A Furious Thing

When Dragons Attack and Tragedy Strikes: An Interlude

Arya was taking the shortcut through the royal wing to the kitchen in search of something sweet when she saw Margaery Tyrell leaning rather heavily against the smooth stones of the wall. She could see no way to avoid the lad, so she took the initiative.

"My lady?" she said, announcing her presences along with posing a subtle question- what are you doing? it said.

Margaery looked up quickly, face smoothing. Arya hadn't exactly caught the previous expression, and she cursed her inattention.

Still, she admired the girl's ability to hide her emotions. She knew she had no such ability. In fact, Kira had remarked earlier that day that Arya looked rather scared, and when she'd tried to rid her face of the expression, the other girl said that now she just looked like she was in pain.

"Hello, Arya. How are you?" she asked politely.

"Fine, my lady. And you?"

"Absolutely fantastic," she answered easily, but their was a knowing look passed between the two of them. Both of them recognized that it wasn't true. "Though, I have just come from a meal with Queen Cersei. That was...not as fantastic."

Arya couldn't help the smile on her face, but the other girl shared her amusement. Treason was not so worrisome when it was shared.

"I'm sorry to hear that, My lady," she replied.

"Yes. Well, I really must speak to my grandmother. I'll leave you to get on your way,"

Arya nodded and Margaery swept off. She stared after her for a moment, but soon she was reminded of her grumbling stomach. She resumed her walk to the kitchens, and, fortunately enough, met no one else.

The cook reluctantly handed over a particularly stale berry tart when Arya asked, but he was quick to turn her away when she asked for something to share with her direwolf.

"I cook for the King of the Seven Kingdoms, not your bloody hound, girl," he hissed.

Arya scrunched up her nose at him. "She's not a hound. She's a direwolf!"

"Aye. You damn Northerners and your wild beasts. The maids won't shut up about those damn dragons attacking the countryside, but they ignore your giant beasts roaming the grounds."

With a huff and a roll of her eyes, Arya left the kitchen as abruptly as she'd come in. The cook was just a bitter old man. She doubted anyone else cared half as much as he did. Nymeria wasn't dangerous, not like a dragon. She was a good girl.

War was hard enough for the men who fought in it. But the people who suffered in silence were the smallfolk. It was their homes that were being ravaged by dragon fire, their livelihoods being ruined by the merciless looting of the Dothraki.

Gendry detested seeing his people's suffering, but, since the arrival of the bulk of the Lannister forces, since his grandfather's arrival, he hadn't been able to protect them as much as he would have liked.

Tywin had always been Gendry's least favorite Lannister- Uncle Tyrion was his favorite, Uncle Jaime his second favorite, and his mother third- but there was a mutual respect between the two of them. Gendry recognized his grandfather's wisdom, and Tywin acknowledged that Gendry wasn't as much of an idiot as his father or Joffrey. Still, the old man wasn't exactly kind. He spared no thought to the farms he razed, only thinking of ridding the Targaryen men of resources.

Gendry had never seen such carnage. He'd never realized just how sheltered his childhood had been, because war was frightening. He was not too proud to admit that. He imagined himself telling Arya that he was afraid of battle, watching her stare at him like he was mad, even while she wished she could take his place. She was filled with bravery. He needed that dearly now.