Arya II

The old window in her room at the inn let in a strong draft. It shook as ice and wind beat the glass, rattling loudly against a wooden frame.

Arya rolled over and hid her face in the scratchy wool of her cloak. This was her third morning at the crossroads. It was well past time to head north. There was no warmth in the straw she had chosen over the obvious comfort of a featherbed, and she knew it would be best to get on with it.

Her underclothes and linens were still damp despite their temporary home next to the dwindling fire. I am Arya of House Stark. The blood of the First Men runs through my veins. Sometimes the reminder made her feel warmer, as though her body recalled its purpose with each acceptance of her lineage.

Gendry was waiting for her when she descended the stairs.

He would never admit to it, she knew, but he sat alone with two wooden plates and looked to her the moment she passed the beam that would have blocked his view. He said nothing in words, but the softening of his jaw and brow greeted her silently.

There wasn't much food with which to break her fast - a heel of hard brown bread and a mug of thick ale warmed over a fire. Gendry looked embarrassed at the offering, but Arya didn't care. They had managed hard boiled eggs and salt beef her first morning and porridge with bits of a dry pear yesterday, She took the ale first, savoring the way she awoke as it made a warm path down her throat.

"The Brotherhood should bring more soon," he muttered to no one in particular. "We're overdue for the better things - sugar, cheese, better ale than this piss."

"It's alright." The bread took ages to chew, but at least it did not taste of mold.

"Last time there was a bushel of apples and some turnips. Sometimes even jams to keep their teeth in their skulls." He tilted his head at the whirlwind of children's limbs careening towards the fireplace.

"Where does it all come from?" The Riverlands lacked the agricultural potential of the Reach - summer was the only reliable time for growing here. Heavy autumn rains rotted roots and blocked the sun. They might have managed sufficient funds to trade for supplies if the majority of the inn's guests were paying customers instead of destitute children. Gendry looked to his own mug at the question, as though an answer would bubble to the surface.. She responded for them both. "Stolen. How noble." In truth it didn't bother her as much as she let on, but he had prattled on about the feats of the Brotherhood for her first two nights and a disillusionment was overdue.

He glowered at her, lips pressed tightly together over his square jaw. So he isn't proud of everything they do, after all . His mouth barely opened as he replied, "Stolen from lords who hoarded their larders while common folk starved." His love for the brigade worried her, and that worry that began to feel more like revulsion with each new piece of information. How many corpses had she passed dangling by their necks on her way inland? It wasn't just miserly lords his brothers saw to, no matter what Gendry claimed.

They sat in stubborn silence for a moment, until the Bull abruptly stood up and shifted the entire table with the motion. The bench scraped terribly against the floor, carving a fresh scar into the floorboards. They both pretended not to hear. Without a word, he sulked off to pour himself into whatever he banged away at in his forge.

"Don't mind him. He's just got hot blood, that one." Jeyne dropped a peeled and boiled egg into the bread in Arya's hand. She didn't need anyone to tell her that.

"Always has," she grumbled in response before biting the egg in half. Jeyne's thin mouth pulled into a flat line as she smoothed the hair of an errant child by her side. "Where'd your husband go?" Marlyn had stayed at the inn only the first day and his absence aroused suspicions in Arya's gut. He had seemed kind enough, if not a little simple, but first impressions were trivial.

Jeyne sighed and sat down where Gendry had been moments before. Arya wondered if the bench was still warm.

"He doesn't tell me much, and what he does tell oughtn't be shared." Her dull brown eyes focused on a deep crack in the table. "Some business. But he'll be back soon enough, and with some grain for this lot." As if on cue, a child with a head full of blonde curls leapt into her lap. She unsnarled one of them and smiled across the table. Arya wondered if he had lice. Surely outbreaks were commonplace here.

With a nod, she left the thin woman to tend her gaggle and headed into the refreshing cool air.

Horse nickered softly when they saw each other. Even after a few days' rest, her ribs formed hills against her skin. Arya ran a hand over them and loosened a slipshod braid left by one of the brood. How could Horse go another 300 leagues? She'd need to leave her before they got too far north, and then she'd need to find a town where the mare was more likely to end her days in a stable than a bowl of stew.

