DISCLAIMER: do I really still need to do these? Not mine ;p

Ok, don't shoot- this was originally one chapter, but it was nearly forty pages long, so I've split it into two parts! I won't lie, this was stressful as hell to write, but I'm really excited as have been waiting for over a year to get to this point! I really hope you enjoy it! Over and Out xoxo

RECAP:

Arya and Gendry have a heart to heart and Arya begins to realise how dangerously close she is to falling for him completely. Later, she goes to the library and finds a book about blood magic. Some time after she and Gendry are chilling in the castle with the Brotherhood, drinking and stuff. When alone they talk about their plans for the immediate future and Arya reveals that she has been thinking about their future together. Gendry tells her that while he hopes she will choose to stay, she must do whatever will make her happy.

Shireen's hands were gentle and soft, as soft as Qu'arthean silk, as they gathered her hair up after setting down the silver backed brush that Arya had never once used in all of her time at Storms End. She hummed a little tune to herself as she worked, and when Arya closed her eyes she could almost imagine it to be her mother. Not that she had ever hummed while brushing Arya's hair. No, combing Arya's hair was always a fight, with her mother having to resort to wrestling her into a chair and holding her down as she pulled at the tangles in her birds-nest hair, despairing of ever turning her daughter into a lady. Arya remembered how in the end she had given up, and had Septa Mordane do it, who was decidedly less gentle. In the end even her father hadn't been enough to get her to behave, but Jon, dear, gentle Jon, had managed to get her to sit quietly enough. She smiled absently as she remembered how he would sneak into her room after her bath, and comb her hair so gently that she barely even felt him working out the knots. After that he was the only one she would let touch her hair.

No. Arya did not share that memory with their mother, but she remembered watching from the door as her mother brushed Sansa's flowing locks. She remembered how she used to dismiss the maid so that she could do it herself, the way her fingers would run through the locks over and over as she sung a lullaby. It had always made her jealous, and even more determined to be difficult.

She was jolted from her thoughts at Shireen's voice. "There. All done now," she said, tying it back with a blue ribbon, and smiling down at her work. Arya didn't have the heart to tell her that it would be a tangled mess again by the end of the day. "I don't know why you don't brush your hair more, Arya. It's so thick and beautiful when it's brushed."

Arya raised her hand and smoothed her braid with her hand, surprised that Shireen had managed to even tame the wispy locks at the front that she could never get to behave. "It takes too long," she shrugged.

"That's only because you don't do it often enough," Shireen chided. "If you did it every day it would only take ten minutes."

"Exactly," Arya chuckled. "Ten minutes too long. But thank you, Shireen."

Shireen smiled and moved around the table to take a seat. "You're welcome," she said kindly, peering into a pot of some steaming, scented drink that Arya knew she had never had before, yet recognised the smell. "Truth be known I enjoyed it. I never had a female companion before. Do you think it's ready yet?" She asked, sniffing the concoction.

Arya frowned dubiously. "What did you say it was again?" The liquid was a pinky orange sort of colour, with leaves and petals swimming on the top. She reached out to poke at them, dunking them in the water more, but Shireen slapped her hand away.

"Infusion of fennel, rose hip and lemon verbana," she said delicately. "It's from the Sothoryos. Would you like some?" She replaced the lid delicately, and poured the vibrant liquid into a decorated cup.

Arya wrinkled her nose, and nearly turned it down, but then shrugged. "Just a little," she conceded. Shireen poured, and she lifted the cup to her nose, sniffing suspiciously. The smell was sweet, yet bitter at the same time. She tilted the cup to her lips and sipped, hesitantly. Immediately the strange new drink coated her tongue. She raised a brow. It wasn't bad. She took another sip. Not bad at all.

"They say the storm will have arrived by night," Shireen said, sighing in contentment as she set her own cup back down. "At least, I heard the maids saying it. Is it true?"

Arya nodded. "I think so," she confirmed. "The sky is almost black and the air feels heavy. Even if the storm doesn't hit full tilt until later I think it will begin today." It was true; the local fishing villages had stopped taking out their nets and boats three days past for the violent waters, and the night winds had blown more than a fair share of trees down. Arya was relieved that they had prepared so hard for it, readying the villages and farmsteads; if the winds were this strong already she dreaded to think what they would be like when the storm reached it's full.

"And we're completely ready for it?" Shireen asked.

Arya nodded. "If we aren't by now then we never will be," she said with a huff. "Every single house, barn and mill have been reinforced, and all livestock has been brought in. Gendry rode out all the way to Sharp Point earlier this morning to be sure they were ready. I doubt he'll be back much afore nightfall."

