5
Not many things Arya had done in her life seemed comparable to going to a major league baseball game with her sister. It was straight-forward strange, for one thing, as usually she and her sister had little enough in common to get them into the same room together without one of them tearing the other's hair out. For another, her sister usually took an objective view on the game that Arya had never been too fond of; she much preferred voicing exactly how she felt about what was happening on the diamond, be it jeering at the opposition, cussing out umpires, or screaming at her favored team's players, whereas Sansa tended to sit quietly with her hands folded in her lap and comment distantly about whatever was happening. In Arya's opinion, such an act was kin to blasphemy, as if a baseball game was a piece of data her sister was analyzing instead of a masterpiece she herself was treasuring. Passion was the whole purpose behind baseball, after all.
That being said, Arya willingly stepped into the private box of the Dragonpit by her sister's side. It had been a last-minute invitation and she would never turn down an invitation to a baseball game—unless, of course, someone with the last name of Lannister was the one proffering—but even so their awkward if slightly meaningful departure from the family lunch a week earlier had left her yearning for some kind of relationship with her sister. She only had one, and while she had no qualms with befriending men and her brothers even she could only stand them for so long.
"Do you always use this when you come to these games?" she asked Sansa in disbelief as the box's door closed behind her. An empty and very plush room, equipped with a bar and a few flat screen TVs, panned out before them. The Stark luxury box in Winterfell was nice, but it was nothing compared to what she stood in now. She felt as though a pompous king was about to walk through the glass panels that kept them from their cushioned chairs overlooking the field of play.
"No," Sansa answered nonchalantly. "Usually only if Cersei comes to the games do I attend with her. Otherwise, I just use a regular ticket and drag one of my friends along with me. Jeyne hates baseball, but she'll be a good sport and come most times."
"If you sold this thing for one game you could buy a house," Arya remarked. "Freaking Lannisters. It makes me feel unclean just being here."
"It's actually Joffrey's father's box," Sansa answered quietly, and Arya immediately fell silent.
The news of Robert Baratheon's accident had spread throughout major league baseball within a few days, as his condition stabilized and then abruptly deteriorated. Poor health was being cited, and the doctors were no longer confident he would recover. Or survive. Arya was insufferable, but even she didn't like to speak ill of one so near death's door.
Sansa dropped her purse on one of the couches while Arya walked to the panels and looked out onto the field. A number of players from both teams were finishing their stretches down each foul line. The game would begin in only about twenty minutes, closer to gametime than Arya would have liked to arrive, but acceptable considering that Sansa was probably earlier than she had ever been in her life. She tried to spy Jon amongst the opposing team's players, but couldn't make him out on the far line.
The Night Watch were in town for a three-game series, the Monarchs' second of the new season, and Arya had leaped at the chance to see Jon play. It had been over a year since she'd last seen him, and she missed him. He understood her in a way Robb never did, knew what to say to make her feel better almost as well as Bran did, and could console her with an adapted grace Sansa had never been able to manage. Best of all, of all her siblings, even Robb, she thought that Jon was the only one who may have loved baseball more than her. Watching him on TV wasn't the same; she was overjoyed when Sansa offered her the chance to watch their brother play.
She turned back to her sister and glanced around the stuffy pillow they had walked into. "I'm actually glad our box at Winterfell isn't like this. I think if I tried to watch more than a few games from in here it would completely ruin the sport for me. It's like looking down at peasants from up here."
"It's not so bad," Sansa said non-confrontationally . "Would you like something to drink?"
"Got a beer in there?"
Sansa glared at her. "You're only nineteen, Arya."
"You didn't ask me about my age, you asked me what I wanted to drink..."
Arya could've almost laughed at the half-scowl, half-grimace her sister sent her way as the older woman crossed to the box's mini-fridge—something that did not belong anywhere near a ballpark—and then handed her a soda.
They strode through the glass panel divider and sat in the overly comfortable chairs, watching the players finish their warm-up and walk back to the dugout. Arya watched Sansa sweep her eyes over the field, noticing her distant gaze. Sansa had always been somewhat of the outlier of the Stark family, appreciating the fame more than the legacy, but Arya knew her sister's life revolved as much around baseball as the rest of theirs, if in a different category.
"How is school?" Sansa asked, breaking her from her reminiscence.
"Horrible," Arya replied. "Boring. Exhausting. I can't wait for finals to be over with so I can get out of this town."
"You didn't like your first year?"
Arya shrugged. "I liked it well enough, but I miss Winterfell, and school's really been piling up on me lately. It'll be good to get out of King's Landing for a while, get back to some regular baseball."
