Chapter Text
The next morning was similar to the previous as she slightly panicked at the unfamiliar surroundings, calmed as she realized where she was, and then gently slipped from Gendry’s warm bed. She didn’t know what would happen if he woke before her but she imagined it to be an uncomfortable situation.
She may have avoided an awkward morning encounter with Gendry, but there was no beating a commoner to their early duties. They bustled about in their ordinary clothes, with their ordinary objectives for the day, only to live an ordinary life. The thought humbled her for a moment until she realized how annoying it was that she wasn’t born a lowly peasant. If she were, she wouldn’t be obligated to attend her stupid feast and entertain a bunch of useless guests, just to confront someone who tried killing her. Why do I have to jump through so many hoops only to get justice?
After returning to her chamber and swapping out a brown tunic for a slightly lighter colored one, and hastily re-braiding her hair, she returned to the bright sun. Not really having a real purpose or morning routine herself, she skipped breakfast in the Great Hall and requested a hot cider. She leaned into the steam, allowing the hot moisture to collect around her nose. The spices hugged and tantalized until her mouth watered impatiently at the thought of having to wait for it to cool before sipping it. Dull thuds and the muffled laughter of men practicing near the barracks drew her attention away from her hot beverage and sent her mindlessly in that direction like a moth to a flame. As she made her way to her current attraction, she spotted a small group of men in the corner of the yard, looking as if a fight would break out. Other men continued to spar far away from the mob, apparently uninterested.
A harsh shout reached her curious ears, “Aron, you’re a dirty, lyin’ little prick and you fuckin’ know it!”
Another more smug voice chimed in, “I’m not going to say no to a whore who’s practically begging for it.”
She quickened her pace, trying not to slosh her delicious smelling cider that she had yet to take a sip of. The group began to wane in size, as some of the men lost interest in the subject or realized who was involved with the commotion and trudged away. Some caught her eye, nodded their heads, and averted their eyes as if they were ashamed of what she was about to witness. The men parted to let her through, and she suddenly didn’t really understand why she was getting involved. Yelling this early in the morning was bound to put her in a fouler mood than what she already was. She paused, deciding that the loud idiots could resolve it on her own. But she wasn’t even given the chance to fully make her decision when she was bowled over by another body being shoved in her direction. The group of soldiers surrounding the confrontation were able to escape from harm by stepping aside. But in doing so, it made her the vulnerable person who caught the flying person’s momentum.
She landed on her backside, splashing the steaming liquid in her lap. The other, more fortunate person didn’t even fall, glancing back at whoever he rammed into.
She hissed at the searing pain in her thighs and shouted, “What in seven hells?!”
The bastard who stood above her sneered and replied loudly, “Oh, Lady Arya! You’re all wet!”
Her face heated to match the burn on her legs, anger scorching through her veins. All at once, every single man moved to aid their lady but she didn’t want any of it, slapping their hands away. “Don’t fucking touch me!” She clambered to her feet, advancing on the man who used her as a human wall, and let her fury go on his stupid, pretty smile. “Are you the one called Aron? If so, go fuck yourself.” She didn’t pause to catch his reaction, stomping passed to the one she assumed caused Aron to knock her over. There was no missing the absolute horror on the man’s face – a much more satisfying expression compared to Aron’s infuriating smirk. He was a broad looking fellow, he reminded her of her old friend, Hot Pie but with more brawn. She could practically see the tail between his legs, like a dog in the presence of a wolf.
She pointed her tin cup at his face, not afraid to get close enough to smell the stale wine on his tongue, and growled, “And you, what’s your name?” She gave him just enough time to open his trembling mouth before barking, “Doesn’t matter! You can go fuck yourself too!” She turned abruptly enough to toss droplets of cider on the leather jerkins of the closer men, who flinched away. She yelled, “In fact, all of you can go f-,”
“Lady Arya!” someone bellowed, piercing even her loudest curses. All the men straightened immediately, like a whip was cracked threateningly. She snapped her head in the direction of her uncle, determined not to shy away. All he needed was to make a quick jutting motion with his chin for her to throw her mug angrily and follow after him. Though, she didn’t expect him to turn to the men with one last threat, “You’re all lucky Lady Arya is not allowed to practice in the yard right now. I’m not sure I could stop her from hurting you.” She didn’t look back as she didn’t want the small, triumphant smile to make her less intimidating. Lord Tully took her arm in his before turning and adding, “Make yourself busy, boys.”
