Chapter Nine

ARYA

For the fifth time in as many days, Eddard Stark arrived late to dinner. The Small Hall was only a quarter full – the Hand's household and staff ate with him, but her lord father had brought a mere fifty men to King's Landing, and the company of people that Arya truly trusted looked fragile and weak in the large room.

A few good men in a lion's den, Arya thought, as her father seated himself at the long dining table opposite her. Sansa sat to his right, Jory Cassel to his left. Arya had not said a word to her sister for the entire journey down the Kingsroad. She was determined never to speak to her again.

"The talk in the yard is that we shall have a tourney, my lord," Jory said, as he passed a serving dish stacked high with roasted boar's ribs to her father. "They say that knights will come from all over the realm to joust and feast in honour of your appointment as Hand of the King."

Arya thought her father looked displeased at the notion. "Do they also say that this is the last thing in the world I would have wished?"

Sansa interrupted, eyes wide and hopeful for the first time in weeks. "A tourney? Will we be permitted to go, Father?"

Ned Stark sighed into his goblet of wine. "You know my feelings, Sansa. It seems I must arrange Robert's games and pretend to be honoured for his sake. That does not mean I must subject my daughters to this folly."

"Please," Sansa begged breathlessly. "I want to see."

Septa Mordane, on Sansa's other side, piped up with a kindly smile in Arya's direction. Arya ignored the gesture. She didn't much care for games and tourneys. It was all for show, not a real battle. Not real bravery. "All the ladies of the court will be there, my lord, and as the tourney is in your honour, it would look queer if your own daughters were not present."

Arya's father sighed again. She thought she had not seen him look so defeated before, certainly never in Winterfell. He longed for home even more than she did. "Very well, Sansa, I shall arrange a place for you." He glanced at Arya. "For both of you."

"I don't care about their stupid tourney," Arya said quickly, and was rewarded with a small smile from her father. "Joffrey will be there, and I'd rather crawl through all seven hells than spend a day with him."

"Lady Arya!" Septa Mordane chastened her sharply. "That is no way to talk of the prince."

"She is right, child," Jory put in, his tone kinder. "I know that you and the prince have had... difficulties, but..."

"Difficulties?" Arya's gaze was fierce as she met Jory's, and the older man actually recoiled. "He killed my friend. The Hound did, but it was on his orders. Mycah died because of him. I don't care what titles he has – I hate him."

Sansa made a sound of protest in the back of her throat, but was mollified by their father's hand on her shoulder before she could fire back a retort.

"Arya," it was her father who spoke now, and his tone was full of something different to the censure she had heard before. It sounded almost like fear – but that was ridiculous. Eddard Stark feared nothing. "A terrible thing happened, I know, but you must not speak in that manner again. It is far too dangerous."

"I am not afraid of Joffrey," Arya said, enunciating every word.

Her father leaned across the table, dropping his voice so that even Jory and Sansa next to him could not hear. "You ought to be."

Arya thought, suddenly, of Bran. Sweet, innocent Bran, lying unmoving in his bedchamber, in a slumber that he seemed unlikely to ever be released from. She pushed her plate away, a queasy feeling settling like a rock in her stomach.

Lannisters always pay their debts.

She rose from her chair, ignoring the tutting from her Septa.

"Where are you going?"

"I need to be excused."

Ned looked conflicted. "You have barely touched your food, Arya."

"I'm not hungry." She looked down at the ribs on her plate. A thin layer of grease had formed on top of them as they began to cool – they looked distinctly unappetising. "Not anymore."

Her father sighed, waving his hand in wordless dismissal. Arya did not need to be told twice; she turned on her heel and all but fled from the dining hall.

As she left, she caught her father's words. "Fighting a war was easier than daughters..."

Arya's bedchamber was the only place in King's Landing that she liked so far. The thing that she liked best about it was the door – thick oak with black iron bands. Once she slammed it shut and drew the bar home, nobody could get in. Not Septa Mordane, or her father, or Jory, or Sansa. Better still, not anyone who would really hurt her if they got the chance.

