Chapter Text
"Girl," he addresses her, "come here a moment." Arya approaches the table immediately, with only a nod of acknowledgement, and Tywin beckons her closer until she stands in front of him at eye-level, averting her eyes involuntarily from his closeness. "Look at me."
She forces herself to meet his eyes "Yes, milord." Hers are wide with fear.
"You arrived here for the first time with the Goat's men, did you not?"
She swallows, nodding again. "Yes, milord."
"And how long were you in their custody?"
Where is he going with this? "Weeks, milord."
He eyes her sharply. "Then they truly did not know. None of them."
She doesn't have to ask. "No, milord, none."
"No, none of the Companions, certainly. If they had, I hardly think you'd still be alive today. And now? Have you been mistreated here?"
She can't quite bear to deny it. "Have I been mistreated, milord?" she repeats instead.
He scowls. "Raped. Have you been dishonored, girl."
Her breath is coming faster. She kept having to remind herself to make eye contact. "No, milord. I am -- I wasn't dishonored." When she next meets his eyes he is glaring at her skeptically, and she fears she has somehow given the wrong answer and must meet some ghastly consequence.
"And romance? Have you chosen to lie with any of the boys here, or the men? Or during your months of... 'freedom'?" Somehow each question is worse than the last.
"No, milord," she says emphatically. "I am -- I never --"
But he only nods abruptly, with a slight dismissing gesture from his right hand. "Good. That is fortunate. You may go." She turns, disoriented, and leaves in a walk that is nearly a run. Tywin Lannister. Tywin Lannister does not ask after people out of care or compassion. Perhaps he was only frightening her, lest she become too familiar. But the fear lurks that he had listened intently to her answers, that he truly cared, for some unknowable reason, about her chastity. A part of her simply refuses to ask why.
She should have gone to Gendry then. He had heard things she had not. Rumors. Commonfolk talking of noble doings. A daughter of the north being promised to the monster of the Dreadfort. Just as Arya chose to keep her counsel for the night, so Gendry was having trouble trying to phrase the matter in a way that would not upset her overmuch. They did not speak that night, though both yearned to do so.
The next day it was too late.
They find her at the mid-Winter feast in the early afternoon, waiting on Lord Tywin. Where else? Several guards file into the room, obvious among the cheerful noblemen at their tables, though Arya can see nobody significant enough to warrant such a show of force. Most of the milling crowd of peasants outside of the hall-proper choose to ignore their presence, but the minor lords react warily, their gossiping growing more hushed. Their lord has put a stop to the Mountain's barbarism, but he'd shown willingness to turn the sword on even highborn when he felt it expedient. Tywin stands.
"Gentlefolk," he begins stiffly, "no doubt many of you have heard the recent news, that my house has promised the younger Stark girl to my faithful vassal Lord Ramsay."
Arya's pulse pounds in her ears. She forces it away. She cannot panic now. She cannot betray herself. The water jug shakes in her hands, just barely. He knows. Of course he does. Why else ask those questions? No, he couldn't know, that could not happen. She should have suspected, should have been more careful. He knows. She looks around furtively for an exit, anything, but the guards seem to be closing in on her. Far too many to take alone, even if she could grab one of their daggers, far too many. No, no, no. There could be some other reason.
"Reports that she is in King's Landing are false," Tywin continues, and Arya feels the panic consume her.
"In fact, she stands before you -- Arya Stark, heir to Winterfell."
Arya looks up. Tywin is staring at her, not triumphantly, but only patiently, deliberately. As ever. She has dropped the jug. Lord Ramsay. It is all she can think. Not him. Not Ramsay. The distant commonfolk staring in shock -- and one who felt only grief -- barely register. For a moment the sky out of the window is all she can see, all there is in the world. Then armored men fill her vision and her hands are wrenched behind her back, and there is someone shouting her name, but they are leaving the hall and she doesn't know where they are going, except that they keep marching and soon she finds herself in the dungeons, at long last no longer overflowing with villagers and conscripted refugees. The thought distracts her for a moment, and a door opens, and suddenly she is sprawled on the floor of a cell and one of the guards laughs and clamps something cold and heavy to her ankle, then leaves quickly and shuts the door behind him. And then she is alone.
And the real fear sets in.
At first it is only shaking. She feels unresponsive, focused on the far wall of the cell, stones now mossy and slimed with mold. It's as if the world goes away for a little while. She sees Lord Tywin's face, at her door or in a dream, and he says to someone "send the other one away; we won't need her," if he is real and not an illusion. Soon enough the dread overtakes her detachment, and she cannot escape it.
