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Chapter Text

Gendry should have known that one day his master would get sick of him. He should have know and he curses at himself for letting himself get comfortable. He was a good blacksmith, strong and hard working. Gendry let himself get complacent, and now he's milling in a crowd of boys destined for the Night's Watch. Gendry doesn't deserve this. He was a good blacksmith. Good enough to keep up with the other boys, gifted ones that could heat metal with their bare hands or warp the iron with just a touch.

Not everyone has a gift like that. Most people are perfectly normal, but from time to time, a few people are born with a gift. Normally it's not very powerful, something that could be mastered over time, like never getting lost in crowded city streets or always knowing when the weather is going to turn. Of course, the noble houses have stronger powers, careful to preserve it through arranged matches.

The gifts get stronger, more frequent up North. Some think it's because people aren't so crowded up there, less people means more gift to go around. In the North it's not uncommon to meet people who never miss a shot or can talk to beasts, or so Gendry has heard. That's where boys like the ones in the shop come from, wielding flame in their hands. It makes them valuable, expensive. Gendry is from the slums of Kings Landing, and had no such luck to be born with a gift. All he has is the swing of his arm and the hammer in his hand. And he made do with that. But then not one, but two Hands of the King came sniffing around and Master Mott got anxious. And he sold Gendry to the Wall.

Gendry’s heard plenty of stories about the wall, the deadly cold. That’s the first thing he considered. The forge was always burning with heat and all Gendry was wearing when he was sold was a sleeveless leather jerkin. He’ll freeze to death long before they reach the Wall. That's not even mentioning the Wildlings beyond the wall, teeming with powerful and horrible gifts. He can’t even find it in himself to feel dread or fear. He’s numb, inside and out. He tried so hard, worked his heart out only to be sold just like that. He’s done. He’s done trying and he’s done caring.

"The Watch needs good men," Yoren had said as he looked over the group of boys. "But you lot will have to do." Some of the boys are like Gendry, sold to the Watch by their masters. Others are orphan boys that Yoren promised shoes and full bellies. But most of them are criminals, boys and grown men alike, plucked from the dungeon of the Red Keep. Yoren even took three from the black cells, though he kept them locked in a barred wagon and warned the boys not to go near them.

He'd set the boys to work immediately, packing and preparing to head out. Yoren set Gendry to work loading supplies into the wagons. They're taking five wagons to the Wall, filled with hides, bolts of cloths, iron, sacks of barley, a cage of ravens, books, paper, ink, oil, and chests of medicine and spices. Gender sets about lifting heavy barrels into the wagon and lashing supplies into place.

“Give it here midget!”

“Look at him! You better give Hot Pie the sword!”

Gendry looks up from his work to observe the scene playing out in front of him. Two of the boys have knocked a smaller one to the ground. Neither of the bullies are big as Gendry, though one is twice as wide as him. Gendry's heard the others call him Hot Pie, because he used to push a bakers cart through the streets shouting, "Hot pies! Hot pies!" The other boy is lean and scrawnier, with hands dyed green up to his elbows, the tell-tale sign of a dyer's apprentice. The dyer's apprentice leans over the small boy, sneering while Hot Pie tells him about a boy he’s killed.

Gendry raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. He’s willing to bet that the fat boy hasn’t ever hurt a thing in his life, except the wares he was meant to be selling. He’s just scared and lashing out at an easy target, which in this case is a small gangly boy with scared eyes and a thin sword. Gendry goes back to bundling supplies, keeping an eye on the scene.

“You better give me that sword!” Hot Pie shouts, lunging forward.

The gangly boy brandishes it at him in an instant, pulling himself up and forcing Hot Pie backwards.

“Do you want it? I’ll give it to you. I’ve already killed one fat boy. I bet you never killed anyone. I bet you’re a liar. But I’m not. I’m good at killing fat boys.” He bares his teeth, pulling Hot Pie closer. “I like killing fat boys.”

The sharp, vicious look in the small boy's eyes lights a spark in Gendry, makes him feel something for the first time in weeks. He turns and lets Hot Pie run into his shoulder, broadened by years of hard work. Hot Pie whirls around, eyes wide as he assesses this newer, more dangerous threat.

“You like picking on the little ones do ya?" Gendry asks, moving forward and pushing Hot Pie backwards. "You know I’ve been hammering an anvil this last ten years. When I hit that steel it sings. You gonna sing when I hit you?”

Hot Pie shakes his head, retreating backward. Gendry takes a few more steps until he’s standing next to the small boy with his thin sword. Hot Pie turns tail and flees, together with the dyer's apprentice. Gendry turns to the small boy and lifts his thin sword in his hand, admiring the quality of the weapon, as pitifully small as it is.

“This is castle forged steel,” he says, impressed despite himself. “Where’d ya steal it?”

“It was a gift,” the small boy retorts, his voice entirely too high. He yanks the sword back, but doesn’t cut Gendry’s hand as he does so.

Gendry takes a good look at him for the first time. That unevenly cut hair, soft face scrunched in anger, frilled undershirt covered in stains, and round, innocent eyes. No wonder he's getting picked on, he looks like a little girl. If Gendry didn't know any better, if he'd run into him on a city street, he'd have thought he was a girl. What could this frail boy with such a high-quality blade have done to earn a place on the Wall?

“It don’t matter now anyways,” Gendry says. “Where we’re goin’ they don’t care what you done.”

There’s more work to be done before the wagon is ready to set out. Gendry goes back to loading supplies, turning his back on the small figure as he works. He doesn't seem to have any particular job to do, and hovers uncertainly behind Gendry.

“Ari!” Sir Yoren calls out to the boy, Ari, gesturing him over. Gendry puts it out of his mind, letting himself get lost in the meaningless physical work as he lifts the heavy supplies and puts them in the wagon. It isn’t until the caravan begins to move that he spots Ari again, barely ducking out of the way in time to keep from being trampled by a team of horses. Gods have mercy, Gendry doubts that the boy will survive long enough to even reach the wall.

When the caravan stops to rest the horses in the middle of the day, Ari disappears deep into he brush to take a leak instead of ducking behind a tree like the rest of them. Gendry had a sudden, sinking suspicion that Ari doesn't just look like a girl, she is one. He can't be sure though, so he says nothing. Gendry can't even begin to understand the implications of it if he's right. Why on earth would a girl be traveling to the Wall? Gendry guesses it don’t matter one way or the other, that’s where they’ll all end up in the end.

They make good time for the first day, Sir Yoren seems pleased with their progress. The light is just starting to fade when they finally stop. The boys gather around to receive rations, dispersing again to eat them. Gendry stays on the edge of the group, just close enough to hear the boys talking. The boys talk about what they've done and where they're been, and what they will do where they're going. They mutter about the King and the death of the Hand, and the great red comet blazing across the sky. Gendry learns that the dyer's apprentice's name is Lommy, and that he's here for stealing. Turns out Hot Pie is an orphan. A few of the boys are murders, some rapists or thieves. Gendry doesn't offer up why he's here, instead he wolfs down his meager portion. It's gone far too quickly, but Gendry knows better than to ask for seconds.

He’s laying down for the night when he sees Ari again. He takes a careful look at Ari's delicate face and small form and there's no doubt in his mind this time. Ari is a girl. She's slightly uncertain as she looks around at all the boys laying out their cots for the night. Her lip curls as her eyes dance over Hot Pie and Lommy, dancing away quickly to linger over the men all gathered around the fire. But none of the boys are laying out near them, and she worries her lip as she contemplates it.

Gendry can feel her gaze turn to him as he turns away and busies himself with laying out his threadbare blanket, one of his only possessions aside from his helm. Her footsteps are soft as she pads across the grass next to him. She settles down a reasonable distance away, just far enough to claim she wasn’t intending on sleeping beside him. But he protected her earlier, and she’s deemed him safe.

Gendry wraps his fingers around his bull’s helm, running them down the elegant curves. He thinks of his warm forge, a home for the past ten years, ripped away. He glances over to see that Ari’s turned her back to him, shivering slightly as she curls around herself on the hard ground. Gendry sighs to himself as he sits up and pulls off the scratchy blanket covering him. Mentally cursing himself for caring, he balls it up.

“Here,” he says gruffly, tossing it towards Ari. She rolls over as it hits her in the stomach. Unrolling, she unwraps it and her face lights up as she realizes what it is. She gives him a cautious, suspicious look as she wraps it around her thin shoulders, mumbling a thanks. Gendry grunts and rolls over in reply, trying to conserve his body heat. He’s an idiot, giving away his blanket like that. Now he’s got nothing to keep him warm against the cold and it’s only going to get worse the farther north they go. His compassion will be the death of him. But he can't help but worry about the thin little girl despite himself.

Gendry rolls onto his back, staring up at the great red comet in the sky that the boys have been murmuring about. It looks like a sword to him, a blade still red hot from the forge. Some of the boys said it meant that someone with a great and powerful gift had been born, the most powerful person alive. Others said it meant it was the end of magic, that all the gifts had been given out. Gendry doesn't know what to think. It might be good luck, it might be bad luck. Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all and it's just a comet. Gendry can't afford anymore bad luck.

Chapter Text

They march dawn to dusk, past woods and orchards and neatly tended fields and small villages, crowded market towns, and stout holdings. As they get further North, the weather begins to get colder. They hand out extra clothes, much to Gendry’s relief. He gets a thick woolen shirt that he quickly puts on underneath his leather jerkin. Ari gets a leather jacket that’s too big for her and a thick belt to tie it down with.

Gendry doesn’t see Ari much. She’s taken to marching with Yoren at the front of the caravan, talking with him as they walk. Gendry’s got his own problems to deal with. Now that the boys have begun to settle into a routine, they’ve started fighting among themselves, trying to establish a hierarchy. Gendry doesn’t doubt that’s why Ari has taken a sudden interest in Yoren.

After his run in with Lommy and Hot Pie, the younger boys leave him alone. There are only a few boys close to Gendry’s own age and size, the others are old, wizened men. Gendry gets along with some of the boys his own age, a farmer named Tarber and an amiable dolt named Dobber. But the others Gendry keeps his eye on.There's one, Kurz, that's Gendry's pretty sure murdered someone.

At night, Kurz makes eye contact with Gendry while sharpening his skinning knife. When they trudge down the road, Kurz starts moving next to Gendry and “accidentally” jostling him with his shoulder from time to time. Gendry ignores it. He’s dealt with this before, someone who thinks because they’re bigger and meaner they can push him around.

