Author's Note: Heyah! LOVED the all of the reviews, never expected any, let alone such lovely ones! Thank you so much :D This chapter is a lot shorter than the first, but I wanted to upload soon enough after the first upload, and I don't want any of it to feel forced, so I figured I'd put this up as it is, instead of tacking on silly stuff at the end :L this doesn't have very much Gendrya in it ( :( ) but hopefully the next chapter will make up for that and the length :)
Disclaimer: George RR Martin rules the world ^-^
Over the next weeks, Sansa sent her ravens and the lords of the north came. Umber, Flint, Mormont, Hornwood, Glover, Tallhart. Alys Karstark arrived when she heard that Jon was the one calling, riding into the yard with a cry of: "So the crow finally flew down from the Wall! I hear you're not a crow at all now, but a dragon? There's a change Oldtown would be interested in!"
They brought their armies, too. Winterfell, which had been empty and quiet before, now bustled with movement and rang with shouts and cries. These men burned to avenge their homeland, and at last there was a Stark in Winterfell to lead them.
Three Starks, now. Rickon was a child, but Sansa and Arya together made a better commander than any man, in Gendry's opinion. Sansa, with her gentle courtesy and soft beauty drew their love like moths to a flame, but it was her intelligence and sharp mind he knew to be her true strength. These lords had tried to overpower her, take command, thinking that a woman couldn't command an army. Sansa drew them in, and before they knew it the were in love with her, and half in love with her husband, the Young Eagle.
And then there was Arya, their resurrected princess- yes, she's a princess now -returned from the dead. They had been wary of Arya in the beginning, because they thought her a stranger. Then, within spending a minute with her the ones who had known Brandon and Lyanna and, of course, her lord father, embraced her as their wolf princess, and the others, the heirs to the lords who had died at the Red Wedding, quickly followed suit. Where Sansa was outwardly soft and gentle, Arya was sharp, and strong. It was said Sansa had the Tully beauty, but Arya was another Lyanna. Beautiful, and willful, and with everything inside her of the north.
She sparred in the yard with the knights, using a slim, blunted tourney blade similar to Needle, which she'd used when he'd first met her. She still had it, sharp enough to shave peach fuzz with, but for practice real blades weren't required. The men were horrified, refusing to fight her. She called them cravens, demanding they demonstrate their skill with a blade, saying if they were to fight for her brothers she had to make sure they could fight at all.
Reluctantly giving in, the lucky first man circled warily around the slight figure that was his princess.
Arya stood sideface, bending her knees slightly. She was wearing the armour she'd been wearing under her cloak when she first came home. It was new, the steel enamelled in silver and white, made to the exact fit of her slender figure. There was a helm to match, in the shape of a direwolf's snarling head. He'd overhead her telling Sansa that the dragon queen had gifted her with it after they'd agreed to ally. From the other conversations he'd overheard, Arya and this Daenerys Stormborn seemed quite close. More than just members of allied Houses. Friends.
The only way he heard her voice was by 'overhearing'. If she still went to the godswood, it wasn't when he could see her enter. He'd sat up all through the night for the first few days after the night she had cried, and then punched him, but she didn't appear again. He gave up when people began asking him if he had trouble sleeping, and the maester offered him a sleeping potion. Regretfully, he looked out his window, and lay down to sleep. She featured in his dreams every night. They way she looked now, those big grey eyes and the smooth skin, either in the nightgown she'd worn in the godswood, or the armour that glittered so beautifully when the sunlight hit it just right. And the way she looked when they'd been with Yoren, short-haired and dirty-faced and skinny and so, so brave.
She'd been the best fighter he'd ever seen then, and he was curious to see if she was as good as sewing with her special Needle now as she'd when they'd been heading to the Wall. The man circled her, but she stood still, graceful even when not moving. This was the only time she beat Sansa in grace. Most times she was slightly awkward, shoulders just that little bit hunched, the defensive stance so discreet you wouldn't notice unless you really knew her.
The man was a good head taller than her, not as big as Gendry, but still, he dwarfed the little wolf- as everyone dwarfed her. He was wiry, flat muscled and lithe, clad in mail and boiled leather. Arya's plate would be heavier, more cumbersome.
