TheInstantClassic - Is it obvious? We'll see... With regard to the Tarlys, everyone has their own opinion and it seems like this is a divisive issue. I chose to leave it sort of ambiguous and show Jon with some mild PTSD from getting murdered instead.
Timelord2162 - Ha! Glad to read reactions like this. I was smiling as I wrote the scene.
BioHazard82 - Thanks!
Faolan-kun - I considered having it be a more dramatic fight, but it did not really feel all that organic. I left it sort of open ended because they may face similar situations should they survive the war in the North.
KML - Thanks! Seems like that dragon scene was well received all around. Not sure what was happening with the review posting last week.
ginar369 - Arya's POV below! See what you think!
Dragongirl81008 - Thank you! That's some high praise. I'm surprised that you looked at the chapter count and decided to read it all. Honestly, I think Jon is a dead man in the series endgame. GRRM has such a hero-killing fetish and Jon is his Aragorn (literally, there's a post on Reddit about how Jon's backstory is just an adapted Aragorn). We'll see!
Longclaw 1-6 - Seems like everyone likes the twins idea, but I've already written the final chapter and like it a lot, so we'll see!
Delta808th - The dreams are intentionally ambiguous, but you may be on to something! With regard to Varys telling Daenerys about Robert, yes. My story picks up when they're sailing north so he's already had plenty of time to speak with the queen.
jessym1988 - Thank you!
Analise S - Thanks! More below.
Elise - Little Sam is one of Craster's sons. He used to give his sons to the White Walkers and the Night King would turn them. So he is related by blood to the walkers. Tyrion asked for the armor to be created, its less about riding into battle than it is being a bit more cautious in general. Jon wants to hold the dragons in reserve, but then again this is war. Things rarely go as planned.
...
Arya felt a cool wind stir about her. It came from the deep beneath the earth and carried the musty scents of sulfur and damp stone. Outside, the winter wind was wild. It whirled about the walls, spinning loose ice crystals into great ethereal columns that danced around the yard in the day's failing light. It howled like a wolf as it lashed against the castle's towers, seeking entrance like some starving beast. She loved to listen to it as she lay abed in those blissful moments before sleep. The northern wind reminded her that she was home.
Down in the crypts of Winterfell, the wind was gentler. It made the hundred lit candles around her family's tombs flicker, but never fail. It pulled at her hair and cloak with ghostly fingers. Maybe they're trying to say something, she thought to herself as she looked around at the grey stone faces of her family. Whatever wisdom they might want to pass on was trapped behind cold stone lips and lidless eyes.
I always thought there were ghosts down here. The low moans of the wind sounded like ghosts. The flickering firelight cast ghostlike shadows on the walls. Ghosts… Arya looked further down the vaulted hall to where her grandfather had been lain to rest, remembering how Jon had once covered himself in flour and jumped from behind the tomb to frighten his half-siblings. The thought made her smile.
Much of her family was here with her. Two dozen other Starks lined either flank of the long, vaulted hallway. This first level was the only one that was regularly lit with candles and torches, though Arya often ventured deeper into the bowels of the earth below Winterfell where darkness covered the faces of a hundred dead and forgotten Kings of Winter.
The wind moaned again and Arya closed her eyes, letting the air caress her face. The crypts were cool, not cold. The hot springs that ran beneath her family's lands and bubbled to the surface in the godswood helped keep the subterranean halls at a comfortable temperature.
The crypts were a special place, full of memory and dreams of lives long past. Arya liked to come down here early in the mornings, before much of the castle woke. It was a sanctum of her family and intended for her family alone. Stark guardsmen cleared the upper steps of snow and kept the torches lit, but otherwise it was understood that only the members of House Stark were permitted entry. She found the solitude to be pleasant.
Her father stood before her as stern faced in death as he had been in life. Still doesn't look like him, she thought as she examined the carving for the hundredth time. Not truly. She missed him dearly, just as she missed mother and Robb and Rickon and Bran. The real Bran, not the "Raven". The real Bran would have helped me with the Lannisters. He would have helped his family. She still felt angry at his refusals to be of assistance, but that was all settled for the time being. And now he says he can see again.
Sometimes, Arya wished she had the sight as he did. She could travel the world in an instant, flying across the seas to distant, fabled lands of golden Yi Ti or walk across the ruins of Old Valyria where dragons had ruled for thousands of years. She could see into the past as Bran claimed he could. Fantasies sprang unbidden into her head as she paced back in forth along the long and dimly lit hall. I could sail with Nymeria down the Rhoyne and across the Narrow Sea. I could watch them build the House of Black and White. She swallowed. I could see father again…
Arya longed for her family to be whole and happy once more; though, deep in the secret places of her heart she knew it could never be so. She loved Jon, Sansa, and Bran; but each had changed in numerous ways since they had been separated as children. She could no more revive the Winterfell of her childhood than she could bring Eddard Stark back to life.
