Author's Note: Hey there, just wanna say a few things! :) this is my first fic, so please be gentle, though I admit freely to being a review whore ;) and I think there's going to be two or three more parts of the same length as this, and I'll try and get them up fairly soon if there's any requests to keep going :P also, this is about three years after aDwD, so if you haven't finished it this could contain some spoilers! Thats about all, so enjoy!
Just for fun, I'll tell you that I picture a paler Mila Kunis as an older Arya :L that really is all!
Disclaimer: GRRM owns everthing, and also my soul :D
Gendry watched her. He watched her yawn at court, watched her throw glares at the men who attempted to compliment her, watched her face light up as the galloped wildly over the countryside, the wind in her hair. She rode better than any knight he'd ever seen, leaving servants and squires, lords and ladies, kings and queens alike in her dust. She seemed a part of her horse, especially as her magnificent slate grey filly was the only horse that didn't shy from the monstrous dire wolf at her side. That filly could run like the wind, Arya bent low over its neck, whispering furiously into her ear, urging the horse faster, faster, until she was gone through the trees, over a hill, fading into the fog. No matter how hard they tried to tame her, there was just too much of the north in Arya Stark. She was a wolf, with Stark blood running through her veins, who could hope to tame her? Who should?
The highborn ladies had attempted to befriend her, gain her favour. Mayhaps it was because to be close the Arya Stark was to be close to her half-brother, the King in the South, to her other, younger brother, the King in the North, and to her sister, the Lady of the Vale, wife of the Warden of the East, though to hear some tell it, Sansa was the true ruler of the Vale, as she ruled her husband, and was wiser than him to boot. Even though Sansa technically wasn't in the Vale, and hadn't been for sometime. After she had married the young heir to the Eyrie, Jon Arryn's heir died of his shaking sickness and Littlefinger had fallen to his death through the moon door, Sansa had immediately left to rebuild Winterfell with her young brother, whom she had recently learned was alive. Her husband, now Lord Harrold of the Vale, saw off his new lords and accompanied his beautiful wolf maid wife to her home, and stayed there while she ruled as Regent of the North, until Rickon came of age. Lord Harrold couldn't bear to leave his lady love, and sent a raven naming Yohn Royce as castellan of the Eyrie. Stannis had seen the Boltons out of Winterfell, but left it in ruins. Stannis had bigger things to worry about in the south, such as the Lannisters, and the rumour of a Targaryen in the storm lands. When he tried to take his army south, Wyman Manderly revealed he had Rickon Stark, heir to the Young Wolf, safe and alive in his care, and the northern lords who had joined him after the Bolton's defeat had deserted Stannis. The only way Stannis would survive would be to bend the knee to Tommen, but his pride clouded his judgement, and south he went with less than half an army.
In the beginning, it seemed the Lannisters would triumph over both Aegon and Stannis, but then Arya sailed from Braavos, rode like a demon to the Neck, brought Howland Reed to the Wall, and Jon had come down with the strength of the North at his back while Daenerys Targaryen landed in Dorne with an army of Unsullied and, of course, her dragons, grown to terrifying maturity, and then it was all over for Stannis and the Lannisters alike. Her brothers had decided that the war had driven a wedge between the North and the South, and that it would be wise to govern them as two kings, but as one realm. They were almost one another's Hands, even though custom decreed that each king have a Hand of his own. Jon had taken his newfound brother Aegon as his hand, and Rickon had yet to come into his kingdom, still a child of one-and-ten. Sansa, who was pregnant with her third child, ruled Winterfell as his Regent, had sent Arya south to be the North's representative at court, and to sit on the small council with Jon and his Dragon Queen.
~X~
Gendry had stayed at his little forge at the inn until he heard that the Starks had returned, and that Winterfell was being restored to his former glory. He didn't know why, but the day he heard her family was alive, he knew he had to go to them. His dreams had been haunted the shadow of a girl with grey eyes, a girl who fought like a water dancer and rode like a demon, a girl who he had once felt responsible for. She had fascinated him, this wolf girl, who went against everything he had ever heard of highborn ladies. She wore a sword, dressed as a boy, and had killed more men than most knights. He'd realised she was no lady, but a Stark of the North, a wolf, made for the cold.
And he had lost her. He had taken it upon himself to protect her the night they left Harrenhal, and he had failed, he had failed his little lady.
He had known there would be no place for him Riverrun. Even the blacksmiths in a lord's castle were trueborn.
So he had decided to join the Brotherhood without Banners. There, he could be anyone. A knight, a hero. He didn't have to be a bastard, he could be honourable and noble, and he could finally be proud of himself. He had been knighted the day he'd vowed to join. Ser Gendry. It had a beautiful sound to it. He'd known it would hurt her. He heard her whispering her death prayer at night, knew how much pain she had inside her tiny little body, and he had tried to explain, but by then he knew Arya Stark, and he should have known that she wouldn't just be hurt, she'd be angry. She spat angry words at him, and for a time he'd been hurt, and his pride had been insulted, but then she'd disappeared and all he'd felt was heartbroken.
How could he be a knight, a hero, when he couldn't even protect a skinny little girl? Only she wasn't just a skinny little girl, she was Arya Stark of Winterfell, the Hand's daughter, sister to the Young Wolf, and a princess. He had taken it upon himself to protect her, and now for all he knew she was dead.
He had been inconsolable, hardly ever spoke, unable to sleep, or eat. Lem had tried to cheer him up, and Tom o' Sevenstrings had taken him to a brothel, but all he saw were her grey eyes, hurt and accusing. And all the brothel did was remind him of a different whorehouse, one where he had shoved away a disgusting old drunk who had been slobbering over her, where he had realised she wasn't a child anymore. She wasn't the scrawny little boy she'd been when he first met her, or even the skinny little girl he had realised she truly was. She was, what? One-and-ten? Almost a woman grown. And she was beautiful, too. Arya had the type of beauty that only flowered when the maiden did, and for all he knew Arya was a maiden flowered already. Those big grey eyes, glaring solemnly out at you from her long heart shaped face, framed by her dark hair, above a small nose, and a rosebud mouth. Her skin was milky, white as snow, except where it flamed over her cheeks when she was breathless, or angry, or both, like when they had wrestled in the smithy at Acorn Hall. She had looked pretty then too, his little lady. A proper lady at last, sweet-smelling and dressed in lace. Only she wasn't, not really. She would always be a wolf, through and through.
