23
Arya wasn't entirely sure how much she enjoyed her in time in Braavos until she was back in King's Landing. Then she found herself wishing she had never left that exotic, sultry overseas city of riches and ruin.
It wasn't a big baseball town, as far as those went; she would know, she'd grown up in one of the largest of the world. In the World Classic, the Braavosi team always managed to be competitive, but against the powerhouse players of the Westerosi clubs, there weren't many teams in the world that could stand a chance. When she left, she honestly wasn't sure how much there would be for her to do in Braavos, considering that it was a scouting mission and she hadn't heard any big names in the scouting reports from the region. Actually, once she was there, she wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do with herself, either, lost and dejected as she was. But she found things to do.
The name of the scout who she was to accompany was named Jaqen H'ghar, and he simultaneously came off as creepy and fascinating. When she met him for the first time in a White Harbor airport, he was harshly cold when they first shook hands, giving her the impression that it would be a trip where many irritated glares were sent his way and were received as indifferently as if her eyes were merely passing over him. He was a strange man, she could tell soon enough; his hair was two different colors per the side, one half white and the other red, a curious enough thing to make her question her father's sanity. As soon as they got onto the plane, however, Jaqen H'ghar leaned over to her with a smile and muttered, "A girl says nothing. No one hears, and friends may talk in secret, yes?"
She must have glared at him for a full minute before she nodded, not entirely sure if she was answering a question or confirming her own confusion to herself.
Whichever it was, Jaqen H'ghar settled back into his own seat and regarded her curiously. His drawl was subtly laced with the complicated grammar of a Braavosi accent. "A man is wondering. The owner calls me to make a journey, and tells me a girl will be accompanying. Such a request has never been made before. To what honor am I receiving you?"
"It's not of your business," Arya found herself snapping, before she could help herself, but even as she bit her lip Jaqen H'ghar tilted his head as though the answer amused him. Quickly, she added, "It wasn't by my choice. It's a favor, of sorts. Truth be told, I'm not actually looking forward to this."
"A girl has better things to do with her time?"
Her eyes narrowed. Jaqen's eyes danced; he seemed rather adept at being intrusive. "A man is being nosy."
"A man is being nosy," Jaqen agreed, and sat back to look out the plane's window at the runway, as if the conversation was over. Another near minute passed, her awkwardly trying to fathom a way to fill the silence with action, him pensively staring out of the window, before, as if the conversation had never lulled, he continued, "I like to be acquainted with all variables of my scouting missions before I take them. As of right now, you are an undefined variable."
Arya did not know what he meant by that, but she shrugged anyway. "What do you want to know?"
"What a man wants to know and what a man may know are two very different things," he said. He might have been talking to the window. "And what a girl divulges may be something else entirely. What will you tell me?"
"Nothing," Arya snapped instinctively. "I'm no one."
Jaqen smiled at the window, and shook his head slightly. "A girl is not no one. A girl has a name, the name given at her birth, and she runs from it. Why are you running, I wonder?"
She sat up straight in her airplane seat, instantly uncomfortable. Glaring at someone was much easier when they acknowledged that you were trying to do so. "I'm not running."
"A girl lies."
"A man should shut the fuck up."
He turned away from the window and examined her with careful eyes. Despite herself and her irritation with the situation, Arya felt herself shrink away from it. She didn't know why. Speaking carefully, Jaqen stated, "You have much to run from, I think, but you cannot decide whether to run or not. Is this the truth?"
"No," she lied. He would never believe it; she didn't believe it. The conversation was turning her mind to places she very much didn't want to think about, and it irked her that it had happened so quickly. How can he tell that? Am I that incapable of controlling myself?
"There is a darkness inside of your eyes," Jaqen commented. He reached out and brushed her chin with two fingers, tilting her face up. It surprised her so much that she went stock still, unable to look away from him as he surveyed her. The gesture wasn't intimate, nor did she want it to be; he was glancing over her as if he was considering a purchase. When he released her, he shook his head. "A darkness I see, but not the cause. The girl knows, though, and she knows why she runs."
With the retraction of his hand, she felt smaller, as though he had seen more than he was supposed to and gained unwelcome access to her consciousness. Sniffing, she muttered, "I run because I am good at it."
"Perhaps. But just because one is good at something does not mean that it should be done."
"If it shouldn't be done," she countered defiantly, "then why am I good at it?"
"The Red God gives skill and he takes it away," Jaqen told her with bright eyes. "It is not a man's place to question it. Or a girl's."
Arya resisted the urge to sigh. She was not altogether too familiar with the overseas religion revolving around a Red God, but she understood enough to not have a desire for any more of the basic attributes or scripture. "What am I doing on this trip?"
"Accompanying me, I was told," he replied, as if he didn't care what she did on the trip. "I have a list of people who are of interest to my employer." He eyed her carefully. "—who tells me you have a knack for the game and an eye for the ball."
Whether Ned Stark had said it or not, she was beginning to think Jaqen had just reassessed that ability in her wordlessly a few minutes prior. "I know the game."
"Then this is why you are coming to Braavos with me," Jaqen said. "Is it the reason you will come back, however, or does a girl have other things in mind for going and leaving?"
"What does that mean?"
"A man cannot say." She almost lost her cool and shouted at him, demanding a straight response, but he shrugged before she got the chance. "Perhaps a man is speaking in silence. But a girl who does not know her own name cannot possibly run from something the follows her name. So you either do not know you truly do not know your name, and you will not run, and perhaps find yourself anew in Braavos. Or you do know your name and refuse to admit it. And a girl with or without a name cannot run forever."
"What would you know of such things?"
He peered at her quizzically, as if her question was foolish. "A man has a name that he knows. And a girl one that she does."
Then he turned to look out of the window again, and did not alter his position for the duration of their takeoff or flight. Neither one of them spoke again for the next eight hours, until the plane's wheels had lightly touched down in Braavos and they disembarked. And once she was there, she actually... forgot. Everything fell away from her. She didn't how or why, and she wasn't thinking about it enough to even notice. Only in the depths of a single dream did she seem to remember the pain she was thrusting behind a concrete wall. She was clean of it by the time she awoke, and then there was Braavos.
