A/N: This is my first attempt at GOT fanfiction. Some of the plot will follow the actual storyline, some will differ. I've aged up all of the characters, but tried to keep the age differences the same, so hopefully I haven't messed up.

I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter One

ARYA

Arya Stark had always hated Septa Mordane, but today, her hatred ran even deeper than before. A raven had reached Winterfell from the Kingsroad just a shade past dawn, and it brought with it the news she had been dreading above all else.

The King's party would arrive shortly before nightfall, which meant that she had to stand patiently as her mother brushed non-existent specks of dust from the dress she'd forced her into while the stupid bloody Septa paced in front of them, grilling her relentlessly on etiquette.

"And you must always address King Robert, Queen Cersei or the princes with their proper titles."

"I know that," Arya snapped for what felt like the hundredth time. "I have to call them 'Your Grace' and curtsey and do all that other stupid, pointless stuff."

Catelyn, who had been busy tucking away the stray strands of Arya's hair into her braid, tutted. "Arya, it's not stupid to be respectful."

Arya rounded on her mother, hands propped on her hips. "It is so! Yes, Your Grace, no, Your Grace… from the way Father tells it, King Robert doesn't have a drop of grace in him."

"Arya!" Catelyn scolded, appalled. "You mustn't speak like that. King Robert is a very dear friend to your father, and the king."

"And a fat old drunk," Arya muttered.

"Arya!"

"Mind your manners, young lady," Septa Mordane warned. "Or you might end up with your tongue cut out."

Arya scowled, but didn't respond. At least with her tongue cut out she wouldn't have to simper and fawn all over royalty. She wasn't much good at pretending she liked people when she didn't.

"And do wipe that frown off your face, darling," her mother said, softening a little. "You'd look much prettier if you smiled more."

Fat chance of that, Arya thought. Sansa's the pretty one. I'll always be Arya Horseface.

"I don't need to look pretty. The prince is coming to marry Sansa, not me."

"That doesn't…" Her mother's words were drowned out by the squeal of the door opening. A moment later, Sansa Stark herself entered. Arya scowled at the mere sight of her, looking the picture of effortless feminine beauty in her sky blue gown. Her auburn hair had been left loose and flowing, framing her face nicely. It wasn't Sansa's fault that she was beautiful, Arya reasoned. It was her fault that she was a pain in the arse, though.

"Like I said," she continued. "It's Sansa they're here to see, not me."

"That's right," Sansa said firmly. She took a step towards her sister in what was evidently meant to be a threatening way, but the complete lack of intimidation about her meant that Arya couldn't take it seriously. "And if you mess this up for me, Arya, I will kill you. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Arya rolled her eyes at her sister's dramatics. "Seven hells, Sansa, I don't care about your stupid prince, or your stupid betrothal, or the king or any of it! I'm not going to mess it up, and I'm not going to be rude. I just wish you'd all leave me alone!"

She pushed her mother's hand away and stormed towards the door, taking care to shove her sister as she passed. Sansa squawked in protest, but Arya ignored her. Stupid, airheaded Sansa. Doesn't she know that there are more important things in life than marrying a prince?

Arya kept walking, resolutely blanking the women calling after her. Sansa was lucky. She was finally going to get everything she'd ever wanted – a life in King's Landing as a princess in pretty dresses, and she'd be as far away from Arya as was possible in the Seven Kingdoms. Where was Arya's luck? She didn't want anything near as grand as her sister's dreams. She just wanted to be free to swing a sword and spar with her brother Jon, away from all the politics and the false pleasantries.

Most immediately, she wanted out of this awful dress. She toyed with the fabric, tempted to go back to her room and pull the damn thing off, but it had been an ordeal putting it on in the first place, and she wasn't eager for a repeat performance.

It wasn't fair. She wished, as she often did, that she was Arya Snow. Jon's bastard sister, free to come and go as she chose. No responsibility and no expectations. It would've been heaven.

"Don't you look nice?"

