Normally, she did not spend much time on the battlement, pacing like Sansa, reminding her of their father. Winter had come, and with it, death charged the air. The frigid blasts rattled shutters on their hinges. Even the three wolves within Winterfell's walls felt the chill in their bones.
Arya Stark hid her face among the fur collars when the riders first appeared, dark blots materializing through the snow and forest on The Kingsroad. She watched as two riders emerged. It wasn't until they were nearly upon the North Gate that she realized something was wrong—she could practically smell their fear when their lathered horses slowed near the guards. The larger man struggled to keep his reins, his mount sidestepping into the snow banks as the guards approached.
"Halt!" The guard stood a head shorter than the shoulder of the horse whose headstall he grabbed. "State your business."
"We've come from Eastwatch by the Sea," yelled the smaller companion. "The dead are coming!"
Though his words lost their harshness in the wind, Arya clamped her jaw together. He must be wrong. She moved from her place alongside the Broken Tower towards the gate. Jon was going to Eastwatch, according to the last raven, then beyond The Wall.
"What are you going on about?" The guard stepped towards the smaller horse, while another guard stood behind him. Neither had drawn their weapons or flanked these strangers. Arya would have to see to their training.
"I've been beyond The Wall." The tall one swayed in his saddle, his hood hiding his face. "We've been riding for days to warn everyone that the dead are on the move, on orders from the King of the North and Queen Daenerys. She came with her dragons and saved him."
"Hold!" the guard yelled when the captured horse pranced, causing both horses to swing their bodies wide and frantic.
The big rider slipped from his mount and knocked both guards out cold in two swings. A man of action. Could prove useful in the ranks. Arya couldn't help her grin as she climbed down the narrow stairs near the gate, new guards scrambling to assemble on the visitors. She held up her gloved hand to stop the ill-trained, yet well-intentioned, soldiers. Both riders were hindered by layers of furs. She held her cloak tight with one hand, the other resting on Needle's pommel.
"When did you last see the King of the North?" She kept her face tucked away from the wind, scanning the duo more closely. Maybe Jon was a few days behind these men.
"Days ago, m'lady." The hooded rider spoke, heaving pale breaths into the air. He glanced at the unconscious guards, his gloved hand still curled. His comrade dismounted and stood next to him. "Four, no five. We've been riding since. I can't remember which day it is." His hood shook back and forth.
"Dragons, you say?" She saw the sword at his hip, frozen to its scabbard.
The rider's broad shoulders were evident, even under the furs. He tipped the hood of his cloak back, snow instantly flecking his dark hair. His beard was short, just past to the top of his fur-trimmed shirt, and frozen over. Puffs of white air curled from his bow-shaped lips. But those eyes. She remembered what Yoren said the day he hacked off her hair, about Gendry being different. He did protect her. But the sting of his long-ago rejection still sang like a hammer against steel.
Arya Stark retreated into herself and focused inward to No One. She did not have time for this—for him, or their past. Yet, she fought to still her breathing, strangling the clasp on her cloak.
"Yes, Queen Daenerys had three of them." Gendry maintained his distance, blinking hard in the snowfall, flakes crowding his eyelashes. "The Night King killed one in battle. Our men and the King barely survived."
She cared not for the woman, nor her dragons, despite Old Nan's stories. "What of the King of the North?"
"Injured, but alive, m'lady." Gendry squinted and blinked heavily, lolling to one leg. "They are on a ship to Kings Landing."
"Kings Landing?"
"Yes, they have to deliver that thing they captured to Cersei."
"Why?" The fire inside Arya kindled—at Daenerys for keeping Jon, at this harbinger's news because it heralded Jon's postponed return.
"I'm not entirely sure, m'lady. Something about convincing her to fight against the dead, though I believe she will try and kill them."
"Why didn't she bring him here?" Arya shouted, tossing her hands wide. Her cloak fell away from her face. "He belongs in Winterfell."
Gendry's face relaxed and snowflakes stuck to his cheeks. He walked forward.
She spun towards the nervous guards at the North Gate, now helping their injured friends, before he could say anything. "Show them in. I will find Lady Stark so that they may relay their news. Bar the gates behind them."
"Gates won't stop the dead, m'lady," Gendry yelled to her back.
She heard, but headed straight for Sansa's rooms, breathing through her nose. It was not right that he was here—that he was alive after so many years. Yet, the tiny voice who would never give into No One rejoiced at the sight of Gendry. Arya shoved its delight into a dark corner.
True to her mission, she retrieved her sister to receive their guests, spreading the word to gather the lords under the roof of Winterfell so that all could hear the information. She stopped at her room to discard the heavy cloak and regarded her reflection.
"I am No One." But even the gray eyes in the image didn't believe her. "I am Arya Stark."
She walked on her tiptoes down the hallway, so the soles of her boots missed the stone steps. Quiet as a shadow. There was no need of her presence—Sansa handled Winterfell matters perfectly fine without her input or opinions. Yet, she slid along the walls towards the Great Hall. Calm as still water. Voices grew louder, and she could hear Gendry speak.
"As I said, your Grace, there were too many to count. When your brother commanded me to return to Eastwatch, I ran until I couldn't run anymore."
"It is wise to obey a king's command." Sansa probably held her folded hands in her lap.
"Aye. He was wounded when he returned. Said something about 'Benjen' and Winterfell." His heavy boots shuffled on the floor. "I figured he wanted his sister warned, so I left straightaway, with the Queen's permission. They set sail for King's Landing as we left."
"Winterfell thanks your expediency."
Arya leaned onto the wall, hidden in the shadows, just able to see past the lords and little Lady Lyanna Mormont. Sansa regarded Gendry with her expected airs, formal and cold, as questions peppered the man.