"Is that safe?" Shireen asked, her voice heavy with concern. "Is it not dangerous for him to be out in such heavy winds- especially on the coast?"

Arya smiled as reassuringly as she could. "Don't worry about him, Shireen," she offered, unsure how to put the other girl at ease. If Sansa was here she would know what to say, she thought. She was hit with a sudden pang as she thought of her sister; she missed her more than she liked to think about. There was something about Sansa's presence that had... reassured her, in those few months at Winterfell after Jon had found her. Arya would have liked more than anything to see Sansa right then, to talk with her over lemon cakes about Gendry, and her worries about their future. "He's so big that even if the gods sent their strongest winds they wouldn't be able to lift him over the cliffs edge, and if they did he'd be as like to break the ground as the ground break him!"

Shireen frowned. "Will the winds truly be so bad?" She asked, paling. Arya sighed; this truly wasn't her forte.

"He'll be fine," she reiterated. "I imagine they'll ride in land so as not to be in danger of such a thing. Gendry's smart enough to know that." She took another sip of the drink, and stared into the pinky coloured water. "It would be an amazing sight though," she said absently.

Shireen looked up suspiciously. "What would?"

"The storm," Arya said. "To see it from the cliff- that would be a mighty fine thing. I should like to see it myself."

"But you won't, will you?" Shireen asked sharply, setting her cup down with a clink. "Arya?" Her eyes were narrowed.

Arya smiled slightly to herself. "Perhaps I will," she teased. "Perhaps I'll go right out to the cliff at night so that I can see the lightening. You know, they say that lightening is the God's swords, and the thunder is the sounds of their rage in battle?"

Shireen scowled. "Don't even think on it, Arya," she warned. "It's too dangerous. Everyone will be bolting their doors against the storm because it will not be safe to even be outside, let alone on the cliffs."

Arya rolled her eyes. "I'm only teasing you, Shireen," she said. "I know all too well how dangerous a bad storm can be."

Shireen blinked. "You had storms in the North?"

Arya smiled. "Not like this kind of storm, but snow storms could be so heavy you couldn't see five inches in front of your face, and afterwards we often found whole cottages buried beneath the snow. But it is not the North I speak of," she said, smiling wickedly.

"It isn't?" Shireen asked, and Arya saw she already had the girl hooked. Shireen was curious by nature, a quality Arya suspected was fed by her passion for reading histories and legends. "Where then?"

"On a ship," she answered, casting her mind back. "We were out at sea when a storm hit. I had to climb up the mast to secure the rigging, right when the sea was tossing us all about. We were set back a week, almost thought we were stranded before we caught sight of Lorath." She remembered the event well, the way the sea had turned black and churned and tossed the ship about like a toy. Then of course, there was that other time, in a different boat. Arya frowned, and distracted herself with another sip of her drink.

Shireen seemed to sense her change in mood and said nothing for a moment. "You must be dreadfully bored here," she said after a while. Arya raised a brow. "That is to say, after all of your travels, Storms End must seem terribly small to you now."

Arya hummed. That was an understatement. "It's true that I oft enough find myself at a loss," she admitted. "But I've never had so much time to train. It's a good way to vent my frustrations when feeling cooped up."

Shireen nodded. "I can understand that," she said, frowning. "But of course, for me it is the other way around. Being able to walk the castle as I please, ride the kingdom as I like, when I like- I have never known such freedom." Arya watched with intrigue as a shadow seemed to cross her companion's face, and she realised, with a start, that she was not the only person here with daemons. "Mother used to keep me locked up in my chambers at Dragonstone," she said suddenly. "I often went weeks without seeing the sun or feeling fresh wind on my face. Sometimes I went months without seeing her. Just the maid, and on permitted walks, Patchface and my cousin, Edric. Sometimes the maids would forget to change the candles, and I would spend hours in darkness. Some nights, even now, I wake up in a cold sweat, and feel like I'm being buried alive, and I must light every candle in the room before I can breathe easily again."

Arya sat and listened, stunned by the other girl's words. Shireen was often quiet in company, though with her closest companions she was bright and even a little bossy at times, though not in a bad way. It was strange to hear such dark words coming from behind her pink lips, and it reminded Arya that though Shireen may never have seen or felt the touch of death, not in the way that she had, she too had had more suffering than any child ought to experience.

"It got a little better after my uncle Robert died," she said, her voice steady. "My father had never approved of how my mother kept me, but once he believed the throne was his right he said that I was his heir and that the people needed to see me to know I existed at all. But I'll never forget what it was to live in darkness." She shivered at the end, as if the bright, sunny room had dropped a hundred degrees.

