Chapter Five

ARYA

Arya stood peering down into the half-packed chest at the foot of her bed, hoping that she wasn't forgetting anything important. Behind her, Nymeria paced back and forth, impatiently awaiting further instruction.

"Nymeria, shoes," Arya instructed, and the direwolf reacted at once. As she trotted to her mistress's side, Arya gently lifted the shoes from her mouth and gave her an affectionate pat on the head. "Good girl."

Not paying any mind to the neatly folded clothes her lady mother had already placed in the chest, Arya threw the shoes down. They landed on top of the pile, and the slightly damp soles left marks on the topmost dress.

Oh, well, Arya thought. It's not as though my clothes won't get all messed up when I'm travelling, anyway.

A knock at her chamber door startled her. Arya turned around to see the long, solemn face of her dearest brother poking through the partway open door. He shot her a tentative smile, and when she didn't shout at him, he seemed to take it as an invitation to come further into the room.

There was a few seconds' pause where the pair just looked at each other, neither saying anything. Jon watched his sister warily, as though he were waiting for an explosion. To Arya's surprise, she didn't feel angry at the mere sight of him as she had every time since he'd told her he was joining the Night's Watch. The pain of Bran's fall coupled with the hollow ache she felt in her heart every time she thought of how much she was going to miss Jon had made her anger seem almost trivial by comparison.

A rush of affection overcame her, and she moved without thinking. She ran forward, throwing her arms around his neck. Jon seemed taken aback, but he quickly wrapped his arms around his little sister's waist, hugging her fiercely.

"I was afraid you were gone," Arya murmured. "I didn't think I'd get the chance to say goodbye. Stupid Septa Mordane wouldn't let me out."

"What did you do now?" Although her face was pressed into his shoulder, Arya could still hear the smile in her brother's words.

"Nothing." She released his neck and disentangled herself from his grasp. "I was all packed, and everything. Septa Mordane says I have to do it all over. My things weren't properly folded like a southron lady's things should've been. Apparently a southron lady doesn't throw all her clothes in a chest like old rags."

"Is that what you did, little sister?" Jon's smirk broadened.

"Well, they're going to get all messed up anyway," Arya protested hotly. "Who cares how they're folded?"

Jon laughed. He had always had such a warm laugh, Arya thought. It was a welcome contrast to his usual sombreness. Arya often wished that he'd laugh more frequently. "I've got a present for you," he whispered conspiratorially.

Arya's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Shut the door."

Intrigued, Arya hastened to do as she was bid. No sooner had the door slammed shut then she was back at Jon's side, eager arms extended. "Can I see it now?"

He grinned, and reached inside his furs. Arya watched with confusion at first, but that quickly melted into delight when she saw what he was holding. He peeled back the cloth that covered her gift to reveal it in all its glory – a shining steel sword.

Arya reached out a hesitant hand to pick it up by its hilt. She turned it this way and that, studying the blade carefully.

"It's so skinny," she murmured.

"So are you," Jon pointed out. "It won't hack a man's head off, but it'll poke him full of holes if you're quick enough."

Arya nodded. True, the blade was thin, but it looked wickedly sharp in the flickering torchlight that lit her bed chamber. More than sharp enough to do some damage. "I can be quick," she vowed.

"How do you like the balance?" Jon seemed more relaxed now that he'd seen her response to his gift. Arya knew that he thought she was much less likely to yell at him now.

"Good, I think," she replied. In all honesty, she wasn't sure. She liked to fight with her brothers in the yard whenever she was able, but she didn't really know much about swords and swordplay. Her lady mother had put her foot down too often for Arya to have received a proper education in that respect.

Jon smiled again. Looking into his face, Arya realised something unexpected – for all they had different colouring, Jon actually looked very like their brother Robb when he smiled.

"Here's your first lesson." He leaned forward, grey eyes alight. Arya mirrored his movement. "Stick them with the pointy end."

Arya glowered as he chuckled. "I know which end to use." She couldn't stay annoyed in the face of his rare good humour, though. Instead, she sighed. "I can't believe you're leaving."

"I know." Jon's grin slipped a little. "Me up there in the north defending the Wall, and you down in King's Landing causing havoc. We'll be very far from each other. I'm going to miss you, little sister."

"I'm going to miss you, too."

