The Pillager and The Protector
The large outside pavilion was a huge circular stone surface which was surrounded by all manner of colorful flowers. Around the northern edge of the circle were stone steps leading up to a quaint area covered by a bright green and yellow canopy; the alcove was large enough to fit a long intricately carved table with which Lord Bronn of Highgarden and his bride-to-be Constance Emmanuel of Dorne sat drinking, smiling, and observing their guests.
Towards the rear of the joyous affair, Arya casually stood in the shadows of two nearby trees; she was close enough to her lady sister to protect her and far enough away that whomever Sansa chose to speak to would never even notice that her sword and shield was there. Currently, Arya was praising her near invisibility since Sansa was busy making awkward small talk with young lord Robin Arryn of the Vale. Arya had just met him and she already didn't like him. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something off about the younger male that rubbed her the wrong way entirely. However, he looked to be an inept fool that even Sansa, if hard pressed, could take out herself if needs be. Certain her sister was safe in conversation, Arya found her attention waning and her gaze began to drift around the gathered crowd.
Laughter and jaunty music filtered in her ears as she looked over the seated guests with half eaten plates of food and goblets of fine drink in front of them. She didn't recognize many faces and she didn't want to. But there among the sea of well-wishers was a man that Arya did know and her eyes found him easily. She knew him quite well after all. She knew he would be here. Of course he would. He, like her dear sister, was in charge of one of the 7 great houses now. Her chest tightened and her stomach burned with so many emotions as she took in the sight of the gold pins fashioned in the shape of stags securing his black cloak to his matching black and yellow doublet. His hair was longer, almost darker, almost the way she remembered it when they were kids. Nostalgia took hold of her, captured her heart in its unforgiving grasp and squeezed.
I can be your family.
You wouldn't be my family. You'd be milady.
You're beautiful and I love you and none of it will mean anything if you're not with me.
Standing in the shadows, unseen by all, even if for just the briefest of seconds, Arya's passive features reflected her chaotic inward struggle. She has no list. It was finally completed. Even so, she has what is left of her precious family now, and like the true she-wolf she is, she will protect it. After all, Arya had learned the hard way that enemies like to hide in sheep's clothing, using peaceful times to lull a person into a false sense of security. These enemies will laugh with you one minute and when the time is nigh to further their ambitions, pay someone to try to stick a dagger in your back in the next. Sansa was beautiful, shrewd, and cunning and as of yet did not wish to rule Winterfell with another. Many lords had already asked for the right of her hand and she has politely declined. Arya knew some would settle with her sister's decision, but not all. There will always be those that didn't, and Arya welcomed them to come.
Flicking flinty eyes back to Sansa saying her goodbyes to the Lord of the Vale, Arya reaffirmed her vows that her lord sister had never asked her to take.
I will be her sword of vengeance and mercy and the shield that protects her from this day to my last.
Lord Gendry Baratheon sat at one of the many u-shaped tables in the center of the platform, facing their gracious hosts. Behind an upturned goblet of wine, his gaze narrowed on the one who had welcomed him with an oh-so warm, "Nice of you to drop by, Lord Twat. Please enjoy the festivities."
"Not a good idea to stare daggers at our host," Davos, seated beside Gendry, commented. "I know the man gets under your skin, but let it go, lad. Let it be his day."
"I don't get it," Gendry grumbled, looking from Bronn to the tan-skinned, dark haired beauty beside him. Constance Emmanuel was dressed in matching forest green and gold colors with the top of the form fitting dress coming down in a V that flared out just a touch at the hips. The woman's smile was infectious and warm and she truly seemed to have her soon-to-be lord husband wrapped around her little finger. "How does someone like him end up with someone like that?"
"Right lucky bastard he is," Yara Greyjoy enviously interjected as she appeared at Davos' side. "How do you do and all that," she greeted as she lifted a leg over the low backed chair beside Ser Davos and immediately sat down to drink. Truthfully, Yara hadn't wanted to attend the frivolous affair. Like most on the council, she wasn't a fan of Lord Bronn of Highgarden, Master of Coin. However, Fara had challenged her to a game of dice and trounced her thrice. Besides, it was either come or not come and be subjected to her cousin's constant whinging about missed opportunities and the like. Tasting the wine and finding the taste to be good, Yara figured it was the lesser of two evils.
Gendry's back stiffened as the chair beside him was dragged back with lazy care.
"It's a fine day isn't it, Lord Baratheon?" Fara Grejoy asked as she plopped herself down, but not without flashing her intended target a smile full of teeth. "What say we share a drink in honor of this joyous occasion, eh?"
"Already having a drink, thanks," Gendry replied back with a lift of his goblet—trying to be both casual and friendly.
"You both look lovely this evening," Ser Davos pointedly said, his comment the words his lord was supposed to say in this situation, but didn't.
"Keep your niceties," Yara, in worn leather pants, boots, and the usual Greyjoy emblazoned breast plate, posed back indifferently. "I'm just here for the free food and drink." Spying a Dornish handmaiden that reminded her so much of the dearly departed Ellaria Sand, she amended, "Well, maybe not just the food and drink." With that, she was gone—her stay with them as brief as the summer rains that sometimes sprinkled over the Ironborn Islands.