Arya was no fool – she knew full well that there were many people here in the capital that wanted desperately to hurt her. Her father's name and her own title would not protect her here as it had in Winterfell. Her father broke bread and held council meetings with the enemy. Her sister was marrying the enemy.

Arya's battle was to be fought alone.

Angry tears burned behind her eyes, but Arya refused to let them fall. She was nearly a woman grown, and she could no longer cry like a child when things did not go her way. Huffing in frustration, she went to the chest at the foot of her bed. Unceremoniously, she began emptying the clothes from it with both hands, tossing fine dresses and garments of silk and satin to the stone floor at her feet. Eventually she found what she was looking for nestled at the bottom of her trunk. She picked up the thin blade, carefully withdrawing it from its sheath. It glinted like silver in the candlelight; a precious reminder of her home, and her life, and herself.

Thinking of Mycah, Arya's eyes filled with tears once more. It was all her fault, she thought. If she had not asked him to practice swordplay with her... if she had let him be...

His blood was on her hands, and no amount of bathing would ever rid her of the stain.

Needle in hand, Arya crossed to the window. She settled herself on the wide sill, staring out at the dark sky beyond the glass. The tower of the Hand was steep, and she found herself wishing she could climb the way Bran had. She could climb down from the tower, and away. She would find Nymeria in the woods at the Trident, and take her back home to Winterfell, or to Jon at the Wall.

Bran had tried to show her how he climbed once, but Arya had never developed the knack for it. Bran had never teased her for her failure, the way Sansa had teased her about her needlework. He was nimble as a goat on a mountaintop, but he did not show off the way her sister did. He'd only smiled and told her that they both had their strengths; she was far better with a bow than he would ever be.

Thinking of Bran sent the stinging tears rolling down her cheeks. At least here, in her chambers, Arya felt that she could cry over her broken brother, the best of all the Stark children. There were no Lannisters here to see her weakness.

A soft knock at the door behind her drew Arya away from her mournful thoughts and longings of escape. "Arya, open the door. We need to talk."

It was her father's voice. She picked herself off the sill, hastily dried her tears with the back of her hand, and crossed the room to lift the crossbar from its place. Ned Stark stood alone in the doorway, gazing sadly down at her with stormy grey eyes that looked as though they had aged a thousand years in the last few weeks.

"May I come in?" he asked. Arya nodded, and stepped back to allow him to enter. Her father shut the door behind her, securing the crossbar once more, and turned to study her. His gaze dropped to Needle, still clutched in her grip, and he frowned. "Whose sword is that?"

"Mine," Arya responded, a little defensively.

"Give it to me."

Reluctantly, Arya handed it over. Her father turned it in his hands, examining the blade with an expert eye. It looked comically fragile in his much larger grip. "A Braavosi blade," he muttered. "Yet I know this maker's mark. This is Mikken's work."

Arya cast her gaze down. She could not lie to her father.

"My fifteen year old daughter is being armed from my own forge, and I know nothing of it. How am I to rule the Seven Kingdoms when it appears that I cannot even rule my own household? How is it that you come to own a sword, Arya? Where did you get this?"

Arya bit her lip. "It was a gift."

"From who?"

She said nothing. She would not betray Jon, not even to their own father. He sighed once more.

"I don't suppose it matters, truly." He turned the blade over again in his hands. "This is no toy, and it is particularly not meant for a young lady such as yourself. What would Septa Mordane say if she saw you playing with this?"

"I wasn't playing," Arya snapped. "And the Others take Septa Mordane. I hate her."

"There seems to be much hate going around in these parts," her father responded thoughtfully. "But that will be quite enough, Arya. The poor woman is only doing her duty, and you have made it next to impossible for her. Your mother and I have charged her with the insurmountable task of making you into a lady."

"I don't want to be a lady." Arya heaved a sigh. She was sick of having to explain herself to people, sick of having to constantly justify her wild impulses, even to her father.

