Fic: 5 Times Arya Stark Shared a Bed With Gendry Waters (1/2)
Title: Five Times Arya Stark Shared a Bed With Gendry Waters
Author: lit_chick08
Pairings: Arya/Gendry, mentions Gendry/OFC
Rating: R
Spoilers: Mostly through “A Storm of Swords” but does reference Arya's storyline in future books before going AU
Word Count: 12,162
Disclaimer: The characters belong to George RR Martin; I'm just playing
Summary: She is Arya Stark of Winterfell, a girl with four brothers who has always felt more comfortable in the company of men, but Gendry...Well, he's just confusing
One
Yoren told her to make sure no one figured out she's a girl because they'll turn her into the queen or, if they're particularly heinous, will rape her and then hand her over to Cersei. Arya wasn't stupid enough to think Needle would protect her for a group of grown men, so she followed Yoren's instructions, right down to hiding when she had to make water.
But that first night, Arya wasn't sure what to do. They were camping out, the kind of camping she used to beg her parents to let her do back at Winterfell, the sort of camping Robb, Jon, Theon, and even Bran got to do but her mother always said was improper for Arya to take part in; but these men were not her brothers, and Arya was not sure where to sleep, who it was safe to sleep beside. She wanted to stick close to Yoren, but he stayed near the older men, and none of the other recent recruits for the Wall were camping near him, which meant they'd notice if “Arry” decided to sleep near the older man.
Lommy and Hot Pie were stretching out near a few of the other boys who made japes towards her, the ones who always grabbed at Needle and her wooden practice sword, the last remaining ties she had to Jon Snow and Syrio, the ones who liked to call her Lumpyhead amongst other slurs. There was no way in seven hells she was going to fall asleep near them; they'd take her swords and do Gods only knew what else.
As Arya scanned the area for the safest place to sleep, she caught sight of the one they were calling The Bull, the blacksmith's apprentice who carried the helm in the shape of a bull's head. He was broad, heavily muscled, and her tormentors were afraid of him, which told Arya that he was the one to sleep beside this night. Thus far he hadn't said anything unless someone addressed him, and even then he kept his responses brief. There was something familiar about him, but Arya could not put her finger on it.
She sat down on the grass a reasonable distance from The Bull, trying to suppress the shiver which went up her spine; there were a limited amount of blankets, and the others had pushed her when it was time to claim them, meaning she was one of the few who did not receive anything. Not for the first time she wished for Nymeria, whose body was always warm, whose fur had been soft beneath Arya's cheek. Arya felt a lump rising in her throat, the events of the past few months threatening to overwhelm her, but she choked the emotion back.
Not today, she ordered herself as she tried to settle her head against the grass.
“Here,” a deep voice said, drawing Arya's attention as she twisted her head.
The Bull was holding out a blanket, nodding at her to take it. She cautiously accepted it, waiting for the other shoe to drop; when The Bull said nothing, Arya mumbled a thank you, wrapping it around her slender shoulders.
“Can I see your sword?” When Arya said nothing, simply glared at him with distrust, he picked up the bull's helm and held it out. “You can hold that while I look. I'll give it back, I promise.”
Arya withdrew Needle from her waistband, grabbing one of the horns of the helm and jerking it towards her before completing the exchange. In the muted firelight, The Bull held it up, studying it with careful eyes, and Arya wondered if he used to make swords at the blacksmith's shop. She ran her hands over the helm, unsure what she was supposed to do it beyond hold it hostage. When The Bull handed Needle back, she set the helm next to him.
“How does a beggar boy get a castle-forged sword?”
“Wasn't always a beggar boy,” Arya grunted, hooking Needle back into her belt loop.
The Bull smirked; the expression changed his face for the better. “I'm Gendry, Gendry Waters.”
“Arry...Arry Snow.”
Gendry's smirk became a smile as he laid down on the grass, staring up at the night sky. “Suppose us bastard boys should stick together.”
She thought of Jon, her favorite brother, her best brother; she thought of how many times she heard someone at Winterfell call him a bastard, remembered how he always clenched his fists and seemed to hate the word the same way she despised the sound of “lady.” All Jon Snow had ever wanted was to be able to call himself a Stark, and here she was, stealing his name to hide her parents.
It was funny, Arya thought as she drifted off to sleep beside Gendry Waters, how all the best boys were bastards.
Two
She may have been the Ghost of Harrenhal but even ghosts got lonely, which was why Arya sneaked down to the kitchen to see Hot Pie before supper one evening. Hot Pie usually panicked upon her arrivals - he had never quite learned how to take a hit, not like she had - but she had easier access to Hot Pie in the kitchens than Gendry in the forge.
As Hot Pie tried to clean up his space, Arya stretched to swipe a lemon tart, quickly suppressing the thought of Sansa, when Hot Pie announced, “The Bull's sick.”
“What do you mean, sick?”
Hot Pie shrugged. “I mean, he's sick. Heard one of the maesters talking. Some fever is going around the castle, and he got it.”
The tart in her hand forgotten, Arya asked, “Is it serious?”
“A couple people died of it.” He shrugged again before struggling with a bag of flour. “Maester told all o' us to be careful because if we catch the fever, we might get it in the food.”
“He still at the forge?”
Arya knew the knights and more important people in the castle were treated in their chambers, but Gendry didn't have a chamber; he had a single, stinking cot in the back of the forge in a room which was always unbearably hot from the fires. She felt a stab of fear the blacksmith would send him away and he'd have to stay in the sick ward in one of the basements, the place where people were taken and never returned.
“How would I know?”
Arya rolled her eyes, grunting, “Useless,” before hurrying on silent feet towards the forge.
If they caught her out after dark, she'd be punished; things may have been better since Bolton took over the castle, but she was still just a cup bearer, little Nan. Hot Pie still called her Arry, most of Harrenhal's residents still called her “the weasel”; Gendry rarely addressed her by name but, when he thought she was being irritating, he called her m'lady, and it never failed to anger her every time.
The forge was still hot when she entered, but Arya knew the blacksmith was undoubtedly in his own chambers, giving his coin to the women who were so eager to climb into his bed; everyone in Harrenhal knew Gendry's master loved the drink and whores more than anything else. As Arya sidestepped an anvil, she heard a wet, rattling cough from the back room, and her heart clenched in fear.
Fear cuts deeper than swords, she recited as she pushed aside the curtain which hid Gendry's room from the forge.
Her friend was lying in his cot, naked save for his smallclothes, his entire body coated in a heavy layer of sweat; his black hair was plastered to his forehead, and there was an unnatural paleness to his skin. Once at Winterfell Arya saw Maester Luwin treating someone who looked like this; when the man had died, Robb said the fever cooked his brain.
Arya pressed her hands against Gendry's forehead and drew them back at the sheer amount of heat coming from his body.
At her touch, Gendry's eyes fluttered open; they were unfocused and swollen, the bright blue now a stormy gray. When he opened his mouth, it took several tries before he rasped, “Arya?”
“Why'd you go and get the fever?” she snapped, surprising herself at the sharpness of her voice. Instantly she wondered if she should apologize, try to explain she wasn't really angry, just scared, but Gendry just chuckled through a cough.
“Sorry, m'lady. I didn't mean to.”
Arya picked up a rag on a nearby table; confirming it was reasonably clean, she dunked it into a bucket of water used for cooling metal before applying it to Gendry's forehead the way her mother used to do when Arya was sick. Gendry hummed in pleasure at the cool water, so Arya repeated the motion, pressing the rag to his face, his neck, his chest; every inch of him was burning like fire, and Arya tried to remember what Maester Luwin used to do to make people better.
