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Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 1: Sean Lends a Hand by High Plains Drifter
 A song of Ice and Fire & Game of Thrones Xover Rated: M, English, Adventure, Eddard S./Ned, Eddard S., Words: 109k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 737, Published: Jul 22, 2014 Updated: Feb 1, 2015  423Chapter 10 - Arya (I)
Arya (I)
Arya stomped out the side flap of the tent arms swinging angrily and face scowling; pretending to be nothing more than she wanted to appear, a tantrum throwing child. She discovered the outside colder and darker than tent, night having almost fallen. As she passed truculently through the ring of grey clad Winterfell guards circling her parent's pavilion, she noticed it was busier too; pages and squires running errands for their masters, men-at-arms coming from or going to their watches at the siege line, and groups of men milling about fires where camp followers boiled dinners of stew in battered pots above roaring fires. Still, to the girl, the thousands of northerners and river folk gathered on the plains outside was but a drop in a bucket compared to the crowed confines inside King's Landing, the frightening world of Fleabottom in which she'd lived alone, always scared, for an agonizingly long month.
The ten year old turned right and then left and then right again, slipping further and further away from the tent, but in her mind's eye she never lost track of her destination or how she'd return to it. Every now and then someone would smile at her or shout out a greeting, whether it was some unknown soldier spotting her as he sharpened his blade from a quiet spot in front of a tent or a familiar face sporting the direwolf sigil on his surcoat as he walked by or any one of the seemingly numberless weasel-like Freys infesting the army. In a twinkling, upon her reunion with her family, she'd gone from Arya Horseface, or Arya Underfoot when she was finally noticed, to 'Arya the Bold.' The few wandering minstrels following the army were already singing songs about her. Being known she'd begun to realize was just as horrid as being ignored; you were never alone and you were always alone. She wondered if that's how father or any other great lord felt.
Arya slipped through a line of horses being led back to their paddock. She needed to wait for darkness to fully descend before she dared sneak back and become as he father said, repeating on of Syrio's water dancing rules, 'quiet as a shadow.' Memories of her dance teacher welled up inside Arya. 'Quiet as a shadow.' 'Every hurt is a lesson.' 'There is only one thing we say to death: not today.' She missed her dance teacher and his clever, often infuriating words. Bitter tears sprung forth. She felt betrayed, Syrio had forgotten to say 'not today' to death. Just like so many others she knew and liked had failed to do on that awful, awful day: kind Vayon Poole, funny Fat Tom, strong Cayn, quiet Varly, indulgent Hullen, and even patient Septa Mordane whom Arya had oft treated so poorly. At least she could be sure her new friends wouldn't suffer that same horrible fate; the Lannisters were already beaten and soon enough Hot Pie, Lommy, and the others would be safe in the North. 'Well, if the Wall can be considered safe.' At their parting she had given Yoren a letter for Jon, introducing the lot of them to her brother. She missed him too.
Finally the girl felt confident she could start to angle back, she slipped between a thick chested blacksmith lightly hammering out some rough nails atop a small, travelling forge and a stacked row of barrels. The beat on the anvil reminded her of the friend she missed most. She'd never actually seen him at work, but his thick arms and chest had obviously revealed Gendry's claim of being a blacksmith's apprentice to be no lie. Of course if he'd ever claimed that his powerful frame came from being dead King Robert's bastard, she'd have laughed at him. But that would have been true too. What were the chances that the offspring of two great friends would unknowingly become great friends themselves? Or that her father would come back from death? "Not today," she murmured to herself, feeling very proud of his having cheated death.
The tall, heavily muscled youth shook his thick black hair. "Can't I go back with the rest, Arry … I mean your ladyship?" he asked uncomfortably, staring up at the giant direwolf banner swaying over the even larger pavilion.
Arya laughed and tugged at Gendry's hand. "Father doesn't bite," she said. "Besides, he says he's already met you. He didn't leave any marks on you then, did he?"
"All the same, I'm happy enough not to repeat the experience." Blue eyes then dropped down to gaze at the now well dressed waif next to him. "Nothing good ever comes of mixing with the highborn," he declared stubbornly.
The young girl, dressed in well-made riding clothes but still sporting an atrocious black brother barber's cut, laughed again. "It didn't seem to stop you becoming my friend."
Gendry snorted.
"And I told you those gold cloaks were looking for me and not you?" she teased, not letting their long running debate end.
The apprentice cum journeyman blacksmith grunted neutrally.
"Lady Arya," the senior guard by the front entrance of the overly large tent called out. "Am I to announce you to your lord father? Or do you intend to keep arguing all day with that giant?"
