Even the longest journey begins under one's feet. - Maester Eckhart, c. 300 BAL

Her stomach clenched: possibly from hunger, fear, or a combination of both. But there the knot sat, tightly in her midsection, a reminder that nothing was as it had been; nothing would ever be as it had been. No more rambles under the tree-shade of the godswood, no covert archery sessions with her brothers in the practice range, no embroidering in the afternoon sunlight with her sister and the septa.

And while the last memory had not been one of which she was particularly fond, somehow knowing that it was all over, the thought of a future without these things in it, without her father in it, made her throat knot as well as her belly.

The wagons rattled onwards, shaking her and the others about like apples in a barrel. Gripping knees to her chest, Arya wedged her feet against the planks and fixed her gaze on the wheel trails left behind them in the grass. Since the departure from Winterfell, the arrival at King's Landing and her subsequent need to escape attention of any kind, she'd learned to keep her eyes focused on objects rather than people.

No one had paid her too much attention yet, except for the fat boy with the stupid name, and she had Needle to keep her safe from him. She was more intimidated by the men in the caged wagon ahead of them, though she wasn't going to let them see so. Yet it was exhausting, being on guard all the time.

Right at this moment she felt someone watching. She ignored the scrutiny for a while, then cut her eyes sideways to see who it was. The blacksmith's apprentice, on the opposite side of the wagon, yet in its narrow space so close their legs were touching. His expression was closer to thoughtful than hostile, yet that was troubling in itself. With so little of the long journey behind them, Arya couldn't afford to have anyone thinking about her, wondering where she was from, or who she was.

Ned Stark's daughter.

Dead Ned Stark, former lord of Winterfell, former Hand of the King.

The ruthlessness of her morbid thoughts made her cringe. But she needed to think. There was so much to plan for. She had to find a way to divide her mind into compartments, one for planning her immediate needs, one for those upcoming, one where the memories could be shoved until she had a place for them again.

She let her chin sink into her chest a bit and assumed a scowl which she hoped made her look fierce enough to remain undisturbed while she closed her eyes and rested. There had been little sleep over the past few nights along the road. Even if she had felt safe enough to do so, the noises made it difficult. Snores, groans, occasional screams of fear or even wordless terror coming from the others, sending her sharply upright in the dark, heart pounding.

But now, the wagon creaked and shook louder than the mumbles of its passengers, and Arya let her eyes close.

Someone kicked her foot, not with enough force to hurt, but it struck her instep, and she yelped, more from surprise than pain. She realized one of Yoren's guards was bawling at them to get out of the wagon.

"Piss break," somebody muttered. After this they would be expected to walk, switching places with the others who had been lagging behind the wagons. Arya lurched forward, but her legs cramped, and she nearly fell out of the wagon, or perhaps Hot Pie, the fat boy, had shoved her.

A hand caught her up short before she sprawled. Arya squirmed, hating the indignity of being held by the scruff of the neck as though she were a direwolf pup. Gendry, that was his name, the smith's apprentice. He set her on her feet again and let her go, turning away before she could say anything. It was probably just as well; they were never given much time and she needed more time than the rest. She scurried into the underbrush, Yoren's warning about taking her breaks in privacy always present in the back of her mind. Hastily she did what was necessary and pulled up her trousers, cinching them around her waist with the belt and pulling the shirt down. Then she raced back through the trees, but before coming into sight of the others, slowed to a lad's lazy saunter, which she'd been working on perfecting. For the male eye tended to see what it wanted to see, and was fooled by mannerisms as much as appearances; it was this she was counting on to keep her safe.

Hot Pie's curly-headed friend, Lommy, threw a pebble at her as she passed. Arya ducked, silently recalling and crediting her dance-master's tutelage for her quick reflexes. "Why d'you always run off to piss?" he called after her. Seven hells, she wouldn't have minded fielding that question so much if he hadn't yelled it for everyone to hear. She shot a glance about but no one looked especially interested.

"Because," she said, turning and walking backwards, "you stink too much to stand next to."

Lommy didn't seem chagrined. "You stink as much as I do."

This was probably true and so there was no need to refute it. Actually Arya longed for a wash and she had to stop herself from scrubbing her face and hands whenever they were near water; dirt helped to maintain her disguise.

"Both of you'd best shut it," Gendry advised, not unkindly.

Privately she rather agreed with him but with Lommy staring at her she felt a touch of truculence alighting in her soul. "I don't have to shut it."

"Just the same." He inclined his head to indicate one of Yoren's men approaching, and then, leaning back against a tree, bent to inspect the edge of his boot with unwarranted curiosity.

Lommy drifted off. Arya stood, uncertainly, a few paces from Gendry. She wasn't doing anything wrong. And they weren't prisoners, exactly. Were they? Nonetheless, Arya tried to imitate the young man's casual posture, deciding it was effective.

The guard surveyed them both for a moment. "Taken your pisses, have you? Get going then."