“Going to get in trouble,” he slurred as Arya began to scrub his skin with the cool water. She wished she could get him to the baths, but they were on the opposite side of the castle, and only the knights were allowed to use them.
“Don't care,” she countered, surprised at how much she meant it. All plans of escape were gone now; all that mattered was making sure one of the last few people she had in the world did not die in this dirty cot.
“You're so stupid,” Gendry announced as she wedged her small body alongside his in the cot, continuing to press the rag against his skin. She wanted to get angry at the insult, but he said it the way Robb used to, like she was something funny but he loved her anyway.
He doesn't love you, Arya reminded herself as she brushed his hair off of his forehead, and you don't love him. You just don't want him to die because you need a strong boy in your pack.
He kept drifting in and out of sleep, his chest crackling with every cough, and Arya pressed her ear against it, listening to the sounds of liquid in his lungs. But despite the sickly snap of his breathing, the steady rhythm of his heart never faltered, thundering against her cheek like a drum; Arya didn't know anything about healing, but she knew your heart kept you alive, and Gendry's heart seemed to be as strong as his arms.
“Please don't die,” she whispered against his heated skin, and Arya did not know if she was asking Gendry or if the plea was for Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa, or Catelyn, if it was for Nymeria or even herself.
She was not sure when she fell asleep, but, when Arya awoke, it was still pitch black outside; judging by the moon, she knew the sun would rise in an hour or so, meaning she needed to get back to her chamber. As she tried to wriggle out from Gendry, who had rolled half-atop her at some point, the older boy opened his eyes, staring at her in confusion for a moment before breathing her name.
“I have to go,” she offered, “but I'll try to bring you some broth later.”
Arya froze when Gendry's hand rose, clumsily stroking her cheek. “I had a dream...Why can't you get older faster?” Gendry's eyes drooped closed again as he sighed, “I cannot wait until you're old enough.”
Old enough for what? she wondered as she silently slipped back into her chambers, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling.
When he was better, Arya asked him, swinging her feet as she perched upon an unused anvil, munching on rolls she swiped from Hot Pie for the both of him. The moment the words left her mouth, Gendry blushed so ferociously, it was as if he was stuck with fever again.
“How in seven hells should I know?” he growled, sounding so very little like Gendry and so much like a stranger. “I don't even remember you being here.”
Arya thought he was lying, but, since he never called her on the lies she told him, Arya let it go.
Three
Arya never really gave much thought to whores before; in Winterfell, she had heard whispers about the pleasure house and Theon's comments about a woman named Ros, but everyone always got quiet whenever she entered the room, usually because Jon ordered them to stop talking about it. In King's Landing, there were whores everywhere, and, though Arya had seen animals mate, she couldn't imagine why any woman would want to be paid to do something which looked so disgusting.
Septa Mordane used to tell her, Sansa, and Jeyne Poole that a woman's maidenhood was her greatest gift, and, to give it to a man before marriage, was tantamount to ruining yourself. Arya thought that, if the greatest thing about a person was between their legs, they probably weren't very interesting to begin with; she had said as much at the dinner table once when Sansa mentioned a girl in the village being “ruined,” and her mother chastised her while her father, Jon, Robb, and Theon tried to choke back laughter.
Arya sat alone at one of the tables in the whorehouse, watching as the men drank and pulled women into their laps, and her eyes instinctively sought out Gendry. He had gotten so angry at her last night when she asked him why he pretended to be her brother, and Arya didn't fully understand why; she had hoped to ask him when they left today but then Lem and the others decided another day was needed to “replenish their strength,” so Arya was stuck watching them all behave like morons. Gendry was seated at the end of a table talking to one of the men whose name Arya couldn't recall, but there was a whore who kept finding reasons to sit with them; Arya estimated the girl to be about fifteen, heavily curved with a spill of golden curls. Arya self-consciously touched her dirty, snarled hair before she could stop herself, blushing with secret embarrassment.
Why do I care if stupid old Gendry wants some whore? I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell, the daughter of the Hand of the King, and he's just some stupid old bastard boy.
But he wasn't. Gendry Waters was her best friend, the only friend she had left, and it hurt, being ignored, being reminded that he only wanted to be her friend because he didn't have any other options either. This blonde girl in her low-cut dress and large bosom seemed to interest him much more than an eleven-year-old hostage.
When the whore began to press kisses to the side of Gendry's face, Arya got to her feet, stomping past her reveling captors to go outside. She debated running again, but there was no point; they were going to take her to Robb, and, no matter how the worries plagued her, she didn't really think her brother would refuse to pay. After all, she was useful; it wasn't as if she was Sansa, for Gods sake.
She found a stick on the ground; it was too thin to mimic the heft of her old practice sword, but Arya always felt better with a sword in hand. As the moon rose high in the sky, Arya went through the motions of her old lessons with Syrio, imagining she was back in the Red Keep with him, the sound of their wooden swords meeting in a rhythm which was music to her ears. Sometimes she missed Syrio most of all because he was the one who taught her how to survive, never even bothering with trying to teach her to be a lady.
I am no lady. I am Arya Stark, the daughter of Eddard Stark, and I am going to kill King Joffrey. To seven hells with Robb being the King of the North. I am going to make it so he is the King of all Seven Kingdoms, and, when he is, he will make me Head of his Kingsguard, and then I will never have to be a lady ever again.
“You shouldn't wander off,” Gendry chastised as he approached, a slight stumble in his step from the wine Arya saw him drinking.
“I don't have to listen to you,” she spat, lunging with her stick to pierce an invisible opponent.
“Unless you want some raper getting you, you better.”
Arya scoffed. “You didn't seem all that concerned about me getting attacked by rapers when you were putting your face in that whore's teats.”
Gendry recoiled as if she struck him, anger and embarrassment warring on his face. “You don't know what you're talking about, m'lady.”
Tossing down her stick, Arya declared, “I know you're just like them: some stupid boy who wants to get drunk and stick it in whores!”
“Fine then! Guess I should go find a whore to stick it in since you don't need me.” Throwing up his hands, he growled, “Rapers wouldn't be desperate enough to want you anyway.”
It shouldn't hurt to hear him say that; Arya didn't care what anyone thought of her, especially not a boy. That was Sansa's way, to primp and preen, to obsess over what boys thought of her, and Arya was not Sansa.
She kept her head tall as she walked through the inn, refusing to let her eyes flick left or right; she ascended the stairs to her room, slamming the door shut as she removed her boots, stripping the dirty top layer of her clothing off as she settled down onto the bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin. Sleep would not come no matter how many times she repeated her prayers, so Arya just stared at the wall, trying to imagine what her brothers and sister were doing. When the tears swell in her eyes, Arya tried to push them back, but suddenly it was like a tidal wave, drowning her in grief and frustration, and everything let loose.
The last time she cried was the day her father lost his head, and even that had been short-lived as Yoren chopped off her hair and forced her out of King's Landing. As she laid in the strange bed in a strange land held hostage by strange people, Arya allowed the tears to start to fall: tears for Syrio, for Lommy, for Ned who died being a called traitor, for Sansa who was going to be Joffrey's queen, for Jon at the Wall, for Bran with his broken legs, for Robb who said goodbye to their father at Winterfell to never see him again. There were more tears in her body than Arya thought possible, and she was not sure she would ever be able to stop.
