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1.
She met him in the sandbox of a foster home, a boy who towered all the rest.
He wouldn’t let the other boys take her wooden sword.
She thought he was okay
She’s only nine when the social worker carries her crying from the violent remnants of a crime scene. Newspaper headlines scream ‘ Mysterious Deaths of Local Family Under Investigation ’ in bold black font the next morning, and police officers filter in and out of her consciousness so quickly they begin to blur together.
So she hides. In a room wide enough to just barely fit three bunk beds. For the most part the other kids ignore her, pretending she’s nothing but a ghost hiding in the corner beneath the last bunk. She’s certifiably weird, they unanimously agree when they hear her whisper the same list of names like clockwork each night.
Only the social worker assigned to her case seems to disagree. A stubborn man dressed in black, she had seen him scare half a dozen people with his beady eyes, yet she trusted him all the same. He had been, after all, the one who had suggested reciting names every night to keep her night terrors away. He had talked to her when no one else had.
It’s late summer by the time he finally coaxes her out into the backyard with the other foster children, her hands still tightly wrapped around her last, and most important, possession - a wooden sword. Jon had made it himself so she could play cowboys and knights with Bran.
The nostalgia of her brothers laughing as she chased them through the yard stung worse than the hot tears that slid down her cheeks as she found a spot sitting in the sand box. Why? why, why, why, why, why? It wasn’t fair. None of this was any fair at all.
I miss them . The thought dies on her tongue as her lip begins to quiver in earnest.
“What’s that?” A voice calls out, the stiff toe of a boot poking her in the back with rough curiosity. Turning forcefully Arya does her best to glare at the pudgy boy staring down at her, pointing at the toy sword in her hands.
Mine , she thinks, lips peeled back in a silent threat. Too wrapped up in the last memories of Jon’s smile to answer him fully she glares at him instead.
“Give it here,” Another boy chimes in, joining their little stand off. No! , she tries to spit out as he reaches for the hilt. His hands dyed green from the finger painting station near the porch, - You’ll ruin it .
Arya isn’t stupid, she had four brothers -she knew when someone was going to try and steal something from her. Bran had done it all the time. So she’s prepared when the first boy bends down to pull the wooden sword from her grasp. Grabbing his wrist, her other hand forces the pointy end into his gut. “Take it then,” Arya dares, the words cold and foreign on her lips.
Grey eyes blazing up at him in the late morning sun she barely catches sight of a third figure before the kid in front of her falls back in shock.
“Watch it,” The older boy snaps, shoving him away. “You think it’s fun picking on the little ones do you?” That seems to sober up her would-be attackers. He’s taller than any of them, and dirtier too. Mum would’ve killed Jon twice over if he had ever let his hair grow out that long , Arya thought absently.
“What’re you looking at you little shit?” He snaps angrily at the boy with green hands, shoving them back further and further from the sandbox until both take off towards the safety of the supervisors.
Staring up at him, she contemplates thanking him when he turns his attention back to her with guarded interest, “what’re you doin’ with a toy like that anyway?”
“It was a gift,” she murmurs, lowering the tip back into the soft sand beneath her with a pang of sadness.
His eyebrows raise at that before he shrugs it off, “I’d hide it if I were you… A thing like that won’t help you find a new family.”
“I don’t want a new family,” She had already had one, what use was finding a new one?
Eyebrows knit together in confusion he paused as he turned, “Why not?”
“I don’t want a new family.” Arya replied angrily.
The sentiment seemed to soften him up. Offering her a sad smile he shoved his hands in his pockets, “someone’s gotta take care of you. That’s what family’s do isn’t it?”
“Are we a family then?” she wondered suddenly, the will to fight leaving her just as suddenly as it had entered.
It earns her a good laugh, causing his hair to fall across his face and into his eyes as he shrugs and turns to leave. “I dunno.. Never had a family before.”
2.
Sitting on the plastic chair of the nurses office,
the boy has grown gruff and quiet.