Arya chewed her lips uncertain what to say. Sansa was always far better at consoling others. "I have known darkness too," Arya said quietly. And she had. She had spent a year of her life with no eyes, going to sleep every night and waking in darkness. She could still remember the overwhelming joy she had felt at opening her eyes to see a candle for the first time.

Shireen looked up, so Arya licked her lips and continued. "When I was on that slave ship we were all chained up, at the bottom of the hull. I will not add to your nightmares with descriptions, but never have I seen such an appalling demonstration of the depths of human misery, such a violation of human rights. I do not think that even an eternity in the deepest hell could compete with one night on that ship."

Arya had never said that out loud. Not even when she was alone, with no one else to hear. Because Arya had no doubts that if there were any gods, then she would be punished for all of the things she had done; she didn't regret any of it, she had done what she needed to survive, but divine justice didn't seem to have a fair hand to her, and she would be cast straight to the seventh hell because of it. Maybe she would deserve it; or maybe that ship had been punishment. A taster of what awaited her. She kept her eyes cast on the table, not ready to look up and see the disgust and sadness that would doubtlessly colour her friend's expression, but when a soft hand grasped onto her wrist she did look up.

"We must be grateful," Shireen said gently, "that we no longer have to live like that. That we will never have to again."

Arya raised a brow. Grateful? That wasn't the word she would have chosen. Furious, maybe. "You mean that, given the chance, you would not have your mother suffer for what she put you through?"

Shireen sat back, mulling the question over in her mind as she sipped her drink delicately. She shook her head. "I would rather forgive her," she decided. Arya frowned. "By allowing her to sit in my mind in want of vengeance I would never be able to move on. I would still be in darkness."

Arya said nothing, thinking the words over. She could see what Shireen meant, but... it just didn't seem fair. That her mother never suffer for what she did. Arya found that she couldn't agree. Revenge was all that belonged to her, it was all that had kept her alive, all of those years. It had filled her up, kept her moving. Shireen could keep her gratitude. Vengeance was what drove Arya.

Shireen cleared her throat politely. "Let us speak of merrier subjects," she said with a smile. "What of you and my cousin?"

Arya blinked. "I don't understand."

Shireen tilted her head, like a curious kitten. "It just seems to me that the two of you are becoming awfully close," she said slowly. "I was just wondering what your plans were- after all, you've been betrothed for many a moon now. I believe my cousin and your brother agreed by letter some six moons ago." She placed her cup down with a soft tinkle. "I was just wondering if you have set a date for the wedding, yet?"

Arya's heart dropped into her stomach and she pushed back from the table roughly, Shireen's words startling her. Truly, she thought in the back of her mind, it was not an outrageous question- after all, had she not herself asked Gendry that, little over three days past? Perhaps not in the same words, but had she not asked him what was to happen next for them?

"I don't know," Arya said, fear blossoming in her chest as she tried to keep her voice calm. "At least... Gendry gave me a year, to make my decision. I have half a year before I need to choose."

Shireen blinked, taken aback by her friend's reaction to the perfectly innocent question. "Well, yes, but you are going to choose him, are you not?"

Arya chewed her lip. "I don't know," she said again, wanting to run out of the door. "I think... maybe?"

Shireen creased her brow, clearly at a loss. "But my dear, what else would you choose?" She asked. "To go back to Winterfell and wait for a preferable match?"

"No!" Arya said, almost yelling her protestations. She shook her head. "No," she said, more firmly this time. "Of course not."

Shireen appeared utterly bewildered. "Arya, I am confused," she admitted. "I was under the impression that you loved my cousin. Is that not the case?"

Arya could feel nervous sweat warming on the palms of her hands, though inside she felt like ice. Once, Bran had dared her to bite into a ball of snow, and, never one to back down, she had. A painful cold tingling had immediately attacked the nerves in her teeth, and spread up to her head and then down her spine, sending painful, icy sensations all the way to the tips of her toes, making her hair stand up on her skin. That was rather how she felt in that moment, as if she had been doused in icy water.

"Arya?" Shireen asked, reaching over to pat her hand. "Are you alright? You look unwell."

"I'm fine," Arya said, her ears ringing.

Shireen did not look convinced, but she let it go. "I apologise if my question unsettled you," she said, "but I understood it that you and my cousin were very much in love. After all, why would you come all this way if you didn't love him? Surely it is not your intention to leave us now?"

Arya shook her head. "No, it's not that," she said, her head still pounding. "I just... I hadn't truly thought about it like that, and I don't think Gendry does either." Surely he didn't? Surely he was not planning their wedding?