Gendry has almost forgotten about it when they stop midday. One of the horses has lost a shoe, and Yoren decides to set up camp early. Gendry gets to work unhitching a team of horses and setting up camp. He's turning around when he looks up just in time to see Kurz flying at him. Gendry has a half second to flinch before Kurz collides into him.

His fist hits Gendry squarely in the cheekbone, sending Gendry staggering backwards. He gains his equilibrium before Kurz can attack again, and lunges forward. They scramble for a moment, ducking and dodging each other’s sloppy attacks. Gendry catches a blow to the ribs and another to his ear before he finally gets a handful of Kurz's coat.

Gendry braces his legs, turns, and flips Kurz over his shoulder, slamming him into the ground as hard as he can. The boy gasps for the air that’s been knocked from his lungs. Gendry steps back and waits for Kurz to get back up. Kurz clutches his chest as he scrambles upright. Gendry raises his fists in front of his face, ready to block again. He doesn't have to wait long.

Kurz lunges forward, only to be pulled short by Yoren’s hand on the back of his neck like a dog that's hit the end of its chain. “None o’ that!” Yoren barks, flinging Kurz away. He's switched the younger boys for less. Yoren shoves his finger in Kurz face. “You, start digging the latrine. And you,” he turns on Gendry with a thunderous expression, “go gather firewood.”

Gendry ducks his head in reply, more than happy to slip into the woods. With every step away from camp, it gets quieter and quieter. Soon the only sound is bird song. Gendry tilts his face back and appreciates the warmth of the sun on his face. It's an unusually warm day, and Gendry can't help but bask in the more familiar weather. He sighs, prodding at his sore cheekbone and he trudges through the woods. It'll probably bruise.

Gendry's mind wanders as he gathers dead bits of wood. They'll be at the Wall within the month. There will be fighting there, real fighting. Gendry always tried to practice with the swords he makes, but he's never been in a sword fight before. He could be dead by this time next month. Dead and buried beneath feet of snow, no one to remember him.

Gendry thinks of his mother, the few memories he has of her. He hadn't thought about her recently until Hand Stark questioned him, but every since she's been on her mind. He remembers the gentle touch of her hand, her beautiful face and golden hair. He doesn't miss her anymore, she's been gone so long he barely remembers what it felt like when she was there. He misses the idea of her. A mum. A family. It'd be nice to have someone miss him after he's gone.

A cloud rolls over the sun and Gendry abruptly realizes what he's doing. That's quite enough of that. He has a sizable pile of dry wood, enough to last half the night. It's past time to get back the the camp. Yoren will be wondering where he went.

When he walks back into camp from getting firewood, the first person he sees is Ari. Tiny Ari, currently beating at the three criminals in the prison wagon with a stick, the ones Yoren found in the black cells. They must have scared even Yoren, because he ordered they be locked in the wagon all the way to the Wall. Gendry can’t help but sigh. Of course Ari would pick a fight with them. The criminals snarl and reach for her through the bars with clawed hands, spewing obscenities. The fat one snaps his pointy teeth and hisses. Ari snarls back at them, not cowed in the least.

“Yoren said none of us were to go near those three,” he reminds her as he walks between her and the wagon, trying to physically force her to back away.

She turns and follows him, her stick still clutched tightly in her fist. “They don’t scare me.” She juts her chin out boldly.

“Then you’re stupid,” Gendry replies flatly. “They scare me.”

Gendry’s strong, but he knows those men are vicious and what’s more they know how to fight. One of them is squat and thick, with huge hands and no nose, only a hole in his face where it has been cut off. One of them is fat and bald, with pointed teeth and weeping sores on his cheeks, and eyes like nothing human. But the last one is by far the worst. The last one is the youngest of the three, slender, with fine features, and red hair with white streaks in it. He has an unnatural stillness to him, and shadows almost seem to move under his skin. Gendry doesn’t even want to know what he is.

He’s walking toward the center of camp when the clatter of horses along the Kingsroad catches his attention. Six riders approach the camp, all of them in the black ringmail and golden cloaks of the city watch. One of them is an officer, distinguishable from the others by his black enamel breastplate ornamented with four golden disks. All six men are armed with good-quality swords and brand new armor that lacks a single dent or scratch. Though he knows its not important, Gendry can’t help wondering who made it. Not any of his masters boys, it’s much fancier than anything they were commissioned to do. Maybe the blacksmith across the street, it looks like his touch on the pauldrons.

“What are Goldcloaks doing so far from King’s Landing?” Ari quavers.

The Goldcloaks glare at the boys as they ride closer. Some of the boys stare back, others duck their heads and quickly look away. Gendry follows their example, trying to avoid any attention. His past interactions with Goldcloaks haven't exactly been pleasant. Gendry busies himself throwing the firewood to the ground. When he looks up again, Ari is crouching behind the bridge, with only her head peeking over.

“What are you doing?” Gendry hisses.

“They’re looking for me.” Her round eyes are wide behind her fringe of hair, a look of genuine terror on her face.

Gendry frowns in disbelief, but doesn’t say anything. They both turn to watch Yoren swagger up to the Goldcloaks. Gendry would be that bold too if he had a healing ability. One of the boys said that Yoren once survived being gutted, just stuffed his organs back in and kept on going. By the next day, he was back to normal.

“I have a royal warrant for one of these gutter rats you’re transporting,” one of the Goldcloaks announces loudly, brandishing a scroll.

Gendry turns to look at Ari skeptically. Why would the Goldcloaks want with a little thing like her? She swallows nervously, and curls even tighter into herself as though she can keep from being seen entirely if she’s small enough.

“These gutter rats belong to the Nights Watch now,” Yoren replies dismissively. “That puts ‘em beyond the reach of Kings and Queens. There's laws on such things.”

That’s the whole point of the Watch. Gendry doesn’t doubt that the majority of the boys around him are criminals. Many would rather take the black than the punishment that’s waiting for them down South. Gendry bets that the three men locked away all had their heads destined for the executioners block at one point. He finds it hard to believe little Ari committed a crime worse than them. Though she did tell Hot Pie she’d killed a boy.

The Goldcloak officer draws his sword. "Here's your law."

Yoren looks at the blade without fear, making no move towards his own blade. "That's no law, just a sword. Happens I got one too."

The officer smiles. "Old fool. I have five men with me."

Yoren spits. "Happens I got thirty."

"This lot?" one of the Goldcloaks following the officer laughs, drawing his steel. "Who wants to go first?"

Tarber stands, plucking a pitchfork from the wagon. "I will."

Cutjack moves forward behind Yoren, pulling his hammer off the leather stonemason apron he always wears. Kurtz rolls to his feet as well, flipping his skinning knife in his hand. "Me," he says.

"Me and him." Koss strings his longbow.

Dobber steps out of the trees, still buckling his belt. Seeing what is happening, he draws his dagger from his belt, letting his pant sag back down. "Is it a fight, then?" he asks.

Gendry straightens to his full height, all around them the larger boys and old men get to their feet, reaching for a weapon. Even Hot Pie grabs a big rock to throw. "Looks like it's all of us," says old man Reysen, brandishing the tall, wooden walking staff he always carries. The officer turns to watch the boys surrounding him and his men.

It was a mistake to take his eyes off Yoren for even a minute. In a flash, Yoren has his dagger against the officer's thigh. He leans in close and whispers to the Goldcloak, no doubt threatening him. Whatever Yoren says must work, because the Goldcloak officer drops his sword.

"We'll just keep that," Yoren says. "Good steel 's always needed on the Wall."

The Goldcloaks turn to leave, but the officer stands in his saddle and turns to face the boys. “We’re looking for a boy named Gendry,” he announces.

Gendry’s heart skips over the next beat. But he hasn't done anything. He hasn’t committed any crime other than the crime of existing. The only reason he's here is because his master sold him. Why would they want him?

“He carries a bull’s head helmet," the Goldcloak continues. "Anyone turning him over will earn a king’s reward. We’ll be back, with more men." He turns to glare at Yoren again. "The next time I catch you, I'll have your head to go with the bastard boy's."

Yoren spits. "Better men than you have tried. If you can get if off my shoulders, you're welcome to it." The officers sneers and turns, galloping back down the Kingsroad. The other Goldcloaks follow him. Yoren scoops up the short sword the officer dropped. "Who wants this?"

"Me!" Hot Pie yells.

"Don't be using it on Ari," Yoren grumbles, but hands the sword to Hot Pie hilt first anyway. "We need to get moving," Yoren calls out. "Ride all night, maybe we can stay ahead o' them for a bit. They'll be coming back with steel, and they won't hand me no damn ribbon next time."

Ari climbs out of her hiding place to stand beside Gendry and watch the riders as they disappear from view. Yoren turns to look at Gendry, as do a fair number of the boys. Gendry feels uncomfortably exposed under their view. He doesn't understand why, but he's just been made a target for every single boy around him. Kurtz smirks at him as he tucks away his skinning knife, a black eye forming already on his face. Gendry's stomach turns uncomfortably. What on earth has he gotten into?

Chapter Text

Everyone makes a wide berth around Gendry as he makes a path towards the river. Gendry clenches the bucket a little tighter in his hand, but says nothing. As he gets closer, Gendry can see Ari crouches along some rocks, a forgotten pan in her hand as she argues with Hot Pie and Lommy. Gendry seems to be coming up on the tail end of the conversation.

“So if they got armor on, it’s a battle,” Hot Pie insists defensively as Gendry walks up.

"No it isn't," Lommy replies, rolling his eyes.

"What would a dyer's apprentice know about battles?" Hot Pie sneers.

“Gendry’s an armor’s apprentice," Ari says, not looking up from scrubbing a pan. "Ask Gendry what makes a fight a battle, Hot Pie.”

Hot Pie is slow to look at Gendry, as though he might catch something just by being near Gendry. Gendry waits impatiently. He would walk away, but this is the first time someone has directly talked to him since the incident.

“It’s-uh when they’ve got armor on,” Hot Pie explains lamely.

“And who told you that?”

“A knight?” Hot Pie sounds like he’s asking rather than telling.

“How d’you know he was a knight?” Gendry challenges.

“Well cause he—got armor on.”

“You don’t have to be a knight to buy armor. Any idiot can buy armor,” Gendry says, his voice dripping with disdain. Ari smirks as she scrubs at the pan.

“How do you know?” Hot Pie questions.

