ARYA
The rocking motion of the horse which had originally lulled her suddenly jolted Arya from her dreams. It was still dark, though the moon was high and full, and she nervously looked around, before remembering where she was. The powerful figure of the Hound sat behind her, one massive arm around her middle, the other holding Stranger's reigns loosely. The usually rabid horse was docile and calm, as was custom in his master's hold.
Arya wriggled, trying to loosen the Hound's grip, but that did nothing except give him cause to squeeze her harder with his mailed fist. She squirmed all the harder, until the Hound cuffed her about the ear.
"Let go of me!"
"Shut it," the Hound snapped, "Three moons I've had to put up with your shit. D'you think I want to travel with you?"
"You kidnapped me!" Arya growled at him, but the younger Clegane brother just laughed at her.
"Aye, that I did."
"Why?"
Even as she asked, Arya wondered why she'd never thought to before. They must have travelled together for nearly a month, with no real sense of direction. It was certainly getting colder, though she wasn't sure whether it was because they were going north or just the advancing winter. What rumours they'd heard from passing villagers told them that the fields were getting harder to plant. One man told them that the frosts had come south of the Neck, as far down as Seagard. Arya often wondered where the Hound was taking her, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of asking.
He shrugged, "You're valuable. Someone'll reward me for bringing you home safe girl."
"Where are we going though?"
"Riverrun," he answered, "Unless your fool uncle's gone to King's Landing with your fool brother and his fool army."
"He's not a fool!" Arya snapped at him, "He's brave, braver than you'll ever be! You ran and hid, like a coward."
The Hound looked down at her, rage filling his eyes. It looked to Arya for a moment as if his anger was causing his face to bubble, but then the illusion was gone, "He's a fool and he's a cunt and he's probably dead by now. No-one fights the Lannisters and lives girl. I thought you'd know that after all this time."
"Why should I?"
"You were at Harrenhal."
"I never told you that!" Arya snapped at him, and the Hound laughed darkly.
"You talk in your sleep."
Arya shut up after that, and glowered at the horse's back as they rode through the countryside. She knew that the Hound was lying, or at least that he didn't know the truth about Robb, but his words still stung. If Robb was dead, Arya wondered where she would go. Would Mother die with him? What about Bran and Rickon? Where they still in the North? Arya hadn't heard anything about them since they left to go south in the first place. She still knew nothing of Sansa's fate, and hoped that her sister was still well. She hated Sansa, but that didn't mean she didn't love her too. At least, she hoped not anyway.
As the hours passed, Arya thought that this part of the Riverlands looked familiar. There was no way to tell – all the trees and bushes and little brooks looked the same as anywhere else in the world – but this place had a familiar… feeling about it. Arya felt a presence here, almost like a family member or…
She shook her head, but the feeling didn't clear. It seemed to be in the very air around them, the smell of home, of Winterfell, of the North itself. If Arya closed her eyes, she could almost feel the first flakes of a new snowfall on her nose, or hear the calls of her family. It was faint, and every time she reached out for it, it faded, but the feeling was still there, just out of reach.
Perhaps the Hound sensed it too, because his hand went from her waist to his sword, and the horse tensed beneath her, as if ready to flee or to fight. Arya's fingers went to her own hip, to where Needle should have been, but when she grasped for the pommel all she felt was the fabric of her tunic. The feeling returned, and she almost relaxed, before deciding to use those thoughts of home to focus her mind. That's what she wanted to fight for. Not a crown or a king she didn't care about, home.
Then the moment was gone. The Hound relaxed, Stranger carried on through the woods, and Arya felt like crying. Because when the stillness returned, the feeling had vanished like a dream in the morning.
Hours later they rode by a small village, and Arya's stomach growled at the smell of roasting meet and her heart longed for new company at the sound of voices drifting over the quiet of the open road. This new village might also give her a chance to escape, though she doubted the Hound would let her far out of his sight. Arya didn't like being a prisoner any more than she liked being 'valuable'. She almost wished that she couldn't get home, so that she'd always be Arry the boy or Weasel the servant girl or even Nan the cupbearer, and never Arya Stark the lord's daughter, Arya Stark the lady, Arya Stark the king's sister.
She scolded herself, but could still not put the image of her riding free out of her mind. Soon, she thought to herself, soon I'll kill him, or he'll let his guard down, and I'll run away.
Unfortunately, she had nothing to kill the Hound with. He was much bigger than her, and armoured in thick plate. She, on the other hand, wore worn and scuffed leathers, and he had a sword besides. Arya had gotten stronger over the past few months, but she still doubted she would be able to lift his sword, let alone use it.
The Hound rode up by an inn, and began counting coins in his hand. Arya dismounted and tied her horse to a post, keeping a wary eye on the road. They'd managed to avoid any Lannisters by staying away from the kingsroad, but they'd encountered thousands of smallfolk marching south. King's Landing, they all said, the sparrows fly to King's Landing.
Once satisfied, the Hound walked to the inn, Arya a few paces behind. The inn was small and cramped inside, and the Hound scowled around at the room. Arya's eyes wandered over the faces of the patrons, and her heart skipped a beat.
Seated in the corner were seven men in Lannister red and gold. None of them noticed Arya and the Hound, but Arya narrowed her eyes and made a fist with her left hand when she saw Polliver and the man they called the Tickler. Last she'd seen them, they'd been at Harrenhal, but that was long ago now. She had half-hoped that they'd died in the riot, but she now knew that to be false.
Ser Gregor. Dunsen. Polliver. Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler. The Hound. Ser Armory. Ser Ilyn. Ser Meryn. King Joffrey. Queen Cersei. Valar Morghulis.