Her eyes found her aunt Lyanna's statue in her enclave a little further down the way. Father's sister. Jon's mother. His true parentage did not make him any less her brother or make her family any smaller. In fact, it may yet make it larger. She hoped that she might find a new sister in Daenerys. They would be sisters through marriage soon enough, when she and Jon were wed. They would all make a new family.
She had meant what she said to Jon some days past. I don't want it to happen again. She would not let these new wars break apart her new family. Arya Stark had been a powerless little girl the day Joffrey had taken her father's was not powerless anymore. I'm not that little girl. I can protect them.
The torches flickered wildly as another gust of wind rushed forth from the darkness, whispering a nameless threat. This gust was colder than the one before and Arya felt herself shiver in concert with the candle flames as the chill wind cut through the layers she wore. She absentmindedly thumbed the hilt of her Valyrian steel dagger. The blade had killed one man who had tried to harm her family and it still might kill the dead men who marched on her home; but it would do no good against a menacing wind.
Time to go, she knew. Closing her eyes, she drew in one last breath, inhaling the scents of the crypts. She smelled the rust and wet stone, the candles, the faint hints of sulfur from the springs, and the scent of silent death one could only come to know from the cellars of the House of Black and White.
Turning on her heels, Arya walked away from her father's tomb and made for the steps. The pale white light of a northern morning greeted her as she cleared the top step and walked into the wide castle yard. Even at this early hour, Winterfell was alive with activity. Enticing scents of cooked meats and fresh-baked bread wafted from the kitchens, driving out the lingering taste of the crypts and making her stomach growl in hunger.
Squires, pages, and sentries scurried about like rats, their claws made of weapons and armor and the other bits of equipment that were bundled in their arms. Grooms readied warhorses for battle while the smaller stable boys prepared the sure-footed garrons for another northern march. They would leave in two days' time. Everything had to be ready.
I must be ready too. Jon had said that the queen's armies would comprise the bulk of their forces in the field, but he planned to take at least a thousand northmen to hold in reserve. Arya knew her place was in the field. She had never been in a true battle – one where everyone wore armor – but she was confident that she could hold her own. Besides, we need every Valyrian steel blade we have to fight against these walkers.
At least, that's what Jon always said in those meetings. The solar was where she had learned much of their enemy, though she had heard much else in the whispered words in the great hall and from the boastful talk from some of the younger soldiers. Some seemed almost eager for battle. That seemed odd. Arya knew the tales of the Long Night from Old Nan's bedside stories: demons made of ice; spiders as big as hounds; armies of dead men and a winter that lasted longer than she had been alive. Doesn't seem so bad yet, she thought as she looked up at the sky.
There were other stories now, from the men who had gone beyond the Wall. Jon had spoken of an army of one hundred thousand and a Night King. And his dragon… Maybe all that should have scared her, but it did not. Arya knew what real fear could do; she would not let it best her. Besides, we have two dragons and thousands of the queen's soldiers. They said Robb had bested the Lannisters with a third of their strength in the field. Arya was certain Jon would do the same with their new foe.
Part of her wanted to climb one of Winterfell's towers and watch the dragons fly over the Wolfswood as they so often did in the morning. Part of her wanted to break her fast in the hall. She considered making her way to the kitchens to pilfer a loaf of bread or to the hall to be served a meal as a proper lady might have done, but another wave of smells filled her nostrils with new scents and her mind with new ideas. Arya closed her eyes again and inhaled the smoky air that flowed across the yard from the smithy. It smelled of coal, iron, and fire. It smelled like her soot-covered clothing that needed to be handed to a washerwoman twice a week. It smelled like him.
Her throat became dry as she looked toward the smithy and thought of who she would find inside. It's just the smoke, she told herself. Yet she knew it was a lie. Looking at him and thinking of him brought on an odd sensation, like fire in her veins. Try as she did to master those emotions and impulses, they often got the better of her. For a woman with her training, it was frustrating to say the least.
Arya decided against the kitchens for the time being. She craved a different sort of satisfaction. The men walking across the yard yielded to give her space and she cut through the milling masses toward the smithy. Her deeds and reputation often had that effect. It would have been a lie to say that she did not enjoy it, but she did not feel entirely comfortable either.
A haze of grey smoke hung outside the low timber entryway and she held her breath until she was inside… then promptly let out a hacking cough. She heard him laugh immediately and watched as he peered out from around the bend. "You alright?" Not the 'good morning' I had planned, she mentally kicked herself. Now he'll think I cannot stand the forge.
"I'm fine," she insisted perhaps a bit to forcefully.