Shireen frowned. "I don't believe he is planning the wedding just yet, no, but I imagine he is expecting it to happen. After all, if it was not your intention to wed him then you would not be here, would you?" Her eyes paused on Arya's face, as if she was trying to understand the reason for her sudden discomfort. "But of course, why wouldn't you wed him?" She laughed softly. "He is a good man, a lord, he is more than pleasant to look at, and more than that he is devoted to you."

At those words, Arya stood up bruskly, wiping her sweaty palms on the front of her breeches. "I'm sorry, Shireen, but I do feel unwell after all. I believe I need some air."

She had already crossed the room before Shireen could speak. "Do you want me to come with you?"

She shook her head. "No, no- I'm fine. I just need some air."

And with that, she strode out of the room, closing the door behind her none too gently as bubble of panic spread across her abdomen. Was Shireen right? Did Gendry- and everyone else- expect her to stay? She shook her head, trying to take deep breaths to steady herself.

Air, she told herself firmly. Get some air and calm the fuck down.

As she marched through the corridors, ignoring the few maids carrying linen baskets, she tried desperately to calm herself, but her nerves were so frazzled that she felt like she did after escaping Harrenhal, with adrenaline pumping through her veins and making her shaky and dizzy.

Things were moving too quickly. Everything was happening so fast, too fast. Had it really been little over a year since she had been north of the Wall, not knowing her family was waiting for her? Alone, unattached, no expectations or plans for her future. Free. And now... now she was living in a Southron castle, betrothed to Gendry, and it was all too much! In the last half a year she had been reunited with her family, her home, she had been claimed by Gendry, she had travelled south with him; she had found out that the Crows-eye was still alive, and out for her blood, made an enemy of the Black Knight; she had met with the queen and reunited with Aegon, heard the prophesy of the Ghost of High Heart, and part of her past as a slave had been discovered. She had challenged Euron, and sent him a message, she had arrived at Storms End and- what?

So much had happened over the last year, yet none of that, of the white noise, even compared to how quickly Gendry had come to mean something to her. But what was that, exactly? This was a question that she had agonised over for months, ever since Jon had accosted her in the gardens at Kings Landing, and asked her what Gendry was to her. It felt like a life time ago, yet still Arya did not have an answer.

Yes you do, said the snide voice in her head. You know exactly what he is to you, but you're too frightened to admit it.

And as much as she wished she could deny it, it was true. She was afraid of what it meant. How much she had changed, how weak she had allowed herself to become! She, who had left the Hound to die without a backwards glance. She, who had trained to become one of the most feared assassins on the world, she who had sent many and more to their deaths without the smallest flinch. She, the Dark Heart, who had killed time and time again in the pits so that she may survive one more day, she who had travelled to the darkest corners of the earth, only to find that the darkness inside of her was far blacker than even the purest evils she had witnessed.

She, who had turned her heart to stone in order to survive.

Arya jumped as she found herself in one of the quiet, secluded gardens, not having paid attention to where her feet were taking her. Heavy, black clouds rumbled over head, angry and threatening looking, blocking out sunlight. It would begin soon, she was certain of it. It was fitting, she supposed, that a storm would rage outside as it did inside of her.

She paced like a caged beast, trying to soothe herself with empty, meaningless promises that just because Shireen had been mistaken it didn't mean anyone else was, but they were lies, and she knew it. Everyone expected her to stay, to choose Gendry. Jon did, and Sansa, and all of the others at Kings Landing. Davos had said it himself when they first arrived at Storms End. And Gendry... what did he think?

He had told her to do what made her happy, to do as her heart demanded... but how could she do that when her heart did not know what it wanted? Part of her wanted to stay, to be with him, to be content, happy, loved, while part of her was frightened by what that meant and wanted to run, to take a ship somewhere and run away and never look back.

Arya growled. She was damned, no matter what she did. If she stayed she would forever feel trapped, and if she left she would regret it every minute of every day. For a moment she wished that Jon had never found her at all, and that he was still fighting the Free Folk's battles, pretending not to be who she was.

But who was she? Was she Arya Stark, daughter of a great lord, or was she a nameless girl, who belonged to no one and nowhere? Was she the sister of kings or was she a Faceless Assassin? Was she the protector of her people, or was she a wolf among sheep? Was she the lover of a storm lord with blue eyes and strong, gentle hands, or was she a murderer with vengeance and hatred in her heart?

"If you keep going like that you will pace yourself into a ditch, and we shall have to find a ladder for you to climb out."

