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“I can't stand to smell you anymore,” Arya told him flatly. It had been weeks since water had touched her skin; longer since the ragged clothes she wore had been cleaned. She ran a dirty finger idly up her arm and dead skin and grease rolled up into a ball under the black crescent of her fingernail. “I can't stand to smell myself either.”
Sandor lifted his one good eyebrow, though it was obvious that for once her bitching wasn't pointless. They were far from the road and they hadn't seen a single person in two days. A stream lay before them and it was as warm and pleasant a day as could be hoped for this near the end of summer.
“If we stop for the night and I clean our clothes now and lay them by the fire, they'll be dry by morning.”
“You offering to wash my small clothes, girl?” Sandor asked, dry humor in his voice, but Arya could tell he was tempted. Her own underthings were stiff with filth, and she could only imagine his were as bad.
“I'll do it before I eat, shall I? If I vomit on them I'd just have to clean them again,” she sniped back, but without rancor. After more than a year traveling together their bickering had become a comfortable habit: something reliable and easy and familiar.
Sandor snorted but began to gather up twigs and branches to build their fire. “Do your thing, girl, and I'll bring us back a rabbit.”
Arya waited until Sandor had disappeared into the woods to peel herself out of the clothing. They were rough, sturdy clothes, but they'd been her only option for more than a year. The sleeves rode up her forearms and the hem of the trousers crested her ankles. Even her feet suffered, crushed into shoes that had grown too small as she'd aged.
The first bite of the stream water made her gasp, but soon the pleasure of being clean outweighed the briskness of water. Using the bit of soap she'd stolen from the last inn they'd stayed at, she scrubbed her body brutally, taking off a layer of skin along with the coating of grime she'd accumulated.
She tackled her clothing afterwards, lathering and rubbing it against the rocks at the edge of the stream to loosen the dirt and oils. She washed the linens she used for her moon blood and considered washing her cloak as well, except that it would leave her with nothing to wear while her clothing dried.
When she was as clean as could be expected from a stream, she gathered up her sodden clothing and hung them from branches near their encampment before curling under her cloak and waiting for Sandor to return. Within an hour he had, carrying two skinny rabbits and a squirrel, which he dropped at her feet.
“Oh!” she said with pleasure, snaking out a hand to gather up the bounty. Sandor only grunted as he began to shed clothing and walk towards the stream, leaving her to clean the animals and set them on the fire. He took the soap, though, and Arya knew he'd clean his own clothing.
The next half hour she spent preparing their supper and she paid the Hound no notice until he'd lumbered out of the stream and wrapped himself in his cloak. He sat near a tree, close enough to speak but not close to the fire. .
“Maybe we should stay here for a while,” she called to him. He grunted. “The hunting's good and we haven't seen anyone in days.”
Sandor cracked open an eye. “Can't,” he said shortly. “We're going to a fair. There'll be competitions. Prizes.”
“A fair!” she cried, this having been the first she'd heard of it. “But- Sandor. What if you're recognized?” What would she do, if she lost the only person left in the world she could count on?
Immediately she squashed the thought, angry with herself. She could take care of herself. She didn't need him.
Sandor sighed in that annoyed way of his and sat up to look at her squarely. “What is the saying of your house, girl?”
She gaped at him, confused at the turn of the conversation. “Winter is coming,” she said slowly.
“Aye, it is. You've seen the signs as well as I have. Think life's hard now? Well, you wouldn't know. You're just a babe.”
Arya began to protest, but didn't get far. It was true enough. She couldn't remember winter, and the tales of the cold, the starvation and the desperation, were just that: tales.
“We need to get to a warmer climate, girl, somewhere no one gives two shits about the Hound or Arya Stark. Essos. But we need gold for that and you don't like stealing, as I recall.”
“But...” she began, her mind flashing through all she knew of Essos. It wasn't much. The land of slaves, she knew. The land of savages. “What will we do in Essos?” she asked plaintively, at last.
Sandor looked at her steadily. “We'll live. Doesn't get as cold in Essos. Not as hard. I can hire on as a sellsword and you can...” he waved a vague hand, clearly unsure of her skills, if any.
She felt her stomach sink. “I'm useless to you,” she said angrily. “There's no one left to sell me to. Why even take me to Essos?”
Sandor looked at her. “I'm taking you,” he said in a hard voice. “You'll find a way to pull your weight, girl. You're a survivor.”
Arya felt a little lightheaded with relief and pride. Maybe he was lying to her, but she didn't think he was. Many was the time he'd had the opportunity to get rid of her or sell her to someone who would hurt and use her, but he never had and he'd not made her feel unwelcome in quite a while now.
“You've always told me how lucky I was to have you. How quick I'd meet a brutal end if I was alone,” she said, somehow unable to keep herself from baiting the bear.
Sandor sat back, sensing that her panic had abated. He looked out over the stream. “Well I have got you,” he said, and for the first time in so, so long Arya began to believe that she might have a future after all.