"Forge is no place for m'lady," Gendry said, playfully ignoring all the time she spent amidst the heat and smoke as he moved to a low table to sort his tools. Arya saw a grin flash across his face. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at his teasing. This was their strange game: 'm'ladys' and jests and teases that would have danced on the edge of outright insults for those with thinner skin. The fact that her smith's vein's ran with king's blood made it all even stranger.
"I said I'm fine," she said again, kicking a pebble at him. It missed its mark. She knew herself and knew she usually was not this aggressive with anyone; but her frustration and embarrassment and other feelings often expressed themselves that way. Gendry did not seem to mind. In fact, it made him laugh even more.
"As m'lady says," he set his tools down and turned to her. She felt herself swallow and tried to keep her eyes focused on his deep blue ones, but her discipline failed her here and now.
His hair was short-cropped and his beard traced a thin line across his well-defined jaw. She liked that. She liked all of him, really. She could see his muscled chest and corded arms underneath the dirty woolen tunic he wore whilst working. Sometimes, when the bellows blew fresh air into the glowing coals and the fires burned too hot for the cold winter air to have any cooling effect, her smith would remove that tunic and work without it, revealing his true Baratheon inheritance for all to see. None seemed to notice save her.
Gendry's strength and skill had allowed him to forge the queen's own armor fairly quickly. He swore that he would make a proper suite when this northern war was done; one emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen and inlaid with rubies like Prince Rhaegar's had been. Arya found it funny that he sought to recreate a breastplate that his own father had ruined with his legendary war hammer.
He had made one of those too, for his original weapon had been lost beyond the Wall when he had gone north with Jon and Sandor Clegane. By his own account, it was smaller than the first. This one was of a simple design, a thick wooden shaft with a black steel head. Gendry had inlaid piece of dragonglass into it as well.
Ignoring his previous comment, Arya walked over to where it lay leaning against wall and grasped the bottom of the handle. It's too heavy, she knew at once, though that did not stop her from trying to lift the weapon into the air. With a great huff of exertion, she raised the head as high as her own knee before letting the weapon fall with a dull thud onto the dirt floor.
"Careful with that!" he scolded her. Gendry stepped to where his war hammer now lay and retrieved the weapon from the dirt as though he were picking up Needle.
"Why? Not like you're going to be using it anytime soon," she giggled where she had only meant to laugh. Ugh. She felt so… girlish. Like Sansa. She hated her best efforts, Arya's laughter and tone seemed higher when she spent time near him. Indeed, many things changed when she was around the smithy and the smith… and she spent a lot of time here. Is it because I love him?
Arya still was not quite sure she knew what that word meant anymore. She loved her father and her family. She loved Sansa, though they often disagreed. She loved Jon most of all. And he said he loved Daenerys when I asked him.
Jon was a man, though. Arya needed to speak to a woman. She had tried to talk with Sansa, but her sister had shown little interest in romantic matters. I cannot blame her for that. For all her prowess in battle, Lady Brienne would not do for such a conversation. A sense of defeat crept into her head as she whittled down the list of friends and acquittances. Lady Lyanna was too young for matters of love. The two dozen common women that Arya helped train in the yard some mornings would be of little use either; she did not want her romantic interests being the talk of the kitchens or Winter Town.
"I might be," he said defiantly as he set the war hammer back in its place against the wall. "Or not. Who knows? Them dragons might roast all the dead before I get another swing in," he smiled at her as he shrugged and turned to being his work.
Dragons… of course. Daenerys would know what to do. Arya had sat by her and spoken of their travels in Essos. The queen knew what is was to struggle and fight and win. She knew how it felt to lose loved ones and find others to love. Arya resolved to speak with the queen of this matter.
Gendry gave a sharp, quick whistle and a wave of warmth hit her full in the face as some unseen apprentice began to work the bellows. The coals began to glow red, the same shade as the weirwood's leaves. As more air blew into the furnace, crimson turned to fiery orange and orange to a bright gold. She felt a bit too hot where she was just then and stepped back a few paces while Gendry seized a piece of raw iron and burrowed it under some coals and into the fire.
"What're you making?" she asked, cocking her head to one side as if to get a better view.
"Supper," he said, stifling any hint of humor. The huffing of the bellows filled the silence for a moment before she heard him laugh. "Just another sword, though I mean to make the edge with dragonglass instead of sharpening the steel. Might be useful if I lose that hammer."
"Could you put some dragonglass on this?" she drew Needle's length from her hip and offered the thin blade to him hilt first. He considered the blade.
"I could… but I won't," Gendry shook his head.
"Why not?" she asked.
His blue eyes met hers. She saw a flash of something. What? Concern? Fear? She was not sure. Even after mastering the Game of Faces, Arya found it hard to figure out what was going on behind those eyes. Why is this so hard?
