"You know each other?" Brienne demanded, her usual deferential tone forgotten. She stared, horrified, at where Sansa's hand still rested on the Hound's hairy paw. "You know each other well? Well enough for you to talk to her that way? For her to use your given name? For her to touch you?"
The Hound sliced her to ribbons with glacial gray eyes. Sansa blushed. Arya averted her gaze to the far corner of the solar, swigged half her cup of ale in an attempt to settle her food, and wished herself anywhere but there. Back in Braavos, perhaps, or even King's Landing, so she'd be that much closer to murdering Cersei.
"So you haven't told us where Jon is, yet," she said into the tension in a blatantly desperate attempt to change the subject. "When I heard he was named King in the North, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Ahaha." Her laugh was a sad, limp thing.
"I'll go begin those adjustments to the security perimeter, my lady," Brienne said coolly, standing, hand on sword once more.
"Thank you, Brienne," Sansa replied, looking very demure as she stole glances at her brutish paramour from beneath long auburn lashes. Arya did not know how much more she could bear.
Once the sworn shield had gone, indignation practically vibrating off her broad shoulders, and the other two continued to sit there and stare moonily at each other, Arya decided enough was enough and sought their attention by banging her now-empty cup on the table. "Sansa! Is Jon not here? Where has he gone? Why are there Wildlings crawling all over Winterfell?"
Sansa dragged her attention from the Hound to stare at Arya and then huffed out a sigh as she unfastened her cloak and pushed it to fall over the back of her chair. Arya felt almost lightheaded with relief when she understood it meant Sansa felt safe enough with them to unburden herself of one layer of 'armor'.
"He's gone to Dragonstone. Tyrion summoned him to treat with Danaerys. And they've sailed there, which I do not like, since it takes them so close to King's Landing. Our spies tell us the Narrow Sea is riddled with Cersei's ships. All that's needed is for one Lannister captain to have a good day, and the North has lost its last, best hope for victory."
Sansa pursed her lips, aggravation clear on her fair features.
"Which we almost did when we took Winterfell back. He refused to listen to my advice about how to defeat Ramsey—" she snarled the name, her face lupine until she composed herself and continued "—and if I had not held back the Vale's men until the crucial moment, as I had advised him to do, he would have lost. We would have lost. Jon would have been dead, Ramsey would still hold Winterfell, and I'd have killed myself to keep myself out of Ramsay's hands."
Arya processed the information at the same time she tucked away her continued amazement that her silly, vain, giggly sister had somehow, over the years, become a cool-headed master strategist.
But she wasn't the only one.
"I expect you've heard about the Freys," Arya said casually, taking up her chicken leg once more. As she gnawed on it, she watched Sansa and even the Hound for their reactions.
He scowled, but looked clueless. Sansa said, "Yes, we had a raven not long ago—"
Then she stopped, her eyes wide as she stared at Arya.
"What did you do, wolf-bitch?" the Hound demanded.
"Don't call her that," Sansa scolded absently. "Arya, was it you? Truly?"
She didn't answer, just let the answer shine in her eyes, as feral as Nymeria's had been.
"You did," breathed Sansa. "You slaughtered the entire Frey family."
"Just the men," Arya clarified. "I don't kill women if I can help it."
"So there are no Frey men left? At all?" rumbled the Hound.
"None," she said, no small amount of satisfaction in her voice. "The ones I didn't poison, I hunted down and killed one-by-one." Her mouth twisted in disgusted recollection. "Pathetically easy. They relied too much on treachery. No fighting skill whatsoever. Just blind hacking, as if they were chopping wood instead of defending their lives. You'd have been furious."
She shot an wry grin at him, surprising him as much as herself. Since when did she have a laugh with the Hound?
He studied her for a moment before a ghastly smile stretched his scars. "We'll have to spar, you and I."
"You'll find me more of a challenge than you did last time," Arya replied coolly.
"Reckon I will." He redirected himself to Sansa. "The Brotherhood without Banners should be arriving today or tomorrow. I was traveling with them. We were making for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."
"Why are you with them?" Arya asked. "After that duel they made you fight, and then how they took every last coin off you, they're the last bunch I'd expect to find you with."
"I've my reasons," the Hound rasped, clearly indisposed to sharing any of them.
"Will you go with them, when they leave?" Sansa asked.
"Thought I would. Not sure anymore." He slanted her a glance before turning his attention to his plate, which she'd just refilled— for the third time— without his having asked. Without another word, he applied himself to the slabs of meat, bread, and cheese.
"The destruction of House Frey leaves The Twins without a lord," Arya said.
"The North should claim it before someone else decides it's a fat plum just waiting to be picked," added the Hound from around a mouthful of food.
"Greywater Watch is closest," Sansa mused. "The Reeds and Freys have been at each other's throats for generations. They'll jump at the chance. And Howland Reed was one of Father's closest friends and allies. We can trust his loyalty to the North. I'll send him a raven right away."