The voice came from behind her. Arya swung around to tell the speaker something very rude, but stopped when she recognised the messy dark curls and grey eyes of the very brother she'd been thinking of.

"They put me in a dress," she said.

"I noticed. You don't seem very happy about it." Jon grinned that easy grin of his that lightened Arya's mood every time.

"Would you be?"

"If your lady mother put me in a dress? No, I don't think I would."

Arya laughed. "You know what I mean. I thought you were out teaching Rickon how to fight."

"I was. We were ordered inside to clean up." Jon appraised her for a moment, before nodding thoughtfully. "You look beautiful like that, even if you hate it. Very grown up."

Arya glanced down at herself, surprised by the compliment. Since her fifteenth name day had come and gone two moons previously, people had always been commenting on how grown up she looked. Like Lyanna all over again, some would say. Arya had never believed them. After all, Lyanna Stark had been beautiful – and Arya wasn't.

"I'm not beautiful."

"Are you calling me a liar?" he asked, smiling.

Arya thought about that for a moment. Whatever else Jon might've been, he was no liar. He couldn't lie very well, anyway. Arya could always tell. He didn't seem like he was pretending this time.

"No."

"In that case, say thank you."

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you."

Jon smirked. "We might make a proper lady of you yet."

Arya shoved her brother, and none too gently. Laughing, Jon staggered backwards. He held out one arm to catch himself against the wall and stared down at her fondly.

"Have you heard anything about the prince Sansa's being married off to?" Arya asked. Jon tended to overhear things she didn't, on account of the fact that nobody really noticed when he was there.

"Not much. People that have been to King's Landing harp on about how the both of them will make a handsome couple, though."

"Good, because that's all Sansa cares about," Arya said nastily.

"Arya, don't be horrible. I know that you don't like Sansa most of the time, but she's still our sister. You still love her."

Arya sighed and leaned against the wall. She was well-used to that chastisement by now. "Because I have to, not because I want to."

"Does it matter?" Jon probed gently. "Love is love, in the end. It doesn't make a difference how it comes about as long as it's there."

"You sound like Maester Luwin," Arya grumbled.

Jon reached over to ruffle her hair, but when he saw the effort that had gone into styling it, he retracted his hand with an apologetic half-smile. "Sorry, little sister. I don't mean to lecture you."

She nodded in response. Jon's gaze flickered to something over her head, and he grimaced. "The King's party has arrived."

Arya turned to peer out of the window as he indicated. Sure enough, she could see that beyond the gates of Winterfell, a procession of horses and carriages were making their way towards them. They'd be at the keep within twenty minutes.

"Well, here goes nothing," Arya sighed. She squinted into the distance. "Which one is the king? I can't see him."

"I don't know. He's probably not at the front." Jon stepped forward for a better look. "But, look, see? There's Jon Arryn."

Arya followed his finger to where a man sat atop a palomino stallion, his white hair glinting in the watery afternoon sun.

"Arya? Jon?" A voice from behind them made the two jump. Whirling around, Arya saw her eldest brother, Robb. He was dressed in all his finery, newly shaven, and Arya couldn't help but think that he carried the look off far better than she could've. He looks like a lord, she thought.

"I suppose Father wants us downstairs," Arya said.

"Aye. But Arya… please don't mess this up for Sansa. Not today."

She was nettled by that, and opened her mouth to say so. To her surprise, Jon beat her to the punch. "Don't be stupid, Robb. Arya isn't going to do anything. She's just going to stand there silently until she gets the chance to escape."

"What he said," Arya echoed with a firm nod.

Robb grinned. With his groomed auburn hair and deep blue eyes, he looked more Tully than Stark. Arya, like her bastard brother, had much more of the north in her. She supposed that was why she always looked untidy compared to her siblings.

She and Jon followed Robb outside. The household and servants were all already lined up in formation. At the front of the party, just inside the gates, Arya saw the tall, imposing figure that could only be her father. On his left, her lady mother and sister stood, looking more beautiful and poised than ever. She hurried towards them, almost tripping over the hem of her dress. Jon reached out a hand to steady her as she fell, giving her an encouraging smile before blending into the background.