"I ought to snap this blade across my knee and be done with this nonsense."

"Needle wouldn't break." Arya was less than sure of that, but she brought her chin up in a show of defiance, eyes flashing.

"It has a name, does it?" Amusement lurked behind Ned Stark's grey eyes, now, and Arya suddenly knew that the worst of his ire was over. "The wolf blood, again. Lyanna had it, and Brandon before her. It brought the both of them to an early grave." The sadness in his voice was unmistakeable. Arya found herself reaching for his forearm, she squeezed her fingers around it in silent sympathy. "Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You really do remind me of her."

"Lyanna was beautiful," Arya responded instantly.

"She was," he nodded. "Beautiful, and wilful, and dead before her time. I pray to the Old Gods every day that you do not end up the same way, my daughter."

Arya was startled. She could only blink at her father in response. She had no idea that he worried about her in that way. How long had he been afraid for her? Since she was a child? Or was it only since the journey down the Kingsroad that her mortality had seemed so much more imminent to him?

"Arya," he said, dragging her away from her wonderings. "What did you hope to do with this... Needle? Were you hoping to skewer someone? Septa Mordane? Your sister? Do you even know the first thing about sword fighting?"

"Stick them with the pointy end," Arya replied, remembering Jon's first lesson with a small smile.

Her father choked on a laugh. "Well, that is the essence of it, I suppose."

Looking at her sword in her father's hands, the dam of guilt that had been pushing against Arya's heart suddenly broke. She sucked in a deep breath. "It was all my fault," she admitted, in a rush. "Mycah... I asked him to practice swordplay with me. He didn't want to, he thought that it wasn't proper, but I pushed him, and I pushed him... and now he's dead. I killed him!"

Ned Stark's arms went around her at once. He cradled Arya into his broad chest, rubbing one calloused hand against the back of her head soothingly. "No, my sweet girl. No. Grieve for your friend, but do not blame yourself. The butcher boy's murder lies at the Hound's door. Him and the cruel woman he serves."

"Sansa lied," Arya whispered. "She saw what happened. She knew the truth, and she lied."

"Yes," her father admitted. "But we all lie. And you know why she had to say that?"

"Sansa is betrothed to Joffrey."

"Yes," he said quietly. "And her loyalty must therefore be to him."

"I don't ever want to have to make that choice." Arya drew back from her father's embrace so that he could read the determination in her eyes. "I will never choose duty over honour."

"You are a Stark of Winterfell," her father replied, with a note of pride in his voice. "And you know our words."

"Winter is coming," Arya recited immediately.

"We have tasted the hard, cruel times, Arya, but you have never truly known the winter. You were born in the long summer, my sweet one, the longest in living memory. You have never known anything else. But winter is truly coming now. The sigil of our House..."

"The direwolf," Arya murmured, feeling a twinge in her chest as she thought of Nymeria.

"Let me tell you something about wolves. When the winter comes, and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. We must rely on one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. If you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, and Sansa is your sister. You may be different, but the same blood runs through her veins as yours, and you need each other. The gods know that I need you both."

"I don't truly hate Sansa, Father."

Ned tucked a wayward strand of Arya's dark hair behind her ear, cupping her face gently. "I don't wish to frighten you, my daughter, but we have come to a dark and dangerous place. You are right; you are no longer a child. I feel I must tell you – this wilfulness, this disobedience... it needs to stop. We are not in Winterfell any longer, and we have many enemies here. You must be careful. You must act as you are supposed to. My brother Brandon was wilful like you, Arya, and when he set out for King's Landing on the Mad King's summons, he did not return. I could not bear to live if anything were to happen to you."

"Father..." Arya breathed. She knew he was not intending to scare her, but his words were like ice in her veins. "I..."

"Promise me, Arya," he murmured. "Promise me that you will keep yourself safe. There are some things that even I cannot protect you from."

"I promise, Father."

