didn’t know she could muster. It was a guttural
and horrifying sound with a raw power that startled the dogs and drove them
back a short distance, but they did not scarper, nor did they hold back for
long. The three dogs circled her, wary not to get too close but cutting off an
escape. Arya lashed out with a disgusting crunch as her teeth hit those of one
of the dogs, she felt blood roll from her mouth and broke away before any of
the others could close in. She may have had the advantage of size but against
three…
 
She was interrupted by a hard bite to her back left leg, she let out a slight
whimper before snapping back, this time catching one of them by the throat. As
she let go she knew she’d punctured it deep, the dog collapsed and whined a
pitiful wail, choking on its own clotted, black blood. The dog's fierce yellow
eyes closed.
 
She wheeled on the other two and they backed away, this time further. She
lashed forward, growling and barking, baring her bloodied teeth until they
turned and fled. When she rounded on the downed stag, she was no longer the
powerful wolf, nor was the helpless creature lying motionless on the floor. Her
paws were her hands, her fur was gone and she was Arya, standing naked in the
glen.
 
The orange glow of the evening had fallen beyond the horizon and a chill ran
across her bare skin as she stood exposed in the clearing. In the place of the
stag was the still body of a boy maybe no older than Robb, the body was too
still. She felt her hands shaking as she walked towards him, a boy with black
hair, a boy who’d never had a family, and now never would. With each step her
feet got heavier, her whole body was trembling now and sickness rose from the
bottom of her stomach. The boy was pale, motionless and dressed in nothing but
a blacksmith’s apron. His eyes, Arya thought, the dread welling up within her,
his eyes. They were like glass – cold, blue and dead. Gendry.
 
Arya bolted upright, hardly noticing the beads of sweat that rolled down from
her forehead. Her heart was pounding and her empty stomach made her feel sick.
She lay back down and stared up at the morning sky, playing back the images of
her dream. He had left HER,she told herself, but she couldn’t shake that look
in his eyes, the fear in them when she had first brought down the stag, it was
the same look he’d had at Harrenhal, the same look he’d had as he was dragged
away by the Red woman. Arya’s stomach knotted at the thought of what could’ve
happened to him, he was different, to all the other men she’d known. He was
special.He was dead,most likely. After what happened to Mother, to Robb, to
Father, to Bran, to Sansa, to Lommy, to Mycah, to Syrio, to Yoren… he was
dead.Arya didn't have the luxury of hope, she would never see him again. She
bit back tears, Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne…
 
“It’s time to move, wolf-girl,” The Hound said after what felt like an
eternity. He had already saddled both their horses.
Chapter End Notes
     For those who don't know, the three black dogs are the sigil of House
     Clegane...
***** Gendry *****
Chapter Notes
     Gendry POV, slightly harder to write not knowing where he is within
     the TV series, but a continuation from the scenes in Season 3x10.
     Hope you enjoy :) A slightly longer chapter this time (hopefully I'll
     write each one gradually longer.)
Creak, splash, pull. Creak, splash, pull. Creak, splash, pull.
 
Gendry was hunched forward in the rowboat, his throat parched and stomach
empty. His muscles burned with all the ferocity of the bright sun baring down
on him. The sun now felt hotter than the furnace of any forge he’d ever worked
at. The row from Dragonstone was long and arduous paced only by the same
sounds, the same three motions: pulling the oars towards him creak, dropping
them into the water, splash, then pulling them towards him. How was anyone
supposed to do anything in this heat? And anyway, wasn’t winter supposed to be
coming? ARYA.
 
Gendry flinched and in his hesitation dropped one of the oars, his hand slipped
as he went to regrip it giving him several large splinters. “Fuck!” he roared,
looking at the line of blood dripping from his hand, he pulled the oars into
the boat for a moment so he could get some of the worst splinters out. His hand
blurred in his eyes; the lack of water had made him delirious. When Ser Davos
warned him not to drink the seawater he had scoffed, I know not to drink
seawater, he had said. This was the third day of rowing, his fingers were
calloused and bloodied – he had no real way of knowing whether he was going in
the right direction. He’d kept the land to his left, sure, but he couldn’t see
the Red Keep and even if he could he had no idea where he was supposed to pull
into shore – even if he got there the city was surrounded by a labyrinth of
bustling harbours and ports, which one would draw the least attention? It
didn’t help that he had his back to the direction he needed to head, how did
rowers get anywhere anyway when they could only see the wrong way?
 
He wasn’t going to last much longer out here, seven hells it’s hot, Gendry
thought to himself, looking towards the shore trying to work out whereabouts he
could pull in. The exercise proved pointless though as he was too far to make
out details and what little he could see was clouded by the sweat pouring from
his brow into his eyes. He wiped his face with one of his hands, which didn’t
make a huge deal of difference and may possibly have made his eyes sting more.
He needed to get off the water, he had little choice now – he needed to be
strong enough when he arrived at Fleabottom to run, if he stayed much longer in
the boat he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to stand. He’d be caught the
moment he got to a dock.
 
He began rowing towards the coast, wincing as he placed his hands back on the
oars and sighing at the monotony of sounds, creak, splash pull… creak, splash
pull… He practically praised the gods when he heard the sounds of the city –
sailors unloading cargo, merchants yelling and all the general hubbub of the
suburbs. This was the closest thing to home he’d felt since…
 
I can be your family
 
NO! She was a highborn, she was the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, he thought
to himself, and I am the son of King Robert Baratheon his voice returned. He
remembered hearing stories of King Robert’s, no… his father’s undying love for
Lyanna Stark, their houses had always been close – they had forged anew the
Seven Kingdoms. Stark and Baratheon were meant to be together, but he was not a
Baratheon; he was just the bastard son of a dead King. She’s probably dead now
anyway… He felt sick for thinking that but he remembered the Brotherhood saying
they would take her to Riverrun to her family, if they did then she’d have been
at the Twins when… ARYA!
 
When he had met her, first met her, she had seemed little more than a child;
frail, weak and broken, even with her ridiculous little sword. After Harrenhal,
after hearing her whisper her list, after confronting Lord Tywin on a daily
basis and after she had arranged their escape… she was no longer a child. By
the time they reached the Brotherhood she had grown sure of herself, her
scrawny frame had been replaced by subtle, but unmistakable, curves and she had
become beautiful, in her way. She carried the weight of a lifetime of sorrow on
her young shoulders; she was fierce, wild, loyal and a complete pain in his
arse but, seven hells, did he love her? He wondered if this was what King
Robert had seen in Lyanna.
 
It was why he wanted to stay with the Brotherhood; he was afraid he would fall
in love with her. He was afraid he would do something stupid. Thinking now,
perhaps it was just the dehydration, but he was right to be afraid, he did fall
in love with her… but leaving her was the most stupid thing he had ever done.
Even before the Red woman he had left her, she had offered to be his
family… family… and he had panicked. All those nights sat watching her in
Harrenhal, ready to jump to her side, willing to walk with her right out the
front gates, all those nights since, regretting his decision. If she’s died and
you could’ve stopped it… Gendry paused, trying to recompose himself – he tried
to get rid of that thought, but even if she is alive, you will never see her
again.
 
“Where in the hell do you think you’re headed boy?” He heard a gruff, but not
malicious, voice calling across the water.
 
“I’m sorry?” Gendry replied with all the strength he could muster, shaken from
his thoughts and locating the source of the voice as a rather fat man standing
on the prow of a small merchant vessel – a ship still large another to sink
Gendry’s rowboat with just its waves.
 
“This harbour is for cargo only, you want to follow the coast for another
quarter league for docking a boat that size,” the fat man called out “you’ll be
capsized before you get anywhere close to moor if you keep going this way…
haven’t you ever been to King’s Landing?”
 
“Not for a long time,” Gendry replied, honestly, it had been two years since
they had first set out with Yoren and then Harrenhal, the Brotherhood, the Red
woman… “Thank you, ser.”
 
The fat man gestured widely with his arms to indicate he approved of the added
title before his ship passed by him, the waves rocking Gendry's small boat a
little too much.  Gendry set his mind to finding the right port to pull into.
It was only now that he thought what in seven hells do I do when I reach the
shore?
***** The Vale of Arryn *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The Vale of Arryn was a brutal, unforgiving landscape of sheered rock and
treacherous peaks punctuated only by marshes and streams. There journey had got
tougher since they left the rolling fields of the Riverlands behind and as they
were travelling across country, their encounter with the Red band revealed that
the roads were unsafe, their progress was slow. They were approaching from the
south trying to cross the mountains that shielded the lands of House Arryn from
the rest of Westeros, it was a grueling trek - and the poor weather conditions
confirmed what Arya knew in her heart to be true, that Winter is Coming.
 
Arya had been told that in the winter the ranges were often unpassable and the
Eyrie became unreachable. Though she had been born in the long summer she did
not doubt this to be true, the weather of the waning summer made travelling
hard enough. They had only been riding for several hours before the footing
became too unsteady for the horses to navigate alone and they had been forced
to dismount and take them by hand. The Hound led the way, followed by the
oversized black steed he rode, then Arya, pulling her white mare more softly as
they descended into yet another ravine and through the swamp at the bottom.
 
Arya was drenched, soaked to the bone. It was difficult to work out where was
safe to walk with the rain lashing down on them so ferociously. Yet even with
the rain and chilling winds, Arya was still somewhat glad to be on foot again,
at least for now. She had spent so long arguing with the Hound that she should
have her own horse that when she had taken one from the Inn on the Crossroads
she had forgotten the pain and agony that comes from riding – what had felt so
good and freeing at first had left her thighs bruised and sore, possibly
blistered. She wouldn’t let the Hound know that, of course, as far as she was
concerned she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, though from the sound she had
made when she got back on her horse that morning, he probably could’ve guessed.
 
Everything looks the same,Arya thought, frustrated that they had made so little
progress the last hour and trying to pull one foot out of the mud without
sinking the other – it would be so much easier if her thighs didn’t burn every
time they brushed against each other… She stopped for a moment, looking ahead –
the Hound was already quite a way ahead. She sighed, regained her thoughts and
grabbed at the ends of a burnt piece of bread from her pocket. Except a few
crusts she’d saved she had next to no food left, and the Hound didn’t look like
he had much either, they wouldn’t be able to keep this up - “Fuck!” Arya cursed
as her other foot fell through the layer of mud into the silt below, the water
wrapping around it with an icy vice like grip. She dropped the reigns of her
horse which whinnied nervously and backed away.
 
“Having trouble wolf-girl?” The Hound called over from some distance, she
detected a flicker of amusement in his voice, perhaps even some genuine
concern.
 
How in seven hells does he find this so easy?Arya thought to herself, trying,
but failing miserably, to pull herself out of the bog. The murky sludge had
claimed both her feet for its own and showed no signs of letting her have them
back. The Hound walked towards her, seeming to barely notice the marsh despite
his huge frame and heavy armour. “I don’t need your help!” Arya called out to
him, in spite of clearly needing his help. She was angry with herself trying to
summon the grace and balance Syrio had tried to teach her in King's Landing, I
never did catch a bloody cat, she thought to herself, still trying to shift her
weight to get out of the mud.
 
“Is that right?” The Hound mocked, placing his hands under her arms and lifting
her out of the mud in one smooth motion. He held her arm as she regained her
balance with a tenderness she didn’t expect, when she had sure footing he let
go and Arya felt a fleeting moment of sadness she didn’t expect or understand.
 
“I didn’t need your help” Arya mumbled as he let go of her arm and turned
around, though looking at her now unsubmerged feet she realised she had been
truly stuck.
 
“The trick, little wolf, is to avoid the bright patches of moss – the brighter
it is, the wetter it is, the weaker the ground is, the wetter you end up…” the
Hound called out, after a moment, already striding away from her. When he
reached his horse he took a large swig from a bottle in the saddlebag while he
watched Arya catching up with him, this time dancing between clumps of drier
ground. He offered her the bottle but she refused.
 
“I don’t like the taste,” Arya said, matter of factly, YOREN.
 
“It’ll keep you warm,” the Hound said softly with a sincerity that surprised
her, “we’ll have to find the road again, we can’t stay out in this piss
forever, and we don’t have much food.”
 
“I thought you said the roads weren’t safe,” Arya questioned, caving in and
taking a swig of the wine – even if it burnt her throat, the Hound hadn’t lied,
it did warm her up, “the hill tribesmen…”
 
“Are the least of our worries, we won’t make it another few days out here
without shelter,” the Hound said, working out which direction to head, “we’ll
find the High road and travel North, to the Bloody Gate, I doubt we’ve walked
far enough to miss it.”
 
Arya could only nod, she felt too weak to do anything else. The Hound was right
– they needed supplies and they were too exposed here. She noted that it was
only after she had slipped the Hound had changed his mind, and It was only
after they had changed direction, heading almost exactly back the way they’d
come, that she realised why. The Hound could’ve kept going as far as he wanted
to, he could've made it all the way to the Wall if he had wanted to, but he
wasn't doing this for him (well, he was still trying to sell me to my Aunt, but
he wasn't changing the route for him), he was doing this for me.
Chapter End Notes
     Slightly shorter, but since I'm updating daily I hope you don't mind
     too much! This chapter is inspired by the time I spent trekking in
     Wales, UK. I have finally got a vague idea of where the Arya/Hound
     story will go over the next few chapters - even if I'm not sure what
     to do with Gendry (hopefully he'll be in Season 4 episode 3!) What I
     do know is that pretty soon there will be a more substantial
     divergence from the books, oh and a more complicated chapter from the
     Hound's POV will come soon :)
***** The Lion and the Rose *****
Chapter Notes
     Includes major spoilers from Game of Thrones Season 4 Episode 2...
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“You shouldn’t have come back here Gendry,” Tobho Mott told him nervously, “I
sent you away for a reason boy… were you seen?”
 
Gendry shook his head, this was a mistake,he hadn’t known where to go once he
had docked and without coin this had seemed like his only option. He knew he
couldn’t stay here, that if anyone was still looking for him they’d check here
first, but a question had been burning in his mind the last few weeks since…
since he met the Red woman, I have to ask him.
 
“Did you know?” Gendry said coldly, trying to cover the desperation in his
voice, “did you know who I was? Who my father was?”
 
“No, not for a long time, not until after I sent you away,” his former master
told him, bolting the door of his shop and closing the wooden shutters by the
windows, “men came looking for you.”
 
“Why did you send me away if you didn’t know?” Gendry asked, afraid to hear the
answer.
 
“Two Hands, boy, two Hands of the King search for you specifically, some
bastard boy from Fleabottom, and then both end up dead… I knew, whoever you
were, someone would come after you sometime,” He looked at Gendry like a father
reunited with a son, “it was for you boy” he said, an uncharacteristic
affection in the word boy,not the derision Gendry had come to expect.
 
“Why didn’t you say that to me? You made me feel like I was nothing, no one!
You just gave me away like I was less important to you than the armour you
sell,” Gendry said, voice raised and hands shaking. His whole life he’d been
told he wasn’t good enough: he was just the bastard of a whore; his father was
probably some drunk old fool. Had Gendry not been so angry he might have
laughed – King Robert may have been ruler of the seven kingdoms, but he was a
drunk old fool nonetheless.
 
“You are no one!” Tobho Mott returned with all the fire Gendry remembered from
his years as an apprentice, “you think because a dead King squirted you in your
mother’s belly while he went drinking and whoring you’re now a somebody, you
are no one,Gendry, and if you want to keep your head you’d best stay that way:
the gods know people would use you if they could.”
 
They already have,he thought; remembering his night with the Red woman.A
stunned and heavy silence filled the space between them; Gendry was angry, he
knew his old master had tried to protect him but he had spent his life being
passed from one man to another like a possession: from him to Yoren to Tywin to
the Brotherhood to Stannis. Only two people had made him feel like he belonged,
like he was a real person, Ser Davos and… Arya… I was a fool to dare to hope
that we might… She’s a highborn; you’re a no one, a no one who just happens to
be the bastard of a dead King.“I shouldn’t have come,” Gendry said quietly, his
voice ice.
 
“I’m sorry, lad, I… I really am,” Tobho said, “the gods only know what you’ve
been through to end back here, where you started. Have you got somewhere to
stay? Some coin?” Gendry shook his head, “I’ll help you this once boy, I don’t
want to know where you go, but you can never come back here, do you
understand?” Gendry nodded his head, they embraced – his anger replaced with a
sense of yearning: for so long this had been home, everything had been so
simple. They had a drink before leaving, ate a few crusts of bread, spoke for
hours into the night but soon enough Gendry was on his own again.
 
----- 
 
King’s Landing was awash with panic and chaos following King Joffrey’s death at
his own wedding. There prevailed an atmosphere of tension and fear across
Fleabottom: the gold cloaks had been making a series of random arrests trying
to demonstrate the power of the crown and stamp down on the mass thieving,
rioting and widespread general unrest (even some jubilation) caused by the
King’s death. Rumour was rampant as to who had killed the King: some said his
uncle, the Imp, whilst others said the Martells of Dorne in revenge for the
rape and murder of the Targaryen children by the Lannisters in King Robert’s
rebellion. Far and away the most inventive and interesting stories, though,
claimed the Tyrells were responsible after the still suspicious circumstances
of King Renly’s death.
 
When he had first arrived, barring the visit to his old master, Gendry had made
himself scarce amongst the backstreets of Flea Bottom; he used the coin Tobho
Mott had given him to rent a small room in a concealed alleyway with little
more than a small cot and a wash bucket, replaced each day. It was enough: it
was quiet and away from prying eyes. For the first few days he had been
terrified of being identified straight away but Ser Davos had been right; they
couldn’t tell his face from the crowds in Fleabottom and the men of the City
Watch were so preoccupied putting out fires and stopping riots they didn’t care
about a dead King’s orders – Tommen was King now and, whilst he had not
rescinded the order to hunt down King Robert’s bastards, he showed no signs of
enforcing it with the same ruthless determination as his predecessor.
 
Once Tobho Mott’s money had run out finding work had been surprisingly easy;
they were always looking for strong men to unload cargo from the harbour. It
was hard labour and he was less suited to it than to being a smith but in the
interests of remaining anonymous he kept his head down, followed orders and
didn’t ask questions. He had given his name as Edric, to anyone that asked and,
despite being a regular patron at a number of inns and taverns, spent much of
his time in obscurity.
 
A girl had been watching him from the bar with bright eyes and blonde hair;
under different circumstances he might have found her attractive, wanted her
even, but nowadays all he did was drink alone and listen for gossip both hoping
to hear something about Arya to know she was alive, but afraid of what her
discovery would mean. If he didn’t hear anything, she could still be alive.The
girl walked towards him, her dress clinging tightly to her thin frame,
outlining her hips and breasts. One flick of his eyes warned her away and she
sighed, turning to another man at the bar. The only girl he’d ever cared for
was gone, or worse, he had no interest in the company of whores. He was just
finishing the last drops of his ale when he heard a bard perform an updated
version of the banned song “King Robert and the boar”
 
Our King stumbled, hit the ground,
He spluttered as he spoke,
The vultures circled, all around – as
Our King began to choke.
 
His body trembled, he gasped for breath,
He was caught in his last throws,
The lion boy King met his death,
Strangled by a rose.
 
There was a roar of laughter and applause as the bard finished the song; Gendry
had heard it several times now, slightly different with each rendition. He
looked at the bottom of his empty mug wistfully, smiling a little as a drunk
sailor called out “long live our brave virgin King” and another called out
“You’d think the son of King Robert could handle his drink! I guess he is all
Lannister!” The bard was given plenty of coin and encouraged to sing another,
which he was of course, happy to do. Gendry took little notice though as he
walked out onto the street, he barely registered the changes made to “The Bear
and the Maiden Fair” to honourKing Joffrey’s death…
 
A pie, a pie, a pretty pie,
The sweetest pie you’ll ever try,
But “why, oh why?” The King cried “why?
Why did I try the Ty-rell pie?”
 
The Ty, the Ty, the Ty-rell pie,
Was sweeter yet than you or I,
The Ty, the Ty, the Ty-rell pie
Had called its second King to die.
 
From where he stood he had a vantage point over Blackwater Bay, busy with the
comings and goings of various ships. For a moment, he tried to imagine the
wildfire, remembering sailing past the wreckage of Stannis Baratheon’s fleet.
Still within earshot of the “celebration” of King Joffrey taking place in the
tavern he wondered if Arya, if she’s alive, had heard about Joffrey’s death,
whether she’d be happy to have one less on her list or be angry she couldn’t
cross it off herself. Joffrey’s public death on the day of his marriage might
make her smile after the tragedy at Edmure Tully’s wedding, of the Red wedding…
 
Please…
 
It was not a thought, nor just hope; it was a prayer, Gendry realised. He had
thought and hoped about Arya a lot since returning to King’s Landing, he had
even visited the place where they had first met – where she had pointed that
ridiculous sword of hers at Hot Pie. He hadn’t heard anything about her being
at the Twins – but then, he hadn’t heard anything at all. He was no longer
aware of the loud banging of mugs, the stomping of feet and clapping of the men
inside the tavern or indeed the noises and bustle of the street around him. He
did not know to which gods he was praying, or even if there were gods out there
to listen, but he called out across the Blackwater nonetheless.
 
