Chapter Text
If Arya hadn’t known its true purpose perhaps she might have enjoyed the tourney. Knowing, however, that she was as much a spectacle as the joust had somewhat put a dampener on the festivities.
Mostly she was irritated with herself for not seeing the trap as it was sprung. When the Frey and Bolton rebellions had finally been put down and the roads were safe again she had looked forward to travelling the North, or at least hoped for some visitors that weren’t quite so boring as the stiff lords and ladies that Winterfell usually hosted. Hope was all she’d had.
And a tourney? Well, she may not have been hung up in the romantic tales of courtly love and chivalrous feats as Sansa had been, but she and Bran and Rickon had always enjoyed watching a well ridden tilt. When they had been children they would sit on the fences and watch the jousting from there, perched high enough to see over the crowd. After the conclusion of the match they’d scramble down and pick up splintered wood from the broken lances and keep them as trophies and Arya had gotten in trouble for poking Sansa’s backside with hers more than once.
She hadn’t expected they’d still be allowed to sit on the fence, of course, but she hadn’t counted on being forced into her finest gown and made to sit in the stands where people could appraise her the whole time. Under such a close watch, it was absolutely inappropriate for her to stand and shout for her favorite riders or, indeed, to show any emotion other than polite boredom or a dramatic swoon if there was any blood to be seen.
The lords and ladies never left her be. She’d had dozens of introductions, thwarted numerous would-be suitors, and poorly feigned interest in more conversations than she could count. She had very quickly understood why so many of the maids in stories locked themselves in towers. At least she could be alone in a tower.
No, this tourney hadn’t been about renewing Northern loyalties- it had been about forging new ones. Through marriage.
Bran and Rickon hadn’t been spared similar attention. They seemed to be enjoying it a sight more than she, the traitors. Even father’s bannerman Howland Reed had made a rare appearance from the marshlands with his own two children, Meera and Jojen, though as the two were regularly fostered at Winterfell seeing them wasn’t so unusual. Meera hadn’t been made to wear a stupid gown, though, and Arya was a bit cross at the lack of solidarity.
Still, there was one thing to be said about the marriage plot- plenty of distractions for her companions. Father had gone to talk to someone or other and Rickon had been drawn away by a buxom brunette that was far too old for him. She knew an opportunity when she saw it.
Arya had shoved her way out of the feast tent in her haste to escape, dodging conversations like they were loosed arrows.
Finally, she broke free of the crowd and found herself standing in the trampled down grass of the festival grounds and blessedly alone. With her skirts hitched to her knees she darted behind brightly colored tents, grateful that they provided cover and hung their sigils outside so she could avoid any likely to house a Stark who might haul her back to her place at the head table.
She hadn’t been overly mindful of the direction she was headed. Partly because she didn’t care as long as it was away and partly because she’d had precious little opportunity to figure out her bearings in her walks between the lists and the feast tents. So she followed the sounds of metal clashing and the smell of horse and hoped it would prove more interesting than the plate of lamb she’d left behind.
When she’d gone by a man passed out face down on the ground with his wine still in his hand and not a drop spilled she knew she’d picked the right direction. Here she wasn’t the only one dodging in and out of tents- a squealing, giggly woman with bare breasts and her very large paramour had nearly taken down a tent in Umber colors in their haste to get back inside.
Arya supposed that most of the knights were at the feast or, like the Umber man, were already whoring or drinking, though their squires and grooms had remained to tend the horses and polish an endless pile of armor. Three years ago she would have stopped to chat with these men, but now that she was a woman grown she’d found she had less patience for friendly conversation with men who only sought to stare down the neck of her gown when she spoke.
Soon enough she found herself standing at the far end of the loop of knight’s tents. She was considering stepping into the brush to see if she couldn’t loosen her stays a bit before the walk back when she realized she wasn’t alone.
At first she thought him a squire, but his squire sat by the fire poking a pan of fried trout with a stick with one hand and polishing a bull’s head helm with the other. And she’d never seen a groom quite so…well. He didn’t look like a groom.
Arya took note of the familiar blue and white colors of his tent and the banner hammered into the ground outside. The Arryn falcon and moon flew there, and she vaguely remembered something her father had said about wanting to be certain to see this particular man ride, as he had wagered a few gold dragons on a bet with someone. This was Ser… Waters, something Waters. The Bull, they called him, the knight that had led the reinforcements from the Vale during the rebellion. Father and Robb had spoken of him often.
She had pictured some giant man like Greatjon, what with a name like the Bull. He was certainly tall and broad and muscled- quite, she noted, as he was currently shirtless- but he didn’t look old enough to be some war hero knight tasked with leading anyone’s reinforcements. He was probably only Jon and Robb’s age, she decided. She still had trouble thinking of her brothers as men rather than the boys she had trailed around the training yard.
This one, though, was very undeniably a man. Arya surveyed the bulging muscles of his shoulders and chest with an appreciation she usually reserved only for fine steel, the ridges of his abdomen disappearing under a pair of low slung cotton breeches that pulled a bit too snug across his powerful thighs, toned and strong from riding.
Sansa and Jeyne Poole would have giggled about him for hours, but they were both wed now and if they still giggled about knights she wouldn’t know. Thank the gods.
Arya watched the way those distracting muscles worked when he swept the brush he held over the coat of his horse, a solid grey stallion that gleamed like a mirror in the dying sunlight. He was talking cheerfully to the horse in a low voice while the animal chewed a mouthful of grass and after a moment he tossed down his brush to knuckle the sweat from his brow.
When he turned to ask his squire when the fish would be ready Arya found herself looking into bright blue eyes, a contrast to the dark untidy hair that fell over his forehead in a black shock.
