Disclaimer: George R.R. Martin owns them.
He approached her slowly, measuring each step.
She stood in the middle of a field; her eyes alight as she took in all the red. Blood. It was on the ground, on the trees, on her sword and armor. It was matted in her hair and also dripping down her cheek from a cut above her left eye.
From far away it looked like she was crying blood.
She looked completely different, but exactly the same.
He came to stand beside her.
"M'lady," he started, his voice soft. "Your men have returned to camp. Your sister sent me to escort you back to celebrate the victory."
She turned her gaze to him and once again he was struck by the coldness he found there.
"Celebrate?" She repeated. "I doubt my sister would use those words, Ser Gendry…" she trailed off, before sheaving her sword. "But perhaps we should raise a cup…to remember…"
He nodded and bowed his head. "M'lady." He gestured for her to go ahead of him.
He followed close behind. They had almost reached the horses when she suddenly stopped short, whipping around so quickly he didn't know what was happening until he felt her dagger at his throat and her breath against his ear.
"Don't…call…me…'m'lady.'"
Every word was like ice in his veins, but when she pulled back to meet his eyes he caught a glimpse of warmth in her gaze. It made him think of a very young girl and boy who had met on the Kingsroad a thousand years ago.
His lips twitched upward, but he stayed his smile and swallowed.
"As m-… as you command." He leaned forward slightly so that his breath mingled with hers.
He watched as her eyes flickered down to his lips and tilted her face up. Their lips were just barely touching when the dagger left his throat and she mounted her horse, turning to take one last look before galloping away. He mounted his own steed and followed her.
Behind them, beyond the blood red field, the Twins burned.
A wolf howled in the distance, and Arya Stark smiled.