He had told the drunk that he was her brother, and when Arya had asked him why he had grown angry. He didn't know why, but underneath, deep down, subconsciously, he had begun imagining what it would be like to go with her. To see how his little lady wolf would behave in a castle, among other highborn ladies, wearing dresses every day. When she asked him why he had said he was her brother when he wasn't, his dream came crashing down. He was too bloody lowborn to be kin to m'lady high, and he told her so. He'd been short with her, and she had stalked off angrily, after he'd threatened to go find that black-haired girl who'd offered to entertain him for the night. He didn't go find the girl, he just sat brooding over a cup of wine, wondering how his little lady could make him forget how important his low birth was when really it made their friendship nigh on impossible.
The sight of the man leering at her had woken a roaring lion in his chest, and it surprised him. It surprised him to realise that he hated the thought of someone else being with her, laughing with her, touching her. It surprised him, and made him ashamed. She may be pretty, and wild, and infectious, but she was really just a child, and a highborn child at that. But when she smiled he seemed to forget that, and that smile was only going to get more beautiful.
So he had decided to join the outlaws, and forget her. Let her go to Riverrun, marry some lord, be lady of a castle. He could never give her those things.
And then she'd just disappeared. Gone. Dead, probably. And it hurt. He missed her, and every time he saw an acorn, or a bravo sword, or when a wolf howled at night, it sent a sharp pain through his chest. And even if she somehow she made it to Riverrun, after the Red Wedding it was a death sentence to be a Stark. Either that, or marry into the Lannisters, and he knew Arya would kill herself before she would let that happen. Then he'd heard how they had married her to the Bastard of Bolton, and he knew that she would soon be gone from this world, by her own hand or by Ramsay's, depending on who you asked. Then, Theon Greyjoy and Ramsay's bride escaped Winterfell, and Stannis sent her north to her half-brother on the Wall. She was revealed as an impostor, and Gendry was left to the cruelty of his own imagination once more.
The Brotherhood fell apart after Lord Berric died- really died. Gendry had wandered, and settled at an inn. Then, he had heard Lady Sansa Hardyng, one of the last Starks, was raising Winterfell, and he knew he owed it to the Starks to explain how he had let Arya slip through his fingers.
~X~
He'd arrived at Winterfell one bitterly cold day, when the snow was falling so thick and fast it was hard to see two feet in front of his horse. He honestly didn't know how he made it to Winterfell in that weather, but he did, and when he arrived he saw the castle going up around him. Fresh cut wooden beams, slabs of granite and huge bricks neatly stacked, waiting to be carted to rebuild the ancient seat of the Starks. He had enquired as to when he could have an audience with the lady of the castle, and was told she was hearing the smallfolk at that very moment. He didn't mention he wasn't a lord of a holdfast, just headed in the direction he was pointed.
He was intrigued to see her sister, this sister who Arya had spoken of so, well… Fondly probably wasn't the word, but she was her sister all the time. He had heard of the Lady Sansa's great beauty, but he was expecting a replica of Arya, solemn grey eyes, luscious dark hair and wild grin. This girl was a surprise. She was beautiful, alright, but nothing like Arya. She was younger than Gendry, he put her age at about- What, sixteen? Around that. This girl was nothing like Arya. She was all rich auburn hair, deep blue eyes, and gentle smiles. She sat on the high seat of Winterfell, in the great hall, resplendent in blue and white, the colours of House Arryn, a creamy white cloak clasped at her throat with a direwolf fastening. He went to his knees before her, and began his story.
By the time he was finished, his knees were numb, and his heart was tearing. He glanced up, his eyes stinging, and was shock to see tear-tracks down the lady's smooth white cheeks. Her blue eyes were brimming with tears, and when she spoke her voice quivered.
"Thank you, ser-?"
"Gendry." He had croaked, his throat tight.
She took a deep, calming breath. "I thank you, Ser Gendry, on behalf of my family and House. The thought of my sister has torn at me since we returned here, and you cannot know how much it pleases me to know she was not killed by the Lannisters, or even by a stranger in the city. She was always wild, my sister, and I would not be surprised if she would be capable of aggravating a less gentle man than yourself to violence. We were not always close, but how I regret that now…" Sansa gazed at nothing, in a different place, a different time. Coming back to herself, she turned her eyes to Gendry. "Truly, thank you, ser. You have brought my mind some peace, at least. How might I repay you and yours for this service?"
Gendry was feeling extremely uncomfortable. "My… m'lady, no payment is required. It brings also my mind some peace, to fill in some of the gaps. I- I am sorry not to be able to tell you where she is now."
Sansa shook her head absently. "No matter, good ser. It is most gallant of you to come all this way. House Stark will always be indebted to-" Her brow creased. "My deepest apologies, Ser Gendry, but in my excitement I have forgotten what House you descend of. Would you be so kind as to remind me?" She smiled gently.
Gendry's mouth had been dry. "I…" He cleared his throat. "I have no House, m'lady. I am baseborn, of Kings' Landing."
She did not react. "No matter." She smiled once more. "House Stark will be indebted to only you then. Name anything, good ser, and it is yours."
Gendry was startled. He had not planned anything beyond telling Lady Sansa his tale. "M'lady… I could not…" He fumbled.
She raised an eyebrow. "Come now. I will have an answer out of you."
Suddenly, he knew what to ask. He could not apologise to his little lady, but he could spend his life where she had been happy. "M'lady, if I might be so bold…"
She nodded. "Go on."
"Before I left Kings' Landing and travelled with your sister, I was a blacksmith's apprentice. If you are lacking, I might ask to stay here, and smith for you."
