Author's Notes: Thank you for the wonderful Hardlyfatal for betaing this chapter! It is always an interesting journey to find out more about the intricacies of English language and especially British vs. American English…


Arya

There were days when Arya slept in her new lodgings until late in the morning, instead of getting up at dawn to eke out her living in the unforgiving alleys of Flea Bottom. It happened especially when there had been a feast of some kind in the city; one where people celebrated until late, got drunk and became more generous with their coin. And there were such feasts often; all Seven deities had their own feast days, and there were others for different trades; the bakers held their own, and so did the woodcarvers and beer brewers and many, many others. Arya had never known smallfolk had such thirst for festivities. Not that they were grand or ostentatious by any stretch of the imagination, usually consisting of a few stalls forking out drinks and food, a troupe of musicians playing jolly tunes, dances and speeches.

Yet they were good opportunities for a poor beggar girl to sit patiently in the fringes of the crowd, face lifted in a silent plea to merry makers. Often - maybe because of a brush of conscience, their drunken state, or the combination of both - some of the revellers dropped a copper or two into her hands. It was weary work and meant a late night, and hence the following day she usually reserved for rest.

The day the visitors came was one such day; Araya had slept well past sunrise and was just starting to stir when she heard a familiar voice from the smithy.

On those days she had to be extra quiet and careful. Although the smithy was noisy enough during the day with a clank of metal, hiss of fire and din of many voices of apprentices, master smiths and customers, the attic where she slept was right above all that. A careless creak of timber or inexplicable thump from above could have raised uncomfortable questions about their source.

It wasn't really a problem for Arya, though. She could be quiet as a mouse when needed, mostly resting until it was time to leave again, and then treading softly to the entrance to the roof she had made by removing two planks from the wall and covering the hole they made with a sack cloth.

Quiet as a shadow. Calm as still water.

The voice she would not have expected to hear in this place, however, raised her curiosity, and she crawled carefully to a spot near the chimney from where she could peek to the goings-on underneath.

At first, she saw only the usual buzz of the place; apprentices carrying coals and master smiths beating hot iron against the anvil. Then she saw Tobho Mott himself talking to someone whose back was turned towards her. A big man, round shoulders, bald head, nondescriptive clothes – not the usual silks and satins he wore in the Red Keep. Yet when the man momentary turned his head so she got a glimpse of his profile, she identified him just the same.

Varys.

Arya had seen him at court and had heard him talking with Lord Eddard, and hence had recognised his voice and accent that still carried traces of his years across the Narrow Sea.

Why would the Master of Whisperers visit the Street of Steel, why Tobho Mott's smithy of all places? It was not as if he was likely to acquire himself an armour or sword or anything else Mott could offer.

Arya cursed the noises that threatened to obscure the discussion of the two, but luckily the men seemed to think the same and moved further away from the clank – right under where Arya was lying flat, her ear against the wooden floor.

"…should be back here in a few hours. The ironmonger is only at the other side of the city and my apprentices don't dilly-dally when sent on an errand. Would you care to wait? I have more comfortable rooms at the back, and I could call for some wine, perhaps?"

"As much as I appreciate your kind offer, I have to decline – urgent matters call me elsewhere. Yet it is a shame that young Gendry is not here."

"It may not be my place to ask – but is he in some kind of trouble? Has he done a poor job or offended someone he shouldn't have?" Tobho Mott wringed his hands, clearly nervous about the prospect of losing the favour of a powerful figure in the royal court, even that of one who didn't need his services directly.

"You are quite right; it is not your place to ask. I have paid you handsomely enough for the boy for you not to worry about the details when it comes to him. I thought we had an understanding." Varys's tone sharpened but then he seemed to relent. "But if you really want to know, the boy has done no harm. I only would like to exchange a few words with him, nothing more." Varys bowed his head slightly to convey his harmless intentions – but Arya was not fooled. If Lord Varys himself had come to talk to Gendry, something was not right.

Immediately her thoughts flew to what she was pretty sure she knew about Gendry's origins. Could that be why?