A silence fell over them. After a time, Sansa glanced over at her sister and held eye contact for a long time before speaking. "Why do you think our lives revolve so much around this game? Why do you think we Starks can't get away?"
"Do you have to ask that?" Arya replied, scoffing. "Our father and uncles went professional. Our brothers are professional. I sure as hell would be, too, if I'd been born a boy."
"Why would you ever want that? Men are so... infuriating. And idiotic." Sansa shook her head in obvious disgust, wringing her hands as though they were wet with something distasteful. "I would never want to be a man, even if it meant never having cramps. I suppose they're mighty fine to look at sometimes, though."
"Depends who you're looking at," Arya snapped. "Like, say, your ugly fiancé. I could go a few lifetimes happily if I never had to look at him." But, say... Gendry. I guess I don't mind looking at Gendry. He's not the ugliest creature known to mankind. And he certainly fits the description as infuriating and idiotic.
Sansa looked at her, but let the backhand about Joffrey slide without comment. Arya pounced on the indication that something was unwell instantly, but her sister responded before she had a chance to inquire. "Just because our family is professional, though, doesn't mean we should go crazy. I met another girl my year at the university, Margaery Tyrell, whose brother plays for Highgarden, and she hates baseball. Although, I have to say, she'd probably be a much better player than I."
"Maybe Tyrell blood isn't like Stark blood. I honestly think you'd have to kill one of us before we stopped loving it. Why do you ask, anyway?"
Sansa hesitated for a long moment. "I came here for the opening day game with Cersei and some of her friends. Robert... he was in the hospital. Cersei just doesn't seem to care, and I feel awful for him for that, even if I've never really liked Robert—his wife should still be there for him. But we came to the game and it was like I was the only one who was actually watching it. Cersei badmouthed the umpires a deal when Joffrey struck out, but that was pretty much the only time she took her eyes off of the other smiling ninnies that were here with us."
"And that surprised you, that you were the only one interested?"
Her sister shrugged. "I guess. The Lannisters are another baseball family, and Cersei is a Lannister and a Baratheon. She must not have the natural love that we have. I know I don't always show it or care about it, but I watch it just like the rest of you and I still can't get away from it."
"Your own fault," Arya replied. "Marrying a slimy fuck. Look, I'm sorry, but I'll never be able to socialize with him when the family gets together, Sansa, or even speak with him, or even look at him without getting a supreme urge to kill him. That's how it is. It's not going to change."
She braced herself for the inevitable and fruitless defense Sansa would put up for Joffrey, as he always did. The second pause stretched into a moment, and when Arya glanced over she found that her auburn-haired sister was purse-lipped and pale-faced, appearing much more uncomfortable than angry, something Arya had not expected.
They stood for the Westerosi national anthem as the players climbed out of their dugouts and removed their hats, and all throughout the singing Arya observed her sister, watching mixed expressions of discomfort cross her face instead of the usual defiance and frustration. The shift in the status quo of their discussion of Joffrey was so shocking that Arya was afraid her sister was sick. Or worse. When the anthem ended, and they sat down, Sansa's expressions didn't change, furthering incurring Arya's worry, and what was more, her sister kept her eyes far, far away where they couldn't reveal her emotions.
"Is everything okay, Sansa?" Arya questioned, leaning closer to her sister between their chairs. Sansa didn't seem to notice she'd asked a question. "Sansa. Westeros to Sansa!"
Her sister jumped, nearly losing the drink in her hand and looking around, startled. "Sorry. I didn't hear what you said."
Arya crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her sister, genuine concern settling in her chest. "What's up, Sansa?"
"Nothing," Sansa replied, in a way that almost convinced Arya. Almost. "I was thinking about the game, and then finals, and so on and so forth."
"Hmm. Yeah. Right. Bull shit. What's going on? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," she insisted, pointedly focusing her attention on the diamond as the Monarchs took the field for the start of the game. "I know I'm not as good at analyzing skill as you or Father, but this Osmund Kettleback they've got on the mound today seems to have been drudged up from nothing—"
"You can't even try and change the subject more obviously," Arya growled. "Sansa, tell me what the hell is wrong or I might just throw you out of this box. Come on, I want to help. Tell me what is bothering you."
Her sister did everything possible to avoid her gaze. "It's nothing."
"It's obviously not nothing," she scoffed. "Please, Sansa. I'm your sister."
Sansa sighed, and glanced down at her hands in her lap, looking absolutely miserable. Arya knew she had cracked, and waited patiently—far more patiently than she ever could normally—for Sansa to build herself up enough to speak. "The other night, not opening day but the second game, they beat the Oldtown Wizards, right? Except Joff struck out three times that night. He didn't come home until around two in the morning, and he was really drunk."
