Arya managed all of a day in the wheelhouse. She wanted to support Sansa, to not let her sister face Cersei alone day in and day out, but Sansa had caught her by the arm the next morning and said, "I have a broken wrist. You don't. You shouldn't waste that."
After that, Arya rode beside her father and the Stark men. She exulted in how the sun seeped into her skin, in Nymeria and Lady loping on either side of her horse, in the wind unravelling her braids no matter how tightly Sansa made them each morning. The loss of Winterfell hung over her with each passing day, but riding across the country, with dire wolves at her heel, was almost enough to make up for it.
She knew these roads as well as anybody else riding the King's Road – better than some, even. She had passed them riding to King's Landing the first time, and spent so much time traversing the Riverlands with Yoren and Gendry and the Hound. Each day, it felt like a new memory leapt out at her as she passed: That leads to the Vale. That's where the Hound got me. The Twins are down that road. She didn't share her memories with anyone: not Sansa, not Ned, and definitely not the Hound.
He didn't remember. She and Sansa were certain of that, even though the two of them had wondered about him, once. He was Joffrey's man at the moment, angry and cynical and with little and less to redeem him. She avoided him wherever she could: it was hard to look at him and not see Mycah's killer. Avoiding him was easy enough, since he spent most of his time guarding Joffrey, and she did everything possible to stay as far away from Joffrey as she could.
Sansa joined in her in the late afternoons, when they had stopped to make camp. They picked wildflowers for Ned – though Sansa always avoided where the mud was thickest, because some things never changed – Nymeria and Lady dashing at their heels. Lady, too, avoided the mud where she could, but Nymeria tackled her into the mud, her tail wagging.
"Nymeria!" gasped Sansa, while Arya just laughed. Sansa crossed her arms and harrumphed. "It's not funny, Arya. Do you know how long it'll take me to get all the mud out of her coat?"
"It's fine," said Arya. Lady nipped at Nymeria playfully, and Nymeria sprinted for the trees, Lady on her heels. "Nymeria does it all the time."
"My ladies," called Alyn. "It's time to head back to camp." Arya sighed. Alyn was a Stark man, but she still kind of wished she could hit him. It wasn't his fault, of course, but the nights in camp were always her least favourite time, dodging Lannisters and the Hound, playing at being a perfect lady.
"We're coming," called Sansa.
"Unfortunately," muttered Arya.
"Do you need to fetch your wolves?" asked Alyn, his eyes flicking towards where Nymeria and Lady had disappeared into the trees.
"They're coming," said Arya certainly. "They'll reach us before we reach camp."
"If you're sure, Lady Arya," said Alyn. "I'm not sure the guards will be forgiving if the two come without you."
"They'll catch up," said Arya. As if on cue, Nymeria and Lady sauntered into view, unhurried and unconcerned, both panting delightedly and covered in mud.
"So much mud," murmured Sansa in distress.
"There's a creek by the camp," said Arya. "The mud isn't dry yet; we can wash them off there."
When they arrived back among the tents, Ned was still with Robert. Sansa and Arya were both half-soaked, since Nymeria had taken a little too much pleasure in shaking herself dry. Nymeria trotted to the Stark tents, her tail wagging cheerfully, while Lady followed daintily. "Do you think that Brienne's still with the Kingslayer?" asked Arya.
Sansa shrugged. "Only one way to find out."
Brienne and the Kingslayer. It was still an odd thought.
Jaime Lannister was, in fact, still in the Stark tent when Sansa and Arya pushed their way inside. Brienne looked up at them and frowned. "Why are you both so wet?"
"Nymeria," sighed Sansa, like it explained everything. Brienne nodded, as if it did. Arya wondered if she should be offended on behalf of her dire wolf, before deciding it wasn't worth it. She really did explain everything.
"They're smaller than I remember," said Jaime, glancing at Lady over his shoulder. Lady let out a puff of air and rested her head on her front paws.