A hundred islands composed the base of the city, from which towers of stone eighty feet high rose everywhere. The tallest building in the place must not have been more than ten stories, but each one was old and magnificent, as if it was a relic from the past pulled and placed right out of history itself. Arya did not expect herself to like it, when she first saw it, but the more time she spent in it... it was incredible. The streets were narrow—most didn't allow cars—and were always packed. Vendors and merchants set up stalls directly on the streets as if it were a massive farmer's market, shouting their wares and goods. Status of previous Sealords, the rulers of the city-state, lined the giant canals that led to the fishmarket, which Arya could have surveyed for hours. The two main harbors, grounds for commercial trade of the semi-formally dressed businessmen who walked down the streets—as often conducting their business jovially in-person as by cell phone—were operational and occupied twenty-four seven, as were both of the city's sizable commercial airports.
And the baseball.
There weren't many places in the city large enough to support a game. A park here and there had enough space to just jam in a field barely sizable enough, but three local universities had teams and fields, sandwiched in between campus buildings, and that was easily the place in Braavos that Arya loved most.
The short stone towers of the city lined the field in its entirety, casting somber shadows over the infield, but the atmosphere itself dispelled any gloom. In the first week, Jaqen took her to two games each at every college park, and she loved each game more than the last. The fans never failed to pack a game, and though she had struggles at time picking up the languages bouncing over her head like rubber balls, she caught enough to know that win or loss they were having just as good of a time just being near to the field, just being near to their players. Smiles were everywhere, even where fights broke out—and they often did—but overall the humid, unbearable air was just enough for Arya to find something to complain about in the midst of the entire trip. It was all she could do to remember that she actually wanted to watch the prospects.
Jaqen made no more prods at her; it seemed as though he had learned whatever he was after on the plane ride, and their conversation thereafter usually revolved around baseball. He continued to refer to them both in the third person at times, which rode to the verge of unnerving her, but when he did speak about baseball, she had no doubt that he knew more about the game than she. Which was not something anybody did every day. When he made notes, in a tiny notebook that he whisked from the pocket of the jacket he had no business wearing in the weather, he did so in a language she did not recognize, and so she could learn nothing by peering at them over his shoulder. On the occasion that he actually spoke, pointing something out to her indifferently, it was always something she hadn't noticed herself, a hitch of the hands, a false first step, a flinch or flicker of the eyes that anyone else may not have seen. Whoever Jaqen H'ghar was, he was an expert at the game, and was himself as sly as they came.
She wasn't sure where the two weeks went, but one morning she woke up in her solitary room in a very old hotel and it was the day she was destined to depart. Jaqen would not be returning with her; he had other business to conduct in Braavos, that he had not made privy to her despite her badgering, and he had slipped out himself the previous day. There was no long goodbye, simply a quiet wish that she make a good choice for herself—whatever that meant—and him slinking quietly out of the hotel.
Which left her to her own devices that morning.
And that was when Braavos failed her. In the dark, sitting up in bed, realizing that her incredible trip that she had never wanted to take had to come to an end, she did what she wanted more than anything not to do: she thought about Gendry.
His face, washed away by the weeks of exposure to the new place, flashed before her mind's eye and thundered like an inescapable drum. Her heart quickened, but it wasn't in excitement; panic began to set in. Before it could get out of control, she smothered it with deep breaths, forcing herself to remain calm. Even as she did so, though, dozens of memories rushed back to the forefront of her thoughts, and the last two weeks might as well not have happened. She was back at the dinner table with her parents, watching her brother and sister argue on her behalf and her father hold his ground on the only thing she had ever held against him. Her heart was still broken; what she thought had been healing had been masquerading as a band-aid, and now it had been ripped away to reveal a wound as fresh as the day it had been dealt.
For as long as she could spare, she lied in that bed, perilously close to tears of frustration. Many cries ago, she had run out of them for pain, but now Arya was simply becoming fed up with herself. He's gone, she barked. There's no going back, you stupid girl. When are you going to learn that you have to get over him? When?
It was pure effort for her to pack her things, compiling all of the stuff that had become strewn across her room over two weeks, with the bull-headed bastard bustling in the rear of her mind, forcing himself into her thoughts. Glancing out the window at the magnificent city didn't help at all; not only was it a reminder that she would be leaving it behind soon, but it also showed her that it had only been a facade... it was only a distraction, not a cure.
But when she climbed out of the taxi in front the airport, destined for a flight back to the faraway place she had once called her home, she paused. For one last time, she turned around to glance back over the city-state of Braavos, and ponder.
Jaqen's words returned to her. So you either do not know you truly do not know your name, and you will not run, and perhaps find yourself anew in Braavos. Or you do know your name and refuse to admit it. And a girl with or without a name cannot run forever.
She had found herself anew in Braavos. Or, at least, she had thought she had. Yet, only one small thought concerning Winterfell had led her right to Gendry. She stamped her foot into the ground childishly but justifiably. Frustration didn't begin to describe her mood. She wanted to forget, she never wanted to forget, but she couldn't go on living like this. Every second felt like a fight just to make it to the next one, and it felt like it would never end. In the beginning, she dreaded the thought that it might never get better, but later on, when she had marginally better days, there was a slight hope that she would learn to live with her pain. Nearly a month later... there had to be some way, some way for her to recover.
Truly do not know. Did she know herself anymore? Find yourself anew in Braavos.
Her eyes traveled over the city, appreciating, considering. Had she truly forgotten who she was? Had she forgotten him? Had she forgotten herself? The city had a profound effect on her, one she didn't truly understand, but, for a time, it had been the remedy her heart needed.What if... what if she stayed? What if she didn't climb back onto the plane?