Arya snapped her head around sharply. Nymeria stood by the waterfall, her elegant brows arched in a fine curve above her eyes. "Or perhaps you could find a shovel and fill it in," she grumbled, collapsing on the little wooden bench.

Nymeria glided over and sat beside her. "Pitiful does not become you," she said haughtily.

Arya narrowed her eyes. "Pitiful?" She spat. She had never been pitiful one day in her life.

Nymeria met her angry gaze without blinking. "Yes," she said firmly. "Pitiful." Then she sighed. "I ran into your lover's cousin. She said you had felt unwell." She pursed her lips, regarding Arya. "I do not think you are unwell."

"Oh?"

"I do not- after all, no ill person paces hard enough to make holes in her boots," she teased. "No. I think you are a coward."

Arya snarled at her. "A coward?" She snapped. "I haven't stopped killing since I was eight years old. I could kill you right now."

Nymeria rolled her eyes. "You would kill an unarmed woman, pregnant with her babe? Yes, some brave hero you are."

Arya sighed heavily. "I apologise. That was uncalled for."

Nymeria smiled gently, and took her hand, squeezing lightly. "It is alright," she said, in her lilting Dornish accent. "You are not yourself. Perhaps you will tell me what is troubling you?"

Arya chewed her lip. She wouldn't understand. "It's nothing," she said. "I am simply in need of a break."

"A break?" Nymeria teased. "Were you not just having tea in Shireen's solar, like a proper lady?"

The words hit Arya in the gut unpleasantly hard. "I'm not a lady," she said vehemently.

"Ah, but you are," Nymeria said lightly. "You are Arya Stark, daughter of a great lord and sister of kings. Oh- indeed you are right. You are no lady."

"Thank you."

"-you are a princess."

Arya scowled. "Nym" She growled, wishing she was as easy to keep quiet as her namesake. "I do not need this right now. If you're going to keep pissing me off I suggest getting you and your fat belly out of here before I do something I'll regret!"

Nymeria rolled her eyes. "Threatening a pregnant woman twice in under a minute," she tutted. "Perhaps you are a coward after all."

Arya huffed, her frustration growing with each word that the other woman said. "I am not a coward," she muttered.

"I disagree," her companion said lightly. "You are so scared of yourself that you won't stop fighting who you are."

Arya scrubbed at her jaw with her hand and sighed heavily. "I don't want to talk about this," she said wearily.

"Alright,"Nymeria shrugged. And then under her breath, "coward."

Arya leaned her elbows against her knees and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes until she saw colours. Was everyone set against her this day? First she had been awoken even earlier than she usually chose to rise by Faye shrieking murder about a mouse, of all things, and then Jayce had seemed determined to irritate her during their morning sparring. Then she had found Gendry, accompanied by Anguy who did his very best to rile her, teasing her that her plans to stay home and have tea with Shireen showed how much of a lady she really was, even though Arya had only agreed to do so because she felt bad about not spending enough time with her friend, only for Shireen to then work her up more than any of the others combined! And now Nymeria seemed determined to do the same!

"So why are you here groaning and moaning instead of being out at some godforsaken farm with your handsome betrothed?" Nymeria asked, patting Arya's back consolingly.

"I'm not groaning or moaning," Arya mumbled. "And he's not that handsome." It was a lie, and both of them knew it.

Nymeria, however, simply laughed. "Oh, he is," she said. "In a dark, brooding sort of way. His eyes are enough to make any woman swoon-"

"I never have-"

"-and those muscles!" She sighed, and Arya didn't need to look up to know that Nymeria was pretending to lick her lips. "Well, if you do decide that you don't want him, I may have to have to help myself!"

"Please do," Arya muttered.

"Oh, you don't truly mean that," Nymeria said, hooking an arm under Arya and pulling her upright. Her long, smooth fingers found Arya's chin and tilted her face up to regard it. "Tell me, if you were to see another woman trying to snatch him up, what would you do?"

Arya snorted, and pushed her hand away. "I'd say good riddance," she huffed.

Nymeria quarked a neat brow at her. "Oh, well if you don't want him then perhaps I should stumble into his chambers tonight. It may have been a while since I have been able to be with a man, but I am confident in my abilities to ensnare him first time..." She made to stand up.

"Sit down!" Arya snapped, irritated at herself for her own reaction and the hot jealousy that bubbled dangerously hot in her belly, hot enough that she wanted to slap the woman just for suggesting it.

Nymeria sat back down smugly, a satisfied smirk crossing her face as she got the reaction she wanted to prove her point. "See? You do want him."

Arya scowled. "That doesn't mean anything," she said, though she was uncertain.

"Doesn't it?"

