Arya had no idea how she had ended up here. Caught in a maelstrom of men, armour clanging against sword, arrows twanging through the air, she fought for her life once more. When the final dragon brought down a section of city wall, she was among the first to rush forward to meet the men who came to repel their attack on King's Landing.
She had experienced the heady rush of battle back at Winterfell, but the hot, sour taste in her mouth brought back the terror she had felt in facing the dead. But these were not the dead, and they did not shatter like glass when struck. No, these were men, made of meat and bones. They had substance – could stand up to slashes and cuts. Hitting them caused shock and pain to reverberate through Needle and course through her arm. It was tiring to fight so many men, and it was not long before she began to flag. In the years of training she had undergone, nothing had prepared her for the physical exhaustion she felt in fighting a host of men in armour.
It was a bloodbath, and she stood knee-deep in metal and leather-clad corpses of both Cersei's men and her own comrades. The battle was taking its toll on her body and mind. And she was scared, but what was worse, she was embarrassed. After everything she had survived, the near-impossible odds she had fought and overcome – avenging her family, slaying the Night King – was she truly to die here at the gates of King's Landing before her list was complete? Stupid, stupid Arya. Her pride had led her here. She was so close to Cersei, she could almost feel her poisonous essence. She had to continue, to fight on until she held her blade to the bitch's neck.
She recalled those days in Winterfell before Robert's arrival. Then those precious moments of happiness she was able to snatch in the years that came after. Gendry loomed large in her thoughts – stupid, noble Gendry, whose body she had memorised from those rushed, frenetic hours before the battle. Gendry, whose heart she had held and broken in the aftermath. He was everything that was warm and strong and good, and she missed his arms in his hellish place.
That was when she lost her sword. Distracted by her thoughts, the soldier she was duelling hooked her precious Needle out of her hand and sent it flying.
An extension of her arm. That was what her Braavosi dancing master had called it. For years, it had held her heart, her dreams. It was her brother, her body, her friend. And now it had abandoned her. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled out her dagger, ready to die or kill.
The knight slashed a broad arc with his great sword. She ducked beneath his arm in a practiced move, revelling in triumph as it allowed her the room to slash his neck. But she miscalculated his height and succeeded in only nicking him. He advanced on her, and as she backed away, her foot caught on a fallen body and she fell. The sensation of flying through space terrified her, made her feel as powerless as a girl again, but the thump at the bottom shocked her back to the world. She saw the man above her as he raised his sword to strike, and knew that this was the end.
And then the soldier's head exploded.
A flash of movement, a blow and then the knight fell down dead at her feet. And Gendry stood above him with his hammer in hand. Her heart sang like the steel that he struck with his hammer in the forge. But as soon as they acknowledged one another, he was set upon by another soldier. Still frozen, she watched as he struggled to free his hammer and raise it with deadly purpose.
At his feet lay Needle. If she could only bridge the gap between them and free it… As if reading her thoughts, Gendry kicked her weapon straight towards her.
He knows me, she thought gleefully, plucking the sword from the ground. Gratitude and relief spilled out of her as she dispatched the knight that threatened him. They shared a look that was alive with energy and bloodlust, and so much more. They fought side by side in a dance that felt even more like lovemaking than their awkward, passionate fumbling in the forge that night.
And still they were pushed back. The Kingsguard regrouped and forced them back through the wall, which they immediately began to reinforce. The attackers knew they were bested for the time being, and returned to their camp to await the orders of Jon Snow and the Queen of Dragons.
Arya crept away of course, eager to think, to search her own heart. When she left Winterfell, she had tried to harden herself against traitorous feelings of regret for letting Gendry down. When he appeared again like the Lord of Light at her darkest hour, she began to feel again what she had suspected the moment he went down on one knee. A horrible suspicion took hold that everything she had wanted and known for and about herself was a fabric made of lies.
It was not enough to believe it, as uncomfortable as it was. She had to tell him the truth. He had to know her, to know that he had wanted, and perhaps still wanted. And so, she sought him out, tracked him to his tent at the campsite, and tried to summon the courage to enter.
"Are you coming in, or do you plan on lurking there until the next attack?" His voice rumbled from within, and Arya cursed her lack of stealth.
