.

.

Up on the battlements of Winterfell's tallest tower-castle, Gendry finds her silently peering through the crenels. Arya keeps to herself like this, draped in a black-bear fur pelt attaching to her old, dusty cloak and boots.

"What is it?" she asks, sensing him without looking away.

Empty — that's how Arya sounds now. Gendry hates it. He hates how quiet she's gone. It's worse than before. Arya has proven herself a capable warrior and able to sneak up on any of these sorry sacks of shite calling themselves knights or seasoned fighters. Soon after The Great War, losing Bran and Jon, Arya disregards grieving with her sister and those who care for her.

"I wanted to see how you were."

Arya's overly pale face tightens. It's enough of a reaction for him. "How do you think?"

"I dunno," Gendry answers, stepping towards her on the wall-walk. "I actually don't because we haven't spoken to each other since—" He can't even get it out. Or admit it. How much lifeblood drenched against Gendry's jerkin and leathered armor. The crypt's tapers flickering. Arya's wight howling piercingly, covered in Arya, red, red, before getting hammered by Gendry's dragonglass-weapon. He lifted her body, wheezing and trembling, sliding a hand lovingly over Arya's still-warm cheek.

"—since—"

"I died," Arya says this so plainly, with hesitation or emotion. "That's what happened, right?"

Gendry shakes his head, his fists and jaw clenching. "You're alive. Jon killed the Night King and saved you."

She finally gazes, unblinking, at him. The brown of Arya's right eye shimmers in Winterfell's morning-light with shards of pale blue. Her left eye completely overtaken by that haunting, icy colour. The first time Gendry recognised it, his heart dropped.

"Doesn't look like it to me…"

He knows what she's playing at. He knows why Arya hides up here, training in the recesses of the forge and skipping her meals. Sansa fainted publicly after taking in the sight of her little sister leaving the abandoned crypts. The rest of the Northerners haven't reached out to Arya. It's not even Sansa's fault. Or Arya's. They've been through so much. Lost so much more.

"You want me to cower away. M'not going to." Gendry mutters, using his full height and closing the distance between them, "Bloody fucking hell, you're still you in there," Arya stares up at him as he speaks, her brows puckering, "The woman I…"

Gendry's voice wavers. He rubs over his mouth, agitated, looking skywards.

It's worth seeing the faintest hint of a grin on Arya's features.

"You're too damned soft," she breathes out, doing nothing to resist Gendry's arms encircling her. Her little, hot lips crushing against him, opening to let out a half-whimper as Gendry shushes her, leaving a path of kiss over her ear and neck, digging and petting his fingers gently into her snow-flecked brown hair. Arya melts slowly against him, hanging onto Gendry's sides as if gone weakened, before hugging him with all of her remaining strength.

"Only for you."

.

.

GoT isn't mine. Requested by glove23: "Gendrya; Arya dies but almost becomes a wight." I KNOW YOU ASKED THIS FOR ME AND I APPRECIATE YOU SO DAMN MUCH. I'M NOT EVEN KIDDING. We love angst. We love Gendrya and we are gonna just keep loving them. Thoughts/comments are encouraged!

((Want a request for GoT? I'm doing 100-500 word drabbles of any ship + any prompt until S8 ends. Rules: you need to comment here and provide a ship and prompt, as well if you want NSFW or SFW. The only requests I'll be looking at is if you ALSO commented about the fic you just read as well. It's only fair. You came to this fic to read it and me doing something for you later on is a sweet bonus!))