Arya saw where the story was going from a mile away, and her fists curled involuntarily. "He didn't... I swear, I'll kill that fucker."
Sansa glanced at her sister and shook her head. "It wasn't bad. Partially my fault. I just kept at him, trying to make him feel better when he told me to leave him alone. It was just a backhand, nothing more than that."
"He hit you!" Arya roared. A few people from surrounding boxes or stands below them actually turned to see what the commotion was, and she lowered her voice. "He fucking hit you, Sansa! That's domestic assault, he should be in jail for that!"
"He didn't mean to," Sansa insisted. "He was drunk, he wasn't him. I don't even think he remembered it in the morning."
"All the worse!" she cried. "Sansa... that's... you have to get out of there. This is exactly what I was afraid. And Dad, too, even though he's too good-natured and hopeful to ever say a damn thing."
"No. It was just one thing, it won't happen again. He passed out right afterwards and when he woke up he was fine. It was no big deal. He put the ball in play the next game and went out with some of the team. The Hound dumped him back yesterday around one and left."
Arya grunted and shook her head. "Listen to me. Any man who hits is not for you. If you think it was just a one-time thing, I'm telling you right now that you're wrong. This is who he is. I've seen it. Dad's seen it. Robb's seen it. Even Mom has, I think, she's just too stubborn and well-wishing to say a goddamn thing about it. You just wait 'til I tell her about this, though, she'll—"
"Don't!" Sansa exclaimed, whirling on her sister with wide eyes. "Don't, please, don't tell Mom. Anything but that."
"Now I know I should," Arya retorted.
"Please don't, Arya, please don't," Sansa pleaded, gripping the arms of her chair with white knuckles. "It's a tough time for Joffrey, that's all. He's slumping, his father's in the hospital and quite possibly going to die, and his mother's been pestering him about the wedding."
"He yells at you. He's hit you. That's two forms of abuse, Sansa, two! Do not sit there and tell me that's acceptable, because I'll kick your ass and then go and kill him if you do. You have to leave him, right now."
"I won't do that," Sansa said weakly.
"Why the fuck not? You have every reason to! I will make you!"
"No, Arya," she groaned. "I won't. I can't. I need him."
"He fucking hit you!"
"Once," Sansa said quietly. "He was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing. I was bothering him. He didn't mean to hurt me, and that's never happened before. It won't ever happen again. Most of the time he's sweet and caring and he can make me laugh."
Arya bristled, her fingernails digging into her palms. "That doesn't excuse the fact that he abuses you! Repeatedly, now. It doesn't matter that he makes you feel happy sometimes. He doesn't make you feel happy all of the time, and he is an abusive son of a bitch that deserves to get shot. It's not safe for you, Sansa."
"He does make me feel safe. And loved."
"Well, then, god damn it, you deserve more than that!" Why is she doing this? Why is she being so gods damned stubborn? "Sansa... I can't even tell you how angry I am. This is what I've seen coming every since you started dating that prick, and now that it's happened I can't believe you're not walking up right here and now."
"I love him, Arya," Sans replied. "I'm sorry, you just don't understand. You've never been with someone like I've been with him."
Arya turned back to the game, her mind throbbing with fury, angry enough to explode. She was surprised the find the Monarchs already jogging off of the field, the first inning halfway over without her having noticed even a single pitch. She imagined the second baseman tripping and breaking his neck on the way into the dugout, but the thought only made her feel marginally better.
"If I did have a relationship like that," she finally said to her sister, "I would certainly not have it with someone like that, damn it. If he ever hit me I would fucking hit him back. Hard."
"It doesn't work like that," Sansa said. "It's complicated. And I don't want to hurt him, either. Besides, if I did, Cersei would press charges on me."
"That bitch," Arya swore. She sighed, and rubbed at her face, before swearing vividly again. "Damn you, Sansa. Sometimes you make me want to hate you. I'm trying to help, you know. I don't want to see him hurt you."
"He won't," Sansa said unconvincingly. "I promise. If it makes you feel better, I swear I won't put up with it if he ever does again."
Arya had to struggle not to snort at her choice of words. 'Put up with it' had a very broad definition depending on the context, and she was skeptical that her sister would put one on it that she approved of should her sister be hit in this vulnerable place again. She sighed, glaring at the game, bitterly realizing she'd missed Jon's first at-bat and glaring at him hurling warm-up tosses from shortstop.
