Arya I
The air was cold and damp, just as she had remembered.
Not that Braavos wasn't cold and damp too, it just had been a different sort of dampness. She breathed it in and a part of her wished it were even colder. This was Winter in the Riverlands - her mother's Winter.
Her mare drank softly from a stream. She hadn't named her. Names ensured attachment, and she knew the auburn stot would ultimately be a means to ensure a few nights of shelter along her journey, or some thick stew to warm her belly once she got further north. Within days, she found herself just saying "Horse," as if that were a name.
She was pleasant, at least. She had been patient as Arya's legs remembered how to grip and ride. It had been ages since she'd even seen a horse, let alone ridden one. The canals of Braavos negated any purpose for the animal. Over time, her arms had become more accustomed to pushing serpent boats through endless canals and dense fog, and her legs forgot their lessons.
Arya shook the thoughts from her head. There was no point in getting lost in the past. Now she had only been back in Westeros for a few weeks, and each day brought an onslaught of memories. The drizzle grew into true cold rain. She tied a scarf around her head and drew up the hood of the warm cloak she had stolen in her first night on the continent.
Her coin purse held not half of what it had when she had left Essos. For two months she had done everything she could think of to get back in the good graces of the House of Black and White. It was not enough. She had failed. A handful of iron and the promise to work her way west had earned her passage to Gulltown, and there she traded her square coins for a bag of copper and a few silvers. It was hard to find a ship to take her inland in Winter. Harder still to find one who would let her pay with metal and not flesh. Ultimately, she paid with fish. She managed to wedge into the bottom of a cask of cod on a small buss called Candlelight until she slithered out while they moored in Wickenden. A freezing swim to shore, a change of clothes, and three hot baths at the inn hadn't fully removed the stench.
Horse was done drinking, so Arya guided her to where she could better hear the river and mounted. Three days of riding had faded by without more than a few hours' sleep, and now their rations were getting low. They'd need to stop sooner or later, but the past three inns were burnt to rubble long ago. Some casualty of the War of 5 Kings, or maybe just the petty squabbling of lesser lords.
Though the golden mane was matted as her fingers worked apart the clumps, it was a considerable improvement to the rug-like texture she'd seen when she'd found Horse in the Saltpans. For a moment, Arya wondered if she'd known Stranger. No.
The sun painted the sky a deep orange that faded to pink and then purple. Violet gave way to real darkness. The moon ought to be a week from full, but it hid behind the clouds like a child to her mother's skirts.
Twice her horse nearly tripped over gnarled roots and rocks hidden in the dark. A good way to die, Arya thought bitterly to herself as she realized they'd need to break for the night.
They stopped beneath a bald ash. The bare branches offered no real cover, but half a mile of soldier pines protected them from the road. She curled up next to Horse's stomach and breathed in the earthy warmth radiating from beneath her coat.
That night her wolf dreams were stronger.
The moment she slipped into sleep, her nostrils stung with the refreshing metallic scent of fear. Soon she tasted fresh blood. Her pack had brought down two massive elk. She ate first, as she always did, gorging herself on meat and savoring the taste as her teeth made easy work of sinew. Elk was much better than man. Later they found a grove to explore and watched as the smaller wolves drove rabbits from their burrows. The meat in her belly thickened her blood and she curled up next to her siblings under a half-frozen, half-rotten ironwood. One licked her muzzle and the other rested a leg over her haunch. Even as a wolf, sleep was comforting.
She was a woman again as dawn's first light turned the sky from black to blue. The rain had let up, but its absence brought a harsh chill. Horse was warm as she pet her awake. She heaved a disgruntled sigh at the disturbance, and her breath formed a cloud that rose high into the cold air and spread like oil on water. Arya shook out the green wool blanket they had laid on and watched as the short red hairs rained down and gathered on the ground like tiny pine needles. She folded it twice and rolled it tightly, then bound it with a bundle of hemp rope she had taken from Candlelight. Needle fit perfectly in the center of the roll.
It was absurd to still have the sword, she knew. It was barely longer than her forearm and might as well have been a thin poniard. Still, it was all she had left of who she used to be. Who I still am, she caught herself. Needle had been her father's agreement to let her learn swordplay. Needle was Syrio Forel telling her that she was worse than the worst fool he had ever trained. Needle was Sansa's ridiculous white dress that she had stained with that blood orange in King's Landing. Needle was Robb and her mother, back before the Freys' betrayal. It was the only thing she'd had when she left the Faceless Men and the only thing she needed now.
She got herself back onto Horse and nudged her along. It didn't take long for the rhythm of the trot to weigh Arya's eyelids. They followed the sound of the river away from the rising sun, through the skeletons of a hundred trees. She was so tired, and the horse's hooves crunched through the frost in a song that lulled her to a deep sleep. This time, her mind remained human.