"Don't worry," said Arya blandly. "They'll grow."
"I'm sure they'll terrify the kingdom," said Jaime, his voice equally bland. "I'm not sure that they quite match up with your whole image, though."
Arya rested her hand on her hip and speared him with her glare. "And what image is that, exactly?"
"You know," said Jaime, waving his hand. "Proper ladies, desperately in love with the prince simply because he's the prince, believing that the life is a story and you're the heroine of a song." He nodded at Sansa and said, "Cersei already thinks you're a scheming whore, after the Bolton incident."
"We're not leaving the dire wolves," said Sansa, her voice tight.
"No, I imagine not," said Jaime. "They're better protectors that anything else you could hope for – well, besides Brienne." He flashed Brienne a smile. "I can't claim to be much of a politician, but it would be a terrible strategic move to rid yourselves of guards as loyal and ferocious."
"A better guard than you?" asked Arya. "Killed Aerys, failed to stop the murder of Robert and Joffrey, could not prevent the suicide of Tommen, abandoned even your sister." Jaime's spine straightened, his gaze turning cold. Arya jutted her chin out. He had mentioned Ramsay; he had caused the tightness in Sansa's shoulders, the way her hands had balled into fists. His failures were fair game.
"Arya," said Brienne, softly.
"Littlefinger was responsible for Joffrey," said Sansa. "There's little Ser Jaime could have done." She did not mention Cersei, but she still hung over the conversation heavily, a blizzard ready to bury them.
Jaime got to his feet, his movements lithe. "It's best that I head back. I'm due to guard my sister." As he passed, he said to Arya, "I'd avoid the butcher's boy, if I were you."
"War in the North, war in the east," said Robert, filling his glass with wine before coming to sit heavily by Ned. "No doubt the bloody Ironborn will start getting ideas and we'll have war in the west, too."
"War in the east, your grace?" asked Ned.
Robert sighed. "I got a rider in the night not long before I arrived in Winterfell. Daenerys Targaryen married to a Dorthraki khal."
"A horse lord far across the Narrow Sea," said Ned, his heart beating fast. "What of it?"
"A Dothraki khal isn't just a horse lord," snapped Robert. "You know that as well as I do. This Khal Drogo has forty thousand Dothraki screamers at his back."
"Forty thousand men mean nothing when they have no ships," said Ned. "She's a child, Robert. If she is ever a threat, it won't be for years yet."
"A child?" asked Robert. He took a scrap of parchment from his cloak and handed it to Ned. "She's with child herself."
Ned stared at the parchment. Sansa and Arya had never mentioned a child. She must have lost it, decided Ned. Sometime between now and when Daenerys Targaryen had landed in Westeros, she had lost her child and replaced them with dragons.
I should tell Robert, he thought, not for the first time. But Daenerys Targaryen hadn't done anything yet, nothing more than been sold to a Dothraki warlord and become pregnant by him. Robert would have her head for something that Daenerys had never even done, just as he had had the heads of Elia Martell's children. And Robert couldn't be told just about Daenerys; he would have questions that Ned wasn't willing to answer. What king would be fool enough to pass over an opportunity like knowledge of things to come? He had to protect his daughters.
"Lost your tongue, Ned?" asked Robert triumphantly.
"Daenerys has done nothing," said Ned. "Her child is not even born yet, and for all we know, may never be born. If they look to sail for Westeros, we can handle it then, but the Seven Kingdoms have larger concerns, your grace. Like how to increase the numbers of the Night's Watch, or how to properly store sufficient food for the longest winter in memory and an oncoming war."
"And how are we to do any of that if there is to be a war between now and then?" said Robert. "Do you think Daenerys Targaryen will be so willing to listen to you when you tell stories of the Long Night?"
"I will never need to treat with Daenerys, or with her brother," said Ned. "You are the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Robert. You have the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Westerlands and the Stormlands. Through Sansa and Theon, you will have the Iron Islands soon enough. The Martells may be proud and the Tyrells ambitious, but neither family is filled with enough fools to think that they can fight six other kingdoms and win."