She bit her lip. There wasn't much money at her disposal; she didn't know if she would have anywhere to go. Braavos was vast; she could probably find some sort of employment somewhere... her parents would come looking, she was sure, but she was smarter than anyone had ever given her credit for, except for—
Her hand came up as if to slap herself for thinking of him again, but at the last second it turned into an earnest rub of her forehead. If she stayed in Braavos, there was a chance that she could recover quickly, that she could more past what had happened and get on with her life, that she could shed what she was and become something new. That she could forget. Without her name, without herself. She could leave Arya Stark behind. A girl with no name. No One.
A girl with or without a name cannot run forever.
And that was the difference, in the end. That was what made her turn her back on Braavos, turn her back on what could have been, and made her step into the airport to board her flight back to Westeros. It wasn't enough to pretend, to make-believe, to forget... She couldn't change who she was, anymore than she could pretend that she didn't love baseball... anymore than she could pretend that she hadn't plummeted into love with Gendry.
She was Arya Stark. For better or for worse, for healing or for crippling pain, she was stronger than that. She was stronger than she was being, and she would find a different way to be stronger.
She had to.
—
The fall semester of college began dully.
Sansa, finding herself without a place to live and not heeding concerns from almost every member of the family about returning to King's Landing without some form of protection against Joffrey, convinced Arya to find an apartment with her, contrary to Arya's original plan to suffer through another year of dorm life. They settled on a two-bedroom place that was ridiculously priced for the small sitting and two beds it offered. It was not as lavish as Sansa probably hoped, but they entered the market late in the season, where available options were few, and the cheaper ones were even more horrendously small and inconvenient than the one they had, so they pinched their noses and made the arrangements. They were Starks, after all; it wasn't as if they couldn't afford it.
In an interesting way, her hatred of King's Landing made things easier for Arya. She was often too busy being angry about classes or resuming her work stocking shelves or hating the people around her to bother with the blunt ache in her heart. Even Sansa, surprisingly enough, seemed to channel some displeasure with schoolwork to block out her own heartbreak. A year before, Arya never would have thought it possible, but the sisters depended heavily on one another as crutches in the earlygoings of the school year, and once classes picked up they didn't have very much time at all to spend on sulking or frustration.
It was on one of these such afternoons in early October, while a stressed Sansa had retreated to her room for a nap and Arya was doing battle with homework on their lumpy sofa, when an unexpected knock came at the door to their apartment.
They had yet to receive any visitors since their last second move-in, which, with Arya's aversion to their parents, had consisted only of the two sisters and their clothing. Their address had been given out sparingly, and mostly only by Sansa, so when the rap came Arya glanced up in surprise from her work and wondered who it could possibly be.
Most likely some businessman, she grumbled to herself thoughtfully, ducking her head back to her work. The knock repeated a moment later, though, and she glanced up again, sighing. This is bound to make for a headache.
Grudgingly, she set her book and notebook on the couch next to her and uncurled herself from the couch, padding barefoot across the carpet in pajama pants and a t-shirt, not particularly caring how she looked in the eyes of whoever the fuck had made the mistake of coming knocking at the door when she was in her present mood. Looking over her shoulder at the closed bedroom door once to make sure the knocking hadn't disturbed Sansa's rest, Arya sauntered up to the threshold of the apartment and stood on tiptoe to glance through the peephole.
She had not expected to see the dark face of Jon Snow standing in her hallway.
Very slowly, she let herself down flat-footed, staring at the wood with a expression she could feel paling. As he knocked again, she glared at the door, terrified that it would open. Her heart beat faster, anger rising in her chest and threatening to bubble out of her mouth in the form of furious shouts, through the closed door and all. Before she did something she would regret, she spun on her heel and promptly sprinted in her bedroom door, slamming her door before she could help herself and curling up on her bed, completely losing control of her emotions.
She laid there in a ball, pale and cold, staring at the bedroom door in a mix of freezing fear and fury, as Jon began to actually pound on the apartment outside. Whether from that or her slamming her own door, the sound of another opening told her that Sansa had awoke. With quiet ears, Arya was able to hear the startled footfalls that followed her sister to the door. They stopped abruptly, no doubt as Sansa reached it and glanced through the peephole herself. Then, there was a long pause, and Arya held her breath.
Don't do it, Sansa. Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it.
The deadbolt clicked open, the lock was undone. The creaking of the door penetrated her room as Sansa opened the apartment up to their... cousin. Arya sucked in breath, startled, waiting for whatever was to come next, terrified of Jon, terrified of what she would do to him if he got within arm's reach of her...
"What do you want?" she heard Sansa snap through her door. A pause followed, as if the venom in her voice had shocked Jon on the spot. It certainly had Arya.
He recovered. "Is Arya here?"
"I don't know if I should tell you that," Sansa replied. "What are you doing here, Jon?"
"My season ended weeks ago. I wanted to see my family while I have the time." Arya listened to Jon hesitate. "Sansa, what's wrong?"
"I know what you did, I know you told Dad about her and... how could you, Jon? She told me you promised."
A quiet hissing of breath suggested a Jon Snow sigh. "Look, I really... can I just talk to her? I know she's here."
"That's not a good idea. She's very upset with her, and I don't blame her. Frankly, I'm very upset with you. She's been ready to kill you the next time she saw you." Sansa's voice lowered, and she murmured something Arya couldn't make out before raising her voice back to normal volume. "It hasn't been good."
Another beat passed before Jon said, "Just let me talk with her. Please. I have to explain myself."
"Jon, she's—"
"Please, Sansa."
It was Sansa's turn to sigh—a woman's sigh, loud and threatening and intended to inform a man of just how foolish he was being. "I wouldn't do it if I were you. And I don't want to let you do it. But fine, go see what you've done to her. I don't pity you one bit."
Jon, like the typical male, did not take the hint. Only a hint of anger crept into his voice. "I was trying to help her."
"Save it. Whatever. Don't tell me I didn't warn you."