A fat innkeep bustled out from the back room, and looked hard at Arya and the Hound. The Hound wordlessly held out a hand and dumped a fistful of coppers into the innkeep's pudgy hand. The man looked at the Hound, looked at the coins, looked back at the Hound.
"What have you got?" the Hound asked.
The innkeep chewed his at fat cheek for a moment, "Chicken."
"Some of that then."
Not waiting for a reply, the Hound went and sat down heavily in the opposite corner to the Lannister men. Arya sat beside him, and her eyes caught a glimpse of something familiar…
Needle.
"He's got it!"
"Got what?" the Hound snapped.
"Needle," Arya replied, voice hushed, "my sword."
She could hear the Hound roll his eyes, "You named your sword."
Arya frowned up at him, "Lots of people name their swords."
"Lots of cunts."
Arya glared at him, and he chuckled darkly. The sound gained the attention of the man with Needle – Polliver – and he came over, swaggering in his shiny armour. Arya lowered her head, anxious not to be recognised.
"Are you the fucking Hound?"
The Hound's voice was cold, "So what if I am?"
"We fought under your brother," Polliver said amiably, "Ser Gregor."
"Where is Gregor now?"
Polliver frowned, "King's Landing, I think. 'E got a raven from Lord Lannister. Said 'is presence was needed in the battle."
"There's no battle there anymore." the Hound laughed.
Polliver shrugged, "Might be the Stark boy's marched on the capital," he paused, "Ser Gregor flew into a rage when the Rock was taken. Threatened to kill us all. We stayed out of 'is way."
"Aren't you clever?" the Hound's words were laced with sarcasm.
If Polliver noticed the slight, he didn't care, although Arya thought that he probably didn't know that he was being mocked. "Why ain't you with the King? Ain't you 'is dog?"
The Hound was silent. Arya's eyes flickered to Polliver's belt, where Needle was. She readied herself to move. Finally, the Hound spoke.
"Fuck the king."
Polliver moved faster than she would have thought possible for a man his size in armour. A dagger flashed out of nowhere, but the Hound was faster. And he was larger. A steel fist smacked into Polliver's cheek, and the man went sprawling, teeth scattered across the floor.
His comrades leapt to their feet, swords already being drawn. The Hound snarled, and showed his own steel with a growl. He charged the other six men, but Arya had eyes only for Polliver. She plucked the sword from his belt, and looked down at him.
"Fine sword you've got there boy," her voice was deadly soft, "Maybe I'll pick my teeth with it."
Polliver's eyes flashed with recognition, but before he could speak Arya slipped Needle into his throat. Thick red blood bubbled up from his mouth and ran down his cheeks. A small smile grew on Arya's face when the light went out of his eyes.
Suddenly, she was on her back, and there was a heavy thing on top of her. The Tickler had thrown a chair at her, and Arya leapt up, brandishing Needle. His cruel grey eyes glimmered with excitement as he gestured with his own, much larger blade. Arya breathed heavily, blood pounding in her ears.
Is there any gold in the village? Is there any gold in the village? Is there any gold in the village?
Arya ran at him, ducking under his wild swing. She was a Stark of Winterfell, and had seen her brothers and Theon Greyjoy train for years. This man was no swordsman.
Where is Lord Beric? Which of you helped him? Where did he go?
She slashed at his wrist, and Needle found skin and bone, and tasted the blood underneath. The Tickler screamed just as his victims had, and he dropped his sword.
How many were there? How many knights? How many bowmen?
The Tickler didn't wear any armour – he likely left the fighting to others – so Needle found its way easily into his soft gut again and again.
Is there any gold in the village? Where is Lord Beric? How many were there? Is there any gold in the village? Which of you helped him? How many knights? Is there any gold in the village? Where did he go? How many bowmen?
Arya didn't stop stabbing until the Hound pulled her off the Tickler's body. Black blood wept from half a hundred holes all across his chest and his throat and his neck. She hadn't noticed that he was dead. She was still screaming at his corpse when the Hound dragged her from the inn, stuffing food into his pockets.
Later, much later, the details came back to her. Arya began to remember how wet the Tickler's shirt had been, wet with his blood, and how he screamed and cried and gurgled as she stuck him again and again and again and…
Neither of them slept very well that night, but Arya had a little moment of joy when she recited her prayer.
"Ser Gregor," she whispered, "Dunsen. Raff the Sweetling. The Hound. Ser Amory. Ser Ilyn. Queen Cersei. King Joffrey. Valar Morghulis."
When she did sleep – if at all it was sleep – she dreamed once again of her pack.
She was low to the ground, though taller than she had been. The pale moon was high in the deep blue sky and the forest was alive with strange scents. She smelled deer and squirrels and songbirds, but she smelled new things. Men. The men with their blood-coloured, hard-to-break skin and their shining, cutting sticks. Her pack also filled these woods. They numbered hundreds, if not thousands, and there was little safety for men in these woods, though they did not know that yet. But they would. One day.
Suddenly, she felt a… she felt something brush at her mind. It was something she knew, something she remembered from the cold lands. Brother. The word tasted strange, but she could feel him at the edge of her mind. He was far away, to the south and east, her elder brother, the leader of their pack of six.
And he was in trouble.
She howled to her pack, and the night came alive with the howls of hundreds of wolves. Old bitches, young males, barely-weaned pups, they all answered her cry. And then they were moving, thousands of grey-and-black shapes darting through the forest. Her nose twitched, and her mouth watered as a familiar scent reached her. Blood.
Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;
blog/theprofessorofwriting