Nearly a month passed before Arya and her retinue reached the northern seat of the House of Frey.
Edmure had not accompanied them, in the end, though he had sent several of his men plus a handful of minor servants including Margit, who was some comfort to Arya on the journey. Margit was only a few years older than Arya herself and while not overly inclined to speculation or questions the way Arya was, she was a practical and capable traveling companion.
At nights in their small tent Arya would lie awake staring at the firelight shadows flickering through and listen to Margit's breathing, her warm blanketed body beside her, and it reminded her of when she was younger and had climbed into Sansa's or her mother's bed of a cold night.
Still she felt lonely much of the time, day and night, though she kept a brave face when there was anyone else to see. She would have liked to help with hunting or wood-gathering but no one would let her do anything. The travel blurred into days of riding and sitting at fireside.
She was not sorry when they finally reached The Twins.
For some reason the name had given her the impression that it would be a convivial, bustling place full of juvenile life. It was therefore with disbelieving eyes Arya gazed around as a skeletal castellan who looked as ancient as the weirwood trees brought them through the dank passageways to be presented to Lord Frey. Word had been sent well in advance of their arrival but it didn't appear as if the floors had even been swept to welcome them.
Arya shared a glance with Margit before they were brought in the long room. She curtsied in front of the old man, who was staring at her under wiry grey brows.
"Catelyn Stark's daughter?" he demanded in a rasp.
One of her uncle's men stepped forward and confirmed Arya's name and position.
"Doesn't look at all like her," Lord Frey mumbled to the young woman standing beside him, who seemed a great deal more interested in the fraying edge of her dress than in any possible resemblance.
Arya stood sturdily, refusing to be embarrassed. Her normally stick-straight hair was beginning to grow out from the shaggy cut Yoren had given her all those weeks ago. She was wearing a clean gown. Margit had seen that she was presentable. She knew she was not as pretty as Sansa, who did resemble their mother, but as she had been hearing this all her life the fact couldn't make any difference now.
"How old are you, girl? Speak up, let me hear your voice."
"I am soon thirteen," Arya replied.
"Fertile yet?"
She wasn't sure if she'd misheard this. Margit squeezed Arya's hand in a gesture of confiding solidarity as if embarrassed for her sake. "What an old goat," she whispered.
Someone nearby went into a coughing fit but was soon hushed. Arya swept a glance over the assemblage; men, women, and children of all ages, most appearing ill or unkempt. She turned back to Lord Frey and said, "My mother has requested that I stay here till she arrives. I trust this will be satisfactory." After all, Freys were their vassals, more or less. He could throw her out on her ear for rudeness but it wouldn't do him any good in the passage of time.
He waved a hand at her as though she were a fly. "This place is overrun with scrawny misses, one more won't be noticed. Stay as you like."
It was hardly the warm welcome she'd pictured, but as she was ushered away she could only think that she was glad Gendry had stayed behind; he was better off at Riverrun.
The room she was shown to was small, and seemed as dank and drab as everything else they had so far seen. There were no concessions made for the servants, so Margit was installed with Arya. That night after the other girl had gone to sleep among the scant furs provided, Arya sat on the edge of the bed and watched the moonlight slant through the one narrow window.
She felt more surrounded by ghosts than ever.
Two more months passed before Catelyn Stark sent word to The Twins to say she had recovered her oldest daughter Sansa and would be coming north to fetch her younger one as well.
It was easily a further two months before the two women and their retinue of Stark men arrived.
Arya had turned thirteen during this time and left, in her own mind at least, her childhood behind. Though the castle was full of other children, most of them sired by the old goat (as she uncharitably thought of Walder Frey ever since Margit had put the phrase in her head), they never seemed to run about with laughter and rambunctiousness. They all possessed an air of discontented fretfulness, a lack of wit, or both. Arya could not make friends with any of the youngsters and had by now given up trying. The mothers did not seem to like her, either, and she did not enjoy spending time in their presence. So she spent her days rambling outdoors when the weather permitted, practicing the patterns Syrio Forel had taught her, napping alongside the river, sitting for hours in thought.
