imjustasmith said:
Can i ask for any of these two (or both *heart eyes*). aryaxgendry. This stranger on the street corner looks like they’re severely unprepared for this cold weather, here, take my scarf, I was planning on donating it to goodwill anyway. // Waiting in a holding cell together for our friends to bail us out and you’re unexpectedly cool. // THANK YOU!!.
he takes one look at her and groans because she’s going to get into so much trouble here. he can just tell. it’s not his first time in lockup, and it’s not his first time with a girl who’s clearly from the northside of the tracks. she’ll be crying and begging for her father to come bail her out in less than half an hour, and that’s if the assholes down the row take a little while to notice her.
he’s not a gentleman. never has been. he’s spent his fair share of time with girls who tell him that chivalry should be dead because it’s fucking gross. but all the same, he sits down next to her because he’s the least of her worries in here.
“don’t try it,” she says, and her voice is dark.
“try what?” he asks, surprised.
“saying that you’ll keep me safe or whatever. i can take care of myself.” in that short dress, he’s not sure she can, but he’ll at least pretend to– “and don’t you go pretending that you’re taking me seriously. i’m your worst nightmare, trust me.” he watches her. her eyes are dark, and her mascara’s running a bit, and he’s pretty sure that she is doing that thing small dogs do where they bark a lot and loudly to make you scared of them. she’s certainly small. smaller than him. everyone’s smaller than him.
“fine,” he says. “i’ll just sit then.”
and he does. he ignores her, or makes a show of it, anyway. he does keep an eye on the guys down the line and they think that the two of them are together and piss off, because he’s big and they don’t want to start shit.
“who’s bailing you?” he asks her after a while.
“my brother,” she says, grudgingly. he nods.
“you?”
he’s not sure. he’d left a message with willow and jeyne, but who knows if they were even still awake. “cousins,” he lies. her eyes narrow slightly, as if she, like a small dog, or a normal sized dog, could smell the lie. “dunno. left a message with some mates. hope they’ll be along.”
“arya stark?” calls one of the cops, and she–arya–gets to her feet.
“good luck,” she says.
“thanks,” he hears himself saying.
arya stark, he thinks.
it’s a pretty name.