A/N: Sorry about the long delay, everyone!
Arya sat cross-legged on the roof of the tavern, tracing patterns in the dirt around her as she listened idly to the banter of the many customers below. The men here told vivacious stories about daring swordfights, and boisterously sang songs about legendary men and woman from years gone by. It was here, on a cool evening many moons ago, that Arya and Bran had sat and listened in wide-eyed amazement to the story of Davos Seaworth, The Onion Knight. Although, the girl had to admit that she now knew more information about the whores in Chataya's Brothel than she could truthfully say she was comfortable with, this was still one of her favourite places in King's Landing. As she sat there on the dusty, old rooftop listening to heroic tales, Arya imagined the adventures she would one day have and the places to which she would one day go.
Nothing felt better today than dreaming of a more exciting, more adventure-filled tomorrow.
The sky was turning to an orange dusk, and the heat of the day had transformed into a slight chill when a conversation happening immediately below her caught Arya's full attention. Two low voices flew up the crack beside her to meet her ears, and the young girl paused her mindless doodling to stop and listen, tipping her head slightly towards the break in the roof.
"The realm will have a full out war on its hands before long, you mark my words." The first voice was gruff and hard, a voice that held a lifetime of experience in its depths. From his tone, it seemed to Arya that he had already resigned himself to this fate, that war was now a certainty in his eyes and not just a possibility.
"I do not know about that," the other man replied, "but one thing is certain. They have grossly underestimated the memory of the North."
"The North remembers," the first speaker murmured in agreement, "and it will never forget." A shiver swept down Arya's spine at his words, and she moved closer to the crack, craning her neck from side to side to get a better view of the speakers.
A younger man spoke for this first time, his voice a little shaky as if the conversation of the older men had unnerved him somewhat. Arya knew then that he was what her mother would call a 'sweet summer child', a child who had never known the horror of war or the devastation of Winter, not unlike Arya herself. "Is war the only option?" he asked.
Moving her head closer to the break in the roof, Arya could finally make out the tops of the speakers' heads. The man with the greying hair let out a mirthless chuckle before answering. "The stag of House Baratheon is being pinned at the throat by a Lannister lion. Until that changes, the kingdom is only waiting for war to strike."
For a few moments the three were silent, digesting the older man's words and letting the reality of what they meant creep into their veins. War was coming, and Arya could feel her stomach twist at the thought.
"Arya!"
Whipping her head around, Arya saw her younger brother dashing towards her across the rooftops, carrying a parcel in his hands.
"What is this?" she asked as he came to an abrupt stop and laid the parcel in her lap before kneeling down opposite her, panting slightly.
Bran took a moment to regain his breath before replying, rubbing one hand across his pink cheeks. "It's for you," he answered. "A boy named Mycah delivered it today."
"I do not know a boy named Mycah," Arya said in confusion. Frowning, she tried to think of who he could be. Unless he was from that group of boys she had unsuccessfully tried to duel the other day and this was some kind of revenge for pushing one of them into the mud, then she had absolutely no idea who it could be from. Since she had found out the truth about Gendry, she had been on the lookout for new duelling partners, but there had been no willing takers thus far and these boys had just been complete arses.
Eyeing the package warily, she began to tear it open as Bran looked on, a look of ready anticipation on his face.
The bright shards of sunlight that still pierced the evening sky caught the blade immediately, and Arya hurried to unwrap the slender sword, letting the paper fall to the wayside. A slight daze came over her as she held the light blade in her hand, running her finger in slow, almost dreamlike movements from base to tip. It took a few moments for Arya to snap out of her trance, and her grey eyes immediately shot up to take in Bran's stunned face. Neither of them had ever held a real sword in their lives, never mind one so exquisitely made. It was, without a doubt, made by one of the finest Blacksmiths in the city, mayhaps in all of Westeros.
Glancing back downwards, Arya noticed a letter in the wreckage of gift-wrap. Laying the sword down gently, the girl read the note, biting her lip as she did so.
"Who is it from?" Bran asked, his voice still saturated with amazement and a tiny hint of envy.
"A friend," Arya answered.
"I wish I had friends like yours," was all Bran managed to say.
Before daylight had streamed through the windows the next morning, Arya had recovered her blade from its hiding place and was fighting imaginary duels around her chamber. By breakfast time she had already defeated two dragons and had won half a dozen tourneys. She had to admit, she was quite proud of her fictional achievements.
