Eh I'm trying my hand at writing happy, and I need practise, so well, this happened. Um yeah, tell me what you think. ALL RIGHTS GO TO THE RIGHTFUL PEOPLE.
Sometimes he'd find himself watching her. The way she'd walk across the cobbled courtyard with purpose in her step. The way she'd stop to talk to one of the men, smiling slightly as they spoke. The way she'd fling her hair over one shoulder when it got in her way to much. Everytime it was like he was just seeing her again, always noticing something different. Something had changed in her since she'd come back, he'd known that straight away. She wasn't a little girl anymore, she was a woman grown that had seen more then most men put together. But she'd changed again as soon as they'd entered the North. She held herself differently, spoke differently, walked differently. It was like the North became her the second she was back. She changed again when the they reached the burnt out shell of Winterfell. Her life has a purpose, he thought, she'd got a purpose.
Sometimes when she'd walk into the forge and sat down on top of one of the many work tops, he'd let her think he didn't know she was there. He'd let her watch him working, the way he often watched her. But he knew she was there, watching as his hands moved the metal and hammered out the dints and marks of war. Each hit a beat in a song he didn't know. The she'd make a noise, small enough to catch his attention and he'd turn to look at her, a fake look of shock on his face that would quickly turn to a smile.
"No where better to be, then watching me, m'lady?" He'd ask a laugh hinting in his words.
"Don't call me that." was what she'd reply, hopping down from where she was sat and punching him lightly in the chest.
"As you say." he'd laugh.
It was the same every day. Their only little routine. When Gendry was finished laughing Arya would move to look at what he'd been working on. Her eyes tracing over it, seeing where there had once been marks and dints but was now smooth as when it was first forged. It still amazed her how perfect he made something look with a hammer.
He watched her as she looked at the sword, filling with slight pride that he'd made something that could hold her attention when most things couldn't. Gendry stepped up beside her, putting the hammer down and picking up the sword by the hilt.
"What do you think then?" he asked leveling the point under her chin.
"I think it's rather stupid of you to point a sword at me. We both know I'd win."
"It's not like I was asking you for a fight, just your opinion on the sword m'lady." he said, lowering said sword away from her neck.
"Don't call me that!" Arya said slamming her hand into his chest again, causing him to stumble backwards into a table. He laughed using one hand to steady himself.
"Gods you're infuriating as much as you're stupid." she muttered putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him from under the hair falling into her face.
"Well I can always leave if you wish me too." He said, placing the sword back down carefully before gently brushing the hair from her eyes. His coursed hands brushing against her soft skin and sending a shiver up her spine and down his arm.
"No!" She said too loudly, to quickly. A smile tugged at his lips, his hand still hovering near her face. "I mean... I... we'd never find another smith as good as you around here." it was a lousy lie and she knew it.
"So I'm just here for my skills with a hammer then?" He asked testing to see how far he could draw it out. Her eyes were looking everywhere but at him, but he could tell there was some hidden emotion she was trying to hide, if only she'd just look at him.
"Don't leave. Please." she said it quietly, her eyes looking up at him. Gendry knew what she was hiding then, what she was afraid of, and he suddenly felt bad.
"I'm not going anywhere m'lady." he said, wanting to make sure she believed him.
Gendry spent a lot of time watching Arya. The way she smile when Jon would joke with her. The way she'd shooting half hearted glares at Sansa. The way she'd sometimes take Rickon out to practice with a sword, both of them fighting in different foreign styles. The way her and Bran would argue when she borrowed his breeches and brought them back ruined. It was different from the way she acted with him or the other men still working around the castle. But even knowing she had all them, all the shattered remains of her family around her, she was still afraid of losing it all. For a moment he thought she would cry or perhaps hug him. But instead her fist came through the air, hitting him on the shoulder lightly. Which was better then anything else.
"Don't call me that."