The men are loud- drunk, stomachs full, and content. It had been a long time since he'd seen his men this lively. The inn was nice- Arya's suggestion and he had taken it. He watches her now, cup in her hand smiling a small smile at something one his men says to her but it doesn't reach her eyes. He's noticed this about her in the few weeks he's been with her. She smiles, she speaks, she moves, but her eyes never reveal anything- no emotion, no thoughts, not even motives which used to give her away during swordplay. They are just a grey storm of deadness- a beautiful grey storm, but dead nonetheless.

He wonders what happened to her during the time they were separated. Her cool and detached demeanor had ebbed away after a day or so, only to give way to utter rage directed at him. She'd found him one morning after he'd been here for a few days and he could see the difference in her. She was wearing trousers and a tunic too large for her, a dagger attached to one hip and a sword on the other. Her body practically buzzed with the anger pulsing through her, still her eyes remained cold and stormy, dead. He had looked at her with a question in his eyes while she leaned against the wall behind her and ground out between clenched teeth:

"Why?"

A knot had grown in his stomach then, because he knew exactly what she was asking and it was so different looking at this Arya- the woman Arya- when he had to think back to girl Arya with her voice breaking and tears in her eyes.

'I could be your family.' He had known that would never be. The moment they stepped foot in Robb's camp she'd be Lady Arya Stark and he'd still be the low-born bastard he was. It wouldn't have mattered to her. Her family might have indulged her for awhile, letting her visit him when she wanted. But eventually... it would have mattered. And it was his head to lose if there were any accusations of untoward behavior. She would have become his lady, his better, and he'd be serving her brother and her family and that would never change. He couldn't. He wouldn't. So he'd bent a knee and the Brotherhood without Banners had knighted him and it hit him that he'd broken her young girl's heart. How could he even begin to explain this to her, this grown Arya with the festering wound of a child she had once been?

He had given her a sad look and he swore he almost saw a flash of fire in her eyes when he did so, as if to say that she didn't want his pity. But he had blinked and it was gone- replaced by the lifeless eyes. He sighed and struggled for the words. He said the only thing he could think of and willed her to understand.

"I'm a bastard."

Literally and figuratively, he thought now as he watched he drink her slowly and place the cup on the table slowly, her eyes catching his for the first time of the night. He couldn't help it and the sides of his mouth turned upwards and he smiled at her. She lifts an eyebrow in return and looks away, focusing on some story being told at the table.

Most of the men have left, gone off to bed in a drunken stupor. Those that are left are gathered around the large fireplace in a corner of the inn. Arya's asked about the war and battles and the few men crowded around the flames are more than happy to indulge her curiosity. He takes another drink of ale and his head swims a little. He's had enough ale for the night and sets the cup down. Arya sits by the fire, her long willowy dress spread around her outstretched legs as she listens intently to the tale of the Battle of Blackwater and he's still surprised at this: that she owns and actually wears dresses. Granted, they aren't the stiff and constraining dresses that were designed for modesty like in the North where she'd been born. No, he thinks as he stares the outline of her legs under the thin layers of fabric, they are meant for free movement and agility here. The fabric as sheer as can be but layers and layers of it wrapped around her frame and held in place by some sort of metal clasp at her shoulders, leaving her arms exposed. They are shapeless- just yards of fabric- unless caught in the whipping sea wind causing the dress to tug at her frame, reminding him that she's not Arry anymore. And unless indoors, the wind never ceases here.

He realizes that he's been staring at her legs and he feels a slight warmth creep up his neck and quickly looks away, his face settling on the nearest target which happens to be her breasts. The warmth spreads further and he wishes he hadn't drank so much ale. He jerks his gaze away as quickly as possible only to be caught by her eyes. Had she been watching the whole time? Her grey eyes bore into his for a moment before darting away and she's asking a question about wildfire as if she hadn't noticed him staring at her. Blood is pounding in his ears and he takes a few deep breaths, trying to still himself.

Shit.