I had to writte this before continuing with my Queen of Love and Beauty story. I'm writing the whole story so that I won't get tangled in unnecesary details. This was supposed to be the epilogue of it, but it seems I've changed my mind, so I still wanted this story to appear.

Yeah... mostly GendryxArya

Blue flower of spring

Death

Winterfell, cold, dead, dark Winterfell.

The place where it all ended; The place Gendry despised the most, the place he was bond to come back to over and over through the years that were left of his life; The place where her body lay, beautiful, unscathed by the passing of time.

His boots dug into the snow as he passed through the abandoned houses, shelters and forges that were once filled with people preparing for war. After The Greatest Snowfall ended and the Wolf-Brothers parted to join the spirits of their family in the journey of the Ancient Souls, there was nothing left in the Northern Lands; nothing but icy, sharp-cutting silence and the ghosts of battles and deaths. With time, even the Wildling Folk, who had sworn eternal loyalty to their Great Commander Snow Defeater of Death, abandoned the land, in hopes of escaping the eternal atmosphere of melancholy. Only the Crows who survived the Greatest Snowfall were still there, watchfully protecting the graves of their saviours, faithful till the end, their ancient eyes still narrowing at the frozen landscape beyond the ruins of what used to be The Wall, permanently expecting the White Walkers or the Great North would return. One day they would certainly do so, but Gendry hoped that day was far away and neither he nor his children would have to be there to see it.

The huge silhouette of the weirwood the Greenseer Bran Stark had planted as a protection against the Others indicated Gendry that he was close to the Stark's resting place. And despite of the bitterness that overwhelmed him, he quickened his pace.

Memories started building up in the back of his mind. He barely remembered Bran Stark, the Life Whisperer. He remembered him as cripple, a lean, weak boy, with the eyes of an eldest man. The words that came out of his mouth sounded like the rustle of autumn leaves. He barely ate and tended to be constantly sick. Still, he was the wisest man Gendry had ever met. He died not so long after the end of the war, the first one, consumed by the fever, holding onto the cries of his siblings, anxious of joining his father in the Great Journey of the Old Spirits.

The Great Commander Snow was the next one to die. Like his brother, he wasn't scared of death. Gendry remembered Jon Snow better than Bran, for he fought aside him during the long years of war. Jon was a hardened man; he had inherited his mother's features, just like his girl cousin; harsh and raw, yet beautiful. He and Arya were one: pale face, flowing, dark-brown locks, in their eyes the sadness and pain of the lost ones, in their heart the fire of a thousand pyres lighting up the Long Night of Westeros. Unlike his Stark relatives, Jon had had a choice. He could have fled death and join his real sister the Dragon Queen in her flight to the Drought Lands, but he chose to stay. Gendry would never forget the painful expression that was plastered on the Dragon Queen's face when her brother chose to die. The ice caught him, and when his body was found, he had the same calm expression as Bran.

After Commander Snow's death Benjen and Lord Rickon parted to the Shadow Lands by their own choice. Escorted by the great shadow of Rickon's direwolf and the silent wings of Bran's guardian crows they left the land of the humans, their fate uncertain.

Gendry had seen Lady Sansa, the Eagle of the Valley, only once; the day of her burial. She had asked her body was taken to Winterfell, to rest next to her siblings. Her beauty wasn't as devastating as her sister's; it was as smooth as a flower's. Her force and motherly care had saved the Valley and Riverrun from dying of hunger and cold. Around the land, people congregated to escort the Last Flower of Winter on her journey to her resting place; men, women, children, sinners, saints. Through the corner of his eyes, Gendry had seen the dark shadow of a broad, silent figure. He walked, a few steps away from the caravan, half of his face scarred by terrible burns, black hair hiding his suffering eyes from the public, a hound dog, following the path of the only woman he had ever loved.

When Lady Sansa, the Eagle of the Valley, died giving birth to her third child, Arya knew it was her turn. The prophecy had told her so. Your Sister will give birth to three children; your mortal eyes shall see the last one, before they shut forever. As Arya took the baby from the arms of her burned, broad friend, her heart fell to pieces and she started to cry silently, like she had never cried in many years. It was the first and last time the people of Westeros would see the Moonlight of the Long Night cry.

Love

Arya was the last one left, and maybe because of people's praying and pleadings to the gods, she lasted more than she expected to last. She wasn't afraid of death. She said it once: the god of blood and darkness had been her friend, mentor, lover and husband. Still, she was torn between joining the ones that waited for her in the Shadow Lands and the ones she had to leave in the land of the mortal souls.

One more year Gendry had after that; one more year of holding his beloved in his arms, one more year of warm, passionate, sweet love. She belonged with him, she always had. Even before they were both born, their souls had been tangled, engaged, looking for each other through the times. She was his breath of life. He had been born the day he met her misty eyes.

For you shall be my lady love and I shall be your lord,

I'll always keep you warm and safe and guard you with my sword.

It was the blood. The blood drained from her body like on a sick joke; an old, healing scar that opened her skin and bled for days, nights, moons. She said it was payback for the blood that permanently stained her hands. As she felt her life drifting away she asked one last thing of Gendry.

"Home, take me home." She had said. "Take me to the icy walls and stark frozen forests of my childhood. Let me see the last lights of sunrise set on the border of the endless ice." That same night they rode, as quick as they could, towards the frozen North. Two days and nights it took to arrive, hardly stopping for food or rest. As the black horse crossed the land in a fierce race, villagers came out of their houses, lords and ladies out of their fortresses, thieves made way for the beast to pass; wildlings kneeled and lowered their heads with respect. The whole Westeros, transformed into one, mourned and hummed silently the death of his Moonlight.

