Chapter Text
Part II: Arya
Arya shot arrows until her gloves were worn; her fingers cramped up and forced themselves straight, unwilling to knock back or pluck the string. She yearned for something else to practice - if only someone was awake and willing to spar. Of course, no one was. Everyone else was drunk and celebrating, it seemed. She had told Gendry she was celebrating too, though that required a specific definition more along the lines of ‘acknowledging a win but not letting one’s guard down.’
Arya sighed and collected the arrows she had fired. The canvas target was a wreck of many small holes torn into one until only the bad shots farther from the center stood out. She studied the fabric for a moment, trying not to be melodramatic as she thought of how it might reflect her own situation - small individual points of damage congealing and cumulating into one massive, irreparable tear.
Her grey eyes found the place Gendry had knelt hours ago, the spot she had avoided since his proposal. What was he thinking, asking her something like that? She knew he was drunk - the scent of spilled ale wafted from him when he approached her and his kisses had tasted of tannin and wine.
Drunk Gendry was endearing but selfish, she determined. His words were pure and his intentions good, but he did not think. She wondered if it was unfair to consider if that he had never enjoyed thinking in all their time together. It didn’t seem inaccurate, he was a man of action but not of analysis. It seemed the only time Gendry thought things through was to determine the length and edge of a blade, to rationalize the ratio of handle to axe. or how much dragonglass he’d need to create weapons for their battle against the dead. He did not use logic in interactions with others - she had seen that with the Hound, who he let pour out abrasive words without ever seeming to realize that the older man was trying to intimidate him; she saw it with his new appointment, too. He should have been thinking about rallying his forces and drawing them south to aid in the fight to remove Cersei, not about her.
In theory, Arya could comprehend why he had done it. His discomfort with the class distance between them had been obvious since the moment he had discovered she was Arya Stark. Between the emotional high of his sudden legitimization as the heir to a major house, the heavy-handed flow of drink, and the simple fact that they were alive after a fight that had seemed utterly hopeless, Arya understood the motivation. It was the execution that was all wrong.
In truth, had this happened a year ago, she likely would have agreed. She wouldn’t have cared about the implications of his statement - she would have assumed they’d find a way to allow her to run the region while he did whatever it was he would do. But he had asked her now, after she had avenged the deaths of her mother and brother with acts arguably as brutal as their own endings; he had asked her hours after she had killed a literal embodiment of death after nearly meeting her demise. Arya was not going to lie to herself for anyone. Not even if she wanted to.
Gendry always seemed different. While other men saw her as a harmless, small woman, she thought he saw her as she was. He had felt her scars, looked into her eyes, made her weapons - but he was no different. He did not see her as she truly was.
That thought tore at her as much as refusing him had.
She had always thought Gendry was better; still a man, but superior to the rest. Where others overestimated their strength, Gendry underestimated his own; where the rest of them thought they knew all the secrets to ruling, Gendry openly admitted his complete lack of preparedness. But ultimately he had proven the same - he saw her, and all women, she resigned, as a prize. Despite the flashes of excitement that lit up his face when she threw knives in the forge and the way he had handcrafted her spear, he did not see Arya Stark the warrior, only Arya Stark the lady.
She blinked tears from her eyes and became No One again as she inhaled a frustratingly inconsistent breath. The air around her stank of sweat and mead and sex; she wished it would smell like snow and blood again.
“Be the lady of Storm’s End.” The words crashed back into her mind as she looked again at where they had kissed. Arya knew the kiss had mislead him but she had needed time to process what was happening. Those kisses had been so glorious, saying so much more than she could with words alone. She paused now as she replayed them in her head. It was the last time she’d ever kiss him, of that she was certain.
Gendry was infinitely better off without her; she wasn’t capable of the love and support he needed. He deserved his castle and his perfect wife, someone to mend his clothes lovingly and raise little black-haired babes that nipped at their heels. Pups nip, babies don’t, she reminded herself. She couldn’t even describe babies accurately in her mind - she’d never be a doting mother who merrily reestablished his line and warmed his bed while he went off to battle.
She couldn’t be what he needed; she likely couldn’t be anyone at all.
There was little chance Arya would survive the next few months. What was the use in thinking about what she could or couldn’t give a man she wouldn’t be with when her remaining days were decreasing faster than leaves after the first killing frost? She could make no promises. Gendry would make it out of this war with a new lordship and tens of thousands of Bannerman; Arya would die in its midst. She had no doubt her list would be her demise. Even she couldn’t stroll into King’s Landing, kill the queen, and live to tell the tale.
Feeling hollow as she imagined the many ways she may die in the coming weeks, Arya returned the arrows to their quiver and looped her arm under the bow. She snuck past the courtyards around the inner walls of the barbican and hoisted herself into an open window rather than going through the door. It was easier to avoid attention this way.
The halls were dark and empty as she silently padded up the stairs and around two turns of the hall until she reached her old room. It no longer felt like hers now, just a shell of wood and furniture that had once been her only private space. She laid the bow upon a table and rested the quiver beside it. She stood there, unsure of what to do even in this small space, until she found herself wandering to a small square mirror hanging on the wall. Arya had never enjoyed looking in it - she was never particularly pleased with what it showed her - but now it felt like her best option to find some direction.
The face that stared back at her was gruesome and damaged. The gash where she had smacked her head when escaping wights the night before was inflamed to a shocking shade of magenta. Bruising bloomed around it, curving down to her cheek to fan into a hideous yellowing brown around her eye. Gendry must have been drunker than she realized to call her beautiful.