She smiled. She turned to one of the men standing along the edge of the room. "Ser Lothar. Would you be so kind as to show Ser Gendry to the site of the smithy? Introduce him to Willem, so he can specify on how we should proceed to rebuild to smithy."
Gendry smiled. "My thanks, m'lady."
And that was how he had come to smith at Winterfell. Lady Sansa rebuilt the castle exactly as it had been, salvaging as much of the original stone and structure as she could. The castle rose like a ghost under the blizzards and ice storms that came howling down from the Wall. It was northmen who built Winterfell, Sansa said, and it would be northmen who rebuilt it.
She would often come and see him in the forge in the morning time, when the cold white light would filter down from the heavy, snow-laden clouds. She would come to hear tales about Arya, and Gendry was only too happy to tell them. He told her of how she had pretended to be a boy, and Sansa had laughed, saying it sounded like something she would do. He told her of when he had realised she was a girl, of how she fought better than most men; how she fought alongside them when the City Watch men had attacked them. He told her of Harrenhal, how Arya had planned their escape, how she had outwitted the strange man named Jaqen H'gar. He told her of their attempted journey to Riverrun, how they had been intercepted by the Brotherhood. He told her of Acorn Hall, of Stoney Sept and everywhere in between. He particularly liked talking of the day she tried to escape the outlaws, after they found out her true identity, and she realised that they weren't taking them to Riverrun.
"She rode like demon, flying over the ground. How she got that horse to move like that, I'll never know. When Harwin brought her back, he was saying she wasn't just like her aunt Lyanna in looks, but in nature as well." He wiped the sweat from his brow, the heat of the forge buffeting him. He had long since stopped offering to go for a walk round the yard with Lady Sansa while they talked. The cold took root in his bones the first day he suggested it, but since Sansa seemed to enjoy it he felt the need to offer again, and again, mumbling his stories around shaking, frozen lips until Sansa finally said, "Gendry, mayhaps we should go back to the forge." She smiled amusedly. Strangely, Sansa seemed not to feel the cold. Aside from a faint rosy glow in her cheeks, she seemed as comfortable in the snow as in the hall, with its roaring fires and hot pipes from the underground spring running through the walls. Gendry, on the other hand, was shaking violently, teeth chattering, lips blue. "You are of the south." She grinned. "Take no shame in it. The cold is for the north, and its people. Southroners oft find it difficult. You are made for the heat, as we are for the cold."
Gendry smiled embarrassedly. "In truth, I've never felt cold such as this."
Sansa nodded. "In the summer, the snows are milder. Mayhaps you would like it better then."
Gendry couldn't help but laugh. "Summer snows. I never really knew what she meant when she said 'I am a Stark of Winterfell' or 'I am of the north." He shook his head, smiling. "Or even 'winter is coming'. Now I do." He looked up at the sky, surprised to find tears in his eyes. Sansa had given him a funny look, and then they had gone back to the forge.
It was snowing now, but the heat of the forge threw back the cold. Sansa looked just as cool and comfortable as ever, but Gendry was sweating.
"It was like she and the horse were one. The speed, the grace-" He shook his head in amazement. "She took my breath away."
Sansa smiled sadly. "Somehow, I doubt that was the only time she took your breath away."
Gendry froze. Was it that obvious? How much he cared for her? "W- What do you mean, m'lady?"
She sighed. "Gendry, I understand." She laughed humourlessly. "Believe me, I understand. To love someone, and lose them… It is a terrible thing. I lost my family. My mother, my father, my brother Robb, Bran… And then I learned Rickon was alive. I was euphoric." She smiled, remembering. "But when I got over the hysterical happiness, I realised that when someone seems dead, they don't always stay dead. If Rickon was alive… Why not Arya? What did I really know of what happened to her after they arrested my father? She was gone from the Red Keep, and not been seen since, but that did not mean she was dead. Rickon was deader than that, tarred and beheaded. But here he is," She smiled, tears beginning to spill down her face. "Alive. And so is Bran, to hear him tell it. So why not Arya?" She shook her head. "All that time, I worried for Robb, for Mother, for Bran, and Rickon. But I never worried for Arya. As children, we were so different. I look back on my childhood, and I admit I was not as kind as I could have been. And then I think, but that was childhood. I was a child. And children are as innocent as they are ignorant. I was in love with the songs, and Arya… Arya was in love with life itself. I wanted a magical court full of beautiful lords and ladies, but Arya was happy as she was at Winterfell, riding and exploring, getting dirtier than I could've imagined. Father once put it well. He said that we were as different as the sun and the moon, but that we were the same blood, and needed each other. And he was right. I know that if she were to stride through that door right now and call me a rotten pampered stupid, I would hold her tight and not let go." She wiped her eyes. "And that is why I cry at night when I look out the windows at the moon. Why my heart breaks when I hear Shaggydog howling. Because I think that maybe she's out there somewhere, looking at the same moon and wishing for home. That Nymeria's out there somewhere, howling too." She sighed. "I love Harry with all my heart, but he doesn't understand. He tries, the sweetling, but he hasn't lost anybody. Not the way we have. I know I won't be able to rest until I know. If she's alive. Or even if she's dead. If she's down in the crypts with Father, and Grandfather, and Lyanna and all the rest at least she'd be with family. And I could visit her there. This not knowing…" She rested her head in her hands. "It's driving me mad."
Gendry was helpless. He'd never seen calm and collected Lady Sansa Stark lose control like this. He knew he was crying too, for his little grey-eyed lady, and for all the wolves howling in the night.
~X~
It was a bright day. Freezing cold, but bright. He was wearing the furs Sansa had gifted him with, and he was watching Rickon playing at swords in the yard. The castle was almost rebuilt, just the library left to be finished. Another day, another two, and the castle would be rebuilt. Just as it was before, like no time had passed. Sansa had seen to that.