“Cause I sold armor!” Gendry shakes his head and begins to fill his bucket. As he bends down, he has to be careful of the sword tucked in his belt.

A couple mornings ago Praed didn't wake up. They dug a shallow grave for the sellsword, and Yoren stripped him of his valuables before they threw dirt over him. Yoren gave Dobber his boots, Koss his dagger. Someone else got his helm. Tarber got his mail shirt and paused long enough to sprout a oak tree from an acorn over Praed's grave with his gift. Yoren had just spat and turned to Gendry. "Arms like yours, might be you can learn to use this," he had said, handing Praed's longsword to him. Despite his gruff manner, Gendry felt like Yoren gave him the sword to try and protect him. Now that the Goldcloaks are out for his head that is.

Hot Pie and Lommy find somewhere else to be. Funny how that keeps happening whenever Gendry walks up. Ari drops her pans and scurries after Gendry as he turns and walks away. Gendry swears, she’s like a lost little puppy who’s found someone to follow. He doesn’t turn around, maybe if he ignores her she’ll go away.

“What do the Goldcloaks want with you?” Ari fires off what is no doubt the first of many questions at Gendry’s back as she follows him.

“No idea.” Gendry doesn’t want to think about it. "I never did nothing to anyone. I did my work, is all. Bellows and tongs and fetch and carry. S'posed to be an armorer, and one day Master Matt sold me to the Night's Watch, that all I know."

“You’re a liar,” she states matter-of-factly.

“You shouldn’t insult people bigger than you,” Gendry advises. If she carries on like this, someone isn’t going to be as patient with her as he is and they’re going to belt her in the mouth.

“Then I wouldn’t get to insult anyone,” Ari protests. Gendry can’t help but smile at the fact that she didn’t even try to defend her height. She's stubborn as a mule, still following him and waiting for an answer to her question. Gendry wants an answer to that question as well. Not that he's going to get one.

“I don’t care what any of them want. No good’s ever come of their questions.” Certainly not for Gendry, and not for those who spoke with him either.

“Who’s asked questions before?” Ari asks, immediately picking up on Gendry's mistake.

“How can someone so small be such a huge pain in my ass,” Gendry wonders aloud as he dumps his bucket of water into the cauldron.

“Who asked questions?” Ari demands again, leaning into his space.

Gendry sighs, but decides it will be easier just to tell her. “Hand of the King. Hands of the King," he corrects. "Lord Aryn came first a few weeks before he died and then Lord Stark came a few weeks before he died.”

“Lord Stark,” Ari echoes quietly.

“See, asking me questions is bad luck,” Gendry informs her. He turns to go fill the bucket again. Ari grabs the second bucket and follows after him. “You’ll probably be dead soon.” He doesn’t know why the thought of that bothers him. He doesn’t even really know her.

“What did they ask about?” Ari is relentless.

“My mum.”

“Whose your mum?”

Gendry leans down to fill the bucket from the stream. “She’s just my mum.” The thought of her makes Gendry’s chest constrict a little. “Worked in a tavern, died when I was little.”

He was younger than Ari, probably six or seven and scared to death. His mum was always so pretty, golden hair and kind smiles. She was the only person in his life, his whole world. When she got sick, they couldn't afford a maester. He had to watch her wither down to skin and bones, watch her die coughing up her own blood.

“And who was your father?”

“Could be one of those gold-cloaked bastards for all I know.” Gendry straightens and sets the bucket down. Ari hands him the second bucket to fill.

“What about you anyway? You thought they were after you, why?” Gendry fires back and he bends down to fill the bucket. “Did you kill someone or is it just because you’re a girl?” He wouldn’t necessarily doubt that she’s killed someone. He saw the look in her eye when she threatened Hot Pie. She meant every word.

“I’m not a girl!” Ari’s voice is full of panic and her eyes are wide.

Gendry snorts, picking up the buckets and turning to walk back to the cauldron. “Yes you are. You think I’m as stupid as the rest of them?” He glances over his shoulder at her, and she glares at him.

“Stupider! The Knight’s Watch doesn’t take girls. Everyone knows that,” Ari snarls at him.

“Yeah, that’s true.” Gendry’s been wondering about that himself. “You’re still a girl.” He sets the buckets down.

“I am not!” She protests shrilly.

“Oh yeah?” Gendry whirls on her. “Pull your cock out and take a piss then.”

She takes a step backwards, looking scared of him for the first time. For some reason, that makes Gendry’s stomach twist. “I don’t need to take a piss,” she says quietly.

Gendry just stares her down, looks into her eyes. What on earth is a vicious, terrified little thing like her doing out here? It's none of his business, Gendry decides. He takes a step back, giving her space instead of pushing the issue. Ari will tell him if he trusts him. She might never speak to him again, considering how badly he appears to have scared her. He turns back to filling the tub and Ari follows.

“Lommy and Hot Pie can’t know,” she says quietly. “No one can know.”

“They won’t," Gendry promises. "Not from me.” He means it too. He can't imagine what would happen if the boys knew, especially the older ones, already convicted rapists and murders. No wonder Ari always sticks so close to Yoren. Gendry ought to keep a closer eye on her going forward.

“My name’s not Ari. It’s Arya,” she confesses quietly. “Of House Stark.” Gendry freezes. “Yoren is taking me home to Winterfell.”

Well that explains what on earth she's doing with the Night's Watch. She's going North, going home. Even a street rat like Gendry knows that the Starks of the North are not to be taken lightly. He doesn't know much about them though, he only met Lord Stark once. He was a tall man, but Gendry never really looked at his face, he doesn't know if Arya resembles him or not.

“Who was your father, the Hand, the traitor?” She could be a lesser Stark, a distant relative.

“He was never a traitor. Joffrey is a liar!” Ari—Arya seethes. It’s not a direct answer, but her protective reaction is close enough. Ned Stark is her father. Gods above.

“So that's why you thought the Goldcloaks were after you. You're a highborn then—you’re a Lady,” Gendry realizes.

He’s struggling with this sudden information. Arya is so far removed from his experience with Ladies, running around with that shaggy hair, dressed like a boy, covered in mud and sweat. All the Ladies he's ever seen were wrapped in silk and gold, without a fleck of dirt or a single hair out of place. He always assumed that the most active thing a Lady did was needlework or maybe drinking tea. Something boring.

“No! Well I mean yes, my mother was a Lady," Arya admits.

“But you’re a Lord’s daughter and you lived in a castle and—” The way Gendry has spoken and acted around Arri suddenly comes rushing back. He's been horribly crass and entirely inappropriate. Whenever highborn ladies came into the shop with their father, Master Mott made Gendry bend the knee, and speak only when they spoke to him. Arya could have him whipped for how he's treated her. “Look all that about cocks I should never have said that. And I’ve been pissing in front of you and everything. I—I should be called you M’Lady.”

“Do not call me My Lady!” Arya glares at him. Something loosens a little in Gendry's chest at that.

“As M’Lady commands,” Gendry says stubbornly, pretending to bow.

Arya shoves him, slamming both hands into his chest and sending him staggering backward. She’s surprisingly strong for her size.

“What kind of Lord's daughter are you?" Gendry says, laughing despite himself at the absurdity of it all.

Arya shoves him again, and this time she sends him to the ground. "This kind," she snarls.

“Oof," Gendry wheezes as the breath is knocked from his lungs. He grins up at Arya and she frowns, tightening her hands into little fists. The tiny little highborn girl shoved him to the ground. Gendry laughs as he watches Arya march away angrily. She's certainly not like any of the high born ladies Gendry's ever seen before. Perhaps she won't turn out to be boring and snobbish after all.

Chapter Text

The road becomes smaller and smaller over the next few days until it's little more than two ruts through the weeds. The wagons slow them down, weighted down and barely lumbering along. A dozen times a day they have to stop to free a wheel stuck in a rut or double up the teams to climb a muddy slope.

Everyone is on edge. Gendry notices Arya constantly looking over her shoulder and reaching for the hilt of her thin little sword. She has a good reason to be scared, the Queen herself is hunting Arya. Of course, she’s hunting Gendry as well apparently.

And to make matter’s worse, food has gotten scarce. They’ve been forced to eat most of the food Yoren had packed in the wagons. Yoren started sending Koss and Kurz ahead to hunt in the woods, bringing back a brace of quail or, with any luck, a deer. The younger boys Yoren dispatches to pick berries along to road or climb fences and fill a sack with apples if they happened upon an orchard.

Gendry’s no hunter, and he helps with the wagons, lending his strength. But Arya often comes back with sacks of berries or stolen crop. Today, Arya came bounding back with a rabbit, grinning from ear to ear. Gendry has no idea how she caught it with just a sword.

The rabbit makes a fine addition to the stew, mixed with mushrooms and wild onions. Yoren gives Arya a whole leg since she caught it. Gendry is surprised when she comes over to where he’s sitting by himself, away from the warmth of the fire and the rest of the boys.

Arya plops down by him like she belongs there, the rabbit leg held in one greasy hand and her bowl in the other. Gendry looks at her cautiously before going back to eating. He’s scraping the sides of his bowl when the half-eaten rabbit leg lands in it.

Gendry glances over at Arya at surprise. He doesn’t want Arya to think he’ll blackmail her because of her secret. She doesn’t have to appease him with her portion of food, he’s not going to do that. “You don’t have to—“

“I know,” Arya interrupts, looking at him with those serious gray eyes. “Just shut up and eat it.”

Gendry can’t help but smile as he turns to the leg. He polishes it off in no time, grateful for the extra food. As always, he’s finished eating much too soon. To take his mind of his belly, Gendry busies himself with polishing the dust and grime of the road from his bull’s helm.

“Want to fight?” Arya asks abruptly, wiping her mouth with one sleeve. “I want to hit something.”

Gendry raises his eyebrow and he glances over at her, setting the helm aside. “I’d hurt you,” he points out as delicately as he can. Arya is a girl. Not just any girl, she’s a highborn girl. And even if she wasn’t, she’s half his size and no telling how much weaker.

“You would not,” Arya protest stubbornly.

Gendry shakes his head stubbornly. “You don’t know how strong I am.”

“You don’t know how quick I am,” Arya retorts. Gendry does know. She caught a rabbit with a sword. He knows that she's fiercer than any of the boys and stronger than she looks.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Ari,” Gendry says, placing his hand on the hilt of Praed’s sword. “This is cheap steel, but it’s a real sword.”