Please… Let her be alive…
 
He felt a rising chill roll towards him from across bay, a chill that cut
through him and seemed to freeze his pounding heart. His prayer, a breath and
promise to every and any god out there; to the old Northern gods, you are her
gods – watch over her, to the god of death she had spoken about, I would give
my life for hers…to the seven new gods and even the Lord of Light he prayed…
 
Let her be alive…
 
The cold winds continued to rise in reply – his heart struck deep with a
piercing, icy blade,was that his answer?  He hoped to himself, or is it just
that Winter is Coming…
Chapter End Notes
     Much longer Easter chapter for everybody (including two songs that I
     was relatively impressed with), hopefully the next episode of Thrones
     will give me a better idea of where the series is taking the show but
     I have a storyline in mind I could follow (I am likely to outpace the
     show at this rate!)
     It's odd, I had just wanted to write smut but am enjoying the
     narrative a lot more than I had expected...
     Also, Gendry's name as Edric is indeed a reference, to all you
     bookreaders, to the fact that the TV series has merged the storyline
     of King Robert's bastard Edric Storm with that of Gendry... seemed
     like a harmless thing to throw in!
     Happy Easter! Hope you enjoyed...
***** A Flash of Swords *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“You are the worst shit in the seven kingdoms!” Arya screamed, a mixture of
blind fury and disgust contorting the fine features of her face.
“There’s plenty worse than me, I just understand the way things are. How many
Starks are they going to behead before you figure it out?” The Hound replied
with a certainty in his voice that shook Arya to her core.
 
He was there,Arya remembered: she’d spent the last two years thinking about
that day outside the Sept of Baelor; her father on his knees, Joffrey, Cersei,
Ilyn Payne, The Hound… He was there when father died; he was there when father
was captured – he probably helped kill the Stark guards.
 
“One day-” Arya began coldly, her eyes shooting daggers.
“Let me guess, you’re going to put a sword through my eye and out the back of
my skull,” the Hound laughed back, derisively, “with your Needle?”
Arya winced slightly, her pride wounded; remembering how the Hound had first
laughed when she’d said she named her sword. “I could-” she began, puffing her
chest out and unsheathing Needle, pointing it towards him with a forceful, but
trembling, hand. She couldn’t help but remember her eagerness to prove her
ability with a sword to Thoros, and the embarrassing outcome.
“You think because you’ve killed three men you know how to fight?” The Hound
replied, a severity in his voice that wasn’t there before. He stepped forward,
his frame dwarfing hers and spoke words that cut her deeper than any weapon
ever could, “you think you’re tough, but you’re just… small… the Frey man was
unarmed, and your Polliver too – do you like stabbing men with their backs
turned? Perhaps I should turn around? Surprise has killed three men, not you…
and not one of them could fight, I mean reallyfight. How many men do you think
I’ve killed, wolf-girl?”
 
Arya understood the threat clear as day but remained unmoved, her hand steadied
now and her mind focussed. In one smooth motion the Hound unsheathed his sword
and knocked Needle to the side but this time Arya held onto it. She sidestepped
and lunged forward at the Hound’s chainmail – with surprising grace he
deflected the blow. She had stepped too far forward, though, and left her leg
open, a fact the Hound exploited with a practiced ease bringing the flat side
of his sword down on her thigh. She collapsed unbalanced and the flash of
swords was over; the Hound looked over her tiny frame before walking back to
the horses as though nothing had happened. She was frustrated and angry – he
was the only person who had seen her as something other than a breakable lady
and he had still defeated her so easily, dismissing her attack as though it
were an inconvenience.
 
I should have known better,Arya thought, livid with herself for believing
otherwise, I knew better – I couldn’t beat Thoros, I can’t beat him.She
wondered how quickly it would have taken Jaquen or Syrio to kill him, she
needed to be stronger. She cursed at herself, standing up and brushing the mud
off her breeches. How could I have thought he’d change? He killed Mycah, he
killed my father’s men and he’s only stuck with me until he can sell me on. You
can’t teach a dog new tricks, and that’s all he is, a dog without honour; a
beast. A monster.
 
It had been two weeks since that tender moment on the marshes and the changes
she’d noticed with the Hound, that she’d convinced herself she’d seen, were
gone. He could’ve done real damage, Arya noted, rubbing her bruised thigh and
watching him stride away from her. Biting her lip against the pain she drew
herself to full height and fought back the tears already brimming in her eyes:
she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Everything she
thought he could be, that she wanted him to be, was a lie... after everything
he'd done to keep her safe...
 
Shortly after turning back from the marshland Arya had collapsed from
exhaustion – she didn’t remember a great deal but she had been carried by the
Hound for at least some of the journey, her horse trailing behind his without a
rider. The cold and the wetness had sapped her strength; it had twisted around
and through her like ivy strangling a tree. She was a Northerner, true, and
Winterfell had been colder than this but warm waters ran through the walls of
her home, sheltering the inhabitants from the weather outside. Here, she had
been exposed repeatedly for weeks on end and with little rest and food, it had
not taken long for a deep sickness to take hold.
 
When they had made it to the East road finding shelter hadn’t been nearly as
difficult as they’d thought – the war had ravaged the area; there were empty
farms scattered all across the countryside and with no men left to collect the
last harvests of the summer, food hadn’t been scarce either. The Hound had even
lit a fire to keep her warm and cook soup on after she’d dropped into a
feverous state of delirium and confusion. There was significant fire damage to
where they were staying and the Hound had given her the only structurally sound
room in the cottage, sheltering her from the elements with its four walls and
almost complete roof. He had bundled her in furs and even laid his cloak on top
as well, keeping watch outside her door. There had been a softness to him, Arya
had thought, a protective side of him – when he had first told her of how he
had protected Sansa from the rapers and tried to help her escape King’s Landing
she hadn’t believed him, but now, wrapped up in her makeshift bedding, Arya
couldn’t help but wonder if he had been telling the truth.
 
They’d spent almost a week in the same cottage and, while they could only risk
lighting a small fire for warmth or cooking, it had taken that time for Arya to
recover her strength – just a little rest and food from the unreaped fields had
done a great deal to bring back her spirit. When the Hound finally agreed to
let her back on her own horse he had insisted she led the way so he could keep
an eye on her and make sure she didn’t fall. Arya had been surprised and
encouraged by his protectiveness and, despite her indignation at being babied,
she knew that she wouldn’t have survived without him. For the first time since
her father, she had felt safe.
 
Arya had even began drinking with him in the evenings, a slight smile playing
across her lips as she remembered Yoren saying “you don’t drink it for the
taste.” She had needed it, at first, to warm her up and get her through the
cold chills of the fever but after that had broken she just enjoyed the kick
from it. It was the only time the Hound would truly talk to her, the only time
she could find out about King’s Landing and the war – she had learnt a lot
serving Tywin in Harrenhal, but it was still nice to find someone else to talk
with. She hadn’t had company to confide in since Gendry.They had even joked
about the Hound’s brother, the Mountain. Arya had been reminded of Tywin’s
words to her before he left “he’s poor company when he’s sober, but he’s better
at his job.” She had smiled, thinking that his advice applied to both Clegane
brothers: in the days, their conversation was far less engaging, they discussed
routes but, except for one mention of the free cities, they kept largely to
themselves. Arya would never admit it, but she had enjoyed his company: he
wasn’t King Joffrey’s dog anymore; he was free, he was strong, he was
different.
 
All of this was before they had run into a man and his daughter (or rather, the
man and his daughter ran into them.) The man had given them sanctuary, warm
food and even offered to pay the Hound silver to stay on as a guardian. She had
woken to find that the Hound had stolen the silver anyway even after they had
been taken in and shared bread and salt. Walder Frey shared bread and salt with
Robb and mother, too, Arya had thought, her rage all the more bitter after what
the locals were dubbing the Red Wedding.
 
“Why?” Arya said softly, breaking out of her own thoughts.
“Why what?” The Hound replied, clearly still irritated with her from earlier.
“Why did you go through all that effort to save me?” Arya asked, remembering
that she had believed he was doing it for her.
“You’re no good to me dead, your aunt Lysa won’t pay as much…” the Hound
sneered back at her.
“Is that the only reason?” Arya asked, bitterly – not really sure what she was
asking and surprised at herself for feeling as hurt as she did; I should have
expected this.
The Hound paused for a moment, thinking, before answering flatly and somehow
unconvincingly, “aye… the only one.”
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry about the delayed update, unfortunately I have received rather
     terrible medical news so while I will continue to write it won't be
     as regularly - I'm just not well enough to at the moment. I hope you
     enjoyed this chapter though, I'm waiting to see what next week's
     Thrones will be like as it's got some Arya/the Hound and will
     hopefully give a better idea of where their story is going.
***** Stark Pride *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
They had not spoken since the fight that morning, riding separately and not
even stopping for a midday meal; the Hound rode ahead on his great black horse
Stranger, Arya following him on her white mount. The Hound suspected that she
would’ve liked nothing more than to ride in front of him, to show him that he
hadn’t broken and tamed her, but he knew the deep bruising on her thigh meant
she had to ride slowly and could just hear her wincing at the jolts of pain
shot up her leg triggered by each of the horse’s steps. He pretended not to
notice her discomfort.
 
Seven hells,the Hound thought to himself after taking a look back at Arya, the
Starks and their fucking pride;the girl was obviously in pain, he had hit her
too hard, but she wore that steely mask he’d seen on Sansa every time they’d
spoken in King’s Landing. Her grey eyes burning with wildfire, Arya shot him a
look that pierced him deeper than either daggers or her Needle ever could.
They’re more alike than they think,he laughed, remembering that same anger in
Sansa’s eyes when Joffrey, the little cunt,had shown her father’s head to her.
Perhaps I should have just let her push him off that ledge,he mused, wondering
what the boys screams would have sounded like and twitching his lips into a
slight smile at the sickening crunch that would surely have befallen him once
he hit the ground.
 
He would never tell them but in his own way he admired the Starks girls,
despite their age and their inexperience in the way of the world they both held
a hidden reserve of power and strength; they were every bit as cold and tough
as that grey waste they hailed from. With Sansa he had been surprised, thinking
she’d take from her mother as they looked so alike but with Arya, the lone
wolf, it had been readily apparent. Even with her infuriating ignorance and
while being pale and thin from her trials and a lack of food, Arya was growing
into the image of her aunt Lyanna; the lady for whom seven kingdoms went to
war. He had always thought Robert Baratheon little more than the drunken fool
that he was but riding here, in the presence of the young wild and untameable
Arya; he could almost understand the man’s reasons. The Stark bitch is enough
to drive anyone mad.
 
The hours rolled by at a torturous pace broken only by the intermittent
drizzling of rain. He gritted his teeth as he rode, the cold and damp weather
always made the scars on his face ache. The lighter patch of cloud that he
assumed hid the sun began to drop towards the horizon before falling just below
the rocky mountain ranges of the Vale. He looked back again at Arya who showed
no interest in stopping, or in fact in anything at all – she was just staring
forward past him, why are all the Starks as cold as fucking ice?He realised
that she wouldn’t stop until he did, her pride wouldn’t let her. She would
prove that she could last as long as he could, maybe even longer.
 
When they did eventually stop for the night she slid off the side of her mare
and landed awkwardly on one leg, her knee buckling at the pain from the
pressure on her bruised thigh. She grunted as she landed face first on the
ground, something’s wrong,she tried to pull herself up but her arms were
shaking; he would almost have laughed had he not noticed a dark red stain
against the white skin of her horse. Stubborn bitch!He rushed over to her,
kneeling down and rolling her over until she faced upwards – her face was
horror, a thin film of sweat covered her grimy skin and her grey eyes were cold
and unfocussed, he looked down at her legs and saw one of them darkened with
blood.
 
Seven fucking hells,he cursed to himself as he realised the blood was coming
from where he’d hit her with the flat side of his sword earlier. As he drew his
knife to cut through her breeches and inspect the wound one of her hands flew
forward and caught his wrist, for such a slight girl her grip held the force of
someone twice her size and with more strength by half. Her hold faltered and
then dropped altogether as she passed out leaving the Hound able to slice
through the fabric covering her upper leg. The creamy skin underneath was
turned black with crusted and congealed blood; as he peeled the cloth of her
breeches back the soaked leather made a series of uncomfortable squelching and
cracking noises.
 
The wound was not deep, it was not even that long – but she hadn’t worn armour,
he had swung too hard and even the flat side of a sword could draw blood with
enough force. Though the cut was far from life threatening she’d bled too much
to be able to stand one her own two feet tonight and it would still need to be
washed and bound for her to use tomorrow. He had to be precise as he would need
to reopen the wound to clean it; taking the flat side of his knife he pressed
the side against her thigh, she flinched a little from the feel of the cold
metal on her exposed skin more than the pain. He ran the edge along the length
of the cut scraping off all of the congealed blood and dirt and, sure enough,
fresh blood sprung up from underneath. He took out his wine skin, swigged from
it, before pouring what was left onto the open cut; she gave a slight yelp but
did not object to the treatment. He tore a section of his cloak off to serve as
the bandage, wrapping it tightly around her leg before trying to unbuckle her
belt, once again her hand flew to stop his and she only let go, reluctantly,
once he assured her it was for the binding.
 
With the wound treated and dressed he picked her up and sat her against a rock
before fetching water from a nearby stream. She was already asleep by the time
he got back and he realised just how little like a child she looked – he had
first seen her back in Winterfell on King Robert’s visit to make Lord Stark the
Hand of the King. There she had been only a child, adventurous and free
spirited but the Arya that lie propped against a rock in front of him had
changed. At some point in the years since Winterfell her body had begun to fill
out, the soft outline of her breasts stretching out from underneath that boy’s
tunic she wore and her hips too were slightly too wide for her breeches. Even
the roundish, childish features of her face had become sharper and more
refined; though he suspected that was more a result of malnutrition.
 
He woke her to make sure she ate and drank, even though he could only offer her
stale bread and stew. When she blearily opened her eyes he saw the same fire
and hatred surge forward from behind them he was used to, a reassuring sign,
and thankfully she wasn’t too proud to accept food and water from him. She did,
however, look furiously at him with sheer disgust. He sighed to himself, this
was a reaction he was used to after a lifetime baring his scars and his own
reputation – it was a reaction he had seen in the girl’s sister Sansa dozens of
times in King’s Landing; but somehow seeing how much Arya despised him cut him
deep. When the Hound had first met Sansa she was afraid of him, it had taken
him rescuing her from rapers to earn even a slight amount of trust and even
then she had recoiled from him when he tried to kiss her on the eve of the
Battle of Blackwater, but Arya hadn’t been afraid of him, she had openly mocked
him – threatened him even.
 
“You’re so dangerous aren’t you, saying scary things to little girls, killing
little boys and old people,” she had said, “I know a killer, a real killer,
you’d be like a kitten to him, he’d kill you with his little finger.”
 
She’d tried to kill him with a rock, threatened to stick a sword through his
eye, made fun of his fear of fire and even tried to stab him that morning – the
Hound had killed many people for much less, could he really keep telling
himself the only reason he was keeping her with him was to sell her? The only
girl in the seven kingdoms who isn’t bothered by my scars, and she still
fucking hates me,he thought bitterly, staring at her in between a mouthful of
his rather plain rabbit stew. He became even more infuriated because when they
had fought together; against either the Freys or the Red Band at the Inn on the
Crossroads, they had a certain electricity between them – it was the only times
they had been truly on the same page and it had felt like, if only for a
moment, she had stopped hating him – even appreciated him being there. Why did
this even matter to him? Seven hells she’s just a child, she means nothing to
me, he told himself, but he only had to look over at her to know that was no
longer true.
 
He was broken from his string of thoughts by some mumbling, he’d heard it
before when she was feverous but had never been able to pick out more than a
couple of names. He definitely heard Joffrey and Cersei but couldn’t take
anything else out except perhaps the Mountain… What in the fuck is she saying
his name for?This wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned him, and she seemed to
hate his brother perhaps even more than himself, but he’d never bothered asking
her how they’d met. He knew Arya had been there for the Tourney of the Hand
where his brother had cut the head off his own horse after losing to the Knight
of the Flowers, but the way she had mentioned him before suggested she had
better reason to hate him than that. Thinking about it, he hadn’t even asked
her how she got out of King’s Landing let alone what had happened to her before
he had run into her with the Brotherhood. At what point did I start caring
about the Stark bitch?
 
He knew in his mind they couldn’t be too far from the Bloody Gate, the entry to
the Eyrie, but he hadn’t considered what he would say when he got there – would
they just shoot him on sight? At the back of his head he ran through other
possibilities and he remembered how much Arya’s grey eyes had lit up when he
mentioned getting a boat to one of the Free Cities, he wondered if that
murderer she had mentioned was one of the friends she said she had in Bravos.
Placing his head against the soft grass he looked skyward, he would think on
this in the morning – if the Stark girl didn’t try and kill him again. He
smirked before drifting off to sleep, but only after allowing himself one last
glance over at the sleeping Arya.
 
The next day was surprisingly uneventful, the miserable steely Arya had
returned and, despite her wounded leg and obvious tiredness, she would accept
no help from the Hound – pulling herself up on her horse with just the strength
of her arms. He was relieved that she had her usual energy back, even if,
rather frustratingly, it came with her disagreeable demeanour. As they
continued heading towards the Bloody Gate he was silently aware that there
would only be one more opportunity to change direction; that the road would
divide in two revealing a path to the town of Wickenden. He didn’t know much of
the ruling house there, House Waxley, but the silver he had taken from that old
man and his daughter would be enough to buy passage for two across the Narrow
Sea. He nearly laughed in spite of himself when he wondered if Arya would have
been more agreeable to the theft had he revealed he intended to use it for them
both to leave Westeros.
 
Come the evening he had all but decided they would go to Wickenden, he hadn’t
told Arya yet but he was sure she’d agree; between that and staying here with
her mad Aunt Lysa, who wouldn’t choose Esos! But it was only after they had
settled down after yet another unadventurous dinner that he realised the flaw
in his plan…
 
“Joffrey, Cersei, Walder Frey, Meryn Trant, Tywin Lannister, the Red Woman,
Beric Dondarion, Thoros of Myr, The Mountain” Arya recited into the dark blue
sky clearly, and irritatingly loudly, even if he was interested that he could
finally hear all the names on her bloody list.
 
“Will you shut up?” he said nonchalantly, aware that they would need sleep if
they were to change direction – the Hills Tribesmen operated unrestricted on
the road from the Bloody Gate to Wickenden, they would need to travel it fast.
 
“I can’t sleep until I say the names,” Arya replied indignantly, rolling over
to face his direction; her face glowing in the dying light of the fire, gods
she looked good.
 
“The names of every fucking person in Westeros?” He teased, enjoying the way
she twitched her lip upwards in annoyance.
 
“Only the ones I’m going to kill,” she replied, sounding both calm and
confident.
 
“Hate’s as good a thing as any to keep a person going, better than most. If we
come across my brother, maybe we can both cross a name off our list,” he said
back, surprisingly sincerely, wondering again what his brother had done to make
her list.
 
“If he were here right now what would you do?” She asked, curiously, propping
herself up on one elbow to get a better view of him.
 
He wanted to say that he’d drive his sword right through his brother’s black
heart but for some reason he couldn’t, he paused before saying dryly, “I’d tell
him to shut the fuck up so I can get some sleep… go on, get it over with, your
list of doomed men.”
 
“I’m almost done, only one name left” She said, in a voice that filled him with
dread.
 
“Go on,” he replied hoping that his dread sounded impatient rather than
concerned.
 
She rolled over to lie away from him; he found himself eyeing the round curves
of her arse under her breeches and had to stop himself undressing her in his
mind. When she did speak she spoke clearly and powerfully, “the Hound.”
 
Fuck.
 
Chapter End Notes
     So a more challenging chapter to write from the Hound's perspective
     but I think it came off reasonably well - also the longest chapter
     I've ever written at 2500 words (aren't I kind?!) Hope you guys enjoy
     it, tell me what you think - I have absolutely no idea where this
     story is going (though I have drafted two endings in the distant
     future) as I'm still vaguely following the show. Given that I'm also
     working on another story as well I suspect this will be one that
     updates weekly (but with longer chapters.) Also waiting for Gendry to
     show up in the series so I know their plans (even if I have my own
     for him!) Feel free to comment etc. and have a great week!
***** The Fury & Kindness of a Hound *****
Chapter Notes
     Another Hound POV, my longest chapter by far with smut in the second
     half. Severe Canon Divergence. Enjoy :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
He was in a grim mood when he awoke; his scars stung in the cold morning air
and his eyes struggled adjusting to the dim light of the grey sky. He gave out
a breathy sigh at what promised to be a miserable day ahead; if not for the
weather, then the company. Bitch. He was one of her doomed men, her list of
people she was going to kill… or try to kill...She’d promised as much, even
tried to – he would’ve cut any man in half for much less than what she’d done
to him. He remembered her as a child, standing in line with the rest of the
Starks as King Robert entered Winterfell; even then he’d seen a fire in her.
She’d disarmed Joffrey on the King’s Road and openly defied the King and Queen
– but she was just a girl then, she had grown up in safety and security
surrounded by family. The gods only know what she’s been through now,he thought
to himself, it had been years since Winterfell, most of that time spent on her
own – and she must have spent at least some of it with his wretched brother,
Gregor, for his name to be on her fucking list.
 
His heart pounded hard through his chest as he thought about his brother and
despite the coldness of the Vale and the piercing early morning wind he began
sweating. For a brief moment he returned to the castle he grew up in as a boy,
his brother towering over him and bearing down with all his weight, pushing his
face towards the open fire. He heard the cracking and burning of the flames now
hot against the side of his skull as they licked him and tickled him, melting
his flesh like a nice juicy mutton chop.The fire roared and sizzled; embers
flew around his stinging eyes, no matter how hard he struggled he was pinned by
the sheer power of Gregor; bearing down with him with all the weight and force
of a mountain. The flames surrounded him, trapping him in a molten cage that
soared around him, rising higher and higher before transforming into a surging
green explosion of such size and force that it could devour entire ships and
their crews whole and raise an entire fleet into nothing. Tendrils of fire and
smoke spiralled upwards into the night like the last wisps of a thousand
finished candles, all reflected in the dark and murky depths of the Blackwater.
 