"Shall I send him to Red Keep to see you when he returns? I can also send someone to fetch him right now – one of my younger apprentices could run there in no time."

"No, no need, although I appreciate the offer. I will come again tomorrow, just tell him to be here. Tell him also that he has absolutely nothing to worry about, in case he wonders. And don't mention my name, only say that his benefactor wants to talk with him." Varys turned to go, not waiting for an answer, and faster than Arya would have believed possible for such a fat man, disappeared.


Arya couldn't get the overheard discussion out of her head, and instead of leaving for her usual rounds, she stayed in the loft. Besides, she had done well the night before, her purse of coin under a loose brick of the chimney fatter than it had been previous morning. Her bed of hay was soft, her belly was still full of the evening's haul, and so she had the luxury of just lying there and thinking of what all of it could mean.

Why would Varys have paid money to Mott on Gendry's behalf? Gendry had mentioned that somebody had provided him with an apprenticeship. He didn't know who, but had assumed it might have been his highborn father who nonetheless otherwise wanted nothing to do with him.

Could it be true, could Varys have been doing it for King Robert himself? Arya worried her lip; what little she knew about the man, he didn't seem one to be sent on a minor errant like that, even by the king. No, it had to be one of his own schemes. Besides, he had not come to the smithy as himself – his disguise had not been foolproof, but enough to prevent a casual passer-by realising who he truly was.

If Gendry would see him the next day, what could it mean to him – good or bad? Arya knew her father had not fully trusted Varys, but had accepted that he had had to work with him nonetheless. Yet Varys was up to something, that much was clear, and whatever it was, Arya was not sure if she wanted her only friend to get involved with it.

But if she warned Gendry about him, she would have to tell him about her reasons, and who she really was. How would he take that? He had no love for highborns, that was abundantly clear, and should he find Arya was one…

Arya shuddered. What would she do if Gendry drove her away – where would she go? She was not so much worried about her livelihood or where to stay, but what stang the most was the thought of losing his friendship.

Yes, Gendry could be stubborn and infuriating, but he was also funny and loyal and he had a way to explain her things so that they made sense. He was patient with her and… Arya buried her face in her hands and squirmed when her thoughts took a new route - but she couldn't deny it; Gendry was also the most handsome boy she had ever seen. Sometimes when he was still finishing a job when Arya came down to cook over the coals, she stole glances in his direction and observed his strong arms, broad shoulders and thick neck, with a funny feeling growing inside her. She had never noticed such things before and wasn't sure why she did it now, but she liked what she saw.


Arya was so submerged in those thoughts that she noticed the arrival of soldiers only when they had already entered, their marching steps halted and deadly silence fallen on the smithy. Quickly, she jumped up, her stomach rolling. Were the soldiers after her, had she been discovered?

Risking a peek from her vantage point, she saw a group of gold cloaks, their leader talking to Tobho Mott. They were too far away for her to hear them clearly, but he did hear Gendry's name and saw Tobho pointing towards the direction of the ironmonger, undoubtedly explaining again where his apprentice had gone.

These men were not satisfied to leave the matter until the next day; soon enough the leader barked orders to his men, sending some to take positions at the back and front of the smithy, some to reside inside it, standing by the benches where customers usually waited for their orders to arrive.

Tobho Mott didn't like it, Arya could see it from his stiff posture and pursed lips, but if Varys had been someone he was not in a position to confront, gold cloaks of the City Watch were even more so.

Arya's mind raced. Why were these men after Gendry too? She knew them to be at the king's command – or had Varys changed his mind and somehow commanded soldiers to do what he hadn't been able to? What was the urgency? And if it was not Varys, who was behind this? Why Gendry?

The relief she felt after realising they were not after her soon changed into a gnawing worry. Whatever it was, someone or many someones were after Gendry – and it could not be good.

She counted hours quickly in her head. She knew where Gendry had gone and what he was supposed to do there; they had discussed it just before she had left for her prowling the night before. It should be no more than… one or two hours maximum before he was back. If soldiers were under orders to apprehend him as he arrived, waiting for his return would not be enough. She had to find him and warn him, whatever it took.

