Author's Note: Success in actually writing this week! As always, the reviews, favorites, and follows are much appreciated. To the person whose thoughts went straight to the Lion King - yes, that was intentional! It's a headcanon of mine, I think largely as a result of the Acorn Hall scene in the books. Also, a very belated response to the person wondering about a love triangle involving Aegon/Griff: I wasn't planning on going that route, but Griff will show up again, so never fear!
Chapter 8
Instead of heading straight to Robert's bedside, like a normal person might in a similar situation, Arya goes right for Bran's room. He's seated in his wheelchair, gazing out the window, but as she closes the door behind her he turns to look at her. "You look rough," he observes. Arya blushes. "Good night?" Bran perks up one eyebrow, and Arya makes a half-assed attempt to flatten her hair. "Fine, fine," says Bran, holding up his hands apologetically. "It's not the time, anyway. Listen, I think Cersei's behind this."
Arya stares back at him, wide-eyed. "Way to cut straight to the point there, bro," she remarks blithely, at which Bran snickers lightly.
"Didn't see the point in dancing around the real problem here," he shrugs. "Better to just cut right in there, you know?"
"I guess. What do you mean, Cersei's behind this?"
"Well, like… okay. So we know from that text draft that I'd been meaning to send to you that Cersei & Jaime are up to something. And that the bullet that hit Dad was intended for R.B. And all of a sudden Robert's dying of some ungodly illness that struck out of absolutely nowhere? It's all a bit suspicious, don't you think?" Bran explains, his voice level even as he mentions Ned's death. Arya stiffens ever so slightly as the memory rises, though the anger that previously accompanied the thought of her father dying is lesser now.
"Speaking of ungodly illness, what's he got?" Arya asks.
"No one knows," Bran drawls. "He's just 'sick.' Really sick. All of a sudden. Came on as quickly as, say… food poisoning."
Arya nods. "You think he was poisoned." Bran grins and nods back at her emphatically. "And you want to prove it, don't you?" Again, Bran excitedly gives his assent. "What are we going to do?"
"One, we're going to figure out why all this is happening," Bran says firmly, the smile gone from his face but the light still shining in his eyes. "Two, we're going to shut Cersei down."
"Three," Arya adds, "we're going to teach that little prick Joffrey a lesson." Bran gives her a puzzled look, but Arya simply sets her jaw and begins to pull her hair back into a business-like ponytail. "Give me an order, captain."
"Recon?" Bran suggests feebly. Arya snorts but dips her head in a single grim nod before ducking out of the room. "And let's leave Rickon out of this particular endeavor for now, okay, Arya?" Bran calls after her, to which Arya responds by clicking her tongue and shouting back "Kay!"
Arya spends the next few hours creeping about the Red Keep, slinking from shadow to shadow and hiding whenever need be. She neither finds nor hears a thing, and returns, dejected and exhausted, to the poolhouse.
Surprisingly, Sansa is in the kitchen with a bag of frozen peas pressed to her forehead. She glances up at Arya with tired blue eyes and then slumps down into a kitchen chair. "Where's Mom?" Arya asks lamely. Sansa shrugs and dabs the frozen peas at a swelling on her lip. "You know if she comes home and sees you, she'll want to know…"
"I know," Sansa says, and sighs heavily. It's strange to Arya that her older sister now sounds so world-weary, when once she was so vivacious and optimistic. "I just… I don't really care anymore. There's no getting out of this. I don't see the point."
"What do you mean, 'there's no getting out of this?'" Arya echoes incredulously. "Sansa, you can just beat the shit out of him. Hell, I can beat the shit out of him. He's just a little shit!"
"You wouldn't understand," Sansa mutters, and lays her head down on the table atop the frozen peas.
"Try me," Arya dares, crossing her arms and coming to stand next to her sister.
"He's going to inherit Baratheon Corporation and the whole fortune. Joff is going to control everything in my life. Hells, Arya, he's going to control everything in everyone's life," Sansa moans.
