"Psst. It's me."
He wasn't even half awake, but he recognized the girl's voice and just rolled over. "Who the fuck else would it be."
The ground was soft – not ground. Bed. And these were real blankets, and a real pillow. He wasn't sleeping out in the woods somewhere, he was here in the Eyrie and he had a bedroom and the girl had somehow crept into it. He flipped back over to face her. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed.
"They put me in a room with Sansa. Move over." She climbed up beside him. "I hate Sansa, and she hates me. I mean I don't- I mean, we tried to be nice to each other, but it doesn't work. She's such a girl. Look at this stupid nightgown they made me wear – and she yelled at me when I didn't like it."
He heaved a sigh. "Did your sister set your face on fire when you fought with her?"
She quieted down. "No."
"Then, ask me if I give a fuck."
She sighed, but didn't get out of bed. After a bit she added: "Besides, from our room we can hear Aunt Lysa fucking Littlefinger all night. It's completely disgusting."
All right… that was a good reason. He chuckled.
"It's not funny. Even your snoring is better than that. I'm sleeping in here tonight." Before he could tell her no she added: "I already know how to sneak back. Nobody will see me – I'll go as soon as it gets light." A beat. "Please?"
She was lucky she'd caught him too warm and comfortable to give a shit. He snuggled down into the pillow and went back to sleep without throwing her out.
Arya made sure she was up and vanished, silent, long before dawn. She was back in her room in time for breakfast and dressed neatly… but of course, even that wasn't good enough for Sansa. "You have to wear normal clothes, Arya," Sansa told her. "You're much too old to run around looking like a boy. People already think we're uncivilized, just because we come from the North."
"I like being uncivilized. And I look like a boy on purpose," she insisted. "That's how come people don't try and rape me." Then she remembered: "The Hound said people tried to do it to you once, but he pulled them off. Was he lying?"
Sansa swallowed. She went over to the window and looked out – tall and dignified. She really did look like a lady now. "No, he-… that's the truth. He saved me."
"Did he kill them?"
Sansa nodded. "H-Horribly. He-. It was horrible."
It looked like she was going to cry. Arya wanted to hit her. She was pathetic – and lucky. Everyone liked Sansa better. "Oh, stop," she sneered. "Nothing happened to you – and they're all dead now anyways. Stop being a baby."
Sansa swallowed. "Just get dressed."
"No – you can't tell me what to do! I'm not wearing that."
Lady or not, Sansa still stamped like a child. "Fine! It doesn't matter, you'd look hideous anyway!"
"I'd rather be hideous than- than you!" She stomped off.
She went down to the training yards – still dressed as a boy – looking for better company and found the Hound all by himself in a corner weighting a practice sword. "Are you sure that's all right?" she asked, doubtful. "Did you see the maester?"
He shrugged. "I'll train when I want, whatever the fucking maesters say." When she hovered in his way, still not really convinced, he laughed at her. "Is the lady worried about me? I'll take it slow."
"Don't call me lady," she said, not at all amused. "I don't call you knight, do I?"
"Fair enough." He rose and hefted the sword slowly. "Out of the way."
She sat back and watched him drill. It looked vastly different from her water dancing, but it was interesting.
"They can't make me be a lady," she said after a while. "I won't do it."
"Good luck with that," he grunted in between swings.
"I mean it. I'd be horrible."
"Agreed."
"I'll do something else – I was going to go to the Wall."
"The Wall? To freeze your balls off?" He snorted. "Speaking of which, they don't take girls."
She knew that. And she knew she couldn't disguise herself forever. Still, there had to be something. "I know there are some girl swordsmen."
"Aye."
"Do you know any?" It had never occurred to her to ask.
"A few. All strange – and fucking ugly."
She snorted. "Then I'd fit right in. Just ask Sansa."
He stopped for a moment, to look her over. "No – you're just plain. I mean ugly. Scarred and beastly. Overgrown."
"What – like you?"
"Pretty much."
Then she felt bad – he was being nice to her. Before she could say she was sorry, though, he'd gone back to what he was doing and didn't seem to be paying her any more attention. She watched for a while. It looked exhausting. "Anyway though, the Braavosi don't look like that," she pointed out. "My kind of fighting wouldn't make a person so beastly."
"Your kind of fighting," he said, "Would make a person dead."