Arya shook her head. No, she had to do better.

They had to leave.

Disappear.

Now.


Arya acted quickly; what little belongings she had, including the purse of coin, she packed into an old canvas bag, then she sneaked into Gendry's little alcove at the back of the smithy. It was separated from the rest of the building room only by a heavy curtain, and she tiptoed around it her heart in her throat, afraid that she would be caught. Flustered, she looked around; what should she pack for Gendry? He had little possessions as well, but she picked his leather bag, some clothes, a notebook and pen Gendry used when he made designs of various armours and things he wanted to make someday, his good boots, comb and shaving knife – although both had had little use as far as she knew.

She stopped in front of Gendry's most prized possession; the helm in the shape of a bull. She had spent many evenings watching him polish it to a finer and finer sheen, removing invisible impurities from its surface, smoothing it in his hands…He loved that thing more than anything else, not the least because it was the result of his own hard work, made after the end of his working days over many long months.

But it was so BIG. Arya glanced at her bag; it would hardly fit in it, and then she would need another bag for everything else. And yet…how could she leave it behind when it meant so much for Gendry?

Making her mind up she pulled a thin blanket from Gendry's bed, tied its corners together, threw the helm into it and sneaked out, balancing her loads on her shoulders as she ran.


"Gendry! Gendry!"

Arya caught him only two blocks away from the smithy. Had she delayed any longer with her packing, he would have walked right into the waiting soldier's arms.

"Arya? What are you doing here?" His eyes narrowed and he looked behind her. "Is someone chasing you?"

"No, not me, you have to stop, don't go there!" Arya panted, having sprinted after that familiar mop of black hair she had spotted in the crowd.

"Don't go where?"

Gods, sometimes he can be so slow!

"To Tobho Motts. There are gold cloaks waiting for you, and if they get you, they will take you to the Red Keep. You can't go back!"

"What would they want from me?"

"I don't know! But whatever it is, it is no good. Besides, they are not the only ones – Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers, came by earlier and he was after you as well."

Gendry had stopped fully, staring at her incredulously.

"What do those people have to do with me? And…wait, what, how would you know anything about this Lord… Varus? Varys?"

"I tell you all about it later, but first we have to leave." Arya's patience was already worn thin and all she wanted was to run far away from danger.

She had figured their first stop already; a warehouse in the harbour that was used by a spice merchant, but only three days a week, the rest of the week standing empty, only a heavy whiff of exotic spices occupying it. They could sleep there one, even two nights while figuring out their next move.

"But I can't just leave! Master Mott would take my hide if I did."

"What he would or not do is no consequence now. Don't you see it, there are bigger things in motion. I promise, it will make more sense after I tell you what I know – and I don't know all, but some. But for now, you simply can't go back. Tobho Mott will understand." The last bit was a little white lie – Arya didn't know what kind of trouble Mott would get from either Varys of from the king if he lost the boy who seemed to attract so much interest – but neither did she care.


It took more cajoling and coercion than Arya would have liked, but eventually, Gendry followed her reluctantly to the harbour. He muttered to himself the whole time though, and Arya knew that there was no way she could avoid coming clean to him now, after this.

"You could have taken my hammer as well, you know. It belonged to me, not to the house - Master Mott gave it to me as a reward for a good job I did with the city guard lances," he mumbled while going through the contents of his bag.

"You can get more hammers later, but you can't get another head," Arya snapped. She was cutting remains of the pie she had stolen from the feat the previous evening, and its filling of meat and beans threatened to spill on her lap rather than on the bowl she had found in the warehouse.

"What is this talk about losing heads anyway? Why do you think anyone looking for me had bad intentions? And how do you know about this Lord Varys? Come now, time to spill it up!"

Gendry had that jut in his jaw that told Arya that he was not going to budge. He could be as stubborn as she when he got that way – luckily it was not often, though.

Gendry received the piece of pie from Arya and scooted to sit right in front of her on the floor, never letting his gaze waver.

"Out with it now."

Arya sighed.

"What I told you when we first met is very close to the truth, but not exactly the whole truth. You know, my father was not the retainer to the Hand of the King." She sucked her cheeks in. "He was the Hand of the King."

