Robb's men, some of whom Arya knew, were nearly reverentially respectful towards her, but as the days lengthened and numbered, the men grew more relaxed. She relaxed, too, to some degree, with the nights spent around fires. They had stories of Robb and of Winterfell that she found herself liking to listen to; it brought back something of the two years she'd missed.
She realized, somewhere along the way, that she was savoring even the travel itself; the constantly changing scenery, the task of riding. It might be her last journey anywhere, once she was installed with her new husband at The Twins. They would probably have her keep to some tower room day in and day out. And she could converse only with her gloomy in-laws, the unprepossessing lot she recalled from all those months waiting for Catelyn and Sansa to join them.
It was hard to imagine much of a future, but she tried not to let it occupy too much of her head. Rather she enjoyed the raillery of her good-humored companions, who, if they had any resentment over being sent on a four-month absence for the sole purpose of conveying a bride-to-be to her engaged, never showed it. It would have been easy for them to resent her, though if they did, Arya certainly couldn't tell.
When the two-month journey was over, and they were at the Twins, Walder Frey looked just as crotchety and ancient as he had the first time Arya had stood there in his great hall, his attending court just as untidy and scrofulous. His eyes were far more piercing now, as he took in every detail of her.
"In a hurry to be wed, eh?" he said. She couldn't tell from his tone what he was implying, exactly. Neither yes nor no was the right answer, that much she knew.
"I wait on your lord's convenience," she said at last, dipping. Not too deeply. She was wearing a split gown she'd designed herself; it draped like a regular dress at the bottom, fooling the eye, but was meant to be worn with leggings underneath that enabled her to run or fight.
"My convenience is to wait," he retorted.
"My lord?"
"Neither hide nor hair of you for all that time, nor word from your brother? And now you come knocking at the door? Aye, I think we'll wait."
Arya tightened her fists under the long sleeves of her gown.
"Waldron! Meet your intended." Lord Frey gestured at one of the men.
The man stepped forward, unsmiling. Perhaps somewhere in his twenties, he was no more or less ill-favored than any of them. Impossible to tell at this moment what kind of husband he would make, but Arya's initial impression was that he was no more eager to be married than she.
Or perhaps he just found her unattractive. That was also a possibility.
They exchanged formal greetings, and then shortly after they were all dining together. Arya was seated next to Waldron. He said very little to her, beyond the preliminary polite inquiries about the journey from Winterfell. She had no appetite but, mindful of Lord Frey's watchful eye on her, tried to eat appropriately. Conducting herself like a lady was coming back to her, slowly, though it was not enjoyable—it would never be enjoyable.
Walder, on his son's other side, leaned past him to gesture at Arya. "Your grandfather Tully sent me a message, not long back. Appears he's ailing further, and wants to see you before his end. He bids you come to Riverrun before the wedding. That suits me; does it suit you?"
She couldn't reply right away. All she could hear for a moment was the voice of Rona, telling her clearly that Gendry had gone south to the Riverlands.
"I suppose if I am summoned by my grandfather's last wish, I ought to go," Arya said at last, trying to sound reluctant, although all she could think was, a reprieve. From this dank place, from this unknown groom-to-be. Another quarter of a year, easily.
"So you ought," he said. "Waldron will take you. You'll be properly accompanied, of course."
His son was staring at him, temporarily slack-jawed. Evidently this was the first he had heard of the arrangement. A look from Walder quelled him, and after regaining his composure, he turned towards Arya and said, "I would be happy to be your escort, my lady."
"Thank you," Arya said. "When do we leave?"
Not immediately, as it turned out. The first difficulty was in relaying the news to Robb's men. They were divided in opinion. Some of them thought their duty was clear; to continue on with her to Riverrun, if the Crossing was not to be her final destination after all. Still others—the younger ones with wives and children—just as clearly wanted to return to Winterfell. At last they sent a raven north asking for clarification from Robb. His reply was that as long as Arya felt safe to undertake the journey under the auspices of the Freys alone, his Stark men should return. So she bade them go back to Winterfell, though some still held obvious misgivings.