He had little to do at the forge, so he had donned his furs an decided to watch Rickon practice in the yard. It was a year to the day he had arrived at Winterfell, and three years in the restoring of the castle. Three years it had taken to rebuild it, and a thousand years it would stand. Stannis, the Lannisters and even a Targaryen, apparently, were dancing in the south, but that was of no concern to Winterfell and it's inhabitants. To the Starks and their banner men, Rickon was Robb's heir, a Northern King. Since the southroners weren't concerning themselves with the North, the North wasn't concerning themselves with them. Rickon was proclaimed King, Sansa was his Regent, and if Stannis or the Lannisters, or even the dragon boy tried to take the North, they would throw them back at the Neck as the Kings in the North had a thousand times before. The men of the Vale had already sent the krakens fleeing back to their rock, and the north belonged to the Starks again.
He laughed as Rickon disarmed one of the Arryn squires for the fifth time. The boy- he couldn't think of him as a king, not when he'd tickled him and chased him through the corridors of Winterfell- was still just barely nine, but he was defeating boys two and three years his elder. He was his sister's brother, in truth. He had the Tully colouring, but Gendry could see so much of Arya in the young king. It made him sad, but gave him joy at the same time, because this way he had at least a tiny little piece of her. He was cheering as Rickon gave the humiliated twelve-year-old squire a hand up when Sansa came running across the yard, shouting. He face was deathly pale, her eyes wide.
"Gendry! Oh, Gendry!" She yelled. Tears were streaming down her face.
He was alarmed, and felt worry blooming in his chest. Sansa had become something of a friend to him. She was different from Arya, but Gendry found he could get along quite well with her. He had become more of a counsellor than just a blacksmith, and though he could see how it chafed the lords and highborns to see their Regent listen more to a bastard than them, but Sansa and Harry calmed them, and told Gendry not to worry. Gendry had found Harrold Hardyng, Sansa's lord husband, very much to his liking. He was carefree and jolly, with boyish charm and easy smiles. He made Sansa seem to forget her sadness, at least for a time. Gendry had learned that he had at least two bastard children in the Vale, but he tried not to think of that too often. Gendry liked Harry, but he had little respect for men who fathered bastards. He knew what it was to be a bastard; it had been his low birth and his fear of dishonouring Arya by being in her company that had been part of the mistake that led to losing her. He would not wish the things he had felt as a result of being baseborn on anyone.
Sansa fisted her hands in his furs, to look fiercely into his eyes. She's so tall, I hardly noticed before. Gendry towered over most men, but Sansa could almost look him in the eyes. "Oh Gendry," She panted. "She's coming."
Gendry froze.
Sansa began to regain her breath. "I was right, I knew it, I was right, We were right, Gendry, oh, I can't believe it, oh-"
Gendry couldn't breathe. No, no, it's not possible, not after so long, no, don't, don't get your hopes up, it can't be, it can't be her, no-
Somehow he was speaking. He heard his voice distantly. "Sansa, what's happened? What's happened?" He had her by the shoulders now, as she had him.
She was crying and laughing at the same time. The other lord's had gathered round, the one's who hadn't gone hunting with Harry. Gendry had decided to stay behind. He had spent most of his time on a horse with Arya, and even the sight of a common garron brought the sight of her crouched low over the graceful neck of her mare, whispering furiously as they fled Harrenhal to his mind.
"A raven came from Jon. She's at the Wall, Gendry, she's at the Wall, and she's coming south with him, and with Howland Reed. She took him to see Jon, oh, I don't know why, but they're coming, Gendry, and she's alive, oh, I can't believe it, oh Gendry, she's alive, and she's coming home, and I- oh-"
Gendry folded her in a fierce bear hug, and then he was crying and laughing too.
~X~
The next weeks passed excruciatingly slowly. Every second of every minute seemed to snail by. Sansa was a flurry of activity, readying rooms and a feast to welcome Arya and Jon home, but Gendry could not settle to anything. For the first day, he tried to smith as he would normally, but could not concentrate, and burned his forearm while forging a new shield for the master of horse, Harwin, who had appeared at the gate a week or so before Jon's raven came. He had been welcomed, as had all the surviving former occupants of Winterfell had.
After he burned his arm the requests for new armor stopped coming in. They were still a small household, just Sansa, Harry, Rickon, Gendry himself and the twenty or so lords and mounted knights who had not returned to the Vale along with the servants, though their weren't many of them, either. A cook, a few scullery maids, Sansa's handmaids, the stable boys, Harwin, the maids who cleaned the castle and kept the rooms fresh, some cupbearers, serving girls, and of course the builders, though they would soon be gone. They were a close knit household, and he could name most all who resided in the castle. They saw him gazing distractedly into the distance, and most knew the reason he had come to Winterfell in the first place. They saw, and they left him to his brooding.
Gendry couldn't concentrate on anything. All he could think of was her, the last time he had seen her. She had stalked out into the night, and not returned. How they had searched, Gendry the last to give up. She had just disappeared, and it tore at him. She had no horse, she couldn't have gotten far on her own. If she'd tried to run, they would have found her. Someone had taken her. It tore at him.
But now she was back. And he had no idea what to say to her.
Would she blame him? What had happened to her? Where had she been? What would she say to him?
In his daydreams she called him a stupid bull-headed boy and pulled him into her arms, embracing an old friend. In his daydreams, he held her close, and smiled into her grey eyes. In his daydreams, he wasn't a bastard, and she was just his lady wolf.
And then, the long-awaited day arrived. Sansa was restless, fidgeting and wandering the castle from before dawn. Gendry sat in his forge, and thought back on how all it all started. It all started with a shove, and a m'lady, and then he was captivated. By this contradiction of a girl, who went against everything she should be. A highborn lady. A princess. The words brought mind the thought of beauty, of gentleness and sweet words, of courtesies and shy smiles, of pride and dignity. She was beautiful, but gentle and sweet she was not. Proud and dignified, definitely, but loyal, fierce, brave, and good as well. She was fascinating.
And she was alive. And coming here.
What was he going to do?
~X~
They were waiting in the yard. The time had come, but they were still waiting. Soon. Soon.