He closed his eyes, cursing himself for letting himself slide back into his own
memories so easily and waited for the screaming and wailing of Stannis’ army to
fade until it was just a faint sound that fell away to the east wind.
Recomposed he looked again up to the grey sky, this time focussed and
determined before finally allowing himself to look over to Arya. Where in seven
hells has she gone?He cursed, pulling himself up and looking to see if she was
nearby – rushing to get a good view of the valley they were in. His head spun
slightly as he stood up too quickly, and he ended up using a nearby rock to
support himself, for a moment he allowed himself to look at where they were –
had it not been so miserably grey it could’ve been beautiful, not unlike the
Stark bitch herself,he thought with a smirk as he finally caught sight of her.
 
He wasn’t sure how long he spent staring at her as she twirled her silly little
sword, switching hands and fighting imaginary enemies. Her footwork was
impressive given the no doubt nasty bruising he’d inflicted on her thigh. He
watched as she twisted this way and that, ducking and striking at her would be
attackers, he wondered for a moment if she was practicing for him. Of course,
all this twirling would serve her no use in a real fight: a single swing from a
long sword would probably break her Needlein two and even if it didn’t the
force of a solid hit would be enough to knock her flat on her arse. And yet
even still, she was impressive, mesmerising – though probably not for the
reasons she thought she was. He walked forward slowly, watching her feet move
lightly and quickly and was admittedly somewhat surprised at the grace which
she held herself with – it might not help her win a fight, but it could come in
handy elsewhere,he imagined with his lips twitched up into a sly smile. Each
thrust from her rippled through her body: her breasts, full and enticing, were
swaying visibly under the pulled taught stitching on her leather jerkin and he
noticed her breeches seemed too small and impossibly stretched across the
prominant curves of her hips. The Hound wondered how he hadn’t noticed the
woman Arya had turned into for so long, she was like a young Lyanna Stark, a
true Northern beauty.
 
His admiration swiftly reverted back to irritation with her at the knowledge
that not only could he never have her, but that she hated him: she tried to
kill me at the first opportunity she had and several times thereafter. I’m one
of her fucking doomed men, the sooner I sell her to her bitch Aunt Lysa the
better.He closed the gap between them in a few large strides, clearly catching
her off guard.
 
“The hell are you doing?” He blurted out, half surprised at the anger in his
own voice.
 
“Practicing,” she replied as she rounded on him – that look of hatred in her
eyes he had seen in so many others; somehow seeing that look worn by her
pierced him deeper than she probably ever could with a blade. He berated
himself, why should I care what the Stark bitch thinks?His teeth were gritted
together in anger and frustration as she pointed her silly little sword towards
him thinking her flowery twirling and one handed posture would threaten him –
had he not already proven how easily he could win against her?
 
“What? Ways to die!” He called back to her, enjoying the look of indignation
that spread across her face – he would pay her back in kind for last night, he
had been prepared to leave Westeros with her, and she’d told him she wanted
nothing more than to kill him. Gods!Somehow she had a way of getting under his
skin few others possessed.
 
“No one’s going to kill me,” she asserted with a surprising confidence given
that he himself had had the opportunity to only the day before.
 
“They will if you nunce around like that. That’s no way to fight!” He teased,
half smiling at the predictable flash of anger that swept across her face. He
saw wildfire burning in her grey eyes, boring into him.
 
“It’s not fighting - it’s water dancing,” she said with the same confidence as
before.
 
“Dancing?! Maybe you ought to put on a dress,” he laughed, thinking to himself
how unlike Sansa she was and knowing full well that Arya Stark would sooner die
than be caught in a dress. He immediately wished he hadn’t suggested it though
as he felt a slight stirring in his cock at the thought of Arya Stark dressed
like one of those Southern Ladies. Seven hells she’s a fucking child, you are
old enough to be her father!He told himself, aware that it was impossible to
ignore her womanly frame. He looked across to her to see his words had the
effect he assumed they would: the fine features of her face were hidden by a
dark scowl, her dancing,became faster and more furious. Her elegant strokes
were becoming shorter and more forceful.
 
“Who taught you that shite?” He called, taunting her further – using her to
vent his frustration.
 
“The greatest swordsman who ever lived… Syrio Forel, the first swordsman to the
Sea Lord of Bravos,” she said, performing a one handed cartwheel and bringing
her sword about to face him. This time he felt real anger arise within him,
remembering how just the day before she had tried to stab him. I should’ve
bought my fucking sword.
 
“Bravos! Greasy haired little bastard was he? They all are,” he spoke with a
sneer.
 
“What do you know about anything?!” She yelled back with that look of insult
and disgust that he’d seen on her after he took that farmer’s silver. Gods, how
could someone so small be such a pain in my arse!
 
“I bet his hair is greasier than Joffrey’s cunt.” The Hound shouted back,
noting she’d stopped practicing to engage in this war of words.
 
“It was not!” She asserted.
 
“Was? Dead?” He asked, only half curiously.
 
“Yes.”
 
“How?”
 
“He was killed.”
 
“Who by?”
 
“Meryn Trant – that’s why Ser Meryn’s on the-” She tried to explain.
 
This time any anger he was feeling melted into laughter – Meryn Trant could
probably have been defeated by just about anybody, even Grand Maester Pycelle
would probably have a good chance! “Meryn Trant? The greatest swordsman who
ever lived was killed by Meryn fucking Trant?”
 
“He was outnumbered!” She yelled, outraged and insulted that he was laughing at
the memory of her Bravosi swordsman.
 
“Any boy whore with a sword could beat three Meryn Trants!” He guffawed
derisively, looking down at the slight figure of the raging girl in front of
him with her stupid fucking Needle, even she probably could!
 
“He didn’t have a sword, or armour, just a stick!”
 
That was too much. “The greatest swordsman who ever lived didn’t have a sword!”
He roared with a surprisingly high giggle, barely able to contain his amusement
and wondering what the Bravosi could have done to convince her he was the best
swordsman in the land without armour or a sword. “Alright you have a sword,
let’s see what he taught you. Go on, do it for your Bravosi friend – dead like
all the rest of your friends,” he added as an afterthought.
 
She spun the sword in her left hand with a practiced ease before turning and
facing away from him. When her blow struck it carried a surprising amount force
– more than enough to sink the sword straight through him to the pommel had he
not been wearing his armour. Even as he was watching her blade bending against
one of the leather strips on his chest piece his reactions took over and he
struck her to the ground with a firm hit to her face. He loomed over her prone
form, lying on the ground looking up at him, blood coming from her lip and a
red mark developing across her cheek, he cursed her for what she’d made him do.
He took her sword in his arm, pointed it at her throat not unlike how he’d seen
her hold it against that cunt Polliver, and roared in a blind fury.
 
“Your friend’s dead, Meryn Trant’s not… because Trant had armour and a big
fucking sword!”
 
Fuck the gods,he thought to himself as he looked down at her quivering frame.
He had seen that face, that look before in the eyes of her sister. Sansa had
worn it when Joffrey had Ser Meryn strike her, the mark his fist had made on
Sansa was in the roughly the same place as the one he had now made on Arya. Am
I no better than Meryn fucking Trant?He reflected coldly, remembering the wound
he’d inflicted on her thigh. I wanted her to feel it; I enjoyed putting the
little bitch in her place,he realised and immediately handed her back her sword
and stormed off. Perhaps I deserve to be on that fucking list after all.
 
-----
 
It had been hours, the sun had long since been in the middle of the sky and was
now drifting lazily towards the mountain ranges to the west and yet they had
not left. The Hound had needed air, he had walked and walked to try and clear
his thoughts, to figure out what he should do and after what felt like forever
he stopped to look around, only then realising he had at some point doubled
back and walked to the horses. He had started saddling his but he had yet to
buckle the straps; he had just been standing there locked in his own mind. He
looked across to see Arya sitting against a nearby rock eating stale bread,
sulking and looking over the valley wrapped up in her own worries and concerns.
She had drunk nearly an entire skin of his wine – he was half surprised she’d
waited for him.
 
He didn’t know how long she’d been there but it had clearly been a while, he
wasn’t exactly sure how long he’d been thinking for but she had been here,
waiting; she was perfectly still, apart from a slight sway from the alcohol,
she had clearly been preparing for him to make his mind up on what they were
doing next. When he saw the dark purple bruise running across her cheek his
hands slipped and his horse, Stranger, reared up in surprise at how tight the
Hound had pulled the buckle. The noise seemed to break Arya out of whatever she
was thinking and when she looked over to him, half her face dark and bruised
and the other half pale but all of it covered in a layer of grime and mud his
heart sank. I did this.He had seen and done some horrific things in his life,
most much worse than what he saw now but somehow this was the worst – he had
tried to help Sansa, in the capital, he had cursed Joffrey and Meryn Trant for
how they treated her and yet he was no better, perhaps I really am just mad
dog.The sight tore at him, his throat felt dry and parched. He looked away
bitterly, feeling sick until he finally spoke, unable to even look at her.
 
“The silver… it was for passage to Essos, perhaps your beloved Bravos,” he said
in a broken voice he wasn’t sure she would even hear. He reluctantly turned
back to look at her; if she had heard him she betrayed no emotions on her face,
it was stone and her guards were up. She wasn’t even looking at him. He
couldn’t help remember the hint of excitement in her the last time he had
mentioned Essos, but here, there was nothing, her eyes seemed sunken somehow as
though she barely registered her surroundings, if not for her breathing causing
her chest to rise and fall he could’ve sworn she was a statue. “There’s a
chance, before we reach the Bloody Gate, to turn south for Wickenden, ships
leave there headed to Essos,” he continued only half-heartedly before his voice
faltered and trailed off.
 
After what felt like hours she eventually turned her eyes to him, the grey pits
in her skull empty of the fire he had seen dancing there earlier, she looked
like she would be sick. He studied her carefully from head to toe before
noticing to his shame her thigh was bleeding again, she must have ripped it
open while practicing; she followed his gaze towards her own bleeding leg but
seemed not to be bothered by it. It was only when he took a step towards her
that she moved – her hand shot towards Needle, tucked into her belt like normal
and the empty greyness of her eyes roared with life. She’s afraid; the one girl
in the seven kingdoms he’d met who hadn’t been afraid of him, was now afraid,he
realised, his heart sinking.
 
“You need to dress that,” he said, indicating to her leg. She did not move,
keeping her eyes fixed on him, one hand on the grip of Needle and the other on
the side of the rock she was perched on, presumably to allow her to stand up
quickly if she needed to. There was a tense silence between them before she
took her hand off of Needle, indicating he could come slightly closer and
rested it on her stomach, it was only then that the Hound saw how tired she
looked. He closed the gap between them cautiously, with slow steps, and knelt
down on one knee just in front of her so that, with her perched up on a rock,
his head was just below hers. As he got close she turned away; looking back out
across the valley. She flinched as he gently checked the piece of cloth binding
he wound across her thigh – it had not torn, if anything the wound looked
better.
 
“It’s moon blood,” Arya said coldly, looking intently across at the landscape
in front of her and giving no emotion to her words. She looked lifeless,
hollow.
 
Seven fucking hells,the Hound thought while remembering how Sansa had reacted
when she’d first had hers and her desperation to hide it. His hands shook as he
realised he was still holding either side of the tear in her breeches. The wild
Arya Stark had retreated into herself, leaving little left but a shell, she was
hiding – projecting her mind across the horizon beyond all the mountains of the
Vale and over the clouds, it only then occurred to him she was looking North,
probably trying to imagine her home Winterfell, before it had been reduced to
rubble. More than anything else, more than her anger and her hate, it was her
silence that haunted him. She wore the same clouded and subdued expression now
she’d worn on the marshes with the fever and on that day at the Twins. It made
him feel ill. He knew she was in shock: he’d seen it a thousand times before –
normally with soldiers after battles, she would be unable to move on her own,
and she couldn’t stay like this. I won’t let her.
 
He walked over to the horses and pulled out some fresh linen before returning
to her and scooping her into his arms, one hand underneath her knees and the
other supporting her back. She did not resist, she just continued to stare
forwards. He held her close to his chest; the same way he had on the marshes
and when he had rescued her from the chaos at the twins. Her hair fell over his
shoulder and she pressed her unbruised cheek into his armour. She seemed
heavier now, in the months they’d been on the road, fuller somehow. With the
sun midway through setting he walked back down the slope towards the river,
where she had been practicing earlier, and sat her down against the water’s
edge before stepping into the river himself and running water through the
cloths and filling up one of their empty skins.
 
It occurred to him he had no idea exactly what he was going to do, she needed
to wash but she couldn’t exactly do so in her current state. He knelt in front
of her with one of the cloths and looked into her face, seeing the dried blood
from her lip had reached her chin and been smeared across her cheeks. He used
the cloth to gently dab it, the same way he had with Sansa, gradually cleaning
her crusted lips and cheek. He held the back of her head with one hand for
support while using the other to wash her; she barely flinched even as he wiped
the bruises. He rinsed the cloth out with the water he’d gathered after every
few strokes. He had no way of knowing it but with the sun setting over his
shoulder, his scars were hidden by shadows – for the briefest of moments, as he
gently washed away the layers of grime from her forehead and her neck – he
could almost have been the most handsome man in Westeros.
 
Once he had finished cleaning her face he inspected the bruise and the cut he’d
left, still cursing himself for acting so rashly – even if she had tried to
stab him. It would heal, the cut wasn’t deep and the bruise would fade in time,
until then it would serve as a reminder of what he was, and this can remind me
what I am,he thought, bringing the cloth across her face once more. Before he
could stop himself he found that he’d mumbled out tenderly “sorry,” – it was a
word he was hardly familiar with, it felt strange on his tongue and judging by
the flicker of surprise he detected on her face, it seemed to be a word she
wasn’t expecting either. He wondered when the last time anyone had apologised
to her was all the while standing back up and taking the cloth to the river to
wash thoroughly until the muddied red faded and its original beige colour
returned.
 
The gods…he breathed to himself when he turned around. The Stark girl had
removed her breeches and her shift and stood in front of him: naked from the
waist down. She is afraid, but not of methe Hound realised as it dawned on him
that in the three years since she’d fled King’s Landing she’d probably had to
disguise as a boy – nobody told her what to expect. She must be terrified. Her
legs seemed longer and hips wider than he’d ever noticed – he cursed himself
again for the wound to her left leg – was there any part of this beautiful
woman he hadn’t spoiled? He found his eyes tracing up her milky white thighs to
her pelvis, covered by a set of short and fluffy auburn curls poking out from
behind her hands; brought shyly in front of her. He felt the blood rushing
towards his cock, she was definitely not a child anymore… She walked towards
him and took several tentative steps into the river, flinching slightly at how
cold the water was against her skin. Truly, the hound had never seen a vision
of such beauty – now that the mud was gone from her face and her hair pulled
back he wondered how anybody could have mistaken her for a boy. In that moment,
with the setting sun bathing her in an orange glow and that pale terror he’d
seen in her up on the hill disappeared, she was divine.
 
She stood in front of him and looked up – her eyes meeting his. There was
terror in her face; she didn’t know what was happening to her. For a moment
neither moved, despite the calmness and grace with which she appeared to be
standing her breathing was short and sharp. She closed her eyes, scrunching up
her face and she waited. The Hound swallowed involuntarily, his throat now dry
and sore. He kneeled down in the water, watching it rushing past her shins and
past the armour on his knee. His head was at the height of her chest, by the
Gods,his hands shook and he gritted his teeth. He submerged the cloth in the
water, watching as his hand disappeared under its surface before bringing it up
and pressing it down gently on the inside of her left leg, just below her knee.
She shook slightly, nervous but she did not step backwards. He gradually
brought the cloth upwards, carefully wiping away weeks of mud and the dried
blood on the inside of her thighs. He rinsed it in the water again – noticing
that her breathing grew shorter still. When he reapplied the cloth she did not
flinch this time, letting him bring it further up towards her sex. After
several more swipes the edge of the cloth just caught the side of her lips and
she let out a sigh – she seemed frustrated when the Hound took the cloth away
to rinse it and let out an irritated grumble as he started cleaning her right
leg, placing the cloth at just under her other knee and working his way up
again from the other side.
 
It seemed to take him forever to wipe her clean but finally he brought the
cloth to the gap between her legs, applying pressure to her sex. She shuddered
slightly, letting out a breathy sigh and stepped backwards from him, a look of
concern rushing over her flushed face. He rinsed the cloth and looked up at
her, fighting back the urge to push her against the river bank and fuck her
there and then. He practically praised the gods when she decided to step
forward again. He put his hand between her legs again, pushing open her lips to
clear as much of the blood as possible – he was enthralled with the way she
squirmed as he did and the whimper she made. He traced the cloth upwards to her
clit and brushed passed it – she gasped, her legs buckled immediately and she
landed in the water with a splash that soaked the front of his armour. Her face
was now below his, she still had her eyes shut but he savoured the exquisite
sight before him: her cheeks shone red with an anguished and confused
expression, he doubted anyone had touched her there before – probably not even
herself.
 
Now, both kneeling together in the water, she parted her legs for his hand,
propping herself up on her knees, and waited for him to continue. He brought
the cloth up once again and traced the outline of her cunt through its thin
fabric; he felt her warmth soaking into the rag and enjoyed listening to the
sighs and moans she made under her breath; he nearly came there and then when
he saw her bite down on her lip to try and supress the noises she was making.
He dropped it back towards the water to rinse once again but her hand caught
his and brought it back up to her sex. That was all he needed, he moved his
fingers faster through the cloth, spreading her lips and stimulating her clit
at the same time and it was only moments before she tensed up, froze, screwed
her face up and then let out a loud “fuck” as she climaxed. Her cheeks were
crimson, her breathing erratic and he felt warm juices drip over his hand. She
slumped forward into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder.
 
And yet, she had kept her eyes shut through everything, partly from the wine he
suspected but it did not change the fact she had not looked on him once. He
remembered how he’d asked Sansa, her sister, for a kiss at the Blackwater and
she’d shrunk away in horror – Arya had more reason to hate him than most…
She’ll hate me more than ever for this. Even then, as he held the little wolf
against him in the dying light of the sun, her words, whispered into his ear,
the first and only words she’d said since she revealed she had had her first
moon blood, haunted him.
 
“Don’t you leave me again Gendry… I can be your family,” she said softly and
sleepily, he could smell the wine on her breath.
 
He scooped her up and carried her back to the camp, ignoring his own needs, and
laid her down into her furs before returning to the river to wash out her
breeches and shift before the following morning’s travelling. By the time he
returned to their camp to lay down, pulling his own furs around him, he arrived
just in time to hear her mumbling her fucking list…
 
“Cersei… Joffrey… Ilyn Payne… Tywin Lannister… The Red woman… Beric Dondarrion…
Thoros of Myr… The Mountain…”
 
She yawned loudly and drifted off to sleep before she could finish, there’s
just one name left,the Hound reminded himself, replaying the confusing events
of the day back in his head… The seven hells save me from her wrath in the
morning…
Chapter End Notes
     Hope you enjoyed that, at 4,600 words that is the longest chapter so
     far (and as a result, the trickiest to write!) I did promise smut at
     the beginning so I hope you enjoyed it and you won't kill me too
     much, the next chapter will of course deal with the aftermath - and
     it will be an Arya POV. Kind of sitting on my hands with Gendry's
     storyline until the show makes its mind up on what's going to
     happen...
     Major thanks to Tiberiusirius for inspiring me to write :) Her "Don't
     Be Stupid" is one of the best stories I've ever read on here, do
     check it out for some awesome smut/story between Arya and Gendry (you
     won't be disappointed!)
***** Her Pack *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Her head was spinning, her breath was short, her eyesight blurry and her
complete lack of balance meant she could barely stand. She felt ill, her hands
shook visibly against the sharp rocks she propped herself against. The strong
wind struck her, throwing her unkempt and matted hair behind her ears. The
coldness of the high mountain air nestled deep inside her chest, lashing at her
face and biting deep into her very bones. She was covered in a film of sweat
from the run – when she had awoken, when she had remembered, she had run so far
so fast. She stopped only when her legs could push no further and when her
lungs felt like they would explode if she didn’t.
 
Leaning forwards she hunched and doubled up waiting to see if she’d be sick. He
touched me,she thought to herself in disgust recalling the hazy events of the
day before, he touched me and I let him.Her heart was hammering through her
chest; each pounding beat felt so loud it blocked out all the other sounds
around her. She felt her stomach twisting and lurching as the ground span
around her. She swallowed back the acidic bile slowly creeping up her now
burning throat and forced her bleary eyes open, only now looking at where she
was. In front of her, the grass and rocks came in and out of focus, forcing her
to screw her eyes shut again and take a moment before trying again. In the
darkness she cursed at the thought of the Hound, the fucking Hound,with his
fingers between her legs. And worse fucking still, I enjoyed it. What does that
make me?
 
She could not deny that she had enjoyed it, after the shock of discovering her
moon blood she had felt herself overcome by a wave of panic and fear. She’d
wanted to walk to the river and wash herself and clean her clothes but
something had stopped her, had seized control of her and rooted her to the rock
she was perched on as though she were part of it. When the Hound came storming
back from wherever he’d ran off to she’d expected further derision and mocking
comments; for him to goad her about her fighting style or poke fun at Syrio
Forel. About the last thing she’d expected was for him to take her to the river
and do what she could not: to wash her and her clothes. In that moment she saw
straight past the tough act he put on as his shield and into the part of him
that could still care and feel, buried underneath layers of anger, pain and
hatred. She had seen this side to him before, on the marshes and in the cottage
where he had nursed her back to health – at the time he had said it was so
she’d fetch a higher price, that he couldn’t sell her if she was half-dead, but
she remembered thinking even then that his voice had faltered, and he sounded
like he was trying to convince himself more than her.
 