The man stopped after circling her three times. Her head was bare, the wolf helm clasped tight in Rickon's arms where he was watching. He had looked worried; Gendry laughed, thinking it was her opponent who needed worrying about.
Her grey eyes followed him, watching the man expressionlessly. He sighed, obviously realising she wasn't going to make the first move.
Suddenly, he darted towards her, going right, aiming high- but no, it was a feint, and he switched at the last second to go low, for her hip.
Only Arya was ready for him. She slid fluidly aside, slamming the flat of her sword on the nape of his momentarily exposed neck as he stumbled.
"Dead." She said.
He regained his footing, spinning back around to face her, but Arya's sword slammed across his chest. Before it even had even left his hauberk she spun behind him, kicking the back of his knees to send him staggering. As he went down, she grabbed hold of his hair, yanking his head, and Needle was at his throat in a heartbeat.
"Dead and dead again." She said, smiling. He loved to see her smile, even if it wasn't at him.
She released her hold on him, and he got to his feet hurriedly, panting. Gendry could see the man's severely bruised pride in his eyes, but he kept his courtesies.
"My lady," He panted. "If we had an army like you, this war would be won."
"You are kind, good ser. But since there is only one of me, and I doubt my sister will let me fight anyway, it seems we will just have to train, and train, and train, until lions fear the very howling of wolves."
He dipped his head, and walked back to his friends, to the jeers of the men around him.
"Oh?" Arya asked, an innocent look in her eyes. "Is something amiss?" The men shifted uncomfortably, still laughing.
"Well, m'lady, losing to a woman don't seem too good to me, even one such as yourself." One grinned, leering. He was shorter than the other man, but broader, muscled thickly.
"What is your name, good ser?" She asked him.
"Torrec, of House Redling, sworn to the Umbers."
"Well, Torrec of House Redling, I'm sure Tommen and Stannis have men who can fight such as myself. Mayhaps you should pay more attention to technique and skill than what gender your opponent is. They will kill you all the same." She said, an eyebrow raised.
The man's face darkened. His mouth tight, he said, "Pardon, m'lady." Gendry wondered if it was just him who wasn't allowed to call her m'lady.
"No matter." Arya said, pacing from left to right. "You will learn soon enough." She gestured impatiently, a quick flick of her small fingers. "You're next."
"No, m'lady, it wouldn't be proper. If I hurt the sister to my king, my head would surely end on a spike!" He blustered.
She grinned slyly. "You have my word, no injury you could do me would have such harsh repercussions." She waved him forward again.
Reluctantly, the man came forward. He seemed determined not to make his predecessor's mistake, and waited for her to strike first.
She rolled her eyes, and slid into her fluid stance. When he still refused to attack, she began to circle him. They rotated round each other, the man warily watching her every move.
Quick as lightening, she darted forwards, striking him on the thigh, spinning behind him before he could retaliate. He whirled, but she blocked his high cut and slammed the blade down on his shoulder in a blow that would've opened him to his collarbone if they'd been using real swords instead of tourney ones.
"Dead." She smiled.
The man's eyes darkened with fury as she grinned wolfishly. He came at her hard, raining blows down upon her. She danced back, always out of reach, grinning the word 'dead' every time she landed a blow, and his face got angrier and angrier. Finally, he let out a roar as she slipped around him, spinning away from a powerful blow aimed at her side.
The beast in Gendry's chest snarled. His throat was tight, and he found himself imaging what he would do to him if the animal so much as touched her. What are you doing, you know she can take care of herself, doesn't the fact she's kept herself alive after all this time make it obvious?
Finally, with a flick of her wrist she sent his sword spinning through the air. With a roar, he hurtled towards her. Gendry thought he saw a flash of fear in her eyes, before they got that steely look and she raised her blade to block his fists. Gendry began to bound towards them, fury and an overwhelming urge to protect his little wolf burning in his chest. But before he had gone so much as three steps, something gigantic bowled him over as if he weighed nothing.
Nymeria came out of nowhere, a huge grey blur hurtling past her mistress. She tossed the man over like a ragdoll, and stood over him, snarling into his face. The direwolf glared menacingly out of her golden eyes, snapping ferociously at his face, and Gendry saw a dark stain spreading along the man's breeches.