A steady ringing came from the forge but she ignored it. Horse gobbled up some oats, her thick lips tickling Arya's palms. If she was truly to further delay their travels, she'd better take her out for a short ride to stretch her legs. Horses are like people , Hullen had once told her when she visited the stables as a child, you'd be no good sitting in your room all day and neither are they. It was strange to think of him after so long. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been bleeding out in a pile of hay at The Red Keep. She pushed the memory from her mind and tied her hair to keep it from her face. The grains hadn't been a full meal's worth and this seemed as good a time as any. The faded red blanket she had left her with was coated in dirt and straw, but Arya didn't need it for a short ride. She guided her from the stable and swung her right leg across Horse's back. With a pat and a scratch, they trotted from the makeshift stable and out into the weald.

Dried leaves the color of mud and cinnamon crunched beneath Horse's hooves. Some forgotten place deep in Arya's heart remembered a similar sight in her childhood, only hand-length needles of pine and bloodred weirwood leaves piled where there now laid maple and oak. Horse picked up speed. Arya gripped her mane and leaned forward. The passing trunks bled into one another to form a sea of browns and greys. The coppice spread out like fingers in snow, freezing rain slipping through the widening gaps between the trees. A lea lay to the south. It was perfectly preserved as though embalmed. Long blades of grass bent like sculptures in a glaze of rime. Nearby, a massive downed tree wore a thick coat of clear ice.

She dismounted but kept her by her side. The pack had been loud last night; no sense in offering up Horse like the sacrifices her ancestors had made to their gods. Her own gods, for a time. Her sigh formed a light cloud of steam in the heavy air. The skies had stopped draining for now, but they were still filled with heavy, grey clouds.

Two main options remained for her trip north. She could either ride the whole way, trudging horse after horse through heavy snows and chilling cold, or she could ride back the way she had come and try her luck getting a ship. The road had seemed the most sensible way when she'd swum the icy Bay of Crabs - no one would be sailing to Eastwatch by the Sea until spring unless they were delivering men to take the black. The more she imagined the journey by horse, the less plausible it seemed. She'd need a garron if she hoped to get past Barrowtown, and even that would need to be fitted with spikes and to stick to a ploughed road. She'd need to find a farrier to get spikes onto hooves and she'd need to switch horses every day or two to get there within the year. If Gendry weren't so damn stroppy, he'd have made a decent travel companion. He could forge the caulkins and shoe the horses, and he could even earn them some extra coin smithing while the garrows rested for the journey. But he was stroppy, and even a more agreeable man would never accompany her to the Wall.

Horse let out a neigh and chomped her teeth. Something in the bosk made her nervous. Arya looped her leg over the mare's ribs and seated herself for the ride back to the inn.

The forge was empty by the time she had locked the shack. The flames were out, but heat still rose from the ashes like desert sands in early night. She went back into the inn to get a mug of ale.

"We thought you'd left," Jeyne exclaimed. The more she spoke, the less Arya liked her.

"Still here. What happened to the children?" Two took turns carving figures into the floor planks and a few more were slumped against the tables, but most were gone.

"They're playing in the river, m'lady." Arya brushed aside the honorific like a fly in the air. It was too cold today for anyone to be in the icy waters, let alone small bodies. She told Jeyne as much and peered out the thick glass window. They weren't in the river, but they were next to it, a stumble away from its treacherous pull.

"Is Gendry with them?"

"No, m'lady, he's gone for a lie down. Said he didn't sleep well." This was the second time she had called her that. Not once in the first few days, and now twice in as many minutes. Arya gave her a copper for the cloudy ale and headed up the stairs.

Her room was not empty.

"What are you doing?"

Gendry was seated on her bed, most certainly not asleep. "You rode off. I figured you were gone."

"And forgot all my things? That still doesn't explain why you're sitting in my bed." He rolled his eyes before uttering an excuse.

"I thought you might have a map." The words were short and embarrassed, "Thought I might figure out where you'd gone."

She wasn't sure what to make of that. Accusation was easier. "Does the Brotherhood want a ransom for me? We've seen how that turns out." He sucked his teeth in dismissal. She sat down an arm's length away. "Well, no need to send Dondarrion and his drunken priest yet. The horse needs a few more days before I can ask her to trudge through snow." Her ale was cold and oddly mellow.

"Beric? Beric's dead. Has been for years." That was… surprising. There had been branches heavy with corpses on her journey west, the forked lightning of Blackhaven carved into dark bark beside their swaying, bloated bodies. The memory heated her blood.