Despite everything, despite the fact that she had tried to kill him more than
once, the Hound had still looked after her, had made me feel safe.It was a
terrifying thought, she realised, trying to remember the last time she had felt
safe – she had felt safe in Winterfell, but it had long since been laid to
waste now, she had felt safe with her father, with Syrio, with Yoren, with
Gendry,but they were all gone now – all dead or as good as it. But the Hound,
the Hound was there, with her, now…he wasn’t gone yet, he was as close to a
pack as she had. “The Wolf and the Hound” she spoke out loud; whispered through
her dry, cracked, chapped lips. The thought had her almost break into a smile
but she was forced to stop upon feeling the tight skin around her mouth tear a
little as it stretched in the harsh mountain air of the Vale, allowing a few
drops of blood through.
 
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of boots scraping against rock.
Before she knew quite what was happening, an instinctive rage swept through her
body. Her fingers flew to the pommel of Needle and in a flash of steel she
rounded on the Hound, already knowing that in her state, with his armour on,
she would be bested. She turned to look him full on but as the weight of things
past crossed her mind she wondered why she had even bothered to draw her sword,
we are a pack now.She realised too late that the man standing towards her was
not the Hound, nor was he on his own.
 
Standing not less than five and ten paces away were several large men wrapped
in goats furs untidily piled over roughly joined armour. She quickly judged it
was likely they had made the armour themselves: where there was iron plating it
was rusted and roughly hewn, and the stitching that bound it to the leathers
underneath was messier than her own handiwork. She almost laughed in spite of
herself at the recollection of all that time spent in Winterfell with her Septa
trying to teach her how to sew as neatly as Sansa, seven fucking hells, here I
am confronted by potential enemies and all I can think about is needlework!She
thought to herself, frustrated that she was letting herself get distracted. She
cleared her mind – she would need to concentrate on her own needlework – before
going back to studying the men in front of her. She could not help but hear the
words of Syrio echoing from her past, if you are with your trouble when
fighting happens, more trouble for you…
 
“Not today,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes darting from figure to
figure – four of them, armed with swords or axes and a fifth man hanging back
with bow, an arrow notched but not drawn. None of the men held their weapons
with any conviction – she doubted they perceived her as a threat. She gave out
a small sigh of relief at this and when she noted that none of them wore mail
shirts underneath their leathers; there didn’t seem to be anything except the
actual metal plate would stop Needle. Only the man at the front wore a large
amount of iron, his seemed better forged than the others too, the rest only had
bits and pieces covered. I can be fast,she heard her own voice echoing from her
memories as she tightened her grip on Needle and assumed the Bravosi posture,
it would be tough to find an opening to the closest man. She inwardly wished
she hadn’t run so far from the Hound as she felt her legs trembling from the
strain she had put them through.
 
“And what do we have here?” The man with the best armour, presumably the leader
of the group, boomed out before turning to his men and adding in mocking tones
“a girl, dressed as a boy!” He leaned in menacingly towards her but she held
her ground with Needle pointed upwards, ready for a quick jab. “Fancy yourself
a swordsman do you, little girl?” He teased flashing a toothless grin and
taking a step forwards.
 
She didn’t move, scanning his armour for weak points, his attire was unlike
that of the surrounding men: the breastplate he wore was larger – though far
too small for a man his size – and dented and bore the faded image of three
candles, white with red flames. She suspected that he must have stolen the
armour; not only because it had a sigil but also because it just didn’t fit
him: he must have been a fair bit larger than its original occupant as the
fastenings around the edges of the front and back plates had been lashed with
additional straps to accommodate the bulging fat that pushed out between them.
Altogether it left about a three inch gap, a narrow target,on either side of
his chest. Looking down towards the front of his legs she noted that they were
well covered in plate at the front but had very little to guard the backs of
his thighs. There were similar gaps under the armpits and along the underside
of the upper arms; whomever the previous occupant was they probably would have
worn chainmail to protect these gaps, she was fortunate this man did not (most
likely because he was fatter than his predecessor) or else she’d have nowhere
to aim.
 
“My, you’re a pretty one – we don’t get many pretty ones out here, do we boys?”
He called out to his men who jeered and gestured towards her with their
weapons, “what are you doing all alone up in our territory?” He licked his lips
through his missing teeth and took another step forward. His primary weapon was
a large two handed axe, the blade ran orange-brown with rust but even as blunt
as it was she knew it would have little trouble cutting through the leather of
her jerkin.
 
“I’m not alone,” she said, with as much force as she could muster, feeling
sweat drip down the hilt of Needle from her tight grip.
 
“Is that so?” The leader asked before swinging around to face away from her and
calling out to the landscape, “and where are your… brave…companions? Eh?” He
burst into a wicked laugh and took another step towards her, this time lowering
his voice into little more than a growl “no I rather think we are alone little
girl.”
 
“You’re wrong,” she said matter of factly as he took another pace towards her,
he was rapidly closing the gap. He was close enough for her to see the details
in his face; his hair was a mixture of fiery oranges and dull greys and was
thinning at the top, his eyes were set deep into his skull and his cheeks were
gaunt and lined. A scraggly beard of browns and whites barely covered his chin
and neck.
 
He looked at her from top to bottom, pausing and resting his gaze momentarily
on the swell of her breasts and curves of her hips; when he spoke his words
were guttural and breathless, heavy with lust, “have you ever been fucked
before little girl? Don’t suppose you have, it’s not much fun the first time,
not much fun the first few times – not for you anyway – but you never know, you
might grow to like it. You might even end up begging us for it… we’ll make a
whore out of you yet.”
 
“I won’t beg,” she shot back coldly, her grey eyes burning bright as wildfire
as she concentrated on the gaps of bulging exposed flesh between the plates of
his armour. She would only get one opportunity if he struck to land a blow, I
can be fast.
 
He started walking towards her, his voice low, breathless and hoarse, until he
was only a few paces from the tip of Needle “oh you’ll beg… sure, you’ll kick
and scream and struggle at first but it won’t do you no good. Sooner or later
the fight will drain right out of you; we’ve had plenty stronger than you.
Sooner or later you just… give up. Mayhaps you won’t beg for sex like a whore,
but you will beg – they always do – when the time comes, you’ll beg us to just
let you die.” After he finished he took a step backwards and spoke louder for
his men to hear, “first we’ll have to get rid of your sword though!”
 
His strike, while powerful, was slow, predictable and overconfident. He put far
too much force into the swing, most likely a result of the weapon being too
large for him. She stepped backwards and dipped Needle so it pointed to the
floor, dodging the graceless attack with ease. The man stumbled slightly having
expected to hit his target and gave her the opportunity she needed to step
forward and deliver a swift uppercut to the underside of his now exposed right
arm. She watched his face twist in pain and confusion as Needle effortlessly
slipped under his armour and pierced the thin leathers that guarded his tricep.
He let out a surprised squeal. She only held her blade in him for a moment
before pulling back to a safer distance and admiring her handiwork.
 
He had dropped his axe instinctively and was grasping onto his right arm with
his left; thick dark liquid had begun oozing from the wound the moment she’d
withdrawn Needle and now trickled through his fingers. This time with the
advantage she stepped forwards once again, lunging much lower and bringing her
sword inwards between the man’s chest and back plates, landing a second
successful strike on his left flank, this one deeper than before. The effect
was instantaneous; he collapsed to his knees and crumpled pitifully into a
moaning heap. Black blood streamed in thick torrents from his side, rolling
over his thighs and into the grass. He gasped and writhed at her feet,
thrashing about like a fish out of water, unable to plug either the puncture in
his side or arm.
 
She did not have long to enjoy her victory, the loud twang of a bowstring being
released reminded her that she was still in imminent peril. The archer had
loosed an arrow at her, narrowly missing and rattling off a nearby rock. The
three remaining tribesmen had weapons drawn, but none seemed eager to attack –
presumably all in shock at the ease with which she had just dispatched their
leader. They were lighter armed and armoured than the first man she had faced,
carrying one handed axes and short swords. The man now closest to her, thin and
scrawny, also carried a broad wooden shield – not strong enough to protect
against a broadsword but it would easily hold back her Needle. In his other
hand, a one handed axe which he swung with a practiced skill, he would not
underestimate her like her first opponent.
 
The other two were wider men, closer in stature to the man now bleeding out in
front of her, one was armed with two one handed axes and the other with a
sword. She felt sweat drip down her forehead as she realised that she’d never
trained against an axe before, only ever against a sword, and if they were
smart they’d just wait for the archer to wound her before moving in.
Fortunately, it seemed, they were not that smart. In the heat of the moment the
shieldsman was first to attack, closing the distance between him and her in a
matter of moments. She sidestepped his first swing, a powerful vertical strike
which would have hit her shoulder had she not moved. He was fast; much faster
than the man on the ground, aided by his lighter armour and freer movement. She
practically had to leap out of the way of his second swipe, pivoting on her
back foot to stop her from tumbling. With his third attack, a wide diagonal
cut, she sought to strike at his then exposed thigh but he lowered his shield
and the dull thud confirmed what she’d suspected, Needle was no match for it.
 
She gave ground rapidly as he swung at her again and again, relentlessly trying
to land a hit on her. He showed no sign of tiring despite the speed and
ferocity of his attack. In an effort to draw the confrontation to a quick close
she sidestepped and countered with a higher strike against his shoulder but it
again glanced off the side of his shield, almost throwing her off balance. His
following strike clipped her cheek, drawing blood. The man took a step
backwards, seemingly to catch his breath or just admire the fact he’d landed
his first hit; she took the momentary respite as an opportunity to study her
opponent. His face was covered by a thick bushy black beard, beads of sweat
dripped from his scarred forehead and tangled hair was braided upwards into an
old rusty helm. His fighting form was superb, well balanced and quick on his
feet, his shield was broad enough to cover his entire flank and the constant
barrage of attacks from his other hand meant she couldn’t get close enough to
strike that side. The only gap in his offensive she could see was that in a
vertical cut he would leave his wrist open only slightly to a quick jab,
without armour he would surely drop his axe.
 
She groaned as she saw another of the men rush towards her, the man with just a
sword. He seemed to have found his courage at the sight of her being pushed
back; against two men she knew she would have little chance. She had to change
the situation decisively. Instead of stepping backwards as the shieldsman swung
his axe she stepped forward, pushing in as close as possible to him – despite
her slim frame her weight unbalanced him and he stumbled backwards slightly,
stopping his swipe at her in midair. She seized her chance and drove Needle
into his forearm, stabbing it roughly through the veins and tendons in the
wrist and dragging it upwards to his elbow. She was rewarded for her move by a
strong blow to the side of her head by his shield, knocking her to the floor in
one motion.
 
She could feel hot liquid roll down the side of her stinging face and the
vision in her right eye blurred red. The other side of her face was pressed
into the cold dirt; her right ear rang loudly from the hit and a wave of pain
rolled across it every time her heart beat. Her head was burning and she had to
fight he urge to throw up as she rolled onto her back and held Needle in front
of her, unwilling to give up fighting. Not today. She dragged herself to her
feet, swaying heavily, and tried to focus on her opponents but she dropped to
one knee as the ground spun around her and the edges of her vision were tinged
in darkness. Looking in front of her she could see the shadows of men, one
kneeling holding his wrist, another rushing towards her with a sword. She threw
herself back just in time to avoid being hit by the blade, landing on the rough
ground behind her, crawling backwards up the rising hill.
 
The man lunged forwards with a firm thrust that she only narrowly dodged by
rolling sideways, she retaliated by wildly swinging Needle back at him, the
grace and form of her water dancing lost in her state of frenzied panic. Her
hacking and slashing bought her precious seconds to scrabble to her feet before
jabbing forward with Needle, over compensating and tripping into her aggressor.
They both dropped to the ground, letting go of their swords, and rolled down a
rocky verge punctuated by tufts of soft grass. As if by instinct her hands
found their way to his throat, scratching and clawing and tearing his skin with
her finger nails. She was ferocious and savage, a force of nature, but it was
not enough. He struck the side of her face with his fist and used his other arm
to trap her windpipe, holding her against the floor with all his weight. Even
after she bit the inside of his wrist he kept pushing, forcing the air out of
her. She gasped, desperately trying to pull his arm off her, she felt herself
gag and her lungs began to burn inside her. Her head grew heavy and her
struggling less forceful. As the darkness that had edged her vision before
began to circle inwards she looked as another figure rushed towards her,
presumably the man with two axes.
 
But the man had a sword, not axes; he was a huge figure in dark armour, and
towered over the man pinning her to the ground. The Hound,she thought, wishing
she could let out a sigh of relief, noting in the back of her mind that this
must have been how Sansa had felt when she’d been attacked by the rapers in
King’s Landing. By the time the man trapping her had realised the Hound was
there it was far too late, the Hound’s sword had already been swung and took
the man’s face off in one powerful strike. The tension in her throat was
released allowing her to breathe; she coughed and spluttered as the air filled
her lungs, instinctively rolling on her side.
 
The Hound immediately rounded on the other man with two axes, positioning
himself in front of Arya to protect her. It did not take the Hound long to
dispatch the other tribesman: his sword was much longer than either of the one
handed axes the man he fought carried, a simple backwards step put him out of
range of the man’s attacks. From there it only took a single swing of the
Hound’s sword to kill him: the tip tore through the side of the man’s cheek,
shattering teeth and breaking his jaw.
He finished him by thrusting his own blade straight through his attacker’s
chest. Arya couldn’t see where the archer had gone, presumably fled as the tide
turned against them, but held on to consciousness for just long enough to watch
the Hound approach the shieldsman; still kneeling holding onto his wounded arm.
As the Hound stood over him the man dragged his shield above his head but, Arya
noted with a faintly satisfied smile, against the Hound’s sword the shield
splintered into pieces as though it had been made from bound straw – the man’s
skull fragmented in a similar, albeit messier, fashion.
 
Finally content the danger had passed the Hound rushed to her side, kneeling
over her with a look that was somewhere between fury and despair, he checked
the lacerations to the side of her face and poured water over them immediately
before searching the rest of her for wounds. Safe in his arms she allowed
herself to relax into the darkness; were it not for her losing consciousness,
she could almost have laughed, remembering the Hound’s insistence on the merits
of a big fucking sword.His eyes seemed to sparkle and a smile crossed the edges
of his lips, she thought in her last moments before sleep overtook her, as she
realised she’d muttered the words out loud.
 
-----
 
Seven hells!Her throat felt raw when she woke, one side of her face was numb
and swollen; littered with small cuts and splinters from the shield that had
been used to hit her. For a moment she’d feared she had lost her sight,
remembering how blurred it had been, but her eyes soon adjusted in the darkness
of the late evening – the landscape around her lit by soft moonlight. Her
entire body ached from the fighting but none of the pain felt particularly
deep, most of it was likely superficial. She tried to pull herself into a
seated position but failed miserably, choosing instead that lying back down
wouldn’t be too bad after all. Her movement however was all it took to prompt
the Hound into action; he immediately passed her a bowl of stew and a skin of
water.
 
“It’s cold,” he said sorrowfully, “there could be others out there, no fire
tonight.”
 
She nodded to him and accepted the stew. She pressed the bowl to her lips and
winced as she sipped and swallowed the broth, the act of swallowing sending
pain up and down her battered throat. She coughed and let out a loud curse. She
turned her head slowly back to the Hound, backlit against the moon and his face
in shadows, “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely.
 
Whatever he had been expecting it wasn’t that, his brow furrowed – though in
the darkness she couldn’t have seen it – and he replied earnestly “don’t be,
little wolf – you did well.”
 
She smiled slightly before sniping back “even without a big fucking sword?”
 
“Aye,” he replied, smirking, “even without that.” He looked over to her
seemingly studying her before asking “how’d you bring down the big fellow? The
prick with the two handed axe.”
 
She felt a flicker of pride cross her at the thought of the Hound looking round
and finding the body of the leader, the realisation he must have had when he
understood Arya had killed him on her own. She told him how she’d noted his
armour was too small and it didn’t guard under his arms or how his fat meant
there were gaps between the front and back plates. She explained that he was
slow to swing his axe and it left him exposed to Needle, how he’d crumpled into
a heap when she’d slipped her blade into his side. She told him how she’d
fended back the shieldsman, that she’d pushed up close to him to strike his arm
and how she’d nearly been knocked unconscious. She described her struggle with
the swordsman, how she’d tripped into him and they’d tumbled down the verge
before she stopped speaking. She flinched at the memory and took a deep breath,
trying to make out the details of the Hound’s face, “thank you… Clegane.”
 
He let out an exasperated sigh and looked away from her, “Sandor,” he said into
the valley, “Sandor, or the Hound… call me whatever the fuck you want just
don’t call me Clegane, I’ve no desire to be known by my family’s blood. You
might confuse me for my brother.”
 
“I won’t.” She asserted; a hint of strength behind her wavering voice, “You’re
not like him. I thought you were, but you’re not.”
 
“You’ve never even met my brother,” the Hound replied dismissively, forgetting
that she’d mentioned his brother on her blasted list.
 
“I have,” she looked away from him into the many different shades of dark blue
that outlined a valley beneath them, “at the Tourney of the Hand… I saw you
fight. He cut off his own horses’ head and attacked the Knight of the Flowers
just because he lost the joust.” The Hound snorted at something as though he
were about to laugh at some private joke, “and then I met him again at
Harrenhal.” This time the Hound was silent, he leaned forward and studied her
in detail, taking his silence as a sign for her to continue which, after some
time she did, “I served as Lord Tywin’s cup bearer for some time there, poured
his wine and served his meals but before that I was held with the prisoners in
the main courtyard. Every morning the Mountain would choose one of us and had
them tortured nearby before he’d mount their heads on spikes above where we
slept. He chose one of my friends; if Tywin hadn’t intervened he would have
killed Gendry…” She trailed off.
 
The Hound was silent for some time as though remembering something himself, “he
always was a cunt,” he muttered into the darkness that surrounded them before
taking a swig of water and passing the skin to her. After another extended
pause he burst into laughter and said “you were Lord Tywin’s cup bearer? He had
the whole of King’s Landing searching for you while you served him his food,
tended his fires and sat on his councils.” He roared a hearty laugh, “I guess
the mighty Tywin Lannister doesn’t know everything.”
 
In spite of herself, in spite of everything, she laughed too. They laughed
together into the night, the sound echoing around though the valleys and the
local rolling hills. They laughed together until the small hours of the next
day. When at last she did drift off to sleep, she pulled up her furs and,
forgetting to say her list just this once, whispered "Goodnight Sandor."
Chapter End Notes
     So, the sigil on the armour is that of House Waxley, is this
     relevant? We'll see... Hope you enjoyed that new chapter, it took
     much longer to write this one than normal and hope you aren't too mad
     at me for departing from canon with it. Leave a comment if you liked
     it or want to see more of something (it makes my day to read them)
     and hopefully there will be a new chapter up next week.
***** Four persons *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
She opened her eyes blearily, wincing at the brightness of the sky and
struggling to adjust to the daylight. It must have been about midday; they
should have started walking hours earlier if they were to make any decent
progress, she thought to herself grimly as she tried to sit up. Immediately,
she felt her body scream in protest, her muscles were burning and she became
instantly tired, dizzy and sick as waves of pain rolled across her. Her eyes
blurred black as she rested her head back against the grass and tried to
swallow, only then noticing how dry her throat was. There was a deep stabbing
pain in her chest. Her appearance must have been a horror; she concluded,
feeling her hair clinging heavily to her clammy forehead and the pain from what
she assumed must have been mulberry coloured bruises. She slowly tilted her
head to the side, gritting her teeth against the pain, to search for the Hound;
his furs and saddlebag were there but he wasn’t. She cursed, where in seven
hells was he?
 
She furrowed her brow and shut her eyes, taking several deep breaths before she
turned onto her side, letting out a sharp gasp as the pain rolled through her
again. Her breathing was ragged and heavy as she pulled herself towards the
Hound’s saddlebag to get water. She crawled forward, dragging her body with her
arms and shaking at the pain before she heard a loud booming voice echo towards
her.
 
“The fuck are you doing?” Sandor yelled, dropping the firewood he had been
collecting and rushing to her, kneeling by her side.
 
For a moment he seemed uncertain as to what to do and his hands hovered above
her before he decided to scoop her up in his arms and carry her back to her fur
spread. She fought for a moment before thinking better of it and he cradled her
as he gently set her down, her head leaning against the cold steel rivets of
his chest armour. Once he had set her head down again the grass carefully he
instinctively brushed her hair from her forehead with one hand, resting it on
top of her head to check for fever, while the other hand found his personal
supply of water and pressed it to her lips. In her desperation to gulp it down
she spilt most of it across her chin, spluttering slightly and shaking in pain
as her body rocked from dry coughs. Sandor steadied her and helped her into a
sitting position this time, patiently standing vigil over her and giving her
small sips that she could manage, careful not to waste any more of the water.
 
“How much food do we have left?” Arya asked hoarsely once she had had her fill
of the water. When the Hound shook his head in response she cursed. “Is there
anywhere nearby?”
 
“An old holdfast, a few miles away – but you’re in no state to ride and I won’t
leave you here alone lest more tribesmen come,” Sandor replied, revealing half
a loaf of stale bread from one of the pouches he kept on him and offering it to
her. “You need your strength girl,” he told her when she shook her head but,
both seeing how he wouldn’t accept no for an answer and only just realising how
hungry she was, she ravenously took it from him. It may have been too hard for
bread by half but in that moment it tasted better to her than anything the
cooks at Winterfell could have prepared.
 