And then, Arya suddenly felt overwhelmed. She was no longer a little girl, and her brother was no longer the dirty-kneed boy who would run ragged through Winterfell and ruffle her hair as he passed. He was a man grown, off to swear a vow to protect the world from the unknown, and she herself was a young woman headed south for months on end of unwanted pageantry. Soon enough she'd have to deal with all that being a young lady from a powerful house entailed. Courtship, marriage and children.

The thought almost made her want to trade places with her brother.

"What are you going to call it?"

"Huh?"

"Your sword." Jon gave her another broad smile. "All the best swords have names, you know."

Arya glanced down at the slender blade in her hand. It was a big decision. Suddenly, an image of her sister and their needlework lessons came to her mind, and she knew. She laughed softly under her breath.

"Sansa can keep her sewing needles," she told him. "I've got a Needle of my own."

Jon beamed.

At a loss for anything else to say, Jon opened his arms for a hug. Arya set her new sword down on her bed and threw herself at him. He lifted her clean off her feet in a motion that the two of them had synchronised over the years. Arya tried to pour all the emotion she wasn't comfortable expressing out loud into that hug. For all she knew, it could have been the last hug that she and Jon would ever share.

"I love you," she whispered in his ear. "So much."

His arms gripped her waist tighter. "No more than I love you, little sister."

When her father had ridden off with Jon that evening to accompany him halfway to Castle Black, Arya found herself strolling around the keep at Winterfell. She didn't have a destination in mind, she was more trying to distract herself from the uncomfortable prickling in her eyes whenever she thought of Jon's face.

She was surprised, therefore, when she turned a corner and walked into what was unmistakeably a fight.

Gendry and Joffrey were standing two feet apart in an otherwise abandoned corridor, and both were hissing at each other, rage etched on every line of their faces. Neither of them had spotted Arya yet. Thinking fast, she ducked into an alcove to watch their argument unfold without being seen.

"That's just what you think, isn't it?" Joffrey was sneering. "That you're better than I am? What a joke. You're nothing but a bastard."

Arya's fists clenched in anger at the same time Gendry's did. "I may be a bastard," Gendry spat, "but at least I'm not a cunt. You're pathetic, Joff. You think that Lady Sansa would have any interest in marrying you if she knew what you were really like?"

"Of course," Prince Joffrey responded without skipping a beat. "Because she wants to be queen. She's an airhead, and by the Seven, she's dull, but at least she's pretty to look at. I won't need her for anything other than sitting quietly and spreading her legs whenever I want to fuck her, so she'll do nicely."

Gendry looked utterly revolted. Arya felt a swell of affection for him in that moment. There was no love lost between her and Sansa, but she was still her sister, whatever her faults. It made her blood boil listening to Joffrey's slurs.

"The Others take you, Joff! You have no idea what it means to treat women with respect, do you? You have the nerve to run to your mother every time you have a problem that needs fixing and yet you talk about women as if they're beneath you! Even Father is better than that!"

"Father is a drunk and a lecher," Joffrey hissed. "He doesn't respect women any more than I do. And why should he? What is there to respect? He's a king. They're nothing." He laughed menacingly. "I've seen you, Gendry, following around after Arya Stark like you're a faithful stray dog she's picked up. Do you think you have a chance with her? Do you honestly think she'll want you? She's wild and ridiculous, but she's still a lady. And as a bastard, you command even less respect than a woman. You'll never have her, but it's so amusing watching you try."

Gendry drew up short at that. "It's not like that."

"No?" Joffrey sneered again. "I've seen the way you look at her. There's nothing special about her as I can see. She's not even beautiful. And you have the gall to call me pathetic? Seven hells, Gendry, you're the most pathetic bastard I've ever laid eyes on. That's the difference between you and me. I can have whatever I want, and you get to watch from the sidelines. It's almost a shame. I might even take your little Stark bitch, too. She's just the sort of wild thing that would do it, I reckon. I don't want to fuck her, obviously, but it would be worth it just to see you squirm."

That's when Gendry lost his temper. His blue eyes darkened to a near black, and his jaw set. Arya sucked in a sharp breath of surprise as Gendry pulled his fist back and slammed it into the wall just beside Joffrey's head. The force of the punch was so powerful that Arya felt the stones she was leaning against vibrate. Gendry didn't even seem to flinch.

Joffrey did, though. He let out a terrified yelp and cringed away from his half-brother, and Gendry smiled with some kind of savage satisfaction. He could easily have hit the obnoxious prince had he wanted to, but he held back. Arya wondered what that said about him.