They reached the ruins of the Wall by the end of the third day; Gendry carried the girl in his arms, for she was too weak to walk by herself. She had lost a lot of blood during the ride, despite of Gendry's constant care. She was agonizing; the last drops of blood her body had left fell and froze before reaching the white ground.

The pale, cold sun was setting on the horizon of the west, vaguely shading the sky with a scarlet light. It could have never compared to a summer's sunset. But Arya didn't mind. Her eyes roamed the land, melancholy building up in her face. She rested her head against Gendry's shoulder while they silently sat there.

"I had a dream of spring." She suddenly whispered. "Flowers, blue flowers, growing all over my grave, filling the air with sweetness, bringing life back to the land." her voice dropped. Gendry forced himself to look at her face without breaking completely. He should have thanked her, for everything she had given him. "The sun is almost gone." She smiled weakly.

"I know." He said softly, burying his face in her hair. They both raised their heads as the sound of distant howls reached them. "Wolves... they've come to pick you up." He heard her hum at his statement. Her breathing became slow and hard.

"Both my children... I'll be watching over them..." he suffocated his sobs in her hair, tears falling down his face. Her hand clutched his, pleading him to stop. "And... when the time comes... you shall join me again... but not today... and not... too... soon..."

Her eyes dropped and her breathing stopped, mixing in the cold breeze, carrying her spirit across the wind to the place where the souls of her ancestors waited for her. The howls of wolves stopped and Gendry cringed to her lifeless body until night fell and his bones started to ache from the cold.

The Night's Watch took care of the lifeless body as Gendry approached Castle Black with her on his arms. They made sure to bury her next to her siblings. Gendry took one last kiss from her cold lips before her body was taken away and prepared for the funeral ritual.

Now, 6 years later, standing over the grave of his dead wife, Gendry let his memories come and go, as he watched the statue of the beautiful woman. He wondered if he had committed the same mistake his father made, by falling in love with a woman who would eventually be taken away from him. It didn't matter, he concluded. It hurt like fire in his heart and head every single morning he woke up without her, but it would have hurt him much worse through his whole life had he never had her. He took the statue's little hand in his and silently prayed he would see her again, when his time came, if it ever came.

Life

"¡Da! ¡The stupid bull hit me again!" Gendry spun around in shock as he saw his little girl come to him shouting and raging towards her little brother, who run to him and cringed to his left leg.

"¡Ned! ¡Lyanna! ¡I told you to wait till I came back! ¡¿Did you not understand?!" Gendry shooed his boy away from his leg.

"¡I tried to tell him! ¡But he's a bullhead just like you!" Lyanna shouted.

"¡I wanted to see mommy!" little Ned screamed. Gendry lowered himself and took the little boy in his arms. He smiled and pulled a face to Lyanna, who seemed to look very upset for his father's attentions on her little brother. Gendry turned to her and shook the girl's already messy hair.

"And you are a headache just like your mother." She didn't seem too pleased by it, but her father just laughed and took her hand. They stood there silently for a few more seconds.

"Was she pretty?" Ned asked, facing his father.

"The most beautiful woman in the world."

"Was she brave?" Lyanna asked.

"Like a direwolf."

"She had a direwolf, didn't she?" Ned asked.

"Nymmeria, yes."

"Can I have a direwolf?" Lyanna asked again, taking pleasure on his father's shocked face.

"I want one too!" Ned added. They both turned to him.

"No! The direwolf is mine! I am the one who looks like mum!"

"But I want a direwolf!"

"You can have an ox!"

"Why in the name of Rh'llor woud I want an ox?"

"Why in the name of Rh'llor would YOU want a direwolf?" Gendry snapped.

The figure of a tall, lean woman with blue stormy eyes and a gray scar on her face was the one to bring peace into the argument. They prayed in silence, although Gendry knew Arya never believed in his god. But it didn't matter, did it?

When the children were bored and tired, they started playing around, leaving their father and aunt alone.

"It's been a long time Lady Baratheon."

"Likewise, Your Grace, a long time." She turned to him with a sad smile on her lips. "I've missed you cousin." He nodded and rubbed her dark hair.

"Have you come to talk to Bran, my golden deer?" he asked. It was late, and only they remained outside, waiting for the sun to set.

"I owed him a visit. I wish he was here..."

"We all do." He softly said. She let out a sigh and smiled, truthfully, for the first time in years.

"Spring is coming." she looked at Gendry's blank expression. "The weirwood, his leaves are growing up again. Bran told me before he died. He told me they would appear when spring came."

"Spring won't come in at least ten years, if not more."

"But it will come. And hopefully, we'll be still here, to see it again." Shireen's blue eyes were full with hope, and Gendry didn't want to disappoint her. So he just stood silent and glanced over his wife's grave again. The glimpse of something blue growing from a chink in the stone caught his attention. "Is that what I think it is?" he heard his cousin say. He crouched on the snow and looked closer.

"A blue flower." He confirmed, surprised. It looked so little and defenceless against the hostile weather, yet it was there. The first flower he had seen in more than 15 years. "Gritty little thing, still insisted on growing up."

He remembered Arya's words and smiled to himself. Gods had many faces, many names, many forms, but they were always the same. They resumed to only three names, three faces mankind changed constantly in order to understand them, for their secrets were beyond human comprehension: Death, Love, and Life.

Flowers, blue flowers, growing all over my grave, filling the air with sweetness, bringing life back to the land.