Robb took his place on their father's right, next to thirteen-year-old Bran. Rickon looked small and bird-like next to him, barely past his ninth name day. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Arya suspected that he was the only member of the Stark family that was more excited than nervous about their royal guests.

As she passed her father, Ned Stark reached out one hand to catch Arya's wrist. She paused, looking up at him questioningly. He leaned down to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. "Try to stay in the dress until after dinner, won't you?"

Arya smiled. Her father never fussed or lectured. He was always the one who fought for her to be able to learn swordplay and archery. He was the one who had taken her on rides since she was small. He understood the wild restlessness that lay deep within her soul. You have the spirit of the wolf, he would say to her. Your aunt Lyanna had it, and your uncle Brandon even more so.

"I promise, Father."

He smiled down at her, watching as she slotted herself into the line beside her sister. As one, the Starks of Winterfell watched and waited for the King to pull up.

The procession began to enter a few minutes later. They were a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong. A pride of bannermen and sworn swords and freeriders. Of the notable figures under the golden banners emblazoned with the stag of Baratheon, first came Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, white-haired and shrewd-eyed. Next came a man dressed in golden armour, an impossibly handsome man. His golden hair and bright green eyes could only have meant he was Ser Jaime Lannister. He was everything a knight should've looked like, Arya thought. Tall, strong and proud. But even though he had titles and power, even though the smallfolk looked at him with awed eyes, there were still those who kept the rebellion fresh in their minds. Those people would talk about what he did to the Mad King. They would tut and glare and whisper 'Kingslayer' behind his back.

An enormous golden carriage drew up next, lavishly inlaid with precious stones. Arya figured that the carriage must've housed Queen Cersei Lannister and her younger children, because behind them rode the eldest.

Sansa beamed widely beside her as Prince Joffrey came into view. The southron heir to the throne was the younger image of his uncle, all golden curls and emerald green eyes. An ornate sword hung from the scabbard at his hip, and the gaze with which he surveyed the waiting northmen was proud and haughty. He was eight-and-ten years, nearly the same age as Jon, but there was none of Jon's easy amicability in his expression. Arya instantly decided that she didn't much care for the young man who was to be her sister's betrothed.

Beside him rode the man with the terrible burned face, Sandor Clegane, the one they called The Hound. Arya shuddered as her eyes fell on his melted, ruined flesh. She wondered what it was that had happened to him to make those scars, but wasn't entirely sure that she wanted to know.

The stunted little man behind them must've been the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. His mismatched eyes glittered with wry amusement as he surveyed the gathered crowd.

Last came the one they were all most anxious to see, flanked by the white cloaks of the Kingsguard – King Robert Baratheon himself. Arya's first impression was that he was not the man her father had often described to her in stories. He was at least six feet tall, true, but he was easily just as wide, with a bushy beard and salt-and-pepper hair. He wore armour much too ostentatious to be practical, and sat astride the biggest horse she had ever seen. He seemed nothing like the strong, brave boy with the hypnotic blue eyes from her father's tales.

Everyone around her sank down onto one knee as the king tugged on his horse's reins, but something caught Arya's eye and distracted her completely. It was a boy, maybe a few years older than her, riding on horseback a little to the left of the king. He, Arya thought, looked exactly the kind of hero her father had described. He was undeniably handsome – strong, well-muscled, broad of shoulder and black of hair. His features had a serious, brooding look to them that reminded Arya a little of her half-brother, and his eyes were piercingly blue.

A tug on her skirt forced Arya to look down. Sansa's livid face glowered up at her, and she growled one simple word under her breath. "Kneel."

Feeling a little foolish, Arya belatedly knelt just as the king swung himself down from his steed and landed on the dry ground with a loud thud. He swaggered over to her father, stopping just a foot or so short of him.

"Ned!" King Robert boomed with enthusiasm.

"Your Grace," Ned Stark greeted, still with his head bowed.