"Never, ever talk about Arya like that again, or I swear to the old gods and the new that it will be the last thing you ever say."

Joffrey edged away from him, backing up until he was halfway down the corridor. "You'll pay for that."

"Going to tell your mother on me?" Gendry taunted. "That's your style, isn't it? You'd never dream of throwing a punch my way. That's the difference between you and me, Joff. I fight my own battles. You run away and hide behind Cersei's skirts. You're spineless, Joff. A true craven."

"Maybe I will tell her," Joffrey replied, green eyes flashing. "You'd be out on your ear, back to Flea Bottom where you belong!"

Gendry shrugged. "Go ahead. I'd rather that than be stuck with you forever."

Joffrey's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything else antagonistic. Instead, he swept down the corridor and through the door at the end, muttering waspishly under his breath as he went. Gendry watched him go, his posture rigid and his shoulders tense.

It was only once the door slammed that Arya felt safe enough to reveal herself.

"Gendry?" she murmured, stepping out from the alcove.

He swung around at the sound of her voice, and his eyes grew wide when they landed on her slight form. "Arya? How… how much of that did you hear?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "Um… a lot of it?"

Gendry bit his lip, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I'm so sorry. He should never have… I mean, I shouldn't have… I'm sorry."

It was then that Arya noticed the state of his hand. His knuckles were swollen from where he'd punched the wall, the skin split and oozing blood. The last two fingers of his injured hand were bent awkwardly, and Arya suspected that they were most likely broken.

"Gods, look at your hand!" she fussed, rushing forward. It didn't even occur to her to be afraid of him, not even after seeing him so angry and volatile. She knew that he wouldn't hurt her. Gendry didn't protest as she took his wrist and gently guided his hand up to better examine it in the light of the torches.

"It's fine," he muttered.

"It's not." It looked even worse with the light shining on it. Something was definitely broken. "You need to see Maester Luwin. He can clean it and strap up your fingers for you."

Gendry eyed her doubtfully. "Won't he ask me how I got it?"

"Probably," Arya shrugged. "But you can always lie and say you fell. That's what I do."

The corner of Gendry's mouth tugged upwards into the beginnings of a smirk. "Do you punch a lot of walls, m'lady?"

"No," Arya admitted with a grudging smile. "But I have been known to punch stupid, bullheaded boys who call me 'm'lady'."

He laughed. The sound made Arya feel warm inside, but it was a different kind of warmth to the type that Jon's laughter invoked. Arya decided that she quite liked the feeling. "Alright, you win. Point me in the direction of Maester Luwin's chambers."

"I'll do better. I'll take you myself."

Thankfully the maester was in his chambers when they arrived. To Arya's utmost relief, Maester Luwin did not ask questions about the circumstances surrounding Gendry's injury. He merely tutted when he examined Gendry's bruised knuckles and cleaned them up with a wet wash cloth, before setting to work taping up his fingers.

Gendry winced as the maester tugged gently at his warped hand.

"Don't be such a baby," Arya teased. She'd broken bones before, and she knew that it was painful, but she also knew that she would have welcomed a distraction from the pain while they were being reset.

"I'm not a baby," Gendry muttered, but there was the smallest of grins on his face. "You shouldn't be rude to people who are bigger than you."

Arya frowned. "Well, then I wouldn't get to be rude to anyone."

Gendry laughed heartily at that, but his laughter choked off abruptly as Maester Luwin gave his fingers another sharp tug.

He secured the bindings with a pin and a flourish. "There. That should heal up in a couple of weeks, as long as you don't move it."

"Only you would be bullheaded enough to do something like this," Arya pointed out. Gendry ran his good hand through his short dark hair, giving her his trademark lopsided grin.

"As m'lady says. Because I'm sure you have never done something idiotic that resulted in an injury."

"I feel as though that was sarcasm…" Arya said, narrowing her eyes.

He just smiled sweetly in response.

Gendry left with strict instructions not to damage his hand any further. Arya was about to follow him out along the corridor, but the maester pulled her to one side just before she left and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"I hope you know what you're doing, my lady."

"I don't know what you mean," Arya hedged.

"He looks strong," Maester Luwin nodded in the direction Gendry had just walked in. "But often the men who seem the strongest are the easiest ones to break. Careful now, child, that you do not break him by accident."