It was a week before Arya, Waldron, and a small contingent of five Frey men left the Twins. The atmosphere of this journey was very different from the camaraderie experienced on the way down. Arya had expected no less, yet the first few days were hard to adjust to. She had no liking for the chosen escort, who seemed sly and were always indulging in innuendo and private jokes though whenever she was in earshot they pointedly fell silent. Waldron rode at her side while two were ahead of them to scout—usually out of view—and the other three kept well behind. It gave them the illusion of privacy, which had to have been either Waldron's choice or his father's orders, impossible to tell which. Her companion was tight-lipped, not inclined to converse even when the riding made it possible, which until they joined up with the King's Road, it wasn't. He was not inattentive, however, consulting with her as to when she wished to stop throughout the day.
It was evening after they had made camp, and she was tending to her horse; another thing the men would have done if she had not bothered to do so, but she preferred to. Time went so slowly otherwise.
Over the animal's back she saw that Waldron was approaching with some hot tea, boiled over that evening's firepit. She gave the horse a last pat and dusted her hands on her tunic, accepting the drink. "Thank you."
He inclined his head. They stood for a moment, enveloped in mutual awkwardness and the oncoming dusk.
She asked politely, though she had a good sense already of the answer, "How far are we from the main road now?"
"Another day," he said, considering. Then, as if aware the reply seemed terse, he added, "If we continue at our current pace."
What's your opinion on our engagement? she considered asking him. The problem with such a question was he wouldn't answer honestly one way or the other if he had any sense. It didn't matter how either of them felt and they both knew it.
Still, she was tempted. Better to be frank at the start, wasn't it? Didn't they have more of a chance if they were agreed upon where they both stood?
She had neither the desire nor the gift for politics. Arya drank her tea down in one long swallow, though it burned her throat, and remembered belatedly, from his expression, that she should have taken it in delicate sips.
Seven hells.
She missed Gendry. So much.
Don't think that. She quickly thought of all the foul words she knew—plenty in Braavosi and other languages—in rapid succession, in the hopes that this would momentarily give her the toughening she needed to avoid an unexpected and thoroughly embarrassing display of emotion.
The men were laughing about something. Why did their laughter always seem so mean-spirited, compared to Robb's men? When probably the exact same thing would spark the humor of both sets; men always laughed about stupid things.
"I think I should retire," she said. Her throat hurt, and not just from the tea.
"As you please, my lady." He gestured towards her tent, which stood ready. Having her own quarters at night was a luxury she wasn't accustomed to and hadn't expected. Waldron had his as well, and the men camped under the sky. At first the tent had felt too restricting, but after a day of being watched she began to look forward to drawing the door flap and closing the rest of them out. She slept with her sword at the ready, even as she had on the way from Winterfell. She didn't think Waldron was enough of a fool to attempt a midnight visit, but one never knew. Even if they hadn't been strangers, she had already, painfully, learned that lesson about trust, however slight.
In two more days they had reached the King's Road, and Arya had had enough of their convoy. She had not given the idea more than a short consideration, but now she turned, impulsively, in her saddle, and said to Waldron, "Send them home."
"My lady?" he said, baffled.
"Send them back. I want no more of them."
He seemed unable to frame a reply before he said, stammering slightly, "Has any of them...given offense in some way?"
"Yes," she said, and when his face colored in imminent anger, she added, "Though not, perhaps, in the way you mean. None directly. No punishment is warranted. I only want them gone."
"But I cannot. What if we are waylaid? Who will defend us?"
"Well, I assume you can wield a sword in your own defense," she said dryly. His cheekbones deepened in color. "As for me, I can look after myself. The late Lord Stark made sure of my training, and since then I've done nothing but further my skills."
"This is very—"
"Unusual. I understand. You must understand that I'm not the usual noblewoman."
"Even if I did as you wish, my father would send more men after us."
"Of course," she said. "But we'd have a considerable lead by then."
He gathered the reins in his gloved hands, his jaw working. "This is all very well—Lady Arya—but have you given no thought to your own personal—safety? You would lose your chaperones as well as my guards."
"I sleep with my sword," Arya said. "I have nothing to fear from any man."
"If this is truly your wish," he said, his expression unconvinced.
She inclined her head.
Waldron turned his horse and gestured to the grouped men, who rode towards him. They had a quick conference. Arya guided her own animal on to the road, encouraging it into a slow jog forwards. Shortly after she heard his horse, and one of the supply horses which he led behind, cantering after to catch up with her.
She tossed Waldron a reassuring glance. Already she felt more free, unencumbered. The sky was grey and the air chill as if poor weather was on its way, but her mood was light.