They lined up behind the wagon, where those who had walked the last few leagues were now climbing in. Soon they were moving again, the horses starting with a jerk. Arya plodded forwards, resigning herself to a march she knew would continue until nightfall. She didn't mind the walking much; her boots were her own and well-made, though they might not hold up to near a thousand leagues of travel. But each step brought her further from King's Landing, from the people who deserved retribution; each step conveyed her closer to Winterfell.

What sort of Winterfell she would find? She couldn't imagine it without her father. Didn't want to try. She hadn't cried for him. Not today. Not yet. Perhaps she never would. The hardness that felt a part of her now was almost pleasing, like the sharp taste of an unripe apple.

Arya was trying to pay attention to their surroundings, but after a while trees and grass and rocks began to blur together into an indeterminate mass, backed by the darkening sky. The air had a chill to it. She was glad now of the heavier jerkin she wore over her shirt. By the time the wagons slowed to a halt again her legs were numb with fatigue and cold. While people moved around her preparing to set up camp for the night she stood, wavering, for a moment.

The caged wagon bearing the three men was off to the side. One of the men leered at her while she stood there.

Her hand found Needle's hilt.

"Oi." Gendry tapped her on the back of the head. "Want to eat? Help me find firewood."

There was something about the brusque practical way he spoke to her that reminded Arya of her brothers. She fought back the surge of homesickness and followed him towards the treeline where they could scrounge for sticks. A wind-fallen tree nearby had left plenty of branches scattered about. She crouched to scoop some up, ignoring the ache in her knees and back.

"Ought to stay away from that lot," Gendry remarked over his shoulder as he wrestled with a larger section of the tree.

"I can look after myself." Arya's voice sounded scratchy to her ears beyond the masculine husk she tried to infuse it with.

He threw her a skeptical look.

"You've seen my sword. And you know I know how to use it," she challenged.

"Won't be enough if they get loose of that wagon. Girl like you—"

Arya dropped her armload of wood. She whipped her head around, but he hadn't spoken loudly and there seemed to be no one within earshot. Still, the shock of it spurred her into instant denial. "I'm not a girl."

He grunted and widened his eyes at her. "And I'm not a bastard."

"I'm telling you I'm not." Desperately she followed him, cutting in front when he would have started to haul the tree stump back towards the others.

"Look, it's nothing to me what or who you are, all right? Just watch it. Around the older ones. Them in the cage."

"You can't tell anyone." She shifted to an appeal, his matter-of-fact tone making her realize it was pointless to continue arguing.

"Like I said it's nothing to me."

"Promise, Gendry." Arya grabbed his arm, not sure if he would take offense at her using his name (though why should he, it was his name after all and if he was a bastard she couldn't think of any other titles to append).

He glanced down at her small hand on his forearm, and said, in a way that sounded more curious than challenging, "What are you going to do if I don't?"

"Stab you with Needle," she replied unflinchingly. Mainly because it was the first thing that came to her mind.

"Pretty feisty for someone so small. How old are you anyway?"

"First promise not to tell."

He sighed out as if she were exhausting him. "No one will know about you from me."

Arya let go of him. And then, because it seemed rude not to, she said, "Thank you," and added, "I'm twelve. Nearer thirteen," she supplied when he raised a dubious eyebrow.

"Well, like I said. Stay out of trouble."

There were irritated shouts in the distance for firewood and they both straightened. Arya wanted to tell him that he was being awfully bossy, considering they barely knew each other, but decided to leave it at that. She would see in the next while if he meant to keep his word, and then decide whether or not he was to be trusted.

Dinner, slopped into varying containers and passed around, was a greasy broth. At least it was hot from the cooking fire. Arya sipped at hers, holding the scarred wooden bowl in both hands and inhaling the steam. Darkness surrounded the journeyers as they sat or crouched in small groups around the tiny fires. This time of night was hard, too, when there was no conversation to be had nor activity to keep the mind quiet. She shuffled her feet in the ground, creating grooves in the dirt. Lommy and Hot Pie were complaining quietly of hunger. Someone was swearing about something. The cage bars of the wagon creaked as its prisoners shifted about within.

Yoren, grim-faced, walked by, keeping an eye on all of them for the first stretch of the night. As little enough sleep as they all got, Arya wondered when he got any. She slid down into the dirt with her back up against the tree stump that Gendry had dragged over.

The fire spat.

"Get to sleep, you maggots," one of the men ordered affably in their general direction. Coarse laughter echoed back from the trees.

Arya closed her eyes, still sitting upright. The red of the flames glowed through her lids. This was what it had been like for the past four nights since they had left King's Landing. Had it only been four nights? It seemed an age ago. A childhood ago.

She opened her eyes again. Gendry was adding wood to the flames across from her. He caught her gaze. His expression was unreadable.

Arya tucked her chin into her chest. She didn't know if sleep would come readily tonight. Certainly she was tired enough. She hunched down lower and closed her eyes again, her arms crossed protectively over her chest, the comforting length of Needle along her side.


Breakfast the next morning was—as it had been every day so far—a dry biscuit that tasted of wood shavings. Arya nibbled around the biscuit's edges. She had no appetite to speak of. It occurred to her to offer her portion to one of the other boys, but there was none among them she cared to show any particular kindness to. Except perhaps Gendry, and she didn't want him to think she was trying to win his silence with a bribe. If he was going to be silent on the topic of her femininity, and she hoped and prayed he was, she wanted it to be because he kept his promise to her.

