It was as if Winter never came to Lorath. The warm, salty air drew warm, salty sweat out of all the island's inhabitants. "So, where can a man find a bath in this city?" The limping Hound led Stranger down the port road, following the singer whose mood had visibly lifted the moment they disembarked.

"Oh. There's a bathhouse just a bit up the road. The ladies there will attend all your needs. "

The angry Hound grasped a handful of the boy's tunic, "I'm not looking for whores, boy! I stink!"

"No! No, I know. I mean I know you're not looking for whores, not that you stink." He chose his words more carefully, "It's just that life is different in Lorath, more pleasing to the senses. There are no whores at the bathhouse, I assure you. The ladies there will cut your hair, your fingernails, your toenails, and trim that beard. Even the horse will be groomed and attended while you bathe."

"It takes much longer to groom this horse than it does to dunk me in tub of cold water."

"Not here." He began singing a song in the Lorathi tongue.

"Spare me. I have no ear for music."

The poor singer guffawed. "You meant that as a jest, right?" He motioned toward the Hound's missing ear.

"No. I hadn't." He responded dryly.

The groom at the bathhouse stables was a slow-moving, gentle boy. Stranger went with him almost easily. Poor horse, he must be tired from the voyage.

The bathhouse was an odd place to the Hound. The common area was decorated in marble, gold, velvets, and silks. Looks a bit like one of Littlefinger's establishments but smells better, and no one is naked. Wenton did the Hound the favor of requesting him a tub attendant who spoke the common tongue. "I'm going to find you some Lorathi attire. I'll be back before you're done."

"Aren't you going to bathe, boy?"

"I'll bathe later. I'm certain I can get the Lady's serving girls to help me. Beside, I'm not the one who needs to make a good impression in the doorway." He winked.

Soon, a muscular, brown-haired girl came out to greet the big man and led him to his bath. As he followed her down the hall, he could see that the bathing rooms were filled with flowers, statues, and paintings, and each room held a single stone tub and opened to a terrace. This is more to Renly's tastes than mine. I may not look like the Knight of the Flowers, but I'd wager I'll smell like him before this day is done.

The bathing girl began asking questions, "Would you like a musician?"

"While I bathe? No!" Who would enjoy musician during a bath?

"And do you have any preferences of what you would like in your bath?"

"Water. Hot, if you can. And soap."

The girl appeared to be stifling a smile. "We have many kinds of oils and salts to choose from."

"I'm not a leg of mutton. I don't require salting or oiling. Just soap."

The girl smiled, and suggested, "Perhaps, ser, you would give me your permission to make selections for you based on my experience and judgment."

He began wondering how badly he needed this bath, but his inhale reminded him how desperate he was. "Alright!" He conceded, "If you stop calling me 'Ser,' you can throw whatever spices you prefer into the stew pot with me."

"Certainly. Bathing robes are behind the changing screen. The blue ones are the largest. Cleansing wines are on the side table. The girls will fetch the water, and then I'll be back." She made a sort of a curtsying gesture and left.

He stepped behind the screen and began discarding his robes. The blue robe he chose was stretched across his arms and shoulders, but would do for the short time he'd be using it. He made his way to the side table. Free wine. Maybe Lorath isn't such a bad place. But all four of the wines tasted awful. All were white, each marinating a different herb: mint, fennel , lovage, and parsley. He realized to his disappointment that they were intended to cleanse the mouth.

Once the tub was filled, the girl returned with two baskets. One was filled with several small glass bottles and jars and the other with razors, shears, and other objects the man didn't recognize. After her potions were added to the water, she asked, "Are you ready to begin?"

"I'm perfectly capable of washing myself."

"This is Lorath. Life here is not simply about capability. It's about pleasure."

"Aye. Well, then, it would be my pleasure to wash myself, girl."

"Your friend has told me that you are a man of the Faith, so I'll keep my clothes on, stay outside the tub, and not touch you anywhere indiscreet."

She seemed determined, so he gave her a tight nod, disrobed, and entered the water. The water smelled of musk and lemons, and some other scents he'd never encountered. She began washing his back with a scratchy sponge.

"So many scars. You must have been a great warrior before you joined the Faith."

He ignored her comment, and she took the hint, working slowly in silence. She scrubbed the black from his fingers and feet, softened the callous areas, and trimmed the nails. She left his face and hair for last, washing both slowly and carefully. He kept his eyes closed, uncomfortable with anyone touching either. Except for Sansa. He remembered her hand on his face, warm, delicate fingers. No one had ever done that to me. Just then, the bath attendant interrupted his thoughts.

"How would you like it cut?"

"Leave it long enough to cover the burned parts. Oh, and the ears." He remembered the boy's earlier quip and quickly corrected himself, "Ear."

"And the beard, trim or shave?"

"Trim."

"And the rest of you?"

"Needs neither trimming nor shaving." He said too seriously.

She laughed. "You're a man of the Faith, so I guess no one will be looking . . . elsewhere."

She was slow and thorough. "Now, I'll leave you to your privacy to finish washing . . . elsewhere. Bath sheets are here." She patted a folded pile. "Lay face down on the cushions when you're done, and cover anything you don't want massaged with the bath sheet."

"For what?"

"I have some oils to massage into your skin, to help you relax."

So, he finished washing himself, half relieved and half disappointed that his manhood had basically slept through the whole Lorathi bathing experience. He wound the bath sheet around his hips, tied the loose ends in a sloppy knot, and laid face down where the girl had directed.

When the girl returned, she brought with her the clothes Wenton had procured and hung them on the ends of the changing screen. She spent over an hour rubbing him from end to end with various oils. I'm going to smell like a whore. Even worse, like Varys. At some point, he nodded off, and woke up alone to the sound of the door shutting. Something smelled strongly of sage, and when he realized it was his armpits, he rolled his eyes.

The Hound found the Lorathi attire ridiculous. A new yellow sleeveless tunic left him feeling exposed. His new smallclothes were black and ended at his upper thighs! The new black breeches laced at a low waist and were a bit tighter in the legs and bottom than he was accustomed to, but the fabric stretched, and he was happy that his disfigured thigh wasn't visible through them. He slid on his own black boots, and checked himself in the bathing room's dressing mirror. He hadn't seen himself in a long mirror since King's Landing, and he noticed that the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and chest were still strong, although one arm bore the scar Beric Dondarrion had given him. Turns out putting bodies in the ground keeps the shoulders as strong as swinging a sword. His stomach was tighter and flatter than ever. Well, it's no wonder, with no wine to drink and the simple foods served on the Quiet Isle. I'm wearing the colors of my house, he thought, as he fastened his sword belt.

He found Wenton waiting for him in the common area and asked him, "How much do I owe for the bath and this . . .?" He motioned to his new clothes.

"The cost of our passage was much less than the lady anticipated. I paid for it all, and the horse's grooming, with the excess."

"You wasted your money on the horse, boy. I doubt he let anyone near him." He chuckled, but almost to the Hound's disappointment, he found Stranger bathed and groomed. More upsetting was that the giant warhorse had yellow flowers braided into his mane and tail when he was returned to his owner. Is that perfume I smell? Who in seven hells would perfume a horse? "You're getting old and soft." He chided the horse, and maybe himself.