Getting to the Crossroads Inn was the next major achievement of the trip. With only the extra pack horse now, Waldron said they would need to stay at the settlement for a day or two to replenish their supplies. They obtained separate rooms. After washing and changing, Arya met Waldron downstairs in the main area for dinner. Looking around at the bustling tables, she was reminded of having come here with Gendry.
"Is everything all right?" Waldron asked, dutifully.
"Fine," she said. She reached for the ale that for some reason the serving wench had placed closer to him than to her. He was quicker, pouring the drink first into her goblet and then into his.
"To surviving thus far," she said with some irony. They touched goblets together and started in on the hot food that had been brought to them, quail pie and a berry tart.
"I can't imagine my father's very pleased with us," Waldron remarked, not long into the meal.
"It doesn't seem he likes much of anything anyway," Arya said, emboldened by the contents of her cup.
"He likes things to be the way he wants them," Waldron accorded. "That is true."
"Do you usually always do what he wants?"
"Doesn't every son or daughter?"
"I suppose," she said, "eventually."
They ate in silence for a while, surrounded by the noise and chatter of the others around them. The serving girl brought more drink, which Arya intercepted.
"Are you going to be able to finish all of that?" he said, raising an eyebrow.
"Is that a challenge?" she said with a wry twist of her mouth.
"I'm not saying you shouldn't. There's no reason you have to rise early tomorrow. I'll be going out to inquire about our supplies."
"I'll come with you."
He looked startled. "If you like."
"You should know, if you don't by now, that I'd rather be involved with things than not."
"I'm beginning to realize that, yes. Very well. I will knock on your door in the morning. Early."
"I will be up," she said, having another long swallow of ale. No dreams for me tonight.
When dawn came she was indeed up, though with a blistering headache from the drink. Arya pulled on her clothes, wove her hair into a serviceable braid and threw her cloak on, concealing her sword.
The streets were busy even now, populated with many who might not yet have gone to bed. Merchants were sweeping in front of their stalls, a bakeshop was putting out its first round loaves, the clang of steel echoed from the smith's. Arya's stomach tightened at the familiar sound. She was keeping up easily with Waldron as he walked along, but something caught her eye and she halted in the middle of the road, not noticing the woman bearing a basket of apples who nearly ran into her.
Across the street, a bull's head helmet—the bull's head helmet, surely—hung from the saddlebags of a horse. The rider, a strapping middle-aged fellow, was just untying the animal from its post and preparing to leave.
Arya grabbed Waldron's arm, not caring how proprietary it seemed. "Buy that for me."
"The...horse?"
"No, st—" She almost called him stupid, swallowed it in time. "The helmet."
Waldron hesitated for three counts. She kept her temper though it seemed like an eternity. The fellow was on his way to leaving.
But then Waldron complied, striding across the street, returning to her moments later. "He says it's not for sale."
"Nonsense," Arya said. "Everything is for sale."
She stepped out, hailing the man when he would have started down the street, and asked him pleasantly about the provenance of the helmet.
"Won it in a game, what's it to you?" he returned.
"I'll pay you well for it."
"How much?"
She named a price without hesitation.
Waldron coughed.
"It's not worth that much," the fellow said, scratching.
"It is to me."
"All right then." He began to unfasten it. Arya took the helmet into her hands with nearly reverential care. Something of Gendry's. When she had fled Winterfell, she'd brought the dried thorn-flower he'd given her and carried it around until it had crumbled into purple dust in her handkerchief.
This will not fade away so easily.
Clearing his throat, Waldron stepped forward and offered the funds. The man peered into the bag of coins and must have decided whether or not they matched Arya's stated amount, they were acceptable. He clucked to his horse, moving on down the street.
"I will pay you back, of course," Arya said, coolly, when she interpreted Waldron's silence as disapproving. "I don't mean for it to be a gift. Especially not at that cost."
"It's quite all right, though I'll admit to being somewhat perplexed."
"This is something that has personal meaning for me." She did not want to elaborate. Tucking the helmet out of sight under her cloak, she followed him about making the arrangements for the goods for the rest of their journey.
Maybe we can get it back someday, she'd said to Gendry. All that time ago. And now it was in her possession. There was something very right about that.
Back in her relatively opulent suite at the inn, however, she set the helmet on the table and then sat on the bed, looking at it, and suddenly became overwhelmed by a growing sensation of panic. I can't do this, I can't marry Waldron. I can't.
Seven bloody hells. The deepest and hottest would be reserved for her, because she was very afraid she was going to break her mother's promise after all.