"You're right that you won't ever have to treat with Viserys," said Robert. "The boy's dead. Daenerys Stormborn is the last hope of House Targaryen."
"A young girl who will soon have a squalling babe in her arms," said Ned. "Hardly much of a threat. You have three healthy children and two brothers, a dynasty that the Targaryens have not been able to rival since the Dance. And," he added, "the Dance alone shows the preference for kings over queens."
"That was an entirely different situation and you damn well know it," said Robert shortly.
"What else do you want me to say?" asked Ned. "She's a child, Robert. She is no threat to you. As your Hand, I believe that there are better – more important – things to focus on."
There was no agreement to be made. He went back to his tent. Brienne was standing guard, and she smiled at him as he greeted her. Lady and Nymeria were lying half on top of each other on the ground, and Arya almost tripped over them as she got to her feet.
"Are you still up?" asked Ned, more amused than anything.
She held out a bunch of wildflowers, a crowded bouquet of blue and yellow and purple. "We went exploring earlier."
Sansa sat, braiding her hair in to one long braid. "Nymeria got us soaked."
"How else was she meant to dry off?" shot back Arya.
"By not shaking herself right next to us," said Sansa promptly. "Like Lady did." Arya shot Lady a distrustful look, like shaking herself dry out of human reach was an inherently suspicious act. All at once, the weight seemed to lift off of Ned's shoulders, the headache he had been fighting all afternoon receding.
"Thank you," said Ned, pressing a kiss to Arya's forehead. "They're lovely."
The night air was cool on her back as she dashed through the woods, leaping over fallen branches. Her sister was only a few steps behind, both eager to stretch their legs and run. The trees were thick with scents, but Arya didn't stop for a single one.
Their running took them deeper and deeper into the woods, away from the prying eyes. She ducked around a boulder too large to climb and then on, on, until she reached a riverbank too wide to jump. At the edge of the water, Arya stopped and howled. Once, there would have been a pack to respond to her, but all there was now was her sister, howling at her side.
Across the river, somewhere out there, was home, and Arya's brothers.
Arya woke with a gasp and as someone grabbed her shoulder. It was Ned, with Sansa just behind him. "Half the camp's awake," said Ned. "The King certainly is."
Arya struggled upright. "Why?"
Ned looked at her pointedly, and the sound gradually came in, the long, drawn out howl of the dire wolves. "You told me once that Lady was killed and Nymeria lost," said Ned. "We do not wish for the royal family to lose their patience with them if we can help it."
Arya hunched her shoulders, nodding. "We'll keep them quiet," promised Arya.
"Dawn's not far off," said Ned. "We'll probably be making an early start, since most of us are awake as it is."
Arya nodded. She and Sansa helped each other into their dresses and tamed their hair before they emerged into the first rays of light, the pinks and oranges just starting to disrupt the dark horizons. Arya glanced towards the river, and flushed guiltily when she saw the red-headed boy drawing water.
Sansa nudged her. "Don't look."
"I haven't spoken to him," promised Arya. "Haven't even met his eye."
Sansa softened. "He'll be fine, Arya. He's not brought any attention to himself, and nor will he." Arya must have looked doubtful, because Sansa smiled a little and added, "Joffrey's not going to go around provoking fights with the smallfolk for no reason."
Arya snorted. "Are you sure about that?"
"Well, no," admitted Sansa. "But they have to do something to draw his attention in the first place, and Mycah -" Sansa still said the name oddly. She had forgotten it, she said, after all this time. Arya wasn't sure if it was guilt or unfamiliarity that caused the odd inflection in Sansa's voice. (Arya had never forgotten. She never would.) " – is invisible, for all intents and purposes."