The two of them seemed caught there for an instant, her openly staring at him and his sentence unfinished, the words dead on his lips. Belatedly, she realized she still had her skirts hiked up and let them fall, but if he had noticed he gave no indication. His eyes remained steadily locked to her own.
She suddenly felt the unfamiliar urge to tug at her gown and make sure it was hanging straight. A flush- was that a flush she felt? - crept to her cheeks and a knot had settled somewhere in the region of her ribcage, tightening in an anxious flutter.
And then he’d made the mistake of speaking, and her irritation overtook whatever that flutter might have been.
“Are you lost, my lady?”
She bristled with outrage at his concerned tone. Lost. She didn’t get lost; she wasn’t some highborn lady that had never ventured outside the gardens where she did her needlework. She started to retort, something bold and vulgar that would make her mother weep to hear it come from her daughter’s lips- but then she remembered that this was her Uncle Jon’s man, and it was certain to get back to mother if she did. And she didn’t really want to hear her mother weeping about her use of language.
“No, thank you, I’ve only gone on a walk. To admire the horses, if it pleases you.” she covered, stepping closer to the grey stallion to add credence to her hasty lie.
“Oh, by all means,” he offered, holding his arms out in welcome. “His name is Steel. He’s quite gentle.”
The destrier stood lazily and let her scratch his withers, unconcerned with her so long as his master was nearby.
“He’s an unusual color.” Steel was a flat silvery grey unmarked by dappling like most horses of his color. With his dark mane and tail he looked a bit like a very pretty donkey, but even Arya wouldn’t dare to insult a man’s horse.
“I’m told he has some distant Sand Steed blood, my lady?-” he paused, waiting for her to give her surname.
“Snow. I am Jeyne Snow.”
He dropped into a half bow. “Ser Gendry of the Vale, though you might know me as the Bull. Do you like to ride?”
He flinched awkwardly at his unintentional double entendre and Arya almost laughed in his face. She did both of them a favor and ignored it.
“I ride some. No horses like this, though.”
A metallic clang offered a momentary distraction, and Arya glanced at the helm that his squire had finished polishing and put aside noisily, the curved horns glinting in the setting sun. The rest of his plate was a dark grey color, enameled with a few blue lines and whorls in honor of house Arryn, she imagined. Though plain by many standards Arya found that she quite liked the simplicity.
“Your armor and caparisons are very fine.” she complimented truthfully.
Ser Gendry must have liked that, because he drew himself up a bit taller. “I was an armorer’s apprentice before I began my squiring.”
A blacksmith knight? Well, better than some boring lordling, she supposed. Gendry had leaned over the back of his horse and prepared to launch into his life’s story, but Arya was spared by his squire’s pan of fish, which was apparently getting quite cold while Ser was chatting. The lad seemed quite irritated by the offense.
“In a moment, Hot Pie.” he growled.
She thought he was announcing the menu, but from the answering grunt she surmised that the squire was called Hot Pie.
“Would you care to sup with us? It’s meager fare, I’m afraid, but there’s enough for three.” offered Gendry, though Hot Pie- who was a very round young man-made a distressed noise at the invitation.
“Oh. Well,” Arya desperately wanted to refuse, but the trout smelled delicious, and she hadn’t eaten any of the lamb she’d abandoned at the feast. Her mouth was watering. “If you’re sure.”
Gendry emerged from the tent a moment later and she noted regretfully that he’d found a shirt. He also carried a jug of mead and a cushion to spare her dress, but Arya was already seated on the ground next to the fire with her sleeves rolled up, worrying the bones out of her fish with her fingers. The squire was glaring at her and Gendry was staring in a peculiar fashion-she didn’t care, let him stare and wonder what sort of woman she was. She’d only wanted a bit of that trout. And some mead, too, to wash it down.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t any wine.” Gendry offered, topping off her wooden cup.
“I prefer mead, truthfully.”
Three cups of mead later and Arya was studying the square cut of his jaw far too closely to claim any subtlety. With his dark hair he looked on the verge of sprouting a full beard even fresh shaved. He was ruggedly, unfairly handsome, she had decided, his size and strength an amusing contrast to the way he looked over at her, half shy like a green boy might.
Carnal knowledge had never felt quite so close.
About the time she’d started thinking of words to describe his lips- she’d gotten stuck on sensual- her father had strolled by. Arya shrank into the shadow of the large squire and her father nearly missed her, but she was caught when he recognized the heralds of the tent and called a greeting to Ser Gendry of the Vale and noticed her shirking in the dim light. ‘Jeyne Snow’ had no choice but to come forward.
Her father had stopped looking angry at her years ago. He usually just looked weary.
“Arya? There you are! I’ve got Bran and Rickon scouring the grounds for you.” scolded her father, the lines in his forehead deepening along with his scowl.
Gendry looked between the two of them very rapidly, the moment of comprehension clearly visible. “I’m sorry my lord, I didn’t intend to keep your daughter from your company.”
At least he’s heard of me thought Arya. She got some small degree of satisfaction from her minor infamy.
“Oh, the fault was mine.” she offered. Both of them were looking at her suspiciously. Gods, what did they want her to say? This was why she didn’t bother with useless formalities.
“I thank you for keeping her safe, Gendry.”
Arya didn’t bother hiding her eye roll. Kept her safe from what? The only menace she’d faced was his squire when she’d eaten a share of his supper. “Good luck tomorrow in the joust. We’ll be watching from the stands at the left of the Manderlys, I’m sure it would please my sons to meet you before your turn. If you have a moment, of course.” Ned continued.
Gendry inclined his head graciously. “I shall be sure to introduce myself, my Lord.”