She stepped inside the tent and saw him standing tall and proud, his bearing almost regal. He was clearly adapting to his new lordly status. She faced him now, more vulnerable than she had felt in years. "So you came."
Gendry smirked infuriatingly. "Looks like. Don't imagine I came here for you, though. I'm fighting for the Queen of Dragons."
His words angered her. She had wanted to thank him for his assistance, like a good serf, to resume their traditional roles and move on. His confident response put paid to that plan. Her hackles were up and she had to respond in kind. "Well, I'm not going to marry you."
"Good," he replied, not without humour. "I don't want to marry you. You've been nothing but a pain in my arse since we met."
"I'm not the girl you knew on the King's Road. I've changed."
His look was direct, arresting in its frankness. "Yeah, I saw the scars. I've got a few of my own as well. We've both changed."
Her heart tugged, but she could not allow herself to feel mercy or affection. "It's more than that. I've done things. Bad things."
"Like?"
"Like killed people. A lot of people."
"Really."
She could tell he didn't believe her. Only the whole truth would suffice. "Do you know what happened to the Freys?"
His brow furrowed. She was pleased to see that she had succeeded in penetrating his armour.
"Everybody knows what happened to them. All the male heirs wiped out. All except the women slaughtered."
"Do you know who killed them?"
"No, but if I did, I'd stand them a mug of ale."
"It was me." He stared at her incredulously, waiting for the rest of the joke.
"I killed the sons and fed them to Walder Frey. Then I cut his throat and poisoned the rest of them."
"Right."
Arya knew he was humouring her. "Do you hear me? I'm not Arry anymore. For a long time, I wasn't Arya Stark. I was No-one."
"I see."
This was intolerable. She was trying to explain why she couldn't marry him, why he shouldn't love her, and he was being proper and noble about it.
"Gendry!"
"I hear you. When I was in the wilderness, you were learning how to kill. To avenge your family. And you did. Have I summed it up, or is there more?"
She was momentarily lost for words. What she had expected was something more of a fight or a tantrum. She had imagined it ending with her storming off. "Well, I have to kill Cersei. She's the last name on my list."
"And what? What did you expect, for me to mourn the passing of the Freys and the Lannisters? The robber barons who've raped and pillaged and kept poor people down for centuries? I couldn't care less about them. I piss on their graves."
His flash of anger was impressive, even thrilling to her. She had rarely seen him so impassioned before.
"I think the world is a better place without them, and yes, I'm glad you killed them. I'll be glad when Cersei is dead, and if we win and I become Lord of Storm's End, I'll spend my life making sure that families like that never gain foothold in these kingdoms again!" He paused, breathing heavily. "I don't know if that makes me a terrible person. Maybe you're a terrible person. I don't care."
That was it. Each of them had made their position clear. Arya had said her piece, and so had he. She began to unlace her jerkin.
"Arya, what are you doing?" Gendry asked, his imperturbable mask slipping for the first time.
"What does it look like?" she countered. She found her laces trickier than expected, and distracted herself from her nerves by ribbing Gendry. "Take your clothes off."
He smirked again, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't take commands from you anymore, Lady Stark."
Finally, her jerkin came loose and her undershirt followed. Both garments were discarded on the floor. Gendry's mouth opened a touch as he took in the sight of her naked chest. She crossed the floor to where he stood.
"I told you, I'm not a lady."
Gendry snorted. "You made a fairly piss-poor boy, but I never mistook you for a lady."
Arya made to pull the edge of his shirt from his trousers, but he grabbed her hands. He was determined not to give an inch.
"Please," she said teasingly. "Please, my Lord Gendry Baratheon. Will you take your fucking clothes off?"
Finally, he kissed her, long and deep, telling her without words how he felt and what he wanted. Together, they made short work of his clothes, until there was nothing between them but her trousers, which he began to untie.
Arya pulled away with grim resolve. "I don't love you," she snarled.
Gendry pulled open her laces and reached into her trousers. Arya gasped as he touched her, filled with the most unexpected pleasure, something like pain but fringed with intense warmth and light. "I don't love you," he whispered into her mouth.