The girl stuck her tongue out at the man and then grinned impishly. "I think you better announce me and my friend Gendry, Jacks."
The Winterfell man-at-arms grinned back before leaning towards the mouth of the entrance and announcing, "Lady Arya and guest, Lord Stark."
"Now you've done it," the big youth whispered.
Arya tugged again; and this time the lummox let his feet start moving again, all the way into the tent.
"Arya. Gendry, it's good to see you again."
"Milord," he mumbled, bobbing his head and shoulders in imitation of a bow.
"The North thanks you for protecting my daughter, Gendry. I am in your debt."
"Ahh-hem. T'weren't nothing more than any of the others did, milord," he responded awkwardly. "We all appreciate the food and rest and guards you've given us. It'll make the rest of the journey a mite easier."
The Lord of Winterfell grinned. "If the humble blacksmith won't ask for a reward, then let me make a small initial payment by settling a bet you and my daughter have?"
"Milord?" Gendry rumbled uncertainly.
Arya simply stood there, blinking in surprise at her father.
"It was you the gold cloaks were after Gendry, not Mai … Arya."
"What?!" snapped Arya, while her friend mumbled "Milord?" again.
"Did you never wonder why not one, but two Hands of the King came to Tobho Mott's shop and both asked to see you, Gendry?"
"Not so's it ever bothered me none," the big youth replied. "Everyone knows the highborn are … well … no milord, I didn't," he said falteringly.
"Then let me tell you why Gendry, and I must have your word this must go no further than the three of us. At least until I give you permission to speak of it to others. Understand?"
"Yes, milord. My word on it."
"And you too, Arya."
"Yes, father," she chirped, feeling her excitement rise that a great secret was about to be revealed.
"It's about who your father is."
Thick black locks moved as Gendry slowly nodded his head, though little interest, let alone excitement shone on his face.
"You are the bastard of Robert Baratheon," Arya's father announced.
Arya herself gasped.
The young man kept slowly bobbing his head, but at least his lips pursed a bit to show he was thinking about what he'd just heard.
"And Queen Cersei wanted all Robert's bastards dead, so no one could ever see that they were all dark haired where her children were all fair headed. That is why she sent the gold cloaks after you. They had no idea Arya was hiding among you."
The slight girl didn't gasp at this news, for she'd heard it the night before when in the safety of the army her mother and father had shared with her a summary of all the events since that awful, awful day. Just one more reason to hate the evil Queen and her twisted children.
Gendry's head at last came to a stop. "I'm pledged to the Night's Watch," he said matter of factly.
"It's true Castle Black needs a good young smith; their master armorer Donal Noye is aging and has only one arm. But those aren't final vows, Gendry. I've asked Yoren and he will release you if you wish."
"Oh Gendry," Arya squealed, clapping her hands in joy. "You can stay with me! You can stay with me!" Her father immediately glared at her and she brought herself under control, though the happy smile never left her face.
The powerful young man grimaced as if in pain as he tried to process the choice before him. After a moment or two, he stolidly asked, "If not the Wall, then where next then, milord?"
Arya's father gave a warm smile. "You are always welcome within my house, Gendry. If you wanted to work the forges in Winterfell, you'd find my smith Mikken a clever enough man to learn from; and most of it wouldn't be fancy armor like Tobho Mott's. I'll be expanding the number of smithies I run in the next few years, by rather a lot really. I plan to turn the Wintertown outside my castle's walls into a city. Before you'd know it you'd be master of your own shop there, with apprentices and journeymen looking for guidance from you."
Gendry's somewhat dour expression didn't change. He pondered what he heard and then asked his next question. "Could I return to King's Landing?"
The Lord of Winterfell sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Yes, once we drive the Lannisters out. I would help you find a situation to your liking if you wish. You'd not want for silver or gold to live comfortably."
"But?" interjected Arya, sensing her father's reluctance.
The one word question promptly brought an open frown to Gendry's face. "Milord?"
"The new King wouldn't like having a reminder of his brother so close to him. Oh his Grace is a just man, make no mistake; he'd abide your presence, no matter how uncomfortable it might make him feel. But … " the Lord of Winterfell paused, as if searching for the right words to say. "… but others in his house might see you as a … a threat … or even an … opportunity."
"Go to Winterfell," Arya pleaded.
"Would I be safe there?" the young man asked practically.
Arya's father nodded. "Safe as any place in war. Now there is one more option for you, Gendry."
The young man didn't respond. He just kept staring through dark blue eyes at the man guiding his future.
