Hello! I hope you all enjoy this chapter! I'd just like to say a big 'thank you' to the Anonymous Reviewers! Even though I can't reply to you personally, like I do the others, I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate you taking the time to review! :)
Swatting away a bee, Arya stood with her wooden stick in hand, facing her opponent. Her long braid drifted in the cool breeze of the early morning, as she surveyed the pint-sized boy in front of her.
"Go easy on him," she heard Jon urge from behind her, "He's just a child."
Rickon scowled at Jon's words. He hated being the youngest sibling, and Arya knew he could not wait until he was as big and strong as Robb or Jon. The young girl was struck by the determination in his eyes. She had a feeling that it wouldn't be much longer until Rickon posed a real threat to beating her in their little sparring matches.
Smiling, Arya figured she was up for the challenge.
Suddenly, she heard the pitter-patter of feet coming closer at a swift pace across the rooftops. Looking in the direction of the noise, she saw Bran's face come into view within seconds.
"Arya!" he called. "Come quick!"
Her interest piqued, Arya hurried to lay her stick down on the bench next to Jon and Robb, paying no mind to their amused faces, before scurrying over to climb the medium sized wall next to the house, where Bran waited. Jogging lightly over the remainder of the stone wall, she climbed onto the windowsill, praying to the old gods and the new that nobody inside saw her, and let Bran help her up onto the roof.
"Made it," she grinned.
"Come on!" Bran urged her.
It was then that Arya noticed that Rickon was attempting to follow them, but he wasn't quite tall enough to raise himself onto the stone wall. He gave the wall a frustrated kick, and Arya saw Jon walk over to try and placate him. She felt some pity for her little brother. It must be horrible to be the one who's always left behind, but it wouldn't be much longer until he was grown enough to come along on her little adventures with Bran or to duel with Robb and Jon.
Bran tugged on her elbow, spurring her to follow him.
She did, and within seconds they were racing across the flat rooftops towards the centre of town.
As they clambered down the wooden crates next to the market, Arya was taken aback by the sheer number of people flooding the streets that morning. This was usually a busy part of town, but rarely had Arya seen quite so many people packed into one place. The smell of the merchants' wares filled the air, and the chatter of the townspeople buzzed around her ears.
"So, what's the big surprise?" she asked Bran, once she reached the ground.
His hand clasped her wrist and drew her behind the crates. "See that man over there? The one with the greying beard?"
The young girl looked in the direction he had indicated and nodded, glancing at her brother to see him completely enraptured by the man before them. Arya thought that was a bit odd. The man didn't look that special. Besides, they had had the 'King of the Seven Kingdoms' in their house just a few days ago. No-one else could compare to that.
"He's Ser Davos Seaworth," Bran informed her.
"What's so great about him?" Arya asked, raising an eyebrow. Of course, she had heard the stories of the part he had played in King Robert's Rebellion, but King's Landing was infested with Lords and Ladies. Arya wasn't sure why Bran had felt the need to drag her here to see this particular one, even if he was 'The Onion Knight'.
"He's from Flea Bottom, you know."
"I didn't," Arya said. She would have hated to live on the other side of Rhaenys's Hill in Flea Bottom. The few times she had gone there to explore had been horrible experiences. The streets reeked of vomit and piss, and the last time she had narrowly escaped one drunkard who had taken a liking to her.
Jon had made her promise never to go back.
Arya knew that nobody lived in the slums because they wanted to. They lived there because they had no other choice, and it seemed that Davos Seaworth had been lucky enough to escape. Few were given that opportunity.
"But what I mean is, if a man from Flea Bottom can become a Lord then mayhaps that means that our lives don't have to be determined by our birth." Bran smiled softly to himself. "Mayhaps, I can become a knight."
"Not with the way you swing a sword," Arya teased. She was rewarded with a light punch to her arm.
"I'm better with a sword than you are," Bran argued.
Arya smirked. "Care to test that theory?"
"Definitely." Bran's eyes held the promise of a challenge.
Trying to keep the smile off her face, Arya turned her attention back to the man across from them. "I heard he keeps the bones of his fingers in a pouch around his neck," she said, wrinkling her nose is disgust. "Why in Seven Hells would someone do that?"
"Stannis Baratheon chopped them off because he was a smuggler," he said.
"Well, maybe we should become smugglers then if that's the way to become knights," Arya suggested in jest.
"I am rather attached to my hand," Bran said, looking down at his fingers, as if to check if they were still there.
"Pity," Arya said with a laugh.
"Let's go home," Bran said, climbing up the crates. "I'm hungry."
Arya took one last look at Davos Seaworth, who was still in an intense conversation with the merchant opposite them, before clambering up the first crate.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a mass of auburn hair flying down the street and disappearing into the alleyway to the right of Davos Seaworth.
Sansa.
Arya could have sworn that it was her older sister. That shade of auburn was incredibly rare in King's Landing. In fact, Arya hardly knew of anyone whose hair had been kissed by fire.
Sansa was complimented regularly by people on the colour of her hair. It was never a surprise when she was stopped on the street by admirers, and she never failed to blush prettily at their words, as if she hadn't heard it all a dozen times before.