She stood, and the Hound shocked Arya for what seemed like the hundredth time that day by rising to his feet as well, as was polite when a lady had risen.
"Will you… come with me?" Sansa asked them. "It's been so long since I've seen you. I don't want to spend a minute apart."
The Hound grunted his assent, and she looked at Arya, who was once again stricken by the full force of her sister's beauty. She didn't begrudge it to Sansa; she'd never had expectations of comeliness, and indeed if Sansa's last few years were any measure, it was more trouble that it was worth. She'd much rather her own middling looks, easily downplayed or disguised if need be.
The Hound seemed just as afflicted, trying to seem detached but unable to keep his eyes off Sansa for long, his gaze always returning to her, like a raven flying home again.
Arya felt abruptly overwhelmed by all the emotion displayed that day; she was unaccustomed to feeling much at all, besides the need for vengeance, and with sudden clarity she understood the Hound's typically sour attitude; it was wearying, being buffeted on all sides by such oversentiment. She had to work to keep her face and tone bland as she replied.
"I think I might just rest here a while," Arya therefore replied. "I haven't sat in a chair this soft since I left King's Landing, so I think I'll enjoy it as long as I can."
To her dismay, her sister swooped in for another embrace, and she was a caught in a net of amber and bronze as Sansa's hair fell around them. It smelled of lemon and made her remember old days, before the world had ended and started anew. A wave of nostalgia broke over her, nearly pulling her under.
Sansa straightened. "Nap if you like," she said, gesturing to the low, padded bench against the wall. "It doesn't look it, but it's quite comfortable." She bustled toward a cupboard, saying, "I'll just get you a blanket, a pillow—"
"She can get those herself, little bird," said the Hound, somehow managing to sound impatient and gentle at the same time. Arya felt the urge to shout at Sansa rising in her throat. She just wanted to be alone so she didn't have to pretend to be so happy. She didn't want to upset her sister; Sansa didn't deserve it, especially after what she'd endured.
Sansa smiled. "Of course she can." She went to him, then, wrapping her hands around his elbow.
Arya was struck by how… well they looked together, both tall, with very straight backs and thrown-back shoulders. As she watched them proceed down the hall, away from her, she heard the low murmur of Sansa's voice, and how the Hound tilted his dark head down to her. Sansa looked up at him in the same moment, and they seemed transfixed with each other for the span of a few breathless seconds before each looked away, coughing a little in embarrassment.
Arya dropped her head back against the chair and shut her eyes on a short laugh. It was the damnedest coincidence that the Hound ended up knowing both Stark sisters so well, and that they'd met up on the way to Winterfell, and that Brienne would be there, and-
The gods are playing dice with our lives, she thought.There are no coincidences.
A footfall on the steps; no, two. Men, and young, if the lightness of the treads was any indication. Arya did not move even a finger but kept her muscles loose, ready to grasp Needle the moment she needed it.
There was a light rap on the door frame. Arya did not open her eyes. "Yes?"
"M'lady," mumbled a male voice, "it seems that someone is here that you know, and he wanted to say—"
"To say what?" she prompted when he fell silent.
"To say—" the young man began.
"Hello," finished another voice, and Arya's eyes shot open to see the inept squire from before, standing twitchily in the door frame. Her gaze moved past him to another, taller fellow standing at his back.
Her eyes locked with his, just as blue as she remembered, or perhaps more. She sighed; of course he was here, too. Of course.
"Thanks," she told the squire. He scuttled away, leaving only herself and—
"Gendry," he said. "In case you forgot."
"I didn't," she said shortly.
Arya studied him. He'd gotten taller, though only by an inch or so, but had filled out considerably. He must have been banging away on an anvil 20 hours a day, she mused. "Come in." It looked like it would take quite a bit of food to keep him going. She waved him to the table and gestured to the little the Hound had left uneaten. "Help yourself."
He entered slowly, cautiously, as if he were trying to scope out a trick. She watched in amusement until he deemed the situation safe. He took the Hound's vacant seat and simply pulled close the nearest platter, methodically demolishing its contents before moving on to the next, and the next.
Arya took a clean goblet and filled it from a frost-rimed pitcher of ale, setting it before him with a thunk. He glanced up, wary.
"So what happened to you after the Brotherhood sold you to the red witch?" she asked casually. "And how did you get from there to here?"
"She brought me to Dragonstone." After a brief pause, during which he flushed and looked somewhat embarrassed, Gendry continued, "They put leeches on me, to take my blood, then threw me in the dungeon. Nice fellow got me out, though, and put me in a boat. I was supposed to row to King's Landing but—"
Here he coughed and rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "I got turned around and ended up at The Whispers. Was out of food and water by then, so I left the boat and walked until I found a road, foraging and living rough along the way. Followed it to Dyre Den. Happened they needed a smith, so I worked there a few months until I could afford passage over to Gulltown. Found work as a smith there, too. Stayed until I had enough, then got on a ship to Pentos."
