Chapter 7: Arya

Author's Note: hey everyone! I'm sorry for the incredibly long hiatus… although to be honest with you guys, I had legitimately considered completely giving up on this fic because of IRL reasons and the fact that my muse was slowly fading away—but hey, thanks to everyone's encouraging comments and reviews, I found a little bit of inspiration and figured I'd give it a few more hits. Anyway, the plan was to make it alternating POVs but—really what happened was I got too lazy to finish this chapter two months ago, so I just cut it off where it stopped at chapter 6, thus the inconsistency, but whatever. Story first, I guess. Hope you all enjoy this one. [I cannot believe I wrote this one listening to Meshuggah.]

There was a minute-long silence between the two of them neither Arya or Gendry could comprehend. Nobody knew what it meant, and despite the weighty air of intoxication that seemingly hung over them both, Arya felt slightly uncomfortable. Gendry, however, did not budge—she would under no circumstances be the first one to do so. The silence seemed to drag on forever, and all of a sudden Arya tried incredibly hard to make the fallen cup of drink seem more interesting than it is than look at Arya. Usually, she would probably have just looked him straight in the eye angrily and punched him hard on the shoulder—but this time, things suddenly felt strange.

He wasn't saying anything, either.

And then Arya felt herself lost inside her thoughts for a few moments.

It had suddenly occurred to her that, in fact, Gendry's opinion mattered.

Be it about her or the marriage, to her it mattered—now that she thought about it, it always had. It just sort of happens, she thought—being around someone in life-or-death situations, and especially in a time where Arya barely trusted herself either, Gendry was the little nudge on the outside that she needed. She wondered vaguely what he would say about the marriage, especially that she'd finally said yes—surrendered to it. It was an unspoken agreement and everyone knew that. Otherwise, Arya would not even be found anywhere near Winterfell at all. Arya bit her lip, making a move to pick up the cup. Incidentally, Gendry had been thinking of the same thing and did it before her.

There was a faint, metallic clinking sound as the bottom of the cup resounded with the stone floor. Gendry sniffed once, his elbow propped up on top of his knee as he looked at Arya, his eyes glimmering with the reflection of the fire and his eyebrows furrowed as if in concentration. Arya's mouth was pressed into a hard, thin-line, her face carved of stone, unreadable—but deep down, for some reason she could not explain, her heart fluttered.

Gendry laughed, his shoulders shaking hard as he looked down on the floor, nooding his head—still laughing. Arya's face distorted into a mix of different emotions.

"You should have seen your face, Arya. You should have. You looked worse than Sandor Clegane on a bad day." He said, his shoulder shaking harder. Arya kicked his shin with the toe of her boot, and Gendry winced in pain.

"One day, I swear, you will die painfully, eaten by wolves—left to die in the winter woods and I will be there to watch while it happens." She grumbled, taking another long swig of ale and wiping the side of her mouth roughly with the back of her hand. Gendry laughed again.

"Look at you. You're a ruffian. What lord would want you, Arya Stark?" he said, teasingly, but strangely tender, in that familiar voice he always had when he meant to say a harsh joke he never really meant That was the Gendry she knew. Suddenly she felt herself loosen. That was the reaction the expected completely, and his last comment made her chuckle.

"What lord would I take who couldn't beat me at a drinking tourney, indeed?" she said, offering her cup to Gendry for a toast. He lightly tapped his cup against hers, and afterwards they took a drink at the same time, draining the ale it contained completely. They both sighed. Gendry refilled the cups and took another sip as soon as he had finished.

"Come on, Lady Stark. I know you're itching to complain about this to your heart's content." He added before taking another sip, his eyes never leaving Arya.

She smiled, almost forcefully, her eyebrows and forehead creased, her face pinched in a strange expression of worry tinged with misery. Arya exhaled sharply, burying her face in her knees and slowly kneading her temples with the fingers of her left hand.

"Go on, Gendry Baratheon—laugh at my misery all you like." She said dejectedly, but with a smile on her face that Gendry had not missed. He laughed, anyway.

"You know I never miss the chance to."

