It was the night before Halloween. That's what was important.
They'd been living together for a while now, the three of them. But 'living together' was a wild term if there ever was one. They lived in a dank, musty back room in an old motel, which still boasted a neon sign that read 'inn' out front, even though that couldn't be farther from the truth. Everything in that room, in that ramshackle old building, in the whole town, even, was varying shades of grey and brown. It always smelt like something soggy. It was the kind of place where you could almost taste the tumbleweeds rolling on through, even if there weren't any. Arya didn't belong in New Mexico, and she knew it. She belonged in the North.
But Gendry and Hot Pie were fine with it, and it wasn't like they had much of a choice. How many people would take in fugitives running from the Lions. The gang of Lannisters was out to get them, and the only people who hadn't seen the Wanted! signs were the ones out here. In the middle of fucking nowhere. Who knew nowhere was so damn hot.
It was the night before Halloween. October Thirtieth. She wondered who'd ever told her of the cool desert nights, and wanted to rip his heart out. This wasn't fair. She was meant for the cold. But here she was in the fall, in the most insulating room west of the Mississippi, and she just wanted to sleep. It was two am, and fatigue was so frequent that she forgot what it was like to feel rested.
And since she was awake, in the dark, listening to the snores of her companions, it was she who heard the far-off bang!, she distant sound of dozens of people moving at once, and the slams of doors as if people were trying to get away fro something. And as she was Arya, it was she who opened the door and crept out into the sweltering night.
Down the corridor, past a few doors until she was at the landing, she moved down the stairs silently like a ghost. It was all very quiet. Last night, the night before, every night since they'd been here, there were hustling and bustling noises in the saloon downstairs from dawn till dusk, and then from dusk till dawn again. There was supposed to be a hoedown tonight, she thought. She knew. But all there was now was the scuffling of feet now, and she felt more than heard the air of foreboding surrounding her.
She was on the bottom step when she froze, watching the shadow on the wall in front of her come into focus. The light, the moonlight through the window, came from the steps above her. The owner of the shadow was coming from the hall running parallel to the staircase, and Arya couldn't see the man until he stood right in front of her.
Perhaps it was the ill-fitting satiric grin that threw her off. Or the deranged, misshapen hair that was as grey as all of her surroundings, even though he couldn't' have been older than twenty five. The maniacal glint in his eyes was also a factor. But it was probably the hole in his eerily striped shirt, quickly reaching out tendrils to engulf his body. Soaked in red, the fuel of life. A fresh bullet hole in a bad place. He was going to die. And that look he was giving her, one of greed and suffering and crazed insanity. She back up, only to find herself against the bland wall. He advanced a step, and only then did Arya realize she might actually be in danger.
"Don't worry," he said. She hadn't expected him to speak, but acknowledged that his voice was fitting. Scratchy, hoarse, weathered. Threatening. She fought the shiver threading to overcome her. "It's only a scratch."
She coughed a bit before replying, wondering whether it was wise to trust her voice. "I wasn't worrying." She prided herself on the fact that her voice didn't crack. But she was sure that she wore a look of surprise when, with one flick of his chin in her direction and a particularly degrading look, he stepped through the doorway behind her and into the saloon, long, twisted hair brushing her nose as he went.
She unsuccessfully tried to slow her heart rate. When that didn't work, she raced up the stairs, two at a time, and speed-walked down the hallway, praying that she'd left the door to their room unlocked. She finally got there, making it in with no effort. She paused in the entryway, softly closing the door behind her. Like a deer in the headlights, she looked from her bed to the one Gendry and Hot Pie shared.
She would regret it in the morning, she knew, because she was stronger than this, stronger than anything, but it was the night before Halloween, which had been the last time she'd seen her family before the Lions had killed her father and forced her away from her life as Arya Stark. She needed something, anything. So she chose the weaker option. "Hot Pie," she whispered, shaking his shoulder gently. His snores became only louder. "Hot Pie!" She shook his shoulder vigorously, and he snorted before groggily opening his eyes.
"Ar- Arya? What is it?"
"Move over," she replied, squinting at him through the darkness. "I'm sleeping with you guys tonight."
He looked at her as calculatingly as he could in his half-asleep state, noticing she was serious. He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed, hazily getting up. "You can sleep with Gendry, I want my own bed." And with that, he staggered over to Arya's abandoned cot. The girl in question made herself comfortable in Gendry's arms. She hadn't realized she'd woken him until he propped himself up so he could have a good look at her.
"Arya?" he asked, half a plea and half a question.
"Gendry," she whispered, unshameful desperation in her voice, "please. Just-"
"Just what?"
"Just- just tell me it was only a Halloween costume."
He looked at her quizzically for a moment but, sensing her distress like he always did, settled back down and encased her in his arms. He knew she needed this and she knew he knew she needed this, but she didn't care. He was Gendry. He knew she was strong. She fell asleep to his continuous mumbles in her ear of "It was only a costume, only a Halloween costume, shh, Arya, it wasn't real …"
And in the morning, she would believe him, for no one bothered to mention the death of Rocky Raccoon