When the door opened, Arya stuffed her fist into her mouth, trying to keep any sounds inside her body; she let the tears slide silently down her face as boots crashed to the floor, as clothing was shed. Arya was not sure if it was Gendry or one of the other Brothers climbing into bed until a heavy arm dropped over her and a familiar voice sighed, “I'm sorry for what I said. You just make me so damn angry sometimes.”
The sob escaped her mouth so suddenly, Arya felt panic zip through her body as she tried to pull it back, but now she was crying in earnest, entire body shaking. She could feel Gendry tense in confusion before the weight of his arm turned into a firm embrace, tucking her tightly against his chest.
“'S alright,” Gendry whispered against her ear. “I won't tell anyone.”
Arya nodded through her tears, so grateful he understood how important it was no one else knew she was crying. She cried herself to sleep that night, her prayers forgotten, Gendry's arms enfolding her.
When she woke up, Arya was facing Gendry, still wrapped in his arms. She had never been this close to a boy who was not her family before, and Arya was confused by the flip of her stomach as she studied Gendry's face. A voice in her head which sounded remarkably like Sansa said he was handsome, but Arya ignored it because if she acknowledged Gendry Waters was handsome, it was acknowledging she was not a warrior but a silly girl.
Arya made sure she was dressed and waiting downstairs by the time Gendry stumbled downstairs, his black hair sticking up in every direction. When he smiled at her across the table as they broke fast, Arya pretended like she didn't notice how blue his eyes were or how he fought one of the men for berries she knew he didn't even like because she did.
When they reached Riverrun, she was going to tell Robb what wonderful swords Gendry could make for him if only he would let Gendry stay.
Four
So much had changed in the five years since Arya left Westeros, but some things stayed the same. The war was still raging, everyone grasping for crowns, and all Arya wanted was to go home.
They could never make her Faceless, not really. Her prayers were always those who were going to die by Needle's point, and, no matter how skilled she became, she could not forget the faces of those she lost. Before leaving Westeros, she had already known her father, her mother, and Robb were dead; in Braavos she learned of Bran and Rickon, of Theon's betrayal and Sansa having disappeared from King's Landing after Joffrey's murder. She had no way of knowing if Jon was still alive, though whispers of the Others reached across the sea. For all Arya knew, she was the last remaining Stark in the world, and that was enough reason for her to come across the sea and take back her face.
It came in handy being Faceless when she needed to be; as she wandered about King's Landing, catching brief glimpses of King Tommen, Arya began to take stock of those who were still contending for the crown: Stannis Baratheon, Roose Bolton, Daenerys Targaryen. Arya had seen Daenerys and her dragons before in the free cities; Ser Barristan the Bold had been at her side, and she swore Ser Barristan looked at her, seeing right through her Facelessness, before turning away. She was in King's Landing for only two days before she heard someone spit, “I hope the King of the North and his damned army cuts ol' Cersei and turns her into pie.”
She asked a child in an alley way who the King of the North was; when the urchin replied, “Jon Stark of Winterfell, everyone knows that,” Arya immediately stole the finest horse she could find and began to ride for Winterfell as fast as four legs could carry her.
Arya was two days ride from home when the bear attacked. She heard the heavy snapping of branches and then the creature was rushing; Arya managed to get the point of her sword up quickly enough to poke and scramble backwards.
Stick 'em with the pointy end, Arya thought wildly as she got to her feet, trying to calm her panicking horse. She had been taught to fight people in Braavos; there had been no lessons on bear attacks.
The blur of fur came flying from the trees with startling speed. Arya heard the snarling and snapping of jaws before her eyes could make out the shapes of the wolves; but it was the direwolf tearing open the throat of the bear which drew Arya's attention, which made her heart clench in gratitude and longing. When the bear was still, as the wolves began to feast on its flesh, Arya stared at the massive she-wolf which clearly was leading the pack, the wolf who saved her life.
“Nymeria, come,” she ventured, her voice wobbling, hoping she wasn't wrong, unsure how her battered heart would react if she was wrong.
But then the direwolf - Nymeria - padded over to her, pushing her bloodstained snout against Arya's cheek, and, though Arya had stopped believing in the Gods the night Robb and Catelyn were killed, she knew this was a sign she made the right decision in returning to Westeros.
The wolf pack trailed behind her as she rode on for Winterfell, Nymeria matching stride at her side, and Arya had never felt more powerful than when she glimpsed the rising stone walls of Winterfell. She knew Winterfell had been burned years earlier; Arya could still make out scorch marks and remains of buildings which one stood. And it was obvious the rebuilding was not fully complete, some buildings little more than shacks, but it was Winterfell.
The shouts of the smallfolk at the sight of her wolves were loud, but Arya did not hear them, not when another direwolf came into view. Its fur was dark and it was even larger than Nymeria, but Arya would have known that wolf anywhere. As she slid from her saddle, she sighed, “Shaggydog,” her heart breaking as she tried to remember what Rickon looked like.
She was certain she had forgotten her baby brother's face until a boy of about ten came running after Shaggydog. He froze, staring at Arya with the same shock Arya was certain on her own face, and then the boy - Rickon - began to scream as he charged her, “Arya! Arya! It's Arya! Bran! Jon! Sansa! It's Arya!”
Even at ten, Rickon was nearly her height, and the weight and momentum of his body drove them both to the ground. Arya laughed as they wrestled in the dirt, Rickon squeezing her so hard it made Arya's ribs ache, but she squeezed him back just as tightly, her dead-brother-who-wasn't-dead-at-all. She caught Nymeria out of the corner of her eye engaging in the same type of wrestling match with Shaggydog and then another direwolf joined, Bran's wolf, the one whose name Arya had never known because Bran had not named him before he fell.
And then there was Sansa, even more beautiful than Arya remembered her, rushing towards her with her skirts gathered in one hand, Bran being carried to her by a grinning Hodor, and then there was Jon, Ghost at his side, and Arya could only see her big brother. She pushed past Sansa and Hodor, running at Jon as fast as her feet could carry her, and the tears finally came as she pressed her face into Jon's neck the way she had back when they were children, back when the world still made sense.
“We thought you were dead,” Jon cried into her tangled hair, holding her off the ground, her legs dangling as useless as Bran's. “We searched everywhere.”
“I thought you were dead,” she countered, sniffling against his heavy fur cloak. “I thought there was no one left.”
Jon all but carried her into the hall, ordering the cooks to make as large of a feast as they could. As Rickon ran circles around her, Bran and Sansa pounding her with questions, Arya tried to reconcile the people she was seeing with the siblings she remembered; she was six-and-ten now, a woman grown, and it startled her to see Sansa and Bran as adults, to see Rickon as something other than a baby. Bran and Rickon both looked so much like their mother; she wondered what Robb would look like now. She knew he had married a Westerling before he died; Arya wondered if things had been different, if she would be holding nieces and nephews on her lap now.
“You have to send word to the Lady,” Sansa told Jon as he joined them at the table.
“Who's the Lady?”
All of her siblings looked down simultaneously, something which would have been funny under other circumstances. And then Bran said, “The Lady Stoneheart. Our mother...After the Red Wedding, the Brotherhood Without Banners found her, and Thoros of Myr...”
Arya did not need her brother to finish; she remembered what Ser Beric looked like during her stint with the Brotherhood. “Does she look like she did or is she scary to behold?”
Only Rickon had the courage to offer, “It ain't too bad when you're used to her.”
