King Robert and his court arrive at Winterfell on a crisp autumn day. Lady Catelyn insisted she wear her finest dress (nowhere near as fine as Sansa's and it itches too) and have one of the servants braid her hair (it's too tight and makes her head hurt) but she still had to stand behind her family with Theon, just the Stark bastard, not good enough to actually be greeted by the fat king.
Arya hates them all, every trueborn one of them.
Her father and the king are laughing, and then the king is clapping Robb and Jon on the shoulders, praising Sansa's beauty, japing with Bran and Rickon, and Arya wants to shout, "I'm just as good as they are! I'm a Stark too!"
Except she isn't. She's a Snow, Arya Snow, Ned Stark's bastard daughter to a woman he won't name, the girl Lady Catelyn glares at when she happens to cross her path, the girl Sansa will only refer to as her half-sister.
Sansa is making eyes at one of the princes, the blond, Lannister looking one whose face reminds Arya of a weasel, and she stretches up on her toes, trying to glimpse the imp or anything more interesting than a disappointing king and a queen whose face is all twisted up like she's smelled something foul.
Arya nearly gasps when she finds herself looking into bright blue eyes but she doesn't look away. This is the oldest prince, Prince Gendry, but he doesn't look like his siblings; he is tall and broad, black-haired and fierce looking, and Arya thinks he seems more interesting than the prince Sansa is giving smiles, the one making Robb scowl.
She isn't allowed to go to the feast; Lady Catelyn thinks it will insult the king to have a bastard dining with his precious children, and Arya has to take her supper in the kitchens like one of the servants. Usually she should sit beside Jon or try to eavesdrop on Robb and Theon, and it only serves to make Arya angrier, knowing Theon (a fucking hostage!) got to eat inside while she was sent away.
Arya finds one of the dull swords Robb and Jon practice with and takes it to the yard, attacking a post as if it is Rhaegar Targaryen, back from the dead. She hacks and strikes with moves she's learned from watching her brothers, and Arya does not take care to hide herself like she usually does. No one will come looking for her, not tonight, not when everyone is pretending like Ned Stark has five children instead of six.
"You're quick," a deep voice remarks from behind her, and Arya whirls to find Prince Gendry standing there, finely outfitted in Baratheon colors.
Arya supposes she should bend the knee or something, but she's too angry tonight to give a care about feigning manners; Lady Catelyn always says she's half-wildling anyway. "Quicker than you."
The prince smirks. "Care to prove it?"
Arya points to where the swords are kept, watches as he picks up one of the dulled blades and tests its heft in his large hand. "Don't go running to your father when I get your pretty clothes dirty."
Gendry arches an eyebrow as he assumes a fighting stance. "Don't go running to yours when I make you cry."
She'll be sore in the morning from the strength behind the blows Gendry manages to land, but she also knows she won't be alone, especially when she sees the way he rubs at the wrist she solidly cracked.
"Not bad for a - "
"Bastard?" Arya cuts in, preparing for him to throw an insult at her, a way to soothe his injured pride.
"Girl," he corrects, and his smile is friendlier than Arya ever expected a prince's to be. "You're Lord Stark's daughter?"
She nods. "I'm Arya."
"Gendry."
If she was a silly girl like Sansa, she would have blushed at the way his smile softens, at the way his eyes seem to take her in, lingering in the places which have only recently come into being; if she was a trueborn daughter, it could become something more.
But she is a bastard and the only use a prince would have for is one Arya has no interest in at all, so she straightens her back and tells him to stop staring at her.
Filled: Gendry/Arya
Arya hates them all, every trueborn one of them.
Her father and the king are laughing, and then the king is clapping Robb and Jon on the shoulders, praising Sansa's beauty, japing with Bran and Rickon, and Arya wants to shout, "I'm just as good as they are! I'm a Stark too!"
Except she isn't. She's a Snow, Arya Snow, Ned Stark's bastard daughter to a woman he won't name, the girl Lady Catelyn glares at when she happens to cross her path, the girl Sansa will only refer to as her half-sister.
Sansa is making eyes at one of the princes, the blond, Lannister looking one whose face reminds Arya of a weasel, and she stretches up on her toes, trying to glimpse the imp or anything more interesting than a disappointing king and a queen whose face is all twisted up like she's smelled something foul.
Arya nearly gasps when she finds herself looking into bright blue eyes but she doesn't look away. This is the oldest prince, Prince Gendry, but he doesn't look like his siblings; he is tall and broad, black-haired and fierce looking, and Arya thinks he seems more interesting than the prince Sansa is giving smiles, the one making Robb scowl.
She isn't allowed to go to the feast; Lady Catelyn thinks it will insult the king to have a bastard dining with his precious children, and Arya has to take her supper in the kitchens like one of the servants. Usually she should sit beside Jon or try to eavesdrop on Robb and Theon, and it only serves to make Arya angrier, knowing Theon (a fucking hostage!) got to eat inside while she was sent away.
Arya finds one of the dull swords Robb and Jon practice with and takes it to the yard, attacking a post as if it is Rhaegar Targaryen, back from the dead. She hacks and strikes with moves she's learned from watching her brothers, and Arya does not take care to hide herself like she usually does. No one will come looking for her, not tonight, not when everyone is pretending like Ned Stark has five children instead of six.
"You're quick," a deep voice remarks from behind her, and Arya whirls to find Prince Gendry standing there, finely outfitted in Baratheon colors.
Arya supposes she should bend the knee or something, but she's too angry tonight to give a care about feigning manners; Lady Catelyn always says she's half-wildling anyway. "Quicker than you."
The prince smirks. "Care to prove it?"
Arya points to where the swords are kept, watches as he picks up one of the dulled blades and tests its heft in his large hand. "Don't go running to your father when I get your pretty clothes dirty."
Gendry arches an eyebrow as he assumes a fighting stance. "Don't go running to yours when I make you cry."
She'll be sore in the morning from the strength behind the blows Gendry manages to land, but she also knows she won't be alone, especially when she sees the way he rubs at the wrist she solidly cracked.
"Not bad for a - "
"Bastard?" Arya cuts in, preparing for him to throw an insult at her, a way to soothe his injured pride.
"Girl," he corrects, and his smile is friendlier than Arya ever expected a prince's to be. "You're Lord Stark's daughter?"
She nods. "I'm Arya."
"Gendry."
If she was a silly girl like Sansa, she would have blushed at the way his smile softens, at the way his eyes seem to take her in, lingering in the places which have only recently come into being; if she was a trueborn daughter, it could become something more.
But she is a bastard and the only use a prince would have for is one Arya has no interest in at all, so she straightens her back and tells him to stop staring at her.