"I went beyond the Wall. I saw one of them. Nearly died. I know you're good, but I'd rather not see you fighting dead men," he explained simply, "besides, you've got that dagger there." He nodded at her hip. That was true enough. The blade that Littlefinger had 'gifted' to Bran was the finest dagger she had ever seen. It was so light that sometimes she forgot it hung beside her. Part of her wanted to name the steel after some mighty warrior queen or famous knight; another part of her remembered the Hound's hatred for named blades.
"If I don't get to go fight these dead men, you don't either." It was a playful challenge; a jabbing jest like in all their other conversations. Only she meant it this time. She did not want him marching off in the field. She did not want to see him hurt. Or dead. She did not want Jon to go either. Into the snows of the North or against Cersei in the south. I meant what I said… I don't want it to happen again.
"Oh?" he guffawed, "is that m'lady's command?" She aimed an intentionally slow kick at his side, but he backed away in time to avoid the blow, catching her by the heel as she tried to draw away. She felt a flush creep up her neck as he held her there for a moment before releasing her. Part of her wished he had not broken contact.
"I can ask Jon to make it his command," she said. Gendry's eyes widened and he drew back in full. I didn't think he'd take that so seriously.
"Ask me what?" she heard Jon's voice call out from behind her. No… she sighed to herself. Arya loved her older brother, she truly did. But why now? She had been alone with Gendry, joking around and making him laugh.
"We were talking about the war," Gendry said dismissively.
Jon sighed and nodded. "That's why I've come just now," he said, continuing, "I'd like to have her Grace try the armor you've crafted." He inclined his head to where the steel breastplate and its accoutrements were set upon a wooden model.
"Can do that easy enough," Gendry nodded in affirmation. "You want to try it on first?" Jon chuckled softly and moved around where Arya sat. He had seen the new hammer too.
"You made another one?" Jon asked his friend as he reached for the handle and, with some effort, hefted the black steel weapon into the smoky air. Gendry made no move to stop him.
"Bit lighter than the first. That way I can carry it with me if I need to run," he laughed. Arya's eyes flitted between the two men as they spoke, but the lingered longer on the smith. For a second, she thought she had caught Jon's gaze and might have sworn she saw the shadow of a smile cross his face, but in that same instant he turned back to Gendry and spoke again.
"That's good. I want you with us when we march," Jon said. Arya drew in a sharp breath. Her heartbeat quickened. She did not want him to go, but if he had to go then she would go too.
"All right, then," Gendry smiled as he reached for his hammer. Yet as Jon passed it to him, Gendry's eyes met hers once again, just for a moment. Then he drew back and stood as tall as he could under the low timber crossbeams, posing like some stooped conqueror king with one leather boot upon a wooden stool.
"I'm going, too," Arya said. Protect each other, you told me, she thought as her grey eyes met his. Jon's mirth disappeared like the northern sun behind a cloudbank. She heard him draw in breath as if readying himself for some fight. "I have this," she drew the dagger, "and Needle," she drew her sword.
"No," he looked off into the yard then back at her, "I will not have you marching off into battle," he finished sternly but not unkindly. He still thinks I'm a child. Even after all I did!
"I can fight!" Probably better than you can, she wanted to add.
"I know that, but I told you no," Jon responded. "You're to stay here and guard our home. You'll need to keep Sansa safe, hmm?" he offered her a half-hearted smile. It had little effect now. That fluttering sensation she had felt earlier that morning had congealed into cold, hard anger in the pit of her stomach. This was not fair. This was not right. Yet what was she to do?
"Sansa has Brienne to protect her," she said back. And I beat her too. She looked to Gendry. Please… His eyes widened for an instant as they met hers. It almost seemed as if he were afraid as well… Then he looked back at Jon and shrugged. Her frustration boiled to the surface and she lashed out, kicking at the stool. Though she hit her mark, the strike failed to dislodge the leg or unbalance her smith.
Then Arya looked up and saw Daenerys standing behind the two men. Yes! She'll help me. She felt like the smithy's bellows had blown fresh air into her lungs, kindling a hopeful fire once more. "What do you think?" she called out to the queen.
"Your Grace!" Gendry saw her too and stood up taller as a show of respect, though he almost smacked his head against a low beam while doing so. Arya vindictively cheered for the log's attempt at justice. Daenerys only nodded in acknowledgement as eyes and postures turned to regard the queen. The older woman's eyes met the younger's. She wouldn't let Jon go into battle alone. She'll understand.
"I think you should listen to your lord brother, Arya," Daenerys said like a mother deferring to a father's authority. They think they're protecting me, she realized instantly. All of them. Her rage grew at hot as the forge and threatened to spill over. And they've all made up their minds. Arguing would not do her any good. Suddenly, she did not want to be in the forge any longer, even if Gendry was there. Without another word or glance, she stormed off.