Arya listened to her sister's footfalls travel back across the floor, until the other bedroom door slammed, leaving a wrenching silence in the sitting room outside. She stayed curled up in a ball in trepidation, staring at the door, watching and waiting and dreading, ears wide open and itching for the slightest sound from the room outside. Seconds washed into a minute, and for a while Arya began to wonder if she had fallen asleep and dreamed the entrance of Jon into the apartment she shared with her sister. But then the floor creaked, and she began to hear the man who had been raised as her brother pad across the floor to stand before her doorway.
It was another gap of several seconds before his rap came at the door. "Arya?" She didn't answer. Though it was irrational to hope, maybe if she didn't respond he might just go away. "Arya, please open up. We have to talk."
"No, we motherfucking don't," she hissed, but it was far too quiet for him to hear through the door.
The doorknob began to turn, and she cursed herself for forgetting to lock it. She leapt to her feet to do just that as he tentatively called out her name one more time. Before she could even take a step towards the door, it cracked open, and she wasted a moment debating on whether or not to throw her weight against it. It was a precious moment that cost her; the cracking door opened slowly, hesitantly, but steadily. And when the opening was large enough, Jon Snow's head carefully peeked around the corner, looking at her.
"Arya—"
"Get out."
He blinked, and pushed the door open fully. Her blood was on fire now. There was only heat and anger. Jon appeared not to notice, as he stepped completely into her room. "Arya, I need to speak with you."
"I have nothing to say to you," she growled. "Get out of my room."
His arms spread wide, he took a step towards her. "Arya, listen—"
She didn't even think about it. Rearing back, swift as a deer, quick as a snake, her arm arced up from her side, and she slapped him across the cheek as hard as she could.
The blow actually sent him staggering, a gasp of pain escaping his throat as he stumbled a step backwards, his eyes wide and glaring at her in shocked surprise. Her palm stung, the insides of her fingers where they had struck him, and it was incredibly satisfying to feel her skin throb in the aftermath. Jon stared at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed in shock, as he came to a halt, lifting a hand to his own face and cautiously feeling where she'd struck him, as if to check if it had actually happened.
It wasn't the first time she had hit Jon. Various times over the years, whether teasing her or genuinely frustrating her, she had punched his arm or leg or, occasionally, his gut. Most of the time he would laugh it off or shake his head at her, and that would be the end of it. Never before had she slapped him, and never before had she expected to gain such satisfaction from the action, and in seeing him hurt beneath that blow.
"Don't you dare tell me to listen, Jon Snow!" she cried, taking a step backwards and brandishing a finger at him. "I trusted you. I trusted you! Get out of here. Go."
"Arya," he gulped, lowering his hand from his face with a grimace. "I can see you're upset, and I understand. But all I was trying to do was protect you. I just wanted to make sure you were safe."
"So you fucking told Dad?" she screamed, shaking her head. More tears sprang into her eyes; she wiped them off vigorously. She was so sick of crying. "Dad, who has secrets he never fucking told his children. Gods, why did I even tell you? What was I thinking?" Scowling, she glared at him in derision. "And you... when were you going to tell me that you're not even my brother? When were you going to clue me in on your secret? You... you... you bastard!"
His expression had darkened as she spoke and he had turned away. At the last, he glanced back at her. His eyes were dark and cold. "So you know about that, then. And you know that it wasn't really my secret to tell."
"Oh, fuck that! Fuck that, fuck it, fuck everything, you've been lying to me all this time. I trusted you, I trusted you to keep the only fucking secret I had and you didn't fucking do it! You asshole, Jon! Do you know what you've done? Do you know what Dad did?"
"Yes." Against her shouts, his voice seemed a whisper. At least his face looked grim and he had stopped favoring his cheek. Surveying her glumly, he continued, "Robb told me about it."
"You're still speaking to Robb, then?" she snapped. "Because he seems to have taken my side. So did Sansa. So has every-fucking-one else in the world, Jon, except for you. Believe me, you are the last person in the world that I want to talk to right now. You just need to go away. Get away from me."
He cringed as if she'd slapped him again when she exclaimed that she didn't want to see him, but he held his ground. "Yes, Robb's still speaking to me. He understands why I did it, at least, and he forgave me as soon as he realized I wasn't trying to hurt you."
"Well, you did." She turned her back on him, facing her bed and wanting to kick something. "You might as well just get in line with everyone else who didn't want to hurt me and ended up doing it. Gendry, Dad, you, fucking everybody. So I'm done with it. I'm done with being hurt. Just get away from me."
"Arya—"
"Enough!" she screamed, whirling back to him. "What are you doing here? What do you think you can say?"
Jon had taken a step closer to her, but he backed off now, his arms raised defensively. "Arya, I just want to make sure you know that I had no idea Dad would do what he did. I only told him because I didn't like the consequences that might come from sneaking behind his back. I was just looking out for you."
"Good fucking job!"
He closed his eyes against her tirade, but didn't stop. "I know what Dad did—"
"Do you know why he did it?" she hissed, growing angrier as she recalled the stormy night in her father's study where he had revealed more family secrets than she had thought the Starks possessed.
"Yes, I do," Jon said. His eyes were honest, his face was open... but she'd trusted him before. "I was told the whole story, too, when he told me that Lyanna was really my mother and... Targaryen my father." For a moment, his own demons seemed to encompass his thoughts, but he shook them off and pressed onward. "I don't agree with what he did. I can see why he did, but I would not have done the same. And I know I can't change his mind and I don't know if you'll forgive me, but I am so sorry for what happened."
She glared at him for several long moments, sucking in deep breaths, trying to sort out her feelings and put words to her emotions, to decide exactly what she wanted to say to her half-brother that was really her cousin, the catalyst to the reaction that had splintered her life. He was the embodiment of her problem, the root, the instigator, the closure, everything, someone she loved as a brother and someone who had committed an unforgiveable offense. And she loved him and hated him, hated him because she hated herself for not being strong enough to forget.
"Just go," she mumbled, hoping a soft misery would appeal where hot anger had not. "Go back to the Wall. Don't come back. Not this offseason. Not next season. No more promises. No more trust. Go back to the Wall where you belong. You ruined everything."