Pitiful shuffling sounded at their departure and the echo of clanging metal continued as Brynden led her towards the keep. Her uncle had never brought her to the triangular structure before, always resorting to speaking with her or taking care of his lordly duties in the Great Hall. It made her uneasy.
“So what happened with those fools today? They are always bickering about something petty.” He paused and narrowed his eyes, looking up at the keep, “That Aron boy always seems to be involved.”
He glanced down at her waiting for a reply as he held the door for her to enter. Anger still sat bitterly on her tongue as she said, “The big one – I didn’t catch his name – was complaining about some woman that the bastard, I assume, had relations with. Which led to Aron being shoved into me, knocking me over, to have my lovely, hot, cider being spilled in my damn lap.” She gestured to her damp pants and received a surprised grunt from Lord Tully, like he had just noticed.
He stopped them from climbing anymore steps with a tug of his arm, “Are you burned? Should we see the maester?”
“The maester can’t do much more than cold water could.” She scoffed, picking at her clinging trousers.
“If my lady insists.” His constant use of “lady” was beginning to rekindle the feeling that he was hinting at something she didn’t understand yet, and it made her irritated. They continued up the stairs and the Blackfish spoke with a suspicious lilt that made her glare, “I’m glad to have you here at Riverrun, my lady. Those boys need someone to whip them into shape. And I think a woman fills that position well.” He winked at her through a bushy eyebrow. They reached the top of the staircase where a door, set with three panes of clear glass, stood closed. The sunlight filtering through the glass seemed brighter than the light outside, completely unobstructed by even a cloud in the sky. He continued, “They don’t want to listen to an old senile man. They want someone young and strong and honorable.” She dropped her gaze at the word “honorable” and he seemed to notice. “I’m not saying you aren’t honorable, but your father held that above everything else.” His strong fingers closed around her small, weak ones. “And I’m not saying to give up your personality, because I think you have some redeeming qualities…” he chuckled, brushing her chin enough to tilt her face up at him. “Do you think your father enjoyed housing and pleasing high lords and ladies? You knew your father better than I, and I could even see how easy he was to impatience. I can’t imagine the restraint he must have had as the King’s Hand.”
She didn’t know, nor like where her uncle was taking this conversation. All this talk of her father’s reputable tendencies as a lord was pulling memories of him to the surface, stretched and thin, only reminding her of his smiles and kind words. She never saw him get short with noblemen or their insufferable ladies. Occasionally, he would become firm with her or her siblings for bickering too much at the table during supper, or shooting their bows in the Godswood. But she never saw lecturing directed at King Robert or Queen Cersei, or any of their attendees when they were subjected to the notorious toxicity of Kings’ Landing. Perhaps she was too busy chasing cats to notice.
“You have the experience of a distinguished highborn that many people are expecting to see when they come for your feast.” He held up his hand to stop her defiant comments and rose his eyebrows sternly. His voice was gruff, “I know you are young but there are duties tied to your name, Lady Arya. If you wish to be Arya of House Stark, you need to learn the importance of respect and create the same influence your father had.” He held her shoulders now as if she would run away. I told myself that I would not run, but this is becoming unbearable. She didn’t want to hear about her father or how she was expected to do anything. This wasn’t what she wanted when she came to Westeros and she certainly thought the man who refused to marry in order to become a real fighter would understand the most.
The quiet was hard not to break with the mean words her mind was building from the bitter annoyance and sadness he was stirring in her. Before she could grind out a few of them, her Uncle Brynden spoke, sadness draping over her like a wet cloak, “I understand how hard this is for you, Arya. I see a reflection of myself when I see your true nature being shadowed by the pressure of a highborn status. I don’t want you to lose your passion for fighting or your need for adventure. But, we both know the Tully and Stark names are worth a few hours of charming smiles, despite our instinct to not waste time on silly social courtesies.” He eyed her, a transparent pool of blue water. He really did hate it as much as her. “Believe me, you will regret not making an easy acquaintance because of pure ignorance that your fighting abilities alone, will keep your family safe. You and I know this well.”
The anger she held leaked out of her like water through the fingers of a cupped hand, and though pebbles remained, they became dry and raw with sadness; their watery luster gone. As much as she didn’t want to agree with her uncle and be obligated to follow his agenda of making her a proper lady, there was a sense of understanding. She trusted her uncle to not revoke fighting all together or to take her skills for granted and force her to sit uselessly aside like a proper little lady. She took a deep, somber breath, ready to make the compromise she was sure Lord Tully had also relented to not long ago. Meeting his eyes encouraged a quick, but purposeful nod as she said, “I understand, Lord Tully.”