Gendry has seen actual swordfights, has been in plenty of fights of his own with his bare knuckles and cheap daggers. Gendry didn't go out looking for fight, but he's always found a sort of solace in slum brawls. It's something he had to become good at to survive. Those scraps were bloody, brutal affairs. Nothing like the polite sword fights nobles have, with rules and elaborate moves. It’s not something he plans on inflicting on Arya, highborn girl or not.

Arya unsheathes her thin blade, examining it across her knees. “This is good steel, so it’s realer than yours.”

Gendry nods at her thin blade, so apparently made for her petite size. “You never told me where you got that sword.” Arya gives him a look that makes Gendry raise his hands defensively. “I’m not saying you stole it, I just wanted to know where you got it, is all.”

Arya seems to waver for a moment before she sighs and sits next to him, facing the fire. “My brother gave it to me,” she says at last.

“The Young Wolf?” Gendry asks. He was never educated, never learned all the houses and lords and heirs and symbols. The Young Wolf is the only son of Lord Stark he knows of. And Arya of course, but she’s his daughter.

Arya scratches at her shirt collar with one hand. “No. I have lots of brothers.” Gendry used to wish he had a brother, or even better a whole bunch of brothers. Others to play with, to watch over each other, to keep one another warm at night.

“You do? Are they bigger than you, or littler?” Gendry avoids the obvious joke he could make about Arya’s height.

“Some of both,” Arya replies, staring into the fire. “And a sister too. But my older brother Jon gave me Needle. Jon’s my favorite.” Arya is quiet for a moment, before she adds, “He’s at the Wall now.”

Gendry’s a bit surprised to hear that one of Lord Stark’s sons is at the Wall, but it makes sense he supposes. Jon could be one of the younger sons who will never inherit anything from his father. Maybe the idea of serving under his older brothers in battle rankled him, and he chose to fight on his own terms.

“Maybe you should stick with us all the way then,” Gendry jokes lightly. “Bet he’d be surprised to see you.”

Arya smiles, looking at him at the corner of her eye. “I’d like that.”

Yoren barks at Arya that it’s her shift on sentry duty and she heaves herself to her feet with a sigh. Gendry stretches out alongside some of the other boys in a pile near the fire. Propping himself up on one elbow, he watches Arya sit next to Yoren by the fire. Satisfied, Gendry flops down and lets his eyes drift close, feeling warm for the first time in a while.

It feels like his eyes have barely closed when the shouting starts. Gendry bolts to his feet, gripping Praed’s sword in his hands. All around him boys are clamoring to find out what is happening. In the distance, he can hear shouting and the thundering of hooves.

“Arm yourselves!” Yoren roars, pulling boys to their feet around the fire. Gendry moves towards the bobbing torches in the distance, but Yoren’s hand closes around his arm as fast as a viper strike. Yoren yanks Gendry close, pulling Arya by the collar of her coat with his other hand.

“Get out of sight, both of you,” Yoren orders, his voice lowered so the others won’t hear.

“I can fight,” Gendry protests.

“No, I’m not afraid,” Arya says at the same time.

“Keep out of sight,” Yoren growls. “Things go wrong, you run. D’you hear me? Run and don’t look back.”

Gendry pulls Arya with him into the brush amidst the clamor. She draws her thin blade, crouching down at his side. Together, they peer through the brush and tangle of legs as the group of armed men ride into their camp.

It’s not Goldcloaks, but a massive knight that leads the men, bigger than any man Gendry’s ever seen before. “Where’s the bastard?” he demands.

“The Mountain,” Arya whispers as Gendry's side, her eyes wide and fearful.

“Got more than a few bastards here, who’s asking?” Yoren asks, walking out to meet them.

Arya shifts noisy, parting the bush so she can see. Gendry misses some of what the officer says. “—in the name of King Joffrey, drop you weapons.”

Yoren spits on the ground. “Ah don’t think ah will.”

The crossbow bolt Yoren takes to the shoulder barely slows him. Arya moves forward, a noise in her throat like a whimper. Gendry pulls her back. Yoren’s sword is out and he throws himself at the Goldcloaks. Just like that, fighting breaks out.

Yoren takes down three of them before one manages to spear him in the side. Yoren stumbles and two more spear him in the back. It takes being skewered between the three men to bring Yoren to a standstill, and even then he’s still struggling as a knight takes his head from his shoulders. There’s no healing from that.

This time when Arya lunges forward, Gendry lunges with her. His blade is drawn in an instant and he throws himself into the fight. Old man Reysen is at his side, lunging forward when a spearhead goes in his throat and he falls, dark and wet blood spurting from his neck. Gender passes Koss, who is shooting people down with his bow and arrow.

Gendry reaches one of the soldiers, ducking a vicious slash and stabbing the soldier in his unarmored armpit. The soldier drops his sword, but catches Gendry across the side of his face with his other mailed fist. Gendry reels back for a moment, before moving forward and slamming into the soldier. He falls to his knees, and Gendry hacks at his neck until he falls to the ground.

Gendry has lost Arya. His heart stutters, and he gets to his feet, turning to look for her in the dark. He sees Dobber tackle someone to the ground in front of him, and Lommy smash the man's head in with a rock before the soldier can rise. Lommy hoots before he sees the knife in Dobber’s belly and realizes he’s never getting back up.

But there’s no time to stop and mourn. Gendry barely moves in time to keep from being split in half, fighting back on raw instinct, hacking and slamming into the armed man until he falls and another takes his place. Gendry doesn’t know how long he fights, it could be a minute or an hour.

Another knight rushes Gendry, and this time Praed’s sword shatters on his helm, the shards of cheap metal flying through the air. Gendry abandons his blade and throws himself at the knight, slamming the hilt into his face before stabbing deep into his belly with the shard. He crumbles, and doesn’t get up.

The butt of a spear slams into his kidneys and Gendry stumbles straight into powerful right hook. Someone is pinning his arms to his side from behind in a powerful grip. Before Gendry can lash out the hilt of an axe slams into his stomach, sending Gendry to his knees. The hilt cracks across his temples and Gendry crumples like a wet rag, barely feeling the impact with the ground.

His vision has black spots in it and there’s a loud ringing in his ears. Gendry shakes his head as though he has water in his ears, trying to regain his bearings. Something wet is dripping out of his ear, his fingers come back red with blood. Everything is one loud roar. There’s a fire spreading somewhere, a blur of orange and red.

A knight drags Gendry to his feet but he can barely stand. A voice is begging for mercy, but the sound gets abruptly cut off. Through the flames he sees Koss throwing down his bow to yield before being killed where he stands anyways.

Where is Arya? Gendry can’t see her anywhere, his stomach twisting into a sour knot. He stumbles over a corpse and looks down to see Kurtz’s sightless eyes staring up at him. The knight behind him shoves him forward. Gendry scans the ground in front of him with a sinking stomach, praying to whatever gods are listening that he doesn’t find Arya’s tiny form amongst the corpses.

The knights round up all the survivors together, mostly the younger boys who were afraid to fight. Gendry scours the group, finds Hot Pie and Tarber and Cutjack but not her. And then one of the boys shift to a side and reveals Arya's shaggy head. Gendry slumps in relief.

The moment of relief dies quickly when Lommy cries for help, and they all turn to watch as one of the knights swaggers over to where he lies on the ground, clutching the arrow in his shin. The knight kills Lommy with Arya’s sword, no doubt taken off her. Gendry eyes her out of the corner of his eyes, praying she doesn’t do something stupid and get them killed.

“We’re looking for a bastard named Gendry. Give him up. Or I’ll start taking eyeballs,” the Mountain bellows, stalking in front of the group.

Gendry shifts uncomfortably, thinking about just how many of these boys know his name. He’s been traveling with them for several weeks now, and made no secret about his name. One of them is going to betray him surely. Kurtz may be dead, but there are plenty of others. The silence stretches uncomfortable, boys shifting and eyeing each other.

“You want Gendry?” Arya asks, determination in her tone.

Gendry stiffens at the sound of her voice and can’t help but glancing in her direction without moving his head. He didn’t think Arya would—he thought the other boys might, but not Arya. He thought—he thought she was his friend. He swallows back the hurt, refuses to let it show on his face.

“You’ve already got him,” Arya says, turning to look at Lommy’s body. Gendry follows her gaze and finds his bull’s helm next Lommy's corpse. He must have stolen it and tried to sneak away. Arya’s quick thinking has saved his life. “He loved that helmet,” she whispers, voice shaking with emotion.

Gendry lets out a quiet sigh of relief, turning his head to glance at Arya. She looks up at him, the hint of a smirk on the edge of her mouth despite the anger and sorrow brewing in her eyes. He can practically read the look in her grey eyes. You didn’t think I’d give you up, did you?

Gendry never thought that someone would protect him back.

Chapter Text

It’s a long and miserable march to Harrenhal. They march all day, the Mountain riding ahead on his horse. The soldiers follow, some on horseback but most on foot. The boys headed to the Nights Watch are added to a long chain of prisoners, mostly from the villages nearby. Arya is right in front of Gendry, and Hot Pie in front of her.

When Arya tries to talk to Hot Pie, ask him how he’s doing, one of the men slaps her so hard it splits her lip. Gendry lunges forward in his chains, almost yanking the boy behind him to the ground. Arya gives him a ferocious glare, and it takes every once of self-control Gendry has not to attack the soldier who did it. He balls his hands into fists so hard he can almost hear his chains groan. He hates these men, the kind of men who would kill young boys, torture and maim.

“I’m scared,” Hot Pie whispers to them once the soldiers have moved on.

“Me too,” Arya confesses.

“I never truly kicked no boy to death, Arri,” Hot Pie says. “I just sold my mom’s pies, is all.”

Gendry swallows and doesn’t say anything at all. What could he possibly say? They should have run, like Yoren told them too. Gendry knows better. He should have grabbed Arya and dragged her away if he had to. But he didn’t and now they’re as good as dead. And Gendry is the one to blame.

When they stop for the night in a village, one of them grabs a young girl and drags her into the bushes. Gendry’s hand feels empty when clenches it into a fist. He wishes he had his hammer from the forge, wishes he had a sword, anything. The man isn’t so far away that Gendry can’t make out his form as he kneels over the girl and forces her legs apart. Arya makes a choked, pained noise next to him.

Gendry whirls to look down at where she is nestled into his side, her eyes wide with horror. Her knuckles are white from where they dig into her pants. The realization hits Gendry like a blow. He knows Arya is a girl, of course he knows, but she acts so much like a boy it’s easy to forget that it makes a difference. She tries so hard to be brave and fierce, but Arya is still a young, frightened girl.

