Chapter Text
A train was not a silent place by nature, the rattle of the car and the pump of the engine were noisier companions than other travelers could hope to be, yet Gendry felt smothered by silence as the train sped him North. Arya sat beside him. The usual gleam of playful boldness about her countenance and her quick-witted turn of speech were replaced that morning with a stiff, high back. Not a word had passed between them since the conductor collected their tickets.
He wished for something to occupy him, but the rain outside fogged the windows and prevented him from perusing the countryside. He might have reread some of the paper, but Arya had snagged it after he finished and now it served as a reason for the silence to remain thick between them.
Water ran in diagonal stripes across the windowpane and he attempted to content himself by watching it in bored fascination. Each moment brought him further North than he had ever been, but he saw none of it. For at least the fifth minute in a row he swallowed a sigh, refusing to appear at all petulant. When he had imagined this moment the night before it had been full of conversation between himself and Arya, the lively, friendly sort that should accompany any two people so newly engaged. For although the arrangement and his proposal had been far from romantic, he had assumed that there would be a ready companionship between him and Miss Stark, one that would build upon the fondness that was already present in their friendship. Now he questioned if there had ever been any affection between them, or if it had all been some concoction of his own imagination, as their nearing nuptials seemed instead to be cause for a sudden aloofness.
Arya turned the page of the paper, refusing, as she had been for the past half hour, to look at him, even though she must have felt his own gaze upon her.
Frustrated with the silence, and especially about being ignored, he cleared his throat and brought up a ready topic of conversation, one with no connection to the events that would unfold in the next week.
“Did you read the story about the train crash near Saltpans? Quite tragic.”
“I don’t see why you’d like to talk about train crashes when we’re riding one,” she replied. There wasn’t anything particularly harsh or cold in her tone, but her refusal, still, to look at him spoke louder volumes.
“Well, as long as I’ve known you, you have not shied away from stories of misfortune, no matter how gory the details or awkward the context.”
A dozen of those conversations came easily to mind, instances where her voice had shined with righteousness. Now she spoke now in a low, self-conscious tone.
“I suppose I’m not much in the mood for conversation,” she admitted, folding the paper over in her lap and looking out the window before realizing there was nothing to see and her attention must at last turn to him. He admired her honesty even as her words stung.
“Are you angry with me?” He asked. His bluntness was an old habit, but he preferred it to the passively snide comments of polite society. He supposed it would not do to conceal his tendencies from his future wife.
“No,” she said, “I really am very grateful to you Mr. Waters.” She bit her lip then, and it was a long minute before she spoke again. “I suppose I am angry with the situation. And concerned for my family. I apologize if that my anger was unjustly transferred to you.”
He nodded in mute acceptance of her apology. Her words were fair, and yet his skin felt pricked, as if with a splinter he could not get out. With stiff fingers he loosened the knot of his cravat.
Arya was bending the corners of the paper with an undue concentration. Her fingers were bare, he hadn’t even bought her a ring yet, but then she might not want one, engraved with romantic notions as they were. Self-doubt rose thick up his throat as he remembered the promises he made to her not two days prior.
A dinner party hosted by the richer Lannister cousins was in concept alone enough to bitter Gendry’s mood. Mott had made him attend, as the Lannisters were some of their most important investors, and the loans of the workshop were handled through their bank. The one bright spot in the dreaded affair was that Miss Stark would be there. She had told him as much when they met for lunch along with some of her library friends the Tuesday before, and she had laughed when he said he would be glad to suffer through it with her. And suffer they would.
Which was a shame, as Gendry had come to enjoy dinner parties, so long as he could choose the company. Having the younger Seaworth brothers over, along with his cousin and Arya, made for enjoyable conversation and kept the loneliness that sometimes crept up on him at bay. On the other hand, invitations from business associates that he was forced to accept made him feel stupid and little. They spoke of people he did not know, philosophies he did not understand, all while bragging and dealing out insults under their breath.
He arrived at Dorna and Kevan Lannister’s townhouse as late as he could manage without being rude. The cocktail hour was well underway in the drawing room. After handing off his coat and hat to the waiting butler, he thrust his hands deep in his pockets, sighed indulgently through his nose, and joined the fray.
Arya was a woman of middling height, although in their current company she’d qualify as quite short. Still, he picked her out of the crowd immediately. She had the aristocratic features one would expect of a Stark, a long face, a straight, sharp nose, and attentive grey eyes. Her hair was pinned back in loose curls, their rich brown matching the color of her dress. Gendry was not attuned to the current styles, and so could not speak to her sense of fashion, but her evening dress had a clean, simple cut, made of a fabric that glimmered in the light of the sconces that lined the room.
He set a straight path for her, but he was barely through the threshold before there was a hand at his elbow, interrupting his approach. Jerking his arm away from the touch, he turned to see Lancel Lannister’s slim grin.
“Yes?” He asked, allowing his feet to shift under him to demonstrate his desire to leave.
“Well,” Lancel said, and Gendry just knew he’d be hard pressed to get the man to shut up. “I hear you’re an inventor, and I have some bang up ideas I’d like your opinion on.”
“I thought I might get a drink first,” Gendry said. He’d need it.