Sansa had calmed her frantic fidgeting. She stood between Harry and Rickon, with Gendry on Rickon's other side. Gendry had bitten his nails to stubs in the last few hours, and he still picked at his thumb nail using his other fingers, his hands clasped behind his back.
The scents of meat and vegetables and gravy wafted from the kitchens, filling the frigid air of the icy yard with the smells of a feast. They were deceptively delicious, but Gendry's stomach was roiling.
She's coming.
They snow had fallen thick and fast the night before, and then it had frozen over it. The paths and stone courtyards of Winterfell were lethal, even well salted, and just a moon past a guard had fallen while ascending the steps to the main wall. He'd broken his leg in three places, and the maester that had come with Sansa and Harry from the Eyrie had been hard-pressed to get enough milk of the poppy into him to keep him comfortable.
She's alive.
His hands were trembling. Clasped as they were behind his back, no-one could see, but still, trembling they were. Ser Gendry Waters, a burly six and half foot blacksmith was trembling for fear of seeing a tiny little girl.
She's alive, and she's coming, and I think I'm in love with her.
Maybe that wasn't the right way to put it. He was in love with the memory of her. He hadn't seen her for nigh on four years now. She had been ten then, or was it eleven? She had been beginning to bloom then. A winter rose. That was what they'd called her aunt, Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar's wolfmaid. Everything about Arya was wintry, but a rose she was. Not a Tyrell, those Lannisters disguised in petals, but a winter rose. Lovely, and sharp, and born for the cold. How she would hate to be compared to a rose, he thought, smiling, She was always saying she was a wolf. She was a wolf too, though. A winter rose with teeth and claws.
What would she be like? Would she have changed? Would he recognise her?
Of course he'd recognise her. There was only one Arya Stark, and it would be impossible not to know her.
He looked over nervously at Sansa. She smiled reassuringly.
He was not reassured.
The cry was raised. A watchman on the wall called down.
"The host approaches!" He cried.
Sansa creased her brow, looking at Harry and Gendry in turn. "The host? It should just be Jon and Arya."
Gendry took a deep breath.
He could hear them now. Hoofbeats in the snow. Too many, though. Too many.
They grew louder, and now they could hear cries and shouts. Gendry steadied himself.
She was the first through the gate, as he'd known she would be. She rode a grey filly, and even though Gendry knew little of horses, he could tell there was something special about this mare. Something in the arch of her neck, and the spirited way she picked up her feet and tossed her mane. Something that bespoke something extraordinary. Or maybe it was the way she hardly seemed to notice the monstrous direwolf at her side.
As tall as the horse it was, with feral golden eyes and dark grey fur. She glared round the yard, daring anyone to move against her mistress.
Nymeria, it has to be- only how did they find each other? Arya hadn't often spoken of her direwolf, but when she did he had noticed it was difficult for her. He had learned she had forced the wolf to leave her at the Trident so the Lannister queen wouldn't kill her, but that had been at least six years ago. The wolf had been but a pup then. How had she managed to find her mistress after all these years? The size of it.
Look at her, you must look at her, her face, is it the same, is it-
Her grey eyes glared out of her hood, as fierce as her wolf. She had drawn the fur lined hood of her cloak up, and her hair was loose but for the top pieces, which were braided along her head in the simple northern style- at least what he could see of it. The rest was free, billowing out of the hood and down her shoulders. The last time he had seen her, her hair had been beginning to grow out, and it looked as though she hadn't cut it since then. Her face was heart-shaped and long, the small nose and rosebud mouth the same as he remembered. He had been right, about her only beginning to bloom back then. How old was she now? Fifteen? And lovelier than he could have imagined. She looked slender as ever underneath the thick white cloak and grey furs- Stark colours - but with a woman's shape now.
She slid down from the horse and stood looking at her family, the glare softening out of her eyes. The sun had come out fleetingly, and the icicles frozen to the walls and gargoyles seemed to glitter like a thousand tiny rainbows. The icy stone beneath their feet seemed to glimmer like diamonds, and the light brought out glints of silver in her wintry eyes, making her strands of her hair gleam as red as Sansa's for the moment, as she drew her hood down. She shone, just for a minute, like the sun and moon brought together.
It seemed to last forever that moment, at least to Gendry. She looked with a smile in her eyes at her family, and then the moment broke, as the Starks suddenly ran to each other.
Sansa was crying, Rickon was crying, Arya was crying- had he ever seen her cry before? - and slowly they sank to the ground, clutching each other, as Sansa and Rickon tried to shout over each other.
The rest of the party filtered through the gates. A tall man all in black with Arya's face, hair and eyes smiled at the huddle of them on the ground. He knelt next to them, and enfolded all three in his arms. He looked like a giant, next to the two girls and the little boy. Sansa was possibly the most composed and dignified person he'd ever met, but there she was, sobbing and laughing and holding her sister close to her chest. Rickon was just nine, but the boy seldom cried, and there he was, weeping the same as Sansa, burying his face in Arya's hair.
Her eyes were closed, but the tear tracks glistened on her cheeks just the same. She held her family in her thin arms and smiled, and he could see she was shaking slightly. He'd never seen her look so happy.
Gendry felt slightly out of place, like an outsider looking in on this family that had been used, abused, torn apart and scattered reunite. Well, he supposed he was, really.
Only he wasn't a stranger to her. He had once been her friend. He had once been her protector. He had once lost her, but now she was found again, and he had to speak to her.
The Starks rose, still holding on to one another, as though to let go was to lose each other again. Rickon held the man's hand, and Arya had an arm around his waist and another around Sansa's. The man waved forward a little man who looked uncomfortable on his horse, fidgeting and squirming in the saddle.
He dismounted, and walked towards them. He had dark hair, and mossy green eyes. He was the smallest man Gendry had ever seen, though he'd heard of the Lannister Imp, of course. He was middle-aged and slight, but graceful, and his eyes had a knowing wisdom to them.
"Sansa, Rickon, this is Lord Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch. One of your lords banner men, Lord Stark." He said with a wink to Rickon. The boy grinned.
