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She was dreaming again.
In her dream she could feel the crushing heat of the crowd gathered outside Baelor’s Sept. The sounds of the shouts and their cruel laughter rang in her ears, yet above it all she could hear, as clear as a bell, Joffrey’s whining, pathetic voice telling of her Father’s treason. Lying. Only in her dream, the King’s voice was not whining, but strong and booming, terrible as a God, and it drowned out her own as she screamed that he was a liar.
She could see Jory Cassel, just a few paces away. She cried out his name, willing him to hear her; he was head of her Father’s guard, he would protect him from Joffrey and his lies, if she could only get to him. The crowd was even closer now, squeezing the breath from her lungs as they pressed in on her, tugging at her clothes with fingers dripping red-brown blood. She pushed and pulled and elbowed her way through the dense press of bodies, even though her legs felt heavy as lead, and it was all she could do to raise her arms to push her way through. She had to get to Jory. She had to save her Father. She called out Jory’s name, but he had his back to her; she reached out a hand to tug on the black mail he was wearing, but there was no response. Why wasn’t he doing anything? Why wasn’t he helping her? She clutched his arm and shook him fiercely, opening her mouth to shout his name again, only to let out a scream as his head tumbled from his shoulders, red against white where blood still poured from his hollowed out eyes down his gaunt, dead face.
No-one in the crowd seemed to notice the head rolling at their feet, so intent were they on the spectacle taking place on the steps of the Sept. Small as she was, she still could not see, but it was her Father’s voice she could hear now,
“I come before you to confess my treason, in the sight of Gods and men.”
“No!” she cried, but even as she did so the first rock was thrown, blood blooming bright at her Father’s temple as it found its mark.
“No! No! No!” she yelled, but at each repetition the onslaught of mud and rocks became heavier. She knew that she had to shut her mouth, that if she stopped shouting then they would stop throwing, but she had no control. She could feel each impact as the rocks sailed over her head to strike her Father where he stood at the High Septon’s pulpit.
She felt herself stop abruptly at Sansa’s scream. The sound shook the very foundations of the Sept and vibrated through her bones. For a second she could glimpse her Father and sister, both flanked by guards holding them in an iron grip. While Sansa kicked and struggled, screaming all the while, Eddard Stark offered no resistance as he was pushed to his knees. Why does he not fight back? She thought, he is a wolf of Winterfell, he ought to fight.
Then he was gone again, her view blocked by the press of the hungry crowd, only now they were faces she knew; she pushed past Septa Mordane who reached for her with cold hands, then Syrio, his gaping wounds still weeping red. Fear cuts deeper than swords. She could see her mother in the distance, auburn hair glinting in the sunlight as she watched the chaos unfold. Arya ducked and swerved and pushed her way through the press until finally she was in the open, her hands stretching towards the figure of her mother, only to close around thin air. Sansa was still screaming, high and long as wretched, as though she had a skyfull of air in her dainty lungs. Arya looked up just in time to see Ice, shimmering and shining and sharp, falling down, down down…
She woke with a start, heart hammering in her chest as she cast around in the blackness for a face she recognised, any face. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see the sleeping forms of the Brotherhood around her, though the space to her left was empty. Footsteps echoed softly through the cave and she threw herself back down, closing her eyes and feigning sleep as Gendry settled back down beside her, the blankets rustling for a few moments as he made himself comfortable.
“You’re shit at pretending to be asleep, y’know.” He whispered, and she stiffened.
“Am not. Where’ve you been?”
“Went for a piss, what do you think. You were asleep when I left; did you have another nightmare?” Arya bristled.
“I don’t have nightmares.” He hissed back, and she heard Gendry sigh.
“And I’m a High Lord. I’ve slept next to you every night we’ve been on the road since we left King’s Landing.”
“You didn’t sleep next to me at Harrenhal, stupid.” She whispered; she wondered why she sounded so bitter. It’s because he’s bothering me about the dream.
“That’s why I said ‘on the road’. Harrenhal isn’t the road, stupid.” Gendry replied.
“Well it’s irrelevant.” Arya said, huffing as she turned her back to him. She regretted the decision instantly, as she was now face to face with Lem, who breathed his foul breath into her face with every exhale. But she was not about to turn back around; her eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, and she was sure Gendry was wearing that concerned expression that made him look even more stupid than usual.
“What difference does it makes where you sleep anyway.” She whispered, concentrating on not waking Lem.
“Because you wake me up with your twitching in the night.” Gendry told her, and Arya flushed with embarrassment. “I never really minded, y’know, I know if I’d had a Father and I’d seen him-“
“Shut up” snapped Arya, louder than she’d anticipated. She held her breath, but Lem only snorted, took a deep breath, and continued sleeping. Gendry said nothing, and suddenly the quiet in the cave was too much, the ghost of Sansa’s scream ringing through her ears. When she could stand it no longer she said,
“How did you know it was about my Father?”
“You… you call out for him sometimes.” Gendry admitted, and another surge of embarrassment rushed over her. For a second, she thought about saying nothing more, but it was only Gendry, and it seemed she could not hide her nightmares from him even if she wanted to.
“I can still hear her,” she confessed, her voice so low that she wasn’t even certain he could hear, “my sister. Screaming.”
Gendry made no reply, but she knew he had heard, because he sucked in breaths as though he was about to speak, but could not find the words. Eventually, a muscled arm came around her middle and pulled her back; she turned just as her face met Gendry’s chest and her nose bumped against him, but not hard enough to hurt.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice muffled by his shirt.
“Hugging you. Do fine Northern ladies not know what hugs are?” he said gruffly, and she hit him on the chest, though her arms were too closely contained to put any real force behind the blow.
“Of course I do, idiot.” Jon Snow had hugged her tightly on the day he left for the Wall, and promised that he would visit when he could. That seemed an age ago. “My brothers give the best ones.”
“Good.” Gendry said, but his body had stiffened slightly. Still, he was warm, and she could feel her eyelids growing heavier as she relaxed against him.
“Lem’s going to geld me in the morning.” she heard him mutter as her eyes fluttered shut.
“Why?” she asked sleepily.
“Because I’m not your brother. Now go to sleep, milady.”
She opened her mouth to protest at the title, but all that came out was a yawn. As the sound of his quiet breathing lulled her to sleep, she decided she would chastise him in the morning.