Arya's voice cracked like a whip. "Nymeria!"
The direwolf snapped at the man's eyes one last time, and stalked back to her mistress. Arya fisted her hand in the direwolf's fur. The gigantic wolf loomed over her, dipping her head to press her nose against Arya's cheek.
"And that is why you shouldn't differentiate between your enemies, good ser." She said shakily, scratching her direwolf's ear. Nymeria growled threateningly, eyeing the man angrily. "They will kill you just the same. My wolf is as female as I am, and she would rip out a man's throat at my command. Expect the unexpected."
~X~
Gendry felt lost in this conversation. It was less than a month and a half until the dragon queen landed in Dorne, and it was time for the Starks to begin planning.
Rickon sat at the head of the head of the table, with Sansa on his right and Arya on his left. Harry sat next to his wife, and Gendry was seated next to him. He'd thought of sitting next to Arya, but didn't see the point as he knew she wouldn't look at him, so he had watched Howland Reed settle himself next to her. He burned to make her understand, to show her how sorry he was, only he didn't know how.
The lords of the north filtered down the table. Sansa was regaled in finery, in a deep blue silk gown that set off her eyes, the bodice slashed to the waist, the deep vee covered with fine Myrish lace dyed burnt red, garnets adorning the neck and bodice. Her hair was loose, but for the two pieces that were braided along the top of her head, glowing like fire in the candlelight.
Arya's hair was styled the same way, but the gown Sansa had struggled to cajole her into had none of the soft womanliness Sansa's had. Arya sat in white silk, pearls stitched into the neckline and bodice in soft direwolf designs that seemed to move when the flicker of the candlelight caught them. There was a grey cloak clasped at her throat with a direwolf fastening, lined with white fur. There was snow melting in her hair, and the dove grey lace in the slash of her dress matched her eyes almost exactly. Nymeria stood at her shoulder, lazily nuzzling her neck.
Sansa had played it very well. It was as though the two Stark girls were representatives of each of their parents' houses. Sansa, a Tully, and Arya, so obviously a Stark, from the wolf at her side to the solemn wintry gaze she fixed them with.
She had dressed them well for their roles as ladies as well. Sansa, who had been wedded and bedded, flaunted her womanliness. The low cut neck of her dress showed off her skin, flawless and white, as well as her breasts. She was barely seventeen, but she looked for all the world a woman, knowing and wise and tempting. Gendry observed this objectively, noticing the way the highborns' eyes lingered on Lord Eddard Stark's eldest daughter.
Their eyes were drawn to the younger daughter as well. Sansa had clad Arya in maiden's attire, from the pure colour of the white silk gown to the cloak that bore the Stark colours, if not the sigil. Best not make it too obvious, Gendry thought. Arya's dress showed off her form, but in an honourable way. The bodice of her dress flaunted the skin of her throat and collarbones, but gave only the faintest hint of her chest. The cloak draped over her in the chair, making most of her body a mystery. Gendry could see what Sansa was doing.
She was flaunting Arya's maidenhead. Sansa was advertising that until Rickon came of age and married, Arya was his heir, as well as Harry and Sansa's. Technically, Winterfell would pass to Sansa if Rickon died without leaving issue, but she and Harry already had all of the Vale to worry for. Arya was the heir to the North, and Sansa was making it abundantly clear that her maidenhead was intact, as well as her hand. To marry Arya Stark would be to put yourself in the direct line of succession.
Gendry didn't like it.
And neither did Arya, apparently. She fidgeted in the dress, shifting her weight in the chair, worrying at the pearls with her slim fingers. Sansa had done her best to rid Arya of the hard-earned calluses on her palms, but no matter how much lemon-scented hand cream she massaged into her sister's fingers, it made no difference. Gendry suspected it was because the minute Sansa left her unguarded Arya washed the stuff off and went to do her needlework.
He still surprised himself at how much he had learned about her habits. He had watched her, watched her from the moment he saw her hands tremble that day at breakfast. If her hands shook at the way he managed to keep her secret but not lie to her family at the same time, he guessed it was because mayhaps she realised he wasn't as stupid as he'd been at fifteen. Or maybe he was, and he was over-analysing her every action. Perhaps she had a shaking sickness, and the timing of her trembling was coincidental.