"Or is it Your Grace?" Arya said with a tilt of her head, laughter in her voice. "I've been hearing things about you, little brother." She said, ruffling his hair. "Robb's heir, come to claim his kingdom, hmm?"
Her voice drew a sharp breath from him. He could close his eyes, and they were at Acorn Hall again, and she was calling him a stupid bull-headed boy once more.
The rest of the party flooded into the courtyard, but after it was full still more remained outside. They had been expecting just Arya and Jon- which was must be the man who had joined in the reunion- and maybe a few escorts, but not this. There had to be at least two, three hundred mounted knights, and at least half again as many on foot. What was the Lord Commander of the Wall doing with the beginnings of an army?
~X~
They retired to the feast. Gendry was seated next to Jon, who was next to Rickon, who was in the high seat, with Arya on his other side, Sansa next to her with her lord husband, and Howland Reed next to him. Harry had returned as soon as he learned of Jon's raven, and rejoiced at his young wife's happiness. Gendry had tried to catch Arya's eye when they entered the hall, but she didn't look at him.
He felt cold when she smiled at the others and ignored him. Did she not know him? No, it wasn't possible. She had to know him.
Sansa smiled and laughed, Rickon grinned, Jon joked, but to him Arya's smile looked forced. Just a little too sincere, a little jolly to be real. To anyone else who didn't know her as he did, she would look perfect- grey eyes shining in the candle light, her long hair lustrous and glossy, a face with a beautiful smile. Gendry saw through that, and he though Sansa and Jon did too, because he caught them giving her concerned looks, Jon in particular.
Jon Snow, Arya, Sansa and Rickon's half-brother spoke Gendry kindly, but he seemed guarded. Gendry supposed that growing up as a lord's bastard must be just as difficult as growing up as a peasant's one, which was what he guessed he himself was. Harder, even. Learning courtesies and how to behave as lord of a castle only to learn that you can never be one- that must be hard, Gendry thought. Jon Snow must be strong behind his walls, if a little solemn. And Arya loves him, so he must be worth loving.
Finally, the Starks called a silence. Sansa whispered in Rickon's ear. The nine-year-old set his jaw, and nodded.
"My guests!" He boomed. His voice carried well for a child. "I am most happy to feast you in my halls all night long, but I am afraid Lady Sansa and I have personal celebrating to do with my resurrected sister, Lady Arya," The men roared their approval, and Arya's grin was a true one for once. "And our brother, the Lord Commander. But I invite you to continue to celebrate my sister here, with each other. More wine!" He cried, gesturing with his goblet to the men seated below them. The serving girls scurried to carry more wine from the kitchens. The glass gardens were beginning to grow the food that would sustain Winterfell through the winter, but a shipment of supplies from the still-warm eastern countries had arrived mere days before the party from the Wall had, so they had enough to feast Arya and Jon's escort.
The Starks rose, and Sansa gestured he and Reed come with them. Arya looked steadfastly ahead. Sansa led them to her own study, next to her and Harry's rooms. When the door was safely closed, she whirled and enfolded Arya and Jon in another embrace.
"Oh, sweet sister, brother, how happy I am to have you back," She whispered fiercely. "And know that all these years I thought you dead how I regretted the unkindness I showed both of you as children." She stepped back, still keeping an hand on each of their shoulders. "You'll be pleased to know I'm not half such a spoiled, rotten little brat anymore. Hopefully." She said, grinning.
Her grin faded to be replaced by a steely expression. "But now I need to know. Arya, what happened to you? Gendry here has filled in the beginning of your story, but how did you come to be at the Wall? And Jon… You were even deader than Arya. We heard, even in the Vale… Mutiny, murder… How is this possible?" She shook her head in amazement. "When I got your raven… In your own hand… I could scarce believe it. Was it all lies told by the Lannisters to make the North believe there were no Starks left at all?"
Jon sighed heavily. He had watched Arya as Sansa spoke, but she gave no reaction when Gendry's name was uttered. He could hardly comprehend the crushing disappointment. She did not know him. Did not remember him.
He would have to remind her.
"No, it was true enough, my lady-"
"Sansa, sweet brother." She interrupted. "We are kin."
Jon smiled. "It means much to have kin about me again, especially when I thought you all dead. When the Bolton bride was revealed as a fake, I lost all hope… No matter. Five I thought I had lost, and three stand before me. It is more than I ever hoped for." He grinned affectionately at his siblings, and sat in a comfortable leather armchair. "Now, for the tale. They killed me, true enough, stabbed me with four knives before I passed out." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Well, truth be told, before I died. They threw me over the Wall, and the fall alone should have finished me. They threw Ghost as well, in case he came for vengeance. By then they knew he was no ordinary direwolf." He scratched Ghost's ear. "And then I woke. No wounds, no broken bones, Ghost licking my face and the Wall looming above. I knew it was not possible." The flames of the fire sent flickering shadows over his face. "I woke, and I stood, and I was better than ever before. I could see the path my body had made through the branches of the trees close to the wall, could see the dent in the frozen ground where I'd made impact. I should have been dead." He shook his head. "But I wasn't. I couldn't go back to the Watch. They would kill me again, and I mightn't survive a second attempt. And anyway, the Wall is a mile thick, no one would hear me calling at the gate. The would curse me as a wight, probably, and send flaming arrows down on me. I had no equipment to climb it, no way to bash in the gate, nothing to fight with. I didn't know what to do. Ghost hunted for me, so I did not starve. I was helpless." He looked to Arya.
"The Hound stole me." Arya said quietly. "I walked out of the hall where we'd been staying, and he grabbed me. He intended to take me to Mother and Robb, but we arrived at the Twins just as the Red Wedding was in full swing." Her mouth was hard. "I could hear them screaming, her Grey Wind howling. I tried to run in, but he stopped me, and…" Her voice trailed off. The pain in her eyes stabbed at Gendry. "Well, after that, we ended up separating. He took a wound, and I left him. I ended up in Braavos." She said, picking up the tale. Gendry could listen to her voice all day. If only she would look at him, it would be perfect. He hadn't known what reaction he would get from her, but no reaction at all? I deserve more than that, he thought angrily. "One night, I was sleeping, and I warged into Summer-"
"Warged?" Sansa asked confusedly.
