Traveling Companions
Summary: In the seven years since she left him to die on the road to the Eyrie, he never imagined he would once again be riding through the bloody countryside with the Stark bitch in tow. Arya/Hound. One-shot.
Author's Note: After SanSan fans didn't crucify me for my last Arya/Sandor effort, I thought I'd give it another go. This is a prequel of sorts to "You Remember Where The Heart Is?" though it also stands on its own. Arya and the Hound make such a dynamic traveling duo I thought I'd take them on the road again. Post-Faceless Men Arya is hard to grapple with as a writer, so I hope I did her justice. Let me know what you think! I'm also toying with a follow-up one-shot in Arya's POV, so keep an eye out for it.
Traveling Companions
In the seven years since she left him to die on the road to the Eyrie, he never imagined he would once again be riding through the bloody countryside with the Stark bitch in tow.
Of course, stranger things had come to pass in that time. Wildings lived south of the Wall, there were dragons in the Red Keep, and he was a Lannister dog once more.
It was the little bird's idea. He was meant to protect the girl on her journey North. The Stark bitch needed protection like a bull needed teats, but he'd not argue with the little bird.
Besides, his 'protection' was just as unnecessary in the Red Keep these days. The little bird was no longer a cowering maiden but a woman grown. She still chirped her songs but had learned different tunes, ones that raised armies and quelled queens.
He suspected his new charge was more a kindness to him than a courtesy to her sister. He'd been a true and loyal dog since he'd pledged his sword to the little bird in the Vale, but his post had become harder to man as of late. The physical evidence of the affection between Lord and Lady Lannister now quickened in her womb. And while the war had hardened Sansa, she was not entirely drained of sweetness and compassion. In sending him North, she had taken pity on her foolish old dog, sparing him from standing watch as she bore the Imp his lion cub.
As for the Stark bitch, she expressed no objection to the arrangement, only demanding they leave as soon as the roads were safe for travel. Her ready agreement with Sansa's plan was her own sort of kindness, an effort to preserve the tenuous peace between the sisters.
Arya had said precious little since she arrived at the Red Keep five moons ago, dirty and ragged with Aegon the Pretender's head in a sack. He'd wanted to hate the little bitch for leaving him on that road, for not showing him mercy. But as she dumped the head at the feet of the Dragon Queen, he felt something akin to pride stir within him for the brazen little chit.
Later, in the Tower of the Hand, away from the prying eyes of court, she had tossed him a purse of silver. It felt to be near the same amount she had lifted from his belt before she left him to rot.
"Am I still on your list then, girl?" he had asked, half japing and half wondering if his head was next in line to be tossed before the Iron Throne.
"I left you to die. It's not my fault if the seven hells wouldn't take you."
That had certainly ruffled the little bird's feathers, setting her chirping apologies and reprimands with equal fervor.
He had only barked out a laugh, before pocketing the coins. As far as he was concerned, the wolf bitch was the only highborn cunt left in seven kingdoms who wasn't completely full of shit.
They set out as the first thaw of spring takes hold. The countryside is flooded with water and mud, as the snow of the long winter melts, forming murky gullies along the edge of the Kingsroad. He is grateful to not have to make camp in the muck. Traveling on Lannister coin guarantees them a place in every featherbed from the capital to Winterfell.
She still travels as a boy, though anyone who believes it is a fucking fool. At nine-and-ten, she has long since been a woman flowered, even if she is not the beauty her sister is. Sansa is the Maiden come to life. Arya is the Stranger with teats.
She is taller (nearly to his chin now) but still as skinny as she ever was, all long Stark features and sharp angles, with no hints of womanly softness. Her dark hair has been cut bluntly at her chin, setting off owlish grey eyes and an overgenerous mouth. Still, he can't deny there's something striking about the Stark bitch.
At the start, they ride in silence. It suits him fine. Even after six years in the little bird's service, he's still can't stand idle chatter.
But it is a long ride to the walls of Winterfell, and as they put more distance between themselves and the Red Keep, Arya's tongue begins to loosen.
She tells him stories of the North, dark tales of magic and monsters passed on from some crone the girl calls Old Nan. Sometimes she shares bawdy jokes she picked up in the backrooms of taverns. Sometimes she sings.
She knows as many songs as the little bird, he'd wager, but they are not pretty tales of knights and maidens. The wolf bitch's songs are foul, violent, funny, and sad. A few are even in some damnable Eastern tongue (the only thing she shares of her time across the Narrow Sea).
He listens to it all.
A sennight into the journey, he begins to share a few tales of his own. He tells her of his time among the brothers on the Quiet Isle. He tells her about slaying that shit Littlefinger at the Eyrie before pledging his sword to Sansa. He even tells her about his battle with Gregor.
"Bastard still won in the end. I didn't kill him. I killed a beast that Cersei cobbled together from the husk of his flesh. Should have known the fucking Lannister bitch used black magic."
She offers neither comment nor consolation. If anyone knows what it is to be cheated of vengeance, it's Arya Stark.
By the time they reach the Neck, featherbeds are harder to come by. Their first night without an inn, they find dry ground away from the road and make camp, working in silence.
It has been a long time since he's had to sleep rough (his time at the Red Keep has made him soft) and sleep does not come easy. He's not the only one. He listens as the wolf bitch tosses and turns before rising to cross to his side of the fire.
"If you're going to kill me, make it quick," he mumbles, pulling his cloak closer to his chin. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels her lay next to him on his bedroll. "What are you doing, girl?"