As the Hound sat down next to her, his armour making a clinking noise as he did
so, she looked across the valley, only now appreciating her surroundings. In
the distance rose the snow covered peaks of the Mountains of the Moon and,
while they couldn’t see it from there, she knew that the Eyrie was situated at
the very top, hidden in cloud cover. It was the perfect defence, she reflected;
even if an enemy host could take the Bloody Gate they’d never take the Eyrie.
The Bloody Gate guarded the Vale of Arryn, forcing anyone who wished to enter
into the bottom of a narrow gorge where you could barely stand four a breast.
She remembered Maester Luwin saying that armies of ten thousand and a hundred
thousand would count for the same against that gate; it had never been
breached. It was little wonder it was described as impregnable. Somewhere from
the depths of her mind she remembered Tywin Lannister describing Harrenhal, a
million men could have marched against its walls, and a million men would have
been repelled.She found herself wondering how the Eyrie would fare against
dragons.
 
“How’d you get out of King’s Landing?” Sandor asked, interrupting her from her
thoughts. She realised he’d not once asked her about how she got to the
Brotherhood on their travels; he really had no idea what she’d been through.
She had figured he just didn’t care, just wanted to get her first to the Twins
then to the Eyrie, that all he wanted was his reward but it was different now,
something had changed. She suspected that the conversation about his brother
had sparked his interest but resolved to tell him everything and leave nothing
out.
 
“I left King’s Landing with a party of Night’s Watch recruits disguised as an
orphan. Yoren, our leader, cut my hair and promised to return me to Winterfell
on the way North but we had barely been on the Kingsroad a fortnight when we
were set upon by Goldcloaks,” she said, before swallowing the last mouthful of
the bread Sandor gave her. It hurt her throat slightly as it went down and, as
she winced, the Hound gave her another swig of water for the pain.
 
“Were they after you?” He asked, leaning forward to take a look at the cuts on
her face as she spoke.
 
“No, they were after Gen–” she started before stopping herself. As she looked
at Sandor, who had started cleaning the cuts on her face with a damp cloth, he
seemed different from the Hound she had seen at Winterfell, from the monster
that had killed Mycah. For a moment she almost smiled at the memory of the last
time he had washed the blood from her… but even if the Hound had changed, even
if he didn’t want her just for the money her aunt could pay, the Goldcloaks
thought Gendry was dead. It was safer that way: otherwise they’d be looking for
Gendry all his life and anyone who found him would get the King’s reward –
likely a greater sum than what Aunt Lysa would pay for her. The Hound may have
said “fuck the king” at the Inn on the Crossroads but she could not shake the
memory of him taking the silver from the man at the farm. Would he hand Gendry
to the King if Aunt Lysa refuses to pay for her? I will not lead him to Gendry.
He kept my secret, I will keep his, I owe him that much,she promised to
herself. She still didn’t know why the Goldcloaks wanted him, and she wasn’t
even certain if he was still alive but in case he was, just in case, she would
tell nobody he had survived, not even Sandor.
 
“They were after one of the other recruits,” she corrected herself, “they
didn’t know about me.” The Hound looked at her, he knew she hadn’t said
something but seemed also to know better than to push her any further on the
matter. In her own time she continued, “They killed Yoren, he took out a whole
bunch of them on his own even after he was shot with a crossbow, that was where
Polliver killed Lommy and stole Needle,” a slight smile crept up the lip of the
Hound as she said the name of her sword, “they marched the rest of us to
Harrenhal.”
 
“Where you met my brother,” The Hound finished her sentence for her, looking
into her grey eyes and driving her to the part of the story he was clearly most
interested in. She nodded, wincing as she moved the muscles in her neck. When
she felt well enough to continue, she did.
 
“We were kept in outdoor pens, the Mountain chose someone each day to be
tortured to death in front of us by the Tickler,” there was a flicker or
recognition in his eyes, whether because he’d heard her say the name on her
list or from his own memories of his brother she didn’t know. “He put rats in
buckets and then strapped them to the prisoner’s chest, heating the end of them
‘til the rats burrowed out. Then they mounted the head’s above us.”
 
“That sounds like Gregor… cunt.” The Hound said, more to himself than her,
before he took a swig of the water and asked “how’d you survive it all?”
 
“When Tywin arrived he had us all put to work; rather than just standing around
all day. When I refused to kneel he spotted I was a girl and took me as his
cupbearer.” She told him.
 
“What about your friend? The murderer; the one who’d kill me with his little
finger?” The Hound asked; a slight hint of mockery in his voice.
 
“When we were attacked, by the Goldcloaks, there was a caged wagon where they
held the most dangerous prisoners. It caught fire in the attack and, after I
let them out, one of them – a Faceless man – said he would give me three deaths
in return for the lives I had saved.” She told him.
 
“If he was a Faceless man, how’d he get caught?” The Hound asked, and for once
she didn’t have an answer. She had never asked Jaqen how he’d ended up
imprisoned, she assumed it must have been because he wanted to be there but
after the wagon caught fire he had needed her help to get out. Seeing that he’d
wounded her pride somewhat Sandor asked, “And did he? Did he kill for you?”
 
“Yes,” she said, “first he killed the Tickler, then one of Tywin’s captains who
caught me reading their war plans and then…” She paused in thought.
 
“Then?” The Hound asked, despite his still slightly mocking tone he seemed
genuinely curious. They had been travelling together for months now and yet
knew very little about each other.
 
“I gave him his own name, I only agreed to unname him if he helped me and my
friends escape, he killed all the guards at the gatehouse and we just walked
out.” She said; proud of herself.
 
“You just walked out of Harrenhal?” The Hound said with a laugh; this was no
doubt not the story he had been expecting from her. “Tywin had you all that
time, right there in front of him, and you just walked out.” He laughed again,
and she managed a slight chuckle before coughing and gasping slightly at that
stabbing pain that erupted in her chest. They sat in silence for a moment, his
hand resting on her back to give her support, before he said, in a much lower
voice, “it’s a shame.”
 
“What is?” She asked.
 
“Your assassin, the Faceless man,” he said in a still slightly disbelieving
voice – nobody doubted the Faceless men existed, they were well known for their
services, but that she had encountered one and saved his life was obviously a
little too much for him to take in, “he offered you three kills, you could’ve
chosen anyone and he’d kill them?” He said, questioning her.
 
“Yes,” she answered, reminded of the words Gendry had said when she’d finally
told him about Jaqen, you could’ve ended the war.
 
“Shame you couldn’t have named my brother, crossed his name of your list… off
both our lists.” He said. He was still looking at her, but his eyes were
unfocussed, presumably visualising the body of his brother, whatever history
lie between the two of them, Arya concluded, it had bred a real hatred in
Sandor.
 
“I could’ve chosen you,” she said absentmindedly.
 
She didn’t know why she said those words, she hadn’t meant to. She regretted
them instantly. Immediately Sandor withdrew, clearly hurt – but as fast as the
pain had crossed his face it was gone, replaced by the steel expression he had
worn when she first saw him in Winterfell those years ago. It’s true; it
would’ve been simpler for her to strike the Hound off her list while she had
been in Harrenhal, back before she had ever seen the other side to him. Perhaps
that’s why she said those words, Sandor confused her. The Tickler, Polliver,
Joffrey, Tywin, Cersei, Ilyn Payne – they were all evil people, people who
deserved to die. She had always thought Sandor was one of them, but now she
wasn’t so sure. And then it hit her, the Hound and Sandor are not the same
person. The Hound was armour. She cursed inwardly, it would have been easier if
she hadn’t gotten to know him; he had saved her on more than one occasion, he
had fought for her, protected her, he might even die for her. How can a man so
monstrous be anything but a monster? She asked herself. Seven hells!She could
have screamed from frustration – she had wanted him dead for what felt like as
long as she could remember and yet here she was, talking with him, enjoying his
company even – he made her feel… what does he make me feel?
 
She continued to stare at him, she couldn’t believe it had taken her this long
to see – he was literallytwo people. Unlike almost everyone else in Westeros he
wore both his faces all the time, the Hound and Sandor, battling over the same
skin – the twisted murderer and the knight. It dawned on her, am I any
different? He had done unspeakable things, he had murdered and stolen, but were
they really that different? I enjoyed killing Polliver,she remembered, her
stomach lurching slightly. He was a shit and deserved to die but I enjoyed
doing it…She found herself wondering if her father ever enjoyed killing; he had
never seemed to, always wearing a grim expression when a member of the Night’s
Watch deserted, but he must have killed dozens of men in Robert’s uprising and
in the Greyjoy Rebellion. The first time she had killed, that pitiful stable
boy, she had felt sick – he had cried and begged her to pull the sword out, but
the Frey man, Polliver, even the Hill Tribesmen; some part of her enjoyed
killing them, took pleasure in it. She liked the way the blood poured from
them. Did the stable boy deserve to die? Did she have to kill him, really? She
could have just run. She closed her eyes, swallowing hard and ignoring the
parched feeling of her throat this time, she had been practicing stabbing
Needle since Jon gave it to her, dreaming of becoming a warrior; the stable boy
was probably no older than Mycah… Am I on someone else’s list for his death?
 
“I’m sorry,” she said, but whether the Hound noticed she couldn’t say. He stood
up and walked back down the slope to pick up the firewood he had dropped. She
cursed herself, screwing her fists into balls until the skin around her
knuckles went white.
 
It was probably under an hour before they spoke again, but it felt a lot
longer. Every second was drawn out. The Hound wordlessly built and lit a fire
before putting the last of their meat – what she suspected was goat – into a
stew. She had lain back down and tried to sleep. When she was unable to she
found herself staring into the skies above at the various cloud patterns. If
she concentrated really hard she could almost visualise herself lying down on
one of the roofs of Winterfell… Bran would be climbing nearby, encouraging her
to scale one of the towers. She’d never tell him but Bran was a much better
climber than her. Mother would call them and no doubt send her to Septa Mordane
for a lecture on what a proper lady would do. Father would probably just laugh.
She felt a deep sadness roll over her, in their last days in King’s Landing her
father seldom smiled like he would in Winterfell. She wondered what they would
say about her, Father, Mother… Septa Mordane would probably yell at her in her
boy’s clothes, covered in blood and bruises.
 
She looked towards the Hound, fighting back the tears that stung in her eyes,
she felt herself soften to him. She would never see Father or Mother again, she
would probably not see anyone of her old family again, Sansa was still captive
in King’s Landing, Jon would never leave the Wall, Winterfell was a ruin and
while she hadn’t heard about Bran and Rickon, the state of Winterfell didn’t
give her much cause for hope. Hot Pie was gone, Gendry was gone – whether dead
or not she wasn’t sure, but the Hound – no, Sandor,he wasn’t. He was here, now,
and he was the closest she had to father. Whether they went to Lysa or Bravos
the Hound meant more to her now than her Aunt ever had. “I’m sorry,” she
mouthed again, though the wind took her words from her and scattered them
across the valley.
 
He brought the stew to her, helping her into a sit again and guiding the bowl
to her lips. Though his face was unreadable she felt she could see a deep
sadness in his eyes, like his heart had been struck from him. Once she finished
the stew he turned to leave but she caught his arm. Her grip was soft, the
bruising had sapped her strength and her fingers themselves were cut, but it
was enough. He paused for a moment as she held on, all it would have taken was
for him to step forward and his arm would have slipped from his grasp. In truth
he could have stayed still and her arm would have fallen anyway, she didn’t
have the power to keep it there. He turned to her, instinctively supporting her
arm and looked at her, unsure as to what she was asking him to do; unsure as to
what she expected him to do. She pulled herself forward into a full sitting
position, to the protest of her body, and leaned her head against him,
whispering gently, “the river…”
 
The enormity of what she had said alarmed him and he drew backwards for a
second, staring at her in surprise and confusion. She was covered in blood and
dirt, her clothes were filthy and she couldn’t stand on her own. Her eyes were
pleading. He nodded, scooping her into his arms, and walked her towards the
nearest stream. When they got there, it was not as wide as the one they had
used last time but deeper by two. When he walked into it he sank to his waste,
gently lowering Arya into the fast flowing water, careful to make sure it never
covered her face. She flinched as the cold ran over her, finding its way
through her clothes and seeping into her skin. She tensed up as the bruises
across her body began to burn and the cuts sear with pain. Sandor gently let
her legs go, allowing her to rest her feet against the bottom of the river bed
while supporting her weight by holding his hands under her shoulders. Her hands
gripped his arms tightly for support and for what felt like an impossibly long
amount of time they held each other.
 
It was Arya who moved first, she let go of the Hound’s arms and reached down to
the bottom of her jerkin. She tried to lift it over her head but couldn’t; the
bruising on her right arm prevented her from being able to lift it much higher
than her stomach. The Hound let go of her armpits slowly, making sure she could
stand, before helping her lift the leather padding from her chest. Under her
jerkin she wore only a thin wet shirt of faded wool that clung to her figure
tightly. Through it the Hound could see her form perfectly; the rise of her
breasts was evident and her nipples were visibly erect from the cold water. He
stopped, just staring at her; he swallowed so hard it made the lump in his
throat bob up and down. It made her uncomfortable; she had spent the last years
dressed as a boy and before that being called names like Arya Horseface by
Sansa and Jeyne Poole. The idea that he had stopped to appreciate what he in
fact thought was an exquisite sight didn’t occur to her.
 
The last time he had bathed her she had kept her top on. He had not seen her
naked, but she knew she couldn’t wash herself in this state, and the cuts she
felt needed to be cleaned. Her hands had already dropped to the hem of her
shirt to remove it before he broke out of whatever thought he was in, helping
her lift it. If he was excited by what was underneath he did not show it, his
face was tormented, Arya thought, though looking down she could see why. Her
breasts themselves were bound tight with cloth to make her appear less like a
girl, something she had done since her time with Yoren, but the skin around
them was a shambled patchwork of mulberry, brown and yellow bruising,
interrupted only by thin red cuts. It was little wonder she was in so much
pain. She released the clip that fastened her bindings and felt her breasts
drop free, a great weight lifted from her chest. The Hound’s jaw dropped
slightly.
 
He must have become aware that she was watching him because he immediately
dipped the bandages he had brought with him in the river and carefully rubbed
it over her shoulder. She flinched as he brushed over the bruising, shaking
slightly. It was impressive, she thought, that for someone as vicious as the
Hound he kept his hands still and moved with a grace she found surprising. He
felt them trace down her arms, and watched as her darkened skin lightened once
the mud washed off, unfortunately it also made the bruising appear worse. He
worked on her as if he were whetting the edge of his sword, searching for its
true colour under the layers of dirt and dried sweat. When the cloth moved down
to her breasts she took in a deep breath, the feeling was still tender but with
it was a sensation she hadn’t felt since the last time they were both in a
river together. As he moved the wet rag across her left nipple she felt warmth
spread through her despite the coldness of the water. Her stomach tightened
into a knot and she found herself biting on her lip to stop herself making a
noise. He repeated the action and she let out a slight whimper, whether from
the pain or something else she wasn’t sure. He looked at her, the deep sadness
in his eyes again, and said softly “close your eyes wolf-girl… it’ll make it
easier…” But this time she shook her head, this time she would look at him, she
resolved. He is my pack now.
 
She felt herself blushing as he washed her right side; a fire began to burn
inside her. She shivered from its warmth. The flames licked the inside of her
chest, wrapped their way around her bones and coursed through her veins. She
felt pressure building within her and felt a sense of immediate longing when he
finished washing her torso and stepped around to drape the rag over the back of
her neck and shoulders. He unknotted the muscles there as he gently applied
pressure. It seemed impossible to her that this man, the man that had murdered
and stolen, that had killed Mycah, could make her melt under his touch. They
were both two people, she was Arya Stark, heir to Winterfell and yet she was
also ‘Arry, the orphan and nobody. She had been ‘Arry with Yoren, she had been
‘Arry in Harrenhal, the last couple of years she had been ‘Arry more than she
had Arya. Only Gendry had seen her as Arya, Gendry and now the Hound. Mayhaps,
she thought, the Hound was being Sandor around her. She was interrupted from
her considerations by the Hound running the cloth down her spine. She could
have screamed as he pressed against a particularly deep bruise but instead her
legs gave way and she plunged into the water, her scream lost under its
surface.
 
The coldness surrounded her, a blue darkness; it ran into her mouth and ears
and eyes, yet there was peace. Her skin felt taught around her and the deep
pain of her wounds felt numbed. Inside her the warmth was growing, it spread
from her stomach to her breasts to between her legs. The pressure inside her
had welled up until she felt like she would explode. When Sandor’s hands pulled
her back to her feet and out of the water she turned to face him and took hold
of his arm, pulling the rag out of his hands and guiding it to her breeches. He
hesitated for a moment, looking into her face, before he allowed her to lead
his hand between her thighs. She pouted as his hand rested on her slit, eager
for the release. She couldn’t have known it, but the Hound had never seen
before him such a beautiful view as the wild and untameable Arya Stark, eyes
heavy with lust, eager for him to pleasure her.
 
He slipped a single finger inside her and she immediately let out a sigh,
leaning forwards against his chest. She shivered as her breasts touched against
the cold steel rivets of the front of his armour. Arya had never felt so many
intense feelings, her head was spinning from pain and pleasure, her heart was
pounding against her chest and her breathing came in short sharp gasps. The
pressure continued to build inside her like the string of a bow pulled taught
before its release. She moaned out loud as he pushed another finger inside her,
stretching her. She held both her hands against him to steady herself and let
out soft moans as he fingered her. When she came, she came hard, collapsing to
her knees in the water until just her head was above the surface. Waves of
pleasure rolled through her, blotting out all the pain she could feel in a
moment of pure ecstasy. She slammed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth,
feeling her whole body tremble and wishing she could hold on to the sensation
forever. Her legs trembled under the surface of the water, her toes were
screwed up tight and her hands gripped Sandor’s armour with a strength she
didn’t think she had. She could even smell her own arousal on Sandor’s hand as
he tried to pull her to her feet, failing the first time as her legs bucked
instantly.
 
They stood together for some time, gripping onto each other in the water. She
didn’t know if she was Arya Stark or ‘Arry or nobody. She didn’t know whether
she should hate or love the man in front of her, friend and foe, who had taken
away and given so much, who was all she had left in the world, and all she
hated. In that moment she felt like she had to believe there was hope for him,
so that there could be hope for her. Even then, even in the midst of all that
pleasure and the tenderness of their embrace, she felt the darkness in him and
her. It would’ve been easier to have Jaqen kill him while she was in Harrenhal,
she reflected. She had her list, he had his, how far down her list would she
get before the wolf and the Hound were one and the same?
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry for the wait! Now that I know where Season 4 has gone I can
     spend a little more time getting to where it got to, while the broad
     strokes will be echoed in this work there will, as you saw here, be
     significant diversions from canon. I hope you enjoy it :) I found
     this chapter very tricky to write, but here it is, and 2:30am I need
     to get some sleep now!
***** The Holdfast *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
They reached the holdfast after nightfall and, although they had only travelled
a few miles, their journey had been slow and arduous. Rain lashed down at them
from above spurred on by harsh and piercing winds. Arya felt an icy chill
spreading inside her as she took cold air into her lungs and water seeped
through her jerkin and light rough-spun tunic. It gripped her chest, freezing
her veins and ran from her heart to the very tips of her finger nails. Her hair
clung to her forehead and the side of her face; she had to keep pushing out of
her eyes. She could still barely stand let alone ride her own horse because of
her injuries so they had tied her white mare to the Hound’s black horse,
leading it, while Arya sat with Sandor. She faced sideways with both her legs
thrown over one half of the horse and her body leaning against the Hound’s
chest both for support and as a small amount of shelter from the biting winds.
 
Her every muscle in her body was burning in protest either from the bruising or
just the cold. Arya’s ears and face stung in the chill night air and her
drenched clothes were waterlogged and heavy, the gods only know how Sandor’s
armour must feel on him. After they left the river Sandor had urged for them to
rest another night so she could heal a little better but storm clouds rolled in
and they were too exposed on the ridge. It was foolish to travel by night over
the uneven ground, and whatever light might have been shone by the moon was
blotted out by the heavy clouds, but they had no choice. Their horses were
skittish, each rumble of thunder making them shake in terror and more than once
they had threatened to bolt if not for the steady direction of the Hound, who
seemed unnaturally still and at ease with the storm.
 
Arya felt miserable, each of her short and sharp breaths stinging her as her
wet clothes weighed down against her lungs; squeezing the air out of them. The
cold might’ve made her throw up had she eaten enough to. Instead she found
herself coughing and retching; all the while wishing she hadn’t bound her
breasts again as the bindings bit savagely against them with every movement,
rubbing against the old bruises and no doubt creating new ones. Her stomach
howled with hunger. She knew that they had no food and the chances of their
being some in the holdfast were slim to none judging by the state of the other
farms and settlements they’d past in the last weeks of travelling. More than
likely it would be empty and if they were attacked again they’d be too weak to
fight, she reflected bitterly, but at least in the holdfast they might have a
chance. There they could not only shelter from the weather but also bar the
door and force attackers to fight one by one.
 
In the darkness Arya couldn’t make out the structure that loomed before them,
she wouldn’t have known it was there at all had a flash of lightning not
revealed it for the briefest of moments. She was at first relieved and then
apprehensive when the Hound stopped and said they’d arrived; relieved that
their journey was over but fearful of what came next. There were no fires and
nothing to indicate, in the absence of the lightning, that the building was
either there or occupied; how the Hound spotted the door to it she had no idea,
everything was blurred together in the dim murky gloom that surrounded them.
Arya couldn’t help but feel a shiver, though whether from fear or the cold she
couldn’t say, when the Hound slipped off the back of the saddle behind her and,
drawing his sword, stepped into the blackness. Fear cuts deeper than swords,the
voice of Syrio whispered from the shadows, but whatever courage she summoned
was scattered to the winds with every passing moment the Hound was gone. The
lightning strike had all but destroyed her ability to pick out differences in
the shadows, and even when she tried to adjust and focus her sight on her
surroundings the rain was too heavy and ran into her now stinging eyes. Though
she knew she couldn’t be more than four or five feet from the ground on the
back of the horse she became anxious at her inability to see it, as though the
earth had fallen away and she hovered over a great bottomless chasm.
 