"Oh, get up." King Robert reached down and hauled Arya's father to his feet. Everyone else rose in unison as the king swept the lord of Winterfell into a bone-crushing hug. "Ah, but it's good to see that frozen face of yours!"

"Winterfell is yours."

The door to the carriage opened, and out stepped Queen Cersei. The little princess and the youngest prince followed, and it appeared to Arya that all three of the royal children had taken after their mother in looks. The queen was a vision of beauty, prettier even than Sansa, as she extended her hand and allowed Ned to kiss her ring.

King Robert scooped Arya's mother into a hug next, greeting her like a long-lost sister. "Cat! You're looking lovelier every time I lay eyes on you."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Catelyn beamed, charming and ladylike as ever.

"And this strapping young man must be Robb," King Robert stepped forwards to clap him on the shoulder. "And your daring son, Brandon, and this little one… you look like you could be a knight one day."

Rickon flushed with pleasure, and Arya found herself warming to the enormous king in spite of her initial impression. King Robert moved to the girls next, positively fawning over Sansa as expected.

"What a beauty you are, my lady Sansa. The image of your mother!" He laughed – a sound like a cannon being fired, and finally stopped at Arya. She had to crane her neck back to see him – he was easily six and a half feet tall. The king's eyes widened when she looked him full in the face.

"By the Seven…" he murmured. "You look just like her."

Arya knew he was talking about her aunt from the sudden softness and sadness in his tone. Queen Cersei shot her a sharp look that almost made her flinch, but Arya held her ground.

"This is my youngest daughter, Arya, Your Grace." her father offered. King Robert's expression cleared, and a grin crept its way onto his face.

The king only lingered for a second, before moving on to greet Theon Greyjoy. Arya felt a twinge of annoyance at the fact that nobody introduced Jon.

The introductions of the king's children were made next. To Sansa's delight, Joffrey smiled at her when he was introduced, brushing a kiss against her knuckles and murmuring something complimentary that made her turn bright pink. Arya barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen were introduced next, and the pair of them seemed completely ordinary to Arya. She'd expected more from princes and princesses.

"And this," King Robert indicated with an encompassing wave of his hand. "Is my son, Gendry."

The boy Arya had noticed beforehand stepped forward, bowing his head in greeting. "Lord Stark, Lady Stark. Thank you for your hospitality."

"Why doesn't he have a title?" Arya leaned across to whisper to her sister. Sansa, who was looking equally bewildered, shrugged.

The answer to her question came from Queen Cersei's mouth. "Your bastard, you mean," she said coldly.

Arya flinched at the word. She had always hated it. She saw how much anguish it brought her brother, Jon. To her surprise, though, Gendry didn't even blink. King Robert, on the other hand, shot his wife a quelling look.

"Hold your tongue, woman. He may not bear your golden curls, but the boy's name is Baratheon, and you'd do well to remember that."

An acknowledged bastard, Arya thought curiously. But with no claim to the Iron Throne. The Lannisters saw to that. She tilted her head, watching Gendry Baratheon closely. If King Robert had looked like him back when he battled Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident, it was unsurprising that he was the fantasy of every maiden in the land. She now understood, though, how it was that the Baratheon boy reminded her of Jon. All bastards shared that same look in their eyes. The look of not quite belonging.

Gendry's eyes flashed up suddenly, and he caught Arya staring. The smallest of smiles quirked the corners of his lips upwards.

"Ned," King Robert turned back to Arya's lord father. "I would ask you to show me to the crypt. I wish to pay my respects."

Her father nodded instantly, a soft look in his eyes. "Of course, Your Grace."

"We've been journeying down the Kingsroad for nearly a month," Queen Cersei interjected. "Surely the dead can wait."

King Robert shot her another sharp look. She fell silent, looking mutinous, until the Kingslayer reached over and towed her away by the arm. Arya watched as her father led the king away.

Her mother and Robb struck up a conversation with the Lannisters, while Sansa batted her eyelashes coquettishly at the crown prince in a way that turned Arya's stomach. Instead of joining them, Arya just stood there.