"What?!" Gendry's mouth fell open. Any other time the expression of total incredulity on his face would have made Arya laugh, but now laughing was the furthest thing in her mind.


Much later, after Arya had told Gendry everything, he stayed silent for a long time. All his focus seemed to be on the small knife he had started sharpening at some point – probably to give his hands something to do while his head was trying to process all the things he was hearing.

scrape - scrape - scrape

"Don't you have anything to say?" Arya finally asked.

Gendry ran his thumb along the blade's edge, his lips drawn into a tight line.

'So King Robert was my father, you say? And you are a noble lady, a highborn?"

"Yes, that is the essence of it. And now Lord Varys and somebody else high in court are after you, and we have to…"

"And when were you thinking of telling me all this, without being prompted by Varys and the gold cloaks?" His tone was unnaturally calm and low. He refused to look at Arya, and that alone gave her the chills. Gendry had never before been like this, so cold. Even in the beginning, when he had still been suspicious of her, never had Arya felt such frostiness in the room.

"Well, I would have, only…"

"When?"

Arya shrank. "I swear I would have, it was just not a right time…"

"When would have been a right time?"

"I don't know…" Arya was running out of excuses, and as much as it galled her to admit it, Gendry was within his rights to be angry at her. To conceal something of that magnitude, especially about his own birth… She had just sat there and listened to his disparaging comments about his father being some highborn loser who had tumbled with his mother and left. And she had said nothing.

"I was wrong, I know it now. I am sorry, I truly am. I didn't know what was right or wrong, and I was afraid for myself and for you, what would you do if you knew…" She was prattling now, with no rhyme or reason, but she was ready to say anything, promise anything, just to make that cold expression on Gendry's face to go away.

"Did you think – did you truly think - that I would have given you away if I knew who you were? Or did you think I would be angry at you for telling me about King Robert? Is that what you thought?"

Gendry stood up and for a moment Arya thought he was going to leave then and there – but he only moved to the other side of the warehouse and sat on a pile of empty sacks, as far away from Arya as possble.

Arya bit her lip.

"What now?" she asked. She had slid lower and lower on the bench she was sitting, shoulders slumped. Realising that, she straightened herself. She had done it alone once before, she could do it again if needed!

Nonetheless, despite her momentary defiance, she had to face the fact that if Gendry left her, it would be a devastating blow. She was not used to be alone, she was not built to be alone. And Gendry was… different. Different to any other person she had ever met. Different to any other boy.

Arya shook her head. She needed trustworthy company if she wanted to travel towards the North. That was all.

Or that was what she told herself.

Gendry stretched himself on the ground and pulled one of the sacks on top of him.

"I'll think about it."

That was the last thing he said that whole evening, and after a few entreaties to make him talk, Arya eventually gave up and settled on her spot. It was fully dark by then, the noises of the busy harbour abated, and there was nothing else to do but rest and gather strength. To think what next. And to wait.


The next morning Gendry was still moping, but when Arya offered him the leftovers of the pie, he accepted her offering and lowered himself next to her on the floor.

"What now?", she repeated her question from the previous night. Wary, should Gendry baulk at her.

"I guess now we have to leave the city and find our way to that Northern place of yours to freeze our asses off," game the grumpy reply, which nonetheless made Arya's face to split in a grin.

"I swear, you'll not regret it! My father will give you a place among his men, and Mikken will welcome you with open arms. He is always complaining about not having anyone to take up his craft when he is gone - he'll take you in for sure!"

Gendry only glanced at her, unfathomable expression hiding what he thought.

"I guess one master is not that different to another. I could forge arms for all the lords and their bannermen, your father your brothers – and eventully, your lord husband. " He took a bite of the heel of the bread. "Not bad for a lad from Flea Bottom."

It is not going to be like that, Arya almost said – but then her words withered and died before leaving her mouth. That was exactly how it would be.

Suddenly even the thought of leaving that godsforsaken city did not cheer her quite as much as she had thought. She went back to her bread and cheese and said nothing.