Arya chewed at her bottom lip, her eyes wandering back to Mycah. He was so much younger than she remembered him being, but she supposed she had been young, too. They had both been children, all of them – even Sansa and Joffrey, really – and the Hound had still ridden Mycah down and killed him. Murdered, all because Joffrey had wanted to torment a common boy.
"I'll ride with you today," said Sansa, suddenly.
Arya jerked her gaze back to her sister. "But your arm -"
"It hasn't hurt since just after we started out from Winterfell," said Sansa. "Maester Luwin even said that it should be healed by the time we arrived in King's Landing -"
"We haven't arrived yet -"
"- And honestly, the wheelhouse can be so bumpy, I'm not sure that it's any better," finished Sansa.
Arya narrowed her eyes. "You hate riding."
Sansa shrugged. "I've never seen the Riverlands, not really. It'll be nice to see our mother's lands for the day." She lowered her voice, so quiet that even Arya had to strain to hear her. "And it'll be nice to be away from Cersei for the day."
Reluctantly, Arya felt herself smile. "Fine. You can ride with me."
When the time came for them to ride out, Sansa insisted on singing about Jenny of Oldstones – "She was from the Riverlands, Arya, of course we have to sing it" – and then Florian and Jonquil's song. Ned had laughed and hummed along with Sansa's singing. Arya found herself singing along to the maiden of the tree's song, though she regretted it immediately when she saw Sansa's smug face.
Along the way, Ned pointed out places he had been. Arya had as many stories to share as him, but she couldn't speak them around so many people – and there were more than a few that she had no wish to tell. Still, Arya listened closely as Ned spun his stories, sometimes of war and sometimes of youthful misadventure.
"That way to Harrenhal," said Ned, nodding at a path that snaked away through the trees. "The King and I both went to the Tourney of Harrenhal in the Year of the False Spring." He smiled slightly, his face sad. "There was a mystery knight that entered the jousts that year, with a shield painted with a laughing weirwood tree. The knight unhorsed three knights before they disappeared."
"A weirwood tree?" asked Arya. "Were they from the North?"
"Perhaps," said Ned. "Or perhaps they were inspired by the Isle of Faces. Whoever it was, the Mad King wasn't pleased, insisting the knight had to be a traitor. Yet all they ever found of the knight was the laughing shield."
Arya smiled, saying, "I bet the Mad King wasn't happy about that."
"No," agreed Ned. "But he wasn't happy about most things in those days." Ned's eyes grew sadder.
"I bet I could unhorse three knights," declared Arya, before Ned could sink any deeper into his thoughts.
Ned huffed out a laugh. "I'm sure you could, you little she-wolf."
Sansa wrinkled her nose. "It seems very dangerous."
"You love tourneys," said Arya, twisting in her saddle to look at her sister accusingly.
"I love watching tourneys," said Sansa. "And it's trained knights that I like watching ride in a tourney, not my sister."
Arya let out hmmph, looking ahead. They were riding behind the royal wheelhouse, and Robert himself was riding ahead of that, surrounded by the King's Guard that had accompanied him north. She was surrounded by Stark men and by her father and sister, Nymeria and Lady keeping pace with them somewhere in the trees.
With a wrench in her stomach, she realised that Mycah had been left far behind, and Lady was still with them. She had changed something. She had saved two lives, and had caused all the changes that would spiral out of the two surviving. Maybe Mycah would just grow up to take over his father's butchery, marry a girl and have children; maybe Lady would only make it to King's Landing before Joffrey made a wrong move and found himself threatened by a snarling dire wolf. Maybe Lady and Mycah's changes on the world would be tiny.
But the changes were made.
Valar morghulis, she thought. All men must die.
But not today. Not today.
It was ridiculously cold beyond the Wall. Jon was grateful when they came across their first building to take shelter in, cresting on the horizon. Next to him, Sam stared at the homestead, his shoulders hunching together and his mouth tightening.
"What's wrong?" asked Jon.