"Who do you lot answer to, then? Who determines who hangs and whose larders flow to this inn?" His hand was still smeared with soot as he took a sip from a waxed cornet.

"Our leadership is… complicated." The pause between the final two words made her skeptical. His eyes flickered towards her for a moment but quickly returned to a crack in the wall in front of them. "The only decisions I've made are what to smith or who to let stay in the inn. Even as a knight, there is no authority." The hair on his temples moved slightly as he pressed his jaw shut and swallowed hard.

Perhaps she had been wrong to think him blind to the Brotherhood's deeds. He had to know of more corpses than those she'd seen recently. Gendry had always favored realistic justice - where did slaughtered villeins and serfs fit into that outlook? By what right do I lecture him on morality when I spent just as long serving the House of Black and White?

Now was her chance.

"Come north with me. You'd have far more agency on the road than you do under the thumb of the Brotherhood." His eyes were sunlit waves from the shore, enticing blue that promised adventure and escape if she could just get to them. He sighed as he met her gaze, then closed his eyes for a breath.

"I cannot be under their thumb when I am a part of the fist." She opened her mouth to respond, but there was little left to say. He had made his choice when he'd knelt for Beric's blade and risen a Knight of the Hollow Hill. It was foolish to think a few days changed that. They sat in silence for a moment, avoiding eye contact without diverting their view.

"Besides," his tone was lighter then, as though he'd shrugged the conversation off like a heavy pack, "I'm not built for a Northern winter. The snow we've got here is more than enough for me."

She laughed aloud at the idea of winter in the Riverlands being anything but mild. "We have snow in the summer, too, you know." It had been a foolish notion that he'd join her. He'd stay here, or he'd go off with some passing woman who caught his fancy and smith in whatever place she came from. Come spring, or whenever the Brotherhood dissolved, he'd end up somewhere sunny and warm. Their fates were not the same.

"Does Jeyne know who I am?" She couldn't get the barkeep's change in tone out of her mind.

He guffawed, as if it was more absurd than her being nameless for three days.

"No. Told her you went by Weasel, though. Like in Harrenhal."

She raised her brows at the memory. "I've used plenty of names since then, you know. Cat, Salty, Nan, Beth, Mercy-" she stopped listing them when he twisted his face at the last name.

"Mercy," he repeated in confusion. He said nothing more, though his face showed clear disapproval.

"Not my best, I admit. Still, they're all better than Weasel ." He shrugged and took another drink of whatever was in the horn. "And that doesn't solve why she's calling me a lady."

He stood up and walked towards the door, his long legs reaching it in just two steps. "AllI said was that you'd gone home. Doesn't take a maester to put a horse, good health, and having a home to go back to together."

She interrupted him before he reached the handle, "But you're in good health and you've no lordship."

Gendry considered it for a moment before shrugging and turning his head towards her. "Suppose Mott must've fed me good enough." His lips tugged into a smirk as he waited to open the door until he'd finished, "Now come on, Lady Stark, let's see if there's something to eat."

.

Morning came quickly the next day, its orange rays shoving their light through heavy grey skies. Her clothes were drier this time, no doubt because she had spent most of the day before indoors. Her head, on the other hand, had not improved. Each pulse beat harder, a wartime drum that she could not omit from the world.

With food in short supply and little else to do, she had spent most of the evening before drinking. It started with ale - Gendry suggested another cup each while Jeyne finished whatever watery stew she'd been cooking. Then another, when dinner brought little comfort. The Heddle girl had even joined them for a bit, proving her worth when not asking unnecessary questions. Eventually she'd remembered a cask of Dornish wine that Anguy had hidden in their stores long ago, though she'd only had a sip or two before retiring for the night to tend to her wailing babe.

By some miracle, Gendry had put aside his impatience for one evening and proved himself a decent marra.

It all came back to her when she saw the ash across her right thumb. He had taken her to the smithy to exhibit his recent projects. A bizarre, uncharacteristic disappointment had washed over her when he proved the excuse for their isolation was not a clever ploy to get her alone. Some part of her had hoped for something else. At least she could now take comfort in the knowledge that that part was buried deep within and was only made vulnerable by drink and good looking men. Nothing of the sort had taken place, of course. He'd simply shown her a few swords, spears, and shields of his making. Maybe there'd been some armor, too - she couldn't remember. What she could remember was that it was all quite good - much better than the swords he'd made in Harrenhal or his namesake helmet. These were art, crafted by skilled labor as opposed to stubborn hammering.