The reunion with her mother and sister was tearful on Catelyn's part but Arya found herself surprisingly calm as they tried to catch up and share the lighter moments of the past months. She found Sansa much altered. Whatever privations her sister had endured—and without needing any warning they were both careful to avoid speaking of any unpleasantries—had affected her appearance and her mannerisms, perhaps permanently. Arya felt that they were strangers. She had not been close to her sister before, and now, though she wanted to be, she didn't know how to bridge the gap of time and circumstances now separating them.
They did not delay at the Twins for any longer than necessary before embarking on the rest of the trip north. It was a tiring but uneventful journey, and when at last it was over, and they had been taken back into the heart of Winterfell, and had exhausted themselves with the reunions, the talking, the feasting, the mourning rituals for Lord Stark, the endless greetings of relatives and vassals and friends old and new...Arya stood in the doorway of her old room, the one that she had last seen as a child when her father had still been alive, and vowed silently that she would make this place feel like home again.
If somehow that was not possible, she would leave, and find a place that did.
Time passed, unremarkably, in Winterfell. It was always cold.
Arya saw yet another nameday.
News came from the south that Joffrey the usurper had been killed and that Robb Stark, king of the north, was coming home, leaving the remaining factions to fight amongst themselves for control of King's Landing.
Catelyn brought Arya some news of her own, one afternoon.
"There's something I must tell you," she said, drawing a brush through Arya's hair, which was now halfway down her back. Margit had been tending to it moments ago, but when Lady Stark had appeared in the girl's chambers Margit had noiselessly vanished, sensing the older woman's need to speak with her daughter.
Arya held still, her back straight, as she looked at her mother's reflection. Catelyn had aged much in the past months; her own hair losing its luster, her face tight and nervous, lined with the stresses of running a keep without its master, only young Bran to fill the role nominally.
"Now that Robb is coming back," Catelyn continued. "And now that you are old enough to know of it, I wanted to tell you, that we made a bargain, your brother and I." She drew the brush more firmly through Arya's hair right to the end. Arya knitted her brows to withstand the tug on her scalp. "You recall when you stayed at the Twins?"
I'd like to forget, she thought. "Of course."
"In order to gain the allegiance of Lord Frey, we made a commitment—that Robb was to wed one of his daughters, and you one of his sons. Waldron, I believe."
Arya stared at the reflections of her and her mother's face.
"Do you remember any of them?"
"They were all horrid," she said, after a moment.
"Naturally you wouldn't have thought of the boys any differently, then," Catelyn said briskly. "You are a young woman now and it will not be much longer before you would be wed in any case. It will not be for another year, perhaps, but you need to prepare your mind and body."
"For what?" Arya was recalling suddenly how the old Frey had asked about her fertility almost as soon as she'd been introduced. His evaluating gaze. Abruptly she felt rather nauseated.
"For marriage, of course." Catelyn tried to smile and now passed a hand down over her head, restored to sleekness.
Arya remained outwardly calm. There was no sense in raging at her mother, though she could sense Catelyn was prepared for just such a scene. If my father was still alive he'd never see me married off to one of those puny Freys, to live in a dungeon like the Twins, with a goat of a father-in-law.
"Arya?" Catelyn put gentle hands on her shoulders. "If you have questions, you must come to me. You will need some time to get accustomed to the idea, I know."
"I have no questions," Arya said flatly. Did her mother imagine she knew nothing of the congress between males and females? Perhaps not all of the particulars, but certainly enough not to be confused about what marriage entailed.
I will need time, but not to get accustomed to anything. Time to plan how to get out of this. Killing Waldron Frey wouldn't do, for a start, there were too many relatives who could take his place. Fleeing Winterfell—possibly even Westeros, that was a far more likely idea...though perhaps an absolute last resort.
She could send a message to Jon. He had never got on with Catelyn, he wouldn't support the idea of his sister being sent away to pay a debt, even if Robb did. And from the sound of things, Robb was going to have his own dealings with the Freys to worry about.
"I'll leave you." Catelyn stooped to drop a kiss on her head but Arya inched away at the last moment. Her mother drew in a breath to say one last thing, then changed her mind and walked from the room.