Without thinking about it, he pulls her against his side, blocking her view. Hot Pie shifts closer, giving them both some slack in the chains. The girl is sobbing and begging and Arya is shaking in his arms. Instead of spitting and cursing at him, Arya burrows further into his shirt. Gendry turns so that his back is to the pair, Arya hidden against his chest.

The poor girl screams, and Arya jerks against him. Gendry covers her ear, fighting to keep his gaze steady and calm as he looks down at Arya. Her grey eyes peer back up at him before she squeezes them closed. Gendry's free hand closes around the chain and he squeezes until the metal bites into his palm, trying to keep calm to keep from hurting Arya with his grip.

The girl screams again and Gendry's grip tightens reflexively. I’ve got you. Arya looks so very young and vulnerable right now. He has to protect her secret. If one of the soldiers finds out — it doesn’t bear thinking about. Arya is a Lady, a Lord’s daughter. She shouldn’t even be here. Gendry knows if Arya knew what he was thinking she’d probably punch him, but he still swear silently to her, over and over again. I’ll protect you. He doesn’t sleep that night.

Gendry barely gets to speak to Arya the next day. The soldiers rouse them early in the morning, kicking at the sleeping figures till they get to their feet. The Mountain sets a brutal pace, and as the road begins to widen Gendry knows they are getting closer. Since he can’t speak to her, Gendry settles for staring at Arya's back instead of watching the ground to reassure himself she’s still there.

By midmorning, Gendry can't help but look away from the back of Arya's coat to gawk at the grotesque castle looming in the distance, looking closer than it is. It grows bigger and bigger as they get nearer, though it takes all day. Hot Pie balks when they get close, muttering about ghosts and dead people, but he goes in with the rest of them.

Inside the castle, they’re corralled into a muddy pen and shackled to stakes and posts. Arya ends up next to him again, pressing against his side once their captors leave. She doesn’t say a word, just leans against him as though she’s making sure he’s not going to disappear on her. Gendry wants to say something, but can't seem to find the words.

Several hours later, the guards come back, with the Mountain leading the way. This time, the Mountain steps forward and looks over the prisoners. The villagers all shrink back, turning their faces away. Dumbstruck, Gendry and Arya and all the other boys watch him.

“You,” says the Mountain, pointing at Cutjack.

Gendry feels his stomach drop. Nothing good is waiting for Cutjack. He can feel it. Arya presses even closer against him as they drag Cutjack out. They strap him down to a chair with thick leather bands to keep him from moving.

Then they start questioning him, asking him strange questions that Gendry himself doesn’t know the answer to. Is there gold or silver in the village? Where is the Brotherhood? Where did they go? How many? Which direction? Cutjack doesn’t know either.

The guard stands over him, two fingers to his temple. Something swarms out the bottom of the guard's trousers, climbing up Cutjack’s legs. Rats, Gendry realizes. Rats, shrieking and digging and gnawing. Arya jolts against him when Cutjack starts screaming, pausing for air but never stopping.

The questions start over again. Where is Lord Beric Dondarrion? Where did he go? Is there food in the village? Cutjack starts babbling answers, contradicting himself. The rats start up again and Gendry’s stomach turns. The rats are concentrating on his stomach now, chewing their way into it.

Gendry looks away sharply, closing his eyes and doing his best to breathe through his mouth. There’s a squelching sound and a gut-reaching shriek. Gendry bends and vomits up the meager contents of his stomach. Oh gods. Cutjack used to talk about Kings Landing with Gendry, both of them reminiscing about Flea Bottom or trying to outdo each other about the worst bowl of brown they ever had. Arya’s face is grey, but she hasn’t turned away, still watching as the rats scatter down the legs of the Cutjack’s corpse. They shriek, climbing the clothing of the guard and burrowing in his clothing.

Over the next few days, Gendry learns the name of the guard with the rat gift is the Tickler. They take someone every day to question. The questions are always the same. Is there gold or silver hidden in the village? Was there more food? Where was Lord Beric Dondarrion? Which of the village folk aided him? When he rode off, where did he go? How many men were with them? How many knights, bowman, men-at-arms? How were they armored? How many were horsed? How many were wounded? What banner did they fly? Where are the Brotherhood? Where did they go?

And then it would start all over again. By the third day Gendry could have asked the questions himself. No one ever survives the Tickler’s questioning, no matter what they said. Man, woman, child, it didn’t matter. The stronger ones might last a little longer, but all of them were dead before evening.

The second day a old mother with a pox-scarred face is picked. She barely had any will left, listlessly staring off into space as they questioned her. She had already lost her son, sister, and husband to the Tickler.

Arya watches and Gendry can practically feel the hatred radiating from her. She watches and listens and learns the names of every single knight who killed one of their friends. At night, when every one else is asleep, Gendry can hear her whispering her list to herself over and over. “Weasel, Polliver, The Tickler, and the Hound. Ser Gregor, Ser Amory, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei.”

Gendry doesn’t say anything to Arya about it. What could he say? Likely as not, they'll both be dead within the week. Gendry can’t protect her. He can’t even protect himself. Gendry curls in a ball for warmth from the stinging cold rain, and for the first time in years he prays. He prays to the Warrior for strength, to the Father for justice, and to the Stranger for a slow and violent death for the Mountain. And after a moment, he prays to the Mother, to watch over Arya. Or should it have been the Maiden? Gendry can’t remember and likely as not, there's no one listening to him anyways.

In the morning, Gendry wakes as the guards trickle back out into the courtyard. He nudges Arya gently and her head snaps up to survey the guards. Her eyes narrow in on one and her face sours. The Mountain is clearly distinguishable, his giant frame standing out from all the rest. The prisoners slowly get to their feet, awaiting the dreaded decision.

Arya immediately looks down, turning her back to the guards. Gendry looks down too, shifting just a little so that Arya’s all but hidden behind him. The other prisoners around them, village folk and boys destined for the Nights Watch alike, never look at the Mountain. Maybe they think if they don’t notice him, he wouldn’t notice them. But he saw them anyway and picked them anyway. There was no way to hide, no way to be safe.

The Mountain stalks back and forth, surveying the group before extending his mailed hand. “You."

It’s him, Gendry realizes. He’s pointing at him. Arya glances up at him, her eyes wild and scared. She glances towards the Mountain and then back at him. She looks as though she wants to say something, to fight against the guards that slog through the mud to unchain him.

Gendry looks down at Arya, and can’t think of a single thing to say. What could he possibly say? That he hopes she survives this? Hopes she finds her brother and gets to go home? Words stick in his throat. He hopes she knows how much he cares about her, can read it on his face somehow.

Gendry doesn’t fight back as they uncuff his wrist. He could knock the soldier to the ground with one blow, but he doesn’t. There would only be more after him. He doesn’t want Arya’s last memory to be of him, frantic and terrified. He's listless, almost detached from reality as he watches them uncuff him and pull him forward.

Their hands grip him painfully, forcing his head down and his hands behind his back. Arya takes a step after him as they drag him off, a small aborted movement. He’s roughly shoved into the horrid wooden chair and strapped down by his arms, legs, and chest. Gendry feels his heart rate pick up as they buckle the last strap across his throat.

“Is there gold or silver in the village?”

“I’m not from the village.” How his voice remains so steady he doesn’t know, because his chest is already heaving in fear.

“Where is the Brotherhood?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

As the Tickler lifts one of his rats from his shoulder and places it on his chest, Gendry stares at Arya. She stands tall in the middle of the prison yard, as close to him as her chains will allow. The rest of the prisoners turn away, but Arya looks him steadily in the eye, even though she’s as pale as a sheet. I’m right here with you. I will watch until the end.

Gendry clenches his jaw, preparing himself for the pain. Tiny feet move across his bare skin, others pulling and scratching at his pants as they climb up his legs. Gendry can’t keep himself from shuddering. It's an awful, vile gift. There’s a sharp bite on his ankle, another starts gnawing at his side.

The courtyard gates are flung open and the Tickler’s head jerks towards the figure entering the castle. Gendry glances down at his chest to find the rats heads pointed in the same direction as their master’s, toward the gate. A flash of red and gold in the corner of his eye catches Gendry’s attention, a color that anyone from King’s Landing would immediately recognize. And fear.

Lord Tywin Lannister rides into view on a white horse. He dismounts, surveying the courtyard. His finery is a sharp contrast to the mud covered rags of the courtyard. The soldiers bow their heads, and the prisoners sink to their knees as one. All except Arya. Gendry curses her boldness. The Lannisters are enemies of the Starks, even a backwater boy from Steel Street knows that. But Arya isn’t supposed to be a Stark, just another bastard boy. She better not forget it.

“What’s this?” Lord Tywin demands.

Gendry can’t turn his head, can only hear the Mountain’s deep reply. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow, Lord Tywin.

“Evidently not. Why are these prisoners not in their cells?”

“Cells are overflowing, my Lord,” rumbles the Mountain.

“It’s not like they’ll be here long,” one of the soldiers speaks up. “They don’t need no permanent place. After we interrogate them we usually just—“

Gendry can’t see the gesture, but he imagines the grisly row of heads along the wall. Lord Tywin moves closer.

“Are we so well manned that we can afford to discard of able young bodies and skilled laborers?” He asks, his voice deadly soft as he brushes by, moving towards Gendry.

Gendry can’t bow his head, so he averts his eyes to the side as Lord Tywin moves to stand in front of him.

“You.” His voice is flat and emotionless as he considers Gendry’s life. “Do you have a trade?”

Gendry’s never been so thankful to have a trade in his life.

“Smith, M’Lord,” he says unsteadily, not daring to look higher than Tywin Lannister’s boots. Men like this, Lords with this kind of power, determine common people’s fate with less consideration than they choose their clothes. He could just as easily take Gendry’s head from his shoulders and think nothing of it.

“Hey,” one of the soldiers barks, and Lord Tywin’s head snaps to look. “What are you lookin at? Kneel, or I’ll carve your lungs out boy.”

Gendry dares to glance up and sees Arya backing away, her eyes wide. His stomach sinks. Lord Tywin will recognize her and kill her, he won’t hesitate just because she’s a little girl. There’s nothing Gendry can do about it, less than nothing. The leather straps groan as he strains against them.

“You’ll do no such thing,” says Lord Tywin, a note of amusement in his voice. “This one’s a girl, you idiot,” he says, nodding at Arya. “Dressed as a boy. Why?”

