He knew that something was up the moment they saw each other.

Between their gazes, there was a lot communicated between them that could never be said, and for that, he felt a little jealous; Arya would never be like that for him. But, he thought, they must have always been close. It's the only thing that makes sense. There was another woman standing beside her, with flaming red hair and a look of pure regality and eyes as gelid and as blue as shards of ice, but Arya only focused on the darker-haired one.

Arya's face was often stony, her eyes the colour of swords forged from iron and they were always alert, but her gaze softened so instantaneously when she saw the woman in front of her. They barely moved, instead staying in place and just staring at each other, until Arya took a step forward. The woman was rooted in place for a spell, but she soon began to move, each step quickening in pace. When they met, she scooped up Arya in her arms and held her tightly, lifting her off her feet, no words coming from either of them. Arya's tears were soaked up by the woman's skin, and as they pulled away, he observed the rawness in the woman's eyes, so profoundly surfeited with emotion. She almost looked at her as if she were a goddess to be worshipped.

Gendry noticed how much they looked alike. They had the same alabaster skin, the same raven coloured hair, stolid face and shorter stature. The woman - Lysara, as Arya whispered - had striking, magnetising purple eyes, though, and scars over her eye, almost as if she happened to be attacked by a large bird, from what he could point out from a distance. She also had a monstrous-sized wolf by her side, with fur as white as snow and eyes as crimson as freshly spilt blood. She was much like Arya, taking to wearing male clothes - leather jerkins, breeches, and she had a sword at her hip - a bastard sword, it seemed by the look of it, and on the pommel of it was etched a white wolf.

The wolf that travelled with them - direwolf, he corrected - Nymeria, briskly ran to meet the white direwolf, licking his face and biting his ears. They played with each other, relishing in the moment as Arya and Lysara just stood there, eyes boring into each other's. It was a little while after that the sanguine-haired woman hugged Arya, sobbing, telling her how much she missed her. She then ushered Arya in the castle, telling her how much she needed to bathe. The woman, whose name is Sansa, ordered baths for Gendry and Hot Pie as well, as well as a plate of food prepared after they are cleaned.

Lysara just gave them a nod and a kindly smile, though it was not one that danced in the light of her eyes.

This was her family, or at least, what was left of it, and they deeply loved her.

People say that Lysara Snow was once known as The Bastard of Winterfell. Others more say she was called The Cursed Beauty of Winterfell, for the Northern belief of bastards was that they're cursed. Now everyone calls her the Queen in the North. Everyone deeply respects her and holds her in high regard, even though she is a bastard.

Gendry knew all too well about what it meant to be a bastard, but he didn't know that bastards could rise to such power, to such a rank, to be a king or queen, let alone rule over a castle or hold dominion over the largest, most dangerous kingdom in Westeros. He also heard that she gathered a group of unlikely people to fight for her to get this castle back from the Boltons. He looked around, eyeing the vastness of the ancestral seat of House Stark. It was every bit as grand as he imagined a castle to be, and it was the largest place he ever stepped foot in.

It made him wonder if he could live a life like that, too, instead of being a lowly blacksmith - being held in such reverence, but he knows it is a silly thought so he never thought of it again. He knows that she fought hard to get where she is now.

He was barely paying attention when Lysara approached them.

"You are the two that brought my little sister here safe, am I right?"

Her wavy hair blew in the tranquil wind but her eyes are wide open as a few loose strands blow about her face. Her periwinkle hues were vacant, Gendry noticed. They were devoid of emotion and the light that was once there seemed to have disappeared from them, yet her speech didn't reflect on it.

"Y-yes, m'lady," Gendry replied, feeling slightly vulnerable under her intense gaze. She gazed at him solemnly, but her lips twitched in amusement. "But it was her who kept us safe..."

"What are your names?" He couldn't help but notice how rarely she smiles; the only time he saw her smile was when she looked at Arya, and then it was radiant. Gorgeous. He wondered how their lives were here.

"I'm Gendry, m'lady-"

"And I'm Hot Pie," his friend interjected, shifting so his body was nearly in front of Gendry's. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my Lady."

"It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Gendry. Hot Pie," she started, smiling again. "Thanks to you two, my sister is back home where she belongs. As a token of my appreciation, Winterfell is yours; you may stay here for as long as you'd like."

"We would like to work for you, my Lady," Hot Pie said quickly; her eyebrows raised in curiosity. "I love to cook, and Gendry here is a blacksmith by trade. We just want to do what we love."

With that, Gendry quickly nodded. "I would greatly enjoy making swords for you, m'lady - it's been a while since I've put hammer to steel."