His arms around her as he dragged her off the boy who’s green eyes, she turned black
It’s been years since the day they met in the sandbox. Years since she had moved on and hidden the wooden sword beneath the floorboards in her new home. They didn’t talk much. Not like there was much to talk about before she had learned that Gendry was three years older than her, and two grades ahead in her high school after he was adopted by a lovely older couple. But they were friends, sort of . Until Joffrey fucking Baratheon decided to open his big mouth one day and spread rumors about her family. “Her mum probably killed the whole lot of them after she found out about what her dad was doin’ with that Dornish whore after work! Everyone knows-”
Arya didn’t remember much after that aside from the sting of her knuckles and the satisfying sound of his nose crunching beneath her fist. “Don’t ever talk about my family.” She had snapped as he collapsed against the lockers behind him.
The whole school was silent, watching with morbid curiosity as she hovered over him. Too shell shocked by her fury to intervene as she knees him in the groin a second time, sending him sprawling to the ground with a groan.
When a strong set of arms wrap around her torso, dragging her away from Joffrey’s limp form. “Let me go,” She snaps twisting to elbow Gendry in the gut and claw her way back into the fight. If her nails digging into his forearm hurt, he doesn’t let on.
So she focuses on the only thing in the world she hates more than Gendry in that split moment and trains her grey eyes on Joffrey. “Burn in Hell Joffrey! BURN IN HELL !”
The bell rings on cue, breaking whatever spell that held their bystanders captive, and setting the world back in motion again. With that Gendry drags her into the nurses office and shoves her into the first available seat he can find.
“Ice your knuckles,” he orders pointing at her blood speckled fist, “and have them take a look at your eye…”
Unnerved by his sudden attention she raised her fingers to the puffy cut just above her eyebrow. Huh , maybe that bastard had landed a swing in after all. “Why do you care?” Arya snapped, choosing to ignore his advice in favor of relishing the adrenaline fueled anger still simmering beneath her skin.
For a moment she swears he’s about to put his fist through a wall, she’s never seen him quite so angry, when the loudspeaker crackles to life overhead. “Gendry Waters to the main office - now .”
Blue eyes catching hers under the fluorescent lights of the nurses office he shakes his head, “you’re right I shouldn’t.” With that he spins on his heels and stalks back out into the hallway.
The sudden silence she’s left with is different from the calm quiet that had overtaken her during the fight. Its bone deep and ice cold leaving her mind racing with thoughts. A part of her worried about what he would tell them. If he would bring up the rumors or lie about who had landed the first punch. But another, larger, part of her couldn’t fight off the memory of his arms wrapped around her. She had hated him for it in the moment, but she didn’t hate it nearly as much as she hated the butterflies it gave her knowing just how strong Gendry Waters really was, beneath his oversized t-shirts and hand-me-down jeans.
3.
At a diner across town
They boy who turned into a man wearing biking leathers
She wonders as their touching fingers spark
What hides beneath his heart
If they didn’t speak much before, they don’t speak at all after their moment in the nurses office. But not for lack of trying on her part. Gendry makes it clear he wants nothing to do with her, and even less so with school. He hardly shows up to class anymore, and when he does his clothes reek of alcohol and nicotine.
Gone were the days of mismatched thrift store hoodies and track shoes. Traded in for good leather jackets, ripped jeans, and a matching set of leather boots. Seven hells, if he hadn’t gotten attention from girls before -he certainly did now.
She shouldn’t have been jealous, there was no reason to be. They had been friends, sort of, and now they definitely weren't. Even if she did like the look of him leaning against his new motorcycle, he would never feel the same way about her. He hated her after that fight with Joffrey. He didn't care, he shouldn't, he said so himself.
So she busied herself instead, with school and sports and chores, until she found herself looking for a job to busy herself some more. It’s how she finds herself working for the House of B&W, a local 60’s themed diner, near the outskirts of town.
Most of their customers come from the freeway, old truckers looking for a hot meal at a rest stop. Which suits her just fine. It gives her time to catch up on classwork and listen to music to pass the time.
When the bell above the doorway rings to greet a new customer Arya hardly thinks twice before gathering a few menus and stepping around the counter to greet them. But when her eyes catch sight of him, stepping into the dry diner, her words die on her lips.