"Has the King of the North bent the knee to the pretender?"
"Does she have dragons?"
"Why did he go to Kings Landing?"
"How many are there?"
Gendry tried to keep up with the inquisition, his head turning this way and that, never able to answer before another demand was yelled. His beard had lost its frost and was in need of a trim.
Finally, he turned back to the Lady of Winterfell. "Your Grace?"
Sansa straightened in her chair, her chain necklace clinking against the open circlet on her chest. "Continue, Mr. Waters."
Arya bit down on her grin. Leave it to Sansa to put the baseborn bastard in his place, despite his news. She slipped next to a squire as Gendry answered the best he could, facing each person who'd ordered his attention.
His hands squeezed and released his cloak when he spoke of the White Walkers, their endless numbers and undead polar bear. Gendry's brows lifted when he talked of Jon and his face tightened at the accusation that Jon had succumbed to the Targaryen woman.
"He is the King of the North." He raised his voice above the dissention. "I would follow him to the ends of Westeros and beyond and never question his decisions." Even from the other end of the room, Arya could see the muscles in Gendry's jaw flex over and over. For a moment, he looked positively murderous to the lord who'd made the suggestion, his blue eyes unblinking, shoulders squared.
With a measured breath, she quashed the joy inside again. There was no time for anything other than preparation. The sooner Jon returned to Winterfell, the better.
The muttering grew as the lords and lady filed out, commenting to one another their opinions. Arya pressed her back flat against the wall, working in small steps to conceal herself as she inched towards her pack and her past.
Sansa sat unmoving, until left with Gendry and Bran. "Would you mind sitting? I'd like to speak with you about my brother."
"Of course," Gendry mumbled, dropping to a wooden seat. His took a shaky breath and scrubbed one hand across his face. The same eyes that had just given a deadly stare now took a long blink. He yawned. "My apologies."
"Have you eaten?"
"No, your Grace."
"Your companion is alright. He is being tended to by our maester. Take some ale, please." Sansa nodded to the pitcher and tankard. Gods forbid that she should pour for the exhausted lowborn. Arya stuffed down her irritation alongside the joy.
Gendry poured himself a cup and finished it in two long draws. "Many thanks. We left with little supplies and ran out of food yesterday. Everything was frozen anyways."
Arya thought of Hot Pie in his inn, slaving over the stove. Her mouth watered.
"You know our sister." Bran's voice startled Arya seconds before her heart leapt like a rabbit chased by a dog.
She drew her nostrils wide, dragging her breath with deliberation. The last thing she needed was Bran digging in her past. She blew through her lips when he didn't continue.
Gendry warily placed the tankard back in its place. The fire crackled. He looked at Bran and the wheeled chair, the slightest friction in his jaw. "Aye. A long time ago, I knew Arya."
Her name from his mouth, years coming, made tears prick. She shook them away.
Sansa leaned forward. "You cannot hide from my brother. He is the three-eyed raven, able to see the past and into the future."
"That would've been helpful to have before we went north of The Wall." He caught Sansa's glare and added, "Your Grace."
"She was a boy," Bran said. "But you protected her."
Arya clenched her teeth.
"I knew she was a girl." Gendry straightened.
Sansa's face screwed into beautiful confusion. "A boy?"
"Aye. We were bound for The Wall."
Arya wasn't ready for this. No—she didn't want it to come to light. She slipped from her hiding place. "It is a story for another time."
Gendry jerked his head toward her and stumbled as he stood. "You are alive," he whispered.
"Yes." Mental elation was beaten into submission. She conjured his denial, its venomous words stifled any other response. Nor did he deserve any more words. But he had information she needed. "How did you come to know our brother?"
"After the Brotherhood sold me—"
She advanced one small step. "I do not care about your excuses, only for news of Jon." Her hand choked the knife in her belt to still the war inside, equally clamoring for physical contact to time gone by—though each voice stipulated vastly different consequences.
He cleared his throat and flexed his shoulders back. "Sir Davos brought me to him on Dragonstone."
Had she not been trained, she wouldn't have seen his eyes narrow for a moment. But she was trained. And she did see. She was never one to back down from battle. Fear cuts deeper than swords. No One was much more convenient for this task, but memories clawed forward.
Arya looked at the man before her. He was not as tall as she remembered, but most certainly stronger. Dirt settled into the creases on his forehead, and the blush on his grimy cheeks spread towards his ears the longer they stared at one another.
"I have a son." Bran leaned forward in his chair. "You have a daughter. We'll join our houses."
"What?" Sansa swiveled to face their brother.
Arya fought the heat rising from her neckline, switching her gaze to Bran, who looked at Gendry and past him at the same time.
Her brother's dark gaze dropped to hers. "You are too young to hate the world so much."
Bile crept up her throat. Everything she had said or would say, Bran knew. He watched their father's execution through her eyes, through Sansa's. His sight reached to Braavos, to Riverrun. It saw every triumph, heard each prayer, echoed the rejections she used to fuel the malice inside. And this … man in front of her. She despised him above all others, for she had offered him everything—her family, herself, the little bit of love she kept hidden.
"He has not made your list," Bran said as a log popped in the hearth. He relaxed back into his chair, shoulders sagging. Beside him, Sansa bobbed her pretty head back and forth between her siblings.
Gendry still gaped at Arya, as though she'd disappear if he looked away. "Your brother … he's shorter than I thought he'd be." The right side of his lips tipped upwards.
Arya kept her chin still. Quick as a snake.
She left the Great Hall and kept walking until the white nothingness of the snow filled her mind more than the ache crowded her heart.
Many thanks to Winterlyn Dow and her cheerleading skills. I fully intended this to be a one-shot, but the characters are not listening to me. Stay tuned for more. ~JS