Ramsay Bolton. All she can think of are the tales they told of him in the villages. She cannot stop the damnable trembling. Torture, she heard the boys saying on the journey North. Flaying. Madman. Rape, and murder. Surely he would not torture his wife, she thinks halfheartedly, only to recall that he already had once. She clutches her knees to herself to contain the shaking. Gods, she's even crying. Arya wipes roughly at her face with a dry bit of sleeve. It is past time to muster herself, find some sort of escape. But Ramsay gnaws at her thoughts. Her cell is dark, but mostly dry, full of the stink of wretchedness and happier smells like straw. It has an earth floor and a dungeon's cold, slowly numbing, and though she had thought herself fixated on the walls around her, she is in fact so preoccupied with her thoughts that it comes as a surprise when she hears a voice.
"send the other one away..."
"Arya!"
She startles. A familiar, painfully indiscreet whisper echoes for a moment in the cell. She finds its source, through the window on the door. Most of his face is visible, and the tops of his shoulders. He looks concerned.
"Gendry," she names him, his face here seeming absurd for a moment. Before she can ask anything further, the door swings open, and there he is in front of her, clutching her to him. She feels sooty fingers in her hair.
"I'm sorry," Gendry is telling her, over and over again, which makes no sense. This isn't his fault.
She mumbles as much and he loosens his hold on her, with a half-hysterical laugh. And then he is speaking and for a long moment she has to try consciously to listen and understand his words.
"Fillen was on duty tonight. I gave him one of Gema Lannister's broken brooches, she'll never miss it, and he's already off. Come on -- we ought to be getting as far away as we can, too."
It's all so close, but not enough. "I can't," she tells him.
"Can't?!" he's surprised, angry. "What do you mean by that? You've no duty to these mad lords."
She holds his gaze for a moment after he finishes speaking, lips thinning into a tense line. Then she moves her leg, and adjusts her cloak to reveal the iron ring around her ankle.
His eyes widen. "No," he responds authoritatively, as if denying it will change anything. "That isn't -- there must be a way. Maybe Toran was using his hammer, they don't take it back from him every night. I can find it." Arya was not going to cry. Wolves did not cry. But her throat feels thick and painful as she shakes her head at him.
"There were no extra tools out tonight," she tells him. "You know that. Tywin's man still holds the key to every single one."
"Well, then what do you suggest?!" he asks her manically. "You can't ride a horse with a manacle. You can't run, you can't even walk. I could carry you, but we wouldn't get far. Maybe if--"
"Gendry," she interrupts him. He stops. "It isn't going to work."
He flinches in disbelief. "How can you know that? There's a chance."
She shakes her head. "Amory Lorch has the only key, and you'd need a heated forge to strike the chain. Can't exactly do that right now, unless you want to pay off two dozen guards."
"Then what?!" he asks, trying to keep his voice low. "What's your plan, my lady? Marry the Bolton bastard?"
She opens her mouth, but can't bring herself to speak. And his frustration melts instantly into cautious concern.
"You do have a plan, then," he observes, leery of her reluctance to even mention it. She nods, and looks off to her right guiltily. "Well?" he prompts.
She looks down and flushes. His eyes widen. Has he never seen her blush before? Twaddle. Granted, it doesn't happen often.
"Yesterday, I should have suspected. Lord Tywin asked me--" no time for politeness now, "he asked me if I was still a maid. He was pleased when I said I was."
She can see his expression turning from curiosity to fear, and he is shaking his head involuntarily. "What does that have to do with getting out of here?" And it isn't that, either. And he already knows it.
"Lord Ramsay won't take a bride who isn't pure. His last wife, he had her examined by his maester and two septons," the humiliation of the image burns into her for a moment. "If Ramsay receives me, and I am despoiled, he'll kill me, and break all alliances with Lord Tywin. Which means, if I tell Lord Tywin before we leave tomorrow, he will send his false Arya Stark in my place, and he'll order me brought to the God's Eye and beheaded on the cliff -- and before I am, it will just be me and a cart of sparrows and sisters on the Kingsroad, with a few guards. Tywin will have all his strongest men bringing the other Arya north to the Dreadfort, so it'll just be a few of the fat knights with me. If you help me, I can escape then. That's the easiest way."
Gendry is silent for a moment.
"If you are despoiled," he says flatly.
"Yes," she replies, urgently. "And only then can I escape the Bastard."
"If you--" he seems to be struggling with it. "You mean you -- here? Tonight?" His hand runs nervously through his hair.
"Gendry, please just--" she urges him, "It's my only chance. So just shut up about it." She clenches her jaw, though her chin wobbles anyway, and angrily swipes a threatening tear with the heel of her hand. And Gods, he realizes with resignation, he would do anything for her.
He looks around at the cell. A cold stone floor. A wastebucket. Dirty straw for bedding. That could do, he supposed.