"I've heard of this place," said Sam. "Craster's Keep." Sam's voice was heavy. "He's one of the only people beyond the Wall who'll give Rangers shelter, but…"
"But what?" prompted Jon.
"But he's a cunt," said Benjen, bluntly. "A monster, one that it shames us all to rely on – but beyond the Wall, the Rangers must take what protection they can. Dacey!" he called, turning to look at the Mormont heir. She was riding behind them, and sat up straighter at the sound of her name. "You'd best be careful in the Keep. Stay with someone you trust." Dacey nodded gravely.
"That bad?" asked Jon.
"The worst," said Benjen. "But we need shelter before we range further north. We don't want to meet the Wildlings exhausted."
Benjen wouldn't be resting in Craster's Keep. He would keep riding north to seek out the Wildlings and offer parley. As both a Stark and the First Ranger of the Night's Watch, he was best placed to show that they were serious. He wouldn't be alone, of course – but Jon wouldn't be with him.
"Uncle Benjen died beyond the Wall," Arya had told him, once, her face pale and sad after she had seen Benjen for the first time. "You and Bran both said that he became a kind of wight, one that kept his own mind. He saved you both." And this time, Jon thought now, I'll save him.
Well, he would, so long as Benjen didn't die looking for Mance Rayder.
"Why is he so bad?" asked Jon.
"He marries his daughters," said Benjen, grimly. "We don't know what he does to his sons."
There was something tickling at his memory. Something important. Arya and Sansa hadn't mentioned Craster, as far as he could remember, but something they had told him was important.
"He kills his own sons?" asked Sam in horror.
Benjen sighed. "He must. No Wildling goes near him, so there would be no one to take his sons."
Jon sat up straighter. "Except there is," he realised. He knew what he hadn't been able to remember. "The Others can change children – babes – into one of them."
"They can what?" spluttered Sam.
"Are you sure?" asked Benjen. "Are you absolutely certain?"
"Yes," said Jon. "We heard it from -" He cut himself, not sure how to say 'the other me' in front of strangers without sounding completely mad. Benjen nodded, though, not needing the name.
"Shit." With that, Benjen spurred his horse forward to catch up with Mormont.
The Keep was quiet when they arrived. Some of the daughters stopped their work to watch them ride in. Their quiet stillness reminded Jon too much of his sisters ever since the world had changed. He didn't need to wonder what had placed ghosts in their eyes and had stilled the bubbling energy of childhood for these women.
"This is sick," muttered Jon.
"Worse than sick," agreed Sam.
"Jon!" called Benjen, beckoning him. He was at the entrance to the so-called Keep, a foot half already in the door. Mormont and Craster were no where to be seen, presumably already inside.
Jon sighed. "Into the belly of the beast," he said. "Ghost!" Ghost bounded to Jon's side, looking up at him with a cocked head. "Take care of Dacey."
"I'd tell you that I can take care of myself," said Dacey, a slight smile on her face, "but I saw your sister's wolf take down Ramsay Snow. Watching yours might be more satisfying than doing it myself."
"I doubt you'll need him," said Jon. "The only one here to trouble you is Craster, and he's already inside. But keep him from frightening the daughters, won't you?"
"The daughters and the coward crows both," said Dacey, glancing over her shoulder at the few Night's Watchmen who had accompanied them.
It was dark inside Craster's home, with only a few lanterns to light it. Jon made his way through the dim light and seated himself next to Benjen, across from Craster and Mormont. "We will be marching for the Fist as soon as we are able," Mormont was saying. "We will not intrude on your hospitality for long."
Craster snorted. "If you ask me, this is all a waste of time. The Wildlings will never bend the knee to you."
"I heard you didn't have much contact with the Wildlings," said Jon before he could stop himself.
Craster narrowed his eyes at him. "I am a Wildling. Girl!" He turned and gestured over the woman standing nearby with a pitcher in her hands. She startled and hurried over, filling the cups with wine. "Tell them about our lives."
