A/N: Here's the next chapter! The POV will alternate between Gendry and Arya, so this chapter is from Arya. (I'm totally not copying Untouchable. Nope. Not a chance.)

When Arya eventually gets back into the car, sliding into the passenger seat, it takes Sansa a few minutes to notice that she's actually returned. She tosses her phone down beside her and glances at Arya as she fiddles with the radio, retuning it from pop to the station that was playing inside.

"Well?" Sansa asks, starting the engine up with a purr. If the guy inside freaked at her bike, he'd have had a heart attack over this smooth black saloon.

"He'll fix it."

"He must be some sort of prodigy. I told you not to try and drive that thing while you're angry!"

Arya ignores the admonishment, even though she knows it's true. Just, that night... she needed to get out, away from the Starks. "What do I owe you?"

Even though Sansa is ostensibly the beauty of their family, she's not dumb in any way; she rarely does anything out of the goodness of her heart, not any more. "Walk Lady for me when I go back to college, please?"

Another dog. Arya already walks her own dog, Nymeria, and occasionally Summer; Bran can't exactly keep up with him, even though Summer is one of the most sweet-tempered of their pack, besides Lady. Maybe even Ghost, too.

Ghost. The dog who left with his owner, the missing link in their family

Arya shakes her head, pressing her palms into her eyes. "Fine." She'd hoped Robb would give her a lift, but he was working late tonight, tying up the loose ends on some case. Instead, Sansa drove her in, and Rickon helped her heave her motorbike into Sansa's spacious boot while the girl herself tapped her polished nails and yelled at them to hurry up.

"So... what was he like?"

"Who?" Arya is too busy thinking about her brothers.

Sansa sighs. "The mechanic! Duh!" Her face takes on a conspiratorial cast, and she leans over to whisper in Arya's ear. "Jeyne gets her car fixed here, and she says he's grade A."

Arya lets out a snort as her sister giggles. "You know I don't notice things like that!" After Sansa pouts at her for a few seconds, she relents. "But he was definitely built." Arya has a tendency to assess the muscular condition of everyone she meets, similar to how she used to weigh her boxing opponents up as they got into the ring. "Nice eyes, I guess." Blue, the colour of a halcyon summer sky. She had the strange feeling she'd seen the exact shade before, but she doubted it; few people had eyes as ultramarine as that. Also, he wrinkled his forehead in a way that was both cute and irritating, but she would rather die before she admitted that to Sansa.

"Nice eyes. You're a bit helpless, aren't you?" Sansa turns left, fluorescent light setting her hair aflame.

Arya doesn't bother arguing. Boys never caught her attention, at least not in the way they caught Sansa's. Just as well; nobody would ever care to even look at skinny, grumpy Arya Horseface, not beside Sansa and her her auburn waves and cornflower eyes. While Sansa was doing the kissing, Arya did the fighting; the day she got suspended for knocking a boy who was four years her senior unconscious is one of her proudest. It wasn't her fault, not strictly; he'd been talking shit about Jon, and even the teachers agreed that he deserved it... but they still suspended her. Rickon seems to be eager to continue her legacy of kicking ass and taking names, from her mother's frequent, increasingly exasperated conversations with his teachers.

"Arya..."

"What now?" She knows she's snapping, but she's irritated and Sansa's perfume is giving her a headache.

"Just... don't do that again. I know Mom can be sort of... unreasonable, about that whole thing, but when you stormed off... I was so scared. It was raining, it was dark, and you looked just about ready to kill... I honestly thought you wouldn't come back."

"I did." Arya keeps her voice soft, and tries not to feel guilty. "And our brother isn't a thing, Sansa. He's a person, and he needs our help."

Her sister's fingers tighten around the steering wheel, and she remains silent for a few seconds, perfectly glossed lip pressing together. "I love him too, you know that... but I don't want you to get hurt. Not ever."

Arya hears her meaning; if she does go after Jon, she will get hurt.

"I can take care of myself, Sansa."

"I know." Her sister's hand leaves the steering wheel and settles over her own for a brief moment. Arya glances at their joined fingers; Sansa's hands are elegant and soft, her slim fingers bedecked with rings and her nails painted delicate pink, whereas Arya's hands are rough and calloused, her nails cut short. She squeezes her sister's hand and then withdraws her own. That's the second time she's touched someone today, which is odd; Arya isn't big on physical contact, unless she's punching someone.

Nevertheless, the gesture touches her, and they spend the rest of the ride arguing companionably over the radio; if Arya has to listen to one more sappy pop ballad, she'll puke.