The colder air outside the forge tempered her furor as it filled her lungs. The wind picked up around her, shrieking as it whipped about the battlements. Minutes passed as she paced away across the yard, yet the wind did not abate. It stung her cheeks and pushed at her back, driving her onward. To her left, men were drilling in small formations with their dragonglass weaponry. To her right, the entrance to the godswood stood tall and silent against the wind's assault.
A gust from the grove took her full in the face, forcing her to close her eyes as bits of snow, ice, and dirt peppered her face and clothing. The wind carried voices too: a child's gleeful shouts, Samwell's hushed and hurried words; and her younger brother's bloodless voice. Bran's in there, she knew at once. She still liked to spend time with him. Even if he was something different now, he was still family. Yet right now she just wanted to be alone.
She turned on her heels and headed to one of the keep's outer towers. It was a broken structure, not fit for living quarters or storing anything valuable. After that great storm some weeks past, the only thing it contained was old snow. Still, it had part of a roof and showed the best views of the camps and resting dragons beyond. Better yet, it offered a simple solitude that even the statue-filled crypts could not match.
Arya quickened her pace toward her destination. The tower was empty when she arrived. With a cat's agility, she scaled the winding, half-rotted stairs to the top. A window the size of a middling child looked out onto the camps, fields, and forest. She brushed some snow and accumulated filth aside with the toe of her boot and sat beside the window, hugging her legs to her chest as she looked outward onto the North.
How long she spent up there she could not rightly say. The days in the North were short and growing shorter still. The sun seemed altogether too eager to flee the North and abandon her family's lands and people to the cold darkness. Still, it had to have been a few hours at least. She had watched the Dothraki screamers ride about in great circles and the Unsullied march back and forth, solid squares of black upon a brown and white field.
Ravens went out at regular intervals at in almost every direction, save north. Riders went out too, some to the south and west along the kingsroad. One group did not go far at all, though they disappeared behind a low ridge and passed from sight. She wondered what they were doing.
Sometime later, a larger group of riders emerged from beyond the horizon. The low line of black snaked its way across the dull white landscape. Arya tried to count their number as they drew closer. Some two dozen, at least, she figured. As they circled round Winterfell and rode for the gate, she heard a horn sound in welcome. She made for the stairs to issue her own welcome as well.
The riders were already dismounting from their shaggy garrons as Arya emerged once more into the central yard. Her eyes scanned the crowd by the stables, but her ears detected her target first.
"You fucking kidding?" a hoarse and tired voice demanded of some unfortunate soul. She saw a stable boy trip backwards and land in a pile of muck. He scurried backward into a low snowbank as Sandor Clegane emerged from the stables and paced away. He paused as he caught her eye, though no smile appeared on his face as it did hers. She walked toward him. "You look pleased," he grunted.
"You don't," she shrugged in response, still smirking.
"A damn fortnight in this shit country and now I'm told I've got time for supper before we ride again?" he said. Three parties had ridden out from Winterfell some time ago. Jorah found people. Jon found tracks. What did he find?
"Sorry," she shrugged, "find anything?" she asked.
"Not a damn thing," he grunted. Then he reached behind him and drew a mighty great sword that had been lashed across his back. Arya recognized the darkened, rippled steel of her own dagger on the sword's length. "Heartsbane," he gave a harsh laugh, "Houndsbane, more like. Carried this damn sword with me across a hundred leagues. And for what?"
Samwell Tarly had given the Hound his family's ancestral sword for the ranging. It was a kind gesture, but a practical one as well. Few men in Winterfell were strong enough to wield it. And if they had come across White Walkers? Well… "You'll get to swing it at something soon," Arya said back to the man. For a moment, she thought about asking him to join her side, to speak with Jon on her behalf and demand that she be allowed to ride into battle, but the thought seemed foolish. That's not his way, she knew. That's not him.
"Aye, that I might," he sighed and drew a deep breath. They stood in silence for a moment while the rest of Clegane's party brushed off the frost and dirt from their weary travel and made for the hall where hot food and cold ale were being set out for them. Arya inhaled and thought she smelled chicken.
"Come along and have something to eat," she said. Her friend only nodded in acceptance and sheathed the great sword once more before following her, his great, pounding footsteps at odds with her own graceful strides. The men in the yard gave the pair an even wider berth than they gave Arya when she was alone.
Scents assaulted her as a sentry pushed open the door to the hall and the pair passed inside. Cooked meats, salted fish, and old bread fried in fat wafted across her path and she found a seat near enough the high table. The Hound took a spot across from her. Oiled torches and tallow candles lined the walls while fresh pine logs from the Wolfswood burned in the hearth. The great fire cast its light upon her friend's face yet covered his burned side in shadow.