"Here." He held Needle out to her, hilt first. Arya's eyes lit up in wonder. She glanced at him shyly, half-convinced that his offer was a joke. "Go on, it's yours," he prompted.

She did not need to be told again. Arya reached out and took it in her hand, running her thumb along the grip. "I can keep it?"

"You may," her father said with a smile. "If I took it away, no doubt I'd find a Morningstar hidden beneath your pillow within the fortnight. Try not to stab your sister, whatever the provocation."

Arya laughed gently. "I shall do my best."

Ned Stark stood to leave, but bent to place a kiss atop his daughter's head before he did so. In the doorway, he paused, one hand on the frame.

"Arya, remember my warning," he said. "And please, do as I ask."

"Winter is coming," Arya murmured, her gaze still on Needle in her lap. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. We must stick together. I understand, Father, and I won't let you down."

"You never could," Ned replied warmly, and took his leave.

It was nearly midnight when another soft tap sounded at Arya's door. She was wearing only a nightgown, but she did not bother to put on more suitable clothing. It would likely be her Septa, wanting an apology for Arya's behaviour at dinner.

But then, Arya thought, as she was already beginning to open the door, her Septa would not call on her at such a late hour.

When the door swung open fully, Arya felt the heat flood to her cheeks. It was not Septa Mordane.

It was Gendry Baratheon.

His eyes widened when he saw her attire, and he hastily averted his eyes. "Oh. I didn't realise that you would be..."

"I thought you were Septa Mordane," Arya blurted, to cover her embarrassment. The garment she wore was white cotton, and it skimmed loosely over her figure, but she could not help feeling somehow exposed. "Until I opened the door, I mean."

"I hadn't heard from you," Gendry murmured. "I wondered if you were alright. That horrible mess with the butcher's boy..."

Arya's gaze darted nervously to the dimly lit corridor on either side of Gendry. If one of her father's guards came walking along here and discovered him at her door... well, she dreaded to think. Abruptly, she stepped back and gestured for him to enter.

"Get inside!"

"That's not proper," Gendry hissed back. "I could get in serious trouble for being in your room."

"You are far more likely to be caught lurking outside it like some great, hulking monster," Arya pointed out. Gendry's lips twitched in amusement, blue eyes sparkling.

"'Great, hulking monster?'" he repeated, fighting a laugh.

Arya rolled her eyes. "Well, you know what I mean. Get in here, before Jory or someone comes around the corner and catches you."

Reluctantly, Gendry stepped over the threshold. Arya moved quickly behind him, pushing her door closed and driving the crossbar back home. When she was done, she crossed back over to the foot of her bed and sank onto the end of the mattress.

Gendry dithered at the edge of the room for a moment, looking immensely uncomfortable. Arya gestured to the spot beside him, where her father had sat earlier that evening, but Gendry crossed the room in three strides and sank onto the empty window ledge.

Arya rolled her eyes again. He was bold enough to come calling on her in the dead of night, but sitting next to her in her nightclothes was indecent. She would never understand men.

"What did you want?" she asked, and the comment came out ruder than she intended. "I mean," she softened her tone, "Why did you want to come and see me now, of all times?"

"I don't know," Gendry admitted, staring down at his own interlocked fingers. His hands were large, she noticed, with strong, calloused fingers. Blacksmith's hands. "I just... I had a feeling that you wasn't... I mean, that you weren't happy."

"I'm not," Arya sighed. "I feel so isolated and alone here. My own sister can barely stand to look at me, and I feel sick whenever I look at her and think of what happened at the Trident. Everyone expects so much of me, here, and they aren't willing to excuse my behaviour the way they did in Winterfell."

"Excuse it?" Gendry's handsome face collapsed into a frown. "Why would you say that?"

"Ladies of the court are not permitted to run ragged and sit horses like men and climb trees and shoot arrows."

Gendry grinned. It was a rare expression, all white teeth and dimples, and it made Arya's breath catch to look directly at him. "Well, I think that is the court's loss."

"It's not a joke, Gendry," she whispered. "The queen hates me."

