Chapter 9: Arya

Author's Note: I lost my muse for nearly a whole damned year and I really don't know what to say except I'm sorry and that I love every single one of you who 's stayed with me up until now. I really do appreciate it and it's your input that has recently inspired me to keep moving forward with this corny little love story I got started on.

Best regards. XXX

Arya woke up before the sun did—of course, she wasn't the first one to have gotten up. With the unusual semi-silence of the castle, she could hear the low thrumming sounds of work from downstairs—the servants were already up and about, and she wondered vaguely how early they wake up to get started.

She opened her eyes, her hand resting gently on top of her forehead, remaining still as she stared idly on the stone patterns of the ceiling. She took a deep breath, savoring the freshness of the early and gentle winter-morning air as it passed and cooled through her nostrils, her throat. She breathed out with a steady sigh. Finally she sat up, yawning with much unlady-like ardour, stretching her arms and twisting her back this way and that, bones cracking. It felt good. Arya stood, walking over the cold stone floors with her bare feet. She proceeded to one of the large windows of her chambers, pulling the dark and heavy curtains aside, she threw the windows open and rested her elbows on the sill.

Outside, the sun was beginning to take its first waking steps.

The view was breathtaking.

Arya couldn't remember the last time she had seen the sun rise since she was usually too busy sleeping in or doing something else that kept her from taking the time to admire her environment. Sunrises in the North were one-of-a-kind. On account of the cold weather, the surroundings seemed to always be constantly covered in moisture and ice. Everything was covered in frost and crystalline layers of ice—some frozen in stalactites, others in more peculiar shapes. The whole scenery seemed to glow in dreamy light as the sun struck the ice. You don't get to see this kind of thing in the South, Arya thought to herself. It was a welcoming reminder that while winter was a tough and cruel affair, there were small moments like this that reminded her that winter could bring good things, too. It brought nostalgia. Reminiscence. Memories—

Memories. Much like those of last night. For a few seconds, Arya froze in place—her thoughts, even her heart beat, it seemed, was brought to a dead still. Unwillingly, a hand shot up to her mouth. She brushed her fingers lightly over the contours of her lips, running over the surface indefinitely, uneasily, until she rested them over the center. She opened her mouth and absentmindedly and lightly bit her fingers. She closed her eyes and let the memories of the previous night wash over her, powerless to stop the onslaught of flashbacks.

Gendry had kissed her last night.

That much she remembered, and for reasons she couldn't quite comprehend, that though she could barely remember anything else that happened that night—what happened before they went up to drink, what they talked about, how she fell asleep—she could remember everything about that kiss down to the smallest detail. The strength and urgency in his touch as he looped an arm around her waist, the feel of his fingers brushing lightly over her scalp as he knotted his fingers, gently yet firmly, on her hair. She remembered the mellow, ale-tinged heat of his breath blow over her cheeks in those split-seconds before he'd pressed his lips against hers—his lips… so unexpectedly tender and soft, so unlike the rest of him. She remembered the way he'd tasted—warm, moist, with equal parts bitter and sweet. She remembered everything.

Everything except the most important question—had she kissed him back?

Almost as if on cue she felt the blood rush to her cheeks and her heart hammering deep within her chest. Her head was spinning slightly and she had to hold on to the sill for support—she couldn't remember—something she was strangely thankful for.

Blame it on the ale, is what I always say.

But was she even drunk? Arya had had her fair share of drinking in her years. She gave much pride to herself for being highly tolerant.

Most of all, Arya was confused. She hated the feeling of confusion. Confused because she had no idea what she felt about the events that had transpired during the previous night. She knew exactly what she should have been feeling: anger, much irritation directed at Gendry for violating her space and blemishing their friendship, vehemence—the kind that normally would have driven her to beat him up until he fell asleep and couldn't get up the following day.

She felt none of those things.

She felt nothing yet she felt everything—it was all a muddy and blurry mix from her head down to her heart and to her stomach that she didn't know what it was she was feeling. Arya clamped a hand over her mouth and took a deep breath. Panic suddenly surged through her as if she'd been struck by a bolt of lightning.

How was she going to behave around Gendry the next time they met? Should she pretend like nothing happened? Confront him about it? Give him a good thrashing? Joke about it? Avoid him? The first and the last options seemed the most pleasing to her, except that she had no idea how she was simply going to ignore something like that had happened and how to act normal—forcing yourself to act normal to her seemed to be defeating the purpose, neither did she think it was practical to avoid him given the tight little community they had at Winterfell. Even if she did avoid him, people would ask questions. As if she the two of them weren't being teased enough. That, and she wouldn't give Gendry the satisfaction of being the first one to react awkwardly.

Then she thought—what did Gendry think? Most of all, she asked herself what could have pushed him to do that in the first place.

Had it been the ale or something else?

No, it can't be.

Arya pushed the thought away nonchalantly. As if he liked her—of course he liked her, in the sense that they were best friends—but never as anything else. Not that she cared, anyway. He was always transparent with her about how ugly and brutish he thought she was. She'd seen him eyeing after servant girls—girls so different, the exact opposite of what she was—and she did not give the least amount of thought to it. He had never looked at her the way he'd looked at them. Now Arya felt the anger rise from her stomach.

Gods, he's such an idiot. Stupid Gendry. Stupid bull who gets even stupider when he's drunk. I wouldn't be worrying about this now if he wasn't so stupid I should—

Arya's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of knocking.

"Yes?" she answered weakly, glad to have been cut short of her musings. Her chambermaid answered back from behind the wooden door.

"M'lady? Your brother wants to see you."