Afterwards, they'd occupied the space between sips with tales of their years apart. Gendry had not sired any of the endless cavalcade of children, but he knew most of their names and stories. The old dog had no name and had been left by a roving septon who'd died in an attack by the very men she'd free with Jaqen H'ghar. Arya found herself mildly startled at the growing temptation to say something - anything really - about where she'd been. Instead, she listened and put effort into making sure her eyes sparkled with intrigue while suppressing the strange urge to answer his questions.

The swollen moon was beginning its descent by the time she'd returned to her room alone. Its milky glow bathed the world in blue light and invited temptations she'd have preferred to keep buried. The intentional sorting of her belongings set her mind right. A long-sleeved woolen tunic that smelled of cattle (the best thing she'd stolen off some towheaded mason's chair in Wickenden) found its shape in a soft folded square. A dozen finger-length draughts clinked together until she wound a cotton rag around them like swaddled infants. Needle slid back into its sheath and returned to its home within the green blanket. The order steadied her mind's swimming enough to lie down and attempt sleep.

With the memories of how she'd spent the night before finally clear, she felt foolish. The lust had left in her slumber, but a different sort of throbbing had moved upwards and taken its place in her head. The freezing rain must have returned some time before dawn; its icy knuckles rapped at her window like gulls pecking at an oceanbound sailor's bread.

Seagulls had plagued Titan's Daughter so long ago, back when Salty had laughed and taken in the breadth of the sea in naïve awe. Their names stood strong in her mind - Yorko and his father Ternesio - but their faces had faded to blank, unshapen clay. Yorko had worn a crown of brown waves, but had his nose been broad or aquiline?

Sleep took her before she could remember.

The sun was high behind a blanket of clouds when she awoke.

Most of the inn's children were huddled inside by the fire, tugging each other's hair or wrestling on the filthy floorboards. The flipping of her stomach made her grateful to have awoken too late to break her fast with whatever slimy eggs or hard bread remained. Instead, she walked to the steaming river and rinsed her face.

The water was gelid.

Cold seeped in through her skin and left her in a strange shudder. She did it again. Two more splashes froze her head and stomach until she felt nearly herself.

Her hair was plastered to her neck, so she ran a palm of water through it and braided it back. Nothing was as annoying as hair stuck to day-old sweat. The water was cold and revializing as she cupped some in her hand and swallowed.

A peal chimed high and clear from the western side of the inn. Gendry was at work, clearly less afflicted from their night than she was. She followed the sound.

The smith did not hear her approach despite the cracking of ice and gasping of mud beneath her feet. The fire in the forge was small and cast a weak warm light upon the floor beneath his anvil.. He wore a faded brown woolen jacket, its hood covering his forehead and hair with shadow. His neck jutted forward to view his craft, lining his eyes and brow up with a beam of dusty light that fell from a crack in the roofing. With his hands black from soot and his eyes faded to a glacial blue, he looked like one of the Others from Old Nan's stories.

She shook the thought away. Old Nan was surely dead, just like everyone else, and her stories had died with her.

"How long have you been standing there?" His voice was rough this morning. Mayhaps he felt those drinks after all. She didn't answer. "Still in one piece, I see."

"Something like that."

She sat on the rickety oak bench and watched as he pumped a strange leather and wood apparatus into the flames for a while. It wasn't clear what he was making. Something smaller than a longsword but similar in shape. A shortsword or very long dagger, perhaps. The work became his entire focus. He plunged the metal into the flames and let it heat for a moment, then hammered the other side. The process continued for ages, but somehow it never bored her to watch. Heat, hammer, heat, hammer, heat, hammer, measure, heat, hammer, heat. Gendry pulled a massive steel vessel at least four feet high out from beside the forge. He reached in and let a handful of sand fall through his fingers before inspecting the glowing blade. Arya hadn't never known sand to be an ingredient in smithing - she'd always thought it was just lots of fire and hammering eventually quenched with water. The metal hissed as loud as the Trident as it plunged into the bucket.

He glanced at her with confusion before finding something larger to work on.

A rack of swords stood against the wall. She had looked at them the night before but they truly shined in the daylight. Arya rose and inspected them closely. There were doublehanded long swords, curved backswords, and half a dozen differentiations of grooves and grips. The second one she picked up fit well in her hand. The balance felt right, at least to her. She tossed it to her right hand, then back to the left. "Do you actually know how to use all of these?"