"Good," she gave a single nod. "I would enjoy having you here in my service. And Hot Pie, I am sure Fae would love having extra help in the kitchens. I am about to have a meeting with my bannermen; would you mind following me so I can direct you to the kitchens?"

Hot Pie nodded, a little too eagerly. "Of course, my Lady."

"Please," she said, "just call me Lysara."

He wiped the beading sweat from his brow with the underside of his hand, inadvertently smearing the soot on his forehead. He sighed, taking a deep breath as he exited his quarters. Gendry took the nearby pail of water and rid his hands and fingernails of the cinders.

It was then that he heard the clash of steel. Curious, he followed the sounds and was led to the armoury, seeing Arya and Lysara, blunt steel swords in their hands. They both were careful not to cut each other - not even a nick - dancing as if they were water, graceful and quick and complimentary, yet silent and calm.

"You're as beautiful as you've ever been and you're so nimble," Lysara grinned at her sister as their swords collided. "Who taught you the art of the sword so well?"

If he wasn't mistaken, he saw a blush creep on Arya's cheeks. He was quite shocked; never in a million years would he ever see something like that on stubborn little Arya.

"Syrio Forel," she answered fiercely, circling her quickly. Arya surprised Lysara with Needle close to her throat. "He taught me the Braavosi water dance."

"He taught you well, little wolf," Lysara whispered as they pulled apart, rustling her hair and bowing in respect. "You're quick on your feet. A water dance is best when you are up against someone with a greatsword or a longsword - it means a lot to be quick against a man that carries such a heavy sword."

"Who said it had to be a man to wield such a sword?" She pointed at the wolf sword resting around her sister's waist. "What about the sword at your hip?"

"Her name is Longclaw," Lysara laughed. "You're right, love," she kissed her hair, causing red to flush Arya's cheeks once more. "We can wield swords, too."

"It didn't stop Visenya Targaryen from being a great warrior. There is nothing that can stop me, either."

"You already have the markings of a great warrior, Arry." She gave Arya praise, and Arya relished in it. "The only risk is that when you water dance, you do not use armour of any kind."

"One must sacrifice protection for speed," Arya replied, her eyes shining, "but I can poke a man full of holes if I am quick enough."

A look of pride flashed on Lysara's face, her lips spreading apart wide as she grinned. "You are quick, that much is true. A great warrior you will undoubtedly be; Robb and Father would be so proud to see you now."

Arya grew silent, looking as morose as ever. "You think so?"

Lysara rustled her hair once more. "I know so, little sister."

They had gotten into an argument, he knows, and Arya's on the verge of tears. Not tears of sadness, though, tears of pure anger. She stormed from the castle only to hurry to the forge. She stood in front of Gendry with upset written all over her face.

There was something about her that was off. He wasn't very used to seeing her so full of emotion, but tears were threatening to fall and her hands were balled into fists and full of her wavy brown hair.

"What's wrong?" Gendry asked, trying as best as he could to console her, though he felt as if there wasn't a proper way to console someone as fiery as Arya.

"She just doesn't understand!" She yelled. "She doesn't get it!"

"What doesn't she get? What're you going on about?" He questioned in confusion. "Who?"

"Lysara! Who else?! She won't let me fight, Gendry," she screams, kicking a small mound of snow with her left foot. "She refuses to let me…no matter what I tell her. I told her everything and she still refuses to listen!"

He was curious about what this everything was, mostly because she hadn't confided in him since they had resumed their travels and headed to Northern lands. She was tight-lipped the entire way to Winterfell.

You can't leave anymore. You're a part of my pack now, she told him, but it seemed as if she ignored her own words in favour of her sister.

"I have to be with her. I have to fight by her side." She was still frustrated, but her temper eased dramatically. Her eyes were full of sorrow as she turned to him and muttered, "Why am I even telling you this? You wouldn't ever understand."

It was at that point that he wanted to ask if she was in love with her baseborn sister, but thinking about the question gave him pause. She would dodge the question, without a doubt...maybe even call him stupid in the process.

Arya rose, freeing her hair from its tightened braid. The way her hair fell past her shoulders in soft cascading waves brought a feeling in Gendry's chest that he couldn't quite name. She unsheathed Needle and gripped it tightly in her hand. "I need to be alone."

The realisation was harsh when he returned to his works. He stared at the swords he already made, the twelve of them laid across his table, the sheen of the steel dulled by the accumulated ash of the embers. His mind wouldn't stop going back to Arya.

She loves her. She loves her dearly.