"The queen hates everyone who isn't a Lannister," he responded with a shrug. "But my father likes you."

Arya raised her eyebrows. "Even after what happened with Joffrey."

Gendry chuckled, without humour. "I think especially because of that. Father hates how spoiled he is."

"My father warned me that we have many enemies here," she confided. "I think he was speaking of the Lannisters."

"Perhaps," Gendry agreed slowly. "But I won't let anything happen to you."

Arya stood, and began to pace in front of the chest where Needle was tucked away. "How could you stop it? You have as much power here as I do."

"Less," Gendry replied. "But that doesn't matter. If you were in danger, Arya, I'd..." He stopped talking, shutting his eyes abruptly. Arya felt suddenly sure that he did not want her to read whatever emotion was burning in their blue depths, and she felt insatiably curious as to why not. "If you were in danger, we could leave."

"Where?"

"Anywhere." Gendry's eyes opened once again, and they were still and serious as a northern river. "We could run away from here, away from it all. I could protect you."

"I don't need protecting," she replied instantly. "I can protect myself."

"But you wouldn't have to."

"Why?" Arya murmured. "Why would you leave with me? Why would you run and put yourself in danger as well? You don't owe me anything."

"It's not about owing you," Gendry said, and it sounded as though he was choosing his words carefully. "I care about you. I want you to be safe."

"And I want that for you." Arya's chest felt tight when she looked at him. "I couldn't bear the thought of you being in trouble because of me."

"And ever since I met you..." Gendry cast his eyes down to the floor. A slight flush coloured his sharp cheekbones. "I couldn't bear the thought of not being with you. These past few days have been... I have missed you. More than I should have. I know it isn't right to say that, Arya, but it is the truth. If you were in trouble, and you needed to run, I would follow you, because I couldn't stand the thought of you leaving me behind."

Arya felt dizzy. She could hardly tell if it was the room that was spinning, or her own wild, confused thoughts. All she knew was that the ground felt as though it had fallen out from beneath her, and no matter how much air she sucked in, she could not get her breath.

There was only one course of action that made sense to her in that moment, and she did not stop to think. She crossed the room, one slow, measured step at a time, until she reached Gendry. His eyes were still on the ground.

With one hand, Arya hooked her fingers under his chin and lifted his head until his gaze met hers. Gendry's eyes widened, the black of his pupils bleeding into the sapphire of his irises, but he did not move to stop her.

Arya leaned down, and gently pressed her lips against his. The second their mouths met, she forgot that what she was doing was exactly the kind of inappropriate behaviour her father had warned her against. She forgot that she was Arya Stark of Winterfell and he was the king's bastard. She forgot everything except the feel of Gendry's lips against hers and the hammering of her own heart against her ribcage.

He kissed her back, hesitantly at first, but when she did not push him away, the kiss deepened. Arya threaded her fingers through his hair, revelling in the soft, silky feel of it. Gendry's arms slid around her waist, pulling her against him, coaxing her mouth open with his.

Arya felt as though her heart could burst and her legs would give out beneath her, if it weren't for Gendry holding her up. Her breath caught in her lungs, and her grip tightened on his hair, holding him to her. She had never been kissed before, never so much as wanted to, but then, she had never expected it to feel like this.

Gendry pulled back suddenly, breathing heavily, and his arms dropped from around her. Arya felt cold without the warmth of his embrace. She stumbled back, head swimming, and touched one hand to her swollen lips.

"Gendry..."

He was not looking at her. His eyes were closed again, head turned to one side, and Arya could see a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw. He exhaled sharply through his nose and stood, brushing past her swiftly.

"Where are you going?" she asked, a stab of hurt lancing through her as he strode towards the door.

He lifted the crossbar as easily as if it weighed nothing, and pulled open the door. Only then did he turn to her with blue eyes filled with aching regret.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm so sorry."

Then he was gone, and Arya was left staring at a dark, empty doorway that perfectly matched the new hole in her heart.