“The Brotherhood rode for supplies. They should return later tonight. If they do not, I'll send a raven.” Jon smiled kindly, looking so much like Ned it made Arya's heart ache for her father. “Tell us where you've been all this time. How did you hide from the Lannisters?”
I became no one. “It is a very long story.” Taking a heavy swallow of wine, seeing the expectant looks on their faces, Arya offered, “I went to Braavos, became a Faceless Man.”
They all continued to stare before Sansa pronounced, distaste in her voice, “You learned to kill people?”
Arya felt the familiar flair of irritation towards her sister but she managed to choke back the unkind words which treated to burst from her lips. “I learned to survive no matter what.”
“The past is not important,” Jon declared, clearly trying to make peace the way he always had. “What is important is you are back and, when we take King's Landing, you will be there to avenge our father.”
“You aren't going to make me stay here?”
Jon laughed. “As if I could.”
Arya could not remember the last time she ate so well; from the way Sansa kept staring at her, Arya was certain she looked like a wilding as she tore into her food, but years of a stomach which was never-quite-full screamed in celebration. By the time she finished, Arya was certain she had gained a full stone, but no one commented; she learned of Bran's adventures beyond the Wall, Jon's fighting the Others, Rickon's hiding with the wilding woman Osha, and Sansa's years in the Vale. As she listened, Arya wondered if maybe she had been given the easiest hand to play...if there had ever been an easy hand.
When the squire announced the Brotherhood returned, Arya was slow to rise, unsure if she wanted to see Lady Stoneheart. But Rickon was running and even Sansa seemed eager for even the palest echo of their mother, so Arya followed to the square, lit up by fires. When Arya saw the woman who had once been Catelyn Stark, she was not sure what to do; the scratches, the gaping throat, her face and hair...Suddenly she hated Thoros of Myr ferociously for turning her beautiful mother into this.
But when Lady Stoneheart pressed a hand to her throat and hissed, “Arya,” like a prayer, Arya still found herself reaching for the imitation of her mother.
As the Brotherhood trotted their horses into the square, Arya recognized Lem, Arguy, and a handful of others from her time with them. Most of them were strangers or children, hardly older than Rickon, but Arya saw no sign of Ser Beric or Thoros.
When she saw the horns of a helm, Arya felt her heart stop. She strained up on her toes and, when she saw the person wearing the bull's helm she had not seen in six years, saw it was some scrawny boy with dark eyes and pale skin, Arya felt every injustice of the past seven years rearing up inside of her. Before anyone knew what she was doing, she marched over to the boy and jerked the helm from his head, startling him.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded. When the boy only stared at her, she pushed him hard in the chest, nearly setting him off-balance. “Where did you get this helm?!”
“It's mine!” the boy cried, stepping backwards to try to keep himself upright.
“Liar!”
She felt Jon at her back, setting a hand upon her shoulder, but Arya shook him off. “Where did you get it?!”
“He won it from me.”
Arya's head snapped at the sound of the familiar voice. There, pushing his way through the throng of men, was Gendry. His dark hair was shorter now, his shoulders seeming impossibly broader, but there was no doubt in Arya's mind this was her old friend; any doubt she had immediately disappeared as she met his blue eyes.
In Braavos, when she was still trying to forget being Arya Stark, his face had been mixed in with her family's, the stupid bastard boy who broke her heart when he had Ser Beric make him a knight, the only friend she had in the world whom she had left behind when she ran away from the Brotherhood's camp. Since then, every broad-shouldered boy with dark hair she had seen, Arya had searched their face to see if it was him; every knight she passed, she made sure they did not wear his stolen helm.
And here he was, Ser Gendry Waters of the Brotherhood Without Banners, telling her he wagered his helm to some boy with rheumy eyes and long neck as if it meant nothing at all.
She threw the helm with all her strength, the metal smacking Gendry in the forehead. Gendry instantly grabbed at his head and spat, “Seven hells, Arya! What kind of lady throws a helm at someone?”
“The bad kind!”
She pushed past Jon, running like she was nine again, needing to put as much distance as possible between her and everyone in the courtyard. Someone must have been following her, for she heard Nymeria growl, but Arya did not look back. Instead she hurried up the stairs to what used to be her cell; it hadn't been used recently, smelling of stale air, and Arya threw herself upon the mattress, sending dust in a hundred directions.
Arya was not sure how long she was on her bed before someone knocked on the door. She did not bother answering; she knew it would not matter, not if it was any of her siblings. When the door opened, Arya turned to see Gendry standing in the doorway, the bull's helm in his hand.
“I don't want to talk to you.” When Gendry did not move, she sat up and snapped, “I'm a princess of Winterfell, and you cannot be here!”
He smirked. “Well, the King of the North says I can. In fact, King Jon gave me very specific orders to not return to him until I make peace with you.”
“I don't want your stupid peace. Leave me alone!”
Gendry sighed, crossing the floor, setting the helm on the foot of her bed. “I stayed at an inn for awhile for the Brotherhood taking care of orphans. Man came in one day, traded me my helm for a night's rest and food. But I had already made a new helm, so when we were wagering on a tourney, I put up the bull. Joe is more than happy to give it to the newest lady of Winterfell, seeing as how important it is to you.”
“I don't care! I don't care at all! I only wanted to get the helm back because it was yours and it never should have gotten taken. You can give it back to the ugly boy because I don't want it.”
She felt her anger flare brighter as Gendry took a seat on the end of her bed, sighing as he picked up the bull, studying it. “You know, I was so proud the day I made this. Before he died, your lord father came to my shop to ask some questions, and he said it was a fine piece of work. It meant a lot to a bastard boy.”
“Why would my father ask you questions?”
Gendry shrugged.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because the night you ran, I spent hours looking for you. I never stopped. And when it came down someone saw you with the Hound, saw you headed to the Twins the night of the Red Wedding...I spent five years thinking you were dead, m'lady, and five years thinking if I had caught you, you wouldn't be.”
Arya shifted uncomfortably, the guilt starting to lick at her.
“I didn't care about the helm because I made a new one, a direwolf. It's why your brother invited me to smith here, why I'll fight beside him in King's Landing. Told him I knew Arya Stark, how she was my best friend, how she used to tell stories 'bout a direwolf she kept as a pet, and I decided I'd rather be a wolf than a bull.”
“You're so stupid,” she murmured after a beat, brushing at a stray tear on her cheek.
Gendry smiled, and Arya was startled to see his eyes shining too. “So you keep telling me.”
Arya reached out, plucking the helm from his grip; she wrapped her hands around the horns, studying it the way she had that first night they were with Yoren. She wondered when some stupid piece of metal came to symbolize so much of what she lost.
“I thought it would feel better...being home.”
He didn't acknowledge her confession at first. And then he ventured, “Maybe it isn't home anymore.”
Arya laughed mirthlessly, feeling emptier than she ever had. “Then what's the point in fighting anymore?”
“To make a new home.”
She finally lifted her gaze from the helm, looking Gendry straight in the eye as she challenged, “Is that what you're doing here, making a new home?”
Gendry shook his head, scooting his body closer to hers. “No. I came here because...Because I wanted to remember my old one.”
Arya swallowed back the rest of her emotion, banishing into the box in her chest where it usually resided; she hated tears, and she refused to start acting like Sansa now. Swinging her legs beneath her, rising on her knees, Arya stretched, setting the helm atop Gendry's head.
“You're a bull. Don't you remember?”
“I guess I forgot. Lucky you're here to remind me.”
Arya was not sure how long they sat in silence on her bed. All she knew for certain was, when she woke up the next morning, a shining helm in the shape of a direwolf hung on her bedpost.