Serving girls brought them food, but lingered just long enough to set the trays and cups down before scurrying away like frightened mice. Or kittens before a dog, she mused. Her senses from the yard had proven correct, for one young girl brought the Hound an entire herb basted chicken. He grunted in appreciation before tearing off a leg and greedily biting into the meat.
That Winterfell's larders could afford such extravagance seemed odd for a moment, until Arya remembered that this was her first true winter. Herds and livestock had to be culled in lean years, elsewise all the animals might starve for lack of feed. Any proper shepherd would rather see half his heard survive than all of it starve. No doubt the beef, pork, and chicken the soldiers and smallfolk had been enjoying would only last a few more days until it was back to the old salted cod and grains.
The bird's bones were cleaned in a matter of minutes, and Clegane's chin dripped with glistening, greasy juices as he shoved bits of bread into his mouth. Arya thought she saw the hint of a smile on his face before he matched mouth with tankard and downed the rest of his ale. She had contented herself with half a bird, though even that seemed a bit too much.
Noise filled the hall as the rest of the castle filtered through in waves. Lords and their retainers took seats around the lower tables while others simply retrieved a bowl of food or hunk of bread before scattering in search of seats. Arya saw Lord Tyrion seated at the high table along with the spymaster Varys, but felt no inclination to join either of the two. Instead, she stayed in her spot and laughed as ale-emboldened men joined the pair and entertained them with lively conversation of sexual, combative, and entirely fabricated conquests.
The walk to her chambers later that evening began as a dull affair. She had left the hall after some time spent among the soldiers and made her way to the part of the keep that housed the lord's family. She passed Sansa's closed door first, but a quick knock let her know her sister was elsewhere. A bit further on she passed Bran's door, which was also shut tight. Someone's in there though, she knew by the glimmering firelight that shone from the small gap between the door and stone floor.
Arya pressed her ear to the oak and heard two voices. Bran, obviously. And Jon… I wonder what they're talking about. When they were not busy preparing for war, she and Jon had spent a few evenings sitting by the fire or in the solar, laughing and telling stories. But Bran wouldn't do that. That was not who her younger brother was now.
She strained and struggled to hear their words, but could make out bits and pieces of the conversation. Bran's emotionless tone hummed muffled words for a minute or two before being cut off by an abrupt silence. Heavy footfalls echoed against the floor on the other side and Arya saw the flickering orange light blocked by two long shadows. She fled.
Finding safety behind a corner, she peered around as Jon opened the door and looked around for a moment. She saw him shrug before closing the door again and presumably resuming his conversation. She turned to continue her own trek as she heard the faint click of the latch. I wonder what they were talking about, she thought as she walked up the winding, narrow stairs of the connecting tower. Jon must have heard – no, she almost laughed at her own foolishness. Her younger brother had sensed her, maybe even seen her.
The landing just below hers was where Jon and Daenerys slept guarded by some ten Unsullied. She could never see their faces beneath their black helmets, but each soldier recognized her well enough to let her pass whenever she wanted. Arya saw soft, welcoming light spilling from the open entryway. She walked forward into the hall and the two guards closest to her made no move to stop her.
Arya had not once called on the queen or her older brother here in their own room. She never cared much for courtesy, but it did not seem proper and made her rather uncomfortable all the same. There were other things making her uncomfortable, too. She hoped Daenerys might speak with her about them.
The two Unsullied standing on either side of the door crossed their spears across the entryway as she approached. The door was open and she could the queen herself seated upon a straight-backed chair, with her left hand wrapping her fingers against an armrest carved in the shape of a direwolf and her right running through the white fur of Ghost. He looked to be enjoying the royal attention.
Daenerys looked up at the dull noise of wood against wood and her eyes met Arya's. She smiled softly and ordered her guards to do something in a language that Arya could not understand. "Enter," she called out. Arya stepped just beyond the threshold as the guards closed the door behind her. Silence settled in between them and Arya was not sure whether she was supposed to speak first.
"I never did truly thank you properly," Daenerys said calmly as she rose from her seat and left Ghost alone. The great wolf tilted his head in confusion as the abrupt interruption.
"For what?" She saw the queen's eyes drop to her hips for a moment and realized she still worse the dagger and Needle at her sides. Right.
"You saved my life. You and Ser Jaime," she explained. "That would earn any common man a lordship or saddlebag of gold."
"That's probably what Cersei offered those men to kill you," Arya retorted. Daenerys laughed.
"I suppose you're right. Still, you have my thanks," she gave a genuine, true smile as she walked to where Arya stood. She was only a bit taller than Arya herself. "If there is something you would ask of me, I'd do everything in my power to grant it."