Still, he watched her, quietly observing from his forge, or peeking from behind window drapes. Most days she would rise early, and appear outside the stables before the sun had even cleared the snow-covered hills, clad in men's clothes. It would mostlike be a warm woollen tunic, fur-lined breeches and boots, and of course her Stark cloak. He'd hardly seen her without it, as though if she didn't wear it she'd become Arry, or Weasel, or Nan again. She would saddle her filly, which he had found out was called Visenya, for Aegon the Conqueror's warrior sister-wife. He had realised Arya liked to give her animals strong names. Nymeria, the queen of the Rhoynar with her ten thousand ships, and now Visenya, the Targaryen conquerer-queen who rode a dragon and fought with her very own blade, Darksister. He wondered if sometime in the future a different little girl with scabbed knees and messy hair would name her dog Arya Stark, after a girl who refused to give in. He wondered if songs would be sung of Arya, and her Needle.
She would saddle Visenya herself, and ride out. The guards at the gate had long since stopped questioning her. He watched the trio, girl, horse and direwolf, race through the snows, making the first tracks in an unbroken blanket of white.
Then, after an hour or two, she would return, breathless and flushed. She would hand her filly over to the stable boys, who had gotten over the strange ways of their princess. She would go back inside, and the next time he saw her she would have been struggled into one of the gowns Sansa had commissioned for her, and the tangles the wind had worked into her hair would be gone, replaced by smooth curls and bejewelled hairnets. They were trying to turn her into the lady she was meant to be, and he could see she hated it.
She remained defiant, though. Everyday, around about noontime, she would appear in the training yard, wearing her direwolf armour. She fought each man, and defeated every one. Despite the fact every single soldier was at least twice her size, and three times as strong, not one could touch her. Oh, they tried, courtesies forgotten in the heat of the fight and the clang of steel on steel, but she was too damn quick. She wasn't that strong, but her blows were hard and well-placed, and he could see the men grow to love her. Some might've had doubts about fighting for the sweet, gentle Sansa, who seemed as though she would weep for the death of a fly, let alone be able to brave the dark bloodiness war, but they would fight for their fierce She-Wolf.
She hadn't spoken to Gendry, and hardly looked at him, but there had been times when he had glanced up and caught her staring at him. Her grey eyes would flit away, and she would pretend she hadn't noticed him, but even the little signs that proved she wasn't frozen inside gave him hope.
And now Sansa thought to marry her to one of these men. Or maybe not to marry her; but only to hint at the thought of marriage, to incite Rickon's bannermen to prove their loyalty so they might wed the heir to the North. To have sons that someday might be kings.
With everyday Arya ignored him, he grew a little colder inside. That night, in the godswood- it hadn't gone to plan. He had to put it right, he had to put them right- back to the way they used to be. Only how?
He was sucked back into the conversation by her voice.
"Daenerys has the Dornish strength- they burn to avenge Elia and her children. And-"
"Elia and her child." Alys Karstark corrected with a raised eyebrow. "Prince Aegon is alive. Is Her Grace allied with him?"
Arya shook her head tiredly. "I don't know. She had no idea he was alive when I left Braavos, but now? Who knows? If she is, it will not do for us to go fighting him only to find out later we're on the same side. I need to speak to her. We've sent ravens, but who knows if they're even reaching her?" She cracked her neck, ignoring Sansa's disapproving look. "But it doesn't matter. Not yet." Her eyes burned, glaring round the table at each of them. "Before we go south, the Freys have to answer their debt. It is time the Red Wedding is repaid in kind." She said quietly, her voice low and fierce.
"I agree! It's-" Boomed Glover, but Sansa cut him off.
"The Twins…" She said broodingly. "Robb had to ally with them because he was hurrying south. He thought he could still save our lord father." She looked at Arya. "We have no such rush."
Something passed between the sisters, and Arya nodded, turning back to them with a fierce look in her eyes. It was the strongest emotion she'd displayed since returning. Her face was still and white, like the northern snows, but her eyes burned like grey fire, and her mouth was a thin line.
"We lay siege to the two towers of the Twins."