All these months Arya had been wearing gowns—she had even trained herself to fight capably in one, because it seemed like the most practical way of dealing with such a limitation—but now she sprang up, feeling the need to make a physical example of rejection for her future, and rummaged through her cabinets until she found an old pair of trousers. She pulled them on angrily. They still fit, as she had not grown much taller, though they were snug around the hips and backside where she was acquiring some shape. Casting the gown to the floor, she found a long tunic to put on top, then one of Bran's borrowed-without-permission jackets that fit snugly around her chest.
She looked like a girl anyway now, but, that couldn't be helped and she didn't care. Throwing on her boots, she marched out the door, intending to go to the stables and find a horse to ride. She would seek out the clean cold air and the rolling hills.
"I hear your lord brother is not far off," Margit remarked, a few days later. "Will he stay now, do you think?"
"I hope so." Arya pushed the spoon around in her soup. They were sitting in the kitchens. It had been some time since all of the family had sat down for a meal. Sansa ate little enough of anything, but when she did it was brought to her rooms. Bran often said he didn't have the energy to be brought down to table, and Rickon was like a creature of the wild, spending more time with his direwolf than with any of them. Perhaps Robb returning would help them to re-establish a sense of family community again, though Arya's own heart hadn't been much in it since Catelyn had announced the forthcoming betrothal.
"For my part I hope so too," Margit agreed. "Twill be good to see some life in this place again. And some men, pardon, my lady." Arya made a face at her and she giggled, sweeping the corner of her apron across the tabletop.
When Robb and his entourage were finally spotted close to Winterfell, Arya took out her horse hoping to meet them along the way, but she took a hilltop path which, though it afforded a good vantage point of the roads below, was rocky and steep. Her mount threw a shoe and she was forced to walk him back down. It took more time than she estimated, and so when she and the horse came through the gates, Robb and his company of men had already arrived. The yards were a flurry of activity, with Winterfell's remaining servants rushing to help the arrivals. Men were calling out orders and exchanging jovialities, eager for the prospect of a feast and a proper bed, while similarly their tired horses stamped their feet and demanded their grain and rest.
Arya passed the reins of her mount into the hands of a stable boy and looked around her at the noisy confusion.
Someone grabbed her from the side and lifted her right into the air before she had a chance to protest.
"Little sister." Robb swung her around in a circle and then gave an exaggerated grunt. "Not so little any more!"
At the sight of his face, beaming, even though his eyes were lined with fatigue, she promptly felt badly that she had, for a time, wished it was Jon coming home instead. After all, this was her big brother too. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him, the feel of his broad shoulders under the rough furs suddenly giving her an intense longing for their father, so strong and unexpected that tears came to her eyes.
Robb hugged her back and set her feet on the ground. "How could you not be here to meet me?" he chided.
"I'm sorry. My horse turned—"
He brushed off the explanation. "Of course you were out riding, there's even straw in your hair. You haven't changed at all except to grow taller." Laughing, he gestured to someone who Arya couldn't see at first, blocked behind a few assembled men a dozen paces away. "Here's one wants to see you, a friend of yours I found at the crossroads. Gendry!"
Arya stared, unable to believe it until she saw him step out past the others, into her path of sight.
She tried to smile but her face felt stuck, unmovable. Robb would no doubt have remarked on her odd reaction had it not been for Catelyn coming along the balcony above, her face wreathed in joy at the sight of her son. Robb squeezed Arya's arm and then left her to run up the stairs to his mother.
Alone in the milling crowd of people, Arya and Gendry stared at each other.
Was he different? she wondered. Didn't he look exactly like how her mind remembered him, maybe just a little harder, stronger? His blue eyes, that spiky black hair which always looked like he'd just run his fingers through it, were the same.
He took a few steps towards her and then stopped, as if waiting for an indication. For an instant uncertainty flashed across his face. And it felt like he might vanish if she didn't speak, so she hastily said—"I wish I'd known you were coming." Because it was the only thing that came to her mind.
"I know, I..." He shrugged. "Your brother—that is, Lord Stark—said it would be fine."
