There is no one alive.
The village is built around the lord's castle, home of a minor house of the Eyre whose name they both refused to learn from their lessons long forgotten.
Jaime and Arya keep their weapons in hands, jut to be safe, but the dozen of corpses they see approaching the drawbridge are only the beginning.
The plague has been fast here, the majority of people died inside the houses – poor buildings with few furniture and fires without ashes, a sign of true misery – some simply collapsed on the muddy streets.
Arya is stubborn.
"Let's check inside the castle."
Jaime tries to dissuade her, wanting to run away as fast as their horses can, hide again into the forests and never ever see a lifeless body again.
She doesn't stop and Jaime cuts two stripes from one of his tunics, forcing Arya to tie hers over mouth and nose.
"Protect yourself." He orders and this time she obeys: it s so un-Arya he wants to laugh and it will sound absurd in the silence of death around them.
The castle is lifeless, too, she merely glances around the main court and leaves in a hurry, changing her mind very fast; Jaime shakes his head, sometimes she's young and impulsive, an obstinate woman who makes her choices, a charming little lady.
If she knew he calls her lady in his mind she'd be able to stitch Needle in his chest.
She's beautiful in her rage and he compares Myrcella and Arya, it would have been easier to be a father to Arya than to his estranged daughter; they could speak about knights an weapons and spend a lot of time in the training yard.
But Arya is not Myrcella, never will be, Ned Stark's seed sired her and pure northern blood runs in her veins.
So he's not a father for Arya, not an enemy, he is her shield, her companion, her temporary ally; so many things and at the same time he's not important at all.
And this is not what he wants to be, he likes her, her singularity hits a cord deep inside him and it's wrong and it seems right and now his nights are often restless because of her.
Her hands on his hair were soft and he misses a human touch after Myrcella's embrace, the joy to share a connection with another human being.
Gendry's face becomes harder to remember the more they approach North; is he alive, or succumbed to the plague? How will she traces him back? An humble blacksmith, between the hundreds of bodies suffering and dying, he'll be buried in a common grave or escaped somewhere safe.
She does care about Gendry, not enough to answer yes to his marriage proposal, her blood listens to another kind of calls, her inner wolf cannot be easily tamed.
Gendry is handsome and very male, but he is not the only man on earth, since he has noticed Jaime's body, hair now a little longer, chin with traces of a growing golden beard, muscles flexing on his back, in good shape for his age, a life of privileges for him.
Are they becoming the only survivors? He continues to tell her the North is safe, but he is unable to look into her eyes and swear they will find Winterfell in its usual glory.
Arya want to live, her survival instincts the reason her goal to be faceless was doomed from the beginning. She's got her own list, hiding it from the Masters, from Jaqen.
"Are we... the last of us?"
Jamie looks at Arya from the other side of the fire.
The evenings are the worst part, they are forced to stop for exhaustion, camping in the sunset light, days getting shorter.
"I'm sure the plague is circumscribed."
"I can't feel Bran anymore. Neither as a whisper. We're travelling for days now and it's death everywhere."
"It can't spread so much, so fast."
"And if we are?"
He knows what she means, their families lost, their former lives shattered, last hopes destroyed.
It's impossible, he thinks, if they are still alive someone else must be so.
"We can be infected and not showing, Jaime... maybe tomorrow or in a week."
It's a loop, an endless circle of questions and answers and Jamie is suddenly too tired, too worried, too sad to think about what the future will bring.
"If we are we get the best days of our lives. We're free."
He's erased everything that's not their travel, he's forgotten his past and focused only on reaching Winterfell as fast as they can. What they'll both find there can be too painful to elaborate.
His eyes are huge and his features glows in the growing dusk and Arya believes they are suspended in a private time and space.
She looks at Jaime, taking in all he is, all his body and all his relaxed posture allows her to grab And it's something warm that grows inside her.
Arya stands, at first unsure, then Jaime takes a deep breath and his eyes follow every step she takes, until Arya stands above Jaime and he offers his good hand and she accepts it.
The deal is sealed, in silence she kneels and their gazes meet, his arm pulls her closer, but his head stays still.
He wants her and he won't force her, never. Probably she's still a maiden, one that kills and is not afraid; if he approaches her the wrong way, Needle is ready to cut his body open.
His knighthood, her family, his sister belong to the past, not to the world that is rotting; to hell everything else, Jaime lets her soul follow his, all he hopes is her wanting him back.
She longes for a touch, to feel what she saw many times before, in Braavos' Taverns, in Winterfell stables, in Harrenhal back streets, men and women together and this can be her first and her last time with a man she was raised to despise but proved to be much more reliable she ever imagined.