"You mean to do this," he needs her confirmation here, again.
She nods. "If you agree to." Of course. He gives an answering nod, his worried gaze meeting her fearful one. Was it all fear of Ramsay? He knew some girls were afraid of sex. They feared the pain of it, of the first time. He should've brought someone gentler, more fit for this. He was a blacksmith. What should he do to be more careful than usual? What did a girl want when... when... Arya was eying him skeptically.
"Oh no," Arya attempts weakly. "You're going to treat me like some nobleman's daughter now, aren't you."
"I won't apologize for being chivalrous," he tries to respond lightly, in the same vein. "You are a nobleman's daughter. Besides, you're the only girl I know who hates manners."
"I'm not a girl. I'm no child, not anymore," she corrects him angrily. Of course not, he chides himself – she's already dealt with enough for three lifetimes. Truthfully he isn't quite sure what made him use the word.
"No, I know that," he admits. "I only meant most other young people recognize the value of getting along with their elders. I'm your elder too, you know." He smiles tentatively. Her answering scowl is the most reassuring thing he's seen all night.
"Well," he gestures at the bedding on the bench. "Go on, then." Shite. As romantic as the plague. Still glaring at him (or is this a new glare?), she complies, only just barely able to reach without pulling at the chain -- a thought which somehow seems infinitely more distasteful in this context. She sits back on it, seemingly calm. Arya Stark, Arya Stark, in a dungeon, and this was the only way to save her. What sort of mischief were the Gods up to now? She gives him another incredulous sideways look and he realizes he should probably follow her.
He moves in a stumbling daze, sinking to his knees facing her. He is clothed, and two feet away, but already it seems far too intimate.
"Arya Stark," he says it without meaning to, under his breath. She frowns, offended.
"Arry," she corrects.
"Right," he has to smile. "The orphan boy. Glad my mum will never know her son's buggering an orphan boy."
She cracks a smile at that and suddenly it's just what he's been waiting for. He kisses her.
She's shocked for a moment, then draws back quickly. "Why did you do that?!"
"What?" now he's confused too. "Why not?"
"I said I wanted to you to fuck me, not kiss me," she reminds him angrily. "I'm not some lady."
He sits back, head pounding with frustration. "I know you're not," he lies, sort of. "But you don't just do it like that. There's more."
"What, like teats and all?" she asks bluntly.
He splutters for a second. "That's -- yes, for example. But that's not what I mean either. Just -- give it a minute, okay? Then if you don't like it, I'll stop and we'll do it your way."
She regards him suspiciously for a moment, then nods. He feels a wash of relief.
He eases her down onto her back and slips off her shirt. He's about to remove his own when she does it first, shooting him a challenging look. He laughs and kisses her again and this time her wariness fades and she touches him with ill-concealed uncertainty, hesitancy. Then she notices him watching, and frowns at him.
"This is pointless," she says, just before he can kiss her again. He draws back, looking disappointed, and she clarifies. "I mean we've got to hurry. The closer you are to the Clanking Dragon before daybreak, the less chance they'll find you on your own. You have to leave quickly."
"So you don't like it, then?" he asks her oh-so-mildly, mostly to watch her eyebrows snap together again.
"That's not what I said. And don't joke," she remands him. "If you die, we both die." That shuts him up.
"I know what I'm doing," he tells her, wishing it were true. "This is important, too. Look, I'll hurry it up. Okay?" She nods reluctantly, and he takes another moment to silently thank the Seven.
Then he summons his courage and reaches downward, unlacing her breeches.
He hears her gasp once before she schools away her surprise. He looks nervously back up at her, but sees no worry in her face right now. Her chest is heaving air, damp from the breastband he hadn't been expecting, and so near his face he can't help himself but to taste one breast just as his fingers find her sex. She jolts beneath him when he touches her, trying his best to remember what Jeana at the Pony had taught him women liked, back when he was working for Tobho and had time to worry about things like girls. He moves in circles with his fingers, and is licking at her breast again when he is distracted by her face.
She's been so silent, teeth worrying her lip to stop her whimpering, that he hasn't noticed her face. Her eyes are closed, and her expression is pleading and wonder. He can't look away, moving his fingers faster and greedily watching her squirms. She isn't saying anything; all he hears from her is hitched, ragged breathing. He doesn't want her to get too close too soon, so after a few more moments, he stops.
She cracks an eye to aim and smacks him. He makes an indignant noise.
"Why'd you do that?" she demands.
"Thought you might be getting close. Jeana s-- I've heard some women can come twice, but only some. I didn't want you to until-" and he breaks off, because somehow pleasuring her with his fingers is less awkward than talking about his cock right now.