“Oh, of course, of course,” he said, but then continued on into a spiel about shelf-shining shoes without a clue as to how to implement the idea.
With a heavier pour of gin than his normal in hand, he began to circle the room, pretending to admire the marble busts and great bouquets, as it was easier to feign interest in them than in the conversation Lancel was making. He clung to Gendry like mud on the bottom of his shoe despite the rushed pace of his steps and clear effort to dislodge him.
Finally he caught Arya’s eye, and she smiled just for him, even when she was standing in a little circle with two gentlemen he did not know. He raised his glass to her in a makeshift greeting and felt a sense of ease and satisfaction run through him as she did the same in response.
Of course his luck was not good enough to allow him to make his way over to her without interruption. This time it was by the host of the dinner, who he could not justly brush off.
Gendry thanked him for the invitation and answered succinctly to the questions made after his health (good), social calendar (mostly empty), and opinion on the weather (colder than usual for a King’s Landing winter). Although it was evident from Kevan’s quick nods that the man wanted to conclude with the banalities and carry on with business. Gendry repeated the numbers and phrases that Mott had beat into his head before he left Friday evening, and let his natural frugalness fill in any gaps.
“Well,” Kevan said after a beat. Gendry hadn’t made him happy, but that hadn’t been the goal. “Maybe we’ll talk more after dinner, then. I have a nice brandy, you’ll like it.”
“Sure,” Gendry said, hiding his grimace in a sip of gin. He was struggling to find something benign to discuss, but was interrupted by a single voice rising over the din.
“Perhaps they’re unionizing because you force them to work ten-hour days in caves so thick with dust they can hardly breathe, with the constant threat of being trapped or crushed literally hanging over their heads,” Arya said, her assertive voice making the crystal in the chandelier ring. The room quieted, but if Arya felt the crowd of eyes resting on her, she did not show it, continuing on, “You can offer widows a nice sum and sponsor elegant funerals but that doesn’t stop men from dying under your watch. I honestly hope they strike till your coffers weep.”
A beat of silence sat in the room even as Gendry’s mouth curled in an open-mouthed smile.
“There’s no need to be so shrill,” Dorna Lannister condemned her. It was clearly not the sort of lively conversation the hostess had imagined for her party. Propriety reigned over these sorts of people, they did not know how to respond to brashness or honesty. Let alone in so public a venue. The two men who had been talking to her drifted slowly away, as if embarrassed to be seen beside her. To Gendry it seemed counterintuitive, people should be flocking to her side after that speech, but he was the only one.
“Miss Stark, I—that was a great speech.”
She shrugged, but he thought she might have been at least a little touched with the praise.
“I’m too easily frustrated,” she said, with confident self-awareness. On others it might have been a flaw, but Arya’s anger made her shine. “The only reason I didn’t feign a terrible illness tonight was because I knew you’d be here.” His chest expanded. “Couldn’t very well leave you to the lions.”
“I appreciate it. Although I suspect that headache will make its appearance tomorrow morning.”
“That would just be the gin,” Arya quipped. He smiled, admiring her daring wit. “I will just have to suffer through it in the morning for your company tonight.”
His pulse galloped, and he took a step closer to her, even if he didn’t have the excuse of a jostling crowd or being unable to hear her.
“How was the library this week?”
“Oh, well.” She lowered her voice than, taking him in her confidence as she leaned ever so slightly towards him. “It can be quite dull. I feel bad for thinking that way, because I’m so lucky to have the job, but there’s nothing creative or engaging about it.”
Gendry nodded in sympathy, his own job was quite the opposite, but he remembered the monotony of factory work, and while it had kept him fed, it hadn’t been very fulfilling.
“Well I’m sure you’re do for a promotion any month now, then you’ll be able to do proper research. You’re far too clever to be left only doing the shelving.”
Arya was just about the smartest person he knew. She’d had a proper governess growing up, and had been able to eavesdrop on the lessons her brothers had gotten from language and science tutors. Though those things weren’t what made Arya so ingenious in Gendry’s mind. Unlike the majority of her learned peers, Arya had an empathetic curiosity. She liked learning about new people and read books from far off places.
The day they had met, when Arya had come to the workshop on some errand from Alysanne College’s library, she had peppered him with questions that had at first annoyed him. He had answered though, and Arya had listened, her responses always considerate. It was that consideration that had pressed him to ask if she would like to develop their acquaintance. Certainly one of his better ideas of the past year.
“We shall see,” Arya said, not sounding very convinced. Gendry was not one for displays of empty optimism, he genuinely believed Arya’s fortunes in her employment would soon improve.
“And if not I’m sure you’ll know who to harass to get your due recognition.”
Arya laughed, her face taking on the gentle flush it always did when her smile grew big enough. For a moment he was once again forced to consider if it would be one of his better ideas to ask Arya Stark to court him.
The bell rang for dinner, and Gendry huffed at the interruption. His hopes that they might be seated beside each other were swiftly dashed. He focused his attentions on the soup course, which was annoyingly delicious, and responded to Dorna Lannister’s inquiries into his social life with huffs and monosyllables. At least a dozen glances in Arya’s direction were stolen during the course, and it was that keen sense he had of her that ensured he saw what happened next.