Gendry was not a follower of the Old Gods, let alone the Seven or any other deities - no gods in their right mind would curse him to live a life he lived - but there was nothing but pure serenity about the godswood. It was a place of calm, aside from his new chambers, where he could get away from his forge and clear his mind.

He decided that he liked Winterfell, and though he distrusted lords and ladies or any other royal persons, he found Sansa kindly enough, and the Queen, too, though she was rather distant from everyone. He enjoyed the time they shared; for the past two months, Lysara graciously took the time from her Queen duties and began teaching him how to properly wield a sword as well as how to be prepared for combat. He learned a lot through her, and she often showered him with praise.

Your hands…they are made for hammers, she said, but you are quite adept with a sword as well.

How much do you love Arya? he found himself compelled to ask one day, and he never forgot the blank stare he received in turn. Slowly, she rid her body of her doublet and raised her tunic, exposing her torso, presenting him the scars of whatever disaster had happened to her. The scars were fully black, curved as if she had been stabbed by a small dagger, one placed at her heart and the other five at her stomach. He wondered exactly what had been done for her to sustain such injuries.

I would die for her, she told him simply, letting him stare in horror for a moment more before she put her leathers back on and urged him to attack her for their training for the day.

He began to drift off to sleep until he heard footsteps near him. He slowly turned, to make sure the people wouldn't find him, and he saw the Queen plopping down on a snow-dusted, chopped log. She unbuckled her belt and unsheathed it, running an oiled rag to and fro on the blade. She had another sword in her hand and she set it beside her.

She was too close. He wanted to leave, but he was afraid that he would make so much noise that she would know he was there, so he stayed firmly in place, gripping the trunk of the sentinel tree tightly.

"The Queen in the North," Gendry heard a second voice, and his eyes met with Arya's form. Arya.

"Do not call me that. Not unless you want me to call you Princess," Lysara countered, not looking up from her sword. Longclaw, he remembered her referring to it by that name.

"Why shouldn't I call you Queen?" Arya inched closer to her sister, a smile on her face. "You are the Queen."

"Because it is not a title I want." She grumbled.

"No…but it's a title they gave." Arya sat next to Lysara, watching her clean the Valyrian steel blade. "Funny, that. The people who least desire a position tend to be the best leaders."

"I'm not a leader," she retorted. "I'm not meant to be."

"Then why did they choose you? Why didn't they choose a trueborn daughter of Lord Eddard Stark over you?"

"I don't know why they did. I just…don't know." Lysara grunted again. "I'm not a leader, yet somehow I found myself being elected Lady Commander as well. I didn't want that…I didn't want any of that..."

She's accomplished quite a bit in a small amount of time, he thought, taking a step back and accidentally stepping on a fresh twig. Lysara's eyes darted toward the sound, clutching the grip of her sword cautiously. He stayed in place, holding the tree and his breath when he thought she was staring straight at him. After a few moments, Lysara focused back on Arya, her grip on her sword loosened. Gendry calmly drew out a long breath.

"People see more in you than you care to believe. This is clear evidence of that."

Lysara remained quiet, putting her blade back in its sheath and placing the mystery sword before her.

"Do you know what sword this is?"

It was a grand sword, a longsword; the grip was slender enough to fit a woman's hand, the pommel and the cross-guard golden - the pommel in the shape of flames. There was a single oval-shaped ruby where the cross-guard met, which made it stand out even more. Even in low light the blade glimmered, and Gendry believed it to be better than any sword he could have forged for her.

It was simple, yet beautiful, and Lysara was holding it out for Arya to take.

"...it's Dark Sister. It belonged to Visenya Targaryen," she said in awe, her eyes never leaving her gift. "A Valyrian steel sword..."

Ah, Valyrian steel. A rare, grand gift.

"Yes, and now it belongs to you," Lysara smiled slowly. "You want to fight...but Needle won't get you through, not against the White Walkers, at least. You've grown too much for Needle, anyway."

"How did you get this?" She finally asked, unsheathing the blade to admire the balance.

"It was in my grave," Lysara replied, waving her hand as if to dismiss what thoughts her sister may have. "I shall speak no further of it."

All she did was sit silently with her legs crossed as Arya practised her swings, strokes, and lunges. He was sure he saw pride gleaming in Lysara's amaranthine hues while watching Arya test herself. It wasn't long that Arya's swings slowly halted, her grey eyes passing over her sister.

"Hey..." She began, staring back at the sword before she placed it back in its casing. "I'm sorry, Lys. About what I said earlier."

"There's nothing to forgive," she replied with a snort and a laugh. "There is nothing in the world that could possibly make me angry at you."