Arya blinked. She had anticipated a disjointed ramble across Westeros, but this?
"Why Pentos?"
He looked at her as if she were hopelessly stupid. "Because that's how you get to Qohor."
She stared at him, aghast. "But that's where they follow the Dark God. They make blood sacrifices of their own children!"
"Lot of crazy goat-fuckers, they are." He shook his head in amusement. "The bit I learned about R'hllor kept me in good stead, though, because they had a temple there and I took up with them. Weaseled my way into apprenticeship to a master smith."
"You went all the way to Qohor just to be an apprentice again?"
Gendry eyed her closely, and it wasn't an entirely friendly stare. "Come with me," he said at last, and was striding off before she could tell him to bugger off.
His seeming coldness didn't deter her any, thought, and she kept firing questions at him as she jogged in his wake.
"Why Qohor? How'd you get there from Pentos? Why are you at Winterfell? How did you get back? When did you get back?"
They passed the squire, then the big lady knight, Brienne, who nodded and watched them warily as they made their way toward the smithy. The forge was still blazing in spite of the smith's absence.
"Thanks, Luron," Gendry said to the boy who'd been stoking the fire, and Luron scampered off.
Gendry ducked behind a long counter and began digging through the contents of the shelves and drawers.
"To answer your questions, last to first: I set foot back on Westeros almost a year ago."
He huffed in irritation and began plunking items— tongs, most of them rusted, and a half-dozen hammers he wielded as if they weighed nothing, and broken tangs awaiting resmelting.
"I took a barge down the river to Volantis, then a ship to Pentos, and from Pentos back to Gulltown." Gendry continued, depositing an armload of antlers, narrowly avoiding puncturing himself on a particularly pointy one. He glanced at her before ducking down to unearth more dubious treasures.
"I came because it's your home. I figured you'd return to it eventually."
His voice was muffled, but Arya's sharp ears heard it perfectly. A dart of… something… went through her as she stood there, stock-still, hardly able to breathe. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Gendry straightened, holding aloft what appeared to be a long dagger.
"I hid it in case someone felt like nosing around where they shouldn't," he announced, then shot her a saucy grin. "Hid it a little too well, maybe. Anyway, here."
With an utter lack of ceremony, he held it out to her, and when she didn't move, he took her hand and plopped the dagger onto her palm.
"It's a dagger," she said flatly. "I've seen daggers before."
"But is it just any dagger?" He went back to the counter and began replacing all the things he'd excavated in his search. "Take it out of the scabbard."
Arya dragged her eyes from him and stared down at the dagger in her hand. It was almost as long as Needle, and as she pulled the scabbard off, she could feel how exquisitely balanced it was, despite weighing almost nothing. Double-bladed, it was, with a wicked point at the end. She turned it this way and that, trying to understand what Gendry was trying to tell her with with it.
Wood popped and shifted in the forge, throwing light and shadows crazily before settling down. The red-black flash along the length of the blade made that dart of sensation pass through her again, a thrill of shock and alarm that had her gasping for breath.
"This is Valyrian steel," she breathed.
"And that's the 'why'," he finished, wrapping up his tale. "I went to Qohor so I could learn to forge it."
She blinked up at him, the dagger still in her hands, utterly shocked. "But… why did you want to know that? You can make a fine living as a regular smith."
Gendry just grinned.
"I figured one way or another, we'd need it," was his reply. "If they let me have you, I'll need a way to make a living. Be more than just a regular smith, because you're high-born. Shouldn't have to live over the smithy in some dank town somewhere. You're used to better, and I want to keep you well. I'll give you a proper house, somewhere nice."
Arya blinked again, and wondered what the film in her vision was until she realized that it was tears.
"But if that doesn't work," he continued, "if they think I'm not good enough to wed a Stark, being a bastard, I figure we'll need the best blades to make my plan work, because it won't be easy. And now that I know about the wights, and how Valyrian steel can kill them… well, I'll be kept busy just making whatever I can, to outfit as many men as possible."
He squinted around the smithy. "Might need more men for the preliminary work. Definitely will need more materials." He laughed. "And more hours in the day."
"What— what's your plan?" Arya's voice broke on the last word.
"Oh, that." Gendry played at nonchalance as he sauntered over to the forge, unbothered by the intense heat blowing outward from it, and stared into the flames. "I'd reclaim my heritage. Be recognized as my father's son."
"You found out who your father is?"
He nodded grimly at the fire, not her. "I might feel a certain way about it, but I'll think on it later. Right now, I'm glad I can use it to my advantage."
Then he turned back to Arya, and there was something in those blue, blue eyes that seemed… oddly familiar, somehow.
"If they won't let me have you as Gendry Waters," he said, "I'll just have to become Gendry Baratheon."