"It..." Arya stumbled over the words, and drew in a breath to clear her head, before flashing a glare at the older girl. "It doesn't mean I love him," she said sternly.

"Perhaps," Nymeria replied. "But it also doesn't mean you don't love him."

Arya opened her mouth to reply and then thought better of it, snapping her lips shut tightly in a scowl that made Nymeria laugh again.

"Oh dear," she said, still chuckling. "He really does have you all het up, doesn't he?"

"He's not the problem!" Arya snapped. "It's you, and Shireen- bloody talking about love, as if it matters," she added in a grumble. She placed her head back in her hands, ignoring the hot prickling feeling behind her eyes as her frustration grew.

She heard Nymeria sigh lowly, and place a soft hand on her back soothingly. "Alright. I apologise. I only wanted to cheer you up," she said, seriously, for the first time since she had opened her mouth. "So if Gendry is not the problem, what is the problem?"

Arya said nothing, trying to figure out how to phrase exactly what the problem was when she didn't rightly know what the problem was herself. She sighed. "I don't know," she said, for what felt like the thousand thousandth time. "Just- it's- everything!" She stood up suddenly. "It's everything, alright?"

She glared down at the other woman, who cocked her head slightly as she mulled over the outburst in her head. "Everything, huh?" She asked. "That's good."

Arya, who had started to pace back and forth again, was halted in her tracks. "Good?" she asked, dubious.

The Dornish girl nodded. "Yes- good. It gives us something to work with." She smiled and leaned back, bracing her hands against the bench behind her. "So what is the first thing that is the problem?"

Arya began pacing again, chewing on her thumbnail as she did so. "I don't know- know how to do it," she admitted.

Nymeria raised a brow so high it nearly disappeared off of her forehead. "I see," she said, clearly taken aback. "Did your mother not teach you of such things?"

Arya frowned. "My mother? What has she got to do with this?"

Nymeria sighed. "Well, mothers usually talk to their daughters about such things."

Arya was confused. "I haven't seen my mother since I was eight," she said, still not understanding.

Nymeria's face fell. "Oh. I see... well, when two people are in love, and they are ready to demonstrate that love-"

Arya clapped her hands over her ears, and winced. "Ugh- no- I didn't mean that!" She groaned. "I meant- ugh, you know what, never mind." She sat back down, her cheeks stained pink.

"Oh." Nymeria frowned. "What did you mean?"

Arya sighed, sobered again, and shook her head. "I don't know, it doesn't matter," she said. She turned her face to the side, intrigued. "Did your mother really teach you about...about that?"

Nymeria laughed. "Of course," she said. "She was a famous courtesan. Did yours not?"

Arya shook her head again. "No, I was too young last time I saw her."

"Oh. How did you learn then?" Her friend asked. "Who taught you?"

Arya bit her lip. "No one did," she shrugged. "But I learned pretty early on what goes down between a man and a woman." And she had. Her mother had never taught her about any of it, not about her moon blood, not about relations between men and women, not about becoming pregnant- none of it. But she had learnt. On the streets of Kings Landing, before her father's murder, she had seen plenty of brothels, and on the road Yoren had warned her about what would happen if men found out she was a girl. She hadn't understood, not until the Mountain captured them. Then she witnessed it for herself. But even then she hadn't really understood, not even when the Brotherhood had stopped at the Peach. She remembered how Gendry had protected her from the lecher, and frowned at the thought of that pretty wench, Bella.

"At least you know," Nymeria conceded, before poking Arya in the belly. "Or else you might end up like me!"

Arya frowned again. "Gendry and I aren't... like that," she explained.

Nymeria chuffed. "I would be, if I was betrothed to a man like that." She sighed wistfully, and patted her stomach. "But alas, I'm just a poor lady, knocked up and alone, with no husband to look after me."

Arya laughed. "And you're a whale, to boot," she teased.

Nymeria narrowed her eyes. "Don't laugh too early," she warned. "This could be you, soon enough."

The blood drained from Arya's face at the words, and she felt, for the second time that day, as though someone had just plunged her into an icy river, though her hands grew clammy with sweat as she gripped onto the edge of the bench, head spinning.

She stood up on shaky legs. "I think I'm going to go for a walk," she lied, hot and cold all over.

Nymeria saw her face, and tried to push herself up from the bench, hindered by her swollen belly. "Oh- Arya, I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," Arya said, backing away, spikes of panic rushing through her gut. "I'm fine. I just need to walk."

"Then let me come," Nymeria protested.

"No- it's fine," Arya repeated. "Stay. I want to be alone. I need to think." She turned on her heel and began to stride away, the back of her hand wiping at her eyes roughly to try and stop the hot prickling sensation that she had always hated so much.