"He's gone to visit her, hasn't he?" A deep voice asked quietly. Arya turned, only to find Gendry Baratheon at her side. He was nearly as tall as his royal father, she noticed.

"What?"

"My father. He's gone to visit the Lady Lyanna's tomb."

"Oh." Arya hadn't really thought about it, but it made sense. The queen's reaction, as well, seemed to fit with this theory. "I suppose so."

"He loved her, you know." Gendry continued. He spoke with the same quiet gravity as Jon did, and Arya found it much more pleasant than the overbearing tones of Prince Joffrey. "I remember him telling me stories of her when I was a child."

"But he loves the queen, now," said Arya.

"If you say so," Gendry murmured, so quietly that she couldn't be sure she had heard him.

The feast that night was as grand an affair as the Starks had ever thrown. The Great Hall was hazy with smoke and swelled with the sounds of chatter. The pleasant scents of roasted meat and summerwine hung heavily in the air. The grey stone of the walls had been covered up by the banners of all the great houses who dined there – white, gold and crimson; the direwolf of House Stark, the crowned stag of Baratheon, the lion of Lannister. A minstrel plucked at his lyre in the far corner, warbling some victory song about the Battle of the Trident. Arya sat at the high table, sandwiched between her blushing sister and chubby little Prince Tommen, wishing for the umpteenth time that day that she could've been seated amongst the shouts and laughter of the smallfolk and the bannermen gathered on the benches below.

Unlike most meals, she didn't even have Jon to talk to. He'd been shunted off to the other end of the table with the Baratheon bastard boy. The two sat engaged in quiet conversation, virtually ignored by the Lannisters on either side of them. It annoyed Arya that her brother was shoved to the edge. Particularly because she was forced to endure the loud and obnoxious ramblings of the golden-haired crown prince sitting on Sansa's other side. An accident of birth, she thought, that's the only difference between a king and a bastard. What a stupid rule.

King Robert and Queen Cersei sat between her lord father and her lady mother, and both seemed to be making a conscious effort to speak to their hosts whilst ignoring each other. Arya thought that strange, but she didn't spend too much of her energy dwelling on it. A sharp kick to the shin jerked her out of her train of thought. She glanced up to see her younger brother inclined across the table towards her.

"You don't look very happy," Bran mouthed.

"I'm not." Arya mouthed back. "I want to leave."

Bran gave her a tight smile of sympathy. She almost thought he understood how she felt.

"Seven hells!" Joffrey's sharp yelp made the whole of the high table turn in his direction. "What is that thing doing in here?"

Arya had no idea what he meant until she saw a very familiar furry snout poking out from under the table, just by the prince's foot. The direwolf's lips pulled back over her teeth as she snarled at him. Joffrey pushed his chair back with a loud scraping sound, whiter than the Stark banner that hung on the wall behind him.

"Oh no," she muttered. Arya ducked her head under the table and clicked her fingers. "Nymeria! Come here!"

The direwolf blinked her big yellow eyes, attempting to look innocent. Arya wasn't fooled. She'd scared Prince Joffrey on purpose. A rush of affection for her pet swelled in her chest, and she fought against the urge to burst out laughing.

"Arya," Catelyn leaned across the table, chastisement saturating her tone. "You know that she's not supposed to be in here during the feast!"

"Sorry, Mother, I didn't…" She trailed off as Nymeria snapped her jaws in Joffrey's direction again. The crown prince whimpered pathetically.

"Nymeria, come!" Arya commanded, slapping her palm against her own thigh. Finally, the wolf obeyed, trotting over to her mistress with her tail swishing happily through the air. She immediately became as docile as a puppy, even pausing to lick Arya's arm before curling up in a great furry ball at her feet. Cersei Lannister glared at Arya like she was trying to kill her where she stood. Arya felt more threatened by that look than she could've ever been by a direwolf. The queen probably wasn't going to rip her throat out, but Arya couldn't help but think that she might be holding that option in reservation.