"I would give you a Holdfast of your own; nothing grand, mind you. Still, a place you could smith to your heart's content. Not too far from Winterfell though, for I meant what I said about expanding my foundries. I'd want to be able to include you in the network of industry I mean to build. You could become a lord of smiths. Make a hammer and anvil your sigil."
Arya clapped her hands at the idea of it.
But the words 'a lord of smiths' caused a scowl to appear on the young man's face. "No, milord, I'm no highborn sc … that life's not for me. I'm a blacksmith."
"Smart lad," said the Lord of Winterfell. "Where would you like to swing your hammer and sweat an honest day's work then?"
Gendry scrunched up his face in thought. He glanced over at Arya once, and then opened his mouth. "Is there another lord I might smith for?"
Arya's joy for her friend's reward, and for herself, faltered.
'Deepwood Motte isn't so very far away,' she tried to convince to herself. 'Only three hundred miles. I'll still be able to see that stubborn bull … occasionally.' She didn't bother rationalizing about Lommy, Hot Pie, Tarber, or the rest; she knew they only ever might meet again when she visited Jon at the Wall, something she'd long ago sworn to do. 'At least that wandering ugly old crow Yoren could be counted to stop by Winterfell once in a while,' she thought. Arya stopped and crouched in the narrow gap between two tents where it reached the edge of what passed for a street in the camp. She always stayed low and snatched a glimpse before trying to pass through any open or partially lit spaces.
Spying nothing, the girl stood up and sauntered casually into the muddy lane.
"Lady Arya!" a high pitched voice shouted.
'Waterman!' Arya bolted. 'Wrong way!' Through the murky light the tubby boy who served as her father's squire suddenly loomed right in front of her. She dodged left, running between a line of men and straight through the untied flap of a tent entrance.
"Hey!"
"Wait yer turn."
"A little young, sonny."
'Ewww,' she thought, hopping over half naked bodies rutting and grunting away at each other like dogs in heat. Living a month in the slums of King's Landing, Arya had few illusions about what men and women did together, but still, 'Yuck!'
No exit presented itself so the slight girl dropped down and slithered under the back wall. A strong hand roughly grabbed the cloth at her shoulder as she came up to her knees and yanked her into the air.
"No leavin' wid out payin, laddie," a mouth full of half missing yellow-brown stained teeth gushed at her bearing the stench of rotten meat with it. "Dat's a star a …"
Her foot lashed out, catching the pimp in the kneecap.
"Ooof!"
More of his putrid smell washed over her face, but she ignored it, feeling the tough's grip loosen a bit. She lashed out a fist next, catching him in the throat.
"Ack!"
He let go. Arya's feet hit the ground and they started moving without conscious thought. Faster, faster, faster.
She feinted left.
Quent swept the heavy blunt tourney blade to his right.
Needle darted back right, her eyes long since having told her Quent moved slower going left. All too easy. And …
"Ouch!" her father's guardsman exclaimed, taking a wary step backward. Even wearing boiled leather, the small wood block the slender blade's tip still smarted when his liege's daughter had time to put her whole body behind her slender extended arm.
"Oh Arya the Bold?" called Olyvar cheerily from atop the barrel he sat.
She set her lips, not liking that name; though for a weaselly Frey, Olyvar wasn't so bad. "What?" she groused back.
"Let the good Quent use his shield. Why do you think he's slow going left? He's not used to it." Her father's aide then held up the scrap parchment he'd been working on with his left hand and dangled it like a shield. "He's got this to protect him."
Arya bit her lower lip a moment. Apparently poor Quent's body had spoken the truth to Olyvar too, and he'd had the wits to see it.
"T'would be more of a challenge for ya, milady," Quent agreed with a grin.
Of course he grinned, Northern shields were too big and she too short; she could never land a killing blow in such a fight, unless she could turn him around somehow with her speed or his shield was actually a piece of parchment. Arya supposed she could at least make his toes sting; however ... "Then let's see how quick you are going left, noble Ser?" she taunted.
Olyvar grinned back at her, refusing to fall for the trick. "I fear I have too many calculations to make. Your lord father seems exceedingly fond of 'paper work' as he calls it. And he cherishes the phrase that 'an army marches on its belly.' So my lady, if I don't have 'the numbers' for him on our supply status, I might find myself returned to the Twins. And I'd hate to disappoint my lord father so."
Harrumph. "Alright Quent, go ahead and …"
"Perhaps a girl would find me more of a challenge?" a voice asked softly. A familiar figure with red and white hair emerged from a nearby shadow. "I am from Essos and the water dancing style is not unknown to me.'