His eyes filled with horror and regret, and she turned her back on him so she wouldn't have to see them. It didn't make her feel terrifically better that she was hurting him, but he had broken the promise, not her, and it was not her choice. One secret of such magnitude blown was enough to make her question every being able to trust again and if Jon Snow was a casualty of her caution, so be it.
"Did he really mean that much to you?"
Arya stiffened, listening to her own breath, anguishing in her memories. In a whisper, she replied, "You can't possibly understand."
A void fell over them, her facing her bed and praying for him to leave, to let her be at peace, or at war, whichever it would be. At least she would be alone, where no one else could see her fight herself and lose. She fully expected him to step towards her and try to hug her or do something else as thoroughly foolish, but, for once, Jon Snow did not reach out to her in her suffering. She was ashamed by her relief.
A full minute passed, her listening to her own heartbeat and breathing, before she realized that he was gone. As the thought made itself plain in her mind, she heard the apartment door outside click shut, and for the first time since seeing his face through her peephole, she allowed her body to relax.
Later, when she was lying on her side on her bed, wishing Nymeria were there and trying not to think about the unfinished homework waiting on the couch, Sansa knocked on the door and stuck her head into the room. "Are you okay?" her sister asked gingerly.
Arya glanced up at her sister's sympathetic face, and managed a very, very weak grin. "Not really."
Sansa slipped into the room quietly and walked over to seat herself on the corner of the bed, folding her legs up beneath her body. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Sitting up, brushing a stray tear off of her cheek, Arya shook her head. "There's not really anything else to talk about. You've heard it all before."
"That doesn't mean I don't need to hear it again," Sansa replied, reaching out a hand to briefly squeeze one of Arya's. After a pause, the older sister chuckled wryly. "It's so cruel. I'm so happy that we can finally find middle ground on something and get past our differences and get along with each other like sisters are supposed to. But I would have picked almost any other way besides this."
Arya shrugged. "Wasn't really up to us. But yes, I'm glad that you're here for me, too." She bit her lip, watching her sister's face. "Look, Sansa, I know I don't always come across like it, but I really appreciate... everything..."
"You don't have to mention it. It's long overdue."
She shook her head. "Still."
"It's all about what comes next, Arya," Sansa said. "We can't live in the past." With a finger, she carefully nudged Arya's leg. "We have to live for the next thing."
"I'm trying," Arya groaned, falling back onto her back. "I'm trying really hard, Sansa, and, believe me, I freaking hate myself for not being able to do it, but I just can't get him off my mind."
Sansa watched her, picking at the comforter. She glanced away from Arya, looking over the room as she nodded tiredly. "I know. I feel the same way."
Arya tilted her head to better observe her sister. "Have you tried contacting him lately?"
"I don't want to smother him," Sansa murmured, shaking her head. "I tried that at first, and, just... I think I might've ruined everything, more than it already was. If he doesn't want to talk to me, then he doesn't want to talk to me. I don't know if there's a whole lot I can do about it."
"You can fight for him."
"What if he doesn't want to fight for me?" she mumbled weakly, glancing at Arya from the corner of her eye. "Then what's the point? I'll be forcing him into something he doesn't want."
Arya hesitated, trying once again to calmly fathom her sister with Sandor Clegane. She had no idea what the giant brute wanted, and hated him completely for walking out on Sansa. If he somehow made the older sister happy, though, Arya would gladly see him with her and didn't give a damn whether it was something or not.
"I have to say, Sansa," Arya confessed quietly, "if I had as much of a chance as you did at getting back what you once had, I would latch onto it and hold on until it killed me."
Sansa reached up and brushed a tear of her own off of her face. "I'm not you, Arya. I'm not as strong as you."
A flare of anger sparked in her heart. "You think I'm strong? Do you see me? Do you see how difficult it is for me every day? I don't know how you can do it, going through it, if you really felt for Sandor what I felt for Gendry. I don't know how it isn't tearing you apart. You don't even know why it ended. You could still have a chance. Why you're not out on the city right now, scouring the place for him, demanding that he listen to you, I don't know." She shook her head at herself, and then sat up. "In fact, that's exactly what we're going to do."
"What?" Sansa demanded sharply, in confusion.
"I'm going to find him for you," Arya told her sister, bouncing off of the bed and striding about her open carpet. "If you won't yourself. I'm going to make him talk to you, listen to you. Even if it's not what he wants, Sansa, he has no right to walk out on you the way he did."
"Arya, I—"
"Don't even say it." She held up a hand, cutting off her sister's words and glaring down Sansa's second attempt to dissuade her. "If I can't help myself, I'm going to help you. One of us has a chance at closure, at least, and you're not going to squander that. I won't let you."
"And what are we going to do?" Sansa wondered aloud. "Stalk him?"
"I don't know," Arya replied. "But we've both got to stop sulking, and I'm going to return the favor you've given me."
"That's not necessary. Really."
"Shut up." She stopped pacing and stood in front of Sansa with crossed arms. "If he won't come to you, then we're going to throw you at him and make him talk. The least that can happen is you get a good screaming match about how stupid he is." A pang ruptured her chest. Quietly, she added, "Believe me, it feels really good to say that sometimes."
"Really, Arya, you don't have to do this," Sansa muttered. But Arya could see the faint color that had risen to her cheeks, the faintest flicker of hope in a couple fewer wrinkles on her forehead. Arya understood it all too well; a chance at putting the pieces back together. She wished she were so fortunate.
"Well, you don't get a choice," she said, smothering her own sorrow, telling herself that it was not about her. "We're going to find him and make him talk. No one treats my sister like that and walks away unscathed for it."
So was born a distraction, one that actually appealed to Arya and managed to help her limp through her first few weeks of October with a little more vigor than before. She truthfully had no idea how they were supposed to corner Sandor Clegane short of staking out his apartment, which Sansa was completely unwilling to do—Arya would have done it herself, but Sansa refused to share the address with her, despite continuous prodding. It was playoff season, anyway; the Monarchs had destroyed Highgarden in the first round and were making likewise quick work of the Dreadfort in the Championship Series. There was no assurance Clegane would have been in his apartment, anyway. Short of that, attempts to call the number Sansa still clung to in her cell phone resulted in an automated message that explained to them that the number had been disconnected, which very nearly drove Sansa to tears.