Gendry scoffed at the question. "Do you?" He muttered as he started shaping something around the curve of the anvil.

"Show me." She pushed his hammer up with the tip of the sword. "Come on. You must have some skill with a blade. Show me."

He didn't laugh as he looked at her. "You want to spar against a man twice your size... using live steel? You must not value your time in the world of the living."

"Should be easy for you, then. Besides, you're barely a foot taller - certainly not twice my size." The mud swallowed her feet whole as she walked to the open yard. It was small, but it would do. When she looked back, Gendry was shrugging off his jacket.

"Not with that," he said loudly as he snatched the sword from her hand. "Here." A dull practice sword fell before her boots. "I've given my share of lessons," he said as he tilted his head towards the inn. Of course he has , Arya realized. The inn wouldn't last a year if the children couldn't defend themselves on their own. She wondered if the blade that had fit her grip so well was made for a greener fighter than she'd realized. How foolish she must have appeared swinging a child's weapon through the air. "Alright, let's get this over with."

Sleet poured down upon them in grey sheets. He readied himself in an awkwardly wide stance, like he thought the sludge beneath his feet would betray him if he stood normally.

Syrio Forel had taught her to water dance long ago, but it was the Faceless Men who had taught her how to really fight. Gendry gave every incoming blow away with a shift of his wrist. His strikes were like splitting wood: all force and follow-through with little strategy. She danced away from his swings easily, each landing right where she had been before he could adjust for her new positioning. Though her sword's handle was slippery with mud, she kept her grip tight on the metal.

"You're too big for that sword," she said, half-taunting and half-serious. "You'd be better off using an axe or a warhammer. Maybe a mace." It was true despite her tone. Even Gregor Clegane had wielded a sword, but the thing had practically been a flattened lance. An axe would complement his strength, a hammer his long reach.

His brows pressed down hard over his eyes as he jabbed the dull blade towards her. It took her two steps to keep up with one of his, but what he had in size he lacked in speed.

"We didn't all grow up with a master-at-arms," he huffed as he sliced.

She parried the swing with an upward twist of her wrist. The impact brought a shiver up her arm and into her lungs, knocking her breath out in one grunt.

"Oh yes, how could I expect a smith to know his weaponry?" She ducked a high blow and stepped back when she saw his weight shift. "Are you ever actually going to hit me?" That irritated him. He swung hard, feigning an upwards strike before coming in forcefully from the right.

"It's not a fight if you run away the whole time." The tip of his sword grazed her side, but he brought it up and tried to wedge it beneath her arm. She exhaled hard as she bent back to keep her body away. It was an unconventional method, but it had nearly gotten her. He worked at her left side for a moment too long - slicing the air up and over. They were going in circles. She focused on a tear in his tunic to stop herself from feeling dizzy.

She pivoted quickly, her sword still pressed against his to stop him from slicing through her while her back was turned. He kept moving forward and caught her leg under his. The mud slid beneath them and threw them onto the cold, wet earth. She pointed her blade down as they fell in a desperate attempt to stay upright. Though it stabbed through the frozen layers, it could not keep its grip. Gendry caught himself with both hands, his sword discarded beside them.

For a moment they froze. If this became a grappling match, she would lose. No strategy could out maneuver him from beneath his weight. As she thought of how to escape, she looked at his face for an indication of what he'd do next. He was only an inch or two above her as he reached for his sword. His head was turned to her left, his perspective focused on getting his weapon back. In all the years she'd remembered his face, she'd always imagined his mouth wrong. It was fuller than she remembered when it wasn't flattened into a grimace. Were his lips rough like his hands, or soft like her own?

They were both.

It took only the slightest lift of her head to bring her mouth to his - she hadn't even realized it happened until she felt him turn back towards her.

He pushed his weight up fully and looked at her for a moment, then brought his face back down..

Arya had done this before, but never as herself. First with Raff the Sweetling, but she had barely noticed it in her rush to kill him. The next had been a sandy-haired teen close to her age, too drunk to pretend not to be embarrassed when she pulled away. The last was a Summer Islander who frequented the brothel. That kiss had been the best of the three. Each time she had been someone else, Mercedene for Raff, then the visage of a young Tyroshi with high cheekbones and a heart-shaped mouth for the others.

This time she was just Arya. That made things different.