'Where'd he come from?' Arya thought nervously. He was one companion from her journey with Yoren that she wouldn't have missed ever seeing again; though he wasn't nearly as ferocious appearing as the other two that had been chained up with him, Biter and Rorge. Good riddance to that pair of murderous scum. And hadn't she warned her brother Jon about them in the letter father had let Yoren carry for her to the Wall.
Ser Olyvar frowned and slipped off the barrel. "I do not think Lord Stark would …"
"A man grows bored with little to do. You need not be concerned, if I was ever a danger to the not boy I heard called Arry, the so called Lord of Winterfell would have kept me chained."
"Well …" Olyvar
"I have a stick," Jaqen announced, holding up narrow, longish curved piece of wood that once must have been a tent's reinforcing pole. "Did the sword who taught you start your training with wooden swords, hhhmmn? Perhaps filled with lead? Come show me child what you learned from him."
Feeling her temper flare at the challenge extended to Syrio's memory, Arya leapt forward Needle at the ready, she feinted high and dropped …
Thwack!
The back of her calf stung. 'How'd he?' She spun. There he stood, smug smile revealing a single gold tooth among a pearly row beneath his hooked nose.
"Faster," he whispered.
Arya hopped left, jerked backward, then surged straight ahead.
Jaqen's sinewy body curved as Needle thrust past him. His wood stick dropped low.
Thwack!
Pain shot through Arya's knee.
"Faster," he whispered.
The girl crumpled to the ground and rolled away.
The split haired man stayed in place, as did his smug smile, though his eyes watched his opponent very, very carefully.
Arya stood up. The knee wasn't too bad. She could continue. 'Hurt is a lesson,' she heard Syrio say. 'And every lesson makes you better.' She drew deep breaths, recognizing she'd lost the early battle before it had even begun by losing her temper.
Jaqen's smile became less smug and more pleasant. He even tilted his head in a brief nod to the girl. Yet he concluded his smile sign of respect with another infuriating, "Faster."
The water dancer turned her body sideways and stepped nimbly forward on the balls of her feet, Needle held in the en garde position.
Swish, the wood stick darted out.
Smack, Needle intercepted the blow.
Swish. Smack. Again. Swish Smack.
"Faster."
The pair pirouetted.
Swish. Smack. Counter. Thrust. Smack. Turn. Again. Thrust. Smack. Swish.
"Ouch!"
"Faster."
Feint. Turn. Swish. Smack. Again. And again. And again. Counter. Thrust. Smack. Swish.
"Ahgggra!"
"Faster."
She hid in the darkness, having run as fast as she dared through the maze of tents and men. Now limiting herself to slow, long breaths as she listened for any pursuit, her eyes carefully watched the guards around her father's great pavilion, looking for what truths their bodies would tell her. She swore one particular shadow cast on the grey tent wall by flickering torch light revealed two tones of hair above a hooked nose. Jaqen appeared almost ghost like at the oddest times. 'That's just a shadow,' she told herself. Still, it caused Arya to frown and wonder why her father had freed that one from becoming a brother of the Night's Watch. 'Can he free Jon too if he wants?' she asked, though the girl suspected the answer to be no. The Watch was as old and honorable as her house. Uncle Benjen had joined them, and Jon. No, their vows were for life.
"Now," she whispered. Her eyes had spotted a chance to scurry across. A small wagon being pulled by a half dozen men was about to pass her. She rose on to her toes and … 'Go!'
In a crouch she darted between the wheels and started walking hunched way over beneath its floor boards. One set of legs passed by, a second set, a third set. 'And it should be … here!' Again Arya darted out, this time on all fours, hoping no eyes spied her.
Creak! The wagon kept rolling. No shouts of challenge arose. The tent wall loomed up. 'Yes!' The same small gap she'd wormed through before was right there. She crawled on her belly and quickly found herself on the thick rugs making up the floor of her parents' sleeping space. Raised voices came from the other side of the snug room's interior partition. 'Drat I'm late.' Staying on her belly she wiggled towards the edge of the flap. Carefully, slowly she peered into the main room and spied her mother, brother, uncles, and others sitting mostly as before on her side of a long table. 'Where's fa … oh, there he is.' She found him standing on the other side of the table next to three men.
Arya stifled a gasp, recognizing one of them, Joffrey's horrid scarred dog who'd killed Micah. The Hound. She yearned for that one's death. "Today," she whispered hopefully.
Smack!
Arya stifled a second gasp, her father had struck one; and the slight mousy one wearing black had fallen to the ground. 'That isn't like father, no not at all,' she thought, a queer feeling starting to grow in her belly. Too much was not quite right, she could no longer deny what her eyes told her.
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