“Safer to travel my lord.” Gendry wonders if the quaver in her voice is an act. Wonders if Lord Tywin does recognize her and is only toying with her.

“Smart,” Lord Tywin commends. “More than I can say for this lot. Get these prisoners to work.” He turns away before adding over his shoulder, “And bring the girl. I need a new cupbearer.”

Chapter Text

The smithy at Harrenhal is like nothing Gendry’s ever seen before. It’s a long, high-roofed tunnel of a building, adjoining to the armory. Twenty forges are built into the stone walls, with long stone water troughs for tempering steel. Gendry gets put to work immediately, straightening swords and knocking dents from breastplates. The smithy only has six or seven blacksmiths, and not all of them are used to dealing with swords and breastplates. A few have only made plows and shod mules. Gendry quickly finds himself lost in work.

When he works in the smithy, nothing else exists but the piece of metal, bellows, and fire. His hammer is an extension of his arm, and his focus narrows to the task at hand. It’s not all bad. He gets a cot to himself. He gets fed well, because he’s expected to work hard. When he isn’t working, when he first wakes up or is eating meals or before he falls asleep, he thinks of Arya. Sometimes he finds his focus wavering during the long hours he works, fretting over what has become of her.

Gendry hasn’t seen Arya since that day in the courtyard, hasn’t dared to leave the smithy to look for her. When Hot Pie dished Gendry his dinner of gruel last night, he told him that Arya was fine, that she was serving as a cupbearer for Tywin Lannister. Still, Gendry would like to see her for himself.

Several days go by before Arya drops down from the window of the smithy one night. Her sudden entrance is less somehow less surprising than the fact that she's wearing a dress. Gendry puts his hammer down, turning to face her. She looks okay, no bruises or black eyes. Her hair is clean for the first time since he’s known her. She looks healthy, her cheeks fuller and eyes brighter.

“Are you alright?” Gendry asks, furrowing his brow. “Is Tywin hurting you?” He looks for gold on her, a ring or hairpin that might be full of the Stark goldsong and forcing her to do whatever Tywin demands.

“He’s making me wear a dress,” Arya complains grouchily, plucking at the fabric.

Gendry bites back a harsh reply. Arya has no idea. She has no clue what could have happened to her. Men like Tywin Lannister, they could have their way with her and no could do anything to stop them. Arya is a noble, she has no idea what its like to be completely powerless and at the mercy of nobles.

“Are you alright?” Arya asks, nodding towards Gendry’s hands.

Gendry glances down at his bruised and cut hands with a grim smile. “Blacksmith’s hands. Not a very pretty job.” He looks back up at Arya’s concerned face and clears his throat. “Not too different from King’s Landing.” Arya's face falls at the mention of King's Landing and Gendry feels a sudden, urgent need to fix it. “You look different,” Gendry blurts out stupidly. “Like a proper girl.

"I look like a tree," Arya snaps. Something almost vulnerable flashes in her eyes.

Gendry supposes the shapeless brown dress does look somewhat like a tree. It looks relatively warm though, so he's not overly worried about the lack of style. "Nice though. A nice tree," Gendry assures her awkwardly. "You even smell nice for a change,” he adds, trying to change the subject.

“You don’t,” Arya retorts, clearly still feeling sore about the dress. “You stink.”

Gendry yelps in mock fury and lunges for her playfully. Arya's face lights up in an instant with a wicked gleam. She shoves Gendry back against the anvil and turns to run, but Gendry catches her arm. Arya whirls, sticking a foot between his legs and tripping him. Gendry yanks her down with him, and they both go down, rolling across the floor of the smithy. Gendry’s stronger than Arya, but she’s quicker. Every time Gendry thinks he’s got her contained she wiggles free and punches him. Gendry huffs a laugh at the blows, amused by her fierceness, though he’ll have bruises tomorrow. That only serves to make Arya more irritated and she hits him even harder.

Gendry finally catches both her wrists in one hand and starts to tickle her with the other. Arya slams her knee between his legs and wrenches free. She leaves him on the floor of the smithy, calling back over her shoulder, “I bet I don’t look so nice now!”

Gendry wonders why he cares so much about such an evil little creature, but he finds himself laughing nonetheless. Arya’s so full of life, even here, he can’t help but feel better after seeing her.

They quickly slip into some semblance of a routine. Arya is Twyin’s cupbearer, attending him at mealtimes. While Hot Pie and Gendry are kept busy all day, Hot Pie in the kitchens and Gendry at the forge, Arya drifts through Harrenhal. They call her the Ghost of Harrenhal, a fitting title. Half the time she visits Gendry, she drops in through the window as though she’s been on top of the roof.

She comes and visits when she can, usually at night when Gendry is the only one at the forge. She brings Gendry extra bits of food, like she knows he’s always hungry, and snippets of information that she couldn’t possibly know. Her brother is still alive, Arya whispers one night, her eyes distant. The Young Wolf has had yet another victory, despite the odds. She dreams about him attacking Harrenhal, Arya confesses to Gendry. That he’ll find her and take her with him, together they’ll rescue her sister Sansa.

Gendry wishes he had a family, but he can’t begrudge Arya missing hers. Of course she wants to find them again. Harrenhal is a nightmare, after every mistake Gendry wonders if he’s going to be killed for being useless or incompetent. Arya has it the best, but Gendry worries for her. He’d never tell her, but he’s barely surviving at the smithy. Master Mott at least left Gendry alone as long as he had results. At Harrenhal, Master Luncan doesn’t let Gendry rest for a moment, keeping him slaving over the fire from before sunrise and long past sunset.

Gendry is barely keeping it together, and then he catches the fever. When he woke up this morning, his head was pounding and his stomach turned. Gendry’s uncomfortably warm by the forge, sweating and shivering at the same time all day. Luncan doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does he doesn’t care. By noon Gendry begins to tremble with exhaustion, wheezing for breath as he manhandles the heavy steel and iron.

Hot Pie drops by, but Gendry can’t bear to even look at the meat pasty he brought with him, much less eat it. Hot Pie eyes him warily, and withdraws back to the kitchens, not wanting to catch the fever himself. Gendry can’t blame him for that. If he had a gift, a wish he's given plenty of thought over the years, he always wanted a healing one, like Yoren. Never have to worry about getting sick or injured or maimed bad enough he can't work anymore.

By the time he is allowed to finish working, Gendry is too tired to wait up for Arya like he usually does. Instead he stumbles down the hall and crashes on his cot in the back of a supply closet where extra tools are kept. He sluggishly strips off his shirt and boots, unable to do much more than squeeze his eyes closed and pant for breath. His wheezing has turned into a deep, wet cough, and every breath rasps in his lungs.

Gendry’s so out of it, he doesn’t hear Arya come in until she pushes back the curtain that hides his cot from the rest of the closet. Gendy’s greeting turns into a wet, rattling cough in his throat.

Arya’s brows draw together and she kneels next to him, pressing her hand against his forehead and brushing back the hair plastered to his skull. Gendry lets his eyes flutter closed at her touch, cool against his burning skin.

“Arya,” he rasps. She should leave him before she catches the fever too.

“Idiot,” she snaps. “You just had to go and get sick on me.”

Gendry can’t help chuckling weakly at her viciousness. Of course she would get mad at him. Arya always tries to will everything away through sheer anger. “Didn’t mean to, m’lady,” he slurs.

Arya presses her lips tightly together. Turning around, she looks for the bucket of water next to the forge for cooling metal. She looks around for a second before tearing a strip of her shirt away. Balling it up, she dunks it in the water and returns to Gendry’s side, pressing it against his forehead.

Gendry sighs in relief at the cool water. Arya pulls the bucket closer and begins to wipe down his face, the back of his neck, down his chest and arms. Arya wipes away the sweat and grit, cooling down his burning skin. Gendry feels like his own metal, heated in the fire until it glows with heat. He can practically feel the heat radiating from his skin. But little by little he begins to cool, his trembling finally stops.

“Shouldn’t be here,” he says, too weary to open his eyes and give Arya a stern look as she wrings out the rag and wets it again. “You could get sick.”

“I don’t care,” she says stubbornly, pressing the rag against the back of his neck.

“Gonna get in trouble,” he tries. She’s not supposed to be here at this hour. If Tywin calls on her and she doesn’t come she could be in danger.

“I don’t care,” she snaps, sharper this time. “Don’t you dare die on me Gendry Waters. I’ll bring you back just so I can kill you.”

“I’ll try not to,” he chokes, coughing wetly.

Arya doesn’t leave his side, instead she squeezes next to him on the cot, pressing against his fevered side. She lays her head on his chest. And though the added weight of her head makes it harder as he coughs and gasps for breath, Gendry doesn’t mind one bit. It’s foolish, but he feels safe with Arya here. Knows that she won’t let him die in his sleep, choking for breath. The knowledge lets him drift off, in and out of sleep as he wakes up coughing. Arya is watching him every time he wakes, her eyes bright in the darkness, almost unnaturally so, like an animal.

Gendry has fever dreams about him and Arya, back in Winterfell. Arya is taller and fuller and all grown up but she's still at his side, and she squeezes his hand as they race across snow covered grounds. Pulling him into a shadowed alcove, she presses closer to him and stands on her tiptoes, her breath hot against his mouth as she leans in and . . .

Gendry jerks up with a cough, heaving until his eyes water. Arya’s small hand wraps around his shoulder, a comforting weight. Reality comes rushing back like a bucket of cold water over his head. Arya is only a child, a little brother to him. She soothes him back to sleep, murmuring quietly and stroking his neck.

“I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you,” Gendry slurs before his eyes droop closed again again. She stills against his side, making him think she’s asleep. He’s drifting off to sleep again when he hears her whisper against his side.

“Please don’t leave me here alone.”

When Gendry wakes up again, the room is bathed in pale dawn light. His chest doesn't feel quite as heavy, but he's exhausted. His muscles ache as though he worked all night. It takes Gendry a moment to realize what woke him, Arya trying to wiggle out from under his arm. Gendry clumsily lifts it and she sits back on her heels.

“I have to go, but I’ll be back at noon,” she tells him as she stands, watching him sharply. Don’t you dare die on me.

“I won’t die,” Gendry promises. Arya nods sharply once and then turns and disappears.

Master Luncan is sick too, so Gendry gets to lay in bed all day. By evening he’s feeling well enough to go find broth. Gendry can tell he’s going to make a full recovery. He finds himself going back to think about how careful Arya was with him, how fiercely she forbade him from dying.