"I don't understand," she murmured, loud enough so her voice carried to the other chair. "I've never even met someone that I've wanted to be with for more than a few kisses or party make-out session. What about him that could make you stay with such a little piece of shit..."
"He's really not like that. He can say the nicest things, and when he's quiet he can just say words that make me feel like I'm the only girl in the world." Sansa stirred and glanced over at her. "Isn't that what every woman wants? A man to protect her and make her feel special?"
"I can't believe you just said that," Arya retorted, glaring at her sister. "That just... you just made women sound like some weak thing that always needs a man to survive and provide for her."
Sansa had the decency in her frustrated state to look sheepish. "I didn't mean it like that. I meant that every woman wants someone strong who they can lean against every now and again when the goings get tough. Don't you want someone like that, someone who will wrap you up and protect you and love you when you're at your most vulnerable?"
For a moment, Arya considered her most vulnerable moments. The first thing that came to mind, indeed the only thing, was the moment in the mall a few days past with Gendry, when he'd somehow persuaded her to open up about her family. Perhaps not in the context that Sansa meant it, Gendry had made her feel safe; she had trusted him, something not many people could honestly claim. Enough for her to open up to him, if only for a few moments.
Unbidden, her mind drifted to his arms, thick arms corded with lean muscle. She wondered if she would feel safe in them. The thought was so unlike her and unwelcome that she actually glanced at Sansa to make sure her sister had not sensed a change in air pressure or some other such indication of her mental insanity. The scariest part was where she realized that her sister was right: she was curious because, on some level, she wanted arms around her, and she wanted them to make her feel safe. And at that moment she couldn't shake the image of Gendry from her mind.
"No," she finally lied, hoping Sansa hadn't noticed her unusually long pause. "I don't."
"Well, then, maybe that really makes you special," Sansa replied, without taking her eyes off of the game. Arya knew she wasn't really watching it; only using it as a background to her thoughts. Puzzling over any hidden meanings Sansa might have meant with her comment and still fuming over her sister's stupidity, she settled back into her seat with crossed arms and they watched the game silently for a time.
In the third, the Monarchs rallied. Jon nearly turned a spectacular double play at second but threw a step too late at first, and on the very next pitch Sandor Clegane, the monstrous, scarred leadoff hitter for King's Landing crushed a bomb into the upper deck in left field. Sansa clapped with the crowd while Arya grumbled about the Night Watch pitching, and with their bickering about the two teams they began to return to their normal sibling functionality. Joffrey struck out on three pitches, which brightened Arya's mood considerably as he flung his helmet away in disgust.
"Quite the charmer," she commented dryly in Sansa's direction. "Too bad he can't hit the ball like he hit your—"
"Arya!" Sansa cried. Arya was glad that elicited a reaction; she was trying to provoke her sister into being angry enough to do something. "That's fucking enough about it, okay? It's my life, and my business, and I would never have told you if I'd known you would bitch about it this much."
She opened her mouth to retaliate—as she would have done any of the week and thrice on Sundays—and then thought better of it. For once in her life, she was tired of arguing with Sansa. "I just care, actually, okay? It's a good thing someone cares about you."
There was no reply to that, either, and once more they lapsed into silence. Jon was having a tough day at the plate; all of the Watch was. Kettleback was proving to be the real deal, annoyingly, sitting member after member of Jon's team down, surrendering only a pair of hits and shutting them out as the game progressed into the later innings. The Monarchs continued their quiet dominance, as well, tacking on a run or two every other inning until the deficit was laughable, putting Arya in a sour mood that complemented Sansa's solemn one perfectly.
"Father flew back down a few days ago," Sansa commented around the seventh, when they walked back into the luxury box to order some food.
"I know," Arya replied. Her father had called to ask if she wanted to be there when Gendry was signed, and she had declined without giving a reason. For what reason she had actually declined, she wasn't sure she could say; at the time, the mere thought of being in the same room with him had been nerve-wracking. It must have been that moment of weakness, she decided, when he'd cracked through her armor without either of them realizing. She wasn't used to being uncomfortable around people... it made her rather more uncomfortable.
"Do you know what he was in for?" Sansa asked, startling her from her thoughts. "He told me he'd be in town for a few hours if I absolutely needed anything but otherwise he wouldn't have time to see us."
"He was signing a prospect," Arya replied.
"Oh, really?" Sansa responded, nodding. "Exciting. Was it a big name?"
Not like you would know it if it was. And it certainly isn't. Just a very talented nobody, and he was my find. "No, it wasn't, but he's really excited about this one." So am I.
"You know something about him?"