Arya shrugged and motioned at the walls. "I have everything I want right here." Almost everything. She saw Daenerys' hand drop to her stomach as she nodded in understanding. Then, she turned and walked toward her chair again. As she sat, she motioned to the side of the bed. "Join me, will you? I fear your brother prefers his chambers sparsely furnished, so the bed will have to do." Arya walked across the room and bent to give Ghost a scratch behind his right ear before sinking into the furs of the queen's bed.
"There is one thing, actually…" she said.
"Oh?" Daenerys raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Even Ghost looked up in interest, his red eyes gleaming in the firelight.
"I want to fight. I'm as good as any of the others. Better, even," her words poured forth like wine from a cracked cask. "I don't see why I bothered training all the women for war if we're just going to sit at home."
"Your brother said no," Daenerys responded, though not unkindly.
"I don't care," Arya felt the beginnings of anger stirring in her gut. "You're the queen. Why don't you tell him to-"
"I know," she said calmly as she raised a hand. "I do, Arya. I know. I know how it feels to be questioned. To be overlooked. I know that angry feeling you get when you're denied." Arya huffed in frustration but let the queen continue to speak. "I know you want to protect those whom you hold dear."
"But Jon won't let me go," she argued.
"I was not speaking of Jon," Daenerys said. Arya's face grew hot and she crossed her arms over her chest. She swallowed before speaking again.
"Jon told you…?"
"He didn't have to. You've been spending quite a bit of time with him."
"Oh…" Was it really that obvious?
"You might be able to change your nose, cheeks, and hair, but your eyes will always tell the truth," Daenerys smiled softly as she spoke. Arya remembered her old teacher Syrio saying something similar many years ago. Her cheeks still felt hot, though she was not quite sure whether it was from what she felt for Gendry or her inability to conceal those feelings as well as she thought she could. "Has he said anything to you?" Daenerys asked. Arya shook her bowed head as she averted her gaze. "Have you said anything to him?"
"No," she said, biting her lip. She had spent so much time in that forge beside him while he worked. She had showed him the godswood and the walls of her family's castle. Yet she had never mustered the courage to show him how she felt. Why? The word oft repeated itself in her mind as she considered it all. Why was it that acting on her feelings was so easy when putting them into words was so hard?
Arya felt Daenerys' hand on her forearm and looked up to see the queen seated on the edge of her own seat. "It's odd, isn't it?" she asked.
"What is?" Arya responded, looking up at her and leaning in as well. They were huddled together now, faces just a few feet apart, speaking in hushed tones like two siblings plotting some jest against a third.
"When you feel that something for someone, but you're not quite sure if he feels the same." Daenerys' lip curved upward mischievously.
"You're beautiful though…" she whispered, "and you're a queen."
"That didn't seem to matter to your brother for months on end," she laughed. "I don't think things like that would matter for our smith, either." Arya nodded. He'll just call me m'lady again.
"No," Arya agreed, "but how did you and Jon… you know?"
"Well," she raised her gaze to the timber beams of the ceiling as she considered the question, "I suppose we each took a risk, in our own way." With a reassuring squeeze, Daenerys sat back in her seat, though she placed her elbows upon the twin carved direwolves so as to still lean forward some. "I know you'll find a way to do the same."
They both looked up at the door opened and Jon entered the room. Judging by the look on his face, he had not been expecting Arya to be within. "Arya?" he tilted his head like Ghost had done earlier as he surveyed the room.
"Your sister and I were speaking." Daenerys said.
"I see," he said as he paced over to the window. He seems distracted. I wonder what Bran told him. Surely, her younger brother had seen something new. Maybe I'll find out in the morning.
"Good night, then," Arya rose from the bed and gave Daenerys a thankful smile as she made to leave the room. The pair bade her farewell as she left their chambers and made for her own. She swiftly walked up to the next landing and found some servant had already lit a fire in her hearth and a candle by her bedside.
Arya disrobed and prepared for bed by kicking off her boots, removing her cloak, and otherwise undressing as she tossed a jerkin here and a sword belt there. Only Needle and her dagger were afforded places on honor beside her bed. Well, them and this, she thought as she placed the blades atop that special brown leather satchel she had brought with her from Braavos. Its contents were rarer than Valyrian steel. Finally, Arya slid under the furs and snuffed out the candle, listening to the wind howling outside the walls as she closed her eyes.
The next morning was somber, grey, and bitter cold. Arya forsook the crypts and kitchens in the hope that she might find Gendry in the smithy once more, but her smith had taken to completing some other work and left his forge as cold as the outside air. What if he already left? No. She was being foolish. Their armies would march on the morrow. He would be somewhere around the keep.
Yet she did not see him for the rest of the day. The keep, castle, and town were alive with the final preparations for the march. Provisions were readied and weapons sharpened. Everywhere she went there were older soldiers speaking in hushed voices or younger lads boasting of their prowess with sword and spear. Arya thought they sounded like idiots.