The downpour of rain outside had left him, and his companions, drenched. Their leather jackets gleaming like polished onyx beneath the dim lights as their boots squeaked against the checkered linoleum filing slowly toward a booth in the back.
Steeling her nerves in anticipation Arya forces herself forward, suddenly hating the god awful uniform her boss made her wear, and wishing the ground would swallow her whole with every step.
“Hello, my name’s Arya, I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you started with anything?” She tries her best not to look at him as she passes out their menus, though she doesn’t miss the way his eyes snap up at the sound of her voice. Apparently she wasn’t alone in her surprise. A small comfort, but a comfort all the same.
“We’ll have a round ‘a coffee’s darlin’,” the man across from him cuts in before Gendry can utter a word. Nodding numbly she pencils them down for six cups, noting the man’s eye patch with mild curiosity.
“-and a basket ‘a fried chicken fingers,” another adds unceremoniously tossing his menu back towards her.
For a moment Arya has to bite back the urge to mutter something sarcastic about the ugly scar running down the side of his face before she’s able to offer the group a tight lipped smile. “Sure thing.”
The rest of the night goes relatively smoothly, despite staying thirty minutes past closing time and stirring up a noise complaint from a few other customers. Two rounds of coffee, and four chicken strip baskets later the group slowly files out into the parking lot without paying.
Typical, she wants to point out loudly for them all to hear. Of course they would dine and dash. She’s even half tempted to run out and confront them when he comes to a stop by her register.
The dim neon lights behind the counter highlight the dark circles under his eyes as he hands her a wad of paper bills, his calloused fingertips brushing briefly against hers. “For the trouble,” he mumbles apologetically before leaving. And he's right, because she has trouble thinking of anything and anyone else for the rest of the week.
4.
They bump into each other at the graveyard
Opposite forces destined to collide
They go for coffee looking for something to get warm
The day she’s accepted into the school of her choice Arya decides to take a drive. It isn’t long before the rows of marble headstones of an all too familiar graveyard greet her. Following the sight of the towering Weirwood that stood over her family's graves she parks along the road and begins to walk through the freshly fallen snow. Seven stone statues greeted her beneath the scarlet leaves, following her as she walked up. A wolf for each of them, a tradition her family had carried on for decades, and cold reminder that she was the last of them. Would you be proud of me? She wondered idly, her eyes scanning their names in tandem with each step.
The chimes she had tied in the branches of the heart tree sang above their heads in the winter winds as she lets her weight sink against the frozen ground. For a moment Arya let her eyes drift close to the tune, allowing herself to wander back to an impossible life. A life where they were still alive to congratulate her on the news. A life where she was loved, and didn’t feel so hopelessly alone.
Why me? She wondered, staring up at the grey skies, Why did I survive? Her foster father had called it luck, but luck was winning a scratch off. This, this wasn’t luck , that much she was sure of. What Gods would be so cruel?
Staring at their headstones Arya could hardly remember what they looked like. The only image she had of them was the cut out family portrait someone had printed in the daily news the day of the fire. Their black and white smiles fading with the stroke of her fingertips.
“Arya?” Brushing away the tears that had begun to well at the corners of her eyes with the back of her sleeve, Arya chokes out a bubble of laughter when she realizes who’s standing across from her in the dirty snow. Of course he would be here of all places.
“Hey,” she manages to smile though she makes no move to get up.
He looks good, she muses, better than the last time she remembered seeing him. “You okay?” he wonders, hovering near her father’s headstone clutching a forgotten bouquet of flowers.
And for a moment she almost tells him the truth, the real truth, about how she is absolutely beyond a doubt -not okay. It’s a truth she’s not willing to face. Not yet at least. So she settles for something a little less absurd. “‘M fine, just… thinking.” It’s only a little lie, but she can tell in the way his lips tilt downward that he can see through her charade instantly. “- I got accepted to go to Kings Landing.” She adds quickly.
“Oh,” his breath comes out in a puff of smoke against the cold, offering her a small smile, “That’s great...”