Arya stepped away from the mirror and sighed. She longed for a good book to occupy her mind while she kept away from the festivities outside. She might have considered heading towards the library to peruse the titles had more time passed since she was terrified for her life there just the night before. Besides, there was little doubt it was littered with couples stealing away to fuck in the privacy between shelves. She almost wished she was one of them. Until Gendry’s ill-considered proposal, she had been sure she’d spend her night shut in this very room, naked and blissful as they explored one another until the sun rose. This time there would have been no horns and battles to wake them - they could sleep until their minds or desires caused them to stir. Maybe they would have spent the entire next day in bed. But he had shattered that illusion with a simple suggestion.
She hoped he was alright. He had looked so defeated when she responded, so utterly heartbroken. Arya couldn’t stand seeing him that way. She had to turn and focus on sending each arrow into the bullseye, lest her heart break with his.
Where was he now? Drinking with the others, she supposed. Maybe he had already found a new woman to be his lady. She had seen the way they looked at him, oblivious as he seemed to be. Their heavy-lidded eyes batted and their cheeks flushed as they passed; sometimes they giggled and whispered to one another while they drank in his muscular frame and sharp cheekbones. Arya hated girls like that, girls who acted useless and obsessed over men. They’d be better off with swords in their hands, she thought.
She pushed aside the image of Gendry surrounded by beautiful women, actually beautiful ones, not cold, bruised little killers. It was illogical to feel the way she did considering the fact she had just been reminding herself that she couldn’t be with him. Still, the thought of other women with their hands on his body made her queasy.
Arya would see for herself how he dealt with rejection.
She left her room and returned to slink through the courtyards. Staying in the shadows, she hunted for familiar faces and voices. She saw Ser Brienne of Tarth’s squire with a woman on each arm, whispering to them with a smirk; to the West wall stood two men so drunk they had to lean on one another as they made water; a woman to her left was vomitting from too much drink. She felt her upper lip turn up in disgust at the brash scene playing out before her.
The face she sought was not among them, so she turned a corner to look elsewhere. A man and a woman were arguing loudly under the arch nearest her. Beside the small sapling under the east window, two Knights of the Vale sloppily flailed their fists at one another, neither actually connecting. Still no sign of Gendry.
She thought for a moment that he may have already found a woman for the night. Mayhaps he was already forgetting her with someone else. Arya didn’t like the emotions she had to push back into her gut at the mental image.
She continued through the courts of the castle silently. A large fire bathed the path to her right in a glowing amber. Arya realized this was the forge - someone was smithing.
This was the first time she had seen the forge without dozens of workers and its unexpected loneliness struck her like a cold gust of wind. She didn’t hear hammering or hissing metal, just voices speaking lowly.
Arya carefully peered into the building, careful to keep most of her face hidden by the door. Gendry was speaking to Davos about something she couldn’t quite hear. He looked like himself again, his sooty face reddened by the heat of the flames. This was how she liked him best - vibrant and messy. He looked emotional, throwing his hands about dramatically as he spoke to the older man. She wanted to hear what he was saying, but couldn’t make out the words over the roar of the fire and the nearby crowds. She took a step into the building and hid herself in the shadows as best she could.
She still couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, but she had a feeling she was part of the discussion. The shouting man a few meters to her left walked away and she could finally hear him.
“Somehow I actually think she liked me more as a smith.” His eyes shone with sadness again as he looked to Ser Davos for a response, then gazed forward in resignation. She felt herself leaning towards them and realized she was breathing louder than she should. Leaping back towards the door, she managed to shuffle behind a group as she saw Gendry look to the door.
Arya got herself to a vacant corner and leaned against the cold stone wall. This was all so pedantic and immature. She had killed the Night King herself just the night prior, and now she was gasping while listening in on a boy in the forge - it was ludicrous.
Ludicrous or not, the sadness on his face twisted in her stomach just as painfully as the Waif’s knife had back in Braavos. This was why she couldn’t say yes. These emotions were distracting - how would she ever take down Cersei and the Mountain if all she could think of was Gendry and his feelings?
It was late now, nearing dawn, but still dark. Most of the merrymakers had found their way to the nearest horizontal surfaces to sleep off the effects of their drinks, and the courtyard was quieting down. She stayed in the shadows as she walked out towards the stables. Jon’s direwolf laid across from the horse he preferred.
“Ghost,” Arya said with a smile. He cocked his head up and lifted his healthy ear at his name.
She approached him and extended a hand before petting him. The poor wolf had taken quite a beating in the battle; Arya wished she had a salve to put on his wounds. She tangled her fingers in his thick white fur around his neck and pressed her face into it for a moment, wishing it was Nymeria She pulled away as soon as the realization hit her, but Ghost didn’t seem to mind. She pet him again and made a mental note to nick some meat from the kitchens to bring him tomorrow. Ghost nuzzled her hand when she stopped petting him. She found herself smiling again as she smoothed the hair atop his massive head.
Petting Ghost did something to relax her, and soon she finally felt able to return to her room and get a few hours sleep before their battle planning meeting in the morn.
When she returned to her room, Arya locked the door and rinsed her face in the now icy bucket of water that had been laid by the door. She removed her cloak and clothing, finding a warm wool nightshirt to wear their place before blowing out all but one candle and curling up between furs.
A deep sorrow that had been waiting in her bones woke from its hibernation and shook itself out into her chest. It wasn’t the same type of dismay she felt when she had lost her father, but surely it must be a distant relative. She repeated her list silently and tried her best to rinse away the sadness with determination and revenge; at best it only took the edge off.
Arya closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, trying her hardest to pretend she didn’t hope she fell into vivid dreams about wandering forests with a certain blacksmith and her old direwolf.