It fell on Arya, then, to squeeze the names of the establishments that Clegane and other Monarchs would frequent out of Sansa and change her study venues to stakeouts at such places. Sansa discouraged that, too, but after a while Arya roped her into it. Whenever they had time, whenever one or both of them was off of work or class, they picked a place Sansa thought Sandor might turn up at and they ordered something cheap to dally over in a corner. Once, Arya recognized Meryn Trant passing through a bar late at night with a pair of scantily-clad women, a night after a Monarchs' victory, but she did not approach him. Especially with the excitement of the city growing as the Monarchs advanced to the World Series, she was beginning to worry that they wouldn't have a chance to trap the man until after its conclusion. Truth be told, thinking about the World Series at all churned her stomach, betraying her distraction, and it was not only because she hated the Monarchs' success in any form that it did so.
She never spoke of it, but one morning, coincidentally the day after the Monarchs secured their ticket to the Series, Sansa brought it up for her.
"Are you going back to Winterfell in the next week?" her older sister questioned softly, blowing on her coffee. They were sitting in the corner of a coffee shop, one Sansa remembered seeing Sandor and various other players at more than once.
Arya blanched before she could help herself, and stared directly at her own untouched drink so as not to look at her sister. "Why would I do that?"
Sansa tilted her head. She looked as if she were calling a bluff. "Because the Direwolves just swept the National League Championship Series against Dragonstone. Come on, you can't tell me you hadn't noticed."
With a nonchalant shrug—or what was supposed to be a nonchalant shrug—Arya replied, "So?"
"So?" Sansa repeated. "Arya, you should be excited about this. I'm excited about this. This hasn't happened since Dad's days pitching." At the mention of their father, Arya flinched again, and Sansa gasped softly. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking. But, seriously, this should be a really exciting time. This is what you've always wanted, the Direwolves going to the World Series. You should go home and go to the games. This is something you can really enjoy. You may not get another chance at it, you should take advantage of this while you can."
Arya took a scalding drink to avoid speaking and then pulled her mathematics textbook towards herself, trying to appear engrossed and knowing herself to be failing. "Honestly, Sansa, I hadn't really noticed."
That was a lie. She'd watched every game. Alone, tending a lonely drink in the corner a sports bar Sansa thought Sandor might attend, using the cover as an excuse to watch the playoff series. She had stayed for every inning, seen every run. She had watched Gendry save games one and two in Winterfell, painfully unable to look away. She'd watched them blow out the Demons in game three and watched him throw the ninth inning with a five-run lead in game four. The briefest exaltation had sprung up in her chest when the man she loved struck out the last batter, the last remnant of the incorruptible love she held for the Direwolves, but by the time the team had finished celebrating she felt like curling herself back in a ball. Whenever the camera flashed onto Gendry, she tried to tear her eyes away from him and couldn't. He looked happy—he grinned with Robb and Dayne and the rest of them—but she knew him, and there was something in his dazzling blue eyes, something where there was no happiness, only darkness, and it broke her heart again to see it. But there was nothing either of them could do about it.
"Arya," Sansa coaxed lightly, "I really think it would be good for you if you went back to Winterfell to watch a game of the World Series. It would mean a lot to Dad."
"And why the hell would I want to do something meaningful for him?" she blurted, wishing she'd spoken softer but not regretting the emotion. "I owe him nothing. The Direwolves are playing the Monarchs. They're underdogs, they're almost assured not to win. The Monarchs are unbeatable. If I want to watch a game, I'll watch one here in King's Landing, when the team comes down. I'm sure I could scalp a ticket somehow."
Sansa watched her, appearing poised to deliver some other insistence, but then her eyes flashed over Arya's shoulder and she froze. Arya knew what it meant before she whirled around to see what had captivated Sansa's attention for herself, but she needed the visual confirmation.
Sandor Clegane, in his complete half-bruised hideousness, barged into the shop quietly, with three other men in tow. One of them was Meryn Trant, who appeared to be speaking in Sandor's general direction and receiving no reply. Loras Tyrell followed, his golden hair glinting in the sun, engrossed in conversation with the third. He was a tall man, taller by far than Tyrell but not nearly as tall as Clegane, his head turned away from Arya and Sansa's table as the four of them approached the counter, oblivious to the Stark sisters' presence. his build was lean, but his hair was as silver as if it had been scraped off of the moon. Arya had never met him before, but she knew who he was.
She turned back around, finding Sansa very pale and staring at the tabletop, looking rather sick. "Sansa? Are you all right?"
"Quite," the older sister muttered. With a clear effort, she managed to look up at Arya. "I don't think I ever expected him to actually walk through the door. I thought we were taking shots in the dark."
"Well, there he is," Arya whispered, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder, glancing to make damn sure Clegane hadn't suddenly poofed into nothing. He hadn't. "Now's your chance. Maybe the only one you'll get. Go, now. Quickly."
"I don't know what to say," Sansa said, perfectly calmly. Her eyes slid over Arya's shoulder, glancing at her lover, her former lover, her love, whatever he was. "I..." She clamped her mouth shut, clearly frustrated, and exhaled before continuing, "He really hurt me. Now that I see him, that's what I think about."
"Well, go and tell him that," Arya urged. "Let him know how you feel."
"I don't think I can," the older sister whispered. She wrapped her long arms around herself and glared down at the tabletop, the weak afternoon sunlight glancing off of her bright hair. "I don't... all of a sudden, I'm not so sure."
"What do you mean, you're not so sure?"
Sansa glanced up at her, with concern behind her expression. "I don't know... he just left me there. With Joffrey screaming at me. Can I forgive him for that?"