Arya hated being lied to.

It was one of the reasons why she had a mistrust of adults in general and women in particular. In her experience, both groups had a penchant for well-meaning, face-saving lies.

Still, she didn't really want to finish the biscuit. She held it in her hand for a moment, considering.

"Eat it," Gendry said, noticing her reticence as he passed by with a shoulder-bag slung over his back, preparatory to moving out.

"I'm not that hungry," she said, feeling stroppy.

"How d'you expect to grow if you don't eat?"

She shrugged.

He shook his head and kept walking.

But she tucked the biscuit into a pocket for later because he was right.

Over the next few days of travel, once there were no indications that her secret had been revealed to any of their fellow journey-mates bound for the North, Arya began to relax a little. Yoren had warned her back in the city not to expect any special consideration from him, which meant he gave her no more than the cursory glances he gave the other boys. At mealtimes and night they were all watched, not as much once they were afoot or riding in the wagon. Hot Pie and Lommy were still a source of irritation, since they had taken to referring to her as "Arry the private pisser", but the harassment did not go far beyond verbal.

At least not until the day it started raining heavily in the morning and didn't show any signs of stopping. They had been marching in soaked clothing for most of the afternoon. Arya's unevenly shorn hair was plastered against her forehead in front, dripping down her neck in back. It was unusually cold, and the misty puffs of her breath were drowned by the downpour.

She thought she would never take the feeling of being warm and dry for granted again.

All men are made of water, she heard her dance master say. Do you know this? If you pierce them, the water leaks out, and they die.

She felt she was made of water. And that she might very well die if the cursed rain didn't stop.

The Kingsroad was no more than a dirty river now, or rather two small rivers where the wagon wheels cut through the mud. Arya batted hair out of her eyes. Just in front of her, she saw Lommy and Hot Pie share a sly look whose meaning she didn't have time to interpret before one of them stopped, stuck out a foot and tripped her.

She went tumbling, shoulder-first, into one of the mud streams. Her knee hit a rock and she lay there, limp, for a few moments, temporarily stunned by the flash of pain. The wagons kept rolling, as no one had noticed, and the two perpetrators shared a slightly uneasy laugh before darting after.

Arya didn't sit up. She felt mud dribbling into her ear. She blinked at the sideways landscape which had ceased to be sensibly divided into ground, treeline and sky and was instead a massive blur of grey and brown.

She heard a muffled oath through her unblocked ear.

"Get up."

She recognized, if not his hand, Gendry's sleeve thrust in front of her face.

I'll be damned if I cry.

Taking hold of his arm, Arya let herself be pulled up.

Gendry steadied her and peered into her face. "All right?"

She chewed on the inside of her cheek so as not to let out an accidental snuffle.

He looked past her at the departing wagons.

"They'll stop," she said. "Once they see I'm not there."

"Why's that?"

She didn't care, he already knew past her disguise, it didn't matter any more and she was soaking and filthy and mad so she blurted, "Because I'm not Arry the orphan boy," and it felt good to say it, felt good to see his forehead crease in brief bewilderment.

"So who are you that they're gonna come back for you?"

Perhaps she couldn't blame him for the doubt in his voice but she said proudly into the falling rain, "I'm a Stark of Winterfell."

"A Stark of—that's a big lie for such a little girl."

Arya delivered the foulest epithet she knew, and there were quite a few in her repertoire, thanks to her brothers.

He only laughed. And then sobered. "You're serious. What's your name then?"

"Arya Stark."

"It was your father who was—"

She dropped her eyes.

"Hand of the King. If that's true what in seven hells are you doing here?"

"I'm not going as far as the Wall."

The wagons' creaking was growing distant but the two of them still stood in the middle of the mud and rain on the quiet highway.

"You're being brought home then," Gendry said finally. "Some kind of escort for a—a lady." He ran a hand over his face. "Don't seem right."

She didn't have the energy for a proper shrug so she elevated one shoulder. There were a lot of things that weren't right. It wasn't right that her father was dead, that her sister was still trapped in the city, that her mother and brothers might not even know the truth of what had happened yet.

"You could take me back," she said. Pure impulse prompted her to say it.

Gendry looked in part desperation and exasperation at the departing trail of travelers. "I'm no escort for a lady neither."

"Do I look like a lady?" she demanded.

"You look like a harbor rat."

"See," she said, and while she had no desire to be thought of as a gentlewoman or paid silly compliments about her appearance, for some reason his honest appraisal rankled the tiny part of her that was, after all, nearly thirteen.

"M'lady," he added, presently.

She stalked muddily away, neither north or south on the road but straight up the opposing bank.

"Hey, wait. Arya."

He caught her arm between shoulder and elbow. "You'll freeze. It's almost dark. You need the fire."

He was right, of course. Again.

Gendry gestured with his head. "Let's go."

She allowed herself to be guided back down the bank. Her teeth chattered from the sodden clothing but he wrapped his hand around hers and they loped together after the wagons.