"Arya, please come back," Nymeria called, unable to keep up with Arya's rapid pace. "I shouldn't have said that!"

Arya shook her head and left the garden, all of her nerves jumping and frying as she tried to think of anything- anything- but the picture that Nymeria had put in her head, a picture that filled her with fear and dread and, most alarmingly, desire. A picture of her, standing beside Gendry, with a swollen belly, as black haired, grey eyed children ran around their feet.

The image sent fear pumping through her veins, a fear far stronger than what she felt when confronted by an enemy, even when the Black Knight had been about to drown her. It was all happening too fast- half a year past and she hadn't even thought Gendry was alive, and now- now she was supposed to marry him, and that would mean exactly what Nymeria had been talking about, and really- how long could two fit, young people like themselves have relations like that before she winded up pregnant?

Ugh- even thinking the word made her feel sick. Nymeria pregnant, fine, Sansa, again, it was fine, but the very thought of herself, as Nymeria had said, in the same situation as her- it sent dread coursing through her body, as if drowning her from the inside out.

The next thing Arya knew she was running through the castle, away from the gardens and the secluded yards, through the open, airy corridors and out of the main keep into the town. She allowed her feet to go as they pleased, turning corners so fast that she almost fell over in her mad dash, trying to picture nothing but her legs going faster. She wished for a moment that her wolf was here, so that she jump on her back and run away, faster than a horse, faster than anyone who tried to catch her. But she wasn't here, and Arya was alone, trapped in this castle where everyone only looked at her as Gendry's betrothed, with their judgemental eyes full of expectations for her, sentencing her to the fate of every other lady that had lived only to wed and have children.

Arya pumped her arms and legs harder, willing herself to go faster, not knowing where she was going. She turned a corner and found herself entering a thoroughfare. She was reminded suddenly of another time, another place, when she had run, not to escape her future but to escape the Waif, her desperate dash through the streets of Braavos, where everyone watched and not one helped.

Maybe she wasn't worth helping. They had looked at her and seen someone sentenced to die, and after all, had she not been taught it herself, over and over again? Death comes to all. But it wasn't death she was fleeing. It was...life. No, her life, being trapped in this castle.

I'm not ready for that yet, she realised brutally. Even if she did love Gendry, she wasn't ready to be in love with him, and she certainly wasn't ready to marry him and sign her life away to be the Lady of Storms End. She didn't belong here.

You don't belong anywhere, said that snide voice in her head, and she ran faster and faster, as if she could escape it. You don't belong at Winterfell anymore. You aren't good enough to be the daughter of Eddard Stark, not after what you've done, and you definitely don't belong here. He's too good for you, and you have more important things to do, or do you care so little about your family that you've forgotten?

A snarl ripped its way up her throat and past her lips as she tried to banish the voice from her head. It isn't true, it isn't true, it isn't true! She told herself, but they were just more lies. She wasn't good enough to be the daughter of Eddard Stark, not after everything she had done. Her father would never have sunk to the depths she had to preserve his own life. And Jon- sweet, dear Jon, who brushed her hair gently and wiped away her tears- what would he think if he knew the things she had done? She was not the only Stark who had suffered, but she doubted that Jon would have ever even considered doing the things she had done. She wasn't good enough for Gendry- good, brave, strong Gendry- not when she had lied to him with every breath that left her lungs. Gendry loved Arya Stark, but she wasn't anymore, not really. She was no one, Dark Heart, a cold blooded killer- and the worst thing was, she didn't regret her choices. They were necessary for her survival. But at what cost?

She was a fool to have ever thought she could do this.

She pulled to a stop sharply, almost skidding and falling over, like a marionette who's strings were snapped back viciously. Her breath left her in sharp pants, and her heart pounded in her chest like a drum of war, threatening to burst through her skin and show the world just how black and rotten it really was.

She leaned against a wall, pressing her forehead against the stone between her arms, hands clasped over her head, as she focused on breathing, slowly, deeply, concentrating solely on the feeling of air rushing down her her throat and filling her lungs, before dispelling it in steady streams. She needed to calm down. Calm down, clear her head, and think. It was evident that she had been careless of late. She had forgotten everything that mattered in the warm embrace of the man she lo-

No. Stop it. You need to think.

But it was so hard to, with Gendry's face flashing through her mind. Arya allowed herself two minutes to still her vibrating nerves, pretending she was made of stone, rock as immovable as the bedrock of the castle, before she pushed away and looked around her. She had not paid any attention to where she was going while she ran, but she was too well trained to not know where she was. Even now, in the depths of panic, she still documented everything around her- she could retrace every step she had taken from the castle, the winding, knotted path she had flung herself down so carelessly laid out like a map in her head. Even here, in the low town, where the streets made little sense, twisting and turning like a puzzle, she knew.