Keep Reading!
Author: lit_chick08
Pairings: Arya/Gendry, mentions Gendry/OFC
Rating: R
Spoilers: Mostly through “A Storm of Swords” but does reference Arya's storyline in future books before going AU
Word Count: 12,162
Disclaimer: The characters belong to George RR Martin; I'm just playing
Summary: She is Arya Stark of Winterfell, a girl with four brothers who has always felt more comfortable in the company of men, but Gendry...Well, he's just confusing
One
Yoren told her to make sure no one figured out she's a girl because they'll turn her into the queen or, if they're particularly heinous, will rape her and then hand her over to Cersei. Arya wasn't stupid enough to think Needle would protect her for a group of grown men, so she followed Yoren's instructions, right down to hiding when she had to make water.
But that first night, Arya wasn't sure what to do. They were camping out, the kind of camping she used to beg her parents to let her do back at Winterfell, the sort of camping Robb, Jon, Theon, and even Bran got to do but her mother always said was improper for Arya to take part in; but these men were not her brothers, and Arya was not sure where to sleep, who it was safe to sleep beside. She wanted to stick close to Yoren, but he stayed near the older men, and none of the other recent recruits for the Wall were camping near him, which meant they'd notice if “Arry” decided to sleep near the older man.
Lommy and Hot Pie were stretching out near a few of the other boys who made japes towards her, the ones who always grabbed at Needle and her wooden practice sword, the last remaining ties she had to Jon Snow and Syrio, the ones who liked to call her Lumpyhead amongst other slurs. There was no way in seven hells she was going to fall asleep near them; they'd take her swords and do Gods only knew what else.
As Arya scanned the area for the safest place to sleep, she caught sight of the one they were calling The Bull, the blacksmith's apprentice who carried the helm in the shape of a bull's head. He was broad, heavily muscled, and her tormentors were afraid of him, which told Arya that he was the one to sleep beside this night. Thus far he hadn't said anything unless someone addressed him, and even then he kept his responses brief. There was something familiar about him, but Arya could not put her finger on it.
She sat down on the grass a reasonable distance from The Bull, trying to suppress the shiver which went up her spine; there were a limited amount of blankets, and the others had pushed her when it was time to claim them, meaning she was one of the few who did not receive anything. Not for the first time she wished for Nymeria, whose body was always warm, whose fur had been soft beneath Arya's cheek. Arya felt a lump rising in her throat, the events of the past few months threatening to overwhelm her, but she choked the emotion back.
Not today, she ordered herself as she tried to settle her head against the grass.
“Here,” a deep voice said, drawing Arya's attention as she twisted her head.
The Bull was holding out a blanket, nodding at her to take it. She cautiously accepted it, waiting for the other shoe to drop; when The Bull said nothing, Arya mumbled a thank you, wrapping it around her slender shoulders.
“Can I see your sword?” When Arya said nothing, simply glared at him with distrust, he picked up the bull's helm and held it out. “You can hold that while I look. I'll give it back, I promise.”
Arya withdrew Needle from her waistband, grabbing one of the horns of the helm and jerking it towards her before completing the exchange. In the muted firelight, The Bull held it up, studying it with careful eyes, and Arya wondered if he used to make swords at the blacksmith's shop. She ran her hands over the helm, unsure what she was supposed to do it beyond hold it hostage. When The Bull handed Needle back, she set the helm next to him.
“How does a beggar boy get a castle-forged sword?”
“Wasn't always a beggar boy,” Arya grunted, hooking Needle back into her belt loop.
The Bull smirked; the expression changed his face for the better. “I'm Gendry, Gendry Waters.”
“Arry...Arry Snow.”
Gendry's smirk became a smile as he laid down on the grass, staring up at the night sky. “Suppose us bastard boys should stick together.”
She thought of Jon, her favorite brother, her best brother; she thought of how many times she heard someone at Winterfell call him a bastard, remembered how he always clenched his fists and seemed to hate the word the same way she despised the sound of “lady.” All Jon Snow had ever wanted was to be able to call himself a Stark, and here she was, stealing his name to hide her parents.
It was funny, Arya thought as she drifted off to sleep beside Gendry Waters, how all the best boys were bastards.
Two
She may have been the Ghost of Harrenhal but even ghosts got lonely, which was why Arya sneaked down to the kitchen to see Hot Pie before supper one evening. Hot Pie usually panicked upon her arrivals - he had never quite learned how to take a hit, not like she had - but she had easier access to Hot Pie in the kitchens than Gendry in the forge.
As Hot Pie tried to clean up his space, Arya stretched to swipe a lemon tart, quickly suppressing the thought of Sansa, when Hot Pie announced, “The Bull's sick.”
“What do you mean, sick?”
Hot Pie shrugged. “I mean, he's sick. Heard one of the maesters talking. Some fever is going around the castle, and he got it.”
The tart in her hand forgotten, Arya asked, “Is it serious?”
“A couple people died of it.” He shrugged again before struggling with a bag of flour. “Maester told all o' us to be careful because if we catch the fever, we might get it in the food.”
“He still at the forge?”
Arya knew the knights and more important people in the castle were treated in their chambers, but Gendry didn't have a chamber; he had a single, stinking cot in the back of the forge in a room which was always unbearably hot from the fires. She felt a stab of fear the blacksmith would send him away and he'd have to stay in the sick ward in one of the basements, the place where people were taken and never returned.
“How would I know?”
Arya rolled her eyes, grunting, “Useless,” before hurrying on silent feet towards the forge.
If they caught her out after dark, she'd be punished; things may have been better since Bolton took over the castle, but she was still just a cup bearer, little Nan. Hot Pie still called her Arry, most of Harrenhal's residents still called her “the weasel”; Gendry rarely addressed her by name but, when he thought she was being irritating, he called her m'lady, and it never failed to anger her every time.
The forge was still hot when she entered, but Arya knew the blacksmith was undoubtedly in his own chambers, giving his coin to the women who were so eager to climb into his bed; everyone in Harrenhal knew Gendry's master loved the drink and whores more than anything else. As Arya sidestepped an anvil, she heard a wet, rattling cough from the back room, and her heart clenched in fear.
Fear cuts deeper than swords, she recited as she pushed aside the curtain which hid Gendry's room from the forge.
Her friend was lying in his cot, naked save for his smallclothes, his entire body coated in a heavy layer of sweat; his black hair was plastered to his forehead, and there was an unnatural paleness to his skin. Once at Winterfell Arya saw Maester Luwin treating someone who looked like this; when the man had died, Robb said the fever cooked his brain.
Arya pressed her hands against Gendry's forehead and drew them back at the sheer amount of heat coming from his body.
At her touch, Gendry's eyes fluttered open; they were unfocused and swollen, the bright blue now a stormy gray. When he opened his mouth, it took several tries before he rasped, “Arya?”
“Why'd you go and get the fever?” she snapped, surprising herself at the sharpness of her voice. Instantly she wondered if she should apologize, try to explain she wasn't really angry, just scared, but Gendry just chuckled through a cough.
“Sorry, m'lady. I didn't mean to.”
Arya picked up a rag on a nearby table; confirming it was reasonably clean, she dunked it into a bucket of water used for cooling metal before applying it to Gendry's forehead the way her mother used to do when Arya was sick. Gendry hummed in pleasure at the cool water, so Arya repeated the motion, pressing the rag to his face, his neck, his chest; every inch of him was burning like fire, and Arya tried to remember what Maester Luwin used to do to make people better.