Although she would never in a million years admit it to Sansa, Arya was quite envious of her sister's auburn locks. No-one ever looked at Arya that way.
That was why Arya was always confused by her mother. Her mother always looked fearful whenever people complimented Sansa's hair, and Arya could never understand why her mother seemed to detest her own natural hair colour. The young girl had never seen her mother without dye obscuring her natural redness of hair, but once in a while the auburn roots peeked through at her hairline. Why anyone would want to mask such a pretty colour was beyond Arya's comprehension.
The young girl climbed the second crate to get a better view. If it really was Sansa, what would she be doing here?
"Arya?" Bran called, looking back at her.
"Go on ahead," she replied. "I'll catch up."
Bran shrugged, his hair dancing in the wind, and began jogging over the rooftops towards their modest home.
Crouching down on the second crate, Arya angled herself to get a better view of the alleyway. She could see Sansa standing just inside the entrance, her head poking out of the shadows to examine the throng of people in the marketplace.
It looked as if she were searching for someone.
Arya couldn't for the life of her figure out who it was she would be waiting for though. Sansa wasn't usually one to go sneaking off to town without a family member or one of her idiotic friends accompanying her. That was more Arya and Bran's style.
After a few moments, a young man stepped into the alleyway. He was well-dressed and Arya thought for certain he must be part of some noble family or at least a rich merchant family. No normal townsperson dressed like that. A quick glance down at her dirty breeches confirmed that. Not even Sansa, who spend hours upon hours sewing her own dresses, could transform the rough, cheap fabrics into ones of beautiful silk or delicate lace, though Arya knew it was not for lack of trying.
The moment Sansa saw him, her face lit up with the brightness of a thousand suns. Stunned, Arya tried to remember the last time she had seen her sister look so happy. She found that she could not remember. Not even the king's visit had provoked this favourable a reaction. Clearly, this person was quite dear to her.
When the young man handed Sansa a flower with crimson petals, Arya turned her head away, suddenly feeling awful for watching the scene before her.
Slowly, she scrambled up the remainder of the crates and headed off down the row of houses, her footsteps echoing as she went.
She found him in their usual place later that afternoon. The boy was sprawled out on the ground with his eyes closed, his dark hair fluttering in the breeze.
"Wake up, stupid," Arya said, delivering a light kick to his upper thigh.
Gendry jolted awake and glanced around, seeming momentarily confused by his surroundings. When his gaze landed on Arya, he smiled. "That's not a very ladylike way to wake someone, you know," he said, propping himself up on one elbow and rubbing one of his bright, blue eyes with his free hand.
"I've told you before," Arya said, as she held out a hand to help him up, "I am no Lady." His hand was warm despite the light wind blowing. It felt strong.
"I'm starting to realise that," Gendry said, as he raised himself to his feet, picking up the two wooden sticks that had been strewn next to him on his way.
"Took you long enough," she said, accepting one of the sticks from him.
He smirked and changed to a defensive stance, readying himself for her attack. Arya positioned herself, raising her play sword and cocked an eyebrow, daring him to strike. For once, she wasn't going to go on the offensive. A change of tactics would stir things up, and mayhaps it might even give Gendry a chance to win. In the few days that they had known each other, he had won quite a few of their sparring matches, but Arya was most definitely the victor.
They sparred for a while, first one attacking and the other countering before switching roles. It took only a few minutes until Arya's breath was coming quicker and quicker, as she attempted to overpower him.
Arya found that it was here, under the shelter of the trees, as the wind blew through her messy locks of hair, that she felt most alive.
Hearing the clash of the wooden sticks brought her joy, yes, but Arya couldn't escape the thought that it was also the company that made these little excursions so enjoyable.
Even though they had just met mere days ago, she felt as comfortable playing with him, as she would her own brothers. Gendry was kind and he was friendly, but he was also someone she could share her favourite pastime with.
Arya thought that might be a good basis for a friendship.
The swordplay lasted for a number of minutes, certainly one of the longest sparring matches they had had.
It was only when Gendry managed to get two good hits in at once that Arya fell to the ground. She could already tell that a humongous bruise was going to swell up on her thigh.
"Idiot," she cribbed, as she took his waiting hand to help raise herself from the hard ground.
"You're making me blush with all these compliments, little Lady," Gendry said, his lips curving into a smile.
Arya whipped her stick and clocked him on the ankle at the sound of his annoying nickname.
"Seven Hells, Arya," he said, his face contorting into a grimace for a couple of second until the pain evaporated. "You're positively lethal."
Arya just grinned, her smile growing bigger as he returned it.
He collected her stick before asking a simple question. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," she agreed.
"Looking forward to it," he said, and with one last smile he was gone.
Arya watched his retreating form, as it got smaller and smaller before disappearing completely.
Letting out a sigh, she decided that it was time to go home.
Absently, she wondered how she would attempt to cheer her father up this evening. He hadn't been his usual, good-humoured self for the past few days. In fact, her father had been strangely quiet and sombre since Robb had brought home the news that Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, had died.
It was as if he was in mourning for a man he had never met.
Arya wondered if that was even possible.