Exhausted, she flopped down on the featherbed, her fingers never leaving the jewel encrusted blade. As her strength returned, Arya felt an uneasy feeling taking up residence in her stomach. It felt as if a mound of stones had settled in the bottom of her abdomen, and Arya knew what that feeling meant. She would have to give the sword back. As much as she would have liked to keep it, her parents would not approve of her accepting a gift of this magnitude, even if it was from a prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Her parents had always warned her not to accept a gift that she had no way of repaying.
A knock sounded on her wooden door, and Arya hurried to bury the swords beneath her bedclothes.
Unfortunately, she did not manage to succeed before the door swung open and she was facing her brother, Jon, with wide eyes.
Jon frowned slightly when he saw the sword before turning and sliding the door closed with a sharp click. He moved closer to Arya and wordlessly held out his hand for the blade. After inspecting it for a couple of minutes, twirling it around in his strong hands, he asked, "So, did you buy it or acquire it?"
"I did not stealit," Arya protested. "It was a gift."
"From who?" Her brother raised an eyebrow, and Arya could not blame him. The chances of finding someone in this part of the city who was rich enough to gift a fine sword to a young girl were too slim to even be considered. She knew there was no sense lying. Jon knew her better than anyone on Earth, and he would certainly have known if she were fibbing in one heartbeat or less.
"It was from Gendry."
Confusion erupted on Jon's face competing with curiosity for dominance over his features. He handed her back the blade, moving to sit beside her on the edge of the featherbed, and Arya waited until he was comfortable before telling him the entire story, about how Gendry was a prince and also about how he had kept the truth from her.
"He's a liar," she said simply to end the tale.
Jon seemed to consider this for a moment before raising his grey eyes to her matching ones. "Why do you think he did not tell you that he was a prince?"
Arya shrugged. "Mayhaps because he is stupid."
Smiling, Jon shook his head. "That's not it."
"Mayhaps because he is an idiotprince who enjoys playing games with people," the young girl offered. She had not really thought about why Gendry would lie or rather omit the truth, just that he had. Was that not enough?
"That's not it either," Jon said, "Come on, little sister, you can do much better than that."
Arya kept quiet for a few minutes, lost in thought. She wondered why a prince, who was surely surrounded by adoring Lords and Ladies every single day of his life, would feel the need to escape from it all. She wondered why a prince, who surely had access to the best Swordmasters, would prefer to practice duelling with a towngirl like herself over the sons of noble families. She wondered why a prince, who had surely been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, would spend so much time outside his castle walls.
And then she finally understood.
Inside the castle walls, he was Prince Gendry, the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, a boy with the weight of a dynasty on his shoulders, but while he roamed the streets of King's Landing, he was just Gendry, and he could be who he chose to be, at least for a time.
Arya did not envy him his double life in the slightest.
As she entered the clearing through the path by the old, oak trees, Arya spotted the young boy sitting and waiting, with the playsticks by his side. Absently, she wondered if he had been coming here every day since that incident at the marketplace. She supposed he had. Startled slightly by the sound, the prince turned his gaze towards her, and Arya did not miss the glimmer of hope in his eyes, although it was quickly masked.
The girl sat down beside him, drawing her knees up to her chest and waited for him to speak.
"Why did you come?" he asked.
Arya glanced up at him, momentarily taken aback by his bright, blue eyes. She had not accurately remembered what a vibrant shade of blue they were. "The same reason you did," she answered lightly.
I want to still be friends.
The corners of Gendry's mouth turned upwards, mirroring Arya's own expression. It was a couple of moments before she spoke again. "I cannot accept the sword, you know," she said. "You will have to take it back." Even as she said the words, she gripped the handle of the sword a little tighter, unwilling to let it go even though she knew she had to.
"It was not made for someone of my stature," the boy was quick to reply. "If you do not accept it, then it will be useless."
Arya raised an eyebrow. "You could not find anyone else of my stature to give it to?"
"Not many knights are ten year old girls, I'm afraid," he said with a light chuckle.
"I have no way to repay you," Arya said practically.
"The sword is yours if you agree to keep sparring with me. As you have so kindly demonstrated on many occasions, I could certainly use the practice."
"If you insist, My Prince," she said with an awfully executed curtsey from her sitting position. Sansa would have been horrified.
"Why is it when you say that it sounds like an insult?" His tone was light and teasing.
Arya merely shrugged before bursting into laughter. "Mayhaps because it is supposed to," she said when she had fully recovered her senses. She had forgotten how much she had missed talking, japing and sparring with the young boy before her. She had missed her friend.
"I'd forgotten how utterly charming you are," Gendry said with a roll of his eyes.
Contented, the two children lay back, basking in the afternoon sunlight that flooded through the trees.
It took a few minutes for Arya to realise that a wide smile had crept up on her face.