"It is fine." Arya stepped forwards. Seven hells, he thought she was telling him he wasn't welcome. "I'm just surprised."
She didn't know what to do then. She thought that she wanted to hug him, as she had done with Robb, but it wasn't quite the same. Self-consciously she shifted from one foot to the other. They could hardly have any kind of conversation in the middle of the yard.
He must have felt the awkwardness too, because he came closer then and, turning as he passed her, said, "Meet me later."
"Where?"
"You tell me."
"In the godswood," she said, suddenly decisive.
"M'lady," he said, and it sent an odd thrill of memory blended with possibility through her, that she didn't fully understand, but here was good things again, here was newness and familiarity at the same time, it was Gendry.
He picked up a saddle nearby and began carrying it across the yard, disappearing among the other men. Arya leaped for the stairs, taking them two at a time, anxious to get to her room and stare into a mirror, for she could only imagine what she looked like. And since they would be eating dinner soon, she would be expected to dress. With more haste than care she discarded her riding attire, trousers and tunic, and washed hands and face. She picked out one of her nicer gowns (one usually scorned for its lengthy train and detailed embroidery) and slipped it on, then applied a brush to her hair until it gleamed and flew in the candlelight. She decided after inspecting herself for a few moments that she looked presentable. It occurred to her she might call Margit to fix her hair, but that would attract more attention. Arya settled for pulling it into a quick braid. There, that was more than enough preening, she told herself sternly.
Dinner in the Great Hall was a lively affair, reminiscent of those in days gone by. The men were boisterous, happy to be returned to their families and neighbors. Catelyn was radiant, looking better than she had in months, Arya thought, now that her children were all about her again. Even Sansa had a smile, though she excused herself early from the festivities, not accustomed to all the light and noise. The boys were soon to follow. Arya stayed until her mother caught her eye and sent her an meaningful gesture of dismissal. Conversation among the men was tending towards crudity, she assumed, from what she could hear of it. She bade goodnight to Robb and took her leave.
Arya knew that Margit, who was busy providing extra help in the kitchens, wouldn't miss her, so she slipped outdoors and headed straight to the godswood. A few dogs barked, but she avoided attracting any other attention and was soon making her way through the well-trodden paths, surrounded by whispering trees.
It occurred to her she should have gotten her cloak. Her dress was long-sleeved and high-necked, but no defense against the frostiness of the dark air.
Gendry was already waiting for her. There was a waxing moon this night, but here the canopy of trees overhead grew too thickly to let much of its light through. Still, she could see his form in the darkness.
"It's late," he said. "I thought you might not come."
"Not come, when it was my idea?" She felt very grown-up. He was reaching for her hand and holding her arm out, and looking her up and down.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, but letting him turn her, almost as if they were in a dance.
"Trying to see where you've hidden that sword."
"I didn't think I would need it," she said, feeling defensive.
"Maybe more than before."
"Why?" she fired back.
"You don't look like such a kid any more."
"I'm not such a kid any more." She pushed him to prove her point. She knew she was stronger, given her hours of walking and riding, the solitary sword-practice and archery that she'd kept up in the months gone by; but she wasn't prepared for how unyielding his body felt. He took a couple of steps back, almost indulgently; but his chest was like an anvil.
"I didn't see you at dinner."
"We were on different ends of the room," he pointed out.
"Tell me how it happened you came here."
"I stayed a while at Riverrun, but fancied making my own way after that," he said, shrugging. "Always lots of work near the Crossroads, I was there for a time. Then your uncle found me again, convinced me to help make armor for Stark men. Later your brother took note and asked me to come North with them. Thought I'd freeze my—thought it would be cold, but not this cold."
Arya grinned, proud even though she was shivering. "Well, you're wearing leather. You need fur like the rest of us."
He gave her a severe look. "What are you wearing?"
"This? Is a dress. Which, at one time, I believe you expressed a desire to see me in."
Gendry was shrugging out of his overcoat and putting it around her shoulders. She hugged herself, relishing the lingering warmth from his body and it smelled like him, sort of charcoal and iron and masculine.