"Well, then, don't waste time," Arya responds, and even she seems uncomfortable with the topic, which is perversely comforting. She reaches down and pushes off her breeches, baring her white legs. She's still so slight.
He doesn't want to do this.
He sits back on his heels, arousal quickly waning. Truly he can think of nothing less enticing than the situation facing them now.
Her brow knits with worry for a moment before solidifying into impatience. "Now what?"
"I can't," he tells her.
Her mouth opens in shock.
"But I need you to," she tells him, confused. (Does he not see?)
"I know," he acknowledges tensely. "It's just not -- it's just wrong. It's all wrong." He can't even explain himself any better than that. He wants desperately to ask if she wants any part of this, if things were different, but after tonight intruding further on her privacy seems unfair. Yet he was ready just the same, still perhaps could be if he let himself, and it repulses him. He has no right to want her, or have her, or take this from her. He has no right. He shakes his head without even noticing. It's all wrong.
"Gendry," nervousness flits across her face as she tries to smile knowingly, doing her best impression of the girls at the Pony, and reaches over to caress him. "Let's just have fun together." It is a pathetically insincere performance.
"Please stop that," he says quietly, and she complies immediately, embarrassed.
She frowns at him a few moments, feeling unpleasantly defensive. "Can't you just close your eyes and pretend I'm some other girl, if that's what you need?"
He barks a laugh. "That's nothing close to what I need."
She stares into his eyes, silent for long minutes. He watches her cycle through glowering resentment, involuntary and unwelcome worry, and the questioning look of one hopeful but afraid. And, Gods, settle on an unholy mixture of all three. She takes a breath to say something undoubtedly important and he has no idea what; it's very disarming. Not without reluctance, he meets her eyes.
"Yes," she tells him.
He blinks at her.
"Yes what?" he has no idea what he should be understanding right now.
Her mouth twists for a moment and she glances away, almost sheepish, and she responds. "Yes, I would have. Someday. Maybe. Probably. I mean, if you wanted to. And, you know, a bit older. But I would." Never has she wished more heartily for even a few sips of wine to ease this admission.
He can barely understand this for a moment. It doesn't seem like the sort of thing people just say. But then these are strange times, he considers.
He seems to be breathing faster. His heartbeat is more pronounced. It's as if he's run a long distance.
"Really?" He hovers between elation and panicked doubt. "Not just... but truly, like a real... noble... lad?"
She studies his face, mouth small with displeasure. "Can't this wait?"
Now it's him frowning with worry, because now that he's asked, he has to know. "It's one question," he responds before he can stop himself. He has no right to ask this. He knows this.
"Maybe I don't have an answer yet," she posits.
"Of course I have no right to ask this of you, my lady," he says, adding, "Not having an answer is an answer."
She exhales angrily, almost like a horse, like she does.
"Fine," she mutters. "Yes, alright? Truly. Now, is that all?"
"No," he says, and kisses her with every ounce of worry, desire and wonder he can never quite phrase correctly when he tries to speak them aloud, and finally, finally it's something close to what he hoped. "There's so much more." And in no time she has lain back again and he has followed her, and cannot seem to stop kissing her, not that there is any compelling reason to try. She crooks a leg around his and gives an encouraging nod, and he bares himself, says a quick prayer and goes so slowly his face turns almost purple. Neither of them knows where to put their limbs for a few exhilarating moments, then she pushes him over and he goes easily, and she stays locked with him, ending on top of him, which is obviously much better. She pins him down and sets a pace, and he touches her wherever he can and tries to distract himself from ending things too early. All the same, he's beginning to doubt his control, so he reaches down to touch her again, and after seconds she tenses and gasps so deliciously that he finally lets himself really see her, here with him, and his mind goes blank for a moment as his brain fires random words -- kiss, Arry, love, nose.
He notices his surroundings again a few seconds after she has, and she's already looking at him, bold, flushed, and worse than usual at eye contact. "You have to go," she tells him nervously.
He takes a moment and blinks slowly, gradually comprehending her words. "I... as you wish?" She rolls away from him and he wants to protest.
She winces. "Fine. Yes. Go do my bidding and survive. We can talk about it later if you still want to and we aren't dead."
He forces himself to sit up, to straighten up his clothes. She watches him, not very discreetly, as he dresses and shuts the door behind him leaving. Even if the guards noticed anything amiss, he could claim he'd been downstairs bedding one of the prisoner girls. It wasn't uncommon, here. His survival and Arya's were worth a few vile excuses.
As expected, Fillen has killed both guards on his way out -- one sliced, the other gutted. Gendry hops onto the Mountain's swiftest palfrey and rides like the fugitive he is, hoping never to return.