She walked around Winterfell for the better part of the day. She spent time alone in the godswood. She ate a light midday meal with Bran and Sansa in the great hall. She even wandered about the battlements with the hope that she might see him in the camps and town outside the walls. Her patience and spirit flagged as the white sky turned shades of deeper and deeper grey. When the grey turned to starless black, she returned to her quarters.
Sleep did not come to her at all that night. Not really. Sometimes her eyelids grew heavy or her muscles felt stiff, but she never could quite let it all slip away into nothingness for a few hours. She had too much on her mind.
Do I love him? She was not sure. Love seemed a grand word, reserved for the likes of Daenerys and Jon. She liked him. I know that, at least. And I care for him.
That scared her, too. For years, whenever she had drawn too close to someone, they had been stripped away from her. She listed them in her mind. Father, Mother and Robb, Bran and Rickon, Syrio and Yoren, and even Gendry once before. Some of them, like the Hound, had returned. Some had not. Still, things felt different with Gendry.
The morning came too soon. No sun rose above the eastern horizon, but grey light crept above the castle walls halfway through the morning. Arya dressed in her usual garb and made her way to the yard. The men were already assembling. Gendry held the reins of a large chestnut horse not more than twenty yards from where she stood. Arya walked over to him.
"So you're going," she said, her tone harsher than she meant it to be. Gendry's blue eyes narrowed.
"Aye," he said, "I've fought them before. I'm not about to sit by while others fight my battles." He avoided her gaze as he spoke. Gendry seemed almost hunched over, like some great weight pressed down on those broad, muscled shoulders.
"I want you to stay," she said. With me.
"I won't sit out this fight. That's not what my father would have done. That's not what I'm going to do," he argued. Your father was an idiot and so are you. She wanted to hit him; to punch him; to grab him and drag him back inside. Why was he being so stupid?
Horns from a dozen houses sounded around the yard and outside the walls. Mounted serjeants spurred their horses and men picked up their satchels and arms. The head of the column that had formed at the gate began to move forward slowly. Their march was beginning. Their war was beginning.
Gendry turned away toward his own mount and rustled the pack across its pack to make sure his great hammer was secure. He's leaving. Arya felt her jaw tighten in nervousness and frustration and as many other emotions as there were banners flapping above the army. The horns sounded again. More men were passing out the gate. They only had another moment.
She heard him let out a pent-up sigh and saw his breath create a cold white mist in the morning air. He turned back to her and parted his lips to speak… but he never got the chance. Arya grabbed him by the collar of his leather jerkin and pulled him close. Then she kissed him.
It was quick, clumsy, and awkward; more a pressing of their lips than some passionate moment from a bard's song. Arya held him even as she drew back. His eyes were wide with shock, though he did not look unhappy. In fact, as she let him go a blush crept up his face.
She had nothing else to say and did not know what else to do. She did not want to watch him leave, so she did not. Arya turned and walked away as the horns blasted and some southron knight called for the laggards to hurry, lest they miss their chance for glory. She made it all the way to the hall's entrance before turning and glimpsing Gendry riding out of the inner gate.
There's not much time, she thought as she slipped inside and ran to her chambers. Her regular clothes would not do for what she intended. They were too finely made and easily recognizable. She took a set of plane leather breeches, a woolen undershirt, and an undyed leather jerkin. Arya fastened a spare black woolen cape about her shoulders.
Needle and her dagger still lay on the bedside table. I'll need the dagger, she knew at once. And Needle… It did not matter. No one would recognize a single steel blade on a ten-thousand-man march. She fastened them to either hip. Finally, Arya reached for her Braavosi satchel. She already knew the one she wanted; one no other northmen would recognize. Confident in her plan, she reached in and pulled out the face.
...
Arya is always a difficult character to consider and write. She shuts down her emotions pretty early on in the books as a coping mechanism and has only started to recover from that in the show. On top of that, she's a teenage girl. I have never been nor will I, God willing, be a teenage girl. Nor do I have daughters of that age. Yet anyone who has lived through those horribly awkward years can remember his or her first crush andcoming into conflict with strange, new emotions. Arya might have abandoned some of her feelings alone the roadside, but she's encountering a host of new ones here.
I looked at some Sansa/Cersei and Sansa/Margaery scenes as a reference for the Daenerys/Arya conversation. Obviously there are marked differences, but the basic dynamic between older and wiser queen and young woman are there.
Looking forward, I have two shorter chapters planned before our characters meet their foe (ON AN OPEN FIELD!) for the first time. One is a new POV. Thankfully, my workload dies over the holiday and we're given two weeks of remote work/semi-vacation. Hoping to pen some good stuff then, but Work from home (and work on Home) is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be unproductive. It is possible to learn this power.