"Yet I am here asking for forgiveness..." Her gaze lowered, and Gendry liked the shadows her eyelashes cast on her face. "I just wanted you to finally treat me like an adult. I trained with Faceless Men for years - I am not the child you remember anymore."

"I would never treat you like a child; I see how you've grown. I just..." Lysara rose to run her fingers over her cheek, and Arya leant into her touch, closing her eyes as Lysara began to speak once more. Her purple eyes were fixated on Arya's face, the hues so full of pain. "I just got you back, Arry. I don't want to lose you again. I watched Rickon die in front of me and it took a lot for me to cope with that." She withdrew her hands and Arya's eyes stared into hers. "I decided to continue fighting in the hopes that I'll see you again…but Sansa doesn't want my protection. Rickon died before I could rescue him, and you're all I have left to continue living. If you perish like Rickon did, I'll never forgive myself..."

"What about you? You're acting as if you have to guard everyone, like you must save everyone, but you need help too sometimes. How do you think I'd feel if you're gone, Lys?" She stomped her foot in the snow, the crunch loud enough for Gendry to hear. "Have you ever thought about that?"

"Maybe I'm selfish," Lysara whispered, showing her a ghost of a smile.

"Maybe?" Arya nearly chuckled. "I think that's more of a definite yes."

"I just don't want another senseless death. If I can prevent it, I will," she answered.

"I need to be by your side," Arya argued, "and you know this. To say otherwise is stupid."

Lysara huffed, then spoke after staring at her for a while. Her head ducked down, focused on her feet. "If it is truly what you want, you will have what you desire," she promised. "I love you."

Arya raised an eyebrow. "Love me?"

"Yes, love, Arya." Her low gaze shifted to Longclaw, perhaps not knowing where else to look. "It's not the same love I feel for Sansa, mind you," Lysara's downcast gaze slowly met Arya. "I will always have love for Sansa, but…"

Gendry knows exactly what Lysara is thinking: I will always love you more.

"I know the blacksmith is in love with you," Lysara pointed out, and Gendry's heart stopped, cold washing over his body. How did she know? "All I've ever wanted was for you to be happy. Whether it's with him or by yourself…"

"Gendry is my friend," she stressed.

"So you are not in love with him?"

"No," she grunted. "Who said I loved him? He is a friend, not a lover."

Lysara breathed a sigh of relief but he did not. There was a strange emotion churning in the pit of his stomach, and he didn't know if it stemmed from sadness, enviousness, or hatred.

She grabbed Arya's fist, pulling it up to her lips, planting a kiss on every knuckle. She whispered something after every kiss, though Gendry couldn't hear it, he did know the words that played upon her lips: I love you. Arya flushed as if she were a young maiden, shocked to be the object of someone's - anyone's - affection.

"Lys," she whispered. Purple eyes rested on hers before Lysara grabbed Arya's wrist, jerking her forward to press her lips against her own. Lysara released her grip, running her fingers through Arya's hair, deepening the kiss. Soon tongues began to fight for dominance, and Lysara's back was pushed against the weirwood tree, her hands grabbing for Arya's waist to pull her closer. Arya, on the other hand, wrapped her arms around her sister's back, her little claws digging into her leathers.

The sight pained him. That much he knew.

"I'd give my life for you," Lysara stated as they pulled away, struggling to breathe. "I gave my life for you. I broke my vows to my Sisters…for you. I forsook my black blood for you, and by all that is holy, I wouldn't hesitate to do it again if I knew it would ensure your survival."

Arya did not respond with any more words, just kissed her repeatedly until Lysara's mouth wandered from her lips down to the hollow of her throat…

Gendry could not suffer it any longer. He wanted to leave. He was after Arya's heart, as he always was, but he couldn't compete with that.

He took his leave, but despite the noise he made, he knew that they would not care to search for him.

They left to go protect their home. Arya held Dark Sister tightly in her hand, ready to go to war alongside her sister. Lysara urged Gendry to stay back and protect Sansa and Hot Pie from wights - he had nought a clue what a wight was, but he promised that he would protect everyone at Winterfell, much to Lysara's happiness. She hugged him tightly, and told Gendry that should she not return, she trusted him to take care of the castle as well as her lady sister.

And after many months they finally came back, covered in dirt and grime, bodies wasting and weak… but their hardened faces softened when they greeted everyone in Winterfell, embracing their sister so tight. They walked forward with the rest of their men, and with their eyes full of pride they made it safely home.

When they were alone, their hands were clasped within each other's, and they stole kisses in the night.

A/N: Thank you for reading! This was quite a bit of fun to write.