Arya blinks, primarily surprised that her sister swore and secondarily excited by this new information. "He's getting the whole company? That seems like a whole lot of power for one asshole." Sansa peers up at her with watery blue eyes and then groans into her bag of frozen peas. "I need to go talk to Bran about something," Arya announces suddenly, as an idea comes to her. "I assume you can ice yourself on your own."
"I can nurse my own wounds, thank you," Sansa asserts as Arya bounds up the stairs and bursts into Bran's room.
"The whole company goes to Joffrey once Robert dies," Arya tells her brother, who is hunched at his desk, deep into his homework.
"The whole company? What about the part that our family is supposed to own?" Bran stares back at her, blue eyes wide, and Arya smirks.
"My thoughts exactly. Robert's too out of it to argue, right? And if Joffrey gets all the power, that really puts Cersei in control, and, as an extension of her, Jaime," Arya adds breathlessly. "They're consolidating this whole corporation, plus the added wealth of our family, into their own hands."
Bran gapes at her, eyes the size of dinner plates, and then smoothes back his auburn hair, sucking in a deep breath. "Shit, Arya," he says slowly, "are you positive it's all going to Joffrey?"
"Heard it from Sansa, and she could only have heard it straight from the horse's mouth," Arya confirms proudly.
"Our sister, the invaluable informant," Bran muses. Arya grins and is about to ask her brother what their best options for sabotage are when she is interrupted by a light knocking at the door.
"Say what about an informant?" Sansa asks wearily, the peas still pressed to her lip. She lounges against the doorframe, a tired expression on her face, and Bran's eyes go wide.
"What happened to you?" he asks, his voice suddenly very gentle.
"Smacked into a tetherball pole in P.E.," Sansa answers easily, and though Arya scowls she says nothing. "What are you two up to? You were being suspicious earlier." This last comment is directed entirely at Arya, who doesn't so much as blush at the accusation.
"Your boyfriend's parents are about fifty shades of cray, there's a whole lot of political bull going around, and I think the Baratheons are trying to lock our family out of the business deal," Arya explains. Sansa merely raises one perfectly sculpted red eyebrow. "And by Baratheons, I mean the Lannister side of things."
"I was about to say," Sansa mutters, "Robert practically begged Dad to partner with him for months. Why would he want to cut us out now?"
"Robert doesn't. But Robert's sick, or dying, or whatever," Arya waves a hand dismissively. "He doesn't have much of a say anymore, know what I mean? And you said it yourself, Joff gets everything once Robert goes. And if Joff gets everything, Cersei's in control till Joff turns eighteen."
"He'll be eighteen in, like, a week," Sansa points out. "His birthday's the day after the homecoming dance, which, by the way, you're both going to."
All color drains from Arya's face, though Bran merely smiles apologetically. "Like hell I am!" Arya protests. "I'm not about to get all dolled up and wear a dress and go shake my ass for a ton of people I utterly despise, Sansa, honestly."
"Mom's orders," Sansa smiles delicately, but for a moment there's a flash of mischief to her somber blue eyes. "We're all to get out and have fun for once."
Bran is silent as Arya continues to argue and bemoan the horror of dancing, and Sansa, watching him, quiets as well. At last, Arya falls silent, and turns to look at her brother. She can practically see his gears turning, as his eyes lower to the ground and his fingers twitch ever so slightly in his lap as he formulates a plan. "What are you up to, little brother?" Sansa asks quietly.
"The dance," he answers cryptically. Both Stark sisters stare at him, still completely lost. "Don't you see?" Bran asks, and, for once in agreement, Arya and Sansa both shake their heads. "It's a public affair. If we can uncover all this – with facts and everything – we can expose Joff and his family in front of the whole school. Our classmates have important parents. They can call the Lannisters on what they're doing, and tell the press, and then-"
"No," says Sansa forcefully, and the momentary lightheartedness is gone from her face. "You can't do that to Joffrey."
"It's genius," Arya breathes excitedly.