"Don't be afraid, if you want, we can."
His words unlock her inner wolf and she is bold in bringing her free hand around Jaime's neck and press her lips against his, it's all of him - skin, scent, taste - she craves now.
His stump by impulse on her back and she is not repulsed and with her acceptance comes his soft whisper of relief that caress her mouth and he listens to his body, how different is this with a woman who is not his own half.
He banishes Cersei from his mind and lets Arya take the lead, she is eager to explore his mouth, the zeal of the novice who is more theory than passion, but Jaime don't care, under her touch he rejoices greatly and presses her closer to him; he's suddenly young again and free to live.
Arya straddles his legs and her hands find his bare chest under the tunic, drawing patterns at the rhythm their mouths play together, then both bodies take control, grinding against each other.
The fire warms one side only, Arya grabs his cloak, wraps it over both and they slide and turn clumsily on the hard ground, getting rid of clothes until it's only skin and Jaime's hands and mouth make her body sing like she imagined it would be.
Her Septa, mother and all the other women were wrong, it is not submission to a husband, it's not duty for her house: it's the call of life that forces her blood to flow and her body to sing.
When they are joined, it doesn't hurt, just a little discomfort, she's trained and toned and he's gentle in his need.
Slow at first, then Jaime becomes energy, desire, strength; a proper match for her, the rest of the world disappears, she matches his movements, arching her body when he lifts her up from the ground.
Arya is surrounded by him and it is good to follow his pace, this first time, the difference between observing and experimenting what the act of love is. Soon it is too much, too powerful, like on a tower ready to jump and his face is so concentrated, she cannot stop herself.
"Jaime, I.."
"Let it go, let…"
She tenses and falls and he's close too, a few thrusts and he pulls out just in time to spill on her thigh, then roll on his side, painting heavily, half trapped by the cloak, limbs forced intertwined.
Arya understands the wet mess on her legs will be easy to clean, easier than the mess of getting rid of a bastard; they have no moon tea and cannot get it, the possibility to lay with a man has been out of Arya's mind during their travel.
She looks up at the sky above, then at Jaime, still breathing like after a run.
"That was good."
"Was it your first, wasn't it?"
No need to find traces of blood as a proof, it's not a wedding night, her wild life has tore already a thin piece of flesh.
She is proud of what they have shared, she's a full woman now.
"Not my idea to wait until marriage if I found a skilled man."
Jaime smiles, he's been called many things before, this recognition and appreciation on the verge of death is exhilarating.
Breaking a meagre feast, the morning after, Jamie's eyes are afraid to meet hers.
Every attempt at conversation is answered by monosyllables. After the passion, the heat of the moment, Arya is sure he'll have a remorse, because before sleep conquered both Jaime confessed Cersei had been his one and only, until then.
When Jaime stands to pack the horses, she grabs his wrist.
"Look, about last night, I wanted it. I'm not ashamed."
"I should have not taken…"
"My innocence? My virtue?"
She stops him, laughing in earnest surprise.
"I'm not my romantic sister. We are alone in the middle of nowhere, running away from a mortal disease. Who knows our fate?"
He seems a little relieved by her speech.
"Are you sure?"
"My family won't force you to marry me because I'll never marry if not by my own choice."
A pause. "Yours, maybe. It would be a different matter"
His resigned smile, a confirmation: how many times in Harrenhal Tywin lamented Jaime was stuck in the kingsguard and refused his inheritance?
"My father would be glad I bedded a woman not blood related."
His parents were first cousins, once he heard Qyburn talking about the complications of inbreeding with Varys, referring to Tyrion; Joffrey was doomed from the beginning, Tommen is too soft to rule.
"Promise me you won't tell him about tonight." Arya is concerned, Tywin is powerful and he could find a way to force them into an alliance.
"I swear on Tommen's head. My father would put us together in a heartbeat. The greatest marriage the Rock ever saw."
She makes a face, glad he's laughing, but there's not only the old lion into the game.
"Are you afraid of your sister's jealousy?"
"She's betrayed me, all the more since I lost my hand."
He's unsure how to behave with Arya, he supposes he'll have to follow her lead; her strong personality is more similar to Cersei's than every other woman his father tried to find for him.
Arya is free and careless and she's the kind of woman that can hurt Jaime again and at the same time he can protect and help her; in the most hidden part of his brain there is a chance to have something truer for himself.
"And I am glad you spilled out. Like you believe in a future."
That has been a conscious choice, he admits, he clings to a hope he is afraid to voice out, that snow and cold will save them, so he has taken great care she's not with child when they will arrive in Winterfell.