Arya gasped, smacking her forehead. "Oh, I forgot, there's still so much you don't know-"
"Like what?" Rickon piped up.
Arya turned her gaze to him. "You should be in bed, young lord. Usually, you would be sent from this room, but because it concerns you, you will have to stay." She said sternly. Rickon made a face the mention of bed. "Do you ever have dreams? Dreams of being something other than yourself?"
Sansa shook her head, but Rickon's face was very still.
"No," Sansa said, mystified.
"Well, I suppose you wouldn't, Sansa," Jon said sadly.
"Why?" Sansa said sharply.
"You lost Lady." Arya told her gently. "You lost her before you sealed the bond. I dream I'm Nymeria. I ran with a wolf pack at the Trident while I was miles away in Braavos. Jon dreams he's Ghost, and he knows the most about it. Rickon, I'm willing to wager my sword you become Shaggydog when you sleep. Tell me I'm wrong."
"I can't." The boy whispered. Gendry was very confused. What were these Starks talking about? They were all close to their wolves, he knew that, but shape-shifting dreams?
"Jon, you can explain it better than I can." Arya said pleadingly.
Jon sighed. "I travelled with the wildlings for a time beyond the Wall."
Sansa nodded. "That's common knowledge. What of it?"
"While I was with them…" He said slowly, "I learned some things."
"Such as?" Sansa asked. Gendry tore his eyes from Arya to glance at Reed. He said nothing, listening calmly, with none of the surprise he, Sansa and the rest were showing.
"There are people who can form connections with animals, become them, for a time. People like us." He said quietly. Sansa looked dubious. "You can too, Sansa, you'll just have to try and bond with a different animal. Because you lost Lady, who by rights should have been tied to you for life, it will be harder, but you can do it. Once you do, you'll be able to go into any animal, if you try. It's called warging." He looked Arya.
Gendry was entranced by the flickering reflection of the fire in her grey eyes. She looked so serious, but he couldn't stop marvelling at her. If only she would acknowledge him. Just a look. Why wouldn't she? He was growing angry. Did she hate him? If she did, would she just say it? It would put him out of his misery, and then he could start to try to win back her trust. She picked up the story again. "I'd been warging into Nymeria, and some cats around Braavos, though I didn't really know what I was doing. Then, one night, I was thinking of Bran. Missing him. Missing all of you, really… And when I fell asleep, I dreamt. Only it wasn't Nymeria, or even a cat. It was a wolf. I didn't know where, but it was snowing. He went into- into somewhere underground, I'm not sure, it was so confusing, and then… And then…" She took a deep breath. The room was deathly quiet. "There was someone else there. In the wolf. With me." She shook her head. "It was horrible, he was fighting me, I was fighting him, both and neither of us were in control, and then I heard him. Raging at me, cursing at me. I heard him in my mind. And then I heard the wolf's name, and recognised the voice. 'Summer,' he said. 'Summer, help me, get it out, get it out." And then I knew who it was. I couldn't get out of the wolf, but I tried communicating with him. It was difficult, the wolf's thoughts were confusing both of us, but eventually I got the message through. And then he was happy, so happy, and so was I." She smiled, and looked at her family. "It was Bran. He's alive, somewhere north of the Wall. He's learning Sansa, learning to be a greenseer. He's with the children of the forest. And he showed me things."
When she saw the incredulous faces around her, she hurriedly said, "I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's true, it is. I can prove it."
"No, no, I believe you," Sansa said dazedly. "Only… Only it's so hard to wrap my mind around all of it."
"I know, trust me. Bran had to show me so many things so convince me I wasn't hallucinating. He showed me you, Sansa, and Rickon, praying at the heart tree here, rebuilding Winterfell. He showed me Jon, living in the shadow of the Wall. He sees through the eyes of the trees, Sansa, through the weirwoods. He sees through the eyes of every single animal, too…It's amazing." She smiled, but it quickly faded. "He showed me visions. He showed me a blue rose growing in a wall of ice. He showed me a fire-breathing wolf, facing an army of ice warriors with a silver she-dragon at his side. And he showed me the past." She looked at Jon, who nodded, and back to Sansa. "He showed me Winterfell, twenty years ago. He showed me Aunt Lyanna meeting Rhaegar Targaryen in the godswood. He showed me the night she ran away with him. And he showed me a place called the Tower of Joy, through the eyes of a sparrow, and what happened there."
Sansa looked completely lost. "I don't understand. Lyanna and Rhaegar… He abducted her, raped her, and she died because of it. Everyone knows that."
Arya shook her head. "No, Sansa. Everyone says it because Robert said it, and he believed it because he couldn't accept the truth. Lyanna loved Rhaegar. She didn't want to marry Robert." Arya said simply. "They met at the tourney of Harrenhal, and they fell in love. She loved to hear him sing." Arya smiled sadly.
"Harrenhal… The year of the false spring. He crowned her queen of love and beauty. He wasn't supposed to, though." Rickon said.
Arya laughed, and Gendry loved the sound of it. "No, he wasn't supposed to. But he did, because he loved her too. He came to her one night, in Winterfell, after the tourney, and convinced her to come with him. He took her to Dorne, and for a time they were very happy. Then the Starks came to the capital to get her back, only she wasn't there, and…" She trailed off.
"Aerys killed them. Uncle Brandon, and then our grandfather, Rickard." Sansa whispered, shock written on her face as the tale unfolded.
"Yes." Arya said softly. "He did. Lyanna was heartbroken when Rhaegar told her, but it was too late to go back. Even if she could have, she didn't want to. She was pregnant, and she loved Rhaegar too much to go back to Robert. She begged him to stay, but Rhaegar felt too guilty sitting back while Robert warred in his land. So he went to fight him. And he died. Then, Aerys died, Rhaegar's children died, his wife died, his mother and siblings fled… The only Targaryen left in Westeros was inside Lyanna. So three Kingsguard went to her, including Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar's closest friend."
