A/N: Hello. No notes this time around so just enjoy reading. Many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are both welcome and greatly appreciated.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. It all belongs to Bethesda and George R. R. Martin.

Rating: T for suggestive references and the consumption of alcohol.

Gendry wasn't sure where he'd been running or for how long until the gates of Whiterun rose from the morning gloom to meet him. Although his first instinct was to stop and relieve his burning lungs and aching muscles, he knew he would never be safe so close to the Companions, to her, so he moved on.

Dawn found him resting briefly in the Western Watchtower, sharing a bottle of wine with the Imperial soldiers there before turning back to the road and starting off at a jog toward the Northwest. Whether it was the wine, the rest, or the time that had cleared his head he wasn't sure, but he did know that he had managed to develop enough of a plan to stop blindly fleeing from who—or, what—was after him.

He would go to Solitude: the place where everything that had led up to this moment had started. Somehow, he would convince General Lannister that the werewolves of legend were a very real and very dangerous threat to not only the Empire, but all of Skyrim. Perhaps the news of the Gallows Rock massacre would have reached the Legion by the time he arrived in Solitude and would give the general the necessary push to take action.

Gendry was jostled from his thoughts when he tripped on a wayward cabbage in the middle of the road and his hand flew to his sword when he saw a nearby cart with more of the produce scattered about. With no one in sight, he could only assume that whoever the cart belonged to had been forcefully removed from their goods and swiftly disposed of—body and all. He shuddered.

The answer to his wary guess was standing a few feet away, creaking as it swayed gently in the morning breeze, a macabre grin on its face, if one could call it that.

Never having dabbled in any sort of magic, let alone Necromancy, Gendry wasn't sure how skeletons were raised from their graves and reanimated, and if he were to be honest, he didn't think he wanted to know.

Disconnecting its skull from its spine with a savage blow from his sword, he watched as it crumpled into a pile of harmless bones and then dispatched its companions nearby before scavenging the area they'd inhabited, taking only the gold he deemed necessary to keep his pack light and his pace quick.

The exertion put on his sleep-deprived body from the fight did nothing to increase his progress and he only managed to make it a quarter of a mile further before he collapsed on the ground in an area he deemed safe and fell into a restless sleep.

The noon sun woke him and, though still haunted by his lingering nightmares, he set off again at a run, following the roads to Solitude and checking anxiously over his shoulder whenever he heard a sound that indicated any sign of his being followed. Each time, it was nothing more than a rabbit or a stray mudcrab that had wandered too far from its shore.

On one occasion, a pack of wolves appeared to his right and at the sound of their howls, he panicked, running ahead a few paces and throwing himself into a small shack, thankful to find it abandoned when he ducked inside and pulled the door shut behind him.

He was more relieved to find himself alone because he was ashamed of having run away rather than wanting to avoid human contact. If anything, he wanted desperately to be around fellow Imperials, or even Redguards, Bosmer, Orcs...anyone who could separate him from the beasts that plagued his thoughts. And yet...at the same time...when he had plunged his dagger into Vilkas' heart, he knew it was a man he was killing, not a beast. For once, they had been separate. And the girl, Arya...

Wiping the angry tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, he turned to face his surroundings and began to gather what he could use, clamping a carrot between his teeth as he scooped some alchemical ingredients and a few bottles of wine into a large sack.

Hoping that the shack's owner wouldn't return to find him looting his home of all edibles and anything of value, Gendry opted to eat his lunch back on the road and left the house behind, settling into the grass nearby to eagerly bite into a raw potato.

The warm sun helped to settle his frayed nerves and he allowed himself to relax for a few brief moments, getting lost in his own thoughts.

Although it was the promise made by Arya Stark to kill each and every remaining member of the Silver Hand—a promise he knew she could accomplish given her motive and skills—that had him running for his life, he couldn't help but be intrigued by the young woman. Unlike so many others before her, the beast blood she possessed was a separate part of her, though one that fit well with her stubborn tendencies and ferocity in battle.

Perhaps, in another life... Gendry shook his head to clear it and sighed heavily. Yes, she was captivating beyond doubt, but he had to remember that he was now on the list of men she sought to kill, and likely at the top. Thinking of her too often would only serve to bring his life to a premature end.

Carefully, he removed the ring that Vilkas had given him from the satchel at his waist and he stared at it for a long moment before taking the thin leather strip that held the top of the sack and running it through the ring. Sighing again, he tied the ends and dropped it around his neck. He knew he couldn't take back what he had done, but perhaps if he was able to do as Vilkas had asked of him, his guilt wouldn't be quite so strong.

Gathering his things, he managed to turn his thoughts back to the journey at hand before continuing off toward his destination, determined to reach somewhere safe and populated before nightfall.

Unfortunately, the heat of midday didn't last long and the comforting warmth gave way to cold wet snow, falling thickly over the ground and crunching beneath his boots. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing he had been born in his mother's homeland. He'd heard the weather was milder in Cyrodiil.

Though the snow slowed his journey, he managed to spot the tops of Morthal's roofs just as the sun fell beneath the horizon, hurrying toward the light flooding from the inn.