This was an obstacle Arya had not foreseen, and she almost became irritated before she actually considered whether or not her sister had a point. It had been an uncomfortably brutal falling out between them, without an official ends or discussion. Firsthand, Arya had witnessed Sansa's hurt and confusion over the incident that morning, and she herself wouldn't have been able to watch Sandor Clegane walk to the counter if she didn't realize how much he meant to Sansa.
The giant man had hurt Sansa bad, though, by leaving her there, and then by ignoring her thereafter. Sansa was nothing if not an unforgiving soul—in cases where Arya was not the immature culprit—but as Arya remembered what had happened, she couldn't have blamed her older sister for holding misgivings that went beyond healing, no matter how much affection—no matter how much love—she held for Sandor Clegane.
It was different with Gendry, she told herself, and it had been. Gendry hadn't meant to hurt her. Hurting her had looked like it was killing him; he had done it because he felt like he didn't have a choice. Even still, if he had done to her what Clegane had done to Sansa, she couldn't say she wouldn't react like Sansa was now if he came to her trying to explain himself.
Staring at her cup of coffee, Arya snorted at herself. You're lying. You would take him back with open arms. And she would have. And that was the worst part.
"I think you should hear him out," Arya said quietly. "Give him a chance to explain himself. You can't keep going on like this. You need closure. One way or another, he's the only one who'll give you that."
"And what if I'm not ready to hear what he says?" Sansa mumbled fearfully.
Arya shrugged. "Then you just move on. That's all you can do. Come on. You're strong. Go and do this for yourself."
They sat in silence for a moment, staring at one another, and then they both glanced back at the four baseball players. Trant was still speaking to Clegane, who was apparently ignoring the man, glaring instead at the fumbling attendant behind the counter hastily preparing coffees with ferocity and disdain. Tyrell was smiling at something the fourth member of their party was saying, shaking his head in amusement. All four hadn't noticed the two Starks sitting in the back of the room.
Sansa's chair screeched against the floor as she pushed it back, climbing admirably steadily to her feet. Despite the annoying sound, nobody turned around. Both sisters swallowed as Sansa moved out from around the table, closing her own notebook as she did so. Very carefully, as if every step might wake a slumbering giant, she strode across the floor of the coffee shop, rounding the three peripheral baseball players and laying a hand on the counter, directly at Clegane's side. She stood perpendicularly to the register, staring straight up at the ugly ballplayer, not saying a word.
For a moment, it seemed as if he didn't notice her. Compared to his size, she looked like a paper doll, thin and frail but standing proud as though made of steel. Trant and Tyrell noticed her, and glanced curiously at one another before regarding Sansa. Either they didn't recognize her or they had not expected to see her to the point of being shocked.
At length, Sandor Clegane seemed to realize that everyone around him had stopped talking, and that he was no longer alone at the counter. He glanced around sharply, first in the wrong direction, showing his bruises to Arya, then whirling to his left, where Sansa waited, unflinching, even as two hundred and fifty pounds of fury swung around in her direction.
Arya had never seen someone large freeze so inhumanly fast before. She could almost see the blood draining from his face as Sansa stared forlornly up into his face, could see the utter horror etch itself into his stone features, fear of a thin woman a third of his size, standing fearlessly before him as though she could crush him with her thumb.
She didn't know how long she watched the scene with meager glee, but eventually, when it was clear the stunned Clegane was far too tongue-tied, the other players far too perplexed to speak, Sansa opened her mouth and murmured something low. It was too quiet for Arya to hear anything more than a buzz, but whatever it was, Clegane's mouth dropped open flat, and all three players heads swiveled in his direction. The gigantic man hesitated, closed his jaw, glanced at his companions, and then growled something back even lower than Sansa's voice. Arya felt a surge of pride as Sansa glanced at the others almost carelessly and then nodded. Sandor turned then to the other Monarchs and glared at them icily for a moment, and that was apparently all the message that was needed. Sansa turned and led him to the door outside to the coffee shop, him following at her heels like a hound. The door jingled shut behind him, and they were barely three steps down the street before Sansa pivoted on him with crossed arms and Sandor began speaking frantically.
Arya watched for only a moment before ducking her head down to her books respectfully, a sad smile gracing her features. She was glad Sansa had not backed down, had faced up to the challenge; a year before, the older sister would have folded and crumbled beneath the adversity. She was a woman grown, though, now, stronger than she had been, confident where she had been doubtful, hard where she had been weak. As radiantly beautiful as ever.
If only Arya hadn't traded places with her. If only she hadn't taken that walk, on that day in King's Landing. If only she hadn't followed that damn sound of baseball...
No. Arya jabbed a pencil into her notebook, shocked at herself. No. I won't wish that. I don't wish that. Never. She couldn't. If she hadn't... she didn't know where she'd be. She didn't know if she would have been happier, but meeting Gendry had changed her. It hurt, it scalded, it tore and ripped, but he was a part of her. She could wish him away, but she didn't want to. She didn't want to forget, but she didn't want to remember. How could she replace a part of herself that wasn't there? I won't ever wish I hadn't met him. Not if it means I carry this forever.
"May I join you?"
She started, jerking up and nearly to her feet. The silver-haired man leaning respectfully a few feet away didn't start, but he did take a step back in surprise, his brows creasing in confusion. She knew him; his picture was plastered across the sports magazines, everyone scrambling for his juicy story. How there weren't a hundred cameras flashing right at that moment, Arya didn't know. His smooth face was handsome, in a flawless way. As he realized she wasn't about to attack him, he smiled uncertainly, a welcoming, warming gesture. She looked him in the eye, and found a heavy purple accentuating his pale skins. She preferred blue.
It took her a moment to realize he was pointing at the third chair of the table with a questioning expression, waiting for her permission. A second passed as she struggled to recall what he had said, and then she was forced into the unhealthy dilemma of whether or not she was willing to let him sit with her. In the end, stuck with staring up at him stupidly and having no available pro/con list, she shrugged her shoulders and gulped. "It's a free country."
He laughed, his breath light, as he slid nimbly into the chair. "Not as much as some might think. But thank you." He set his coffee down on the table, next to her books, without drinking from it, watching her with what was probably a kind grin. "You looked lonely. If I'm imposing, just say so and I'll let you be."
