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Chapter Text

Arya’s return to Westeros was quiet.  Almost secretive.  Bran surely knows she is back, but she hasn’t been to see Sansa or any of her family.  Or any of the very few friends she has.

She keeps to herself, listening to Talk.  Rumors.  Stories.  She wants to find out how things truly have been in Westeros since she has been gone.

As she gets closer to the Stormlands, the Talk turns to the new lord.

“Lord Gendry surely must take after Lord Renly for all the interest he shows in finding a wife.”

“Lord Gendry is certainly an unusual lord, but he seems fair.”

“Lord Gendry doesn’t talk much because if he does it will reveal his lack of intelligence.”

“At least Lord Gendry isn’t like Robert.”

“Lord Gendry is only a lord in name.  Davos Seaworth is the one truly ruling the Stormlands.”

“I saw Lord Gendry save a child from getting run down by a spooked horse.”

“Lord Gendry is weak.”

“Lord Gendry is strong.”

Too many contradictions, too many inconsistencies.

Arya decides she has to go to Storm’s End.  She hadn’t planned on going there after everything that happened and didn’t happen between them, but she wants to see for herself.  Needs to see for herself.

But she doesn’t want him to know she is there.  She doesn’t know how she will be received after turning down his marriage proposal and leaving first Winterfell, then Westeros without saying goodbye.  So she decides to rely on a skill she swore she would never use again after dispatching old Walder Frey and most of his family.

She needs to take a face.

xXx

Finding the face is easy enough, sadly.  Arya did not wish to kill anyone in order to get one, so she decided the best course of action would be to lurk in one of the seedier parts of the town she is in and watch.  And wait.

She never lost the ability to be silent and unseen, and her skills with her sword and dagger have only grown during her time away.  So she isn’t worried for her own safety as she slowly walks through the back alleys near the pubs and brothels near Bitterbridge.  The town is large enough to have such an area but not nearly as large as King’s Landing, and as the time passes, she almost wishes she were back there.  Finding an extra face in King’s Landing would be frighteningly simple.

Finally, she hears the unmistakable sounds of a fight.  She walks towards it, fingers close to her sword handle, ready to draw it if she needs it.

It isn’t what she is expecting.  She rounds a corner, following the noise, and sees two women engaged in a physical fight.  She allows herself a moment to admire their tenacity, and is thankful that it is not a woman being hurt by a man.  Then she finds herself analyzing their technique but quickly realizes there is no technique at all.  These are smallfolk.  Prostitutes, by the look of their clothing.  They wouldn’t have gotten any training, especially because they are women.

She creeps closer on silent feet, determined to just watch and wait.  It’s not a long wait.

The one with brown hair pulls out a knife and jams it into the stomach of the blonde.  When the blonde drops to her knees, hands clutching her stomach, the brunette tosses the knife aside and reaches for her, her hand scrabbling at the blonde’s clothing.

She reaches inside the blonde’s bodice and pulls out some jewelry.  “I knew you stole it, you cunt,” she says.  “This is mine,” she adds, dangling a necklace in front of the dying woman’s face.  She looks at another necklace and says, “I don’t know who you stole this ugly thing from, but you won’t be needing it now.”  She slips the necklaces into her pocket, looks around, and, seeing no witnesses, walks away.

Arya steps forward after the brunette has gone, kneeling beside the blonde woman, who is now lying on the ground, clutching at the blood pouring from her stomach with trembling hands, futilely trying to stop it.

She opens her eyes when Arya touches her shoulder.

“I…” she gasps out.

“Don’t talk,” Arya says.  “You’re dying.  Do you understand that?”

The woman nods.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Pearl,” she croaks.

Arya raises an eyebrow.  Fancy name, common whore.  “What’s your real name?”

“Cora,” she manages, her voice raspy.  “Please…”

“Please what?  What would you like me to do?”

“I… cold… it hurts…”

“Would you like me to make it stop hurting then?  I can give you that gift,” Arya offers.

Cora nods, and Arya pulls out her dagger.  Cora’s eyes widen.

“This is the dagger I used to kill the Night King,” she says.

“You… you’re…”

“Yes, I am,” Arya confirms.  “Close your eyes, Cora.”

Her light brown eyes flutter closed.  She coughs once, and then Arya plunges her dagger into Cora’s chest, straight into her heart.  The hard, sharp Valyrian steel penetrates the woman’s flesh as easily as it slid across Littlefinger’s throat just over three years ago.

“You remember where the heart is?”  The Hound’s gruff voice sounds inside her head as she watches the life leave Cora’s body.

Arya drags the corpse to a more secluded spot and gets to work.

xXx

“We ain’t got much need for more help, but Lord Baratheon says we aren’t to turn away anyone who comes looking for work,” the matronly older woman tells Arya, who is standing just inside the castle at Storm’s End, wearing Cora’s face.  “What skills do you have?”

“I can cook a bit.  I can clean.  Make beds.  Whatever you need, I’ll do.  I’ll even work in the stables if I have to,” she answers.  “I learn fast and I work hard, I promise.  Please, missus, I ain’t got no family no more and I need honest work.”

“Honest work, you say?” the woman asks, her expression turning concerned.  “You aren’t one of those girls from the Peach, are you?”

“No missus,” Arya answers, willing her cheeks to flush in embarrassment.  “All’s I meant was I didn’t want to have to go to a place like that.”

“Very well,” the woman says.  “You can start in the laundry.  What’s your name, girl?”

“Cora,” Arya answers.  “And thank you.  I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

“We’ll see,” she replies.  “My name is Lotty and I’m the head housekeeper here.  I’ll take you to the laundry and introduce you to Tanna.”

“Thank you,” Arya repeats.

“Will you be needing a bunk in the servants’ quarters?” Lotty asks as they walk.  “The girls stay in— oh, Lord Seaworth!”  She stops in her tracks as Davos Seaworth strides towards them.  “That’s Lord Davos Seaworth.  He’s Lord Gendry’s castellan and chief advisor,” she quickly whispers as he approaches.  She curtseys when he reaches them.

Arya follows suit, curtseying and keeping her eyes downcast.

“Ah, Lotty, I was just looking for you,” Davos says.  “Berthe has disappeared.”

Lotty frowns.  “She hasn’t disappeared.  She’s gone and run off with that stablehand.  What was his name now?  Markos.  I think you’ll find the stables one hand short as well.”

“Hmph,” Davos grunts, then sighs.  “Can you find a new chambermaid for Lord Gendry by this evening?  I know he doesn’t care, but it’s my job to care.”

“Of course,” Lotty says.

Arya wills her heartbeat to remain steady.  Being the chambermaid to the lord’s quarters would allow her to truly see how he is faring here, but surely she won’t be that lucky.

“Who is this now?” Davos asks.

“New girl,” Lotty answers.  “I was taking her to the laundry.”

“What’s your name, girl?” he asks her.

“Cora, m’lord,” Arya says, still keeping her eyes down.  “I’m honored to meet you, m’lord.”

“Look at me please, Cora,” Davos says, and Arya raises her – Cora’s – eyes to look on the familiar face of an old friend.  He’s a little older, a little grayer, and a little balder, but otherwise he appears to be in good health and good spirits.  It makes her happy.  “You look like a good hardworking girl.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Nothing else to say?”

“No, m’lord,” she answers.  “Should I, m’lord?”

He smiles.  “Well, most people would go on about how eager they are to work or how good they are at whatever skills they think they possess or even resort to flattery.”

“I just want to start working, m’lord,” Arya replies.

He angles his head.  “Lotty, how badly do you need this girl in the laundry?”

Lotty narrows her eyes, knowing what he is asking.  “Lord Davos, surely you would prefer to have a more… experienced member of the household staff in this position.  This girl could be completely useless for all we know.  Or a thief.  Or worse,” she answers.

Davos turns his attention back to Arya.  “Do you think you can manage tidying up, making beds, and occasionally serving food while somehow managing to stay out of the way and unnoticed?”

Staying unnoticed is my specialty.  “Yes, m’lord,” she answers, this time looking him right in the eyes.

Fortune must be with her today.

“My lord, are you sure this is a good idea?” Lotty asks, still not convinced.

“There is something I like about this girl.  I can’t put my finger on it, but… I think she’ll do just fine,” Davos answers.  “Tell you what.  We’ll give her a fortnight.  If she doesn’t work out, then you can take her to Tanna in the laundry.”

“Yes, my lord,” Lotty replies.  She turns to Arya.  “I hope you understand that this is an important position, usually given to an experienced maid on the housekeeping staff.”