With her swift departure, Gendry and Davos found themselves at the mercy of her twice removed cousin.
"Have you ever been on a ship before, Lord Baratheon?" Fara asked, rapidly bringing the attention to herself. She played with the necklace of seashells around her neck as she awaited his answer.
Remembering Davos' words to be cordial, Gendry finally turned his eyes from his drink to the woman beside him. She was wearing a black studded leather jerkin that left her left shoulder bare; on the front was engraved her house sigil—the kraken—in yellow. Like Yara, Fara was wearing leather breeches and boots. He watched her pull a strand of long curly red hair behind a pale ear as he said, "Please, just call me Gendry."
"Well, lord Gendry," she flirtatiously smiled back. "Have you?"
"A boat? Yes," Gendry relayed, thinking of his time being all but lost on the sea after Davos' rescue from the red witch. Turning away from the woman's smile that had slipped into the leer he was all too familiar with, he thoughtfully added, "A true ship though? Never."
"We should change that," Fara eagerly said, sliding her chair closer to him. Leaning in, she heatedly whispered, "I could show you a thing or two of the Iron Islands. Things you won't much forget."
"Oh, look," Davos helpfully cut in. "They have mutton. I quite like mutton. Think I'll go grab a plate before it's all gone."
Gendry gave his retreating advisor a withering look as he left. Coward.
"You know, I think I've had my fair share of the sea," Gendry replied as he unconcernedly slid his chair away from the brazen woman's looming presence. "Besides, I live seaside now. I can look out and admire the waves any time I want."
"Well, that's true," Fara agreed, much undeterred. "But what's a pretty view without a pretty me?"
"Indeed," Gendry offhandedly replied back without much inflection in his words.
Thankfully, he was spared by a shadow falling over them. Looking up, he found the Lady of Winterfell standing before him. Tall, regal, and dressed in an off the shoulder black and grey gown with her favored circular chain around her neck, Sansa Stark greeted him kindly. "Lord Baratheon, you are looking well."
He watched her smooth the ends of her black and grey fur stow as he gratefully got up and addressed the distraction, "As are you, Lady Stark."
"Who is this?" he heard Sansa ask as she turned to the forgotten woman to his side.
"Oh," Gendry began, remembering his manners. "This is Fara Greyjoy. She's—"
"Greyjoy?" Sansa echoed. "So you're Yara's cousin I've heard so much about."
"That I am," Fara replied, still sitting, with no hint of joviality in her eyes. "I'm sure everything you heard about me is true. Even the bad parts." A cross of arms and a defiant lean back in her chair. "Mostly the bad parts."
Clearly sensing the other's animosity and not one to flinch away from it anymore, Sansa coolly posed back, "Have I slighted you in some way for you to speak to me so?"
"Not just you in particular," Fara said leaning forward with a glare. "I'd say it's more like your entire family has slighted mine own."
"Is there a problem here?" a familiar voice interjected from behind Gendry—all but making him jump out of his skin. She was right behind him. How had he not known that she was right behind him this entire time?
Turning around, her name fell from his lips as he took in the sight of her. "Arya."
Hair in a messy plait down her shoulder, she wore a ruffled blouse under a sleeveless grey and brown jerkin that was snugly fastened by two belts at the waist; the outfit was casual yet formal with matching breeches and boots and Gendry suddenly couldn't remember her ever looking more beautiful.
However, he was ignored as the woman he continued to openly stare at patiently gazed down at a surprised Fara who had instinctively slid far away from Arya's sudden presence. Sword on one hip, dagger on the other, Arya placed her hands patiently behind her back and said, "I asked you a question. If you would be so kind as to answer it please."
"Its nothing," Sansa calmly assured her, breaking her gaze away from the Ironborn woman who was now glaring daggers at her sister's false smile. "I was just asking Lord Baratheon where we could find two empty seats."
"No need," Gendry heard Arya say to her sister before he further watched her take a step back with a nod toward the back of the pavilion. "I found seating in the back with a better view of the grounds."
"Aren't you going to say hello to Lord Baratheon?" Sansa deliberately asked, ever in an attempt to remind her dear sister the niceties that even their lord father would take. After all, Sansa had told her that she didn't have to mingle with anyone, but it was best if Arya at least said her hellos.
Chest tightening, Gendry watched Arya's eyes slowly sweep from a still glaring Fara to his stunned self. After a breath, they were both silently staring at each other and for a few heartbeats more neither said a word. Thankfully, Arya was first to break the awkward silence.
"Hello, Lord Baratheon."
Gendry's mind rapidly mulled over every inflection of Arya's voice. Was it a sad tone? Was it a happy one? Did her slight pause even mean anything at all?
"Hi," he nervously replied, still shaken. After a breath, he tried to rectify his unlordly mistake. "I mean, hello. I mean, I—I like what you've done to your hair."
"Thanks," he watched her lips quirk into the smallest of smiles at the thought that something like this moment has played out between them before. "I like what you've done to yours as well."
And then he was watching her turn away with a "Shall we?" to her lady sister and Gendry did not want her to go.