It's because he’s the only one left, he tells himself. He’s her protector. If he died, she be alone and more vulnerable, and that’s all she cares about. And even if he is her friend, it doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t exactly have many options when it comes to friends.

All the same, he can’t deny that the protectiveness he feels towards her is no longer brotherly. When he looks at her now, he doesn't see Ari anymore. Ari was like a little brother to him. Now - it's just that Arya's not a little brother, she's a girl. And his friend. And she's the only person in the whole world who cares if he lives or dies and she shared her food with him because she knew he was hungry and she lied to save his life and she was going to stay by his side as he was killed to offer him some meager form of comfort. Now when he looks at her he sees the girl who did all of those things and his heart can't help but trip over itself.

Chapter Text

Something happened to Arya while he was sick. The next time he sees her, Arya has a black eye. Gentry’s heart misses a beat when he sees the dark purple ring around her eye despite the way she ducks her head to try to keep him from catching it. She rushes off before he can reach her, his own breakfast long forgotten.

It takes all day before Gendry can catch her alone and by then he’s almost mad with worry. It’s his fault, he was useless laying in that cot and someone put their hands on Arya, someone hurt her and he wasn’t there to stop it.

He snags her wrist as she passes by, pulling her into the one of the abandoned rooms where they can talk in private. Arya squawks in protest and tries to twist away but Gendry keep a loose but unbreakable grip around her wrist, pulling her closer.

Gendry reaches up with one hand, brushing her hair back to see the damage better. Her hair is almost to her chin these days, constantly obscuring her face and hiding her expressions. It's worse than he realized, and Gendry fights to keep his anger from leaking out as he ghosts his hand over Arya's blackened eye and bloodied temple. "Who did this to you?" Gendry demands.

Arya rolls her eyes at him and turns her head away. “I’m fine,” she deflects.

“Look, I don’t care if it’s a Lannister, I’ll bash his head in. You just tell me who.”

“Gendry!” Arya meets his eyes again, her brows raised in surprise.

He isn’t about to let her change the topic. Gendry squints, leaning down a bit to look at her face. “D’ya get in a fight with the others then? I can smuggle you a bit of blade if you need to protect yourself, something small you can hide.”

Arya sighs, shoulders slumping as she gives in to his interrogation. “It’s not like that. Jaqen H’ghar is teaching me to fight like him. We’ve been sparring.”

Gendry lets go of her wrist and takes a step back. It’s like a bucket of cold water has been dumped over him. He’s been risking his hide to keep her in one piece and she’s seeking out fights with this, this—

“Who?”

“You remember, he was one of the ones in Yoren’s wagon. Not the ugly ones, the one with red and white hair. I saved his life that night, he owes me a debt. Three of them actually, one for each life.”

Gendry remembers him all right, the man with shadows moving under his skin and piercing eyes that following him around the camp. That man makes his skin crawl, makes his instincts rear back with alarm. He’s unnatural.

“You can’t be serious,” Gendry says. “He’s a murder with some sort of damned Gift. If you wanted to fight, why didn’t you come to me?”

Arya raises her eyebrow in that infuriating way of hers. Because you’re so great at fighting?

“Or someone else. Anyone else,” Gendry amends.

“He’s helping me,” Arya snaps as she turns to leave, petulant and just a little sharp. Every now and then, a little bit of that sharpness shows in her, just enough to remind Gendry that she’s not and has never been what she seems.

“I just—”

‘I’m tired of being powerless, Gendry!” Arya whirls back around on him, raising her voice. Gendry winces at how loudly she’s just shouted his name. “Gods, don’t you know what I am? I’m a wolf, not a mouse.”

Gendry doesn’t entirely understand her metaphor, but for the first time he realizes Arya does understand what it’s like to be powerless. He thought it was different for highborns, living off a silver spoon and all but Arya isn’t really a highborn anymore. She’s a small girl fending for herself in a castle full of her enemies with the power to cut her down if they get too bored.

“I don’t want you to be powerless either,” Gendry manages. He bites his tongue against the rest of what he’d like to say. If she wants to learn to fight, it’s up to her. He wishes he knew how, wishes he could teach her. Really Gendry wishes she could learn from anyone besides Jaqen H’ghar. But he has no place to tell her what to do.

Still, he can’t help but beg her to be cautious. “You have to be careful though. Promise me, Arya. If Tywin sees you practicing with him…” Gendry trails off, not wanting to even give voice to what would happen.

Arya mouth quirks up, just the hint of a smile. “I promise.” And then she spins on her heel and disappears down the hall.

He doesn’t bring it up again, just watches her more closely over the next few weeks. Gendry should have known learning to fight wouldn’t teach Arya to be more careful. Instead, it makes her more confident in her recklessness. She visits him less in the forge, spending most of her free time with H'ghar. When she does visit, she recounts her dangerous talks with Tywin to Gendry, eyes alight with excitement over the battle plans she's read over his shoulder. And if that’s not bad enough, she starts trying to drag him into danger with her.

It started off small, just a comment or two, but then her idea begins to grow. Most recently, Arya has decided to corner him behind the sheep pen to lay out her new plan of how to escape Harrenhal, or more realistically how to get them both killed. Gendry is only seven-and-ten and had really hoped to have a slightly longer lifespan.

“Even if we did escape, where would we go?” Gendry demands, trying to reason with Arya.

“Winterfell,” Arya answers at once, “I tell Mother and Robb how you helped me and you can stay with me—”

“Would m’lady permit?” Gendry hisses, trying to keep his voice pitched low to keep from being overheard. “Could I shoe your horses and make swords for your lordly brothers?”

“Stop it!” Arya snaps, her face red with anger. She looks like she’s on the verge of stomping her foot.

“Why should I wager my life for the chance to sweat in Winterfell instead of Harrenhal? You know the old smith Ben Blackthumb? He came here as a boy. Smithed for Lady Wen and her father before her and his father before him and now he smiths for Lord Tywin, and you know what he says? A swords a sword, a helms a helm, and if you reach in the fire you get burned no matter who you’re serving.”

“The queen didn’t send gold cloaks after Ben Blackthumb,” Arya spits angrily. “They’ll find out you are.”

“Likely it wasn’t even me they wanted,” Gendry retorts, crossing his arms. Arya stalks closer to Gendry with that eery prowl she’s recently learned.

“It was too and you know it. You’re somebody. " She jabs her finger in Gendry’s chest for emphasis before brushing past him and back into the courtyard.

Gendry paces for a few moments, trying to cool down. As much as he’s loathe to admit it, Arya is right. The Lannisters want him dead. Arya sold the Mountain on the lie that he’s dead. For all the Lannisters know, she’s a stonemason’s daughter from Barrowton and he’s another nameless Waters. But it’s only a matter of time before someone slips up and calls him by his real name in front of the wrong person. Not to mention what could happen if Tywin learns that his cupbearer is the Young Wolf’s littlest sister.

If they could escape Harrenhal, and that’s a very big if, Gendry could get Arya North to her brothers. After that, well it doesn’t much matter what happens to him but whatever he does will be better than this. Maybe he could own his own smithy.

Gendry turns to go back to the forge and practically runs into a pair of the Lannister soldiers. He gets shoved backwards, hard enough he almost falls down.

“‘Pologies,” Gendry mutters, bowing his head stiffly.

"You there—who is your Master?" One of the Northern soldiers demands, narrowing his eyes. ”Or do I need to whip it out of you?”

It’s not an empty threat. Gendry doesn’t flinch, just grits out, “Master Luncan.”

“Well boy,” the soldier grins, “We’ll be telling Master Luncan that one of his smiths is shirking its duties.”

Gendry grinds his teeth, fighting to keep a level head. “Master sent me to fetch more wood for the forge,” he lies.

The second soldier moves forward and swiftly boxes Gendry’s ears. “Get to it then boy.” The other solider spits at his feet before they both move away.

Gendry swallows hard, fighting against the hot anger in his throat. If feels like he’s swallowed some of the coals from the forge, red hot and glowing. His nails have cut crescent moons into his palms from clenching his fists. Arya’s right about one thing, Harrenhal is a tomb. If they don't get away, it will become their tomb too.

Arya seems to sense his stormy mood, staying away from him for the next few days and letting him cool down before popping back into his life as though nothing had happened. But she doesn't mention escaping again. Instead, she seems content to perch nearby while Gendry works at the forge, eating bread pilfered from Lord Tywin's own table and chattering about her day.

It’s an unseasonably warm, and miserably hot next to the forge, so Gendry pulls off his shirt without really thinking about it. That is, until he catches Arya stealing glances at him while he works when she thinks he isn’t looking.

It’s not the way she looks at Hot Pie, with a mixture of exasperation and affection. It’s not the the way she looks at the men at Harrenhal when they aren’t looking, with fierce hatred. Idly, Gendry wonders which ones she’s added to her list. It’s not the way the ladies at King’s Landing used to look at him either. The street girls, and sometimes the highborn ladies when they came in the shop with their fathers or husbands. They looked at him with hungry eyes, like he was a piece of meat to devour.

When Arya looks at him, it feels like she’s evaluating him for something. But it’s not exactly hunger in Arya’s grey eyes, it’s something closer to curiosity. Still. She’s too young to be looking at him like that. It makes him uncomfortable.

She’s only four-and-ten. Three-and-ten when Gendry met her, but her nameday passed on the road. She told him after the fact a few weeks ago, made it sound like it didn’t mean anything to her anyways, like she didn't plan to keep track of her own age anymore. Gendry had talked Hot Pie into making her a little cake to celebrate. The way her eyes lit up when Hot Pie gave it to her did something strange to Gendry’s insides.

Gendry cuts off that thought abruptly, yanking the sword out of the forge. He surveys it for a second before thrusting the steel into the water. It sizzles and steams furiously. Gendry pulls it back out, titling the blade to each side to survey his work. It’s a fine blade. Gendry cuts the air with a few times, reveling at the weight of it in his hand. Perfect.

“Y’should stand side face,” Arya informs him, crumbs falling from her mouth.

Gendry raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Side face?”

“Side ways,” she clarifies with an exasperated tilt of her head.

“Why?”

“Smaller target,” she replies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Gendry leans back, glancing around dramatically.

“Am I fighting someone?” he demands.