The dishes were carried away by a veritable army of maids when the butler slipped in among them, whispered into Arya’s ear, and handed her a telegram. She read it under the table, then stood in a rush and hurried out of the dining room, the deep brown of her dress blending in with the blacks and greys worn by the women under the Lannister’s employ.
Gendry stretched his neck to watch her departure. In private, or more intimate settings, Arya was much freer with her moods and emotions. It was uncharacteristic of her to act so unreservedly at a Lannister dinner, an environment that bordered on hostile.
In anxious impatience, Gendry picked at the dirt under his fingernails. Several dozen times he had been told it was a habit unbecoming of a gentleman. He did not care, as it was the only thing that soothed his nerves as the room cleared and Arya still had yet to reappear.
Five or so minutes had passed, the entrée had arrived, and still she had yet to return. Most of their dinner companions seemed not to have noticed her extended leave. Perhaps they had forgotten her already.
When the short fuse of his patience finally burned out, he excused himself in a gruff whisper that the person to his left hardly recognized.
He found her in the foyer, frantically searching through the coat closet. Her hair, which had not been perfectly coifed to begin with, was now even further in disarray. There was pink in her cheeks too, the blotchy kind that came with extreme cold or anger, so different from the color a smile gave her.
“Miss Stark are you alright?”
“I can’t find my damn coat!”
She slammed the door to the coat closet. The noise echoed under the high ceiling of the Lannister town house and summoned a maid with distressed eyes.
“Find Miss Stark’s coat, please,” he said, and she went off like a dart. Arya pressed a hand to her mouth, her gaze following where the maid had run up the stairs, as if in sudden embarrassment at her own behavior. He longed to touch her, to place a gentle hand on her shoulder, but she was a lady of high class and he could not. Instead he kept his voice low and his face soft. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
Arya bit her lip. Her hand shook. She still held the telegram, crumpled to near illegibility. For a moment she looked at her hands in consideration and, saying nothing, she handed it to him. It turned out not to be hard to read at all.
YOUR BROTHER HAS RUINED US. COME HOME. - MOTHER
Questions piled on his tongue, each of them hazardous and bitter. But his mouth hadn’t the opportunity to form words before Arya explained.
“We have no money,” she whispered. “Winterfell stopped having tenants fifty years ago. My grandfather had to sell the land, we have no source of income. My mother and sister are both widows, and Bran’s doctor bills... Robb swore—Robb swore that his venture would provide for them, but now…”
She shook her head, and inhaled a thick, watery breath. Gendry had thought he knew her quite well, but never had she so much as implied that the Starks might be wanting for a few pennies. It must have been a closely guarded secret. He found himself at a loss, confounded by the admission.
“Your coat, Miss.” It was the maid retuned. “Dinner’s been served Mr. Waters.”
“Right,” he said, knowing he was being rude as he dismissed the maid with a nod, and not caring much. How could the Starks, a noble line stretching back literal millennia, have no money, yet he, a bastard nobody from Fleabottom, could make his fortune in less than a year? He watched as Arya slipped her coat on, her movements stiff and jerky and marked by distress, and he was struck suddenly with the notion that he could help her.
“Would you take a loan?”
She paused for a moment, bowed her head, and bit her lip.
“You’re really too kind, but my family has already accrued too many debts, I couldn’t add to the burden. I have to go home.”
He was about to insist, to declare that he wouldn’t charge her interest, that she could pay him back in intervals, but her big grey eyes rose to meet his and he knew suddenly that she was much braver than him, perhaps more stubborn too. There was a great deal of pride in the set of her shoulders and he knew any further offer would only insult her.
She sighed and buttoned her coat. His heart ticked, announcing the scarce minutes he had left with her. And as much as he mourned for the misfortunes of her family, a selfish part of him sorrowed too, at the loss of her from his company. Taking strength from her own bravery, he was bold and took her left hand in his. Of course, she did not wear gloves, even in winter, and the feel of her skin was electrifying and heartening all at once.
“Would you marry me?”
He had shocked her, but only a bit more than he had shocked himself. Although he had always presumed he would marry, even in the days when he hadn’t two coppers to rub together, it had always been a notion that felt for the far-off future. Even when he had grown to a marriageable age, and accrued his wealth to become, at first a decent, and then a desirable prospect, the practical thought of it had only occurred to him just now.
“Mr. Waters—”
“Please Miss Stark, you must know that I consider you a dear friend, that I’m quite fond of you, as I’ve come to believe you are of me. If our marriage could help you, and I know it could, then why shouldn’t we marry?”
Arya’s fingers curled around his own, with such strength that her grip hurt, but it didn’t seem as if she was even aware of it. Her eyes looked past him. Uncertainty was fresh in the air. Gendry refused to interrupt the thoughts circling through Arya’s mind, afraid that if he so much as sighed too deeply she would flinch away from him.
Chatter from the dining room drifted past, and yet the room seemed silent as Gendry’s heart second-guessed its every beat.
“Yes.”
With a placid solemnity, Arya Stark nodded her head and promised to become his wife.