The town brought with it a barrage of memories from his childhood and Gendry slowed his pace as he passed by the guard barracks that his mother had often sent him to while she worked in the tavern, entertaining the male patrons on the side for just enough gold to buy food for their next meal.

When he shouldered his way into the Moorside, he was surprised to find it warm, crowded, and filled with laughter. From what he remembered there wasn't a less inviting inn from Solitude to Riften; the tavern before him seemed transformed.

It seemed a bard was the source of the change, a pretty young Nord playing her lute and singing from her spot beside the bar. She had just played the finishing chords of The Bear and the Maiden Fair and handed off her lute to Lurbuk when he caught sight of her again, making her way through the crowds to join a large man shrouded by the shadows of the corner he occupied.

Gendry paid Jonna for a room and then settled against the wall on the opposite side of the inn and watched their exchange from a distance. Something about the girl was eerily familiar and some vague association nagged at the back of his mind as he tried to puzzle out where he had seen her before.

She was holding onto the hands of the man sitting on the bench before her, a man he recognized with a start as the Hound, a fairly recent deserter from the Imperial army. Although he felt that he had heard something recently about the man's actions, he couldn't immediately recall what he had been told and impatiently pushed the thought aside.

If the girl was acting that way around the Hound, she must've been a whore, paid to show interest and even, if he was interpreting their interaction correctly, affection. That, however, wouldn't explain why he felt he recognized her. Much to his chagrin, and the cruel amusement of his fellow soldiers, he hadn't yet been with a woman. But still, what else could she be? Somehow, he couldn't make himself believe that she might be his wife.

Clegane must've denied her whatever she was asking because with a slight frown, she turned back to face the dancing couples strewn across the inn and Gendry took advantage of her solitude by sweeping across the floor to meet her.

"Might I have this dance?"

She looked up in surprise and then smiled sweetly before nodding and taking the offered hand. Quickly caught up in the dance, her mood seemed to lighten and she looked up at him with a smile as he moved his hands to her waist and twirled her around to avoid another couple.

"Might I ask your name, kind ser?"

"Gendry Waters," he replied, suddenly ashamed of his bastard surname. Surely a girl as beautiful as she was would look down on a man of such low birth. "And you, my lady?"

"Alayne Stone."

Unable to contain his surprise, he furrowed his brow slightly and Alayne merely shrugged in response, seemingly able to interpret his thoughts. Although he couldn't imagine why she would be lying, he had to admit that she didn't look much like the girls he'd met from Ivarstead and Rorikstead, nor a bastard for that matter. Her fair skin and delicate features suggested highborn ancestors from the North. And yet, if her surname was still Stone...

"I saw you with that man over there and couldn't help but recognize him." Gendry paused for a moment then asked, "Is the Hound your husband, my lady?"

"Husband?" Her cheeks reddened slightly and she moved with him to the nearest wall when the song ended. "No. Lord Clegane is my sworn shield. Nothing more. With the civil war still raging, the roads are dangerous for traveling bards; he keeps me safe."

"And it's just the two of you? Pardon me for saying so, my lady, but the Hound has quite the reputation across Skyrim. On the battlefield and in the brothels..."

Alayne turned away from him and looked toward her protector, her friendly smile faltering when he met her gaze. "Yes," she responded quietly, looking back at Gendry. "I have heard the same, and yet...He does not feel that way about me, nor I him." Her brow furrowed in frustration and she added more to herself, "He sees me as a child."

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Alayne's smile widened again and she took one of Gendry's hands. "Surely you didn't want to dance with me so you could ask questions about my sworn shield."

She asked it teasingly as a question and Gendry blushed slightly, shaking his head. "No, my lady. You simply seemed lonely and I didn't think you should have to pass up the opportunity to enjoy yourself." Besides, he was still trying to figure out why he felt that he knew her. There was a memory just beyond reach, and he couldn't quite grasp it.

Looking almost sad, she accepted that answer and let him lead her back onto the floor to resume their dancing. It wasn't too long before another young man cut in and she apologized sweetly before accepting his offer and leaving Gendry back against the wall.

After another hour and a few bottles of ale, his lingering fears began to slip away and he weaved through the remaining guests to the room he had been given, falling heavily onto the bed and wiping a hand over his face. Although he was exhausted, he wasn't sure if his mind would allow him to sleep easily so he stayed awake, staring at the ceiling above him.

Unbidden, he found himself thinking of Arya Stark again. Of the look in her eyes as she had gazed at her fallen lover. Of Endryn's blood dripping from her sword. Of what she had said and the hatred in her tone when she had said it. Suddenly, at the thought of the Dunmer soldier, he recalled something that he had said during the process of Vilkas' torture.

"She's been taken by one of Lannister's dogs. If he lets her live, she'll be whelping his bastard pup within the year; mark my words. I've heard she's a pretty thing and Clegane won't let her stay a maiden for long."

In a flash he saw Arya, sword gripped tightly in her long fingers and then running a hand back through her hair in a gesture of frustration. Then the bard, her slender hand wrapped around the neck of her lute, holding his tightly in her grip as they had danced. Dawning horror grappled at his throat and he realized as he gasped for air what it was that had looked familiar about Alayne Stone. Though they looked as different as night and day, she had her sister's hands.