She closed her eyes; they were useless to her anyway, and began to focus on
what she could hear. The cold, hunger and her wounds had sapped the strength
from her and it took all the energy she could muster to hold her balance on the
horse and just listen. At first there was nothing beyond the heavy pounding of
her heart and the sounds of the rain bouncing against her ears but then,
gradually, she made out other noises. She heard the horses as they breathed and
snorted; and their hooves splashing and squelching against the muddy ground as
they nervously adjusted their footing. It gave her a little comfort to hear
that the earth was still below her, even if she couldn’t see it. Soon enough
she made out more; there was a stream nearby and she could even make out the
echoes of Sandor’s steel boots on the stone floors inside the holdfast. They
were faint and far off and almost inaudible against the rising orchestra of
rustling leaves in the tree canopies, moaning winds across the valleys and, a
little closer than she cared to think about, the not too distant growls and
shrieks of shadowcats. The storm of noise built in Arya’s ears louder and
louder until she wished she could hear nothing at all.
 
“Come on little wolf,” Sandor’s voice, powerful and caring, cut through the
noises of the night with such force that it made her jump and lose her balance;
she almost fell off the horse.
 
He scooped her into his arms and cradled her as he walked her to the Holdfast.
At the back of her mind she wondered if this was how Bran felt; powerless and
weak, having to be carried around all day, but she pushed the thought away
almost as soon as it had come; she did not want to think about Winterfell now,
she needed to be strong. The Hound walked with her almost twenty paces in the
darkness and she had almost began to wonder if he’d forgotten his way to the
door when she heard the sounds of his boots scrape against stone rather than
the mud outside. The clink of the metal resonated around the room and, even
without seeing it; she guessed the room was less than a stone’s throw from wall
to wall and half as wide as it was long. He set her down in the blackness and
leant her against a cold stone wall before turning and leaving. For the first
time since the lightning had struck she could finally make out the shape of the
Hound silhouetted against the frame of the door; black against dark blue.
 
As the Hound left the door more details emerged; the shadows separated
themselves and the various forms around her began to take shape. She was in a
large antechamber with a high, vaulted ceiling held up by six columns linked
with arches and each standing on a square plinth. They were set in three pairs
running backwards to the far wall, where a large stone hearth stood. To the
side of the hearth was a small pile of wooden logs and above; long, dark scorch
marks ran like smudged charcoal from the mantle of the fire all the way up the
walls. Where it met the roof she could just about make out a large faded
tapestry, white candles with red flames on a field of grey. A foul stench hung
in the air and without light the stone was black as pitch; it reminded Arya a
little too closely of her time in Harrenhal serving Tywin. Sure enough, in the
centre of the chamber, there was even a large overturned table like the one in
Tywin’s war room. The cobbled floor was decorated with a mixture of parchments,
scrolls and leaves, strewn around in all directions. She could see the great
oak door had been knocked clean off its hinges and was lying against one of the
arches; she gritted her chattering teeth together and tried to put aside the
grim thought that the previous occupants had been no more successful in holding
this place as her and Sandor would likely be if they were attacked.
 
There were small, narrow gaps in the wall on the opposite side of the room with
what looked like cast iron fittings, she guessed they were likely arrow slits,
but whatever they were, they let in the cold air from outside which, alongside
the frame where the great door should be, created an uncomfortable, bitter
draft. The cold air nipped at her fingers and bit deep into her waterlogged
clothing and sunk its teeth into her breast. As she sat there; tired, aching
and shaking, she felt a swathe of relief when Sandor returned, having stabled
the horses. He picked up the great oak door and set it against the frame it had
once belonged to before ramming it into place, using the large table as a
support. Only after he was confident the door was secure he knelt down by
Arya’s side, taking off one of his gauntlets and brushing her hair back before
he pressed his hand against her forehead. His hand was surprisingly warm
against her skin and it sent a slight shudder through her though she didn’t
understand why. She did, however, feel loss when the Hound turned away and
walked towards the hearth, she missed something about his touch.
 
He hurriedly set about lighting a fire; filling the hearth with logs and
parchment before striking two flints against it. The fire struggled to take at
first and even when he managed a small flame, each breath of wind or flicker
risked it going out. Even after the first logs were alight it amount to little
more than a small orange glow, barely penetrating the dark gulf that surrounded
it. From Arya’s position at the end of the chamber, the small light looked a
world away; it seemed to dance and bounce as the small flame rose and collapsed
with all the uncertainty and vulnerability of a newly born fawn taking its
first steps. But Sandor tended it dutifully, building it back up where it fell
and feeding it just enough for it to rise higher without smothering it. She
smiled slightly as she watched him guard the flame from the incoming breeze,
not unlike what he’s done for me.
 
Under his watch the fire grew larger and brighter until it filled the entire
hearth; roaring as the tips of its flames licked the top of the stone mantle.
The damp logs hissed and cracked loudly and as the Hound added a particularly
large piece of wood the fire belched forward a cloud of embers that skipped
through the air like a sprinkle of fireflies. The bright light bathed the room
in beige, casting long shadows, and a breath of warmth washed towards Arya. It
was a welcome feeling, but the cold had set too deep for her to enjoy it; her
bones felt brittle and her fingers would not stop trembling. Even with the fire
her vision was blurred, her head felt heavy and it was all she could do not to
be sick. She wasn’t sure if she chose to lie down or fell but suddenly her face
was pressed against the cold stone floor. Tremors ran up and down her spine and
her breathing was shallow and slow.
 
The Hound saw her and rushed over to her, his brow furrowed and his face panic
stricken. He scooped Arya into his arms and brought her across the room towards
the hearth, laying her down just an arm’s length from the fire. Immediately,
steam rose from her drenched clothes and even in glow of the orange light she
was pale. They both knew what had to be done, she wouldn’t be able to get warm
for as long as she wore her soaked garments; but Sandor didn’t move. He just
knelt nearby watching her, the fire shining light onto the deep scarring of his
face. It was a strange image, to be relieved to have the warmth and heat of the
flames and yet see their destructive force etched into Sandor, for the first
time since they had begun their journey so long ago she thought on what it must
be like for him. She knew he was afraid of fire and yet most evenings he had
built one for them as though it meant nothing to him. This fire, though, was
different; he had built this one for her, and although she couldn’t tell if he
was nervous about her or the size of the flames next to him, she suspected it
was a mixture of both.
 
Wordlessly, though with a grunt of pain, she pulled herself into a sitting
position and her hands traced down to the bottom hem of her jerkin; as she
pulled it over her head and threw it against the stone floor the Hound turned
away from her. The wet tunic she wore clung to her as she tried to take it off;
making a squelching noise as she finally threw it away. She released the
bindings that held her breasts together and gave a huge sigh of relief as she
breathed out, finally unrestricted, before untying the knot on her breeches and
pulling them down to her ankles and then kicking each foot out of them. She did
the same for her shift before placing her clothes in a pile slightly closer to
the hearth to dry. Her body trembled, partly from the chill that ran from the
small of her neck to the bottom of her spine but also from the sensation of
once again being naked in front of the Hound. It both excited and terrified
her, and the fact that he had turned away wounded her, though she did not
understand why.
 
As she stared at the Hound’s back memories swarmed towards her of Winterfell;
the voices of Sansa and Jeyne Poole surrounded and tormented her as their
voices yelled out Arya Horseface.For most of her life people had called her a
boy or the ugly sister. They laughed and made japes when she had worn dresses
and the only person who’d ever called her a lady was Gendry, and only then to
poke fun at her. She told herself that she didn’t care what any of them thought
about her; she never wanted to be a Lady. And yet, now, sitting down against
the cobbled floor utterly undressed, she realised she did care what the Hound
thought of her. She drew herself to full height, using the square plinth on the
closest column as a support and addressed him, her body shaking from the effort
and her head spinning.
 
“Is something… wrong?” Arya asked him, her voice small in the echoing room.
 
For a few long moments he did nothing, he didn’t even acknowledge she’d said
anything, but soon enough he turned to face her, his armour clinking as he did
so and his eyes glinting orange from the fire. He stared at her for what felt
like the longest time, he looked at her from her head to her toes, drinking in
the sight before him. His gaze passed from her steel eyes down to her lips,
then her neck, to the rise of her breasts, along her stomach, to the curve of
her pelvis and down to small curls of hair that covered her private parts
before trailing back up again. When he met her eyes the second time he seemed
sad, and looked towards the fire, his face tormented. She didn’t know why but
she had the sudden urge to cover herself up and placed one hand over the gap
between her legs and used the flat side of her arm to hide her breasts. She
didn’t know what she was expecting to happen, she didn’t know what she wanted
to happen, but she immediately felt foolish. She looked down at herself, at her
arm covering her chest, she was covered in dirt and mulberry bruises. She was
Arya Horsefaceall over again.
 
The Hound must have sensed her discomfort because he walked towards the column
that rose on the left side of the chamber, stepped onto the square plinth it
was rooted to, and reached up to grab the faded tapestry she’d seen earlier on
the ceiling. He tore it down in one swift movement, shaking the dust from it,
before throwing it around Arya’s shoulders. The weight of the tapestry
surprised her and her knees buckled under it, sending her straight to the
floor. The material it was woven from was coarse and rough against her skin but
she was cold enough that she didn’t care. She wrapped herself up in it and sank
against the closest pillar, to the right of the hearth. The deep set chill she
had felt gradually began to ebb from her body though it left her feeling tired
and exhausted. For the better part of an hour they must have sat in the room in
silence, both leaning against the pair of pillars by the hearth with the fire
in between them.
 
Sandor spoke first.
 
“You should sleep,” he told her, his voice low and oddly quiet.
 
She nodded to him, her eyes fixed on the dancing of the fire, before she asked
him again, her voice commanding more power this time, “was something wrong?”
 
“No.” He said; his voice little more than a whisper as he looked at her with an
unreadable expression that held a mixture of sadness, pity and a number of
other emotions Arya couldn’t make out. He offered her a small smile but it
faded as soon as it had arrived.
 
“Then… why?” Arya trailed off, she didn’t really know what she was asking; her
heart was pounding against her chest so hard it threatened to burst her
ribcage. She didn’t understand what was happening to her; ever since that first
day by the river when he had washed the moon blood from her something had
changed in her; her body wanted more of that feeling all the time. It was like
the sensation she felt killing Polliver but even more intense. When she had
felt it, the two of them standing against each other in the river, for a moment
Arya wasn’t alone. She was more than just herself, it had been like when they
had fought the Freys, or the Red Band, or even the Tribesmen; she felt
something between them, a bond of sorts. And yet he killed Mycah.
 
“Not tonight,” he said after some time and, after looking at him closely, she
realised he looked tired. The journey must have taken it out of him as well.
They stared at each other for a moment, studying one another’s faces, before he
turned away from her and the fire and told her once again “you should sleep.”
 
And she did.
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry for the delayed upload. This chapter is based largely on an
     experience I had while hiking in the foothills of the Alps, after a
     week of walking in the cold and rain I was told I had developed
     exposure and became seriously ill. Like their experience in the
     bogland, it was spurred on by my own past exploits.
     As always I hope you enjoyed the chapter, I've had lots of lovely
     comments recently so thank you for them, they mean so much as, while
     I love writing this story, it can sometimes be very tough to find the
     right words. I'll admit this chapter is slightly shorter as I decided
     the second half would make a better separate chapter but nonetheless,
     I do hope it doesn't disappoint :)
     In case anyone's interested, the idea behind this chapter was that
     neither the Hound nor Arya are particularly good at expressing
     themselves, I wanted to see how much I could write without their
     trademark banter. Arya is going through changes she doesn't
     understand and is, literally, lost in her own worries in the dark
     here. That was some of what I was aiming for, you can decide if I
     worked for yourselves :)
***** Want and Wantonness *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Arya awoke to find shafts of daylight streaming through the warped cast iron
fittings of the arrow slits that lined one wall of the chamber; in the smoky
air the light cut across the room in diagonal slats and landed on the dusty
stone floor. She immediately pulled herself into a sitting position to take in
her surroundings properly, noticing as she did that the sharp pains of the
bruises and cuts she’d received from her encounter with the tribesmen were
replaced with just dull aches. As she sat upright the coarse, heavy material of
the tapestry that the Hound had wrapped around her slipped from her shoulders;
exposing the milky skin of her bare back and torso to the air. The tapestry
scratched uncomfortably against her nipples before falling in a crumpled heap
around her legs. Instinctively her hands scooped up the folds of the fabric to
cover her breasts, feeling vulnerable without the bindings she usually pinned
them to her with, but hating the rough texture of it against her skin, she let
go and the tapestry dropped once again to her waist.
 
Despite there being a slight, cool breeze against her uncovered back the room
was surprisingly warm. She smiled a little, feeling her dry lips crack
slightly, when she saw the fire still burning, albeit much smaller than it had
been. The bits of wood inside were oddly shaped; she guessed the Hound must
have run out of logs in the night for he’d dismantled the bookcase and what
looked like two of the legs from the great oak table by the door to keep the
fire going. He seemed to have gathered a number of the books strewn across the
floor to use for kindling. Leaning against the base of one of the nearby
pillars she gave a sigh of relief at the knowledge the worst of the pain was
behind her; it was true her head still stung from being hit with the wooden
shield but the nicks and scrapes from the rest of the fight felt largely
healed. Indeed had it not been for the sickness from the storm she would
already have rose to her feet; but as it was, unsure of her strength and still
trembling slightly from the ordeals of the last few days, she decided to stay
seated, at least for a little while.
 
Her eyes glanced around the room; in the darkness she hadn’t noticed quite how
filthy it was; leaves, scrolls and books were scattered across the floor in
heaps and here and there she could see pooled dark stains across the floor and
against the walls that looked suspiciously like dried blood. The Holdfast had
clearly been derelict for a while before they had found it; and it was obvious
a vicious fight had taken place there. The six stone columns that supported the
vaulted ceiling were heavily chipped and lined with cracks, no doubt where
swords had struck them, and she found herself remembering that the door had
been knocked clean off its hinges. There was evidence of extensive fire damage
around the arrow slits; the stones were charred and black, the mortar cracked
and the metal fittings themselves were distorted and in some places had melted
altogether into patterns that resembled candle wax. A shiver ran through her as
she was reminded of the many burnt out rooms and chambers of Harrenhal. That
was dragonfire,she told herself, pushing the memory to the back of her mind.
Given that most of the damage here was above the arrow slits she guessed the
fire was started from the exterior of the Holdfast, not inside. She supposed
the attackers must have piled up wood and other flammable materials against the
outside walls and set it alight, presumably to use the ensuing smoke to hide
themselves from archers and weaken the resolve of the men inside.
 
She picked up a bound leather journal lying nearby and mindlessly flicked
through its pages; much of the writing was too smudged to make out and that
which was legible was unbearably tedious – from what she could tell it
contained shipping manifests from the harbour town of Wickenden; wool, wine and
cattle imports and exports for the year 297AC. Disinterested, she tossed the
book away and instead looked around at the other books and papers around.
Eventually she picked up a folded piece of parchment, on which were two broken
wax seals. One of them she recognised as being the sigil of House Arryn, a
falcon next to a crescent moon, and the other she did not know; there was the
same crescent moon but this time it was guarded by a portcullis and surrounded
by strange symbols she’d never encountered before. It read:
 
“Lord Waxley,
Whilst the Lady Arryn was greatly moved by your plea and appreciates the
difficulty facing yourself and your subjects in Wickenden, it is her deepest
regret she is unable to spare any men to assist in your campaigns against the
Tribesmen. Since the Lady Arryn called the banners behind the Bloody Gate, we
are having troubles of our own keeping even the High Road safe; unfortunately
it seems war has made the savages bolder, and the recent patronage offered to
one band by House Lannister seems to have fuelled their fervour for war. Rumour
has it the Imp promised to give them the entirety of the Vale if they escorted
him to his father safely.
Once again, Lady Arryn passes on her deep regrets and wishes you success
against the tribesmen.
 
Faithfully,
Nestor Royce, Lord of the Gates of the Moon and High Steward, writing on behalf
of Lysa Arryn, Lady Regent of the Eyrie and ruler of the Vale."
 
She turned the parchment over in her hands several times before screwing it up,
enjoying the feel of the paper crumpling between her fingers, and threw it into
the fire. She gave a grim smile as she watched it disappear amongst the flames,
a small cloud of embers rising where it had landed. Arya rested the back of her
head against the column she was leant on and found her eyes following the wisps
of smoke as they drifted lazily up above her; twisting and spiralling. She
sighed as they touched that plain vaulted ceiling and dispersed into
nothingness, before realising that the ceiling was not plain at all, merely
faded. Decades of fire smoke and neglect had dulled what she did not doubt were
once vivid colours, even in that moment she could make out the misty images of
entwined trees with fruitful branches, rising up under a night sky lit by a
crescent moon. She could see the holdfast had once been beautifully ornate,
decorated and furnished as nicely as any of the rooms in Winterfell, but like
her home it filled her with sadness and longing. Worse still, the engraved
leaved branches that wrapped around one another to make a canopy overhead
reminded her of the throne room in King’s Landing. She cast her eyes back
towards the great hearth and tried to think of something else.
 
Arya could see her clothes had been laid out near the fire carefully to dry
along with Needle, which had been propped against the stone wall. She slowly
pulled herself to her feet, wincing slightly as she flexed her muscles, and
walked towards the hearth, the rough tapestry sliding off her and collecting in
a pile by her feet. She felt oddly freed without the weight of it against her
and embraced the feeling of the fire’s warmth on her bare skin. As she crossed
the stone floor to get to her clothes shadows grew around the edge of her
vision and forced her to stand still or risk losing her balance, seven
hells,she cursed at her weakness, allowing herself a grim smile at the thought
of what Syrio might say. She closed her eyes, somehow she always found
balancing easier with her eyes closed, and muttered to herself “very dead,” in
her best attempt at his Braavosi accent. All that time spent chasing cats and
standing on one foot suddenly felt wasted on her, when it took all the strength
she had just to not topple over.
 
An enormous cracking noise nearby broke her away from her memories and, with a
grace that surprised her given her injured state, she dived for Needle,
successfully snatching the handle and unsheathing the weapon in one swift
motion. As she wheeled around, pointing the blade to the direction of the
sound, she barely noticed she’d scraped her knuckles against the wall when
reaching for her sword; warm crimson dripped from her hand. She spread her
trembling feet apart into the stance she was so accustomed to, despite the
aching of her muscles she felt comfortable in its familiarity, though she
doubted she could hold the position for that long. She was shaking just at the
effort of keeping the fighter’s stance, she knew she wouldn’t be able to win a
fight. Even with the warmth of the fire on her back, she felt a cold chill rise
through her at her obvious vulnerability; she was hurt, naked and in danger of
falling over before any swordplay took place, it wouldn’t take much more than a
summer’s breeze to overpower her.
 
The noise came from a narrow archway set back from the right hand wall of the
chamber that Arya hadn’t even noticed until then. You are not seeing,the voice
of Syrio taunted from her memories. She calmed her heart, breathing slowly and
took in her surroundings like she had been taught; at the base of the archway
there was a bundle of wood and, given that a few pieces of it were still
moving, she didn’t doubt that it was the cause of the sound. A shadow moved
beyond the arch. “I’m armed!” she shouted, wishing her voice were more forceful
than it was. Pain rose within her, surging upwards from her feet to the very
ends of her shaking fingers. If this doesn’t end soon I won’t even be able to
fucking stand,she cursed. Arya clenched her jaw and dropped to one knee to help
her balance, pressing her right hand against the cold stone floor for support
while keeping her left arm extended, Needle pointed to the arch.
 
The seconds passed agonising slowly, the reassuring warmth of the fire that had
felt so enjoyable just moments ago now felt uncomfortable as beads of sweat ran
down her. I need to end this, now,she told herself; her anticipation coming to
a head and threatening to boil over. “Who’s there?” She part asked, part
commanded.
 
After a few moments she heard a great sigh from behind the arches, followed by
the Hound’s gruff voice. “Calm yourself, wolf-girl, it’s only me.”
 
Her fear melted into relief and then anger as she lowered Needle and pulled
herself up into a standing position, leaning against the wall for support, “you
are the worst shit in the seven kingdoms!” She half-heartedly yelled at him,
happy to have dropped out of the somewhat exhausting water dancing stance.
“What in seven hells are you thinking, hiding in the shadows like that?! You
scared me half to death!” She was surprised she admitted that to him.
 
The Hound said nothing; hanging behind the archway out of her sight while Arya
rested Needle against the wall, noticing that the sword was still covered with
the dark, dried blood of the Tribesman she’d stabbed. She barely heard the
footsteps of the Hound as he walked away down the small winding corridor the
arch led to, his metal boots scraping the stone floor, quieter with each pace.
She was too busy gritting her teeth and looked to her bleeding knuckles;
watching the newly forming scab tear open as she flexed her hand and then
clenched it into a fist. Once she felt comfortable standing without support
again she reached down to her pile of warm clothes and quickly sifted through
them to find the cloth she usually bound her breasts with and used it to wrap
around her cut knuckles. She had to sit down to put on her shift and breeches;
it was still too uncomfortable balancing on one leg. When Arya threw her tunic
on she noted that without the bindings to keep her chest flat her bust pushed
at the seams of the boy’s clothes she’d worn for the last couple of years. She
cursed the swell of her breasts; they were awkward and got in the way. They
made shooting arrows harder too, she thought, remembering the last time she had
held a bow with the Brotherhood – and they’d grown larger since then. It wasn’t
just the jerkin that felt stretched either; she couldn’t pinpoint when but at
some point her hips must have got wider as well for her breeches felt tighter
around her waist. With her once short hair now resting only a few inches above
her shoulders she realised her days of being able to disguise herself as a boy
were swiftly coming to an end. Nonetheless, the soft worn leathers she’d spent
the last few years in made a pleasant change against her bruised skin from the
rough tapestry she’d used as mattress and sheet the night afore.
 