"No," Sansa repeats. "You mustn't! We're just supposed to have fun for once. This whole house has been one big train wreck since Dad died, and we don't need to heap on any more problems. Why can't we just go and dance and be happy?"
Arya glares sharply at her sister. "How can we just be happy when we know this is happening?"
"We're not all fighters, Arya," Sansa tries.
"Clearly," snaps the younger Stark.
Sansa's blue eyes cloud with tears, and she straightens up. "Fine," she sniffs. "I just wanted to actually talk to my own siblings for once, but if you're going to be rude, then fine."
"Sansa…" Arya starts, already feeling a twinge of regret for lashing out at her sister for not fighting Joffrey back, but Sansa is already out the door.
"I just wanted to be a normal teenager for one night," Sansa cries, poking her head back in the door, "but you have to spoil everything, don't you?" And with that, Sansa trots right back down the stairs, taking heavy, angry steps all the way.
"It wasn't a tetherball pole, was it?" Bran asks quietly, and Arya cuts him a stern look. He sighs and folds his hands sedately in his lap. "We can't do this to her."
"Priorities, Bran," Arya tries, but he shakes his head firmly.
"Family first," he insists. "Who else do we have besides each other?" Arya's mind immediately goes to Gendry, and she blushes at the very thought of him. She's still wearing his t-shirt, though she's since showered and changed pants, so she no longer looks like the walking aftereffects of a one-night stand. Bran notices the color in her cheeks, but says nothing, merely quirking up one auburn brow.
"Family first," sighs Arya, "but if Joff makes one bad move towards Sansa, I will out the whole thing, proof or no, and then I will grab him by the-"
"Understood," Bran cuts her off, grimacing.
"Now if you'll excuse me," Arya adds, "there is no way I'm getting through that dance without some worthwhile company, so I have a phone call to make."
"Mm-hmm," purrs Bran, fluffing his hair upwards, "I'm sure you do." Arya's face turns an even deeper shade of red, but she says nothing as she flees her brother's room.
Gendry scrambles to get the phone the second it starts ringing.
It's not that he expected Arya to call right away. It's not like he wanted Arya to call right away. He definitely didn't want her to come back the second she left. No. He would never want any of those things. He certainly hasn't been launching himself across the room and, while at work, actually through a shoe rack, in order to answer texts.
Granted, all of those texts prior to the current phone call were from Hot Pie, but they pertained to Arya, so Gendry is denying those as well. He feels stupid for it: he's almost twenty-two, he shouldn't be fawning over a girl almost six years younger than him with whom he shared a hurried make-out session this morning.
He flicks the phone open and schools his voice into nonchalance. "Arya?"
"You're coming to a dance with me," she commands.
Gendry thanks the gods he hadn't been drinking anything when he picked up the phone, because if he had, he would have spewed it all over his kitchen. "What?" he sputters.
"There is a dance. Next Friday. And there is no way in Westeros that I'm putting up with that alone, so you're coming with me."
Gendry swallows nervously. He remembers high school dances very clearly and with little fondness. The last time he went to one was four years ago, and he can't say that he misses them. On the contrary, he considers himself lucky to have escaped them for what he always assumed would be the rest of his life. "Listen, Arya, I don't think that's a very good idea…"
"No, damn it, you listen to me, Gendry Waters," Arya snaps, cutting him off. "Whatever we did or did not do this morning has nothing to do with this." Gendry can practically hear her blushing. "I am asking you, as a friend, to come and hang out with me on this most miserable of occasions."
"Isn't there an age limit on people you can bring to dances?" Gendry queries warily, searching for any way out of going. He's torn: he feels like he shouldn't spend any more time with Arya, given what happened earlier that day. Despite her arguments to the contrary, he still feels both too old for her and too far out of her social class. At the same time, he can't get her out of his head, and he's coming to understand that the feeling of wanting to see her isn't going to go away anytime soon. The dance presents a dual problem for him, though. He wants to spend time with Arya, sure, but he doesn't want to spend time with Arya in a dark room filled with hormonal teenagers grinding to shitty music. "I just really don't think it's a good idea," he repeats.