That’s great , she repeats to herself. Would her parents think so? Davos and Marya certainly would after all the hard work she had put in to save up for a full ride scholarship to a prestigious school. “Yeah,” she replies, letting her head drop back against the heart tree defeatedly.
His footsteps echo with the crunch of snow beneath his boots until he crouches down, one arm stretched out in silent offering. Arya doesn’t know why she decides to accept his offer, only that his hand is large and warm when he pulls her to stand beside him. And standing there, so close, with their fingers intertwined, makes the void in her chest feel a little less empty.
5.
Coffee isn’t the only thing running through their veins when they fumble through the dark,
And she likes the way his hands feel when they grip her
He knows she won’t break
She can’t remember what they talked about at the cafe. Not with his lips kissing their way down her throat while their fingers work to unbutton one another's pants in a frenzy. They had been talking about the fight with Joffrey again. How he had joined the brotherhood, how she missed her family, and he missed his. Was it her that had spiked the coffee with her flask, or had that been his idea?
In any case, Arya couldn’t care less about it when Gendry’s hands come up to cup her ass and drag her down into his lap on the couch. There are more important things to think about. Like the smell of his cologne, and the way his teeth scrape against her lips in a smile. Seven hells she could kiss this man forever.
Hips rolling against his to drag a soft rasping groan from his throat, Arya closes her eyes as his calloused fingers trail up the curve of her spine to cup the nape of her neck. With one deft move he pulls the clip from her hair, sending a cascade of chestnut waves to frame her face. When she opens her eyes again, she finds him staring at her, pupils blown so wide in wonder that it makes her blush.
It isn’t long before they’re both fumbling with his boxers and her favorite bralette are discarded on the living room floor.
And it feels good, better than good even. The way his arms, corded in muscle, wrap around her as he flips them. The way his tongue knows just how to pull his name from her lips in an endless prayer. And she prays, to every God she can think of, that this isn’t the last time as she finds the edge of her release. Because there’s no way in seven hells she could ever let go of this feeling now that she’s found it.
6.
The late summer sun washes over the yard where she lays
Above her clouds drift shapeless when a voice calls out from the back porch,
A chorus of giggles and a semi-silent stampede before the little ones crash down on her.
Grey-blue eyes stare back with bright smiles, and suddenly she feels her confusion melt away to contentedness.
When you know, you know , Davos’ words echo in the back of her mind as she stares up at the sky. Had she known the day he had stood up for her in the sandbox? Or the fight against Joffrey? Arya had a feeling she knew the night she first saw him wearing that leather in the diner. Maybe when the first night on his couch turned into weekends spent curled up against him in her bed. Or perhaps the day he had proposed to her under the oak tree outside her house with a lollipop ring he bought on a whim. Something he later swapped for a silver ring to match the locket with her family photo.
“Go tell your mum,” she hears him say from his place on the back porch half way across the yard. One laughs before she hears “Shh!!”. As if mum didn’t already know it was dinner time. She had practically cooked the entire meal before Gendry had kicked her out to add a few finishing touches to his anniversary gift.
And they go, little feet stomping along the dirt path towards her lawn chair. The first two fall dramatically and with a raucous laughter, on her stomach, while the third drops to her knees, still wearing the wolf mask from halloween three weeks earlier, and looks at Arya upside down. “Dinners ready.”
Smiling, Arya offers her daughter a kiss before rolling the boys up into her arms as she moves to sit. “What’s your dad doing in there anyway?” she wonders aloud peering back at the kitchen, testing to see if any of them would crack.
They don’t, naturally . They are after all her husband's children. Stubborn as bulls the whole lot of them. That and they’re too smart for their own good, though she supposes that’s from her side.
Instead she mussed her sons’ hair affectionately, just like Jon had when she was old enough to remember. “Wanna race?”
Their excited squeals are all the answer she needs, before her youngest takes off without a second thought. The wooden sword from her childhood swinging wildly in his tiny hand as his brother and sister took off in pursuit.
My little wolf pack, she thinks in amusement, jogging after them. They might never know their grandparents. They would never meet their aunts or uncles who had died long before their time. But at least they had one another. And that? That’s how she knew. Because as long as she had them, that was enough for her.