“Going to get in trouble,” he slurred as Arya began to scrub his skin with the cool water. She wished she could get him to the baths, but they were on the opposite side of the castle, and only the knights were allowed to use them.
“Don't care,” she countered, surprised at how much she meant it. All plans of escape were gone now; all that mattered was making sure one of the last few people she had in the world did not die in this dirty cot.
“You're so stupid,” Gendry announced as she wedged her small body alongside his in the cot, continuing to press the rag against his skin. She wanted to get angry at the insult, but he said it the way Robb used to, like she was something funny but he loved her anyway.
He doesn't love you, Arya reminded herself as she brushed his hair off of his forehead, and you don't love him. You just don't want him to die because you need a strong boy in your pack.
He kept drifting in and out of sleep, his chest crackling with every cough, and Arya pressed her ear against it, listening to the sounds of liquid in his lungs. But despite the sickly snap of his breathing, the steady rhythm of his heart never faltered, thundering against her cheek like a drum; Arya didn't know anything about healing, but she knew your heart kept you alive, and Gendry's heart seemed to be as strong as his arms.
“Please don't die,” she whispered against his heated skin, and Arya did not know if she was asking Gendry or if the plea was for Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa, or Catelyn, if it was for Nymeria or even herself.
She was not sure when she fell asleep, but, when Arya awoke, it was still pitch black outside; judging by the moon, she knew the sun would rise in an hour or so, meaning she needed to get back to her chamber. As she tried to wriggle out from Gendry, who had rolled half-atop her at some point, the older boy opened his eyes, staring at her in confusion for a moment before breathing her name.
“I have to go,” she offered, “but I'll try to bring you some broth later.”
Arya froze when Gendry's hand rose, clumsily stroking her cheek. “I had a dream...Why can't you get older faster?” Gendry's eyes drooped closed again as he sighed, “I cannot wait until you're old enough.”
Old enough for what? she wondered as she silently slipped back into her chambers, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling.
When he was better, Arya asked him, swinging her feet as she perched upon an unused anvil, munching on rolls she swiped from Hot Pie for the both of him. The moment the words left her mouth, Gendry blushed so ferociously, it was as if he was stuck with fever again.
“How in seven hells should I know?” he growled, sounding so very little like Gendry and so much like a stranger. “I don't even remember you being here.”
Arya thought he was lying, but, since he never called her on the lies she told him, Arya let it go.
Three
Arya never really gave much thought to whores before; in Winterfell, she had heard whispers about the pleasure house and Theon's comments about a woman named Ros, but everyone always got quiet whenever she entered the room, usually because Jon ordered them to stop talking about it. In King's Landing, there were whores everywhere, and, though Arya had seen animals mate, she couldn't imagine why any woman would want to be paid to do something which looked so disgusting.
Septa Mordane used to tell her, Sansa, and Jeyne Poole that a woman's maidenhood was her greatest gift, and, to give it to a man before marriage, was tantamount to ruining yourself. Arya thought that, if the greatest thing about a person was between their legs, they probably weren't very interesting to begin with; she had said as much at the dinner table once when Sansa mentioned a girl in the village being “ruined,” and her mother chastised her while her father, Jon, Robb, and Theon tried to choke back laughter.
Arya sat alone at one of the tables in the whorehouse, watching as the men drank and pulled women into their laps, and her eyes instinctively sought out Gendry. He had gotten so angry at her last night when she asked him why he pretended to be her brother, and Arya didn't fully understand why; she had hoped to ask him when they left today but then Lem and the others decided another day was needed to “replenish their strength,” so Arya was stuck watching them all behave like morons. Gendry was seated at the end of a table talking to one of the men whose name Arya couldn't recall, but there was a whore who kept finding reasons to sit with them; Arya estimated the girl to be about fifteen, heavily curved with a spill of golden curls. Arya self-consciously touched her dirty, snarled hair before she could stop herself, blushing with secret embarrassment.
Why do I care if stupid old Gendry wants some whore? I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell, the daughter of the Hand of the King, and he's just some stupid old bastard boy.
But he wasn't. Gendry Waters was her best friend, the only friend she had left, and it hurt, being ignored, being reminded that he only wanted to be her friend because he didn't have any other options either. This blonde girl in her low-cut dress and large bosom seemed to interest him much more than an eleven-year-old hostage.
When the whore began to press kisses to the side of Gendry's face, Arya got to her feet, stomping past her reveling captors to go outside. She debated running again, but there was no point; they were going to take her to Robb, and, no matter how the worries plagued her, she didn't really think her brother would refuse to pay. After all, she was useful; it wasn't as if she was Sansa, for Gods sake.
She found a stick on the ground; it was too thin to mimic the heft of her old practice sword, but Arya always felt better with a sword in hand. As the moon rose high in the sky, Arya went through the motions of her old lessons with Syrio, imagining she was back in the Red Keep with him, the sound of their wooden swords meeting in a rhythm which was music to her ears. Sometimes she missed Syrio most of all because he was the one who taught her how to survive, never even bothering with trying to teach her to be a lady.
I am no lady. I am Arya Stark, the daughter of Eddard Stark, and I am going to kill King Joffrey. To seven hells with Robb being the King of the North. I am going to make it so he is the King of all Seven Kingdoms, and, when he is, he will make me Head of his Kingsguard, and then I will never have to be a lady ever again.
“You shouldn't wander off,” Gendry chastised as he approached, a slight stumble in his step from the wine Arya saw him drinking.
“I don't have to listen to you,” she spat, lunging with her stick to pierce an invisible opponent.
“Unless you want some raper getting you, you better.”
Arya scoffed. “You didn't seem all that concerned about me getting attacked by rapers when you were putting your face in that whore's teats.”
Gendry recoiled as if she struck him, anger and embarrassment warring on his face. “You don't know what you're talking about, m'lady.”
Tossing down her stick, Arya declared, “I know you're just like them: some stupid boy who wants to get drunk and stick it in whores!”
“Fine then! Guess I should go find a whore to stick it in since you don't need me.” Throwing up his hands, he growled, “Rapers wouldn't be desperate enough to want you anyway.”
It shouldn't hurt to hear him say that; Arya didn't care what anyone thought of her, especially not a boy. That was Sansa's way, to primp and preen, to obsess over what boys thought of her, and Arya was not Sansa.
She kept her head tall as she walked through the inn, refusing to let her eyes flick left or right; she ascended the stairs to her room, slamming the door shut as she removed her boots, stripping the dirty top layer of her clothing off as she settled down onto the bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin. Sleep would not come no matter how many times she repeated her prayers, so Arya just stared at the wall, trying to imagine what her brothers and sister were doing. When the tears swell in her eyes, Arya tried to push them back, but suddenly it was like a tidal wave, drowning her in grief and frustration, and everything let loose.
The last time she cried was the day her father lost his head, and even that had been short-lived as Yoren chopped off her hair and forced her out of King's Landing. As she laid in the strange bed in a strange land held hostage by strange people, Arya allowed the tears to start to fall: tears for Syrio, for Lommy, for Ned who died being a called traitor, for Sansa who was going to be Joffrey's queen, for Jon at the Wall, for Bran with his broken legs, for Robb who said goodbye to their father at Winterfell to never see him again. There were more tears in her body than Arya thought possible, and she was not sure she would ever be able to stop.