"We are lucky to have such a good husband," said the woman, with brown hair and pretty brown eyes. The words had a rote feel to them, the rhythm of the words too practiced to be honest. "He keeps us safe and he keeps us free. It is better to live free than it is to die a slave."
"So I take it that you have no plans of moving south of the Wall with your -" Jon skated his eyes over the woman, who was shuffling back to retake her place against the wall – "wives?" He couldn't keep the scepticism out of his voice.
"Why should I?" said Craster. "To kneel to a southern lord and kiss his perfumed feet? I am my own master here, and that is how it will remain."
Your own master? Is that why you sacrifice your children to the White Walkers? Jon bit the words back just in time, but still couldn't resist a response: "It almost sounds as if you don't wish for peace."
"Peace?" repeated Craster, snorting out a laugh. "Of course I don't want peace. If there's no Night's Watch begging my mercy, then where I am going to get the good wine?"
"Then why should we not march out of here right now?" asked Mormont. "How do we know that you will not sabotage us?"
Craster shrugged. "No need to sabotage you. The Wildlings will never kneel to one of the little lordlings you call king south of the Wall, and you will never allow them to cross without the doing so. This will end poorly, you mark my words – then you'll come crawling back to Craster." He smirked.
This is pointless. Craster was a monster, and not a useful one, at that. He leered at the girl from before as she stepped forward to fill Mormont's cup. Jon carefully didn't look at her, not wanting for either of them to be on the wrong side of Craster's temper.
Afterwards, he watched as Benjen swung back into the saddle. He had two rangers with him. Jon would have liked him to have more company, but Benjen had insisted it was best to travel in small groups north of the Wall – especially if they were to be dodging inhuman foes. Benjen was wearing his black cloak, the fur settling around his shoulders, and for the first time since Jon was a babe in arms, he had a dire wolf pinned to his cloak.
"Be careful," said Jon.
"I will, Jon," promised Benjen.
"You remember what the girls said?" asked Jon.
"Yes," said Benjen. "I heard it from them a dozen times over in Winterfell, another dozen from your father, and then five dozen times from you on the ride here."
Jon half-laughed, worry still festering in his chest. "I'll see you at the Fist."
"With Mance Rayder," agreed Benjen.
Jon hesitated, then burst out, "At least take Ghost. He could take on most things out there, human, Other or wight."
It took a bit of a scramble to find where Dacey and Sam had taken Ghost to get him out from under the feet of the women. Benjen and his rangers left the Keep later then expected, but they had a dire wolf trotting at their heels, his ears pricked and teeth ready. That, at least, thought Jon, his chest easing a little, is a change.
Gendry flexed his shoulders, dropping the finished knife on to the bench. His back ached dully, as it always did after a long day's work, but he knew he would be fine by the time morning came. It was already dark out, and when he turned, Mott was watching him with his arms crossed.
"Enough?" he asked.
"Enough," said Mott, and Gendry hesitated at the finality of his voice. "You're out."
"What?" said Gendry, his head jerking up. "Just because I went to watch the new Hand ride in -"
"You're here working late because you crept out to watch some perfumed nobles," said Mott. "You're out because of all the damned priests you keep dragging in here."
"That is not my fault," protested Gendry. "I have never asked them here. I have always tossed them out the moment I could."
"But you keep spreading the same story, and more and more beggars keep turning up at our door, begging for some more words of wisdom from our famed saviour, Azor Ahai," said Mott, sarcasm colouring his voice. "It would be one thing if they all paid, boy, but they do not. They scare off more business than they bring. I can't afford you anymore."
Gendry's jaw worked. Where was he meant to go? His mother was dead, and he had no uncles or aunts on her side; his father was a fat king sitting in a castle with no need to acknowledge his bastard son. He didn't have the coin to ride North, and even if he did, Arya was here in King's Landing and didn't even know him.