Gendry's defenses had lowered. He wasn't worried about their sparring and his hand dropped the hilt of his sword. She grabbed it from him and pressed it against his throat.

"I win."

He made that stupid face he made when he thought too hard. In the space of a blink, he got off of her and wiped the mud from his knees before silently heading back to his precious forge.

Arya wiped down their weapons with a rag that had been discarded on the bench. What happened now? She had seen the way he looked at her - eyes darting to the side when she turned towards him, a lingering moment behind her, intently staring directly through her rather than meeting her gaze. Men who try not to be seen looking are the ones looking closest , Isabel had told her. Yet here he was, more interested in working metal than in the woman that had just kissed him.

Neither of them spoke. Gendry tossed more wood in the fire. A piece bounced off of the corner of the trough built into the forge and clattered loudly on the ground. He ground his teeth and ignored it, then turned his attention to the nearest thing in sight. His brow furrowed as he feigned interest in measuring the blade on the anvil. He thrust it into the fire and sucked his teeth that nothing was sufficiently hot a moment later. The flames had barely reached the bark around the smallest log. Arya failed to bite back a laugh.

"Why are you still here?" He barked without looking at her. "Don't you have other people to bother?"

For a moment she was back in Harrenhal, storming out of the hot forges. She was not so shortsighted now.

Arya shrugged. "No one interesting in there." He finally looked at her, his face scrunched in disdain.

"Interesting?"

She stood up and took two steps forward. The heat of the fire was building now and she could feel it dry the rain on her face.

His eyes went anywhere else. How could a man grown be disquieted by so simple an act? Something wicked inside of her enjoyed the power.

"I knew you'd be easy to distract."

Another step forward.

As if to prove her wrong, he put the sword back into the fire. He tried thrice to fit it into the perfect spot in the hottest embers before turning towards her. "So that's what that was? A distraction?" The words flew from his mouth like a curse.

Two more steps. He was just over an arm's length away.

Gendry straightened defiantly and held his head higher, but she noticed he did not move away. He was just as easy to influence as any other man. She nodded and felt her left brow twitch slightly.

"An easy one." Her voice rang strangely in her own ears. "If you want, I can show you again." He stopped avoiding her gaze. A thick black brow flickered just as hers had. "So you can practice how to defend against it, of course," she added.

Two more small steps. A heat washed over him and darkened his blue eyes.

And then it was happening again. It started innocently enough - just his lips on hers, then a hand upon her face, then another on her waist. They were too close to the forge, but its warmth was intoxicating against the heavy frozen air drafting in from outside. He pulled away long enough to remove the sword from the flames, but was back on her a moment later.

There was less thinking in kissing than she had expected. Every head tilt and tongue movement came naturally, like it was carved into her bones and flowed through her veins. A heat rose from deep within, just below her gut, and burned hotter when his hands shifted to pull her closer. She wondered what he would do if she were to untie the belt knotted at his waist and slip a hand beneath his shirt. The leather was rough in her palm as she found the ligature. She loosened the first loop with ease-

"If m'lady finds out about this, she'll order you dangling from the trees." A man was in front of the forge. Probably Marlyn, by the way his mouth sounded full of cotton when he spoke.

They separated.

It wasn't Marlyn, but a lean redheaded man missing two of his front teeth.

"When did you get in?" Gendry asked through heavy breaths. Arya heard horses nickering and the fracas of men discussing which boxes to bring in first . They must have arrived with the supplies. She didn't wait for the stranger to answer.

"Who will?'" So Gendry was married. Or at least had someone who'd be angry with him for kissing her. She looked at him for a moment, then back at the figure standing in the mud.

"Who's askin'?" The man's regrowing beard was a darker shade than his hair. It looked as though someone had cut his face with a thousand tiny blades.

"I'm a friend of the Brotherhood." She said, stepping forward. She pushed the disgust from her mind as his eyes lingered while looking her up and down.

"Aye, I can see that much. Don't look like no whore I've ever seen before, though." He wore a brown leather arming cap and a stained wool cloak. The strings of the cap were tied so tightly that his chins looked doubled despite his small frame. "Thing is, we don't keep friends - just brothers or enemies. And you don't look like no brother to me." He stretched out the word while his eyes ran over her again.

"Harys." Gendry stepped forward to her left. His voice sounded like a warning, but the thought of him trying to protect her stirred up anger in her blood.