A screeching hawk overhead startled her awake. Horse had gone too close to the river - it was close enough to see now. Wisps of steam curled up like fingers reaching through the early morning mist to touch the sky. The hawk swooped down and skimmed the fast-flowing water. Nothing. Again she dove, her sharp talons glinting in the light. Still nothing. It seemed they weren't the only ones with lousy hunting.
Arya steered Horse back behind the trees. A massive black log lay to their right. The rotted leaves below seemed to suggest it was an oak that had fallen long ago. Its broken branches jutted up into the air like the massive spines she had found in the bowels of the Red Keep.
Supposedly, dragons lived amongst them again. She hadn't seen one, but you couldn't go fifty feet in Essos without hearing of the Dragon Queen - a daughter of the Mad King who had freed slaves and hatched her own living sigil. Some claimed she birthed them herself; others said she was as winged and scaled as her namesake. It was said her most trusted court included a twisted monkey and a fat old bear, and that she took a new lover each hour. If even half of it was true, Arya hoped to meet her one day. Alas, she couldn't quite figure out where the queen had gone. All she knew was that the last Targaryen had finally left Slaver's Bay. An old woman with a mangled back and a Ghiscari accent was certain she was headed to Volantis next to free their enslaved. There were five for every free man, and there were more than a million of those, or so Maester Luwin had told her long ago. Five million slaves seemed like a lot to Arya, but even one was too many. Word on her journey from Braavos was that the dragon had gone to reclaim her throne in Westeros, yet no one on the continent mentioned her.
The Lannisters were still in power here, that much she knew for certain. Everyone said that queen was as fat and sotted as her deceased husband, and some claimed she had been marched naked through the streets. That seemed a tale too good to be true. Only one of her bastard offspring remained - the boy Bran had practiced with in Winterfell, Tommen. According to the captain of the galleon to Gulltown, he only emerged for rare addresses and otherwise kept hidden. More than half a decade had passed since Arya had looked upon that cunt's treacherous face, but she still saw her green eyes and those stupid golden curls piled high atop her head. One day she would see her blue and lifeless. One day soon.
The sun was high overhead when she dismounted again to refill her waterskin in the river and piss behind the trees. They were down to a small bag of oats for Horse and a shriveled apple for her. She had tried thrice in the days before to catch a rabbit or maybe some fish, but nothing was fruitful. Now hunger clawed at her stomach. They needed an inn.
The air was warmer now that the mist had lifted. Moisture here clung differently than it had in Braavos. It wrapped around her like a second cloak, working its way through the seams and outer leathers into her linen smallclothes and the hair braided beneath her kerchief. In Braavos the fog settled like smoke, never quite ready to lift. It respected garment boundaries, but worked its way into softer fabrics until everything smelled like the tombs of Winterfell - cold and stale with a hint of rot.
But this was not Braavos.
There was no reason to relive that place. She could never return, not without a death wish. Years of training and she still fell for the obvious trap. Dozens of successful lives taken for the Many-Faced God, and what did she have to show for it?
"You will never again use our ways," the Kindly Man had told her as the Waif burned her clothing and sent her into the streets. She had been tempted to try it, but something in his tone told her it wasn't wise. There were other lessons she would always retain - the identification (and, more importantly, use) of poisons, how to blend in anywhere, three tongues of Essos and a dozen accents from both continents, plenty of combat skills.
How could she have been such a fool? And how could they not see her potential despite the mistake? She had learned in nearly 4 years what took others an entire decade.
Arya sighed and unfurled her hand from the horse's rough mane.
The next few hours were a good time to work on remembering her former lessons. Tears of Lys - clear, used to make one shit themselves to death; best masked in undercooked meat for an obvious excuse. Archersbane - made from one part concentrated nightshade, three parts yarrow, two parts water, and pestled coltsfoot; slowly dissolves muscle function and vision; best masked in herbal teas; must be given repeatedly for three weeks to make the damage permanent. Cow's tongue - not actually made with cow at all, but a healing blend of baby's breath, mint, primrose, and mullein; good for topical application to friction burns and shallow cuts.
Her mind ran through the standard list easily enough. But what was the name of the combination of poppy's milk, perilla, burdock, and walnut shell? A few drops in wine or tea could withdraw poisons, but a few more turned the body black from the inside out. It started with an M… or maybe it just had an M in it? How much more would she lose the farther she traveled from Braavos?
As the sun began its slow descent ahead of them, Arya thought she saw something familiar. A massive boulder with a splotch of lichen nearly a foot across towered to the south. Some other sort of thing had grown within it, causing a white streak that reminded her of a vein
This was where she realized the Hound was dying.