Again, the silence. For a while Gendry was focused on his cup of ale, drinking it slowly, Arya with her face still buried in her knees, slightly unsure of what to do with herself. This time, she broke the silence.

"I just don't want to be tied down, is all. You know that. It's adventure I want—it's a life I want, and life for me is out there—not inside the walls of a castle doing the same needlework every single day waiting on my husband while he's out there living the life I deserve just so he can come back home and treat me like I'm his possession, like I'm a chicken he can make to lay eggs for him as he pleases." She said acidly. Gendry laughed.

"Don't you think using chicken is a tad too extreme? Besides, it's Quentyn, isn't it? He's not the sort to—you know. It can't be all that bad." He tried to add helpfully. Arya let out a bitter laugh.

"Well—you know, he could be bringing around cousins or whatever, you know, so it doesn't really have to be him. Quentyn probably likes this just as little as I do. I mean, he's my friend and all—but he'd be the wife between us two if we got married, although I'm not sure he'd be able to handle giving birth to our children." This time they laughed together.

"You give the boy too little credit. He'd send you back here in less than a week if you talked to him like that all the time."

"Oh, you give him too much credit. You think Quentyn would cross me? I taught that boy how to fight."

"No, you're right—he wouldn't. But." He stopped, taking a sip of ale.

"Well?"

"Well then that still makes you the wife, if that's the case." Gendry said, raising cup towards her.

"Excellent point, Bull." Arya said bemusedly. As she was about to refill her cup, she discovered there were only about three drops left in it.

"Looks like we're out."

"Right, my lady—would you like for me to go down and steal some more?" Gendry asked, with a mocking bow of his head and sly smile. Gendry's face was already flushed—after all, he'd had more to drink than her since he'd been from the banquet downstairs. Arya smiled solemnly, almost sadly in the dim of the firelight.

"No, it's fine. Besides, it's getting pretty late." She said. Gendry tousled his hair idly.

"Mmmmn. I suppose you're right." He answered sleepily. Arya stood up, offering her hand to Gendry so he could get up. Arya heaved at Gendry's weight, his feet wobbling slightly.

"Well, good night, Arya Stark." Gendry said, dipping his head politely towards her.

"Good night. By the way you are a big, stupid B—"

Arya was stopped short.

She had not seen it coming at all, but all of a sudden Gendry's right arm was looped around her waist, his left hand knotted in her hair and his mouth on hers, his lips playing softly under and over hers. Thoughts kept forming and breaking midway inside her head and nothing made sense, but she found herself doing the same. She felt her body grow limp as her eyes squeezed shut, her head throb slightly and her chest, tighten. She laid her hands gently on his shoulders and she could feel the knots in his muscles, his arm around her waist pulling her in closer. There was nothing else but that unexpected, strange kiss. It was not a sane moment, but all the same it felt like a very good one. It was short, but it felt like years.

Gendry had been the first to pull away, but his arm was still secured tightly to her waist. Neither of them could say a word for a few moments but look confusedly at each other's eyes, Arya's mouth pressed into a thin line and Gendry's slightly ajar. He let go of Arya and took two steps back, his face red—it was hard to tell if it was because he was drunk or if he was simply flushed and flustered. Arya twined her fingers together for lack of anything else to do. Gendry cleared his throat.

"It must have been the ale." He said, forcing out a nervous chuckle.

"We've had too much, Gendry." Arya replied awkwardly.

"Well—we certainly have. Anyway, I am sorry. It wasn't—"

"It's fine—it's getting late. Maybe you should get some rest." She said, stopping Gendry. Gendry's mouth dropped open slightly and then stopped short, as if he was about to say something more but thought better of it."

"Good night, Arya. Have a nice evening and don't think too much about—you know, well, don't think about anything, I mean—" he said, almost stuttering. Gendry's face pinched into an expression of self-irritation.

"Just—forget I said anything. Good night." He said tightly through his teeth before getting to the door in a few, swift strides, closing the door behind him with an unexpectedly soft thud.

Arya felt her knees give beneath her, where she luckily fell onto the bed where she had slowly made herself lie down, where she almost fell asleep instantly to the soft, thrumming cacophony between her head and her chest.