After buckling her belt and strapping the still blood encrusted Needle to her
hip, telling herself she’d clean it properly later, she sighed and leant her
head against the wall; looking back up at the floral ceiling as she did so. The
gentle greens were dusted grey by decades of firesmoke and negligence; the
careful nuances of the work lost to the ages, the sight made her feel a little
empty inside. She took in a deep breath and then walked towards the archway,
interested to explore whatever it was the Hound had found down there. Her steps
were small and uncertain at first, halting every few paces to check her
balance, but with each tread she gained confidence and soon found herself
walking over the wood the Hound had dropped on the floor. What in seven hells
is wrong with him?She thought to herself, still jaded from his rejection last
night. What in seven hells is wrong with me? As if to answer her the high,
childish laughs of Sansa and Jeyne Poole rang in her ears, mocking and
chanting, Arya Horseface, Arya Horseface, Arya Horseface.She cursed them both
under her breath, though immediately felt guilty as she remembered Sansa still
stuck in King’s Landing.
 
Arya couldn’t understand why she was so hurt; she felt stupid, like the
insecure child she had been in Winterfell again, always in the shadow of her
more beautiful sister. Growing up, Arya had told herself she didn’t care; that
she didn’t want to be a Lady, she had told herself so many times that she no
longer questioned it. In fairness, it was at least in large part true; she
hated the Southron styles and felt more at home in breeches than she ever would
in a dress. She had no intention of ever becoming someone’s Lady and baring
them children. She would not marry, she would be free; her whole childhood
she’d been told her Stark name dictated she’d be wed to some green Lordling boy
to secure an alliance. That is not my future,she thought to herself with a
slight smile... And yet there was this feeling in her stomach – a knot that
bound tighter and tighter that she couldn’t untie. She didn't remember but
she'd felt it before, what seemed like years ago, when Gendry doted over that
black headed girl at the Peach; so much had passed since then.
 
She pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind, hoping they’d stay there, and
explained the tension in her stomach away as hunger; she did, in truth, feel
starved. Mayhaps the Hound has found some food, there must be a pantry
somewhere,she hoped as she walked through the archway and up the corridor that
followed, climbing a small flight of stairs on the way. The corridor was wide
enough for two men to walk abreast but not so wide that she couldn’t touch both
walls with her hands. It snaked and twisted upwards; making it very hard to
work out exactly what direction it was leading. More than once she stumbled,
almost falling; the ground was wet from the storm and although the rounded
stones that made up the floor had no doubt once been smoothed now they were
disjointed and uneven, the mortar between them cracked. The small gutters that
ran either side of the pathway to drain rainwater were blocked with dislodged
stones; the entire passageway was in disrepair. Above her head, cold grey light
came in from great circle holes still dripping from the storm of the day afore,
surrounded by hanging mosses and lichens. A bitter wind cut through her as she
continued upwards, she thought back to the warm antechamber wistfully.
 
How much bloody higher is there?She wondered as the sloping floor steepened,
then broke out into steps and the walls curved in on themselves yet again. Her
muscles had begun to burn again and her lungs ached from the cold air. Beads of
sweat dripped down her forehead and stung in her eyes. After slipping once more
and grazing her forearm on a particularly sharp stone, Arya was on the verge of
yelling out to the Hound, but stopped when she heard large crashing noises from
further up. There was no way of knowing just how far it was to where the loud
echoes came from but she continued anyway, pushing past her pain and running a
hand against the wall for support. As the corridor broke into a spiral
staircase she could feel her head clouding and paused for just a moment to
catch her breath, listening to the racket above her. When she started again she
was pleasantly surprised to find the top of the staircase only two more turns
away before it broke into a large open room guarded by an open great oak door.
 
She could tell just from the sight that it was the Lord’s chamber; unlike
everywhere else in the Holdfast it had, in large part, been kept from
disrepair. In the centre, a great four posted bed towered high; its posts
carved to look like twisting vines that reached and stretched up towards the
high vaulted ceiling. The paintwork was less faded and the room was framed in a
mixture of vibrant greens and dark browns. An unlit hearth, smaller by half
than the one in the chamber below, was built against the left hand wall, the
chimney also decorated with floral patterns. Two great windows in black iron
frames with thick wooden shutters let the grey daylight into the room from the
far wall and the right hand side; they unfortunately let in a cold breeze that
tore through her, sending shivers down her spine. The rest of the chamber was
covered in numerous bookcases, shelves and tapestries. She staggered towards
the room, leaning against the huge door frame when she caught sight of the
Hound, coming from a small cupboard that branched off of the wound, presumably
to the Lord’s privy.
 
Inside the he had his back turned away from her; he acted like a man possessed.
The Hound was tearing through cupboards and overturning empty trunks and cases,
scouring the ground for anything of value. Loose brackets hung from the walls
where he had torn down shelves and broken them into firewood. Books and papers
were thrown into a pile in the corner of the room with a number of tattered
rags. In a single, swift movement he ripped down one of the tapestries from the
wall; it told the story of two doomed lovers that met by night in a glen of a
great Weirwood trees, but by day were forced to pretend they didn’t know one
another. Sansa would probably know the story,Arya thought, remembering the
great tapestries that hung in Winterfell. The Hound screwed up the tapestry in
his arms and spun to see Arya, standing small and pale at the top of the
archway. He paused for a moment, in surprise, before shooting her a dark look.
 
“The fuck you doing here?” He growled at her; a mixture of concern and contempt
on his lips. He threw the old tapestry into the corner with an alarming amount
of force; enough to make small plumes of dust rise where it landed. Arya didn’t
understand why he was so furious.
 
“Find anything?” Arya asked, hoping he might have come across a reserve of
food, she sounded more desperate than she had meant to.
 
The Hound shook his head roughly before turning away from her and walking
towards a great wooden bed in the centre of the room, ripping off the sheets
and running his knife along the seams of the stitched bedding to sift through
the hay inside. “Nothing,” he grunted, throwing hay onto the floor before
flipping the bedding over, “Not a fucking thing of use, no food, no water; and
no fucking wine.”
 
“Nothing?” Arya repeated, disheartened, before walking into the room, past the
Hound and looking out the great window at its far end. In front of her she
could see the land of the Vale rolling out for leagues ahead, an endless
patchwork of rocky fields and bogs and streams. It looked every bit as barren
and empty as the Holdfast they were in. In the darkness of the night afore she
hadn’t noticed that the Holdfast was built against a great cliff face, the long
corridor to the Lord’s topmost room rose up its sheered sides, twisting and
turning with the rocks. From this vantage point you could see attackers from
miles away and in the distance she could just about make out the mountain that
held the Eyrie, though she couldn’t actually see the fortress itself.
 
“Aye, nothing!” The Hound barked at her as she continued to look at the Vale,
“Whoever hit this place hit it good, there’s nothing here but books and fucking
tapestries!” He yelled, kicking the crumpled tapestry he’d thrown on the floor.
Arya had never seen him like this before, she didn’t want to admit it but the
man’s instability unnerved her, even scared her a little. She found her hand
instinctively resting on the pommel of Needle.
 
“What in seven hells is the matter with you?” She asked bitterly, her voice
cutting through the room and stopping him in his tracks. She turned, taking a
few steps forward and squaring up against him. Her own power surprised her, but
it didn’t daunt him and he leant towards her, towering over her small frame,
scowling and yelling through gritted teeth.
 
“Just shut up, shut up! Always talking… a child, you’re fucking child!” He
roared, before he stormed past her, gripping her shoulder savagely and turning
her so she faced the window again. He pointed out the Eyrie in the distance,
his metal shoulder armour roughly clipping the back of her ear as he did, “See
that speck in the distance, that’s where we’re headed – and there’s nought of
worth between here and there, no villages, no holdfasts, and scarcely any
farms. We have no food, no water and unless we find some won’t have horses for
long either, there could be tribesmen hiding round every rock for leagues and
you’re in no fucking state to walk let alone fight.” He let go of her shoulder
and slammed his fist against the wall, before pacing into the centre of the
room, leaning against one of the bedposts. “Out there or in here, we haven’t
got a fucking chance; I should leave you here, I’d probably make it.”
 
“Why don’t you then?” Arya snapped; face flushed with an anger that numbed her
aches and pains. Unfortunately, that same anger made her irrational; she knew
she would need his help to survive but it didn’t matter, she still screamed at
him, “Why don’t you just fucking leave if you want to so badly!”
 
When he turned around his face was unreadable, a contorted mixture of pain and
hate and, something else. He closed the gap between them and gripped her right
arm tightly, when he spoke it was soft and in a guttural whisper that shook
Arya to her core, “What would you know about what I want?” He pushed himself
closer to her, so their bodies were practically touching. A flicker of heat ran
through Arya, whether from fear or, something else, she wasn’t sure but she
panicked and struck out at him with her free arm, her split knuckles landing
against his chest armour. He stepped backwards, surprised, brow furrowed and
teeth clenched, he had not let go of her arm. As she aimed another punch his
way he easily blocked it, bringing his heel down against her ankle and knocking
her to the floor in one swift motion. She cursed, pulling herself to her feet,
and through all her weight against him.
 
The Hound sidestepped her lunge, pushing her against the side of the bed. With
the Hound having gutted the bedding of its stuffing earlier her tailbone hit
one of the hard wooden ruts that supported it and sent a bolt of pain up her
back. She had to fight the urge to curl up into a ball out of instinct, her
fingernails digging into the palms of her hands to cope with the pain, but
whatever pain she felt added fire to her fury and before she knew it she had
unsheathed Needle and directed it towards the Hound. He caught her wrist in a
vicelike grip, pointing the blade away from him and pulling her close. “Let go
of me,” She screamed, baring her teeth at him in a snarl, “don’t touch me!”
 
His face broke into a menacing grin as he brought his free hand between her
legs, pressing her back towards the bed and growling out “I thought you wanted
my touch.” She let out a slight whimper as he pressed his hand harder against
her sex and for a brief moment relaxed her hold on Needle, before she regained
her composure and tried to wrest herself free from him.
 
“Fuck you!” She yelled at him, “You are the worst–” she began but was cut off
when the Hound drove his hand up between her legs so forcefully it lifted her
off her feet, pushing her backwards onto what was left of the bedding. This
time when she landed she fell against some of the hay the Hound hadn’t pulled
out and it hurt less than half as much. Despite her anger she could feel her
body begin to betray her; heat spread from between her legs where the Hound’s
hand was firmly clamped and her eyes grew heavy with lust. In a last bid to
pull herself away from him she half-heartedly tried to sit up, only to be
pushed back down. Needle dropped to the floor and rolled into the corner,
forgotten.
 
“Aye, I’m the worst shit in the seven kingdoms,” The Hound finished for her,
“you already said that,” listening as she let out a soft moan when he adjusted
his hand, rubbing her cunt through her breeches. Excitement burned through her
like wildfire as she melted against his touch, giving up her attempts to
struggle and bringing her own hands down to the top of her belt to unbuckled
it. He didn’t need any more convincing and slipped his hand underneath her
breeches and shift, pushing his fingers deep into her warm folds. She gasped as
he pressed his thumb against that hooded bundle of nerves, her hips rising
automatically to try and draw him deeper. Her anger and pain and pleasure all
fused together into intense lust. All that mattered to her was feeling more of
that indescribable sensation.
 
In a bid to get more of his hand into her she pulled herself into a sitting
position, her hands gripping the shoulder plates of his armour for support. She
screwed her eyes tight and let out a number of pleasurable sighs as the Hound’s
fingers repositioned inside her and, taking her cue, he slipped his free arm
behind her back and lifted her upwards, her arse hovering just above the
bedding, so that nearly her entire weight was balanced against his inserted
fingers. They sank deep into her, so deep she thought she would split open. She
felt herself screaming but no sound came out, her hips jolted repeatedly as she
tried to hold onto his hand and also get away from it. Her breath caught in her
lungs as her cunt struggled to accommodate him and it felt as if something was
about to burst inside her. She winced and grunted as ripples of enjoyment
rolled through her, each subsumed by the next stronger like waves on the shore.
The Hound’s fingers slipped deeper than ever into her, stretching her wider and
igniting her desire, his thumb rubbed her clitoris furiously. Arya felt her
body tense as she let go of the Hound’s armour and dropped onto the bed, his
arm behind her back stopped her from hitting her head against the wood.
Instinctively her now free hands gripped what was left of the bedding, she
curled her toes into balls and gritted her teeth together. She screwed her eyes
shut and shook as she teetered on the brink of orgasm.
 
As she came, she came hard, practically screaming from the pleasure. Her hips
bucked against him again and again as the great tension in her stomach was
released, she felt water gush from between her legs over the Hound’s hand; her
cunt twitched as it clamped his fingers inside her, stopping him from
withdrawing them. The darkness seemed to dance and swirl around her as she
tried to breath but couldn’t; her lungs frozen in the bliss and great exertion
of her climax. As she sank back down from her high a series of jolts and
trembles rocked her limbs. Her heart pounded loudly, her ears rang, a layer of
sweat coated her body. There was a dull ache from deep inside her sex and yet a
yearning for more. She blushed a deep crimson colour when she finally, blearily
opened her eyes. There was a large dark, wet patch on the front of her
breeches, the warmth ran over her legs and nestled between the cheeks of her
arse. She felt embarrassed and childlike, remembering how the Septa would
react, exasperated, when she had to change the sheets but there was no look of
anger or disgust in the Hound’s eyes; they were heavy lidded with lust and
wonder. When he removed his hand from inside her she felt an immediate pang of
emptiness and longing.
 
It was only as exhaustion began to claim her, both from her climax and the
climb up to the chamber; that she remembered how angry she was with the Hound,
how angry she was with herself for once again collapsing under his touch. I
wanted that,she realised, feeling somewhat guilty at herself for giving up
against him so easily, more than he did.As she began to drift off on to sleep
she felt the warmth and afterglow of her orgasm begin to fade and be replaced
by that cold draft. As a shiver rolled over her spine the Hound through one of
the discarded sheets over her and grim smile rolled across her lips, it turns
out there was something of use up here,she thought enjoying the, albeit partly
destroyed, bed she was lying on. She heard the locks and bolts of the door to
the chamber and the windows being sealed and it wasn’t long before the Hound
had managed to construct a roaring fire; it seemed the tapestries, books and
shelves were also not entirely without use.
 
After a brief visit to the Lord’s privy, the Hound lie down on the bed next to
Arya, still in armour. As sleep rolled over the two of them a slightly chilling
thought ran across Arya’s mind… what exactly does he want…
Chapter End Notes
     My sincerest apologies for the very long delay between this chapter
     and the last, I do hope you enjoyed this (longer) chapter in
     compensation. It has been incredibly difficult to write this one and
     went through numerous reedits before I came to something even vaguely
     tolerable but still, I hope this lived up to expectations. I cannot
     believe how wonderful the comments have been on here and that we
     crossed over 100 kudos and 6000 views. Thank you all for reading and
     liking, the comments really helped me write this one - there were
     more than a few moments where I think, without all the positive
     support, I might have stopped writing. Once again, thank you all and
     let me know what you think :)
***** Prey *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The cold air bit savagely at his scarred face, gripping into the twisted flesh
with its icy fingers. They had ridden their horses hard and fast for the better
part of the day in a desperate attempt to cross as much ground as possible
while they were still strong enough to do so. They had long since passed
exhaustion and both Arya and the Hound were aware that the longer it took them
to find somewhere with food, the less likely their chances of survival were.
Although he saw signs of recovery in her Sandor knew she wouldn’t be able to
hold her own in a fight, and if he went much longer without something warm to
eat he doubted he would either – a powerful fatigue had wrapped itself around
him, burrowing under his skin and sinking deep into his muscles and bones. He
was seldom used to feeling weak, the thought unnerved him; not only that he
couldn’t likely protect himself properly, but also that he wouldn’t be able to
protect her.He wouldn’t admit it but he found surprising comfort being near
her, more so than any other person he’d travelled with, even if she hated
him... maybe becauseshe hated him.
 
He had watched and done unspeakable things in his life, things no person should
see or do, he no longer remembered how many he had killed, nor did he believe
he wouldn’t kill again. And yet Arya didn’t judge him simply because he was a
murderer, after all, he’d watched her kill a handful of men herself, and she
didn’t alwayshate him either. He wondered if he hadn’t run down her butcher
friend for Joffrey, spoilt Lannister cunt,whether they might have been friends.
Probably not,he thought to himself as he flicked a few stray hairs from his
eyes, but then she doesn’talways hate me… Certainly she had softened towards
him recently, both since she was incapable of protecting herself and since he
had placed his hands between her thighs and given her what she so craved and
feared. Younger girls than her would have been wedded to rich Southern Lords
already and Sandor knew better than most how hot blood runs after a battle, it
was little wonder she was so confused. Sandor didn’t doubt she was more mature
and smarter than half the men he knew and yet in this regard she was still just
a child, so nervous and unsure.
 
They had left the holdfast before the sun had reached its midday mark, filling
their flasks with some of the water from the storm that trickled from the high
tower. To his surprise Arya stifled any complaints when they were forced to
saddle their horses on empty stomachs, in fact she didn’t say anything at all.
She bore a look of carnal satisfaction and a slight disgust that tore at
Sandor; she looked at him with the expression you might expect to find on a
petulant child. They hadn’t said anything since they both awoke, him first, her
second. He had already set about checking the Holdfast one last time for
anything of use by the time she came down the staircase, trembling in her
weakness and at the cold. A deep knot formed in his stomach at the thought of
actually passing her over to her Aunt – they needed to get to the Bloody Gate
or else they would likely be killed, but getting there would mean saying
goodbye. He didn’t understand the effect the two Stark girls had had on him, he
was completely fine on his own before he’d met them – better still he
likedbeing on his own. Somehow something had changed, and it made him feel
deeply uncomfortable.
 
Once they left the ensuing ride was as swift as possible without killing their
mounts. Their silence continued for league on league and for the first time in
what felt like weeks they made good progress, many of the paths were in
surprisingly good repair. As the sun reached its highest, even though it was
hidden in cloud cover, they spotted smoke in the distance. From so far out it
was hard to tell if it was from a farm, a camp or a forest fire but whatever it
was lay directly in their path. Their only chance of getting to the Eyrie
without finding any more supplies rested on them taking as direct a route as
possible, they couldn’t risk going around the source of the smoke – not without
food and with Arya weakening by the hour. Her physical injuries had begun
healing rather well but the limited rest and food was clearly draining what
little strength she had left after the bandit attack. As they crested another
small hill and headed down into a valley, still heading towards the smoke, he
broke the silence.
 
“Could be food.” He said calmly, weighing up the risk of pushing forward
blindly against the dangers of a long detour. He didn’t think the horses would
be up to making a quick escape but then again he didn’t think they’d manage
much longer going around. They needed supplies; the horses, him and Arya.
 
“Could be soldiers.” She replied, her voice was soft but surprisingly powerful.
Evidently she also was judging the odds of whether to proceed or go around the
source of the smoke.
 
The Hound grimaced; it could be any number of things. It could be a trap, it
could be nothing. If it had been attacked there wouldn’t be anything left and
worse still there may still be soldiers or tribesmen nearby. And if it was just
a house, then it was obviously occupied – the chances that whoever owned it
would willingly part with food was slim and he’d rather not fight them for it.
Although there were any number of reasons why getting into a fight would be
reckless and ill advised – not the least of which being that he, tired and
hungry, was unusually weak and Arya couldn’t defend herself either – the real
reason he wanted not to fight surprised him. After the way she had reacted to
him taking the farmer’s silver, he didn’t want her to see him do something
similar to whoever owned this house. He didn’t want to be that man around her.
Seven hells,he cursed to himself, when did you start giving a fuck what the
Stark girl thinks of you? She can’t hate you any more than she does.
 
Without any more words they pushed forwards. The chance of finding supplies was
more valuable to them than to err on the side of caution – if they were going
to get through the journey, they needed to take the risk. The source of smoke
was still a way off, coming somewhere within a small patch of woodlands, but
even at that distance he could just about make out the bare outlines of some
kind of structure – wooden beams of the roofing stood exposed. Wordlessly he
dismounted his horse, drawing his sword, cursing a little at his hunger and how
much heavier it made the blade feel. When he was content there was no immediate
danger he turned around to Arya, still on her white mare, and offered her a
hand down. As stubborn as she was even she knew she was still hurt and weak
enough to need his help, even if she wouldn’t say it allowed. She pressed her
hands on his shoulders and slid off the saddle of the horse, her feet slipping
in the mud when they hit the ground and bringing her to her knees in front of
him. Instinctively the Hound dropped his sword and grabbed her under her arms,
lifting her back up and holding her still for a moment while she regained her
balance.
 
“You good?” He asked her, unsure whether to loosen his grip or not. She looked
up at him for a moment disoriented by the drop and hunger, before nodding. Even
with the bruises beginning to fade, the sight of her face still made the
Hound’s jaw clench involuntarily, both for not being there at the attack, and
for delivering one of the blows himself. She reluctantly took a few steps
forward after he let go of her, before he stopped down to retrieve his sword.
 