By the time they passed this rock, he was beginning to feel the effects of his wounds and he had nearly fallen from his horse twice. That meant that old inn where she had killed the Tickler wasn't far. It was their best bet.
Surely no one there would remember her. She had been a child then - scrawny and filthy, with the shaggy hair and stained rags of a boy. Now she was a woman grown. Her hair reached her shoulders, and it was darker this deep into Winter; her clothing was simple but did nothing to hide her sex. The leggings and jerkin had been intended for a man, and fit uncomfortably tightly around the places her body curved where men's did not. A dark blue kerchief and grey woolen cloak hid her shape somewhat, but no disguise would convince anyone scrupulous that she was male. Not when the only face she could wear was her own.
Regardless, no one would recognize her. The serving wenches who had been there that day were probably hanged or gutted by now, and Arya Stark had been dead to Westeros for half a decade. She would keep it that way.
She didn't pull back when the horse headed towards the road. There was still a good section of blue sky between the sun and the earth - they should have four or five hours until dark.
The road was more treacherous than the woods. Puddles half a foot deep threatened to cripple Horse, and she swore she heard a wolf's howl from across the forest. Wolves didn't scare her, but the stot froze up and shuddered. Arya nudged her along with a gentle press of her feet. "You're alright," she whispered into her mane.
They'd need no small amount of supplies at the inn. It would be best if Horse could rest in real hay and feast on oats and grain for a night. Arya needed less - maybe a bowl of stew and some mulled wine to keep her insides warm. Did the rooms here lock? She hadn't actually seen the beds. The floor would be fine for her, and her cloak would keep her from freezing. She supposed they'd have a real fire. She hadn't since the inn over the tavern in Wickenden. Cold was better than dead, and smoke would draw attention.
She could get some apples and a wheel of hard cheese for the rest of the journey. Maybe they'd give her some ground corn or rice - something she could add water to to fill her belly when the road got bare further north. If she was lucky, rum. Many inns doubled as taverns, and Harwin had always said rum was good to keep warm if you had nothing better.
Shadows stretched out long behind them as they traveled. The sun shone its golden light straight into her eyes and no amount of squinting made the road more visible. Only the black trees in her periphery told her that they hadn't left the road.
This was the second day without any sign of another person. She ought to be surprised, but people always spoke of how dangerous the roads were at this point of Winter. Bandits seemed like the obvious harm as a child, but now she could see the true threats - a broken leg from slippery morning ice, the freezing winds, nothing to hunt for leagues. How much worse would it be once she crossed the Neck?
The sun finally sank below the hills, turning the sky the color of jewelweed. The ache in her back had grown with each hour, and now no amount of stretching or twisting helped. They must be close. Something was in the distance, some sort of snake-like indentation in the hills. The kingsroad.
The river's song grew as they trotted. A rush of water charging over rock and sand. Horse was slowing, but Arya patted her gently. "Almost there, girl."
And then they were. The Ruby Ford roared from days of rain, and voices broke through the sound. Loud, chaotic voices. Not a fight; not even a specific person. It grew louder still. The din reminded her of a farm, or mayhaps one of the orphanages along the Purple Harbor. The closer she got, the brighter the flickering of fire through the thick windows.
Arya dismounted and tied Horse to one of the three splintered posts to finish the oats. She'd earned every last one.
The door was lighter than she remembered. Was it still green and chipped? It was hard to tell at this hour. She entered quietly, not wanting to draw attention to herself.
A small child as naked as his name day ran past her as soon as she opened the door.
There were children everywhere. Standing on the tables, shouting, wrestling on the filthy wooden floorboards. A baby wailed in the arms of a brother or cousin no older than five. Two boys tousled an older girl's snarled red curls. An aged shaggy brown dog with a salted snout slept as tiny hands poked at it.
It would be easy to avoid attention in this havoc.
The inn looked suitable for her purposes. The walls were sanded and painted with thick coats the color of old bone. Blood and food had been smeared along a few sections, and other parts were so worn that the grain of the wood was visible. Wooden benches and stools stood along the tables. Most were uneven. Two stone hearths housed fires so massive that Arya wondered how many children had stumbled to their crisp deaths.
There were a few adults, mostly in the corners. An old man sat cloaked in the only comfortable-looking chair. He warmed his withered hand inches from the larger fire. A thin woman in a threadbare brown dress wiped down a table. The proprietor, presumably. Two men sat speaking on a bench by the stairs. One had a sharp chin and mousy brown hair. The other….
No. That wasn't possible.
She studied his face, sure she was wrong. A broad, defined chin. High cheekbones. Hair as black as wet charcoal. Eyes the color of the sea at midday. Eyes that were looking at her. Fuck.
This was stupid. Now what would she do? Her heart beat faster as she tightened her hood and hurried past the gaggle of children blocking the door. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. No one she knew was supposed to be there. Hell, she wasn't going to reveal herself to anyone but Jon once she got to the Wall.