When the door opened, Arya stuffed her fist into her mouth, trying to keep any sounds inside her body; she let the tears slide silently down her face as boots crashed to the floor, as clothing was shed. Arya was not sure if it was Gendry or one of the other Brothers climbing into bed until a heavy arm dropped over her and a familiar voice sighed, “I'm sorry for what I said. You just make me so damn angry sometimes.”
The sob escaped her mouth so suddenly, Arya felt panic zip through her body as she tried to pull it back, but now she was crying in earnest, entire body shaking. She could feel Gendry tense in confusion before the weight of his arm turned into a firm embrace, tucking her tightly against his chest.
“'S alright,” Gendry whispered against her ear. “I won't tell anyone.”
Arya nodded through her tears, so grateful he understood how important it was no one else knew she was crying. She cried herself to sleep that night, her prayers forgotten, Gendry's arms enfolding her.
When she woke up, Arya was facing Gendry, still wrapped in his arms. She had never been this close to a boy who was not her family before, and Arya was confused by the flip of her stomach as she studied Gendry's face. A voice in her head which sounded remarkably like Sansa said he was handsome, but Arya ignored it because if she acknowledged Gendry Waters was handsome, it was acknowledging she was not a warrior but a silly girl.
Arya made sure she was dressed and waiting downstairs by the time Gendry stumbled downstairs, his black hair sticking up in every direction. When he smiled at her across the table as they broke fast, Arya pretended like she didn't notice how blue his eyes were or how he fought one of the men for berries she knew he didn't even like because she did.
When they reached Riverrun, she was going to tell Robb what wonderful swords Gendry could make for him if only he would let Gendry stay.
Four
So much had changed in the five years since Arya left Westeros, but some things stayed the same. The war was still raging, everyone grasping for crowns, and all Arya wanted was to go home.
They could never make her Faceless, not really. Her prayers were always those who were going to die by Needle's point, and, no matter how skilled she became, she could not forget the faces of those she lost. Before leaving Westeros, she had already known her father, her mother, and Robb were dead; in Braavos she learned of Bran and Rickon, of Theon's betrayal and Sansa having disappeared from King's Landing after Joffrey's murder. She had no way of knowing if Jon was still alive, though whispers of the Others reached across the sea. For all Arya knew, she was the last remaining Stark in the world, and that was enough reason for her to come across the sea and take back her face.
It came in handy being Faceless when she needed to be; as she wandered about King's Landing, catching brief glimpses of King Tommen, Arya began to take stock of those who were still contending for the crown: Stannis Baratheon, Roose Bolton, Daenerys Targaryen. Arya had seen Daenerys and her dragons before in the free cities; Ser Barristan the Bold had been at her side, and she swore Ser Barristan looked at her, seeing right through her Facelessness, before turning away. She was in King's Landing for only two days before she heard someone spit, “I hope the King of the North and his damned army cuts ol' Cersei and turns her into pie.”
She asked a child in an alley way who the King of the North was; when the urchin replied, “Jon Stark of Winterfell, everyone knows that,” Arya immediately stole the finest horse she could find and began to ride for Winterfell as fast as four legs could carry her.
Arya was two days ride from home when the bear attacked. She heard the heavy snapping of branches and then the creature was rushing; Arya managed to get the point of her sword up quickly enough to poke and scramble backwards.
Stick 'em with the pointy end, Arya thought wildly as she got to her feet, trying to calm her panicking horse. She had been taught to fight people in Braavos; there had been no lessons on bear attacks.
The blur of fur came flying from the trees with startling speed. Arya heard the snarling and snapping of jaws before her eyes could make out the shapes of the wolves; but it was the direwolf tearing open the throat of the bear which drew Arya's attention, which made her heart clench in gratitude and longing. When the bear was still, as the wolves began to feast on its flesh, Arya stared at the massive she-wolf which clearly was leading the pack, the wolf who saved her life.
“Nymeria, come,” she ventured, her voice wobbling, hoping she wasn't wrong, unsure how her battered heart would react if she was wrong.
But then the direwolf - Nymeria - padded over to her, pushing her bloodstained snout against Arya's cheek, and, though Arya had stopped believing in the Gods the night Robb and Catelyn were killed, she knew this was a sign she made the right decision in returning to Westeros.
The wolf pack trailed behind her as she rode on for Winterfell, Nymeria matching stride at her side, and Arya had never felt more powerful than when she glimpsed the rising stone walls of Winterfell. She knew Winterfell had been burned years earlier; Arya could still make out scorch marks and remains of buildings which one stood. And it was obvious the rebuilding was not fully complete, some buildings little more than shacks, but it was Winterfell.
The shouts of the smallfolk at the sight of her wolves were loud, but Arya did not hear them, not when another direwolf came into view. Its fur was dark and it was even larger than Nymeria, but Arya would have known that wolf anywhere. As she slid from her saddle, she sighed, “Shaggydog,” her heart breaking as she tried to remember what Rickon looked like.
She was certain she had forgotten her baby brother's face until a boy of about ten came running after Shaggydog. He froze, staring at Arya with the same shock Arya was certain on her own face, and then the boy - Rickon - began to scream as he charged her, “Arya! Arya! It's Arya! Bran! Jon! Sansa! It's Arya!”
Even at ten, Rickon was nearly her height, and the weight and momentum of his body drove them both to the ground. Arya laughed as they wrestled in the dirt, Rickon squeezing her so hard it made Arya's ribs ache, but she squeezed him back just as tightly, her dead-brother-who-wasn't-dead-at-all. She caught Nymeria out of the corner of her eye engaging in the same type of wrestling match with Shaggydog and then another direwolf joined, Bran's wolf, the one whose name Arya had never known because Bran had not named him before he fell.
And then there was Sansa, even more beautiful than Arya remembered her, rushing towards her with her skirts gathered in one hand, Bran being carried to her by a grinning Hodor, and then there was Jon, Ghost at his side, and Arya could only see her big brother. She pushed past Sansa and Hodor, running at Jon as fast as her feet could carry her, and the tears finally came as she pressed her face into Jon's neck the way she had back when they were children, back when the world still made sense.
“We thought you were dead,” Jon cried into her tangled hair, holding her off the ground, her legs dangling as useless as Bran's. “We searched everywhere.”
“I thought you were dead,” she countered, sniffling against his heavy fur cloak. “I thought there was no one left.”
Jon all but carried her into the hall, ordering the cooks to make as large of a feast as they could. As Rickon ran circles around her, Bran and Sansa pounding her with questions, Arya tried to reconcile the people she was seeing with the siblings she remembered; she was six-and-ten now, a woman grown, and it startled her to see Sansa and Bran as adults, to see Rickon as something other than a baby. Bran and Rickon both looked so much like their mother; she wondered what Robb would look like now. She knew he had married a Westerling before he died; Arya wondered if things had been different, if she would be holding nieces and nephews on her lap now.
“You have to send word to the Lady,” Sansa told Jon as he joined them at the table.
“Who's the Lady?”
All of her siblings looked down simultaneously, something which would have been funny under other circumstances. And then Bran said, “The Lady Stoneheart. Our mother...After the Red Wedding, the Brotherhood Without Banners found her, and Thoros of Myr...”
Arya did not need her brother to finish; she remembered what Ser Beric looked like during her stint with the Brotherhood. “Does she look like she did or is she scary to behold?”
Only Rickon had the courage to offer, “It ain't too bad when you're used to her.”
“The Brotherhood rode for supplies. They should return later tonight. If they do not, I'll send a raven.” Jon smiled kindly, looking so much like Ned it made Arya's heart ache for her father. “Tell us where you've been all this time. How did you hide from the Lannisters?”