"Getting warm, stupid," she snaps. "Move over."
He's sees the sense in it. They will both fair better in this damnable cold if they share each other's warmth. It's practical, clever even, but that does not make it any easier to ignore the lithe young body curled at his back.
The next night he finishes the last of the wine. There will be no resupplying their stores until the next village (a good three days ride) and his head will not thank him come morning, but he can't bring himself to care.
His head is buzzing so much, he hardly notices when she finally settles on the bedroll behind him—that is, until he feels a sharp tug at his tunic.
"Go the fuck to sleep, girl!" he growls, swatting her hand away. For a moment, he thinks that is the end of it, but then the stubborn bitch tugs at his hem once more.
He rolls over to face her, but chokes down the curses on his breath at the feel of soft lips pressed against his scarred ones.
He can count the times he's been kissed on one hand. Most whores can hardly look him in the eye, let alone touch his face. Then of course there was the night of the Blackwater; a kiss stolen from a pretty child with a knife at her throat.
But the wolf bitch has neither his coin in her pocket nor his blade at her flesh. She has no call to press against him this way, to tug at his hair, to kiss him. No reason but want of him.
The thought leaves him reeling even more than the wine, unbalancing all sense from his mind, so that when teeth playfully graze his lower lip, he responds in kind.
She is no maid, that much is for certain. Still, her movements are unpracticed as she reaches between them to fumble with the lacing on his breeches. He matches her in clumsy eagerness, nipping at the flesh of her neck while pawing at her jerkin and tunic until both pale breasts are unveiled to the cold night air.
It's not until he's buried inside her that he dares to look her in the eye. He is prepared to be met with disgust, with pain, with anger. Instead, there's a strange softness about her gaze that leaves a twisting in his gut.
He wakes the next morning with a dry mouth, a fuzzy head, and the bedroll next to him empty. She's not gone far (a few paces beyond where the horses are tied), and she's water dancing.
In the morning light there's something unnatural about her. She looks more like a fae or woodland spirit from one of her damned stories. He watches as she gracefully moves through the air, cutting down imaginary foes. She's gotten better, her movements quicker, more sure. Wherever she'd been the last seven years, that blade of hers had certainly been put to use.
"About time you woke up," she chides, catching his eye. "Day's half gone."
He ignores her, not ready to face the consequences of the night before, and trudges towards a copse of trees at the bottom of the hill to take a piss.
When he returns, she has already set about breaking down the camp and readying the horses.
She says nothing of the night before. In fact, she acts as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred at all, jabbering away as if she hadn't been keening beneath him mere hours ago.
He begins to wonder if it had all been a very vivid dream. An invention born from his mind after too much drink and a month spent on the road with no company but a sour-faced Stark.
He nearly has himself convinced, until nightfall finds her in his arms once more.
The rest of the journey is passed this way. Each day is spent riding in a fragile sort of companionship. Each night is spent keeping each other's beds.
They are less than a day's ride from Winterfell when he takes her against a tree. It's the first time their coupling isn't under the cover of darkness, but she doesn't seem to mind.
She's wearing a dress (for once) for her reception with her little lord brother. It's a simple grey wool, hardly fit for a lady of her station, but it suits her. The gentle curves he'd only felt in the dark of night are visible in the lines of the gown, and he feels like a green boy, growing hard at the sight.
Her skirts are hiked around her waist, her legs wrapped about him as he pushes her against the tree, claiming her mouth, her neck, her teats. She matches his desperation, as small cool hands find their way inside his tunic, clawing at his back.
It's rough, and clumsy, and over before it's even started. They are both left panting, their breath visible in the cold Northern air, while they unwind from one another. As he watches her set herself to rights, smoothing her skirt and fastening her furs about her neck, a familiar self-loathing settles in his gut.
"This is the last time, girl."
She laughs, high and clear, before pressing a kiss to his burnt cheek. He pulls from her grasp, her kiss smarting like a brand on his scarred flesh.
"For fuck's sake, I'm trying to help you!" he growls. He wants to slap her, to shake her, to scare her. Anything to keep her from reaching for him again. "You keep away from me. I'm a dog, not one of your courteous little lords."
She stills, grey eyes regarding him coolly.
"And I'm not my sister."
Before he can respond, she's on her horse, headed back in the direction of the Kingsroad.
They ride in silence. Each mile closer to Winterfell seems to chip away at the ease that had settled between the two traveling companions over the last month.
Good. Better she remember the way of things now, before we reach the gate.
By midafternoon, the walls of the keep have finally come into view. It's not as grand as it had once been, with parts of the outer battlements still destroyed, but the young Lord Stark had certainly wasted no time in rebuilding his home.
Arya reigns in her horse, staring at the walls in the distance. She looks ready to bolt, though whether towards Winterfell or back to King's Landing he cannot tell.
"You're home now, girl," he encourages gruffly.
For the first time all afternoon, she looks at him. There's fear in her eyes, true enough, but something else as well; a frenzied sort of happiness that looks strange on a solemn Stark.
In spite of what had passed that morning, she smiles at him, and bugger it all he still wants her. She was right all those years ago. He is the worst shit in the Seven Kingdoms.
Without warning, she urges her mare into a gallop, kicking up a cloud of dust from the road.
"Are you coming or not?" she calls over her shoulder.
He curses under his breath, spurring his mount follow.
She would be the death of him yet.