She shook her head, nonchalantly making it look indistinct. She didn't want to have to go through the entire explanation of her involvement with her sister, especially when it was about something that didn't actually matter. "Only the word on the street."
They returned to their seats when the food came and made random small talk successfully. By the top of the ninth, when Jon managed to leg out a groundball, Arya was beginning to grow tired of her giggling sister, which was commendable if one considered how long she had lasted with only the single tirade against her sister's love life.
Joffrey managed not to fuck up the popup that ended the game, and she grunted unhappily as she and Sansa stood to depart the box. The Monarchs won, which was never a reason to celebrate, but Arya felt that it was good she and Sansa had gone to the game together. She also thought her sister's confession was good to get off her sister's chest, but was horrified Sansa was unwilling to do anything about it. She had half a mind to go to her father, and had even entertained the unthinkable prospect of informing her mother. In the end, however, as she and Sansa threaded their way down the levels of the Dragonpit towards the parking ramp, Arya admitted to herself that she was glad her sister considered her close enough to reveal what she had, and going behind her back, even for her own safety, threatened to break that tenuous link that had unknowingly developed.
As they emerged amid a crowd of giddy fans, Arya glanced back up at the stadium and thought of her brother. Making a decision, she tapped Sansa on the arm and said, "You go on ahead. I think I'm going to wait for Jon. I haven't seen him in so long."
"For Jon?" Sansa repeated, stopping with her and glancing uneasily up at the stadium. "The team won't be out for hours, Arya."
"I know. I'll wait, I don't mind. I really want to see him."
Sansa glanced around the crowd. "It's dark, Arya. It won't be safe down here at night."
"I can look after myself," Arya replied. "They won't be too long, they lost. There won't be much for them to say to the press or anybody. You just go on, I'll get a cab after I see him. Don't worry. I'll be fine."
Though she looked as though she still disapproved, Sansa sighed and nodded. She quickly stepped forward and hugged Arya in farewell. "Thanks for coming, Arya. I actually had a good time—more than I would with Cersei, anyway. Just... please don't..."
"They're sealed," Arya replied grimly, tapping her lips and shooting her own look of disapproval. Sansa merely nodded, murmured a goodbye, and then disappeared into the crowds.
Arya stared after her for a few moments, frustrated at the predicament, and then shook her head to herself before beginning to weave her way back through the crowds. Growing up as the major league owner's daughter had given her an acute instinct of ways around ballparks, and she found her way to the team exits relatively quickly as the fans dispersed into the night. The game had been lopsided and quick, and there was still a faint bit of sunlight slipping over the distant horizon. She propped herself on a park bench and began flipping through her phone absently as the night wore on, waiting for the Night Watch to emerge from the battleground after their defeat.
She was glad that they were the first to emerge. Despite what Sansa had said, Arya was only occupying herself with mindless apps for an hour before the players began to file out, grumbling to themselves and strolling lazily towards the bus that pulled up in wait. She stood up from her bench, but none of the players seemed to notice her. She recognized several of them—Grenn, Pyp, Tarly—but they saddled past her without comment until finally a lean, dark figure emerged in street clothes with a duffel hoisted over his shoulders.
His eyes found hers almost instantly and he broke into a lopsided grin despite the obvious gloom of the situation. The darkness of her own eyes was reflected in his, and she felt her face open up to a beam as he broke stride with the rest of his team and began to strut towards her purposefully.
Arya broke into a run, and pelted into Jon Snow's arms as he dropped his duffel. His laugh filled her ears as she clung to him, laughing as well. Spinning around in their embrace, he finally set her back down on her feet, both of them grinning foolishly.
"Hey, you," he said, ruffling her hair, which would have annoyed her if she was not so happy to see him. "What are you doing here? You should have let me know you were coming."
"I wanted it to be a surprise," she answered. She had missed him; even about things that she would never think about asking Sansa about, she could go to Jon. He was the only one of her siblings who didn't grow frustrated with her constant spiel of baseball knowledge. "Sansa and I came to the game."
He grunted. "Yeah. Sorry about that. We kind of didn't show up today, did we? I was gonna call you and tell you I was in town, but I figured you would already know and we don't really have any downtime. We got in early this morning from Castle Black and we fly out only a few hours after game three for the Dreadfort. I didn't figure I'd have a chance to see you."
"You want to go grab a drink or something?"
He eyed her pointedly. "And how old are you again? Sixteen?"
"Shut up," she snapped. "Fine, I'll have a soda. How about it?"
Jon winced and checked his watch, his curly black hair framing his shadowy face. "I don't know. It's kind of late."
