A Furious Thing

King's Landing In Turmoil

After that, Arya wasn't entirely sure what to do with herself. Nothing had ever felt this bad before, nothing had ever felt this much like a hole in her heart. It infuriated her, how bereft she could feel, considering how quickly she'd fallen for that stupid, handsome, prince. Her way back to the stands was slow, meandering, as she tried to get a hold on her feelings. Funny, wasn't it, that she'd lived longer without Gendry than with him, and still, it felt like a part of her had been torn away.

There was relief there, the knowledge that she wasn't putting her life at risk each time she met him in the dark, and sorrow. But those were two very apparent things in her mind. It was the underlying feelings, the ones she held close to her, not daring to let them meet the light of day, that troubled her. The rage she felt, the utter indignation. She'd only just realized that...that she loved Gendry Baratheon, Gods damn it. And this life wasn't fair, the life of a bastard girl. Indeed, the life of any girl was not a fair one.

She missed the melee in her melancholy. Arya found herself oddly upset about it, mayhaps a bit too upset- although didn't she have reason to be?-, picking up from the smallfolk surrounding the spot she'd nabbed for herself that it had been a close competition, with Yohn Royce managing a victory against nearly four-and-forty other men, wearing his ancient bronze armour proudly.

She watched Jon thoroughly trounce a weasley Frey when it was his time, watched Loras Tyrell win against each opponent put to him, and she watched the crowd bet furiously on each bout and the Tourney at large.

Sansa was up in the stands, near the King's seat, cheering uproariously for Jon and Edric while Margaery sat beside her, supporting her own brother with a voice rising in volume. They looked so pretty up there, all those lords and ladies, like nothing in the world had ever troubled them, and not for the first time, Arya envied them, hated them, resented all that these highborns had.

And then she had to laugh, because really, hadn't she been blessed as well? Growing up in a castle with lords and a lady, being taught by the same Maester, eating the same food, living the same life. Compared to the bastards down in Flea Bottom, Arya had the same charmed life as all those over-stuffed lords. She didn't know if that made her feel better or worse.

That night at supper the table chattered happily. Jon had advanced to the second day- he looked absolutely miserable about that- as had Edric, and Sansa was quick to shower praise on them both. Catelyn even looked happy, face flushed and smiling at her children. Arya could hardly bear all the cheer in the room as she quickly shoveled food into her mouth. The archery contest would be just after the crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty, and Arya was trying to keep up her strength so she might walk away with the purse. Plus, at the moment, she was feeling a nudge reckless, and wouldn't mind making a spectacle.

It was the realization that she was inches from shouting at all of them that rushed Arya to bed, and her dreams were disturbing that night. Images of her own head on a pike on Traitor's Walk, and Gendry draping a Baratheon cloak about pretty Margaery's slim shoulders made any true rest impossible, and she woke with the dawn.

Mayhaps 'twas fate that saw her out in the training yard the same time as him, but Arya suspected it might have been the cruel hand of one of the gods, Old or New.

It wasn't Gendry- if it had been, she had no idea what she might have done. No, it was the King standing in the morning fog, an odd sight, considering Arya had safely assumed that the man rarely rose before noon. He noticed her immediately, unfortunately, and a small, sad smile spread across chubby cheeks. He didn't look like the drunken, whoring fool she knew he was, just an old man, and Arya felt herself softening towards him, just for a second. It was the only reasons she didn't retreat immediately back to the Tower of the Hand.