"Gendry. I am begging you," Arya pleads, "do not make me endure this alone. I cannot stand dances."
"Don't go, then," he suggests, cupping the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he stands and heads into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
"I have to," Arya moans. "Mom and Sansa are making me. Which is why I'm making you."
"Excuse you," Gendry laughs, "I think I have a choice in the matter."
"You'll come," Arya insists.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Sansa's making her wear a dress!" Gendry hears someone shout in the background, and then hears Arya snarl, "Shut the hell up, Bran!" She turns her attention back to Gendry. "You'll come because I asked you to."
Gendry blinks, trying to understand her reasoning, and sips mildly at his glass of water. "So," he says, "a dress."
"You shut up," Arya mutters sulkily.
"What kind of a dress?"
"Shut up!" Arya repeats. "No kind of a dress!"
"Oh, so you're going naked…"
"No!" her voice reaches an uncharacteristically high pitch with that sharp denial. "I just… I don't want to. And I don't know, because I haven't gotten it yet, and… just… just agree that you're coming, okay, Gendry? Ugh! Stupid!"
Gendry chuckles and, before he can stop himself, agrees: "As milady commands."
Arya makes a loud frustrated noise into the phone and then, before he can say anything else, she hangs up on him.
Gendry stares at the phone in his hand for a moment. Here he is, twenty-one years old, about to head to yet another high school function all because a feisty little girl has hold of his heart. Except she's not a little girl, as she's proven many a time: she's a young woman, fierce as a wolf and bright as the sun. Again Gendry chastises himself. She's far too good for him. She deserves a smart, rich boy headed to a good college, one who can keep up with her both physically and mentally – not just in witty banter, which Gendry considers to be his only asset when it comes to Arya Stark.
He laments all of this aloud to Hot Pie later, as he ambles through the pizza shop's kitchens.
Hot Pie promptly smacks him over the head with a spatula. "What was that for?" Gendry gasps, rubbing at the back of his head.
"You're an idiot," Hot Pie sighs, rolling his eyes. "Here you are, you've got this amazing girl, she's actually interested in you, and you're acting like it's the end of the world."
"It's-"
"Just go to the bloody dance, mate," Hot Pie sighs. "Honestly, it's like you're the sixteen-year-old girl here."
"No," protests Gendry, "sixteen-year-old girls aren't nearly this pragmatic." Hot Pie groans and bustles over his pizza.
"Just let yourself be happy, mate," Hot Pie says with a shake of his head. "It's honestly not that hard."
"She's almost six years younger than me. She has a future. She's got a family, and things to do with her life, and I've got-"
"Shut it! I've heard it all before, damn it," Hot Pie interrupts him sharply, and advances towards him with the spatula once again. This time, however, he merely prods Gendry in the chest with it. "She clearly likes you, or at least likes being around you, so the least you can do is do the girl a favor and keep her sane for the night. That's all she wants, right?"
"What?"
"She said she can't stand dances," Hot Pie clarifies. "She wants you to be there to keep her company. She's not asking you to marry her. Calm down."
Gendry doesn't even want to think about marrying Arya Stark. He doesn't want to picture her in a white dress, standing on an altar with pearls tied into her long dark hair. The very thought of Arya as anyone's bride disturbs him: the only white outfit he can feasibly see her in is her fencing garb.
"Besides, if you don't go with her, who knows who she'll end up with?" Hot Pie prompts. "Or, more to the point, given what I know of that girl, what stupid shenanigans she'll get into? For her sake, I think you ought to go and just keep an eye on her."
"Alright, for the Stranger's sake, I'll go!" Gendry caves, and Hot Pie nods, satisfied, and then raps him on the forehead once more with the spatula. This time it's only a light tap, and Gendry hardly even winces, just closes his eyes sedately and rubs his temples. "But you're going to have to loan me a tie," he stipulates.
"Whatever you need, mate," Hot Pie grins. "Now: cheese to table 3."