She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not. "Fuck off. I killed my share."
"…Of men I'd already hamstrung for you."
Now she was much too mad to sit still. "Show me something, then. Come on." She hopped down and drew Needle.
He wiped his face. Heaved a sigh. "Get a fucking practice blade," he said at last. "Or if there aren't any your size, which there won't be because the Vale isn't a land of dwarves, go get the armorer to put a tip on that one. I don't need to get stabbed for the sake of your lessons."
The girl's bladework was very neat, he would give her that. And she wasn't lazy – whatever greasy little Braavosi had trained her had at least drummed into her that you had to practice a thousand times what you hope to do in battle once. "Again?" she chirped, still cheerful somehow, after they'd been going twenty minutes without a break.
He was fucking dying. But if he didn't want to actually die the next time he fought someone, he needed to get his strength back. Drilling with the wolf girl was as good a way as any, when he was too bored of hacking at dummies but not yet ready to try his luck with a real opponent.
"It also works against a straight overhand stroke," he said. "There aren't too many men stupid enough to swing big overhands in a melee, but there are some, so let's work on it. Watch: this is my range." He hauled the sword all the way up behind his head, both hands, and chopped down straight in front of him. "Now be careful – I'm too tired to pull punches, so if you get it it's going to hurt."
"You're not going to hit me. I'm too fast." She grinned at him. "All right. Move's the same?"
"Same. And the timing. Ready?" He heaved the blade up over his head again, and just as his arms went high the girl stepped in and jabbed her little sword into his armpit. She darted out of the way in plenty of time; when he swung the sword down it bit harmlessly into the ground.
He had strapped a light pad under his arm and the girl had a blunt tip, but still it should be more painful than this. "Harder thrust and shorter distance. A little poke isn't going to do anything; pretend you're trying to run him all the way through."
They did it again, and this one hurt. "Better. Do it again." He dragged the blade up once more. Fucking exhausted.
A full day later he was still worn out and his muscles were stiffening, so he decided to make use of the castle baths. He went in, didn't like the stares, and glowered at all the fat Vale knights until they cleared out and left him the place all to himself. He planned to stay for hours.
He was drowsing in the steam, almost asleep, when someone splashed in noisily. They moved too quick to be an adult.
"Fuck," he said, without opening his eyes or raising his head. "Tell me you're not the wolf girl."
She gave a low animal growl, which was all right… and a giggle, which wasn't.
"Go away," he groaned. "I'm resting."
She splashed closer. "Hey: is that from me?"
"What- ow!" She'd jabbed a finger under his arm, right where it hurt worst. "Ow – gods be damned. Don't do that."
He'd had his arms stretched out along the tub wall behind him, but now that the peace was broken he sat up all the way and crossed them over his chest.
"You're really bruised."
"So?"
"I'm-, I didn't-… Sorry." She was oddly flustered, so he arched an eyebrow at her to get the rest. "I hit Syrio a couple of times," she explained. "My- my Braavosi master. He was always nice about it but… I always... Sorry."
He shrugged – which sent pain lancing all up and down his arm. Hm. "Want to make it up to me?"
She nodded. Didn't even look apprehensive, the little fool.
"Then come here. Turn your back." When she obeyed he put both hands on her shoulder (carefully; it was a tiny shoulder) and felt for the muscle. "This," he said. "This is sore. I want it rubbed – like this. Can you?"
She squirmed. "That almost hurts."
"It won't hurt me. Do it as hard as you can."
He slid off the seat to kneel on the tub floor. She waded around behind him, grabbed hold (without hesitation; she was braver and less squeamish than most) and applied pressure. "Like this?"
It actually wasn't bad, for a first try. "Slow, but harder. Dig deeper. And definitely don't talk."
She laughed.
"And watch your nails. I'm not asking for your scratches down my back." It went right over her head.
"Like this?"
"Yes. Can you feel the knot, just below where you're-… ah. There. Yes."
She went on for longer than he expected before complaining. "This is making my hands tired."
"Good, it'll strengthen your grip," he tossed off, half-expecting her to dump water over his head… but instead, she said oh and went on with renewed purpose.
There might be some benefit to giving her lessons after all.
TBC.
Ok I now have a couple more scenes in mind and an idea where this is ending up. Cool – it like turned into a story! :o)