I became no one. “It is a very long story.” Taking a heavy swallow of wine, seeing the expectant looks on their faces, Arya offered, “I went to Braavos, became a Faceless Man.”
They all continued to stare before Sansa pronounced, distaste in her voice, “You learned to kill people?”
Arya felt the familiar flair of irritation towards her sister but she managed to choke back the unkind words which treated to burst from her lips. “I learned to survive no matter what.”
“The past is not important,” Jon declared, clearly trying to make peace the way he always had. “What is important is you are back and, when we take King's Landing, you will be there to avenge our father.”
“You aren't going to make me stay here?”
Jon laughed. “As if I could.”
Arya could not remember the last time she ate so well; from the way Sansa kept staring at her, Arya was certain she looked like a wilding as she tore into her food, but years of a stomach which was never-quite-full screamed in celebration. By the time she finished, Arya was certain she had gained a full stone, but no one commented; she learned of Bran's adventures beyond the Wall, Jon's fighting the Others, Rickon's hiding with the wilding woman Osha, and Sansa's years in the Vale. As she listened, Arya wondered if maybe she had been given the easiest hand to play...if there had ever been an easy hand.
When the squire announced the Brotherhood returned, Arya was slow to rise, unsure if she wanted to see Lady Stoneheart. But Rickon was running and even Sansa seemed eager for even the palest echo of their mother, so Arya followed to the square, lit up by fires. When Arya saw the woman who had once been Catelyn Stark, she was not sure what to do; the scratches, the gaping throat, her face and hair...Suddenly she hated Thoros of Myr ferociously for turning her beautiful mother into this.
But when Lady Stoneheart pressed a hand to her throat and hissed, “Arya,” like a prayer, Arya still found herself reaching for the imitation of her mother.
As the Brotherhood trotted their horses into the square, Arya recognized Lem, Arguy, and a handful of others from her time with them. Most of them were strangers or children, hardly older than Rickon, but Arya saw no sign of Ser Beric or Thoros.
When she saw the horns of a helm, Arya felt her heart stop. She strained up on her toes and, when she saw the person wearing the bull's helm she had not seen in six years, saw it was some scrawny boy with dark eyes and pale skin, Arya felt every injustice of the past seven years rearing up inside of her. Before anyone knew what she was doing, she marched over to the boy and jerked the helm from his head, startling him.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded. When the boy only stared at her, she pushed him hard in the chest, nearly setting him off-balance. “Where did you get this helm?!”
“It's mine!” the boy cried, stepping backwards to try to keep himself upright.
“Liar!”
She felt Jon at her back, setting a hand upon her shoulder, but Arya shook him off. “Where did you get it?!”
“He won it from me.”
Arya's head snapped at the sound of the familiar voice. There, pushing his way through the throng of men, was Gendry. His dark hair was shorter now, his shoulders seeming impossibly broader, but there was no doubt in Arya's mind this was her old friend; any doubt she had immediately disappeared as she met his blue eyes.
In Braavos, when she was still trying to forget being Arya Stark, his face had been mixed in with her family's, the stupid bastard boy who broke her heart when he had Ser Beric make him a knight, the only friend she had in the world whom she had left behind when she ran away from the Brotherhood's camp. Since then, every broad-shouldered boy with dark hair she had seen, Arya had searched their face to see if it was him; every knight she passed, she made sure they did not wear his stolen helm.
And here he was, Ser Gendry Waters of the Brotherhood Without Banners, telling her he wagered his helm to some boy with rheumy eyes and long neck as if it meant nothing at all.
She threw the helm with all her strength, the metal smacking Gendry in the forehead. Gendry instantly grabbed at his head and spat, “Seven hells, Arya! What kind of lady throws a helm at someone?”
“The bad kind!”
She pushed past Jon, running like she was nine again, needing to put as much distance as possible between her and everyone in the courtyard. Someone must have been following her, for she heard Nymeria growl, but Arya did not look back. Instead she hurried up the stairs to what used to be her cell; it hadn't been used recently, smelling of stale air, and Arya threw herself upon the mattress, sending dust in a hundred directions.
Arya was not sure how long she was on her bed before someone knocked on the door. She did not bother answering; she knew it would not matter, not if it was any of her siblings. When the door opened, Arya turned to see Gendry standing in the doorway, the bull's helm in his hand.
“I don't want to talk to you.” When Gendry did not move, she sat up and snapped, “I'm a princess of Winterfell, and you cannot be here!”
He smirked. “Well, the King of the North says I can. In fact, King Jon gave me very specific orders to not return to him until I make peace with you.”
“I don't want your stupid peace. Leave me alone!”
Gendry sighed, crossing the floor, setting the helm on the foot of her bed. “I stayed at an inn for awhile for the Brotherhood taking care of orphans. Man came in one day, traded me my helm for a night's rest and food. But I had already made a new helm, so when we were wagering on a tourney, I put up the bull. Joe is more than happy to give it to the newest lady of Winterfell, seeing as how important it is to you.”
“I don't care! I don't care at all! I only wanted to get the helm back because it was yours and it never should have gotten taken. You can give it back to the ugly boy because I don't want it.”
She felt her anger flare brighter as Gendry took a seat on the end of her bed, sighing as he picked up the bull, studying it. “You know, I was so proud the day I made this. Before he died, your lord father came to my shop to ask some questions, and he said it was a fine piece of work. It meant a lot to a bastard boy.”
“Why would my father ask you questions?”
Gendry shrugged.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because the night you ran, I spent hours looking for you. I never stopped. And when it came down someone saw you with the Hound, saw you headed to the Twins the night of the Red Wedding...I spent five years thinking you were dead, m'lady, and five years thinking if I had caught you, you wouldn't be.”
Arya shifted uncomfortably, the guilt starting to lick at her.
“I didn't care about the helm because I made a new one, a direwolf. It's why your brother invited me to smith here, why I'll fight beside him in King's Landing. Told him I knew Arya Stark, how she was my best friend, how she used to tell stories 'bout a direwolf she kept as a pet, and I decided I'd rather be a wolf than a bull.”
“You're so stupid,” she murmured after a beat, brushing at a stray tear on her cheek.
Gendry smiled, and Arya was startled to see his eyes shining too. “So you keep telling me.”
Arya reached out, plucking the helm from his grip; she wrapped her hands around the horns, studying it the way she had that first night they were with Yoren. She wondered when some stupid piece of metal came to symbolize so much of what she lost.
“I thought it would feel better...being home.”
He didn't acknowledge her confession at first. And then he ventured, “Maybe it isn't home anymore.”
Arya laughed mirthlessly, feeling emptier than she ever had. “Then what's the point in fighting anymore?”
“To make a new home.”
She finally lifted her gaze from the helm, looking Gendry straight in the eye as she challenged, “Is that what you're doing here, making a new home?”
Gendry shook his head, scooting his body closer to hers. “No. I came here because...Because I wanted to remember my old one.”
Arya swallowed back the rest of her emotion, banishing into the box in her chest where it usually resided; she hated tears, and she refused to start acting like Sansa now. Swinging her legs beneath her, rising on her knees, Arya stretched, setting the helm atop Gendry's head.
“You're a bull. Don't you remember?”
“I guess I forgot. Lucky you're here to remind me.”
Arya was not sure how long they sat in silence on her bed. All she knew for certain was, when she woke up the next morning, a shining helm in the shape of a direwolf hung on her bedpost.
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