Coinage beckoned from her room. Silver would grease all but the most stubborn of wheels. "I'll give you a stag for a name. Two, even."

"To know the Hangwoman?" Arya nodded. "M'lady has many names. There's some what call her the Silent Sister. To others she's known as Mother Merciless. Most in these parts know her by the name Lady Stoneheart." Whoever this woman was, she wasn't known for her kindness. Arya turned her head to stare accusationally at Gendry. His face was twisted in discomfort, his mouth pushed to one direction while he clenched his jaw.

"There is no House Stoneheart. Surely this Mother Merciless has a born name." Gendry sighed loudly at her probing.

Harys stepped close and lowered his voice. "Aye, she did once." His breath reeked of stale brew and rotted teeth. "But it'll take more than two silvers to learn it."

With his guard lowered, it took only a single movement to twist him into her grip. He struggled against the crook of her arm and the scalding hot sword that had been tossed aside earlier now hovered above neck. "Alright! Alright! Where'd you find this one, Gendry?"

"A name." She held the blade closer still. Something about his contorted face eased her disappointment with Gendry's lies.

"It's said she was born Catelyn Stark. Or, Tully, I mean." Each word took up an entire breath. "Then Stark. She wears the fish Riverrun sewn upon one breast and a bleeding direwolf on the other."

He dropped to the floor like a sack of wheat. The metal hilt burned her palm and the slippery glaze frozen over the ground threatened to send her careening down as she sprinted, but she ignored it all. It can't be true . Her mother was dead. She'd seen it all in her sleep; a wolf pulled her bloated, lifeless body from a river after Robb's massacre of a wedding. It had told her all she'd needed to know at the time, but if it was truly just a meaningless dream…

Heavy steps thundered behind her as she pulled the drawstring bag from a secret pocket sewn into her discarded cloak. Gendry had followed her back to the inn. He said something but she ignored it just as she had the burn on her hand. It took only a moment to tie the blanket roll shut and don her cloak and scarf.

The stairs blurred beneath her feet as she ran to the cart full of food. A wheel of wax-covered cheese, salt cod, two bags of oats, some carrots, and a few potatoes would be enough. She tossed a few coins to one of the men unloading it and headed to Horse. Gendry was close behind her.

A coat of ice nearly an inch thick covered the ground by the makeshift stable. She'd need to walk the mare out to prevent her from breaking a leg. They could follow the tracks from the wagon. From there, she'd figure something else out. It couldn't be that hard.

Gendry was shouting something now but she still paid him no mind. Horse shrunk back in the shack, afraid of the commotion. She shushed her and unclasped the door.

"Arya!" It was quieter away from the din of yelling children and drinking men. Gendry gripped her wrist to hold her still.

"Let go," she hissed through her teeth.

"You don't know where you're going or what you're doing... or who you'll find."

His grip was steel. "Let go," she repeated, "Or I'll break your arm so well you'll never smith again."

He did as she asked this time, his hand hovering between them like it had nowhere else to go.

"Don't do this again." She could feel the frustration radiating from him in waves. "I - I'll come with. I've been to their depot before. And… and I know the Brotherhood. I am the Brotherhood. If you just wander into their camp, they'll kill you."

She turned back to Horse. "I'm not concerned with that. I can find my own way."

He said her name one once more. Softer, like he knew he'd never say it again. "You can't take your horse. They'll track you faster that way. We can go on foot."

She smoothed back Horse's mane. "Make sure they feed her. The little ones can ride her, but I won't be blamed if anyone gets a hoof to the head. And you can't eat her if your delivery runs late."

"I'll tell Jeyne before we go," he agreed.

"You're not coming with me." Just a day ago she had imagined him joining her for the voyage North. The irony was not lost on her. That was before she'd learned her mother still breathed, before she'd known he'd let her believe she was alone in this world.

"I am. Go get a sword from the smithy. That spillikin won't be of any use where we're going."

A/N: I've worked on both of these while I had some time off recently, so I certainly won't keep this pace up. The Gendrya chapters are much easier to write than other POVs, but I'll put some effort into getting the next one done. As you may see with the pattern that is starting here, the first chunk of this story is going to alternate between Arya/Gendry and other characters to get a sense of what has changed in the realm over the years. The next chapter will be in King's Landing, but we'll be back in the Riverlands very soon.

And yes, I know the whole sexual-tension-during-sparring thing is cliche, but what else do you expect from a fanfic about an assassin and a smith?