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.