Her moon blood had come and gone, thank the Gods, but in its wake was a mess of new problems for Arya and her companion. They had not traveled very far since, as the weather had taken an ugly turn. A terrible storm lay before them, the likes of which Arya had never seen. She supposed the Hound had seen many a storm like it. He had seen a great many things more than she. He'd certainly seen enough cruelty to warrant his bitterness, she thought grimly.

They rode into the thick of it, it seemed, as the further they rode, the harder the rain, the deeper the rumbles of thunder. Worse, however, was the wind, which set the horses on edge and caused the rain to pelt them in the face. And if that wasn't atrocious enough, it had become horribly cold in her sopping clothes.

Apparently the Hound found himself at his threshold for the weather as well when he growled out something about finding "someplace fucking dry". They eventually did find an inn, though it was packed to the brim with other travelers and the like, all escaping the ghastly storm.

It was midday but so utterly bleak as they arrived at the inn's stable that she could scarcely see the Hound, only able to make out his hulking outline through the heavy rain. It was dark as night and Arya struggled with her saddle a moment before she felt his large hands pull her roughly from her horse and into the mud. She followed him as closely as she could without stepping on his heels, and found herself grabbing onto his forearm when the winds began to sway her small frame. He spoke naught of it, although she felt him tense and glare down at her.

He opened the door to the inn with such force that he nearly broke it off its hinges and stood in the frame, as if daring anyone to say anything to him. Arya stood at his side, dropping her hand from his arm, but following closely still, as he shoved through the crowded room to a counter. A frail looking old woman hobbled over to them, seeming completely un-phased by the sheer mountain of a man before her.

After paying more than the Hound would've liked for one of the last rooms left free, they were escorted by the old woman up a set of equally brittle-looking wooden stairs. She stopped and clasped her wrinkled hands together in her front, turning and looking Arya up and down with pity.

"I'll fetch you something dry, Dear." She glanced at the Hound suspiciously before scurrying off.

"Oh- thank you." Arya stuttered out to the woman's retreating form, unaccustomed to kindness from… well anyone, really.

The Hound said nothing, opening the door and stepping through with long strides. He sat down on a stool on the far side of the small room and began hastily removing his shoulder pieces. Arya stepped in slowly, examining the new surroundings. There was no fire lit, though she doubted the Hound minded, no matter how cold she knew he must be. There was one corner of the room, presumably for bathing as there was a large tub tucked into the nook. Arya's skin tingled at the thought of a warm bath. Oh, it had been a long time. Her eyes fell on the bed. Certainly more comfortable than the hard ground, but nothing special if you were accustomed to feather beds and plush pillows. Luckily, Arya was not.

A bed. She sighed wearily.

The old woman returned with dry clothes for Arya and quickly apologized to the Hound, explaining that she had nothing that would fit him. He simply grunted in reply. When she had left, he stood and began pulling his rough spun tunic from his trousers. Arya watched for a only a moment before following suit.

She pulled her tunic over her head, briefly using it to try and sop up some of the water from her hair, to no avail.

He was not watching her, but instead, ringing out his wet tunic in the tub, in nothing but his trousers. He looked more intimidating then, half naked and soaked to the bone than he ever had before. His back was rippling with muscle and littered with scars of varying shapes and sizes, a story stretched across his thickened skin.

She thought for the first time (consciously at least) that he was not so horrible to look upon. She rather liked the view, actually. Though she'd sooner rot in the seventh hell than utter the words aloud. She turned from him before he noticed her and removed her chest wraps with an astounding lack of grace, her undergarments following closely behind, all the while attempting to block out the sound of the Hound wrestling with his wet trousers and ringing them out as well. She would not think of him naked. She would not.

After she'd changed into the oversized shift the woman had brought her, Arya fell heavily upon the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin and shivering insistently. The bed dipped dramatically with the weight of the Hound, as he lay down on his side next her. He uttered a disapproving grunt as the sound of her teeth chattering fell upon his ears. No words were spoken between them. He pulled her into his chest which was bare but for the copious amounts of black hair which trailed all the way down past his breaches, arm wrapped around her back. With no fire in the small room, it was a necessity that even Arya and the Hound could understand. In truth, his skin did not feel warm against her own. He must have been very cold. But as she pressed closer she wrapped an arm over his torso, tucked her freezing legs between his, and they both began to thaw. Exhaustion soon took her, but as it did, Arya felt a tug of disquiet on her heart, at how good and right and equally, unnerving, it felt to be held by such a grotesque man as the Hound.


He lay awake for some time after he felt the Little Wolf's warm breath deepen and slow upon his skin. He watched the top her head intently, tucked his fingers into the damp tangles of her hair which rested beneath his chin. She hadn't meant to press her thigh against his groin when she slid her leg between his, he knew. That didn't make his pulse slow any though. Damn girl. He hadn't thought twice about pulling her to him when he'd seen her little fingers shaking and turning purple at the ends from the cold. Damn girl. When had she made him so soft? Begrudgingly, he watched his fingers twist in her hair, imagining taking a fistful of it and pulling as he got a taste of that soft skin on her neck.

He closed his eyes with a growl- whine, more like. Maybe he'd find a tavern wench on the morrow. Perhaps he'd finally get some peace. Fucking a whore was lighter on the conscience than sniffing at the skirts of a highborn bitch. He held on tighter, closing his eyes only when her body stopped shivering. The deep rumble of the storm outside carried him to a dreamless sleep.


Arya woke, well rested and warmer than she had been in years. Nearly freezing to death made one appreciate warmth when they were gifted it. Coarse hair tickled her nose and she huffed, shaking her head a little to escape it. She tried to stretch her legs, but was unable to. Looking down, she found that they were trapped in place by the those of the Hound. She tilted her head up (as far as their position would allow) and found her face inches from the Hound's scars. Her breath hitched, due to proximity more than the burns. This close, she could see fully the extent of the scar for the first time. It wasn't so bad, Arya thought. It could be much worse. She reached a hand up, shoved his hair out of the way, and grazed the skin with the tips of her fingers. Soft. She gasped a little. Smooth. Not nearly as rough as it looked.

She felt his body tense before she noticed his hand reach up and grab her own. She looked into his face but his eyes didn't open.

"No." he growled.

"Hmmph…" she mumbled and drew her hand back to her chest.

He disentangled himself from her roughly, and dressed. "Wait here." He rumbled, slamming the door behind him.