She hangs around the house for the next few days, attempting not to explode. Silently, she curses Robert Baratheon; the only reason her father had bothered to move them down to King's Landing for the foreseeable future was because his old friend had demanded that he do so. Arya knows her father misses Winterfell, just as she does; there, the first snows would already be falling, but down here in the south, the only evidence of winter is a slight chill. She can't go hiking; she'd have to drive to the Kingswood to find anything even remotely resembling nature, and to find mountains she'd have to go to the Stormlands. She doesn't want to explore the city, either; she tried, the first few days, but all she saw were homeless people sleeping in thin blankets as perfectly coiffed women glided by. Sansa invited her out with her and her friends a few times, but Arya loathes dressing up; her only skirt is her old school skirt, and she wore that twice. Sansa loves skirts, pretty, floaty lace things worn with stockings and knitted jumpers, or tight shiny ones to be paired with sheer black tops and sky-scraper heels.

When she finally grows bored of wailing on her punching bag, she decides to take matters into her own hands. There's one advantage to King's Landing; Jon.

She knows where he lives, if it can be called living; she did a bit of digging, bullied Theon, Robb's investigative partner, into letting her use the police database and scrolled through endless lists of junkies, drawn-out faces bearing tremulous looks of fear. She almost went straight past Jon; only his Stark grey eyes caught her, told her he was her brother. It gave an address and a list of associates. They didn't look particularly tough; one had a beard that was little more than fluff, and another looked more like a pig than anything else.

She meets the pig boy when she finally decides to visit the address, slipping out under the pretence of visiting an old school friend. She wears a hoodie, and on the bus old ladies walk by her seat to sit elsewhere.

The house is in disrepair, gaps in its windows covered by thin wood, iron railing bent and rusted. There's no knocker on the door, and the doorbell hangs off the wall, torn wires barely keeping it attached to the grubby concrete. She hammers on the wood, yelling for someone to open the damn door, when the fat boy opens it. He peers out through the gap, foot anchored behind it.

"What do you want?" he asks, voice shaky

"To see my brother," Arya tells him, and makes her best attempt to muscle past. The boy shuts the door tighter, until only his eyes are visible.

"I'm sorry, but you must be in the wrong place!" he squeaks. "And if your brother's here... well, he's not your brother anymore."

Arya snarls; she's met the same attitude from her parents, and she's sick of it. "Let me see Jon, or I'll-!"

"Arya?" Someone appears behind the boy, someone with her eyes.

"Jon!" she cries, and finally shoves the boy out of the way to hug her brother. He's nothing but skin and bone, far lighter than the man she remembers, roaring around on his motorcycle and beating Bran at darts.

"You shouldn't be here," is the first thing he says when she lets go of him, fingers fastening around his forearms. She tries to ignore the tell-tale track marks. "It's dangerous. If anything happened to you, Robb would have my head."

"If it's dangerous for me, it's dangerous for you." She grabs his chin. "Come home with me. Please! We all miss you so much; Bran's moody, Rickon gets into fights every day, and Sansa barely spends any time at home!"

"Your mother doesn't miss me," he says steadily, grey meeting grey.

If anything, Arya gets angrier. "She doesn't matter! You matter! I want you back! I want my brother back!"

Jon shakes her off and steps away, casting his eyes at the wall. "I'm not your brother," he states finally, voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't give a shit who your mother is, I just want you-"

"Arya... I can't come back. Not ever." Jon never looked defeated, not like this man with his slumped shoulders and lowered eyes.

"I don't blame you, you know that-"

"But I do." He lifts his gaze to her, and she finally notices the bags underneath his eyes, the tangles in his hair, the half-healed cuts marring his greyish skin. It pains her to admit it, but the boy currently cowering in the corner is right; her brother is gone.

"I'll bring you back," she growls, "if it's the last thing I do."

He regards her tiredly. "It might just be."

She storms out then, unable to take it anymore. This shell is not her brother, but she can see Jon Snow in there somewhere, and gods help the man that tries to stop her from saving her brother.

On the bus home, an idea takes root in her head; fanciful, mad and near impossible. While she was searching for Jon, a name caught her eye. Clegane.

Robb's told her about the Mountain, one of the most notorious dealers in King's Landing. Brutal, with no regard for secrecy; he doesn't care as long as he's turning a profit. Who the profits go to, no-one will say, but Arya has her suspicions, and her instincts are almost always correct.

For now, she has a bike to pick up.