Catelyn immediately began apologising to anyone who would listen, and Sansa chimed in. Arya glanced towards the other end of the table to find Jon and her uncle Benjen smirking at her. They weren't the only ones amused by the display; Tyrion Lannister was hiding a smile behind his goblet of wine, and Gendry Baratheon had his eyes fixed firmly on his dinner plate, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"Children don't have any business keeping beasts like that as pets," Cersei Lannister said. "They're dangerous."

So am I, Arya thought, but she refrained from saying it.

"Arya is almost a woman grown, and Nymeria has been fiercely loyal to her for years," her father said calmly. "I apologise if she gave you a turn, but the direwolf is the emblem of our noble house, and I won't cast them out of Winterfell."

Arya could've kissed Ned Stark, she was so grateful for the interjection. King Robert peered at her father through wine-glazed eyes, before letting out a great booming laugh that shook the whole table.

"Nonsense, woman! Joff isn't afraid of a pup like that, are you, son?" Without waiting for an answer, he leaned over and confided to Ned in a very carrying whisper, "Cersei babies the boy far too much, if you ask me. A man grown shouldn't need his mother's protection."

Both the prince and the queen looked mutinous.

The following evening, Arya found Jon Snow where she usually did. Sitting on the wall by the training ground, lost in thought as he stared at the well-used targets. She was grateful for the escape. All day, she'd been forced to endure hours on end of Septa Mordane criticizing her needlework and fussing over Myrcella. The southron princess wasn't even that good at sewing, not like Sansa, but that didn't seem to matter to the stupid old Septa. She longed for lessons on the histories of Westeros with Maester Luwin, or learning swordplay with Ser Rodrik and the boys, rather than singing and poetry and all that other awful stuff.

"No fighting today?" Arya asked.

"No. Apparently Joffrey doesn't want to play children's games."

Arya frowned. "How is learning to fight a child's game?"

"Because Ser Rodrik wouldn't let him use a sword with an edge," Jon sighed. "He truly is a little shit, you know, Arya. I feel sorry for Sansa."

"I wouldn't," Arya muttered darkly. "Sansa doesn't much care what he's like. She's more in love with the idea of being queen one day that she could ever be with Joffrey, even if he was the nicest man in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Ah, little sister," Jo chuckled. "Your tongue is almost as sharp as the Imp's, sometimes."

Arya didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or not, so she let it go. "It's not fair, you know. Joffrey refuses to practice swordplay, but I'd give anything to be allowed."

"You're right, that's not fair." Jon reached over and tapped at the necklace dangling at her throat. "That's pretty."

"Mother gave it to me."

"That's the Stark coat of arms."

Arya clutched at the cool metal of the pendant for a moment, feeling another swell of bitterness creep over her. "What use is that to me, though? I'm a girl. I'll never get to fly a banner and fight to defend it, so why bother wearing it around my neck?"

"Therein lies your frustration," Jon joked dramatically. "And mine. Girls get the arms but no swords. Bastards get the swords but no arms."

It was another of those moments, Arya thought, where she and Jon seemed to understand each other perfectly. Bound together by the injustice of their birth and the kinship in their blood.

She changed the subject. "What do you think of the other princes?"

"Tommen is a sweet boy. Young, and innocent. Nothing like his brother."

"And Gendry?" This answer, Arya was most curious about. She didn't know quite what to make of Gendry Baratheon. At the feast last night, he had blended solidly into the background for such an imposing looking young man. He had barely said a word to anyone. He just sat there, picking at his food, chatting with Jon occasionally. The entire time, he looked as though he'd rather be sitting down on the benches with the smallfolk. He would answer when addressed directly, but never with more than a couple of words.

Jon shrugged. "Gendry isn't a prince."

"He's King Robert's son."

"His bastard. Not his heir."

Arya frowned at her half brother. "That doesn't make him any less than Joffrey. Just as you aren't any less important than me."

"Ah, little sister," Jon said again. "I wish everyone looked at the world the same way you do. As for Gendry, I like him. He's managed to escape the worst qualities of his family."