“Yes, missus,” Arya answers.  “And I promise you I won’t be runnin’ off with no stablehand or any other boy.”

Davos snorts a laugh.

Lotty sighs.  “Go with Lord Davos then, girl.  He’ll tell you what you need to know.”

“Yes, missus,” Arya says.  “And thank you.”

Lotty nods once, then turns and quickly strides away.  Arya thinks she’s probably happy to be able to return to her usual duties.

“Come with me, Cora,” Davos says.

They walk through the castle, Arya carefully staying just a half of a step behind Davos.

“You are to be chambermaid to Lord Gendry and myself,” he starts.  “My rooms are beside his, but there is a small room between them that is to be yours.”

“I… I get my own room, m’lord?” Arya shyly asks, knowing that this is a privilege.  It will also allow Arya to take Cora’s face off from time to time.

“Yes.  Since you will be looking after Lord Gendry and myself, you need to be close by,” he says.  “Your room adjoins both of our chambers, but you can lock the doors from the inside for privacy and safety.  Not that you won’t be safe, of course.  I can assure you that your room is probably the safest in the whole castle.”  After a thoughtful pause, he adds, “We’re really very easy to tend, I promise.  The position is more for looks than anything.”

“Oh,” she replies, not really sure how to respond.

They climb several flights of stairs, and at the very top, there is a short corridor with only a few doors.  “I suppose Lotty didn’t get a chance to tell you the Rule,” he says, only slightly out of breath.

Arya furrows her brows.  “The rule, my lord?”

Davos presses his lips together for a moment, then says, “Lord Gendry is a good lord.  He’s fair.  Kind, even.  He has worked very hard to make and keep the Stormlands a pleasant and prosperous place to live.  But he doesn’t like to be bothered.  He cannot abide idle chitchat and he has no use for flattery or frivolity.  Don’t get in his way and do not even think about offering him anything… personal.  Do you understand my meaning?”

“I think so, m’lord.”  She understands it very clearly in fact.

“If you find him pleasing to the eye, keep that opinion to yourself.  He is a handsome man, as you may have heard, but he has made it clear that if any maid tries to warm his bed she will be immediately dismissed.”

Arya nods.  “I understand, m’lord.”

“Good.  He’s not here right now, so I’ll be able to show you around without disturbing him,” he says, opening the door.

The room looks exactly like Arya would have pictured it.  It’s fairly clean, free of any clutter, and decorated sparsely.  Her eyes are immediately drawn to a pair of gloves lying on a table that look like they have been carelessly tossed there.  She can picture him striding into the room, yanking them off, and leaving them there without another thought as he walks towards the pitcher and goblets off to one side.

“Is there a Lady Baratheon, m’lord?”  She’s fairly certain there isn’t, but she needs to know.  And since many lords do not share chambers with their wives, it’s not an odd question.

“No.  Not for lack of trying, though,” Davos answers, sounding rather exasperated with the issue.  “And before you go jumpin’ to conclusions, he’s not one of those men who prefers the company of other men,” he adds.  “He just refuses to marry and refuses to discuss the matter.”

Arya’s heart feels like it has constricted and dropped into her stomach.  She steels herself and simply nods.

“That’s another thing I should mention: you may be privy to things that aren’t to be public knowledge.  Correspondence, conversations, that sort of thing.  I need you to be completely honest with me, because it could be quite literally a matter of life and death: Can you be discreet?”

“Discreet?” she asks.  Arya knows what the word means but has decided that Cora does not.

“Can you keep your mouth shut?  If you hear something said in here, you can’t go telling someone.  Anyone.”

“Oh.  Yes, yes, o’ course,” she answers.  “I don’t really like talking to people anyway.”

“Excellent.  You should get on just fine here then.  Do you know your letters?”

“Not really.  I know what my name looks like but nothing more,” she answers.  Seems to make sense.

“Then we won’t have to worry about you reading Lord Gendry’s correspondence,” he says with a nod.  “Now,” he says, finally getting down to showing her the rooms, “this is Lord Gendry’s solar.  He does most of his work here alone, but will occasionally see important visitors…”

xXx

Arya spends a little time getting her meager belongings settled in her – Cora’s – room.  She hides a few small weapons in a drawer near her bed.  Even though she knows she’ll most likely be safe, she is too accustomed to having a weapon within reach.  She has Needle and some other personal items hidden elsewhere, and plans to retrieve them as soon as she can.

She tidies Davos’ room first.  He has gone off somewhere again, so she is alone.  She finds the work to be enjoyable, almost soothing.  The simplicity of it appeals to her.

She gathers the bed linens in a basket, then carries it through her room to Gendry’s.  She sets it near his bed, over which she forces herself not to linger, then sets about cleaning.

The door opens a moment later, and Davos returns, this time with Gendry.

“…shouldn’t have such deep, gaping holes,” Gendry says.  “Surely there’s something we can do to keep it from washing away every time we get a bloody storm.”

“Well if there is, we haven’t found it yet,” Davos answers, closing the door behind them.  He gives Arya a nod.  She continues removing the linens from Gendry’s bed.  She cannot help noticing it smells exactly like how she remembers him smelling.

She forces herself to keep her eyes on her task.  As much as she wants to just stare at Gendry, drink him in, track his face and body for changes since she last saw him, she has a part to play and a job to do.

She did see that he has grown a rather attractive beard, which is kept short and tidy.  It looks very good on him and she wonders if it is prickly or soft.

Gendry glances in Arya’s direction, then simply says, “Berthe and Markos finally ran off together, I see.”

Davos’ eyebrows rise in surprise.  “How did you know about that?”

He shrugs, sitting heavily at his desk.  “The whole castle knew about the two of them,” he answers.  “The whole castle except for you, apparently.”

“So it seems.”

“Markos is from Braavos.  They’d been saving their coin because he wanted to go back and take her with him.”

“She told you this?” Davos asks, surprised.

He shrugs again.  “I overheard someone talking about it awhile back,” he says, picking up his quill.

“I didn’t think you listened to gossip,” Davos teases.

“I didn’t say I was listening.  I overheard,” Gendry clarifies.  He sighs, dips the quill in the ink, and begins writing.

Arya moves around the bed, pulling the sheets taut and smoothing them over so there are no wrinkles, then reaches for the pillows to put fresh cases on them.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Davos says.  “Maester Jurne and I can continue writing on your behalf.”

"Lord Gendry is only a lord in name.  Davos Seaworth is the one truly ruling the Stormlands."

The words were spoken by a fat man in King’s Landing, sitting in a tavern, trying to grab the serving wenches as they walked past him.  These words seem relevant right now.

“Yes, Davos, I do,” Gendry firmly replies.  “Don’t think I’m unaware of some of the things people are saying about me.  About how you are really the one ruling the Stormlands because I’m stupid or incapable.  So I need to write my own correspondence.  At least for a while.”

Davos thoughtfully nods, walking over to the desk.  “Your script is a damn sight better than mine, that’s for sure,” he says, watching as Gendry carefully writes.

Arya wishes she could see what he is writing and what his handwriting looks like.  It’s probably neater than mine, too, she thinks, finishing his bed.  The coverlet is smooth and straight and the pillows are plump and tidy.

“That’s intentional,” he answers without looking up.  “There needs to be no doubt at all that this was written by me.”

“You’re a smart lad,” Davos says, patting him on the shoulder once before starting for the door.

“Keep telling me that and maybe I’ll believe it one day,” Gendry replies.
Davos leaves, and Arya moves to pick up Gendry’s coat and the gloves that were left on the table.  She intentionally stays as silent and as far away from him as possible, determined to not disturb him.

“What’s your name?” he asks after a bit.  He sits up straight, stretching his back.

He hunches over too much when he writes.  “Cora, m’lord,” she quietly answers.

“Almost forgot you were here,” he says.  “You’re very quiet.”

“Um, thank you, m’lord,” she replies, hanging his coat in the wardrobe Davos showed her earlier.  She sneaks a look at him and he is staring into the middle distance, lost in thought.

She wonders if he is thinking of another girl who was able to walk on silent feet.

xXx

Arya has been working at Storm’s End for only three days when she experiences her first disturbance in the middle of the night.  Davos had warned her that this may happen from time to time.  “Lord Baratheon doesn’t always sleep well,” he offered as an explanation.

The knocking isn’t loud, but it is persistent, and it rouses her quickly.  She sits up and realizes it is coming from the door leading to Gendry’s rooms.

“Cora?”  His voice is quiet, and she can tell he has his face close to the door.

Arya springs to action, quickly affixing Cora’s face.  “One moment, my lord,” she answers, Cora’s slightly lower and richer voice answers.  She quickly throws on a dressing gown before going to unlock and open the door.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” Gendry immediately says.

“It is part of my job, m’lord,” she replies, keeping her eyes downcast.  He is decently covered by a dressing gown over some soft-looking trousers, but he still looks far too attractive in his sleep-rumpled state.

“My stomach is unsettled.  Would you go to the kitchens and bring me some bread?” he asks.  “I used to just go myself, but apparently I’m not supposed to do that,” he adds, almost absently.

“Of course, m’lord,” she answers.  She slips her feet into her shoes and steps into Gendry’s rooms, heading for his door.  “Any sort of bread, m’lord?” she stops and asks.

“Just ask Hot Pie.  He knows what I want,” he answers, sitting in a chair in front of the fire.

Hot Pie is here?  “Hot Pie?” she asks, sounding confused.

“Oh.  Um, that’s the baker’s name.  Or at least that’s what everyone calls him.  He’ll be up; you won’t need to wake him,” he answers.

She nods once and hurries to the door.

He must have sent for Hot Pie, she reasons as she quickly walks through the empty corridors.  I don’t blame him.  It is probably nice for him to have a familiar friendly face; someone that knew him before.

I could have been one of those, too.

The thought makes her heart break a little bit, but she doesn’t regret her decisions.  She hated hurting him but she needed to figure out who she was again, and she couldn’t do that if she was here playing at being a lady.

She silently pads into the kitchens, listening.  It is very quiet, almost silent.

Almost.

As she walks further in, she can hear the sounds of someone moving around.  The soft clink of bowls.  The shuffle of feet on the floor.  The low murmurs of someone talking to himself as he works.

Hot Pie.

He looks older, same as she, same as Gendry.  But his bulk is more muscle than fat now, and there are flecks of gray in his dark hair.

It could be flour.

He looks good, and Arya’s heart swells at seeing how he is thriving here, but she must remember her façade.

She clears her throat and he looks up, wide-eyed and gaping, looking like a surprised fish.

Some things never change, she thinks.

“Excuse me, but are you Hot Pie?” she asks.

“I am.  You’re the new maid,” he answers.  “The one that somehow got to be the lord’s chambermaid.”

“Yes,” she answers.  “I’m Cora.”

“Well, Cora, I’m guessing Lord Gendry is having his stomach trouble again?” he asks.

“Yes.  He sent me to get some bread,” she answers.

“Right,” Hot Pie replies, hurrying over to a counter where a plate is already waiting.  He takes it and hands it to her.

Arya is impressed.  “How did you know?” she asks, not having to pretend to be confused.

“Dinner last night was boar.  It always gives him trouble,” he answers.

“Why is it served it if it makes the lord sick?” she asks.

“Don’t you know?  We had guests last night.  They like boar,” he answers, his tone taking on an edge of superiority Arya remembers from a lifetime ago.  “But since you don’t have to serve at dinners or do any real work—”

“No, I didn’t know,” she snaps, cutting him off.  “I was doing work cleaning the lord’s chamber last night and had no idea about anything relating to guests or dinners.  No one even tells me about anything like that.”

Hot Pie makes a noise that sounds very much like a derisive snort, so Arya holds out one hand, sticking it in his face.  The skin is cracked and red and raw.

“See this?  The other one looks just like it.  If you think I have a cushy job doting on Lord Baratheon and Lord Seaworth, think again.  Do you know what I was doing last night?  I was scrubbing the fireplace, which apparently hadn’t been done since the last Lord Baratheon lived here, before either of us were even born.  No one asked me to do it.  I decided it needed to be done so I did it.  I don’t even know if Lord Baratheon will notice or even care.  So don’t go thinking I’m not really working,” she says, her voice sharp.

Then she turns on her heel and walks away.

Hot Pie is different but somehow exactly the same, she thinks as she stalks away.  Still an idiot but now he’s an adult idiot.

“Cora?”  Hot Pie’s voice is quiet, but Arya hears it.  She stops and turns around.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have opinions on things I don’t know about,” he says.

He is being true. “Thank you,” she replies, softening.  “This bread looks really good,” she adds, looking down at the small loaf on the plate.  There is a little pot of honey and a dab of butter there as well.

“It is,” he assures her.  “I’m not bragging.  Someone important to me told me that it was.”

“That’s nice,” she sincerely answers, giving him a smile before turning to leave again.

She’s not completely certain he was talking about her, but she’s pretty sure he was.

Arya hurries back up to Gendry’s rooms, hoping her conversation with Hot Pie didn’t detain her too long.

As she walks, she realizes her ire with Hot Pie was genuine.  She truly was angry at his insinuation that she hasn’t been working hard.

“Forgive my tardiness, m’lord,” she says as soon as she walks back in through the still-open door.  He had told her she didn’t need to knock if the door was open.

“It’s all right,” Gendry answers.  “Thank you,” he says, taking the plate.

Arya curtseys, then is about to head back to her room when he speaks again.

“You were actually faster than I was expecting,” he says, sitting in a chair in front of the fire.

“My lord?” she asks, puzzled.

“Hot Pie likes to talk,” he explains, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it in the honey.

“Oh.”  Arya doesn’t know whether she should stay or go, but while she is standing there trying to look like she feels awkward when really she just wants to stare at Gendry, he speaks again.

“He wasn’t unkind to you, was he?” he asks, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“Um…”

“Hot Pie doesn’t always make a good first impression.  He tries to act tough if he’s uncertain or feels threatened.  But he’s not.  Tough, I mean.”

“He… wasn’t kind at first, my lord, but… then he was,” she says.

“He’ll be friendly from now on,” he replies.  He licks his finger and Arya is very glad she isn’t looking directly at him.  “That’s how he is.”

“As you say, m’lord,” she answers.

Gendry seems to remember it is not yet dawn, because he suddenly looks at the window, then back at Arya (seeing the illusion that is Cora), and says, “Thank you for fetching this.  Try to get some more sleep before the sun comes up.”

“Thank you, m’lord,” Arya says.  She drops another hasty curtsey and goes to her room.

After she closes and locks the door, she removes Cora’s face and heavily sits on the bed.  That was the longest conversation she has had with him since she has been here, and she can’t even enjoy it because he didn’t know it was her.

This was a bad idea.

Chapter Text

Days pass.  Arya keeps busy.  Luckily, her assigned duties are simple enough that she can devote most of her brain power to figuring her way out of this predicament in which she has put herself.

I could just leave.

That’s the simplest solution.  Just disappear in the middle of the night, never to be seen again.  But the more she sees Gendry, the more she finds she wants to stay here.

But she wants to stay here as Arya, not as Cora.

I do?  But in what capacity?  Do I want to be his wife?  And even so, Gendry may not want me to stay here.  He may turn me out the minute I reveal myself.

Do I want to reveal myself?

She does.  She wants him to look upon her, the real her, with his deep blue eyes.  That’s the only way she will know what is in his heart.  She has to see if he looks at her with contempt or friendship.

Or more.

But she needs to figure out what she wants first.

xXx

“Lad, you should really reply to this message from Lord Arryn.”

Arya, always listening, carefully continues cleaning the windows in Gendry’s rooms.  The mention of her cousin, Lord Robert Arryn, is particularly interesting, since she has no idea why he would send correspondence to Gendry.

Gendry heavily sighs.  “I know,” he groans.  “You would think I would have some sort of standard reply to these sorts of things memorized by now,” he says, sounding like he’s speaking more to himself than to Davos.

“Well, you might try considering one of these offers,” Davos carefully says.

Oh.  Realization hits Arya.  It’s one of those messages.

“What is the lady’s name again?” Gendry asks, looking around on his desk for the scroll.

“Lady Glynnis Grafton.  She’s one of Lord Robert’s cousins, I believe.  Possibly a second cousin.  She’s Lord Harrold Hardying’s first cousin, once of old Elys Waynwood’s granddau—”

“I don’t need her entire family tree, Davos,” Gendry interrupts.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“So you’re turning this one down too, then,” Davos concludes.

“Yes.  And you know why.”

Arya risks a look over.  She sees Gendry with his dark head bent over his desk, already writing.  Davos’ face has a tight expression, like he wants to say something but he knows it will either be poorly received or fall on deaf ears.

She does want to know what he wants to say though.

“Lad…” he starts.

“Don’t,” Gendry interjects, stopping him before he starts.  He lifts his head and looks across at his friend and advisor.  “You know my mind.  You know I feel strongly that it wouldn’t be right for me to marry some poor girl knowing I won’t… I can’t…”

Can’t what?  Arya stops breathing for a second, but quickly recovers and turns back to her task.  In her head, she can hear all the arguments Davos likely wants to make.  Likely already has made.

The Stormlands need an heir.  It will be good for you to share the burden of rule.  It will help your reputation with other lords.

What he says instead almost makes Arya rip her false face off right then and there.

“No one even knows if she is still alive.  She has not been heard from since she left, years ago.”  His voice is surprisingly gentle.

“I know,” Gendry’s reply is nearly a whisper.  “But I’m not made like that, Dav.  I was made to love one woman and one woman only.  I… I’m not being stubborn for the sake of being stubborn, I promise.  I simply have no interest in entertaining thoughts of marrying someone to fulfill a duty, and it’s not out of selfishness.  I will not sentence some poor woman to a life of unhappiness being married to a man who has no interest in it.  To a broken man who will never love her.  It doesn’t matter who the woman is; she deserves better than that.”

Davos reaches out and puts his hand on Gendry’s shoulder.  “I know that, lad.  I just wish there was a way to explain that to them without dragging up your whole life story.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Gendry replies with a sigh.

xXx

Later that day, while she is alone in Gendry’s room, Arya reads the letter to Lord Arryn, still sitting unfinished on his desk.

Dear Lord Arryn,

Thank you for your correspondence.  I am glad to hear that things are going well in the Vale and that your people are thriving.  Best wishes to you and Lady Arryn on the upcoming birth of your child.  I hope that the babe is healthy and has a happy childhood.

Thank you also for the offer of marriage to your cousin, Lady Glynnis.  I am sorry to say that I must decline your offer, as I do not intend to marry.  My reasons for this are my own, and I mean no disrespect to your family.  As you well know, I hold your family in the highest esteem.  Our mutually beneficial trade agreements and my close ties to your cousins in House Stark will hopefully ensure that our houses will remain friends for a very long time.

I wish Lady Glynnis the best and

Arya is impressed.  For being a man of few words, he writes remarkably well.  His handwriting is still careful and tidy and very easy for her to read without touching anything on his desk.

She only wishes that conversation she overheard this afternoon would stop repeating in her head.

xXx

That night, in the middle of the night, Arya emerges from her room.  She is still wearing Cora’s face, just to be safe.

She creeps on silent feet towards Gendry’s bed, where it sounds like he is sleeping rather deeply.  His breathing is slow and steady and he is even snoring a little.

Arya stares down at Gendry’s sleeping form, lit by the full moon outside.  She knows it’s a trite thought, but he really does look younger in slumber.  The little vertical lines perpetually etched between his brows have eased, his tight jaw is relaxed, and his breathing continues slow and even.

She reaches out with one hand, her fingers itching to trace his brow, his lips, but… no.  She can’t risk waking him.  Not now, anyway.  Not while he’s sleeping.  It wouldn’t be right.

He shifts in his sleep, moving from his side to his back.  Arya jumps back, quick and silent as a fawn, so he won’t see her if he wakes.  After a moment, she moves toward him again.  The sheets are tangled around his legs and have exposed one shoulder.

“Mmmbuh…”

Arya leaps back again.  She doesn’t remember Gendry ever talking in his sleep before, but that doesn’t mean it never happened.  She watches, fascinated, as he mumbles a few things that don’t sound like anything.  His hand reaches out at one point, then drops back onto the bed.

He must be dreaming.

She can see his eyes moving behind his eyelids.  His legs move a bit.  His head turns, and he mumbles some more.

Arya freezes.  She thinks she heard her name amongst the mumbles, but she isn’t sure.  Couldn’t be.  I’m just making myself think he’s saying my name because I want him to.

When Gendry flips over again, she decides he is far too restless and she should go back to her room.  She walks back to her door, still keeping silent.

As she reaches her door, she hears it, clear as day.

“Arya.”

She pauses a moment, listening, not looking back.  It is silent except for Gendry’s breathing, now steady once again.

Arya quickly goes into her room and silently closes her door, sliding the lock into place before sliding to the floor.

xXx

Storm’s End is a good place to live.

Halfway through the second week, Arya is certain of this.

Gendry didn’t make any large, sweeping changes or major proclamations after he arrived.  He doesn’t rule with an iron fist and while he is somewhat standoffish with nearly everyone, the people seem to like him well enough.

It is all little things.  Mostly done with no fanfare and expecting no thanks.

He works in the forge, helping out when he can.  The resident smith is glad for the free help, and Gendry has assisted him multiple times with large and complicated projects.

He rarely smiles, but when he does, it is almost always at children.  He seems to enjoy watching them run and play.

He always makes sure the staff in the keep have food on their plates and beds to sleep in at night.  And as Lotty said on her first day there, no one coming looking for work is turned away.  Yet they do not seem to be overstaffed.  No one is idle.

Most of all, he is fair.  Arya has managed to spy on petitions and even a couple of council meetings, and he is fair almost to a fault.  He never raises his voice to the smallfolk, no matter how exasperating they may get (his council members are not so fortunate), and he truly listens.  He thinks before he speaks.

Arya is proud of him.  He is a wonderful lord, just as she said.

Perhaps being his lady wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

xXx

The doors to the lord’s chambers slam open, startling Arya.  She takes care to appear startled because while Arya wouldn’t get startled that way, Cora would.  She even drops the tunic she had been putting in the wardrobe.

“Sorry,” Gendry apologizes.  He is clutching his left forearm with his right hand, tightly holding a cloth around it.

Arya hurries over.  “Are you hurt, m’lord?” she asks.  She can see that he is; there is blood on the cloth.

“Sodding Kennyth,” he grumbles.  “The smith’s apprentice,” he explains.  “Wasn’t paying attention to what he was f—what he was doing and caught me with the edge of the blade he was trying to make.  Trust my luck that it was actually sharp.  For once.”

She keeps her expression worried, trying not to smile at how he is trying not to yell and curse in front of her.  “I’ll fetch the maester,” she says, hurrying toward the door. 

“He’s not available,” Gendry says.

Arya knows this.  She is well aware that Maester Jurne is currently on the training grounds, dealing with a knight who possibly broke his leg.  She heard the commotion when she was coming up from the laundry.  But she needs to pretend that she doesn’t know absolutely everything going on in the castle.  

She stops and turns back, walking back to him, trying to appear timid.

He lifts the cloth, looking down at the cut on his arm, and she leans forward to see.

“I can tend you, if you wish, m’lord.  I mean, if you need tending,” she shyly offers.

He looks at the cut, still bleeding, and then at her.  “I suppose it should be cleaned at least,” he says, sitting.

Arya nods and hurries over to the washbasin.  “Keep the cloth on it, m’lord.  Press on it,” she says as she walks back over with the water.  She sets it on the table and then hurries around the room, gathering things she might need.  She even ducks into her own room for a moment, grabbing a small bag.

She sits at the chair beside Gendry and begins cleaning the wound.  It’s not bad; the cut is clean but it is a bit deep.

“I think this should be stitched, m’lord,” she says.

“I thought that might be the case,” he replies.  “And you don’t have to say ‘my lord’ every time you speak to me,” he adds, taking care to keep his voice gentle so she won’t think she is being reprimanded.

She had been very deliberately addressing him that way, just to see how long it would take him to tell her to stop.

It probably would have been sooner, but this is the longest conversation they’ve had since she has been there as Cora.

She simply nods and returns her focus to her work.  She pulls some yarrow leaves out of the bag she brought from her room and carefully applies them to the cut to help stop the bleeding.

“Where did you learn this?” he asks, looking down at the wound on his arm while she works.

“My mother taught me,” Arya answers, but gives no further explanation.  She pulls a needle and thread out of her bag, runs the needle through the candle flame a few times before quickly threading it and bringing it to Gendry’s arm.

“Do you need any wine or… anything stronger?” she asks.  “To help with the pain?”

“No.  I will not have my senses dulled.  I’ve had worse hurts than this before,” he answers.  “Just get on with it.  Please.”

She nods, then bends her head over her work.  She has pierced skin many times, both living and dead.  Usually it is with her Needle though, not the sewing needle she has firmly gripped in her left hand.

“I don’t have the neatest stitches, m’lord,” she says, pausing before she starts.  “You might have a bad scar.”

He shrugs.  “I have no use for vanity.  Proceed,” he says.

She nods once and then stabs through the thick skin of his arm.  As she works, she thinks again about how kind he is being.  He is clearly in pain, but he hasn’t snapped at her once.  She can tell he wants to, but is maintaining control for her sake.

Her heart swells a little bit more because of it.

“You use your left hand,” he says after a bit.  His voice is a bit strained and she can see his other hand is gripping the arm of his chair, but those are the only obvious indications of his discomfort.

She stops, willing her heart and hand to remain steady.  “Is that a problem, m’lord?” she asks, making sure she sounds worried.

“No!” he exclaims, surprised.  “Why would it be?”

She looks down, then back at his arm to keep working.  “My father didn’t like that I favored my left hand,” she quietly says to his arm.  “He tried to make me use my right hand because he said that people who favor their left hand are immoral and unclean.”  She is nearly whispering now.

The most believable deceptions have a thread of truth.  It is one of the lessons she learned at the House of Black and White.  She knows she never told Gendry about Septa Mordane trying to make her use her right hand, so it is a safe half-truth to weave.

“That makes no sense,” Gendry says.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to speak ill of your father.”

“He’s dead,” Arya replies.  “He died when I was still a girl.  So I started using my left hand after that because Mama didn’t care.”

“I once had a friend who used her left hand,” he says, almost absently.  “She wasn’t immoral or unclean.  She was the best person I ever knew.”

Arya’s heart nearly leaps out of her chest, but Gendry isn’t looking at her.  He’s staring at the window.

“Was?  Did she die?” she asks, forgetting that a servant wouldn’t be so forward.  So she quickly adds, “Forgive me, m’lord.  I am being impertinent.”  She ties off the thread and begins cleaning up.

He absently waves his free hand, unbothered.  “She’s alive.  At least I think she is.  She was heartsick and sailed away from Westeros, hoping to heal her heart.  I think.”  He looks at her, suddenly remembering she is there.  “Have you ever heard of Arya Stark?”

“Yes,” she answers, willing her voice to stay even.  She can’t quite tell how he feels about not knowing if she is alive or dead, and it makes her a little sad to realize she can’t read him.  “People say she brought that terrible winter to an end.”

“She did,” he confirms.

“You knew her?” she asks.  She doesn’t know why she’s pressing him for more information about a subject with which she is intimately familiar.  Perhaps she just wants to find out what he’s going to say about her.

He smiles just a little.  “She was my best friend.  My only friend, for a time.”

“She is left-handed?”

“She is,” he repeats, standing.  “Thank you, Cora, for tending my wound.  I will let Maester Jurne know what a capable job you did.”

“Thank you, m’lord,” she replies, looking down.  She stands, quickly curtseys, gathers her things, and hurries back to her room where she will no longer have to pretend that her heart isn’t racing and her mind isn’t whirring.

xXx

That night, Arya again creeps out to spy on Gendry while he is asleep, this time wearing her own face.  She wants to look upon him with her own true eyes, not through Cora’s.
She pads over to his bed on silent bare feet.  Now that she knows he sleeps more heavily than he used to, she’s not terribly worried about him waking up and seeing her there.

He’s sprawled on his stomach this time, his bare back half-covered by rumpled sheets.  One hand is dangling off the edge of the bed and Arya almost succumbs to the urge to touch it.  She wants to

know if his hands are still as rough as they were or if the life of a Lord has softened them at all.

She knows he still works in the forge when he can, but not nearly as much as he used to.  Or likely wants to.  She stares at his hand, noting the familiar shape, the lines of his veins, the permanent black staining around his fingernails.

I wonder if the other lords look down at him for having stained hands.  I would put them in their place if I heard such talk.

The thought gives her pause once again.  She knows she would kill or at least injure anyone who speaks ill of Gendry.  That has never been in question.  He is pack.  Always has been.

Gendry mutters something and shifts, disrupting her thoughts.  Arya quietly leaps back, deeper into the shadows, waiting for him to settle back in again.

He curls onto his side, unconsciously grabbing the sheets and pulling them up to his neck.

“Why would I kill for you though?” she whispers, barely audible.  “Is it just because you are pack, or is it something more?”

She steps closer again.  Love isn’t something she ever thought would be a part of her life.  Not this kind of love.  The love of her family, certainly, but romantic love?  When she was a little girl she would have laughed or scoffed at the suggestion, dismissing the notion entirely.  As an older girl she was too concerned with just staying alive to even give love a single thought.

But now, as a woman grown, in a peaceful world?  With a man who, by his own admission, still loves her, just as he had when he confessed it over three years ago?

Is love something that can be a part of the life of Arya Stark, Bringer of Dawn and Princess of the North and the Six Kingdoms?

She turns away, feeling confused and foolish.  What am I hoping to learn by watching him sleep? she wonders.

“Arry…”

She freezes, then risks a look back over her shoulder.

He’s still sound asleep.

xXx

“Arya.”

Arya looks around the forest.  The Godswood.  She looks for the person who said her name, but sees no one.  The voice is familiar, but she can’t quite place it.  It is a voice she hasn’t heard in some time.

“Look up.”

She looks up.  A raven is sitting in the branches of the Heart Tree, staring down at her with three eyes.

“Bran,” she says, realization hitting her.  “You can’t send a message like a normal person?”

The raven cocks his head.  “And how would I do that, if you are wearing someone else’s face?”

Fair point.  She nods.  “Do you have to be a bird?”

“I can only reach you in this form.  You are dreaming right now,” he says.

She realizes that the bird isn’t truly speaking.  He is looking at her, but the voice she hears is in her mind.  “I figured that much out, thank you.  What is so important that you needed to come disrupt my sleep?” she asks.

Raven Bran hops down to a lower branch so he can look more directly at his sister.  “You must take care,” he says.

“With what?”

“Lord Baratheon.  He is fragile.”

Arya furrows her brows.  “Gendry is strong.”

“He may be strong of will, but his heart is fragile.  Do not reveal yourself to him unless you are certain of what you want.  Do not break his heart a fourth time,” he explains.

“Fourth?”

“When he asked you to be his wife, did you say yes?  Did you bid him farewell when you left Winterfell for King’s Landing?  Did you bid him farewell when you left Westeros?” Bran asks.

“…No,” she answers.

“You were hurting, yes, but it was… unkind of you to leave him, twice, without a word.  Some might even say it was cruel.”

“I—”

“He now understands why you turned down his proposal, but his heart is still fractured.  You can heal it if you wish, but you must be certain it is what you want,” he says.

Arya looks down, then back up at the bird.  “I know,” she whispers.  “I know I owe him several apologies.  I know that even if I reveal myself and tell him I’ll stay with him, there’s a chance he’ll turn me away.”

“He loves you.”

“I know that, too.  But that doesn’t mean he won’t turn me away.  It doesn’t mean he’ll forgive me.”

Raven Bran just tilts his head again and says nothing.

“You won’t tell me, will you,” she says, not even bothering to pose it as a question.

“You know I cannot,” he confirms.  He flies down and Arya instinctively holds her arm out for him to land upon.  “You must wake now, Sister.  I have said what I came to say.”

“Thank you,” she replies.  “It is good to talk to you, even if it is like this.”

“I do miss you,” he admits.  “I miss Winterfell and the innocence of the times before.  But we have all become what we were meant to be.”

“Have we?” she asks.  “I’m not sure what I’m meant to be anymore.”

“You will find out,” he assures her.

“I love you, Bran,” she says.  “King, raven, whatever… you’re still my little brother and I love you.”

“I love you, too, Arya,” he says.  “And I will let our sister know you are well.  Wake now.  Day is upon us.”

Chapter Text

Arya is watching the Council meeting through an opening she discovered in an alcove.  She is proud of Gendry and how he handles the other lords.  She is fairly sure he had a bit of a rough start with them, because a few of them still appear unhappy or bitter.  She can see the deception on their faces.

She can see which lords truly like and respect Gendry and which ones are merely placating him.

If you were here helping him, you’d be able to put a stop to that behavior.

“Lord Baratheon is in council!  You cannot just interrupt the lords’ meeting, and neither can I!”  Lotty’s sharp voice draws Arya’s attention away, and she turns, wondering what is going on.

“But there’s a fire!  He needs to know!” a young stablehand insists, pleading with the head housekeeper.

Arya wanders over to where they are arguing, joining the small crowd of servants starting to gather.

“The boy is right.  Lord Baratheon would want to know.”

“Lord Baratheon has said many times that Council is not to be interrupted.”

“But Norman’s barn is going to burn to the ground!”

“I’ll tell him.”  Arya’s – Cora’s – voice surprises even her.  But she knows Gendry will want to know about this.

“Yes, you’re the new favorite, you can tell him.”

Arya doesn’t know the name of the serving girl who said that, but she is definitely taking note of her face before turning and going to the doors.

She quietly opens the door and slips inside.  She silently glides across the floor, heading for the large round table in the center of the room, trying to position herself so only Gendry sees her.

“What’s that serving wench doing here?”

It’s one of the lords who doesn’t like Gendry.  Arya takes note of his face too.

“Cora,” Gendry says, turning to look at her.  She is standing timidly, wringing her hands.  “You’re still fairly new with us, so perhaps you don’t know that I do not allow interruptions in Council meetings.”

“I know that, m’lord,” she says with a curtsey.  “But there is a fire in town.  A big one, sounds like.”

Gendry is immediately on his feet.  “Where?”

“They said Norman’s barn,” she answers.

“We’ll finish tomorrow,” Gendry says over his shoulder as he dashes out the doors.

“Why is he going?” one of the lords asks.  “Does he think he can put the fire out?”

Davos, also on his feet, simply says, “He’s going because he actually cares about his people.  A few of you could learn a thing or two about that.”  Then he leaves to go help as well.

Arya looks at the other lords, who are still sitting there looking fat and useless.  Then she turns and leaves, deciding she needs to try to help too.  And make sure Gendry doesn’t do anything stupid.

xXx

It’s a large fire, and it looks like the entire town has turned up to help.  By the time Arya arrives, there are men carrying sheep, women shooing chickens, children running around and children hiding, and a line of people have started passing buckets from the nearest stream.

Gendry is right in there with them, getting his hands and clothes dirty.  He pushes a stubborn cow out of the way of the bucket passers.  He carries the largest sheep after no one else has managed to successfully lift it.  He even dashes into the barn to bring a frightened lamb out, causing Arya’s heart to nearly leap out of her throat.

Something brushing against her leg momentarily distracts her, and she looks down to see a little girl moving toward the barn.  “No, don’t go over there,” Ayra says, gently grabbing the girl’s shoulder.

“I see,” she protests, pulling forward, and Arya quickly lifts her into her arms.

“Do you know what fire is, little one?” she asks.  The girl points, jumping slightly when a large chunk of wood falls from the outside of the barn.

“Yes,” Arya confirms.  “But fire can hurt you.  You must be careful.  Stay away.”

“Away,” the girl parrots.

“Oh, thank you!” a woman says, rushing up to Arya.  “I turned my head for just a moment and she was gone.”

Arya hands the woman her daughter.  “It was no trouble, missus,” she answers.

“Are you newly arrived?” the woman asks.  “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“I’ve been here for nearly a moon’s turn,” she answers.  “I work at the castle and take lodgings there.”

“Mmm,” the woman hums, nodding.  “What is he like?  Lord Baratheon, I mean.  D’you see him much?  He always helps out when he can, ’specially with things like this,” she explains, gesturing towards the barn.  It is mostly destroyed, but the flames are considerably smaller.  “And he’s kind enough, but he don’t talk much and almost never smiles.”  She leans closer, shifting her daughter in her arms.  “Is he the same behind the castle walls?  Is he a kind lord?  Or is he cruel?  No one knows what he’s really like.”

“Um…” Arya pauses, not sure how to answer.  “He is kind,” she finally says.  “I can’t say for sure, but I think he’s… sad?”

“Sad?  Why would he be sad?  He was a lowborn bastard and now he’s a lord!”

“He was?” Arya asks, trying to sound surprised.  She doesn’t know how widely-known Gendry’s story is, but she just decided that Cora doesn’t know it.

“You didn’t know?  Oh, you’re not from here,” the lady says.  “The Mad Queen raised him up on account of him being of some help during that big battle up north.  And since he’s the only one of old Robert’s bastards that survived, she made him our lord.  Some o’ the other lords under him wasn’t too pleased ’bout that, I’d wager.”

“King Brandon let him keep his title even though he was raised up by a madwoman?” Arya asks.  She realizes she’s kind of enjoying this conversation.  She’s still keeping an eye on Gendry, of course, but her new friend seems to be not only willing to talk, but rather informative.

“Guess so.  I don’t pretend to know what goes on in the head of any highborn, least of all that king of ours.”

“You don’t like the king?”

“I didn’t say that.  All’s I meant is that he’s… odd.  From what I hear.  I’ve never seen him so I don’t know.  But he let a bastard stay a lord when he could have him killed to keep him from trying to claim the Iron Throne for hisself, being the old king’s get.”

“Maybe he let him stay a lord so he wouldn’t try to be king,” Arya suggests, knowing full well that’s why Daenerys elevated Gendry and also knowing full well it was ridiculous because there is no way in any of the seven hells that Gendry would want to be King of the Six Kingdoms.

“How d’you mean?” the woman asks.

Arya watches as Gendry lifts the end of a heavy beam, still smoldering, and moves it to a pile that is quickly growing.  “He’d be so grateful to be made a lord that he’d stay loyal to the queen.  Or king.  Loyal enough to stay where he was put,” she explains.

The woman seems confused, and Arya realizes she may have just been talking over her head.  “I wonder if he feels like he has too much on him now,” she clarifies.

“Never thought about that,” the woman says.  Her daughter is squirming now, and she sets her on the ground but takes her hand.

“There’s a lot to do as a lord.  He’s always busy,” she says.  “Do you not like him as your lord?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“Oh, we like him fine,” the woman answers.  “He actually cares about us.  But we just can’t figure what’s goin’ on in his head that’s got him looking so cross all the time.”  Her daughter is pulling on her arm now.  “All right, Iris, we’ll go.”

Arya waves at little Iris and watches them walk away for a moment before returning her attention to Gendry.

He’s drinking water from a ladle and some spills over onto his chest.  Then he wipes his face, leaving a streak of soot across his cheek.

It’s a very attractive display.  And Arya sees she isn’t the only woman to notice this.

xXx

Gendry doesn’t return to the castle until it is nearly dark.  They succeeded in getting the fire out, but there was a lot of cleaning up to do as well as finding places for the animals that were there.

Arya made sure she was back in the keep before him and that there was a bath waiting for him when he arrived.

He gives her a nod of thanks before making a grumbling comment about having to sort out aid for Norman’s family.

Arya obviously can’t stay in his chambers while he is bathing, so she retreats to her room, making sure to lock it loudly enough for him to hear.

She also made sure to get some food from Hot Pie so Gendry would be able to eat after he bathes.  Hot Pie made sure she also had food, so she eats to keep herself occupied.

She can’t really hear any sounds from Gendry’s room, and decides that’s a good thing because she definitely does not need to think about the fact that he is just on the other side of that door, naked.

She shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts, then takes a bite of the hand pie Hot Pie gave her.  His talents are not going wasted here, she thinks, savoring the rich flavor.  It’s not piping hot anymore, but it is delicious.

xXx

Danger!

Arya’s eyes snap open.  She’s not sure what woke her, but she is immediately wide awake and alert.

Something is going on in Gendry’s rooms.

Something bad.

She can’t hear anything, but she slides out of bed, her feet hitting the cold stone floor at the same time she pulls her catspaw dagger out of its hiding place.  Then she grabs another, smaller knife, and straps it to her leg, grateful she decided to sleep in a simple tunic and trousers tonight.

She walks to her door on silent bare feet and very carefully slides the lever that controls the lock.  Then she grasps the door handle and quietly turns it, very glad she took the time to make sure the mechanisms on her door are in good working order.

One never knows when one might need to silently open a door.

She cracks the door open, peeking out.  She sees a dark figure creeping through Gendry’s room, making his way towards the bed.

Arya opens the door only enough for her small body to slip through, leaving the door ajar.  She can see the assassin – for that is surely who the intruder is – has his back to her now, which gives her a big advantage.

Swift as a deer.

She pounces, landing on the assassin’s back, her right arm tight around his neck and her left holding the point of her dagger to his chest.  Her legs are locked around his torso, pinning his arms.

“If you move, you die,” she growls in his ear.

To his credit, he freezes.

“Drop your weapon,” she commands.  He doesn’t move.  “If you don’t, you die,” she adds, tightening her arm around his neck.

He drops his dagger.

“Who sent you?” she asks.

He doesn’t say anything.  She can tell he wants to struggle, wants to try to throw her off, but the point of her dagger is very convincing.

“Tell me and I’ll let you live.  Continue to say nothing, my dagger finds your heart,” she says.  “You have my word.”

He scoffs, so she pokes him just a little with the very sharp point of her dagger.

“Connington,” he chokes out.

Arya thinks.  She wonders if that was the doughy old lord with the red face and three hairs left on his head who protested Gendry leaving to go help with the fire.

“What does he look like?” she asks.

“What?”

“Connington.  What does he look like?”

“I don’t know.  He paid me but I never saw him.”

Arya looks over at Gendry, still sleeping peacefully, far enough away that he won’t be woken by their conversation.

“Shit,” she curses.  “Walk over to that door and go through it,” she orders him, pointing to the open door to her room.

To her surprise, he does.

“I’m going to get off your back, and I want you to sit in this chair,” she says.  There is only one chair in the room.  “If you try anything, you die.”

He scoffs again.  “I can feel how light you are,” he says, his voice still impeded by her arm.  “I’m probably twice your size.”

She leans closer to his ear.  “Have you ever heard of the Faceless Men of Braavos?” she almost purrs.  “I trained with them.  I was one, for a time.  My size is no hindrance to my skill in delivering the Gift.  I don’t even need to see you to kill you.”

Arya can practically feel the realization wash over him.  She jumps off of his back and leaps around in front of him.  “Sit.”

He sits, looking at her with wide eyes as she tugs the belt from her dressing gown, currently hanging on a nearby hook, and uses it to tie the assassin to the chair.

“You’re nothing but a girl,” he says.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she replies.  “And the more you say, the more you tempt me to show you the extent of my skills.  Stay there and shut the fuck up while I go talk to Lord Baratheon.”  As she walks to the door, she hears the chair scrape on the floor a little.

She immediately turns and throws the small dagger.  It buries itself in the assassin’s shoulder, and he makes a weird strangled gurgling noise.

“That is a warning,” she says.  “The knife landed exactly where I intended, I assure you.”

She turns away again and this time she hears nothing except his labored breathing.  She leaves the door open again.

As she walks towards the still-sleeping Gendry, she realizes it is time.  She just risked her own life to save his.  Her steps falter as she thinks about what might have happened had she not been awoken by whatever force woke her.  She doesn’t know if she heard something or if Bran came to her again to wake her or if she just sensed something was wrong.  Or if it was just an incredible coincidence.

But she does know that the thought of Gendry being killed by an assassin hired by a lord so cowardly that he couldn’t even make the deal in person makes her absolutely furious.  How dare he?

He will pay for his crime, but first… Gendry.  She has to wake him and give him the shock of his life.  Possibly two of them.

Arya stands at his bedside, looking at him.  He’s so beautiful.  She could look at him forever.

Hopefully she’ll get to do just that.

Like before, she reaches a hand out towards his face, but this time she allows her fingertips to touch his brow, following his hairline.  He stirs and she moves her hand to caress his cheek with the backs of her fingers.

His eyes snap open and he immediately sits up, reaching for the dagger she knows he keeps hidden in a secret pocket on the side of his bed.

“A-Arya?” he says, his voice thick with sleep.  He lowers the dagger but doesn’t let go of it.

Arya is a little proud of his reaction: he’s ready to defend himself and that pleases her.

“Hello, Gendry,” she says.

“What the seven hells are you doing here?  It’s the middle of the bloody night,” he asks.

“I… I’ve been here for just over a moon,” she admits.

“And you just now came to see me?  Now,” he presses.  “You’ve been in Westeros for—”

“No, I’ve been here.  In your castle, working as your chambermaid,” she explains.  “Cora is me.  I was wearing a different face.”

He finally puts the dagger back, then scrubs his hands over his face, clearly irritated.  “You’re going to have to explain that later,” he says.  “But right now, I need you to explain why you were spying on me here.”

“I’ll explain everything later, I promise.  But right now, there’s a man in my room who was hired to kill you,” she says.

He blinks, then rubs his eyes like he thinks he might still be asleep.  “What?”

“Connington hired an assassin to come kill you,” she repeats.  “I stopped him and he’s tied up in my room right now.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.  I thought you’d like to talk to him.”

“Ugh, I probably should,” he agrees, shifting to get out of bed.

He still sleeps naked, Arya notes.  She also notes that he doesn’t tell her to turn around or cover himself with his sheet as he goes to put on a pair of trousers.

He follows her to her room and waits while she lights a few candles.

“Why is there a dagger in his shoulder?” Gendry asks.

“He moved when I told him not to,” Arya answers.

Gendry simply nods and looks at the man.  “You were hired by Lord Connington?” he asks.

“Aye,” the man answers.

“How did you get in?”

The assassin’s eyes flicker towards Arya for a moment, then to the dagger still embedded in his shoulder.  “One o’ your guards was paid off.”

“By Connington,” Gendry supplies.  He looks at Arya and says, “Can you go wake Davos?  He’ll be able to tell us who was on duty tonight.”

“Vicktor and Arther are at the gates.  Kelven is at the north door, Clayton at the south.  Petrick is outside your door,” Arya supplies.  Gendry stares at her in disbelief.  “I pay attention to everything going on here.”

“Clearly,” Gendry comments.  He turns back to the assassin.  “Which guard was paid off?”

“South door,” he says.  “I didn’t go through the gate.  There’s a path leading to a hole in the wall.”

“I’ll find it tomorrow,” Arya says.

“What did you do to Ser Petrick?” Gendry asks.

“He ain’t dead.  Just knocked out.”

Arya reaches into a drawer and pulls something out, keeping it mostly hidden from both men’s eyes.  “I’ll go see to him,” she says.  “As Cora though.  And I’ll have some guards come and take this one down to the dungeon.”

“You said you’d let me go if I talked!” the assassin exclaims.

“I said I would let you live if you talked,” Arya counters.  “I never said anything about where or how.”

She walks out into Gendry’s room, leaving him alone with his assassin.  She doesn’t want him to see her putting Cora’s face on.

Once her identity is concealed again, she picks up the assassin’s dagger, then walks to the door.  She opens it and finds Ser Petrick just rousing.

“Ser Petrick, are you well?” she asks, crouching down to help him stand.

“Someone knocked me out,” he mutters, still groggy.  “Is Lord Ba—”

“He’s fine.  Where are the nearest guards besides you?” she asks, looking at his head.  She doesn’t see any blood, but when she touches one spot, he hisses.

“Just down that way,” he says, pointing.

“Go see Maester Jurne,” she says.  “I’ll get the guards.  We have an assassin tied up inside.”

“You what? Ow…”

“The man that knocked you out was hired to kill Lord Baratheon,” she says.  “Go see Maester Jurne.”

“How…?” he asks, but he is already walking towards the Maester’s quarters.  Arya hopes his mind is foggy enough that he doesn’t notice the change in her demeanor.  She doesn’t have time to mess around with acting like Cora right now.

She marches down the hall and finds a pair of guards standing at the top of the stairs.  How did that man get up here?  There must be another stairwell somewhere that she hasn’t found yet.

“Sers,” she says, walking up to them.  “An assassin managed to gain access to your Lord’s chambers.  He is tied up in there now.  Lord Baratheon would like you to come collect him and take him to the dungeons.”

The two guards stare at her, wide-eyed, for just a second before glancing at each other and taking off down the corridor.

Arya follows at a brisk walk.

When she gets back to his rooms, she is relieved to see that he had the good sense to drag the chair out of her room and into his.  He has also removed the dagger from his shoulder.  She sees it on the table.

The guards remove him from the chair, keeping a tight hold on him.

“When you take him down, send another pair of guards down to the south doors.  Ser Clayton is to be arrested and placed in the dungeons as well,” Gendry says.

“My lord?” one of the guards asks.

“It was he who allowed our visitor access,” he explains.  “Paid to do so by Lord Connington.  Make sure he is nowhere near this one.”

“Yes, my lord,” the guard replies.  “Lord Connington?” he asks.

“Aye.  I’ll deal with that issue in the morning, once Lord Davos is awake.  Thank you, Ser Dunsen,” Gendry says.  The guard gives a short bow and exits, the assassin held between him and the other guard.

Gendry sighs and walks over to the fireplace.  He throws a few more pieces of wood on the fire, pours himself some water, then sits in one of the chairs there.

Arya goes into her room to remove Cora’s face.  She doesn’t think Gendry would want to see that process, and if she is honest, she doesn’t want him to see it.  When she comes back out as herself, the fire is fully lit.  She walks over and sits in the other chair.

They sit in silence for a few long moments, each waiting for the other to speak.

“Gendry…”

“So you came back.  And you came here, in disguise.  Is it because you wanted to see how much of a mess I’ve been making of being a lord?  How helpless I am and how much I rely on Davos to do everything?  How much the other lords hate me?  How pathetic I am here, refusing to marry?” he asks, turning to look at her.

She shakes her head.  “No, not at all.  Don’t you see?  I needed to see… needed to see for myself that you are a wonderful lord, just as I said you would be.  I needed to know that you were looking after the smallfolk and not letting those pompous highborns push you around,” she says.  “I needed to know you were well.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, m’lady,” he replies.

She moves, sitting on the edge of the chair, turning her whole body to face him.  “I’m not disappointed at all, Gendry.  I couldn’t be more proud of you,” she says.  “As far as I have seen, you are doing everything right.”

He scoffs.  “So right that one of the other lords sent an assassin for me.”

“Yes,” she agrees.  “That just proves you are doing the right things.  If you’re pissing off people like Connington – wait, which one was he?”

“Fat, red face, almost bald except for a few hairs he vainly clings to,” Gendry supplies.  “The one who didn’t like you interrupting the council meeting.”

Arya nods.  “As I thought.  Anyway, if you are pissing off people like Connington, you’re doing a good job.  The highborns don’t need you.  The smallfolk do.  You know this, and so the Stormlands are thriving.  Despite the fact that some of the older lords aren’t happy that you are Lord Paramount.  Despite the fact that you were not raised for this.  I have been watching.  Your people, the people who truly matter, are thriving.  And so are you.”

“The Stormlands might be thriving, but I am not.  I… I am fulfilling my duty, nothing more.  My duty to these people that I barely know, even after three years.  My duty to your brother the king.  My duty to… to you.”

“To me?”

“You said I would be a wonderful lord.  I didn’t want to disappoint you, even though I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.  But I knew you’d somehow find out if I was making a pig’s ear out of this place, so I had to do my best,” he explains.

Not knowing how he’ll respond, she reaches out and puts her hand on his.  He turns it and laces their fingers together.  “And what about you?  Don’t you have a duty to yourself?  Don’t you deserve happiness?” she asks.

“Probably,” he answers.  “But she decided to sail away.”

“Your happiness should not be tied to me,” she says.

“Well, it is,” he snaps, then deflates.  “I’m as thrilled about it as you are, believe me.”

“Stupid,” she fondly says.

He stares down at their joined hands for a moment, then says, “How long will you be here?”  He keeps his eyes trained on their hands.

“I don’t know,” she carefully answers.  “It depends on how long you’ll have me.”

“Don’t toy with me, woman,” he growls, pulling his hand away.  He looks up at her and his expression is as stormy as the skies outside the castle.  “You already know what my answer to that is.  It hasn’t changed.”  He gets up and walks to the window, staring out into the darkness.

“It hasn’t changed, but I have,” Arya says.  “I’m not the same person I was when you… when you asked me to be your wife.”  Gendry turns and opens his mouth to say something but she raises her hand and he closes it.  “I wasn’t a whole person then.  The broken shell of a person I was then could not have been your wife.  I would have either withdrawn into myself or fled.”  She snorts a small laugh.  “I did flee, actually.  But I needed that time away to find myself again.  To find the Arya that I lost.  To find the Arya that can laugh and… and be open with people.  The Arya that can love.”

“And did you find her?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper.

She nods.  “I did.”

He pauses for a moment, then says, “Good.”

Gendry stares out of the window a bit longer before returning to put another log on the fire.

“Why aren’t you angry?” Arya finally asks.  She had been expecting him to be at least a little upset with her.

He sighs, sitting heavily in the chair again.  “I’m just… tired.”

She puzzles over that one.  “Well, it is rather late.”  She looks over at the window and sees the sky just starting to get light.  “Or early, to be more accurate.”

“Not that kind of tired,” he clarifies.  “There’s no point in wasting my energy being angry with you when we both know I’ve already forgiven you.”

“I didn’t know that,” she softly says.  “And for what it’s worth, I am sorry for breaking your heart.  All three times.  I… I didn’t know any other way at the time.  It’s not a good reason, but it’s the only one I have.  I thought… I thought you would be less hurt when I died if I broke with you first.”

Gendry looks at her.  “What in the seven hells are you talking about?”

“I didn’t expect to survive King’s Landing,” Arya explains.  “And when I did… when Clegane forced me to find the will to live… I didn’t know how.  There was death all around me.  In my past… all around me in King’s Landing.  I didn’t know how to get away from all the death so I could live my life.  That’s why I left.  I had to figure out how to live again.  How to want to live again, as myself.”

He takes her words in, slowly nodding as he stares into the fire.  “I eventually worked that out.  About you, I mean.  The reason you had to leave.  Or close enough to what you just said.”  He looks at her.  “Will you tell me everything that happened to you while we were apart?  Some day?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers.  “You deserve to know.  As painful as some of it is, you deserve to know.”  She picks up his goblet and takes a drink of the water he had poured for himself and then ignored.  “I didn’t want to hurt you all those times but I thought it would hurt you more if—”

“Just because you broke my heart three times doesn’t mean I stopped loving you,” he quietly interjects, not sounding as bitter about it as he did before.  “If you had died in King’s Landing, I would have been devastated either way.”

She looks at him.  “You… you still love me?”

He stares back at her.  “I thought that much was obvious,” he says.  “You’ve been here, no doubt listening to everything Davos and I talked about.  I’m sure you read my correspondence too.  You were here when I told Davos I would only ever love one woman, and I assume you knew who I meant.”

Arya looks down.  “I tried not to get my hopes up,” she admits.

Gendry moves from his chair, kneeling in front of her.  “Was I hurt by the things you did?  Yes, of course I was.  Did I understand your actions at the time?  No, I didn’t, but I do now.  I did even before tonight, but I do appreciate your explanations.  But I need to ask you: If you intend to stay here… in what capacity do you plan to be with me?  I still want you as my wife, and I know you’re no lady… you never have been and I know that.  I knew that even then.  I just…” he trails off, shaking his head.  “I don’t know.  But if you are going to be here, living in this castle, sharing my meals and my… my bed… I want to know that you are fully—”

“I will be your family, Gendry,” she cuts him off.  “I know you’d never expect me to be a traditional lady.  And like you, I knew that then.  As I said, I couldn’t have done it then.  But now?  I will be your wife.”

He surges forward and crashes his lips against hers in a heated kiss.

xXx

“Can you explain the Face thing to me?” Gendry asks some time later.  They are lying in his bed now, her head on his chest, his arm wrapped around her, holding her to his side.  “Cora was… taller than you, wasn’t she?  And she had blonde hair.  But it was just a face you used?  How does that even work?”

“I don’t think I can explain it, actually,” Arya answers.  “I don’t fully understand it myself.”

“Will you show me?” he asks.

“I’d rather not,” she says.  “It’s not a pleasant process, and I don’t really like doing it.  I had even vowed not to do it again after I dealt with House Frey.”

He lifts his head and looks down at her.  “That was you?”

She tilts her head up, meeting his gaze.  “Who did you think it was?” she asks.

He kisses her forehead.  “Of course it was you,” he decides, laying his head back on the pillow.  “You’re going to have to explain yourself to Davos, you know,” he adds.  “And find us a new maidservant.”

She lifts her hand, giving a dismissive wave.  “Details,” she says.  “Easily enough done.”

He chuckles, giving her a gentle squeeze.

“Can we marry tonight?” he asks.  “We do have a small godswood.  The Red Witch didn’t completely destroy it.”

“You don’t want a big ceremony?”

“Gods no,” he answers.  “And I know you don’t either.  We can stand before a tree or a septon or… or a squirrel.  I don’t care as long as you’ll marry me.”

Now Arya laughs.  “Stupid,” she fondly says.

“So, what would you have done if you had gotten here and found that I had married?” he asks.  “I just thought of that.”

“I would have kept my identity hidden, continued to work for a time, then found a way to leave, content in the knowledge that you had found happiness,” Arya answers.

He sits up, pulling her up with him so he can look at her.  “You love me,” he says.  She angles her head at him.  “You just said you would have been content knowing that I was happy.  You love me.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” she replies.