The Night's Watch, he considered. They took anyone. It would be a long and hard journey to the Wall with the little money he had, and just thinking of the cold made him want to shiver. But – at the Night's Watch, he was just another crow calling out a warning no one listened to.
"Do I at least have time to pack?" asked Gendry, fighting to keep his voice even.
"You have until first light," warned Mott, before turning and making his way into the sleeping quarters. Gendry turned back to the bench and picked up the knife he had just finished – the knife that Mott had let him finish, knowing that he was just going to throw Gendry out when he was finished.
I should take it, thought Gendry. But for what? What was he going to need a knife for? Keeping the bloody Red Woman at bay, if nothing else.
"Azor Ahai, huh?" said a voice behind Gendry.
It was Arya. The girl that had ridden into the Red Keep beside her father and sister had been dressed in Northern finery, her hair braided into perfection. The Arya that stood before him now, her weight all on one foot with her hip popped out, was in leggings and a tunic, her hair bound up under a cap. She tilted her head and grinned at him. "Missed me?"
"Arya," he breathed, and crossed the room to sweep her up into his arms. She stiffened for a second, then sighed softly and rested her head on his shoulder, relaxing.
"I'll take that as a yes," said Arya, shifting so that she could look at him.
"Maybe a little," said Gendry. "Just a smidge."
Arya smirked, rolling her eyes. "You keep telling yourself that."
Gendry set her back down. She was tiny – she had been even when she was fully grown, back at Winterfell before the world ended – but she was back to how he had first known her, tiny but scrappy. "You're back," he breathed. "You're back here, too."
Arya nodded. "Me, Sansa, Brienne of Tarth, Theon Greyjoy, and the Kingslayer, of all people. We think it was Bran."
Gendry had only seen Brandon Stark once or twice, and had never spoken with him. He had seen him being wheeled to the Godswood by a fat man once or twice, seen him with his sister when Daenerys had ridden into Winterfell. That had been all. "Why -"
"Why would he choose you?" finished Arya. "We're still not completely sure. Some of the people sent back are - " She paused and shook her head. "A monster was sent back with us. He's dead now, and we don't think that Bran intended him to come back with us, but we don't know anything for certain about how or why it happened. We just know what we have to do now."
"Win the war," said Gendry.
"Win the war," agreed Arya. "Now, what in all the hells is the blacksmith doing, calling you Azor Ahai?"
Gendry grimaced, running his hand down his face. "The fucking Red Woman declared me Azor Ahai and all that bullshit," he said. "Destined to save the world from the White Walkers because the Lord of Light himself plucked me from death and sent me back to change the world -"
He had kept his voice mockingly grandiose, and it worked. Arya started giggling halfway through. She snorted with laughter. "Gods, how times have changed."
Gendry dropped the airs and said, "Not sure how she expects me to save the world when she's lost me my apprenticeship."
Arya bit her lip. She took the knife from his hand and twirled it against her finger thoughtfully. "Come back to the Tower with me," she said at last. "I know Sansa wants to talk to you at some point. It'll give you somewhere to sleep until you work out what to do."
"The Tower of the Hand?" spluttered Gendry. "You want to take me to the Red Keep?"
"You don't have to stay, stupid," said Arya impatiently. "But you don't have anywhere to go, do you?"
Gendry swallowed. "No."
"You have me," said Arya. "So you're coming back with me to the Tower of the Hand. We've got Jory on guard at the moment, and trust me, he won't say anything if Father asks him not to. We can sneak you back out later."
"Fine," said Gendry, snatching his knife back. Arya didn't protest, too busy grinning with triumph. "Only until I find something else, you hear?"
"I hear you," said Arya, airily, as if she hadn't heard at all. "Go get your things."
Gendry wasn't sure he owned anything worth taking to the Tower of the Hand. Anything he had would be out of place in the finery, the perfumed rooms and beautifully decorated halls. But Arya was still looking so triumphant, and even half his size she was still a force of nature, so he ate his words and went to gather his things.