“You’re practicing for a fight,” Arya replies matter of factly. She pops another bite in her mouth, quirking an eyebrow. “You should practice right.” Gendry shakes his head, wondering at the audacity of this small girl and why he didn’t figure out she was a highborn sooner.

A woman screams from the courtyard, dragging Gendry from his thoughts. Gendry and Arya’s heads both snap towards the sound, moving as one out of the forge. Arya pushes past him, so damn fast. She’s the first one to the huddled circle of people, pushing her way to the front. Gendry follows and Arya’s short enough he can see over her and catch a glimpse of what has caused the commotion.

It’s the Tickler. Well, more accurately it’s the Tickler’s corpse. His own rats have shredded his throat, still gnawing their way into his body. Gendry’s stomach turns. He backs away, dragging Arya back as well with one hand clamped around her shoulder. This is unnatural, someone’s gift turning against them like that.

Arya stills under his hand and tilts her head up, Gendry follows her stare upward to see Jacqen H’ghar casually leaning out of the parapets. Gendry would never have noticed him if not for Arya. Jacqen places a finger against his nose slyly. Gendry’s stomach turns. He glances towards Arya again, looking for her reaction. She’s starting at the corpse again, a slow smile spreading across her face.

Slowly, Gendry starts to piece the scene together. Jacqen H’ghar. The Tickler. Arya. Her list. Her training. His debt. He killed the Tickler for her. And to work against a gift like that, not just to stop it but to turn someone’s own gift against them. Few things could do that. Maybe another animal gift. But more likely….a Mirror. A faceless man.

They’re rare. Very rare and very powerful. A cult of people who all possess the same power: mirroring one’s gift back at them. Animal gift? Animal death. Stong? They’re stronger. The sect believes their unique gift is bestowed upon them by a death god that they make offerings to of the dead. It’s only because Gendry’s heard gossip at King’s Landing about a noble trying to hire one as an assassin that he even knows they exist.

But it makes sense. The obsession with death and identities. They say faceless men are shapeshifters, many-faced demons, servants of Death itself. The hair on the back of Gendry’s neck stands up at the implications. Arya has been learning how to fight from Death itself.

He has a half a mind just to shake her until she comes back to her senses, to command her to stay away from him. But she’s a Stark. Starks happen to be an endangered breed just now. Perhaps befriending Death isn't the worst thing that Arya could do. If she can learn from him, well. She won’t need Gendry any more. What a relief.

Gendry turns and leaves Arya standing over the corpse as he moves back to the smithy. The hammer is a familiar weight in his hand, the motions of crafting a new sword come without thinking. Despite the heat rolling out of the forge, he feels oddly cold.

Chapter Text

Gendry wakes up to a hand clamping down over his mouth. Normally, his first reaction would be to slam into the offending hand and its torso as hard as possible. However, this is not the first time he’s woken to this particularly small hand slapping unceremoniously over his mouth.

He pushes Arya away roughly. “What do you want now?” Gendry asks in a low voice, some of his irritation spilling over. He’s exhausted and Master Luncan only gives the smiths a few hours of sleep in the first place, he’d rather not spend them arguing with Arya.

“A sword.”

Gendry slings his arm over his face. “Luncan keeps all the blades locked up, I’ve told you a hundred times. Is this for Lord Tywin?”

“For me. Break the lock with your hammer.”

“They’ll break my hand,” Gendry says with a weary sigh. “Or worse.” He’s told her this a thousand times. At this point he’s beginning to wonder if she even cares about what they would do to him.

“Not if you run off with me,” Arya says, her grey eyes gleaming in the dark. It’s all Gendry can see of her, so it’s hard to tell how serious this attempt is compared to the many others she’s plotted.

“Run, and they’ll catch you and kill you,” Gendry reminds her.

“Stay and they’ll do you worse,” Arya’s voice sound certain. “Lord Tywin is giving Harrenhal to Ser Clegane. The Mountain will cut off your feet to keep you from leaving the forge.”

Gendry sits up, pushing his hair out of his face. “That can be right.”

“It’s true, I heard Clegane say so. He’s going to cut one foot off everyone. The left one.”

Her tone changes into something more focused and urgent. “Go to the kitchens and wake Hot Pie, he’ll do what you say. We’ll need bread or oatcakes or something. You get the swords, and I’ll get the horses. We’ll meet near the postern in the east wall, behind the Tower of Ghosts. No one ever comes there.”

Gendry sits in silence for a moment, slowly absorbing Arya’s plan. The news is certain, Arya always hears of things before they happen in her position. She’s right about the Mountain, his cruelty is not hindered by reason, as Gendry knows personally.

As far as her plans go, this one is one of the better ones. Still, it won’t work. “I know that gate. It’s guarded, same as the rest,” Gendry points out.

“So? You won’t forget the swords?”

“I never said I’d come.”

“No. But if you do, you won’t forget the swords?”

Gendry squints in the darkness, trying to make out Arya’s tiny frame.

“No,” he says at last, “I guess I won’t.”

She pivots and disappears back into the hall. Gendry sits in silence for a long moment after she has left, weighing his options.

When he moves, he reaches for his tunic and cloak. He doesn’t have much to take, but clothes are a necessity. His boots are worn, but they’ll serve well enough to get him away from here.

Arya was right, the lock on the armory gives under one blow from his hammer.

From the armory, Gendry steals a jerkin of boiled leather for himself, pulling it on over his tunic. Slinging his blacksmith hammer across his back, he chooses three swords. For Arya, Gendry takes special pains to find one of the double edged swords he made, looking for the tell-tale marks of his craftsmanship. It’s a bastard sword, made to be used with one and a half hands. Arya should be able to wield it with two.

Gendry finds another bastard sword for Hot Pie, one that isn’t double edged, and a heavy longsword for himself. Gendry’s never fought with a sword before, but he’s imagined plenty. Longswords have a familiar weight in his hand.

He finds Hot Pie in the kitchens, arms floured up to his elbows while he kneads bread. Gendry manages to talk Hot Pie into Arya’s escape plan with only a few threats. It’s for Hot Pie’s own good, really.

Gendry shifts restlessly while Hot Pie gathers some food. Several loaves of bread disappear into his sack, along with a long string of sausages. Gendry thinks they’re almost ready to go, but Hot Pie stops to add a wheel of cheese under his arm. Gendry rolls his eyes heavenwards and asks the Mother for patience. Or the Maiden. Whoever’s listening really.

There are only a few guards on patrol, and Gendry manages to get them up from the kitchens without encountering any of them. Hot Pie breathes heavily as they steal through the darkness towards the Tower of Ghosts. Gendry is quieter, but whenever he moves wrong the swords in his arms ring together. Still, he’s quieter than Hot Pie. Hot Pie stumbles, barks his shin in the dark, and curses loud enough to wake half of Harrenhall.

They’re almost to the gate when Arya appears in front of them out of thin air. Gendry jerks at her appearance and Hot Pie hisses in alarm. She’s wearing the clothes she’s arrived in, abandoning her brown dress and clumsy slippers for the leather tunic and boots.

“It’s me,” Arya says lowly. “Be quiet or they’ll hear you.”

“Where’ve you been?” Gendry demands, nodding towards the three horses grazing behind her as he picks his way over to her.

Arya smiles, a small and wicked expression, but she doesn’t explain. Gendry and Hot Pie join Arya, crouching behind a cart to survey the gate. A single guard is posted, decked in Lannister red and slumping beneath the gate for shelter from the spitting rain.

“What now?” Gendry whispers to Arya as he passes her the sword he chose for her. “There’s a guard on that postern. I told you there would be.”

“I’m working on it,” she replies hotly.

“Sour cherries was as crushed up and ready,” Hot Pie bemoans.

“Shut up,” Gendry hisses.

“Probably in the pie crust by now,” Hot Pie continues. “In the oven. In the nice, warm oven.”

“Shut up,” Arya snaps.

“What are we going to do about the guard?” Gendry asks Arya.

“I didn’t plan what to do about the guard,” Arya bites back, irritation coloring her tone.

“Oh you left that bit out?” Gendry hisses. “That’s a pretty important part don’t ya think?”

Arya surveys the gateway seriously. “You stay here with the horses. I’ll get rid of him.”

“I want to go back to the kitchens,” Hot Pie whines.

“Shut up,” they snap at the same time.

“If you need, call and I’ll come,” Gendry promises her. He wants nothing more than to go with her, to help her, but he can see that this is something he cannot help with. Strong as he is, he doesn’t know death like Arya. This is something she has to do.

“I’ll howl,” she agrees, her jaw set in determination and she stands and moves into the open, walking toward the gate.

Gendry barely keeps himself from darting after her when he notices that she has left behind the sword he brought her. She’s halfway gone already, melting into the shadow before his eyes and he isn’t foolish enough to call out.

Still, he bites his tongue and paces up and down, mind spinning uselessly as he tries to think. There are sentries walking the walls, they’ll have questions if they see two boys out here with horses.

“Quick,” Gendry orders, taking two of the reins in his hand and giving the other to Hot Pie. “Follow me.”

Gendry leads them along the wall, partially hidden in the shadows as they approach the gate. His heart beats loudly in his ears, scattered raindrops splattering against his face.

He trusts Arya. He trusts she knows what she is doing. While he doesn’t trust H’ghar, he can’t deny that something has changed in Arya since she’s begun working with him. She’s dangerous, and maybe she’s always been, but something has changed now.

Just as Gendry starts to reach the gate itself and draw his own sword, Arya leans out from under the archway. Her hands are red with blood. Gendry’s throat closes for a minute as he surveys her for injuries, but she moves without pain.

“You killed him!” Hot Pie gasps.

“What did you think I would do?” Arya snaps, her face suddenly vulnerable again. If she hasn’t killed before, she has now. Gendry remembers what that feels like.

Gendry doesn’t condemn her, doesn’t react to this new side of herself. Instead, he hands her the reins to the mare. You did what had to be done.

Arya shoots him a quick look before she swings into the saddle. Gendry follows her lead and somehow Hot Pie manages to get on as well.

The door is thrown wide open and the guard’s corpse is slumped along the way, blood pooling beneath his head. Arya doesn’t look down as she rides out of the keep and Gendry can’t find it in himself to feel sorry for the guard.

One by one, they slip outside of the walls. There are no trees for cover as they break away from the castle and Gendry is well aware that the sentries patrolling the wall are armed with bow and arrow. The rain has begun to fall in earnest, leaving Gendry cold and soaked to the bone despite his cloak.

And yet, he feels hopeful for the first time in a long time.