After Arya Stark killed the Night King, the Six Kingdoms returned to a period of summer. The air was heavy and heady; fruit grew heavy on vine and tree. Storm's End was aptly named, Gendry had learned. The day had dawned cloudy and thunder rumbled along the sky.

It had been nearly two years since The Battle of Winterfell and The Battle of King's Landing. King Brandon Stark, known to most who knew him before he wore the crown as simply Bran, was still repairing the city.

But Queen In the North, Sansa Stark, had succeeded in restoring Winterfell to its former glory. To celebrate the restoration, she was inviting everyone in the Six Kingdoms and beyond who had helped to defend Winterfell against the army of the dead to a celebration feast.

Or so Gendry had heard. He had yet to receive a raven with his invitation, despite being Lord of Storm's End and one of the defenders that dreadful night.

It was not so much that he wanted to be considered in the Northern Queen's good graces so much as he wanted to see if she was there. This was the driving thought that had him returning to his solar any chance he got, to check for a raven.

Gendry was doing just that, pulling his riding gloves from his hands as he approached the doors. He had just returned from the hunt, which he had learned he rather enjoyed. Felling the hearty stag deer that was his house sigil was a great way to keep his people fed, and it was a great distraction for him.

"Heward," he called out to his page boy, not having looked up from tucking his gloves into his belt.

"Not quite. I suppose I can do a page's job, though. You've a new raven, inviting you to my sister's feast."

That voice, her voice, stopped Gendry dead in his tracks. He blinked his eyes tightly shut before opening them, sure he was dreaming. Somehow, he found the strength to swing his head upward.

Sitting at his writing desk was Arya Stark. His eyes roamed over her, drinking her in. The sun and sea salt had tanned her skin and streaked her hair. A smirk played at her lips. The feather quill she held nearly brushed those lips as she rolled it back and forth between her fingers.

"I hope you don't mind, but I've already wrote a reply for us."

"Us?" He asked numbly, stupidly. His voice hardly carried any sound.

"Yes. I lost my own invitation while sailing back. Sea storms are serious business... I should have listened better to Theon's stories when I was younger."

"You're going to the feast?" Gendry finally found use of his legs, taking a step toward her. Arya opened her mouth to reply, but something caught her attention. Something on the other side of his desk, something on the floor. She bent at the waist, nearly ducking from his view.

"No, Ned," she scolded rather than answering his question. "Not everything can go in your mouth."

When Arya straightened, she was settling the weight of a child on her lap. A little boy, with a mop of wild black curls atop his head and rosy apple cheeks.

Gendry thought he might fall to the floor then and there. On shaky knees, he made himself walk forward, bracing his hands on the desk once he reached it. Arya held his gaze the entire time.

"His name is Ned, after my father. He's just had his first name day at sea before we landed."

Clutched in Little Ned's pudgy hand was a wooden carving of a deer. It bore teeth marks here and there. Apparently, there were some things Arya allowed this child to put in his mouth.

"Arya..." Gendry wasn't even sure what he intended to say. His head was spinning, so he shook it in an effort to clear it. Little Ned picked up his head to give Gendry a tentative smile, and he realized the child had Arya's gray eyes. "Ned... what?"

"Well," Arya paused, smoothing her hand over the baby's head. "As far as I know, there's no name for children born out of wedlock on the Sunset Sea. I do know you can count and find the sum of figures, though, my Lord Gendry."

She raised her eyes to meet his again, quirking one of her eyebrows. Just above it, he noticed a silvery scar, one he recognized from a wound she had after the battle.

"Do you mean...?"

Arya smirked again, clearly amused. "You're full of questions today. I've been calling him Stark, but I think we both know that's not quite right."

"Why didn't you come back?" He couldn't stop himself asking. "Arya, why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't realize, until I had already been at sea for months. It's hard to notice, when you're recovering from battles and sailing rough waters. I thought that was what made me tired and seasick...I was wrong, as you can see."

That hardly answered his question, but Arya went on, running her fingers through Little Ned's curls. "I had made such a fuss over going. All those things I said to you, and your proposal. How could I come back?"

"So you had him at sea."

"And he's grown up at sea. He's only had one name day, but he's already seen more of the world than most people do before they die. He likes songs and being held and his first word was 'fish', because he loves to be held over the railings to watch them."

She took a deep, shuddering breath here.

"I think it goes without saying that he's yours," a hard swallow, "if you'll have him."

Suddenly, Gendry felt years away, years younger. He was standing in the forest again, with Arya begging him not to leave.

I could be your family.

"Can I hold him?"

A sigh of relief nearly mad Arya deflate. She lifted Little Ned from her lap, passing him across the table and into Gendry's arms. He settled the weight of the boys, his boy, and held him close.

Little Ned gave him another smile, patting his hand against his shoulder. Then the boy looked back, fixing his gaze on Arya.

"Mama?"

She nodded at him, and Little Ned turned forward again, resting his head in the crook where Gendry's neck met his shoulder. Gendry's eyes fell shut, warding off the tears at holding his son for the first time.

"He knows you. I told him stories every night, since the day he was born."

Cradling Little Ned's head with his hand, Gendry leaned forward over the desk. He needed both his arms to hold onto the solid, warm weight of his son, but Arya understood. She always had.

She was out of his chair in a moment, leaning toward to meet him, her hands cupping his face. He kissed her with this child of theirs caught between them.

"You're the only family I ever had," he told her when they parted away from each other. Little Ned's weight in his arms contradicted that statement. "Until now, anyway."

A/N: Can't stop, won't stop writing Gendrya. I do have to give credit where its due. I saw a Tumblr post referencing something along the lines of this, and I got inspired. Credit it to the author of that post, even though I don't remember their username. I just need to live in a world where this could be a possibility for Arya and Gendry, okay? Okay.