With her balance restored she drew her sword from her belt. More like a
toothpick,he thought to himself not for the first time, not unlike hersel–But
it wasn’t true. It hadn’t been true for some time. Arya Stark was no longer the
thin slip of a girl she had been the first time he’d set eyes on her at
Winterfell, she was fuller now – closer to a woman than a child. This was
hardly the first time he’d noticed her blossoming form but in that moment,
watching as she strode forward towards the smoke, it was hard to imagine that
the woman in front of him had ever been that scrawny little child he’d met so
long ago, so far to the North. His thoughts turned to her sister, Sansa, only a
couple of years Arya’s elder she too had flourished into womanhood afore his
eyes. He found himself wishing he’d convinced her to come with him in King’s
Landing – she almostdid – Arya had the look of someone who’d been alone for too
long. He knew that as independent as she tried to be – as she believed she was
– what she really needed was family. Then again,Sandor thought, his lips
twitching upwards as he remembered the elder Stark sister, Sansa wouldn’t have
been nearly as much fun to travel with.His smile grew into a grin at the
thought of Lady Sansa struggling in the mud – complaining about her dresses
being ruined or somesuch nonsense.
 
His eyes fixed themselves on Arya, on the way the stitching of her clothes was
stretched around her hips and bust, on her messy, cropped brown hair. From the
depths of his mind he recalled the drunken, lecherous voice of King Robert
Baratheon describing Lyanna Stark. Though filthy and bruised and clad in over
worn leathers, Arya was more beautiful to the Hound than her Aunt had ever
been, but her Aunt had cost the Seven Kingdoms its King and thousands of lives,
his stomach pitted slightly as he wondered what price it would pay for Arya.
Her list was quite long enough already, he thought grimly, remembering his own
name at the bottom of it.
 
“Are you going to stand there all day?” Arya hissed towards him, brow furrowed
and arms thrown out sideways in an exaggerated motion.
 
“Stop your whining wolf-girl, I’m coming.” He shot back with a hint of mockery
in his tone, closing the distance between them in just a handful of strides.
Her face wrinkled at being called a girl though she didn’t say anything back,
much to his surprise. He immediately stepped in front of her as they headed
towards the burnt out structure, just in case anyone was still there.
 
About a stone’s throw from the still smouldering husk of a farmhouse and
stables the Hound heard the unmistakeably low wheezing and grunting of a dying
man. The recognisable stench of the last embers of what had presumably been a
great fire a few hours ago filled Sandor’s nostrils and stung at his eyes. Not
a day had passed since his maiming that he hadn’t encountered a fire – for
light, warmth, cooking, or as a weapon – and yet he still had to push back
memories of the wooden knight and his brother. Striding into the clearing he
caught sight of an old man with wispy grey hair, hunched against the remains of
a well with his hands closed on what the Hound assumed was a wound to his
stomach. His thoughts were confirmed as he got closer, noticing that the blood
around the wound had crusted slightly, drying in the rough fabric of the man’s
clothes – he had been like this for some time. Hearing them coming he looked
up, eyes sharp and keen – despite the apparent severity of his condition the
wounded man seemed surprisingly lucid.
 
“You shouldn’t be sitting out here like this.” Arya said from over the Hound’s
shoulder, stepping forward to get closer to the man. They had both sheathed
their swords – the old man couldn’t stand, he certainly wasn’t a threat and
whoever had burnt the hut down would have left some time ago judging from the
now mainly burnt out fire.
 
The man spoke in a low, growling voice but with an impressive amount of
strength. “Where else to sit? Tried to walk back to my hut, hurt too much…” He
could hardly keep his head up, “and I remembered they burnt m’hut down.”
 
“Who were they?” The Hound asked, and are we still in danger?
 
“I stopped asking a while ago.” The man said back; for someone dying he seemed
oddly calm and collected.
 
The Hound dropped to one knee, crouching in front of the dying man and took a
better look at his wound. Even from a brief glance he could see it was deep –
underneath the skin exposed gut and bowels had been cut and mangled. He had
killed enough men and watched enough men get treated after battles to know that
the wound was fatal; it would consume him slowly in days if not hours. “That’s
not going to get better.” He said, hoping the man would understand what he was
saying. I can end it quickly.
 
“Doesn’t seem so.” The dying man replied in a similar manner to as if the Hound
had commented that it wouldn’t rain that afternoon. Sandor felt real and
genuine pity for the man.
 
“Bad way to go, haven’t you had enough?” His offer was clear.
 
“Of what?” He groaned, eyes flitting up to meet Sandor’s. They burnt so
brightly and fiercely the Hound half expected the man would pull himself up and
walk away, but he didn’t, his head slumped again as he struggled through the
pain of his body slowly breaking down. “I know, time to go – take matters into
my own hands. The thought has occurred to me.” He said, the pained rumble of
his voice adding extra weight to each word.
 
“So why go on?” Arya asked, kneeling by the dying man’s side.
 
“Habit.” The man said, Sandor might have laughed in other circumstances.
 
Arya paused for a moment, her grey eyes seemingly searching the face of the
dying man for something, after a while she stated simply, “Nothing could be
worse than this.”
 
“Maybe nothing is worse than this.” The man said, his weak frame shaking with
exertion. Sandor was once again impressed the man was so collected given his
position, he had seen men with lesser wounds give into greater madness.
 
“Nothing isn’t better or worse than anything. Nothing is just nothing.” Arya
said coldly. Her voice was light and soft but also hollow and lifeless, her
eyes stared forwards cold and unfeeling. It unnerved Sandor more than he’d care
to admit; few things scared him save fire, but the bitter remorseless pessimism
that flowed from the younger Stark sister caught him off guard and he felt his
stomach tighten uncomfortably. The dying man must have thought the same as he,
with great difficulty, lifted his head up and stared her in the eyes.
 
“Who are you?” He asked, curious and incredulous of her in equal measure.
 
“My name’s Arya,” she answered honestly, making the Hound nervous. “Arya
Stark.”
 
If the dying man had heard of her he showed no signs of it, Sandor reasoned
that so far south of the North the normal people probably didn’t care about the
lives or children of the highborns in faraway places. His suspicions were
confirmed when the dying man turned to him and asked, “You her father?”
 
Sandor looked at him; the man didn’t have long, he answered truthfully. It was
an odd feeling, freeing almost. It had been so long since the Hound had met
someone who didn’t turn away from his burnt face and recoil in disgust  – he
felt sorry for the poor man, caught out here as he was. “Her captor, bringing
her to her Aunt for ransom.”
 
The old man didn’t judge him, instead he cocked his head to the side slightly
as if weighing something up in his mind and croaked out, “A fair exchange that
is. Always held to the notion of fair exchange in all my dealings. You give me,
I give you. Fair… A balance…” He let out a deep sigh and attempted to adjust
himself, before continuing miserably, “No balance anymore.” He paused for a
moment, lost in thought, before turning back to Sandor with a renewed vigour
and asking, “Can I have a drink, dying is thirsty work?”
 
The man surprised the Hound again with this request; in his experience of
battlefield injuries most wounded men insist beyond all rationale that they’re
going to survive, the dying man seeming as calm as he was in the face of death
rattled him. The gods knew they had precious little water, probably not enough
even for themselves, but these would likely be this man’s last wishes so
against his better judgement, the Hound obliged. Since when did I get so
fucking soft?The Hound thought, knowing the answer already. The man took a deep
swig, swilling the water around his dry mouth and cracked lips, before
swallowing it. For the briefest of moments he looked almost content, but his
face contorted into a pained expression.
 
“Wish it were wine.” The man joked, his voice weak; his agony and anguish
evident. It would be a long, protracted and painful death without intervention
– they both knew that. The Hound unsheathed his knife.
 
“So do I.” The Hound replied, looking at the man with genuine pity, meeting his
gaze with his eyes before plunging his blade into his heart, the point slipped
between two ribs and found its target. The man seized up, shook slightly and
then turned to look at Sandor, he nodded slightly – understandingly – before he
rasped out his last feeble breath and hunched forward.
 
“That’s where the heart is. That’s how you kill a man.” The Hound said, voice
low as he looked at the crumpled heap in front of him. Arya dipped her head in
recognition as Sandor wiped the blood from his knife and slipped it back into
his sheath. “Important to clean away the blood – your blade’ll get stuck if it
dries, makes you slower on the draw.”
 
As he stood up he heard the sound of twigs crack behind him and his fingers
instinctively flew to his sword, too late. He felt a sharp pain across his
shoulder and immediately assumed the worst – working out how deep whatever
weapon was used had pierced him. Only, it wasn’t a weapon – it was teeth.
Someone had bit him. Who the fuck bites someone?He thought as his hands left
the pommel of his sword and gripped onto the head of the man who had sunk his
teeth into him. The Hound had seen people use their teeth in desperate last
resort fights, he had done it himself on occasion, but to use them instead of a
sword – if the attacker had struck him with any other weapon Sandor Clegane
would be dead, instead he could grip the head of his would be killer, easily
twisting it with a savage yank and relishing in the loud crack that indicated
the man was dead. He reeled round to check for other attackers, gripping his
bleeding shoulder, and saw a rather fat man wielding a sword rushing towards
them. The man, seeing what had happened to his comrade, lowered the sword.
 
“The fuck you doing?” The Hound roared, trying to stem the flow of blood from
his wound.
 
“There’s a price on your head.” The man growled back, he had long unkempt hair
and a wiry beard.
 
“I guess that’s what the King does when you tell him to fuck off.” The Hound
spat out between clenched teeth – more for Arya’s benefit than anyone else’s.
 
“The King’s dead, he drank poisoned wine at his own wedding. The bounty on you
is for killing Lannister soldiers, a hundred silver stags.” The man said, to
Sandor’s dismay. He barely had time to register that Joffrey was dead before
the true severity of their situation hit him. One hundred silver stags, fuck
the gods,he thought, realising that a bounty half that would be enough to turn
even the most respectable men into murderers.
 
“And you thought you were going to collect it? Didn’t think very hard did you?”
The Hound jeered at the portly man, who was evidently working out if he could
get the better of the wounded Hound in an attack. Sandor was relieved that the
man was paying no attention to Arya, though Sandor had little doubt that he
would if he wasn’t there – and her boy’s disguise wouldn’t fool anyone anymore,
even with the weight loss from their travels. He turned in surprise when Arya
spoke up, stepping towards the stout, dirty man in front of them.
 
“You were Yoren’s prisoners when he was taking me to the Wall.” She said, and a
look of confusion played across the man’s features. “He told me he’d fuck me
bloody with a stick.”  The confusion was replaced by a flicker of recognition
and surprise followed by contempt, his eyes bore deep against her, remembering
her tormenting him when he was locked in the cage. His grip on his sword
tightened but he didn’t attack.
 
“This day’s really not working out the way you planned.” The Hound said
mockingly, before turning to Arya, “He on your little list?” He hadn’t meant it
to sound quite so teasing.
 
She shifted uncomfortably on one foot and answered much to Sandor’s suprise,
“He can’t be… I don’t know his name.”
 
The Hound almost laughed, before turning to the fat man in front of them and
asking simply, “What’s your name?”
 
“Rorge.” The man said still looking unsure of what to do. Of all the situations
he’d prepared for in his head this had not been one of them.
 
“Thank you.” Arya said quietly before drawing her blade from her hip with an
agility that surprised the Hound and thrusting it deep into Rorge’s chest. He
remembered from his own bruised stomach the force she could put behind Needle
and against an unarmoured man it slipped in and out of his leather and skin as
though she were dipping a warmed knife through butter.
 
Within moments blood bubbled up from the small pinprick in his chest, from his
heart, and he toppled forward, a twisted mix of shock and panic and pain on his
face as he fell. She stooped over his body and wiped her skinny blade across
his jerkin.
 
“You’re learning.” The Hound grunted, taking a seat on the ground as he tried
to stop the wound from bleeding. They’d use up all the bandages on her injuries
and to clear her moon blood away so he knew he’d have no choice but to stitch
it – not that they could do that here. He nonetheless needed a moment to catch
his breath “Check them for supplies.” He told Arya and she started scouring the
bodies and nearby ground for anything of use – they found a satchel full of
stale bread and water but precious little else, still it tasted incredible.
 
“We can’t stay here.” She said, showing a strength that impressed him as he
chewed through the bread – his stomach roared triumphantly when he swallowed.
 
“No, we can’t.” He agreed, rising shakily to his feet and resting his eyes on
the young woman in front of him.
 
She was impossible, incredible but the more death she saw the more unfeeling
she became – her eyes had been cold when even his were not, a slight chill
crept up the Hound’s spine as he remembered the way she watched him murder the
dying man without even the slightest hint of remorse, the idle curiosity as he
wiped the blade clean. He saw her sling the satchel of supplies over her
shoulder and noticed her hand dropping to the pouch on her belt that held that
Braavosi coin of hers. She had held it after she stabbed the Frey man to death,
and after she killed the two men in the Inn at the Crossroads. The ritual
unnerved him more than he would admit to; the youngest Stark was made of
stronger metal Valyrian steel and was just as sharp and dangerous… though
decidedly worse tempered, he thought – almost grinning as he imagined how she’d
react if he said that aloud. His mind shifted as his eyes traced the outline of
her body, the way the leather clung tightly to her curves – the threading
threatening to split at the joins. He closed his eyes, now was not the place to
lose focus. She eyed him curiously, her grey gaze landing on the trickling
wound on his shoulder. For just a moment he thought she looked at him like he
was prey.
 
“Get the horses, wolf.”
Chapter End Notes
     Well it has been a very long time hasn't it? I did promise I hadn't
     forgotten - I do hope you all enjoyed the new chapter, no smut this
     time I'm afraid (we can't have smut in every chapter can we?) A
     massive thank you to all the support I've received in the writing of
     this - you guys are amazing and your comments always bring a smile to
     my face :) Thank you all so much - even if I haven't managed to reply
     to you.
***** Epilogue *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you all for the positive feedback; it was unfair to leave the
     story unfinished and I'm really sorry for not uploading for 2 years.
     I had planned a filler chapter but instead I wanted you all to enjoy
     the ending this fic has been building towards since around chapter 7.
     I really hope you enjoy it.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The Hound had always lived in the shadow of death; he knew in what was left of
his scarred heart that someday something would kill him, and he’d probably
deserve it. From the moment he’d been bitten he’d guessed his time was up and
now he’d been killed by the greatest killer of all – not Brienne of Tarth or
the fucker that bit him, but by infection. There wasn’t a greater killer in the
Seven Kingdoms than that.  Being knocked off of a cliff had sealed the deal,
but it was the infection that had slowed him, he winced at the knowledge he
should have let the Stark girl burn the wound shut. After all your talk
Clegane, you’re a fucking coward.
 
He squeezed his eyes shut in a bid to stop himself retching – the Hound knew
pain, it was as common to him as shitting or breathing and yet this was worse
than he’d ever felt. His insides were broken and out of place: bones scraped
against each other and waves of cold rippled through him. He could feel his
heart pounding in his ears and warmth spread from the wound in his leg. Each
battle could have been his last – a hundred times over and he’d never feared
the end. He had no family, no riches nor friends; there wasn’t much to hang on
to. He grunted and coughed at the metallic taste of the blood bubbling up
within him.
 
His whole tormented existence was a punishment enough it hardly seemed worth
fearing whatever the gods might have in store for him after, if the gods
existed at all. He had no real reason for surviving beyond that of the wounded
man’s they’d met on the road, no reason better than habit… and maybe killing
Gregorhe thought grimly, coughing up blood. He’d felt more purpose serving the
Stark girls than he had in the rest of his life – more purpose fighting for
Arya than he ever had serving in the Kingsguard. You’ve gone soft,he would have
laughed if it wasn’t so painful to move, and it got you killed.
 
He heard movement nearby and turned, half expecting the blonde woman to spring
out ready to finish the job. It wasn’t her though, it was Arya. Her expression
was cold and she seemed oddly small against the rocky valley. She approached
softly and crouched nearby, he felt her gaze rake over his wounds.
 
“You’re still here?” He grunted, his throat was rough, “the big bitch saved
you.”
 
She met his eyes and replied flatly, “I don’t need saving.”
 
“No, not you. You’re a real killer.” He mocked, “With your water dancing and
your needle.” He almost regretted saying it when he saw a flicker of hurt in
her eyes but he’d saved her life a half dozen times and more since they’d set
out together and somehow her lack of appreciation – her lack of any real
emotion at his injuries made his insides twist.
 
“You’re gonna die?” Arya shot back at him, though her tone lacked spite.
 
He took a few shallow breaths before trying to lighten the mood between them,
if only a little. “Unless there’s a Maester hiding behind that rock aye,” Her
face twitched almost unnoticeably when he added with a juddered sight, “I’m
done.”
 
She wore the same impassive expression she’d had when they met the dying man on
the road, but he knew her better. The Stark girl was a far better liar than her
sister but he could see real vulnerability in her eyes; they’d been through too
much for her not to care. It gave him some level of comfort to know that with a
performance that good she might actually make it – and the blonde woman would
make a passable protector. His throat went dry, and not just from his wounds.
 
“I’d skin you alive for wine.” He groaned, adding quickly when she reached for
the flask by her side, “Fuck water!” The old man had been right, dying was
thirsty work – admittedly he’d throw up anything he tried to drink now, he’d
seen it too many times on the battlefield.
 
Arya Stark. He turned to look at her, to really look at her. She was far too
thin and paler than she ought be after spending so much time outdoors, the
bruises around her face had faded to almost nothing and she’d regained much of
her strength the last few days. She was hardened, sharp as her bloody needle;
he could almost have felt proud. He wondered if she was worth dying for, I
suppose it doesn’t matter now. Somewhere at the back of his head he was
reminded how she wanted this – she wanted his death, she’d promised it –
practically prayed for it with her list of names.
 
“Killed by a woman,” He said out loud, no longer sure if he meant Brienne or
herself, “I bet you liked that.” He paused to see how she’d react, but when she
said nothing he spoke softer, “Go on, go after her. She’ll help you. Going out
alone, you won’t last a day out there.”
 
“I’ll last longer than you.” She answered him numbly; there was no joy in her
voice.
 
She was right; he knew that, they both did and there was little use pretending
otherwise. The pain ran through and through him with no hope of easing, even if
she could stop his wounds she’d never be able to keep them both alive, not on
her own. He remembered well enough how hard it had been looking after her while
she was injured, she didn’t stand a chance with his wounds.
 
 The day was drawing in and the longer she was out there the longer she was at
risk – every minute she crouched there was a minute he was no longer protecting
her. She’d help him he was sure – ever since she stitched his wound she’d been
more open, given up trying to even pretend like she hated him. He’d hardly say
the last weeks with her had been the best of his life, he could remember plenty
better drinking and whoring in relative peace, but they counted – he didn’t
know how they counted but somehow they did.
 
He sighed; it didn’t matter now, “You remember where the heart is?” Her eyes
sharpened when he spoke, shining with disbelief, “Fuck it. I’m ready – Go on
girl; another name off your list… You kept promising me.”
 
She didn’t move, her face was stone – he could have laughed, after everything
she wasn’t going to do it. She was too still though, if she wanted to look like
she didn’t care she was too tense – he guessed her heart was probably pounding
as fast as his. He closed his eyes for a second to think; he didn’t have his
blades, if he could end it himself he would. It has to be her,he cursed at the
unfairness of it, it had to be her… and she won’t do it…
 
“I cut down the butcher’s boy… the ginger,” he said coldly, trying to goad her
into it – give her a chance to keep up their charade: the one where he was just
her captor and she would do anything to kill him, “He was begging for mercy –
please sir, please, please.” He expected to see anger, hatred… he didn’t expect
to see pity. “He bled all over my horse, my saddle stunk of butcher’s boy for
weeks. And your sister, your pretty sister, I should’ve taken her – that night
the Blackwater burned, I should’ve fucked her bloody. At least I’d have one
happy memory!” The air was thick between them before he added, lower, “I
should’ve taken you too.”
 
Arya was quiet for a moment as she studied his face; it was like she could see
right through him. When she spoke it was quiet and soft, “But you didn’t.”
 
He didn’t know why they were both still pretending. She had others true but
they were scattered far away and right now, in this place, he was all she had –
the closest she had to a friend, and she… Arya Stark… she was as close as he’d
been to family.
 
His voice trembled when he spoke, “Do I have to beg you?” She was silent,
frozen. The pain was beyond baring, “Do it… do it…”
 
She stood up slowly and stepped towards him, crouching just out of reach. Her
eyes dropped down to his exposed chest where his armour had buckled but instead
of drawing her sword she simply leaned ever closer than before until her face
was close enough that he could make out every shade of her eyes. He expected
her to stop but she didn’t, his heartbeat was ringing in his ears as she gently
breathed a kiss against his lips, one happy memory.
 
She pressed her head against his, whispering softly into his scarred ear,
“Live.”
 
There was more to say but neither spoke and all too soon she was gone; stepping
away from him with their bag of silver. He screamed out after her, calling her
back, begging her to finish him but she kept walking until she was just a grey
speck in the distance indistinguishable from the rocks around her. He closed
his eyes, embracing the relief the darkness gave him. It was enough. Maybe she
would be alright. He’d done at least one thing right in his wretched life and
with a final twisted smile he laughed, after all,how many knights kissed both
the Stark girls.
Chapter End Notes
     Once again a huge thank you to everybody who read this my first
     fanfic, I am largely recovered from the various health ordeals and
     managed to graduate university. I don't know how much time I've got
     to write over the next year or so but I'm focussing on closing off
     stories so people have real endings. I'm sorry it was short, I hope
     it was what you were hoping for. Thanks again.
     PS: Seems like I, same as the show, forgot about Gendry ;) He's
     probably still rowing!
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