"I said that I could be your family, didn't I? sunlight danced on the naked flesh of Arya Stark. She was a head taller than before the war began, and littered with scars and bruises and aches in her joints where past shackles had been years ago."Soon we shall." She nibbled her lover's shoulder. They were still entwined in each, his seed running steadily down her thigh.

"My lady has gotten so, soppy, of late" he smirked. Her eyes flashed like wildfire, and turned him on his back and held his wrists tightly.

"So?"

They shared a deep kiss before rolling up their blankets and picnic and packing them on back of their horses. They regularly visited the Great Hills for their picnics. It was a chance for solace and privacy outside the buzzing Stark household which was once alive again with laughter and parties and children, and content staff milling around the courtyard. In the days running up to the wedding of Lady Arya Stark and the now-acknowledged Gendry Waters, Winterfell had been particularly lively.

Gendry was no highborn, he was not a seasoned horseman who had been on the saddle since birth. On their ride back to Winterfell that day, his horse Vanna, became spooked at the sight of a common grass snake. He was ejected from the horse's back and fell to the ground, landing on a bed of jagged rocks at the foot of the Great Hills. The sound of his skull slamming and the bones crunching would still intrude her thoughts every time she walked through the kitchen, and heard the chef slam that day's kill on the table.

Her brother's bannermen came quickly, and brought him back to Winterfell, but there was nothing to be done. Arya came to see him on the third day although she was encouraged to visit sooner. He was alive, but not himself. He could not move his arms, nor his legs- and his sweat-filmed face contorted in pain.

"He fell from a horse. I have fallen off a horse thousands of times." she croaked weakly

The maester looked at her feebly "My lady, I know it is most devastating to see your dear Gendry in this much pain, in such an everyday accident…" his face suddenly hardened "but it was a particularly terrible accident. He will undoubtedly suffer the same affliction as the King, but with more severity."

"His limbs, they will never move?"

"Yes, my lady. I am certain of it."

She looked at him, bloodied and bruised. His eyes were open, although vacant. She did not need any further persuading . She knew where the heart was. She took a dagger from her belt and aimed for her target. Gendry's eyes widened, fluttered and fell gently shut. Cradling his face for a while, she studied his sharp cheekbones and Baratheon black hair which was stuck to his temples with sweat, as if she was trying to burn his face into her mind.

"I was going to suggest a merciful death, Lady Arya. You have done the right thing. A gracious thing."

She did not look him in the eye, just handed him her bloodied dagger and took herself to bed. That night, her brothers came to her with candied almonds, pear brandy and open arms in which they hoped to comfort her but she did not unbolt her door. She lay in bed, wondering why she so easily gave her Gendry that merciful death. Bran, the Lord of the North and her brother, had a perfectly normal life with his affliction, a happy life even. She could have nursed Gendry back to health and they could have spent their days together. There would be less adventures, less rolling in the hills, but it would still be them. However, heart-wrenching it was to lose her Gendry, a few days before they were to be wed, she was content stealing a few memories of his blood-battered face before plunging a danger seven inches into his chest.

Gendry's funeral came and went. The people of Winterfell came to pay their respects to the accomplished blacksmith and Baratheon bastard who was to be wed to their lady. His funeral pyre started to dwindle and villagers were invited into the halls for wine and a funeral feast. Solemn music played, and there was the gentle buzz of hushed conversation and goblets being placed down and then picked up again, clinking against the teeth in hungry mouths. Their eyes scanned over Arya pitifully, who was very aware of what was going through their heads.

Bran turned to her and tilted his head "Ary-", he was cut off.

"Could you stop being like these shower of cunts who keep looking at me like...that?!' she gripped her goblet furiously. Knowing his sister's temper, and past behaviour for pulling her sword at social gatherings he did not broach the subject again.

Always the outsider, Brienne of Tarth stood near the kitchens. Assessing the scene from afar, she looked contemptuously at the gossiping of the Lord and Ladies, and also villagers who were intermingling in true New Winterfell style. Ultimately, there was no danger now. Winter had came and winter has gone. Brienne had served the Starks since the end of the war. Her oath to the Ladies of the North was still as strong as the day she had made it to Lady Catelyn. But there was nothing her sword could do for Arya's aching heart.

I should be grieving, I have not shed a tear, she thought. She picked up her knife and began to carve her venison into pieces. Flashbacks. She dropped her knife.

Arya ducked out of the hall. In the days since Gendry's death, her brothers and the staff of Winterfell had found it hard to leave her alone. A new twine-tied bouquet of winter roses were tied to her door each day, and there was always someone asking if she needed something. She grabbed her coat of snow-bear and pulled it over her navy blue robes and wandered out into the bleak winter night.

Pacing the courtyard, her mind could not stop thinking. Her betrothed was dead and she had ended his life in an act of mercy. She had granted this gift to many fallen banner men who had pledged their allegiance to her cause, but they were her comrades in war. Impaled, half dead and pitiful, it was akin to putting down a beloved pet.

After acting in place of her crippled brother on the battlefield, uniting the people of the North and rebuilding the House of Stark, Arya had become famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Famous for her beauty, and famous for her strength. Travelling minstrels wandered the lands, singing songs about her battles. Young maidens in pretty dresses listened and almost wished they could be as wild and free as the wondrous Lady Stark.

One of the favourite stories of the Westerosi people, featuring Lady Stark, was the time she did not show mercy. How the Hound, who had tormented her sister in the capital and now tormented and captured Arya, fell in battle. A bone jutted out of his leg, and his head was caved in at the back, stab wounds littered his body. He pleaded with her for a quick painless death and she did not fulfil this request. She robbed him and stepped over his body like the scum that he was, not looking back once as she steamed on towards Braavos.

But Arya didn't put down the dog because she wanted him to suffer. She heard the life of the village at the foot of the cliffs below her and had seen her father's bannerman survive after similar injuries, so she stepped over him and left. He'll definitely die if no one comes, she thought as she stole his silver, but he might live if someone does. The Faceless Men had seen this in her in the months after the incident, cracking a whip on her chest when she claimed that she wanted the Hound to suffer. It had taken a few namedays to admit it to herself, but she had cared for the Hound. In childlike logic, she had left him, secretly hoping he would be found and nursed back to health, and perhaps they would meet again and she would show him how strong she had become. She could survive a day out there by herself!

What ever became of the Hound? She thought, Was he picked to death by hungry birds, or war-torn starving people? Or was he saved? She felt angry and confused with herself. There were more important things to be worrying her head with, but her gift of mercy to her beloved had brought up so many feelings.

She paused to a halt on the edge of the woodland, she had walked completely out of the holdings, deep in thought. She heard footsteps behind her, so she turned and clutched her sword. Brienne. She could tell by the weight of the footsteps.

"Lady Arya, we should go insid-"

"I heard you went searching for The Hound, years ago. Before you finally came and joined me here." she took a few steps closer to that Lady-Knight, her slate grey eyes wide and inquisitive despite the snowflakes battering her face "What were your findings?"

Brienne screwed her face up in confusion, however graciously she tried to hide it. Why has she asked after the Hound?