It was difficult to tell someone to fuck off when they were looking at you so amiably, and the worst thing was that he probably knew exactly how difficult it was. "You're not imposing. I don't really want to do the work anyway."
"Good." He reached out a hand, respectfully staying out of her personal space. "I'm Aegon Targaryen."
"I know who you are," Arya said, trying not to show her hesitation before she shook his hand.
Aegon smiled, as if he hadn't expected it. "And you?"
No one, she almost said, but stopped herself just short. No, she had made her choice. She wouldn't go back on it now. "Arya Stark."
"Ah," Aegon said, his grin widening. "I thought I recognized you, but it was just your features I saw. Yes, you have the look of a Stark about you."
"You've met Starks before?" she inquired, perhaps a bit sharper than she intended.
Aegon shook his head. "No. But I was—am—a fan of your father's. Ned Stark is your father, is he not?" Arya flinched, but nodded; Aegon seemed not only to see the second. "He has a certain look about him, and you've got that in you, too. I always admired him. It was one of my childhood dreams to hit against him."
"His playing days are over," Arya grumbled, glancing back down at her notebook.
There was a pause, which she knew she had made and knew she had made awkward. She almost felt guilty, shooting down the conversation, but Aegon's voice wasn't put off. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't," she said quickly. Now she did feel guilty, and she didn't know why. She hadn't asked for him to come speak with her. "I'm just..." She glanced up at him, and almost became unnerved by the intensity of his purple eyes. "Having a bad week, is all."
His lips twitched sympathetically. Grasping his coffee cup carefully, apparently unconcerned with any heat that may have been radiating off of it, he lifted it in her direction. "Well, here's to a better week ahead."
She grimaced in approximation of a thankful grin and nodded, choosing not to join him, but couldn't help her curiosity as he took a long draught. Braavos was fresh in her mind, and didn't help the matter any. "You really grew up in the Free Cities?"
Aegon set his cup back down, and laughed dryly. "I'm afraid you've got me at a disadvantage. You may already know a measure about me, but I don't know anything about you. That's hardly fair."
"Life's not fair."
She expected him to insist, to refuse, to protest... but that was somebody else. Aegon merely shrugged thoughtfully and chuckled. "I suppose that's true. Yes, I grew up in the Free Cities. Pentos, to be exact. My parents died when I was young, as you may or may not know..." He glanced at her table. "...and, well, my family's legacy in Westeros kind of died with them. In some ways, I'm trying to reclaim some of that. From what I've heard, your family has a mighty legacy of its own in the game of baseball."
"We get along," she replied evasively.
He grunted softly. "I'll find out soon enough. We're destined to collide, I see, in a few days' time. It should be an interesting match. For all the world to see."
"It will, at that," she said, imagining exactly what it would be like for the Direwolves to clash with the Monarchs, despite herself. Abruptly, she heard herself say, "You're the better team, but Winterfell is scrappier."
Aegon stared at her blankly for a moment, and then raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
With a nod, she added her rationale. "You've got the talent, the power, the speed, the experience. The Direwolves don't have much of that. But they've gotten to where they got on their determination alone."
"So have I."
"Maybe," she said, watching him watch her in fascination. "But your rise came because you were good to start off with. The Direwolves didn't suddenly pick up a card and run with it. They started off with the exact same amount of middle-of-the-line talent that they have right now. What changed was their mindset. They stopped accepting hard losses and hard knocks. They focused in. They started adjusting to curve balls and diving after close grounders, hustling the extra step. Sheer will has gotten them to this point."
"No new talent, you say?" he replied, quirking his lips. "What about Gendry Waters? An unbeatable closer? Isn't that new talent?"
Her heart jerked, but somehow she managed to keep her face straight. "As I recall, the Monarchs beat him. That doesn't sound unbeatable to me. One man isn't a team. One game isn't a season. It's a game of averages, which you have the absolute advantage in. But don't let that fool you into becoming complacent, because that's where the Direwolves have excelled. On paper, you should win every time, but paper only goes so far as when the game begins. Keep your own focus and play your own game, and you should win, but be careful about mistakes that you make, because one mistake could be your last."
His wide, intrigued eyes narrowed. "And why is that?"
Arya merely shrugged. "Because that's what Direwolves do. Wait until you make a fatal error, and lunge for the kill."
In the silence that followed, his smile slipped away from his lips and he tapped a finger thoughtfully against them, watching her with a pensive expression. She wasn't intimidated by him, but she wasn't sure she liked the way his eyes were locked on her. Regardless, she stared right back with a flat face, waiting for his response. She expected him to call her naive or deflect her statement with a comment on how the game would be the ultimate decider.
Instead, he lowered his hand to the table and cocked his head to one side. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"
Several moments passed before Arya could be reasonably convinced she'd heard him right. Even still, she couldn't help but ask, "What?"
"Would you be interested in going to dinner with me?" he repeated, appearing for all the world like it didn't matter to him one way or another.
She couldn't help the next word that escaped her lips. "Why?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Why not? You're pretty, you're obviously incredibly smart, you love baseball, clearly, and I am attracted to things that have fire. I can see a lot of fire pent up in you. So... my question stands."
Perhaps she'd misunderstood him. There was no way Aegon Targaryen could be asking her out on a date. She was Arya Stark. No one liked her. She was slight and stubborn and bossy and rude and everything that no one wanted. No one but—
She glanced at Aegon. She wanted to say no. He was tall, but not tall enough. He was lean, fit, but not the muscular that she wanted. His voice was smooth, the tone of education and confidence, not rough experience and practicality. The list went on and on. Silver hair, not brown. Purple eyes, not blue. Some things that differed by inches, some by miles. There wasn't anything wrong with him; he was just wrong. It didn't even make sense to her, but it did. She had no desire for a date. She wasn't looking for him. Truth be told, all she wanted was to curl up into a ball and sleep for a very long time.
"Sure."
I don't want to forget, she thought. Just... let me forget for a little while.