A/N: Set earlier on in cannon (Series 2).
"Joffrey. Cersei. Illyn Pain. The Mountain," The list of names fall nightly from her lips as easily as a devout man's prayers to the Gods. But Arya Stark doesn't talk to the Gods. Instead she lists names. The names of those who've wronged her; Those whose cruelty tore all the happiness and love from her life; The ones who murdered her father. Monsters in flesh. "The Hound. Tywin Lannister." With each name she imagines thrusting Needle, her sword, into their throats. She imagines the satisfaction she would feel; the crimson blood gurgling as it seeped out of their throat, ruining their fine clothes.
It's a nice thought.
When the list is over Arya closes her eyes and shifts her cold body, looking for comfort that doesn't exist- not here in this dark and muddy pen. Hours pass by slow and torturous and Arya huffs in frustration.
She can't sleep.
She never can these last few months.
No one else seems to have her problem. She can hear the other boys in the pen snoring. Loudly. It's annoying and doesn't do anything to help her current situation. Arya entertains the thought of punching every single one of them just to have a moments peace.
Rolling over on her side, she ignores the soft squelch of half-dried mud, as she tucks and arm to cushion under her head.
It's not the fact that there is nothing, save for the clothes she is wearing, between her and the ground; making it unforgiving. No, the pure exhaustion of the day should have had her snoring along with the others. She can't sleep because of what will happen when she does. Of what she will see. The young girl tenses at the thought. A nightmare of a memory. The swing of an axe. A piercing scream. She can't remember if it's hers or someone else's, but it's deafening all the same.
Arya's eyes fly open. The cry- she forcefully bites back- strangles in her throat. Her chest hurts. A sharp, hollow pain that roots so deeply.
Again, she repeats the list. Then again and again. She repeats it until her throat is hoarse and the pitch-dark night eventually lightens with the slowly seeping sun.
"How do you do it?" She had asked Yoren the same exact question once. And the man of the Knights Watch had given an answer. Yes, listing the names helped somewhat and maybe someday if... No - when Arya has crossed off all the names and brought some of the justice back into the world she would find peace; as Yoren said. But, for now; sore, tired and trying to remain hidden whilst surrounded by Lannister man- she needed some semblance of rest. Desperately.
She's sitting on a well watching Gendry work when she asks him this question. Though her head is down casted, her blue-grey eyes appearing to look intently at the apple she snuck for herself when clearing Lord Tywin's meal. She tracks his every movement.
He stops, long enough the wipe the sweat off his dirt-stained forehead, before raising his hammer and once more to bring his brute force down against molten steel.
"Do what?"
"Sleep."
Gendry stills. Hand and hammer falling to his side as he watches her carefully. A small, considering frown on his face.
"Well, every night I close my eyes, you see, and when morning comes I open them again."
Arya scowls at his facetious response, and the stupid amused twist of his lips. Her hand clenches around the fruit within her grasp which she considers throwing at his head. Hard.
"Forget I asked then," she snarls, hopping off the well and stalking off.
The blacksmiths apprentice's features turn apologetic, his mouth opens but whatever he means to say Arya doesn't linger to hear.
"I don't know." It's not until night that he can answer the question properly. Or that Arya is no longer so angry at him and therefore actually listens.
His answer though unhelpful to her current predicament is at least honest. So, she silently nods her thanks (and forgiveness).
She soon however comes to regret asking him; as now as a result Arya can feel him starring when she's not sleeping. It makes the restless minutes pass even more agonisingly slow. It turns out that even worse than insomnia is the irritating feeling of being conscious and aware of movement she makes- especially when his eyes are following her carefully.
As if the starring wasn't bad enough, in the night that follows Gendry chooses to sleep right next to her. So close that most nights she can feel the heat from his arm pressed tightly against hers. So close that with every breath she can smell the familiar scent of leather and steel.
At first, they simply lay together in silence- or as silent as it can be whilst she can still hear the snoring of the other boys, the faint voices of armoured men patrolling, and the incessant chirp of that one-night bird who never bloody shuts up
It happens long enough for it to be a habit- him sleeping next to her that is.
After the first few nights Gendry begins talking while lying next to her. The talking becomes habit too. He always waits until she finishes her list before he does so.
They, well him mostly, talk of simple things really. What he misses most of his old life (his bed) or what hot meal he wishes they could feast on (The biggest roasted pig and stuffed potatoes they could lay their hands on).
At first Arya is confused as to why he bothers to tell her all this. She never sees him lying next to Hot Pie or any of the others, talking them through the night. But, she lets him. It's something else to focus on rather than being alone for hours end with nothing but her own despondent thoughts. It's nice. The talking. Not that she would tell him that.
Gendry's voice, she comes to learn, is oddly lulling when spoken softly and so close in the dark. He tells her of the first blade he crafted and the pride in his voice tugs a smile to her lips. He tells her of a King's Landing outside the castle; of swimming so far offshore he worried he would never make it back to land and of the games, that when younger, he would play in the streets with other dirty orphan boys.
And he tells her about his Mother.
Or what he can remember of her at least. Gendry confesses to Arya on one of these nights that he can't tell anymore what is true and what are simply made-up dreams he has desperately latched on to, because something - even some vague outline of a sweet lady who wholly loved him was better than nothing. Still, memory or dream, he tells her of a golden-haired woman who loved singing and always smelled of freshly picked flowers. Whether the memory itself is real or not, the longing and love in his voice is.
On almost instinct Arya fumbles through the dark until she reaches his hand; it's rough, and like him, much larger than hers.
She suspects there will come a day too, if she lives that long a dark recess of her mind can't help whispering, when she too won't remember the face of her father. She'll forget his kind eyes and serious mouth and something in her throat swells, expanding quickly as it painfully pushes out all the air. A stuttered breath escapes her. Gendry's hand tightens, his palm presses against hers and she breathes in a sliver of air through her clogged throat.
On some nights he falls asleep mid-sentence. But, that's alright. Arya doesn't mind, truly. His late night talking (no matter how long they last) makes the nights go by quicker and easier than it otherwise would.
It happens a third of the way through the story of the first time he'd gotten drunk on ale - Arya half remembers his low rumbles of laughter- when she blinks slowly at the ink black sky and when she opens her eyes she is surprisingly greeted to the sight of clear blue sky and a far too bright sun.
She feels… considerably less tired and worn out then yesterday.
Her arm is numb from a heavy, squashing weight but a now restful Arya can hardly bring herself to care. She can't recall much, not the end of Gendry's story nor the telltale heavy breathing of him having fallen asleep. She can't remember any nightmares. No painfully real memories that jarred her awake as soon as her eyes fluttered closed. Just blissful, overdue sleep.
If she was a weepy kind of girl, or Sansa, she might have done so from joy. Instead she watches the blue, starless sky, a happy grin plastered across her warm face and in too much of a good mood to shove aside the stupid, dark-haired boy -that was half-sprawled atop of her still numbed arm- whom truth be told she was happy to have in her life.
Not that she'd ever tell him that.
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