She leaned in closer and lowered her voice slightly. "They're awful, aren't they? The Lannisters."

"Lord Tyrion is okay," Jon allowed. "But I'm not so sure about the others."

"I don't like the idea of Sansa going off to King's Landing with them all," Arya confided. "Not at all. I feel as though Father is giving her to a nest of vipers."

"He has to do his duty to his king, Arya. As we all must. We need to start planning for the future. Strengthen our alliances. It's been a long summer, but you know it won't last forever."

"I know." And she did know. She was a Stark of Winterfell. "Winter is coming."

"Winter is coming," Jon echoed. He hesitated for a moment, and Arya felt a sudden gnawing in her gut that she couldn't explain. She just knew that he was about to say something she wouldn't like. "I spoke to Uncle Benjen at the feast."

"Oh?"

"I'm going north to the Wall with him when he leaves. If I get Father's permission, I'm going to take the black."

It felt as though Arya's stomach had dropped right out of her. The world tilted on its axis, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe. "You can't. You can't do that!"

"Arya, the Night's Watch is a noble and…"

"The Others take the Night's Watch!" Arya cried. "You can't join, Jon! You can't just go away and leave me! I won't see you for years, maybe not ever!"

"Arya…"

The sting of abandonment pierced her like a knife. It wasn't fair. Why did Jon have to go? Why her favourite brother? He was the only one who ever truly understood her in Winterfell. With him gone, her life would be even more wretched than before. "No!" Her nails dug into her palms.

Jon reached out to her, and she slapped his hand away. His eyes, the same steely grey as her own, looked hurt. She didn't care, in that moment. She was too angry at him to think about his feelings.

Pushing off from the wall, Arya hit the ground running. She ignored Jon's protestations that rang after her into the night air. She just ran, as far and as fast as she could. Her feet seemed to be carrying her somewhere of their own accord. Belatedly, she realised that she was headed toward the godswood. The noise of the castle faded into silence behind her as she reached the carved face of the heart tree. With a heaviness in her chest that she couldn't lighten, she sank onto the bench by the lake, and succumbed to the tears of injustice that she'd been fighting all day.

Arya didn't know how long she sat there. It could have been minutes or hours. She cried for Jon, who was leaving her for the Wall and the wildlings. She cried for herself, left alone in Winterfell to face duties and obligations that she never wanted to be hers. She cried until she didn't have any tears left. Even then, dry sobs still wracked her slender body.

"Are you okay, Lady Arya?"

Arya jumped at the sound of a voice behind her. Hastily, she scrubbed her eyes to remove the last vestiges of her tears. The speaker came into view, vaguely illuminated in the moonlight. With a start, Arya realised that it was Gendry Baratheon.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, rather rudely.

"I thought I'd give praying to the old gods a try," Gendry shrugged. "The Seven have never really done much for me in the past."

"Oh."

"Why are you crying?"

"None of your business."

"I didn't mean to pry, milady. I was only wondering."

"Don't call me milady," Arya said vehemently. "It's Arya."

"Sorry."

Arya paused as something odd occurred to her. "You said milady."

"I won't say it again, if it upsets you."

"No, I mean, you said 'milady' and not 'my lady'. You sounded like you were lowborn."

Gendry smiled awkwardly. "I was. I mean, I thought I was a lowborn blacksmith, not a highborn bastard. I didn't even know that the king was my father until about a year past. He just showed up at the smithy where I was working, the Hand in tow, and named me as his son. I don't know why."

"How come you're called Baratheon?"

"I never knew my mother. Didn't know where I was born, you see? Didn't know if I was a Waters, or a Stone, or a Rivers, or even a Snow. I don't remember much about her. She had yellow hair, and she used to read me stories. That's all I know. My father gave me his name, but not his titles. The queen would never have agreed to that. She put up enough of a fight as it was."

"I don't like her at all," Arya said unthinkingly, and then clapped her hands to her mouth in horror. She expected Gendry to chide her, maybe even to run off and tell someone what she'd said, but instead, he laughed.