"Now you will freeze," she said, but didn't try to give it back. Impulsively she added, "I'm happy you're here. I always wanted you to see Winterfell."
"It seems a fine place."
"Tomorrow you have to come riding with me. There's so many places I want to show you." She thought of all her rambles, all the spots she treasured. She wouldn't have taken just anyone to see them, but Gendry would appreciate them, she was sure. Some rightness seemed restored now that he was here. Could she say that, or would he think her a fool?
"I will have to work—here, too, you know."
"Oh, but not right at first, Robb and all the men need to rest, and so do you, certainly."
"That's not the way it is with us small-folk."
She was irritated by this observation. As if she didn't know how things were for most people. He had better not think she was some sort of spoiled lady now, afraid to get her hands dirty, afraid of hard work. When she spent far more of her time outdoors assisting the tenants than she did primping in front of a mirror. (Tonight being the exception.) Why, just the other day she'd pushed a barrowful of somebody's turnips up the path and the old farmer had thanked her profusely and she hadn't given it a second thought, until now.
"Well, we don't lie about in our beds all day either," she said, sharply. "Except Sansa, and she's been through...things."
"I know you don't lie about," Gendry said, sighing through his nose. "But it's not the same, is it?"
"It's only not the same if—you're—determined that it's not the same," she said, jutting her chin out while at the same time temporarily losing track of the argument. And her wits it seemed. "I mean—it's just because you're all set to be haughty because you have to work for a living and I don't, only I probably work just as hard as you do, I have a blister from turnips today."
"What?" He squinted at her in genuine confusion.
"Turnips!" she said loudly.
"Have you been at the cider?"
"No, Gendry, seven hells."
"All right. Make sense then. Why are you mad at me?"
"I'm not mad at you."
"Really."
"Yes. Really. I'm happy. To see you again." She placed her hands on her hips and thrust them sideways.
"Because that's not what happy looks like. Not on you anyway."
Arya could feel a knot settling in her stomach and suddenly she was thinking of Waldron Frey, whose face she couldn't even remember but when he said 'happy' she knew she wasn't, she wouldn't be until that specter could be put from her. She stared evenly at Gendry but she could feel her nostrils flaring and her chin threatening to quiver, and she knew the emotions she hadn't been able to produce for Catelyn were about to come tumbling out of her now.
"Oi," he said softly—the syllable a question, what's wrong with you, Arya Stark?–and the familiar sound of him saying it unraveled her shaky composure. She crumpled. She felt like she was folding in two, like a broadsword was cleaving her legs away from her.
He caught her, above the elbows, as she swayed forward, and pulled her into him. Slowly, not forcefully, giving her a chance to push him away, but Arya didn't resist at all. Her elbows bumped into his chest and then she slid her arms around him and grabbed like he was a tree trunk and she was just about to go over a waterfall. It felt that desperate and she didn't care.
His hand came up and patted the back of her head, then he tucked her head under his chin and made a soothing sound in his chest. And Arya closed her eyes fiercely against the tears.
They stood together, both off-balance. Arya thought that if anything were to interrupt this moment—something as ridiculous as the slightest leaf falling behind them—she wouldn't be able to endure it. She wanted the night to be this and nothing else.
"I don't know what this is about," Gendry muttered.
I don't know either, she thought. And I don't want a name for it. It's just us. It's right. Don't let me go.
He tilted her face towards him, scanning it.
"I can't talk about it, not now," she managed.
"All right. Tomorrow." The skin of his knuckles was rough as it brushed against her damp cheekbones.
Her legs felt unsteady, so she tugged him down to sit on the ground. And then, because even in the depth of her heart-choking misery she realized it wouldn't be appropriate to climb into his lap, she leaned against his shoulder and grabbed his hand for continued comfort.
He tightened his fingers around hers and they were silent.
Mist was rising, surrounding them with a sense of ephemeral protection, and Arya began to find calm again, slowly, lulled by its ghostly coalescence.
"Better go back," he said. "They'll be looking for you."
They walked together back to the gate. He waited until she had disappeared past the guest house back towards the great keep, before exiting the enclosure himself.