She hadn't even gotten to Horse before the door smashed open.
"Arya." His voice was deeper now. Much deeper.
She kept walking.
The horse paid her no mind as she enjoyed her oats. Gods be damned. Weren't they easily startled? Shouldn't she sense the immediacy?
"Arya," he repeated. The frayed reins stayed stubbornly tied as she tried twice to get them off the damn post. Horse would need to eat on the road. A hand on her shoulder turned her body, and for some reason she didn't go for one of her knives.
He was taller than he had been when she'd last seen him, and much broader.
"You're alive." She avoided eye contact. There was no time for distractions from her plan.
Gendry smelled exactly the way he had in her dreams as he crushed her against him. His arms let go the moment she pushed away.
"What, did you rattle your tongue off at the wrong person and get it torn out?" She almost laughed at that, but swallowed it down.
His hand dropped from her shoulder. She looked at his face again and saw something else. Disappointment.
"It's the only inn for leagues," she finally said. "I just needed somewhere to let the horse rest." Horse scoffed as if she had understood and disapproved of the excuse.
"I suppose you'll be expecting some lordly featherbeds," he said as he stepped back. "We have a few." His hair was long now, his face clean shaven.
"We?" Did he own this place? His skin was still smooth and young as he ignored the question. "And straw is fine. Or a floor. Maybe one of those tables if you can get one out from under the bairns."
"Are you stopping or not?" She had irritated him, that much was clear. Her stomach grumbled loud enough for both of them to hear. "Is there food?"
"Marlyn's made some trout stew." Trout stew sounded good and warm. Her gut twisted painfully at the thought of sweet fish meltingon her tongue. A hot meal was reasonable, at least.
"That your wife?" Gendry laughed. It reminded her of something she had heard long ago. Not his younger laughter, but the amusement of someone else entirely. She couldn't quite place it. His teeth were straight and white; none were missing.
"Marlyn is a man. He married Jeyne, the innkeep." He looked her over, and his face softened. "You're really alive."
Arya could feel herself regressing. Some part of her felt tight when she thought of the way she ignored him a moment earlier. "Of course I am." He embraced her again. That's what it was, an embrace. When was the last? Maybe Isabel, the kind courtesan at the Black Pearl who had taught her how to read men and distract them with a swing of the hips. Where was she now? Likely luring some bravo to spend another coin by adding wine to his hour with her.
She let it happen this time, and even returned the gesture. Her face pressed against his sternum. He must be at six and a half feet tall. Ritmore . That was the name of the concoction she couldn't remember earlier. A useless thought. The moment shattered the second a child ran by and started prodding Horse. "Whoa," the girl called in a tiny voice. Arya stepped back and looked at her.
"We'd better put your horse away. The wolves have been on the prowl of late." Arya nodded and led her by the reins to a dilapidated shack of splintered wood. Pine, by the smell of it. This would do nothing to stop wolves, but it might dissuade another guest from taking her. She patted Horse's grooved head and untied her things. Needle fell from its hiding place within the blanket and Gendry breathed out loudly when she caught it. "You still have that thing? I thought-"
"Castle-forged steel," she interrupted with a forced grin. She wouldn't dwell upon where it had been.
"If you stay more than a few days, I can make something better-sized."
It was an outrageous offer. "There's nothing wrong with Needle." Her voice came out higher than she'd meant it to. How were they were right back to how they'd been when she sprinted past Harwin out of that stable? Gendry chuckled at her defensiveness.
Maybe Horse ought to get more than one night to recover from their long ride. She could give her a few days to put on enough meat to get them though the journey north.
A/N: Well, well, well. After more than a year without writing anything but work-related bores, I'm so excited to finally get to this fic. I wanted to reread the series after my last story, which was more show-based. It had been over 10 years! So many small details jumped out at me that I hadn't seen before.
It's been a while since I've written anything fictional, so please excuse my rustiness. I wrote this quickly and was too excited to do more than a basic proofread. I hope future chapters are less repetitive and more enthralling.
I need to warn that this story will be, well, not unlike the books in terms of questionable content. (It will be very unlike the books in terms of GRRM's writing prowess. Let's be real, this is fanfiction.) There will be swearing, disturbing imagery, major character deaths, sex, and lots of violence. I don't want to add a specific trigger warning to the chapters to avoid spoiling their content, but please take care of yourself if something feels hard to read.
I won't be updating this as often as I did my last story, mostly because I have a lot less time now. But I promise to finish it. Really, I do. It will be long (and that's saying something since the last one was nearly 110,000 words...) but the chapters will generally be shorter. We'll get more POVs and a broader storyline. At its core, this is a Gendrya story, but I will attempt to explore some other components of the series.