"You've got another night game tomorrow," she complained, clutching his arm and trying to drag him away persuasively. "Come on, we won't stay out late, I just want to spend time with you. If you ever came down to Winterfell once in a while it wouldn't be a problem."
"You know why I can't do that." Jon's face became grave, and he looked away for a few moments. Arya knew what he was thinking of, and she was afraid she'd already spoiled her time with her brother when he glanced back with a small smile. "Besides, you're always down here in the offseason, and it's impossible to fly a plane from the Wall in the winter. Expensive as hell, too."
She looked up and him and put on the biggest pouting wolf face she could. He was the only one in the family who gave into it, ever, and she knew that he would give into it now. "Please, Jon?"
He sighed, and she knew she had already won. He dropped his duffel on the ground to signify his succumbing and then stalked back to the bus. As the team members looked between her and Jon uncertainly, no doubt thinking her a romantic interest of some sort, she watched Jon catch the Watch manager Jeor Mormont lightly by the arm and say something quietly. The old bear of man, balding and irony, glared sharply at her and then growled something to Jon. They exchanged a few more words before the manager shook his head grumbling and climbed onto the bus. Jon turned and walked back to her as the bus doors closed and the vehicle began rolling on its way to the team's hotel.
"Was he mad?" Arya asked as Jon picked his duffel back up from the ground. If she were not herself, she would have felt guilty. As it was, she was only excited she was getting to spend some time with him.
"Eh," Jon answered sketchily. "He's always gruff about something. Gave me permission, if not his blessing. We're on good terms, I don't really think he minded."
"Good," she replied. While she wouldn't have felt guilty if he had, she didn't desire her brother to incur his manager's wrath on her account. Beaming, they strode side-by-side to the street and she hailed a taxi, immediately telling the driver to take them to the nearest sports bar.
When they arrived, Jon bought them two sodas and they retreated to a dim booth in the corner where hopefully he wouldn't attract any attention. The bar was sparsely occupied on a week night, anyway, many of its thankfully quiet patrons seeming to be nursing their fourth drinks and being quite subdued about it. Arya was happy for the fact; with her returning to Winterfell, where extraneous factors not currently present would pressure against it, it would be even more difficult to grab a moment of quality time with Jon.
"How's school?" he asked as they slid into the booth.
She rolled her eyes. It was always the first question she was asked, be it by Sansa or Ned or her brothers. "School's awful. I can't wait for it to be done. I miss Winterfell, and Bran and Rickon. And Mom, too."
He chuckled at her grimace, sipping at his soda. "I'm sure school's not all that awful."
"How would you know? You never went to college. Robb, neither. You two got lucky getting drafted out of high school in high rounds. It's just me and Sansa that have to go through this, and she's perfect for inner-city school life. I can't stand it... being cooped up in town all winter, where it's still loud and the snowfall melts away almost instantly."
"For your information," Jon replied, "I find that I have some regrets about not accepting a scholarship offer from someone and playing a few years of college ball before going pro, and I'm sure Robb does, as well. That's an experience we'll never get back, and I think you should do your best to enjoy it while you have it." He gulped down a swallow and then seemed to reconsider, frowning. "How're the boys around King's Landing treating you, though?"
Arya couldn't help but grin at her brother. "They're as uninterested as in Winterfell, don't worry."
"Bah, I'm not worried," he insisted. "Mildly surprised, actually. I would have expected they would have rather a lot to do with a Stark, especially you. Can't say I'm upset they're minding their place, though."
She knew he hadn't meant it insultingly, but she still stared into her glass silently for a moment, pushing down the feeling of discomfort that arose at his words. Not that she was particularly interested in a relationship... just that the hooking-up vibe hadn't translated over from high school and between baseball and school work she was too busy for a distraction anyway. Nevertheless, Jon's words reminded her of the truth she herself had spoken a moment before, that no one had really shown an interest in her, either; at least, not after they'd learned how incredibly stubborn and feisty she really was.
He seemed to notice her engrossment with the drink, and stared at her from under his eyelashes. "Is there... someone who interests you? Or is that look mean there's someone in secret?"
"It doesn't mean either," she muttered, downing a swig. "It means no one's interested, which suits me fine."
"Hmm," Jon hummed, watching her warily. "Okay." They were silent for a few moments before he added, "I heard from Dad he was in King's Landing a few days ago."
"Yeah, I saw him," she answered. "He, Sansa, and I had lunch when he was here." She bit her lip, on the verge of telling Jon about Gendry, before deciding she should keep that information to herself; if the mechanic-turned-pitcher flopped, she didn't want to feel too embarrassed about it. She covered her hesitation by asking, "Did you hear about Robert Baratheon?"