She knew exactly where to find the tavern, too, and her eyes landed immediately on the wooden sign that hung above the dark entrance down a small flight of steps, worn letters with the paint all cracked and dry and weather beaten. The Sag, it read, though Arya supposed it had once read The Stag. It wasn't the most welcoming tavern she had seen. With dirty, cracked windows and barrels of green water by the door, it warned any would be entrants to think twice, but Arya was unafraid of tavern brawls and street fights. Her father had told her once that the best way to understand the thoughts of the people was to sit awhile in an establishment and listen to what they had to say, but Arya was not there to judge the feeling of the people of Storms End, but to sit and brood where no one would find her.

She could go to her chambers in the castle, but she didn't doubt that the first place anyone would look for her would be there, or she could just as easily hide out in one of the yards or gardens, but she would be found eventually. She wondered about taking Astrid out for a gallop and finding some old barn, but she was not fool enough to do so with a storm due any hour. So, with a grim face and one hand ready to grab her knife, Arya made her way down the steps.

The door was cut so low that if anyone any larger than Arya attempted it they would have to duck, and the steps were uneven and wonky, and she didn't doubt that many a drunk had stumbled on them. It smelled like stale alcohol with an undertone of old vomit, and only the weakest of light managed to filter through the few grimy windows. Arya worked her way across the room, dodging sticky, nailed together tables, ringed with an assortment of old barrels to act as seats, and found a secluded corner, away from the windows where she would not be seen by any passers by, with a view of the door and her back to the crumbling, dusty wall.

A maid stared at her from the counter, slack jawed and vacant, as she wiped a filthy tankard with an even filthier rag, that Arya suspected was doing more harm than good. She hesitated when Arya put up one finger, before slouching over.

"What will 'ee be havin'?" She asked, her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she squinted to see Arya's face under the deep cowl of her cloak.

"Ale," Arya said, tossing a coin onto the table. "And make sure it's fresh."

The maid snatched up the coin and waddled back to the counter. Arya watched carefully as she prepared the drink, leaning back with satisfaction to see she seemed to take the tankard from a group of clean ones, before tapping it from a barrel. She brought it over with a sour expression, and pushed it towards Arya so that the brown, frothy liquid nearly slopped out and onto the dubiously clean table. Arya sniffed it warily before taking a sip, and nodded with approval. The maid huffed and waddled back to her counter before disappearing through a door.

As she drank, Arya surveyed the room, her eyes sweeping over each person, object and space. A group of three men sat near the door; each wore a sword at his hip, though Arya could see from across the room that the steel was cheap and chipped. Another man sat two tables down, with a white ferret eating crumbs off of his shoulder. On the other side of the room four men howled with drunken laughter, slopping their drinks down their fronts as they chugged to some sort of drinking song that Arya was sure she had heard once in Braavos.

But it was not the armed men, or the drunken men, or even the ferret man, that drew Arya's attention. Instead, her eyes fell upon a great, hulking figure, slumped over a table in the corner of a booth opposite hers. Matted hair was plastered to his head, and a ragged cloak covered what appeared to be decent armour, though Arya could see little for the darkness. A tankard lay on it's side, handle still clutched in his hand, as he snored away in a pool of the spilt drink. Arya frowned. He could be any man, any drunk soldier passing through, but there was something about him that was so familiar.

Arya tried to ignore the tingling down her spine as he let out a great snort, a snort that sounded so familiar to her, yet she was unable to place it. She sipped at her drink, her eyes staring into the hulking mass. She frowned. It couldn't be.

She waved over the maid once more, who hurried over with a jug of ale. Arya placed her hand over her tankard to stop her. She nodded at the strange man. "What do you know of that man?" She asked.

The maid turned unsurreptitiously and stared at the man so openly that Arya half expected him to wake up. "'im?" She asked. "'E be that ugly knight. T' one thas all burnt to a crisp." She narrowed her eyes at Arya. "Be he a friend o' yorn? He do owe silver, if 'e be."

Arya shook her head grimly. "Not a friend," she said. "Fetch me a pail of water."

Eeee! Finally! I hope you liked this chapter! Oh, and good luck to anyone going back to school tomorrow (anybody else dreading it and excited for it at the same time? Cos... me too!) That's all from me, apologies for the half-chapter this month! Feel free to review or message with any questions!

Over and Out! xoxo