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Her hair is not long enough to braid on her wedding day, so they just let it flow straight to the end of her ears. The maids around her complain, chatting happily between each other. These are the companions of her good-sister, the sisters of her brother’s bride, Queen Roslin. Arya has talked to her twice and she finds her pleasant , yet plain. Nothing like the women she’s grown used to have around. She idly wonders if Wenda was invited, or allowed to come at all.
Would it hurt worse to see a familiar face, or it would offer her comfort?
She’s no more tears left to shed, her pillow bearing the last of them the night before. She has no desire to marry, and a wild part of her –the wolf in her- recoils violently at the idea of doing anything she doesn’t wish to. Arya is determined not to cry. Lord Beric and Thoros will be there, and she doesn’t want them to think she’s still the little girl they met all those years ago.
At ten and seven, there’s not much left of that girl anyway.
“You look lovely,” Sansa whispers kindly, almost reverently. At ten and nine, there’s little left of the vain girl she had once been. The tensions have softened between them, none of it was ever worth it in the first place. Scars plague Arya’s body, but she has the feeling that her sister has more of them. She had known the cruelty of the Lannister soldiers, but Sansa had lived in the lion’s den for many years. Married to an Imp, even if it never consumed, forced to bear the rage of Joffrey every time Robb won at the battlefield…Arya regrets ever thinking she was weak.
“Thank you,” she responds with a meek voice that does not belong to her.
The only resentment she might sustain against her is not even her fault. A girl for a bridge. Arya would pay for her brother’s bridge while her sister got to return to Winterfell. She’d remain on the Twins forever, yearning for a home she could never return to.
It made her chest ache. She had never wanted any of it. The castle, the lord, the children.
She wasn’t made for that. Her mother had begged to behave, to understand : it was a small price to pay for the lives of the Riverlands and the North. A big price for a deal she had not made, Arya had thought bitterly.
She had wondered around for years with the brotherhood without banners, she had fought Lannisters, clansmen, sackers and thieves. All of that for the benefit of the Riverlands and the North, she had suffered wounds and dirtied her hands with blood. All of that, only to find that her hand was not hers to give, that her life had been long promised to a lord.
There had been opportunities to return to her mother and brother, but she had known, down in her bones, that it would mean the end of her freedom. No more riding with outlaws and sleeping under the stars, so she had made excuses. She claimed not to trust any lords or ladies anymore, she would mask her identity and call herself Arry to anyone who cared to listen.
Arry was dead the moment the Princess of the North had arrived to Riverrun at the end of the war, Arya Stark had been reborn to be wedded and bedded by Elmar Frey. She was yet to see the boy, in fear that it might just aggravate her sorrow. Though it mattered little if he was Florian the Fool himself, Arya despised him all the same. And she called him boy , he might have been her age or more, but he hadn’t met the battlefield. Only played squire to Roose Bolton, in fear that he might perish and the betrothal would be broke.
A Queen in the North wasn’t enough to House Frey, they demanded a princess for themselves as well.
It was hard not to turn mad every time her brother and mother tried to speak some sense into her. She cared little for their words, at the end they would drag her to the Sept all the same.
Her eyes don’t look sad in the mirror, they seem resigned, grey as her fate itself. Her face offers a bit more of color, having spent so much time under the sun the last years. Her mother lamented her complexion, her freckles and spots unattractive by southron standards. Arya had found it so ridiculous that a hysterical laugh had escape her lips. She had never cared much for her looks –only when others had made snide comments about it- and it had never crossed her mind to think about it during her time with the brotherhood.
Her hair had been kept short for practicality, other than to mask her gender, and she had worn boys clothes for more time than not. It struck her suddenly, just how many years of her life she had spent with the brotherhood. Almost as many as she had with her family. Bidding them farewell had hurt more than she wished to admit. Only Thoros and Lord Beric had remained for the wedding.
Arya didn’t sew her maiden cloak, it had been a gift from Sansa. One she had been tempted to toss into the fire as soon as she had seen it.
Fire.
Arya liked fire, unlike the Hound, the most unlikely member of the brotherhood. It reminded her of Lord Beric's flaming sword; long, endless nights spent hearing bawdy tales around the campfire and of a warm room she had once shared with a bastard. Of the way the light gleamed reflected on Gendry's blue eyes.
Gendry.
While her mother had not strictly forbidden her from speaking of her adventures of the brotherhood, she had mentioned that it would be better if she kept it to herself. There was little to no privacy within the brotherhood, as they had often shared a single room between many members, for will was plenty but money was scarce. She has shared a bed with many people, with Gendry in particular. She didn’t mention that to her mother.
She trusted Gendry, she always had. He was strong and loyal, he had never left her side. As a little girl, riding with him and becoming an outlaw was a dream of its own. As she had grown, the way she looked at him had changed, as had the way his gaze fell upon her.
It was always meant to end tragically. But she had been happy for a while.
He had cared little about the short hair, twirling the strands between his fingers as his lips found their way to her neck. He had never complained about her small bosom or narrow hips, he had counted the freckles on her face while the fire still burned, before the light left the room. She had kissed him on the forest floor, forgetting the little words and propriety her Septa had taught her.
When the brotherhood had a roof over their shoulders, it was either a whorehouse or an inn. Both supplied enough moontea for Arya to keep around. She didn’t want a baby during the war and neither did Gendry.
She almost wishes she had one now, House Frey wouldn’t take her in with a bastard in tow.
It seemed dangerous to call it love, even as it had been nothing but that. He had been her friend, her companion, not her protector, for she had covered his back just as much as he had. When the news of the war’s end had reached them, he rode by her side along with Beric and Thoros to Riverrun. He had been there when she first hugged her mother, when she sobbed on her brother’s chest.
He was on her bed the night before. A farewell if there had ever been one.
Their couplings had been rushed, done in a short span of blissed privacy or in a room full of sleeping people as they tried to keep it quiet Last night, there was no one but each other and they seemed to have all the time in the world. Until dawn, they had. Tears had came eventually, the anger sinking into her bones. She had tried to ignore them, but he hadn't. Eventually, his own had come too.
Gendry never allowed himself to forget where he came from, and with the way he called her "m'lady" she knew he had never forgotten her status. Even as she had spent more years as a bastard outlaw than as a lady.
"Arya?" Sansa had been calling her for a while. "The Queen says everything is ready."
Arya nodded. A maid fixed the veil on her face before letting her go.
She'd do it, she'd marry Elmar Frey and fulfill the promise she hadn't made.
Was this how Queen Cersei felt when she married Robert? She thought wildly as Robb walked her to the altar. She almost laughed, the comparison so foolish and bizarre in her own head. It was better than crying, at least. Going mad with grief sounded better.
The Kingslayer had watched his sister marry another man, even though her children had been his. Would Gendry end up mad and vengeful? Would he end bitter and sour from the loss of a life that was always meant to end?
Arya knew she would.