"Yes. Last I heard, he was dancing with death, and they weren't any closer to solving the mystery of his accident. You'd think traffic cameras would've caught a plate on the hit car or something, and it just driving off afterwards, hardly slowing... It's too bad. Him and Dad have always seemed to be close. When I met Robert, Dad was really uneasy, looking between me and him oddly, but Robert can make Dad laugh, like nobody else I've ever seen. It'll be a sad day for the Starks if Robert dies."
Arya nodded. "What do you think it will do to the Monarchs, if their owner passes?"
"I don't know." His brow darkened, once more, as if night itself were entering his expression. He thumbed his soda coldly. "Nothing good for the rest of the league, I'm sure." He glanced up at her, and the corner of his mouth twitched as a teasing glint entered his eye. "Speaking of that, though, Dad also told me you had an interesting surprise for him when he was down here."
She sat straight up, aware of the blood rushing into her cheeks. "What?"
"Said you had a street pitcher who could almost throw a hundred down here for him, and that you insisted he sign him to a contract. Of major league dollars, too."
Arya was only half-surprised that Ned Stark would have willingly told Jon about Gendry; Ned was close to all of his children, but he had a special connection with his two eldest sons, and hid little from them, even though Jon played for an opposing team; not as if telling him about Gendry would be letting a great cat out of the bag anyway. Mostly, she was startled that her father had so readily revealed her role in the signing.
"I didn't insist," she clarified quickly. "I suggested. Gendry's got good stuff, it'd be a shame to pass on him."
"Gendry?" Jon said, raising his eyebrows. "That sounds like a first name."
"It is his first name."
One of eyebrows went down. "Already on a first name basis with the prospect. You known him for a long time?"
She caught his drift, and rolled her eyes. "Simmer down, Snow." He flinched with the use of his non-Stark surname, and though it was a low blow Arya hoped it had sufficiently distracted him. "I only knew him for about a week before I got Dad to sign him. I just saw him play, and then got Dad to look at what he could throw, and when Luwin saw it he agreed to give him a contract."
"Must've been pretty good for that dollar amount," Jon said blankly, finishing his soda and placing it back on the table.
"He is good," Arya blurted, happy to finally have the conversation on something that didn't make her feel awkward. "Robb caught him at the Dragonpit the other day, and seemed really impressed, and you know how Luwin is—all stoic and necessary and all that—but even he barely took two glances before agreeing. He's got a slider that's nearly as nasty as Dad's was, back in the day, and faster, too. If you can't see his arm drop at the last, it's practically unhittable."
"Careful," Jon murmured with a smile. "Don't tell me all of his secrets, or I'll end up ruining his career in one outing."
"Dad set Dondarrion in Blackhaven to mix him into the bullpen rotation," Arya continued, "but there's no telling how he'll react to the professional stage. With two pitches, he may only be a specialist or a set-up man, but if he can throw ninety-nine consistently like he's already shown he might be able to develop into a closer."
"You seem invested."
She blinked. "Sorry. I want him to do well."
"Why is that?"
She shrugged. "Why wouldn't I? He plays for the Direwolves franchise, he's got great stuff, and I was the one who discovered him. That's really why I want him to. If he does well, I can claim him as my own find, which he actually was. If I can get my degree and put that on a résumé, I can lobby with that to get a good position in an organization. It doesn't need to be glamorous, just a reasonable spot on a scouting team, and I'll work my way up from there. So yeah, I want him to succeed so I will look good in having found him."
"Well, for that," Jon replied, grinning at her and raising his empty glass, "since he and the Direwolves are in the National League and I and my Watch are in the Westerosi League, I will happily wish him the best. At least until World Series time. Until then, however, I will continue to root for Gendry. What's his full name, anyway?"
"Waters," Arya answered, and was immediately sent back to the day in the mall, when they'd been weaving their way through the crowd and he'd divulged that secret, about his last name, in his own moment of weakness. She had enjoyed that—his blue eyes had turned even bluer, the deepest, prettiest shade she'd ever seen before, as he'd murmured his explanation reverently, frowning stubbornly as he realized what he'd done. It made up slightly for his ability to get under her skin and the fact that he'd wormed his way through her defenses, as well, that she'd also been able to sneak through and steal a secret of her own. "Gendry Waters."
She stirred and glanced back at Jon, who was now watching her with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. His empty, raised glass was half-hearted, as was his voice. "To the success of Gendry Waters, then."