"No. I don't like her, either."

"We shouldn't talk like that. Anyone could hear."

"Who is there to hear us?" Gendry asked, spreading his muscled arms wide. "There's only you, me and the old gods here. I don't think any of us are going to tell her."

He had a point, and Arya knew it. She drew her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. A thousand questions rolled around in her head, but she couldn't separate them enough to ask.

"I like this place," Gendry offered, sinking down onto the bench beside her. "It's peaceful."

"The godswood? It's meant to be."

"Not just the godswood. Winterfell."

Arya tilted her head, eyeing him curiously. His blue eyes looked almost black in the moonlight. "You don't like King's Landing?"

"I lived in Flea Bottom most of my life. Then I moved to the Red Keep. I don't care for either of them, much."

"Oh," Arya said softly. She couldn't help but think of Sansa. Maybe she wasn't walking into the glamorous life she'd pictured? "What's so bad about the Red Keep?"

"The high lords. The way they play their game of thrones," Gendry said. "The politics. The tricks. It always feels dangerous, y'know? Like you have to sleep with both eyes open."

Arya shuddered. "Sansa's going there."

"I know." He paused. "But she'll be okay, your sister. She's a sweet girl. Not likely that anyone will think her much of a threat. She won't attract too much of the bad stuff."

Arya wasn't sure whether he was saying those things because they were true, or because they would make her feel better. She hoped it was the former. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For talking to me. You aren't nearly as bad as your brother."

Gendry frowned. "Joffrey? I don't really think of him as my brother, anyway."

"You don't?" Arya was surprised. She was so used to her own relationship with Jon – Jon, who felt more her brother than any of her trueborn siblings – that she never really stopped to consider that other relationships between bastards and lordlings could be different.

She supposed that she couldn't really blame Gendry for the way he felt. If she'd had a brother like hateful Joffrey Baratheon, she doubted that she'd want to claim him, either.

"No." Gendry stood, then, and offered Arya his arm. "Can I walk you back inside? It's late, and it's probably not safe for you to be out here all by yourself."

Arya scowled. "I'm fine. I can take care of myself, you know."

Gendry smiled. She was taken aback by the warmth of it. The rest of his family had such false smiles, the kind that were as fragile as the new leaves on a weirwood sapling. Gendry smiled like he actually meant it. It brought a glittering sparkle to his blue eyes that Arya quite liked. "I hear there are wildlings running loose in the woods up north."

"I'm not afraid."

"I don't think you are afraid of much, Lady Arya."

"Arya," she corrected instantly. "I'm no lady."

"And I'm no lord," he offered. "But humour me for a minute and let's pretend, shall we? Your father would have my head if he knew I'd left you out here at night by yourself."

Grudgingly, Arya stood. She ignored his proffered arm, though, and proceeded to march straight ahead of him. Gendry didn't seem to protest, or take offence. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, Arya could've sworn that she heard him chuckling to himself as he walked behind her.

When the pair reached the gates at Winterfell, Arya was surprised to find the place in chaos. People were running here and there, conversing with each other at top volume. She couldn't pick out any individual words in the chatter, but all of them sounded highly alarmed.

"What's going on?" Gendry murmured, finally catching her up.

"I don't know," she replied. Her teeth pressed down into her bottom lip as she surveyed the scene. Nothing looked out of place, but then, why would everyone have been so upset? Finally, she spotted a familiar figure jogging across the courtyard.

"Ser Rodrik!" Arya yelled. He changed direction and headed towards her. The look on his face filled Arya with a sick sense of dread. She knew at a glance that whatever was wrong would be something horrible.

"Lady Arya, there you are!" Ser Rodrik said with relief. "Your brother Robb sent me to fetch you."

"Why is everyone in such a state?" Gendry asked, beating Arya to it. "What's happened?"

Ser Rodrik's expression grew graver still. Arya's heart lurched into her throat. "It's Lord Arryn," he murmured. "The Hand of the King. He's dead."

A/N - Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :)