Chapter Text
Winterfell
Arya had always resented her name. Common as it was in the North, Snow took on a sinister meaning when it was tacked onto the end of some unfortunate child’s name. She tried to keep in mind that she was lucky to have a name at all; there were plenty of common bastards who didn’t even know their fathers, but the name of a bastard was not one you wanted, especially in the Hall of honorable Lord Eddard Stark. To be the only thing existing that proved he’d broken a vow made one forget they were anything but that- a mark against his honor.
Pyke, Rivers, Stone, Hill, Storm, Sand and Waters- the names for reviled bastards in all the other Seven Kingdoms and the Crownlands besides, but none as bitter for her as Snow.
Arya Snow had spent the better part of her fourteen years trying not to let the stares burn her. Some weren’t as bad as others, like the openly curious stares from the smallfolk. Some had become more familiar than the palm of her hand, like the hostile stare of Lady Catelyn Stark. But some would always sting, like the baffled look every time a visitor saw Lord Stark’s natural born daughter with his trueborn children. They never understood why he’d like to keep his shame close. As if she wasn’t alienated enough.
But still, like every other bastard in the Seven Kingdoms, Arya was good at imagining she was someone else. She liked to pretend that she was Lord Stark’s trueborn daughter; she’d even be grateful for the endless hours of needlework and dancing lessons if she could have been a true part of the Stark’s family.
Among fantasies of having an ordinary childhood were fantasies of living as one of those extraordinary warriors from the tales, like Queen Nymeria, or Wenda the White Fawn. She’d always held herself above the romantic tales, the songs that Sansa preferred, but she still couldn’t help being swept off by the idea of fighting for glory or riding as an outlaw.
Especially now, with the utter chaos that had spread throughout Winterfell since word of the King’s intended visit had spread.
According to her half-brother, Jon, the Hand of the King had died of old age, leaving the King without one- and, he suspected, in search of their father to replace him. It made sense. Eddard Stark was the most honorable man in the land, and the wisest, if you asked her opinion. The King could do no better.
The castle was in an uproar over the royal visit, because it was King Robert’s first. Lady Catelyn flew through the castle like a panicked graceful hen, pecking at anything she didn’t consider up to her standards. And for the most part Arya was smart enough to keep out of the woman’s way. She’d watched in amusement as she fussed over each of her children in turn, excluding Robb, who now had a wife to fuss over him. Lady Jeyne Westerling, swelling in the middle with child, was almost as bad as Lady Catelyn with her hair patting and tugging.
The king wasn’t even here and Jon had been sent for two haircuts. The first had unfortunately been unsuccessful, due to the fact that Jon hadn’t let the steward actually touch his hair. Arya had laughed to hear about it later, after he’d come back thoroughly shorn. Her brother was so vain about his head of dark brown curls.
But the period of teasing and cleaning was over. Arya had been hiding away in her room while the rushes throughout the castle were being replaced when Jon appeared at her door. He looked a bit grim.
“Arya,” his voice broke through the din coming from the corridors. She glanced up from the small piece of wood she’d been carving away at with a small knife. It had started out as a large shapeless lump, and had turned into a small shapeless lump, even though she’d been attempting to make a wolf.
She’d been using Nymeria as her model.
The direwolf was a very good model. When Jon, Bran, and Robb had brought the direwolf pups home after going into the wolf-wood to catch a deserter of the Night’s Watch, Arya hadn’t expected to get a wolf of her own. But when everyone else had gotten their pup, Jon had pulled the tiny brown she-wolf from his cloak, holding her out to her. Nymeria was the runt of the litter, and for a few days’ no one knew if she’d survive, but she did, and each day she grew larger and larger.
She waited for him to say something, but he simply stared. “Jon?” she finally prompted.
“Father wants to see you,” he told her.
Arya rolled her eyes. “I haven’t even done anything today!”
He shrugged. “Sure you haven’t put any dung in Sansa’s bed?”
She grinned. “I’m sure.”
“Father still wants to see you,” he repeated. “And I think you’ll want to get there before my mother’s done helping Sansa dress. The King’s been spotted on the Kingsroad.”
She frowned. “Already?” she huffed. “I don’t know why the stupid king is coming all the way north. He’s never come before.” Kindly, Jon pretended he hadn’t heard that. She hopped off the bed, commanding Nymeria to stay in the room and wait for her to return.
“Aren’t you excited to see the royal family, the Kingsguard, and all those fancy lords and ladies?”
“What, from the back row next to Hodor? Why would I want to meet a bunch of silly nobles?”
He smiled. “I’m a noble, you know,” he reminded her.
“Yeah, but you’re also Jon. You’re different.”
Sometimes she felt older than her highborn half-siblings. They could be so naïve sometimes. Arya knew that the court wouldn’t be interested in her as more than someone to look down on and order about. The Starks were her family, and a mostly kind one, at that, but the noble visitors they’d had before had never been kind. “Besides, Sansa has yet to shut up about how handsome the Princes are in weeks. And she hasn’t even seen them yet! They could be complete boars.”
“All the songs say princes are handsome, and you know how Sansa likes songs.”
“Do you think the King brought singers?” Arya asked. She wondered about that, knowing how much Sansa begged for them to come to their father. It was simply too perilous and inconvenient a journey for most of those types to make, no matter how much Sansa wanted to compensate them.
“I don’t know. Mother never mentioned that. I suppose he might have- the Queen might like that sort of thing- but it’s a bit of a waste, isn’t it?”
“From what I’ve heard, everything the King does is a waste,” she grumbled. “Theon told me-“
“Why would you listen to Theon?” Jon laughed.
“Theon said the King’s as fat as a boar and drinks himself stupid nightly.”
“You can’t say things like that, Arya,” Jon warned her. They’d left the privacy of the corridors now, and he was right. She shouldn’t be speaking about the king that way. She closed her mouth abruptly on any further complaints.
“Want to race?” Jon suggested, a wry smile tugging at his lips. It was a jape- they were, by all accounts, too old for such games, but Arya still nodded eagerly. Without a glance back at him, Arya took off running, laughing as she went. She could picture the feigned aloofness on Jon’s face just before she heard the steps behind her, and she laughed even louder when they both skidded to a halt more or less front of Ned Stark’s chamber doors.
When Arya and Jon burst through the heavy oaken doors, they were not met with their father, alone at his desk. Instead, lord and lady Stark stood beside the small window looking out onto the courtyard. Ned was trying not to smile. There was no such conflict on Catelyn’s face.
“Arya,” Ned began. She sobered at how fast his almost-smile disappeared. So this was serious. “It’s imperative nothing happens when the King arrives. Do you understand?”
Of course she did. Arya wasn’t stupid. She’d hardly be pulling pranks on the Queen. But Arya doubted that was all he was asking of her. Out of sight, that’s what he wanted- or rather, that was what Catelyn wanted. She wasn’t surprised by this, only resigned.
“Yes, father,” she answered mildly. Arya had learned to keep quiet, for the most part. It did no good to anger Lady Stark. She would never harm Arya, but she was good at making her feel small. This was the last thing she wanted to argue about, anyway. Arya felt no burning desire to catch the attention of the royal family.
Ned nodded, seemingly satisfied, and took his wife’s arm. Catelyn sent Arya a sharp look, “You’ll stand behind Sansa,” she commanded. Arya nodded. Not next to Hodor, but definitely not out in the open.
With that said, Lord and Lady Stark began gathering their children to greet the royal procession. Sansa and Bran were waiting dutifully in the courtyard, led there by Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane, who’d also towed Rickon along behind her. The poor boy had been stuffed into a formal leather jerkin and his wild red curls had been wetted in an attempt to get them to lie flat. Catelyn gathered him into her skirts as the bulk of Winterfell fell into their positions.
By the time Ned and Catelyn had taken position, Robb stood with Jeyne by his side, her belly swelling with their first child. Sansa looked enchanting in her bright blue dress, and Arya recognized the embroidery along the neckline as her half-sister’s own fine stitching. She shuffled behind her. Sansa was much taller than Arya, which made her feel very neatly hidden away from royal eyes.
It was while she was positioning herself just right, so as to peer through the gap between Sansa and Jon, that they all heard the hoof beats. The sound thundered through the courtyard, announcing what seemed like an army. She could have sworn to the Old Gods and the Seven that the King had brought all of the South with him to Winterfell. Lord after lord, knight after knight seemed to stream through Winterfell’s gates. She tried to pick the king out of the crowd, going off of descriptions in books and her father’s memories, but couldn’t find the barrel-chested man with the long black beard and the burly arms. The only crowned man was old and fat.
Robert Baratheon was not as described. Arya guessed that his tangled, filthy beard hid sagging jowls, and his eyes reminded her of a pig’s. Where was the large, handsome young warrior who had fought a war for her dead aunt’s honor? Where was the jolly, fun-loving king? This one looked washed up. He looked just as old as stodgy Lord Ned.
He needed a stool’s help off of his horse, and when he was off, he didn't even bother waiting for his wife, Queen Cersei Lannister. The Lioness stepped out of her carriage just then, hardly bothered by her husband's abandonment, if her haughty expression was to be trusted. She had hair like spun gold, which fell in intricate braids down to her waist, and a gown of crimson silk. Three golden-haired children followed behind her like ducklings, although the oldest was less of a child. He looked to be of an age with Sansa, and Arya guessed he must be Prince Joffrey, second in line to the throne. Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella both had their mothers look.
But where’s Prince Gendry? Arya wondered. He was the crown Prince, the one Sansa wished to marry. Arya was holding out hope that he was be as ugly as his father, as pig-eyed and fat, but the young man who sprung of his mount and hurried to catch his mother’s arm was not ugly. He looked stiff beside Cersei, but handsome nonetheless. His shoulders were broad, and he looked well-muscled. He couldn't be called fat. A perfect Prince for perfect Sansa, Arya thought. How irritating.
After they bowed briefly, Robert strode towards Ned.
“Ned!” King Robert roared, voice tinged with laughter. He was red-cheeked and grinning as he greeted her father. “Look at you, the North has made you old and fat!”
Father lifted an eyebrow “As the South has you,” he japed.
Robert’s laughter boomed, and Arya watched everyone around her give a sigh of relief. The King moved on to Lady Stark, giving her a brief peck on the cheek.
“How are you Cat?’ he asked brightly.
“Very well, Your Grace,” she replied. Arya couldn’t see her face from where she was, but she knew the smile Catelyn probably wore, polite an completely devoid of warmth. It was the one she wore with all guests.
“Ah, and here’s Robb, yeah? Congratulations!” Robert chuckled, giving Robb a knowing smile and kissing Jeyne’s cheek.
He shook Jon’s hand and patted Sansa’s cheek. He ruffled Bran’s hair and gave Rickon a piggy smile. All of this happened in only a few moments, as Arya tried to watch as well as keep herself hidden. Cersei Lannister’s greeting wasn’t nearly so enthusiastic, she allowed Lord and Lady Stark to kiss her hand and only spared their children half a glance. Prince Gendry shook Ned’s hand and kissed Catelyn’s, but he followed after his mother. Joffrey and the children didn't even pause. When the greetings were done, Robert’s smile suddenly faded.
“I’ll see her now,” he announced gruffly. The grimace on Cersei’s face told Arya exactly who he was talking about. Her Aunt Lyanna.
Curious, how grief-stricken he seemed, after all these years. It wasn’t as if he’d even known her aunt that well, if Arya had the stories straight. But then, he’d gone to war, rebelled against the Targaryens. It had to have been an act of love.
“The dead can wait, Robert,” the queen told him, but he barely spared her a glance. Her father led the King off to the crypts and Arya fled the courtyard. Mayhaps she could refine the wooden wolf before the feast began.
Arya had no time to herself before the feast. Almost immediately Catelyn had intercepted her, giving her a brief order to make herself look proper and not dally, which meant that if Lady Stark learned she wasn’t in her room until it came time to go to the Great Hall, she’d face all Seven Hells. It also meant that Arya spent the entire time fretting over how she could possibly make herself look proper.
Arya knew the attention wouldn't be on her tonight, it never was, but considering how important this night would be if Sansa truly wanted to marry a Prince, even less so. Still, she just knew that if she didn’t do as Catelyn had ordered, the Lady would somehow know. She clambered into her best gown, which paled in comparison to most of Sansa’s dresses. This was mostly because Arya had grown quickly out of her first best gown, spilled wine on her second, and gone riding in her third. After she was dressed, Arya braided back her wild hair, draping it over a shoulder and falling back onto her bed.
Nymeria padded towards the bed. Arya had forgotten that Catelyn had ordered the wolves out of sight when the King arrived. Most of the others could be told to stay, indeed it was simple to command all but Rickon’s fierce Shaggydog, but Nymeria resisted commands, and had to be shut in Arya’s room.
Ned had proposed that their direwolves had taken after each of his children. Grey Wind was amicable and playful, Robb’s perfect companion, charming as he was. Jon’s Storm was quiet and restrained, eager to please. Sansa’s Lady was well behaved, Bran’s Summer was curious and active, Rickon’s Shaggydog was a ruffian, and Arya’s Nymeria, the runt of the litter, nature’s version of a bastard, was as stubborn as could be. Arya spared another glance at the lump of wood she’d been carving, which now resembled a duck more than a wolf, and decided to spend the rest of her spare time worrying.
Arya patted Nymeria’s head softly. “Hello, girl,” she muttered. She was already feeling the stifling boredom, the irrational fear that came with large functions. She wished she’d thought to knick a book from Maester Luwin, maybe one about Braavos this time. She also wished she hadn't been banished to her room. It was hardly fair, and Arya doubted the King would be offended by the sight of one bastard-girl. Arya had heard that the King wasn’t short on bastards himself.
But she didn't disobey Lady Stark. She stayed on her bed with Nymeria until Jon knocked on her door. He escorted her only as far as the entrance to the Great Hall, the two parting ways to get to their respective tables. Jon was seated on high, next to Sansa, but Arya sat with the interesting people. It also helped that no one took the time to count how many cups of ale she drank. Father allowed the Stark children only one glass of wine at supper while she could get well and truly drunk.
She barely even watched the Southern king and his haughty family parade up to the table, instead trying to engage in conversation with Mikken, the castle blacksmith.
“There’ll be no sword for you, Arya Underfoot,” he told her adamantly. He even used her old nickname. When she was nine and decided she’d learn to do every job necessary to run a castle like Winterfell, the servants had dubbed her Arya Underfoot. It wasn’t a bad sign, as far as signs went. If Mikken was truly irritated with her, he’d have ignored her completely.
“Well why not? Shouldn’t I be able to defend myself?” she asked.
“You’ll have your brothers, and then your husband to defend you.”
“I’ll never marry,” Arya argued. She drank down her cup, signaling for another. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I swear it.”
Mikken scowled at her, and she could tell she was wearing the old armorer down. “It’ll be hard to hide a sword, girl.”
“Not a small one!” she argued.
He only glared.
“If I promise secrecy?” she prompted.
“Not a word to anyone,” he snapped. Arya laughed, hoping he wouldn't change his mind in the light of day.
By the time the night began to wind down, Arya felt exhausted. Nymeria was napping lightly at her feet, directly under the table, full of table scraps and whatever she’d been able to scare the servants out of. The room swum around her, and King Robert’s loud laughter felt like a hammer to her skull. He’d left his seat at the high table around the same time that Queen Cersei had sent her children from the hall. Now he sat only a table away, a kitchen maid planted firmly on his lap. Catelyn had long since ushered all but Robb off to bed, and her father looked exhausted. The only thing keeping Ned at the table was Robert, who, though bleary eyed and swaying, didn't look tired.
He was pawing at his kitchen maid’s bottom when Arya left her own table. She stumbled out of the Hall into the courtyard, unsteady on her feet, Nymeria close on her heels.
“Are you the little bastard girl?” a voice said. Arya spun in its direction, and was met with empty air. “Down here.”
“The Imp!” she gasped, staring down at Tyrion Lannister. He was less fearsome in person than his descriptions gave him credit for. The small man had crooked features and discolored eyes, but he didn’t look like he ate babies or stole souls. He just looked like a dwarf. Still, Arya was tense at the sight of him.
“Yes, that is what they call me,” he answered, giving her a tight-lipped smile.
“Beg your pardon, my lord,” she corrected sloppily, giving a shaky curtsy.
“Someone gave you one too many drinks, didn’t they?” Tyrion asked. His small black and green eyes held cunning that Arya was instantly wary of. He seemed to see even more than what was there.
“I’m not a child,” she snapped, hating his tone, hating the way he was looking at her.
“You certainly look like one,” he countered.
“So do you,” she snapped.
“As I asked before, are you Ned Stark’s bastard?” he prompted, abandoning her slight easily.
Arya bristled. “How is that any of your business?”
“I’m curious- I make it my business.”
“I am Lord Stark’s natural-born daughter,” she admitted after a beat.
“His bastard, then,” Tyrion quipped. “It’s a bit dangerous for you out here all alone, faculties compromised, don’t you think?”
“I’m strong. I can fight,” Arya boasted.
“A grown man?”
“I don’t see any around,” she bit out. “Besides, I have Nymeria.” The direwolf stood at her side, almost reaching her waist.
“Nymeria? The name is apt, I’ll give you that,” Tyrion allowed, shrugging.
“Is that all you wanted, to inquire after my safety?” Arya asked incredulously.
“Honestly?” he asked. “No. I was curious, wanted to see if I recognized any of your features, but you’re a Stark through and through.”
“What else would I be?” she wondered.
“Dornish.”
“That’s just a rumour. Father has never admitted that Ashara Dayne was my mother. Besides, Ashara was beautiful.” Arya had heard the theory before. Her Uncle Benjen had told her Ashara Dayne was her mother once on a visit from the Wall, but she’d never been convinced.
“Rumours are not always lies,” Tyrion assured her cryptically. With that odd comment he turned on his heel, leaving Arya to stare after him for a moment.
Feelings shaken, she hurried back to her room, but the Imp’s strange eyes and accusatory words weren’t left behind in the courtyard. Arya sat in bed that night, struggling to fall asleep, and she wondered what he could mean by that. Was he telling her that it was true, that Ashara Dayne truly was her mother? Or was he trying to hint at the truth of another rumour? What had the Imp really wanted, other than to make her confused and upset?
Calling Gendry Baratheon handsome was useless and obvious. The realm was already well aware how dashing their future king was. This frustrated Arya Snow to no end. It had been good to know that the second son, Joffrey was dreadful, but the same couldn’t be said of Gendry.
She’d yet to speak to him, having decided to keep the relative peace between she and Lady Stark, to keep quiet and not give anyone any reason to punish her. She was rather pleased with herself, actually, and had become adept at avoiding all of the King’s family over the course of their visit. But Jon had made it a point to tell her that Prince Gendry was a good sort. He was polite, friendly, and compared to his brother, as humble as they came.
Unfortunately, this had left Arya entirely unprepared for the King himself, who didn’t seem to share any of his son’s good traits.
She had left behind her rooms in favor of the kitchens late one night, after spending most of her day trying to train Nymeria to fetch, missing both lunch and dinner. His Royal Largeness caught her off-guard in the dim torchlight of the corridor along the way. She’d been startled, completely unprepared for his appearance, and so, he’d caught her off guard.
He looked half-mad, and Arya wondered immediately where his Kingsguard was, where anyone was. Robert Baratheon was at least twice her size, and the hands that clamped down on her shoulders felt like anvils.
“Lyanna?” he choked out. She could smell the strongwine on his breath.
“Your Grace- I’m not-” she gasped, but he wasn’t really there. That look in his eye- he looked like he was years away. All that meant was that she was in much more trouble than it might seem.
“Lyanna! I knew you’d come back to me,” Robert whimpered, pulling her closer. “I’d have been a good husband to you, Lya- I swear it.”
“Your Grace,” Arya repeated, struggling in his grip. She wanted to fight, to scream and scratch, but she could just imagine how Lady Starl- how everyone- would react. It did her no good to humiliate both herself and the King.
“Lyanna,” he repeated, barely a breath, and suddenly his thick, fat lips were on her own, and his tongue was in her mouth.
He tasted like rot and too much wine, like the old drunk man he was. Arya tried to turn her head away, but Robert was persistent. His movements were unsteady, but strong, and he backed her up against the stone wall, warm with the heat from the hot springs. The lines of stone bricks dug into her shoulder bones, and Arya felt like she couldn't breathe.
Robert pulled away to gaze upon her face, and Arya gulped in air.
“Your Grace- I am Arya Snow. I am not my Aunt. Please-”
He cut her off with another disgusting kiss, his left hand leaving her shoulder in order to paw at her breast. She felt her stomach turning, but she could do absolutely nothing while his grip was so strong on her.
Something pulled the King away from her just as his large fat fingers began working at the laces of his breeches. Arya scrambled sideways along the wall, back against it so no one could approach her from behind, and tried to catch her breath.
“Ser Arys, Ser Preston, please escort the King back to his rooms,” Prince Gendry ordered, voice hard. The sight of his son, of his guards must have triggered something in Robert, because his eyes cleared a bit, and he went with them easily.
Before the Prince could say a word Arya started “I didn’t mean-!”
“I know,” he interrupted just as she began to apologize, wincing at the gaping collar of her tunic. She hurried to pull the fabric closer to her chest, face flushing with a terrible combination of humiliation and anger.
“I didn't encourage him. He thought I was Lyanna. I tried to explain.”
“I heard you,” Gendry assured her.
“I didn't do anything wrong,” she snapped.
“No, you didn’t,”
“Good. I-I’m glad we agree,” Arya said, nodding mostly to herself.
“Would you mind if I escorted you back to your chamber?” the Prince asked. Arya fought the fear the request brought her.
Aiming for indifference, Arya nodded. “If it would make you feel better.”
“It would,” he assured her, laughing softly.
Arya peeled herself away from the wall, glancing back the way King Robert had been led. When the Prince tucked her arm into his, she pulled back immediately.
“I wouldn't presume to walk arm in arm with Your Highness,” Arya explained. Gods, she almost sounded like Sansa. Unfortunately, an impolite bastard was an unhappy bastard indeed. She’d adapted, shedding the boldness of a little girl. Arya Snow had learned manners.
“No one’s about,” Gendry pointed out.
“Someone’s always about- especially with the King here,” Arya replied.
“Fine then,” Gendry relented, arm falling back to his side, although he looked a bit put out now. “It’s good to meet you, aside from the circumstances.”
Arya nodded her thanks. “It’s nice to meet you as well.” Time would tell if that was true, but Arya felt vulnerable in the moment, and could only hope she was safe with Prince Gendry.
“Your brother has told me some tales about you,” Gendry revealed.
“Which one?” she wondered. The pair moved down the hall away from the library. It was on the same floor as her room, but the walk was no short journey.
“Jon. He seems a good sort. My father-” Gendry shot her an apologetic look “-says he bears a striking resemblance to Lord Stark when he was young.”
“My father says the same about you,” Arya told him.
“Yes. I’ve heard as much,” Gendry agreed. He was grimacing in displeasure. Of course, Arya didn't know the King any more than she had fifteen years prior, but she had a feeling that the man had changed, time on the Iron Throne and marriage to a Lannister making him what he was today. At least, that’s what she hoped. He was her father’s best friend, and she liked to think Ned hadn’t befriended the King Robert of now.
“I think you look more like your mother,” she said. It may have been the truth, but Arya said it only to spare his feelings.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. You may have your father’s coloring, but you have the jaw of a Lannister.”
He looked pleased when she said that. She was glad it was true, as well. He and his Uncle Jaime did share some features.
“I’m surprised you took note of my appearance, Lady Arya.”
Arya snorted. “Lady Arya- you mustn’t call me that. It drives Lady Stark mad, the thought that I might be equal to her true born sons and daughter.” She regretted her words as soon as they were out of her mouth. She shouldn’t have said such a thing about Lady Stark in front of a stranger, no matter how kind he was acting in the moment.
“My apologies, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to disrespect Lady Stark. Beg your pardon.”
“We call my brother, Edric, Lord,” Gendry said, seemingly happy to ignore both her transgression and her apology. She took it he meant Edric Storm. The difference was, Edric Storm’s mother had been of high birth. Most people believed Arya’s mother to have been a Dornish wet nurse. Even those who whispered about Ashara Dayne didn’t treat her like a high-born bastard.
“Well things are different in the North.”
The sympathy in his eyes made her uncomfortable. What could he possibly know about what Arya suffered under Lady Catelyn? He was a prince. Arya doubted he’d suffered a day in his life. Even she had nothing to complain about. She was fed three hot meals a day and had her own bed to sleep in. Truthfully, neither of them knew anything about true suffering.
Gendry looked away. Arya couldn't puzzle out the emotion that lingered in his Baratheon blues. But then, she hardly knew this Southron prince. He was a stranger to her.
“It’s been fifteen years, and it feels like he’s mentioned her every day of my life,” he muttered. “Lyanna this, Lyanna that.”
The sudden change both in topic and the Prince’s demeanor took her by surprise for a moment. But the specter of Lyanna Stark was familiar to her as well.
“Father hates talking about her,” Arya found herself saying. Ned Stark avoided talk of his dead sister as much as he could. He’d told her once that she looked like Lyanna, but that was it. Still, the sorrow that the Rebellion had brought upon House Stark would never truly leave Winterfell.
“The King didn't know her like Lord Stark would have. He talks about a fantasy, I think. No woman could be that perfect.”
“Old Nan says that memory taints the past, makes everything seem better. He remembers a perfect woman.”
“The realm thinks my mother is a bad wife, and an even worse Queen, but my mother is only what King Robert made her. How could she be a good wife if he constantly measures her against a dream?”
Cersei Lannister’s distant haughtiness took on a slightly new tilt with this information. Arya supposed that living your entire life being compared to the dream of a dead girl had to be difficult. Arya suffered the comparisons made between her and Sansa well enough, but she supposed it had made her bitter, less willing to act kindly towards her half-sister. Even the comparisons others made between her and the dead woman who was rumored to be her mother could be hurtful. The tales spoke of Ashara Dayne as the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms by the time of her death. Arya was reminded every day that she was no beauty. Sansa had stopped calling her Arya Horseface only a year ago, but it still crossed her mind almost daily.
“Your Uncle asked me if Ashara Dayne was my mother,” she told Gendry, searching his face for any flash of foreknowledge.
“I take it you’re talking about my Uncle Tyrion. He’s a curious man. But it’s true, that those in the south have always considered her your mother. The Starks aren’t talked about at court very often, but when they are, courtiers love to mention Lord Starks base-born daughter.”
Arya rankled at that. “Why is that the concern of the court?” The idea of a bunch of soft perfumed lords and ladies speaking about her without ever seeing her was insulting.
“It makes for a good story. Honorable Lord Stark forsaking vows to have one last tryst with the beautiful Lady Dayne; it’s romantic. But life’s not a song.”
“No, it isn’t,” Arya agreed, teeth clenching at this new information. She wondered how many of the court had been watching her, looking for any hint at her origins.
They were silent as they came to the corridor which held her rooms. Neither wanted to speak, a peace having settled between the two of them. In the darkness of the corridor, it seemed easier to speak of secrets, but both knew better than it. There were eyes everywhere.
“I’m sorry for my father’s actions, my lady,” Prince Gendry finally said.
“I’m no lady,” she insisted. “And it’s not as if you forced the strong wine on him. You didn't make him drink himself to delusion.” She winced as the words left her mouth, but Gendry was quick to apologize once more. His eyes were soft as he withdrew from her door, giving her the space to open her door.
“Still. I’m sorry.”
Nodding, Arya stepped away from the warmth of his shoulder next to hers.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” Gendry asked. She raised her brow at him.
“Mayhaps,” she answered evasively, afraid of what he’d say if she said no, or if she said yes.
“I hope to.”
So do I.
As soon as the door closed between them, Arya let her frustration out in a loud breath. If she dug herself any deeper into this bloody hole, she’d be digging her grave.
She let her body fall onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling and contemplating his words. He hoped to see her again tomorrow. A prince, wanting to spend time with a bastard girl. If he was his father’s son, she might be getting herself into a deep well of trouble. But she dearly hoped Prince Gendry was nothing like his father.