"I didn't do anything to his hand!" Arya protested. Maester Luwin laughed softly and patted her hair.

"It's not just a hand that can be broken, little lady. Now, I must go and check on your brother."

And with that cryptic comment, he swept from the room, leaving Arya staring confusedly in his wake.

Once everything was properly packed and loaded up for the journey south the next day, the sun had already set. A late summer snow sent a flurry of ghostly white flakes soaring past her bed chamber window, and Arya finally felt as though she couldn't put it off any longer. She needed to go and say her goodbyes to Bran.

Her brother's condition had not improved any, and she knew that. Her legs felt heavy as she climbed the stairs to his sick room. It sounded horrible, but Arya fervently hoped that her time to visit would be one of the rare moments when her mother was not there. She loved her mother dearly, and it hurt to watch Catelyn hunched over Bran's bed as she slowly became the broken shell of a woman that Arya had always admired.

Arya reached the door and took a deep breath. Upon opening it, she realised that she was in luck – her mother was not in the room. Her father, however, was. He sat in one of the rickety wooden chairs that normally stood by the writing desk, his knees touching the thick woollen blanket draped over Bran's useless legs. He had always seemed like a very large man to Arya – broad-shouldered and tall – but in that moment he looked comically large. If Bran had been awake, she felt sure he would have laughed at the sight of their father crammed into that chair.

"Father?"

Ned Stark glanced up, and a small smile graced his mouth for his youngest daughter. "Arya. Come in."

She stepped further into the room, coming to stand at her father's shoulder. Standing, she was barely taller than he was seated. "How is Bran?"

"The same." Ned patted her brother's hand on top of the blanket. "But at least there's been no change for the worse."

"He will wake up," Arya promised. At least she sounded sure, she thought, even if she didn't necessarily believe her own words. "He's a fighter."

"Aye, he is that," her father nodded sagely. "He's a true Stark." They both peered down at his sleeping face. Arya thought he looked very peaceful, but very like a fair, auburn-haired Tully without that wild northern light in his blue eyes. It was odd. She was used to seeing that fierce determination in the set of Bran's jaw, the rebellious grin that would steal its way across his face.

He looked small and fragile without it, much younger than a boy of thirteen. Arya swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat. Her father stroked her hair softly.

"Do you want to say goodbye in private?"

She nodded tautly. It was one of the many things that Arya loved about her father, that he knew when she needed time alone without having to be asked. He was always content to just let her be.

Awkwardly, he got up from his chair and offered it to her. Arya sank down, leaning forward and capturing Bran's hand in both her own. Ned gave her a fond smile before heading out of the room. It wasn't until Arya heard the thunk of the door shutting behind him that she felt free to let the first of her tears escape.

"Bran," she whispered, gripping his fingers tighter. "I know you can hear me. Maester Luwin says I can't be sure, but I know you can. And you have to wake up. For Mother. For Robb. For me, and Father, and Sansa, and Rickon. And for Jon, too. You need to go and visit him up in Castle Black, because I'm going to be too far away to get to go." Arya sucked in a deep breath and leaned even closer. A few stray drops of tears splattered onto Bran's blanket. "Listen to me. A lot of people are going to tell you that you fell from that tower when you were climbing. But I don't believe that for one second. I know you. You never fall. And I know that you must have seen something bad in order to get pushed. And I have a pretty good idea who pushed you." She leaned in so close this time that her lips brushed the outer shell of his ear. "Don't trust anyone who comes up here wearing Lannister gold. Wolves don't trust lions."

She twisted her head to one side and planted a kiss on her brother's cheek. He still felt warm, as though there was still a lot of life left in him. Arya prayed that that was true. "I love you, Brandon," she murmured, and sat back. "Be safe."

He made no movements that would have acknowledged her presence, not even a flicker of his eyes behind their closed lids, but in the corner of the room, his direwolf whined. Arya twisted in her chair in time to meet his yellow-eyed stare. There was something sentient behind his hunter's irises, a shadow of the northern wildness that she saw so often in Bran.

"You'll keep him safe, won't you?" she said.

The wolf dipped his shaggy grey head, and Arya could have sworn that the animal was accepting as solemn a vow as the one her brother was pledging north at the Wall.

A/N - Sorry it's taken such a long time to update! Had a bit of writer's block, but I'm back on track now!

Thanks for reading!

OVR