Her glass was as empty as his when she set it back down on the table, and he was glancing at the clock. He turned back to her, looking as if he were considering walking into the lion's den. "How's Bran been?"
She understood his discomfort. She herself had to swallow and clear her throat before she could answer. "I haven't seen him since Christmas, but the computer screen skypes him through as happy. You know he's been really brave about it, and everything. He might be the family member who's shed the fewest tears over it, actually, except maybe Dad, and Dad's made of ice that way."
"It was my fault," Jon began, starting the familiar discussion—and argument—she was constantly forced to fight him with. "If I just hadn't've been talking with him when—"
"Shut up," she snapped. "No, just shut up, Jon! It wasn't your fucking fault, no one could have known."
"That's a basic rule," Jon muttered. "Never turn away when the pitch is going in. I should have made him pay attention."
"I'm not talking about this anymore," Arya growled, crossing her arms over her chest and slumping. The warm feeling her prospect finding had instilled and the joy at seeing her brother were evaporating with the mood swing of the conversation, and she would have nothing to do with its further deterioration; she wouldn't get another chance to see him at least until the season was over. The Watch didn't play interleague with Winterfell that year; this was her only time with Jon until the offseason came again.
"Sorry," he said quietly. Guiltily. Staring at his hands. "I didn't mean to kill the mood."
"It's all right," she replied, thinking they could do with something a shade stronger than their soda. But she was underage, and he was in-season, and she had studying to do. She glanced across the tabletop and watched Jon nudge his glass back and forth for a while, thinking. "You know, it would really make us happy if you came home."
He looked up at her. "Arya. You know that's not going to happen. Besides, the Wall's my home now. Castle Black is my home. Not Winterfell."
"Just because Mom doesn't want you back doesn't mean—"
"I don't know what you think it means," Jon cut her off, cutting through her words with a dry chuckle on his voice, "but it certainly means that your mother won't stand for having me back in your home. She blames me, you know that, even if she says otherwise. Compound that with my name, and you... well, I don't have much reason to go back to Winterfell."
"Dad always has a contract open for you," she said with a slight grin.
He scoffed, but it was in good nature. "I don't know if I'd sign that even if I could, but it's a moot point. I'm locked down for almost ten years with the Watch, and they sow no-trade clauses in between the lines of all of their signings. It looks like ol' Jon Snow's not breaking the wondrous Night Watch tradition of playing only for them in a career. The gods know everyone who does winds up injured or dead within the next year. Even Uncle Benjen didn't tempt fate."
"Uncle Benjen's a Stark, too," Arya grinned. "Full of honor to the last."
"Aye, even when winter is coming." Jon grinned back at her. He picked up her glass and dragged it next to hers as he readied himself to stand. At the last moment, he stopped, and eyed her. "I'm not sure if I'm ever going to come back south, Arya."
She started, and sat straight up. "How do you know that? It's not like you're bound to the Wall for life. You always complain about it!"
"Yeah," he groaned with another small smirk, "but it's not all bad. And there's this feeling you get on the Watch that's just... you start to feel like you don't belong anywhere else, I don't know how to describe it. But it sort of feels like I just can't come back. Not anymore. I'm already not welcome in Winterfell, and that's the only home I had ever had before. Just look at Benjen. He started and ended with the Watch, too, and even in retirement he couldn't pull himself off the Wall. He's the only sporting goods store, around, too, in that icy hellhole."
"See, you just called it a hellhole," Arya replied, frowning at him. "How can you say you want to stay there forever?"
"I don't know, Arya. It's just a feeling. Things are going to change soon, anyway. Sansa's getting married, Robb—gods, Robb's practicallymarried to that Jeyne girl right now—and soon enough you'll meet someone and settle down, too. Then all the Starks will be spread across the nation, and it won't even be worth it for me to come back to Winterfell, anyway. The Wall is mine, now, Arya, the same as Robb inherited Winterfell, Sansa will settle in King's Landing, and you'll marry and go off to who-knows-where."
"I'm not in the mood to marry," Arya growled. "Too much baseball to watch. Too many prospects to find. No one interested. No one interesting enough for me."
Jon chuckled and began to stand. "You say that now. Believe me, he'll have to go through me if he wants to marry my little sister. But that's how it gets you, in the end. Just sweeps you right off your feet. Might even be someone you already know, worming their way through your defenses. Right when you think you've got their fastball figured out, they'll drop in a curve and you'll be gone."
She scoffed and nodded sarcastically. "Unless I connect and drive it into the bleachers."
He shook his head, a wry smirk playing on his lips. "No. Not a chance. To catch Arya Stark, he'll have to be untouchable."