"The Sword of the Morning," Harry murmured.
"Yes," Arya replied. "They protected her, but she saw Father, her brother, arrive, and saw him fighting the men who had become her friends. The men who had tried to console her after Rhaegar's death. The strain of seeing people she cared about fighting each other, and dying, brought on her labour. None of them heard her cry out. The fighting lasted three hours. By the time Father got to her, she'd lost too much blood. She died in his arms, but before that, she made him promise her something."
Sansa's face turned white. Her eyes opened wide, and she raised them to Jon. He looked at the floor. Gendry still didn't understand.
"Jon isn't our brother. At least not by blood," Arya said, looking round the room at each of them, finally meeting Gendry's eyes for a fleeting moment. "He's our cousin. The son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."
"It's not possible," Sansa whispered into the shocked silence, broken only the howl of the wind and the crackle of the fire. "It's not."
"It is." Arya said quietly. "Bran showed me through the animals. Father went to Starfall, to return Arthur Dayne's sword, Dawn, to his sister. There was a wetnurse there, who he grew to trust. She had cared for Lyanna at the Tower for a time, before Lyanna had forced her to leave for her safety. She agreed to put out a story that she was Lyanna's son's mother, and Father claimed him for his own. I watched him bring the baby north. I watched him name him Jon Snow."
"I never understood how Father could do that to Mother." Sansa said. "He was always so honourable, so noble…" She shook her head, as it to clear it. "It makes sense." She said, clearing her throat. "Keep going. How did you end up at the Wall?"
"Bran showed me something else." Arya said quietly, eyes to the floor. "Old Nan's stories when we were children… They weren't just stories."
Rickon giggled. "What, grumpkins and snarks? They were just silly stories, Arya."
When Arya looked up, her eyes scared Gendry. The silver-speckled grey was as lovely as ever, but her eyes were full of fear. Fear, and apprehension, and a steely resolve that scared him more than the fear there. He'd seen Arya impulsive, scared, happy, mischievous- but he'd never seen her like this. Like she was about to go to battle, only she knew she wouldn't be coming back. He'd never seen her look like she was about to ride off to her death.
"They weren't all stories, sweetling." She stroked his hair. "Some were real." She raised her eyes from her little brother, and squared her narrow shoulders. "The Others are real. And they're coming."
Sansa looked solemnly at her sister, but Gendry half wanted to laugh hysterically. The Others are bedtime stories. They can't be real. They can't be. There was something in her eyes that told him she wasn't wrong though. The girl who came back was not the same one he left behind. This girl had seen worse things than she had when he'd last known her.
"He showed me the last time they walked in Westeros." Her voice shook. "I'm not going to tell you what I saw." She fixed them with that terrifyingly steely glare. "Only that they have to be stopped. If you don't believe me, look at Jon's hand."
Jon sighed, and rolled the sleeve of his tunic up. On his hand and across his wrist was an ugly burn scar. Gendry knew enough of fire that it had been a very bad burn. "I got this fighting one. We found a body, beyond the Wall. We took it back to Castle Black- we couldn't understand how he'd died. Sam, my friend, noticed some irregularities, so we brought it back to the maester. That night, it tried to kill the Lord Commander. I got this burning it." He flexed his burnt hand.
"The gods- I don't know which- but the gods apparently don't like them either." Arya said. "There's a reason that there are Targaryens left- Jon and the Dragon Queen, they're meant for something. Jon a warg, her with dragons- fire and ice. The Others burn- dragons breathe flame. Jon and this queen are meant to meet. There's a reason Bran showed me those things. There's a reason we recognised each other at all, and didn't just destroy each other's minds. There's a reason I was in the Free Cities. I know Jon. And now I know her."
"Arya, what are you s-" Sansa began to say.
"It's to stop them. The reason. This war, everything leading up to it- it's been planned. Even Rhaegar and Lyanna- fire and ice. Like Jon and the dragon queen. Men and Others. It's all led to this. We have to fight them."
"Bran told me what to do. The next morning, when I woke, I became Arya Stark again and left the H- where I had been staying." She stumbled, and Gendry's curiosity was roused. "I went exactly where he told me to go- and there she was. This splendid dragon queen, silver hair and violet eyes, just off her docking ship. With a black monster at her side, eating meat pieces out of her hand. Balerion the Black Dread come again, nuzzling this tiny little queen's cheek." She laughed. "It was some sight. There were two other dragons behind her, a green and a cream. Not as big as the black, but still terrifying. I walked up to her, through the crowd that had gathered, and I said what Bran told me to."
"Which was?" Sansa asked.
"That winter is coming, and we will need fire and blood to see us through it. I told her that she was not alone. I told her about Jon. I told her Westeros was ripe for invading. I told her my name. At least, that's what I told her there, with others surrounding us. The next night, we sat through the darkness, talking all night long. I told her the truth. I told her everything. Then I warged back into Summer to contact Bran, and he reached out to her. He showed her, as he showed me. She believed me truly, then." Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back. "I promised her an alliance with House Stark."
Sansa raised her eyebrows. "You did what?" She said sharply.
"For the fight with the Others. We need her, Sansa, don't deny it. The Neck isn't the only way to the North. Old Wyman Manderly may have been able to protect Rickon for a while, but he won't be able to hold the sea against the Tyrells' and the Lannisters' combined strength. At least not for long. We need her help to be rid of them, and we need her to defeat the Others. Well, I suppose we need each other equally to fight them."
Sansa stood, stalked to where Arya had collapsed in a chair. Sansa loomed over her, a fire in her eyes to match her hair. "Arya, you had no right-"
Arya leapt to her feet as well, putting her face right next to Sansa's. "No right, Sansa? To gain a powerful ally for our House? One we need?" Her skin flamed over cheekbones, her lips mashed in a hard line. It warmed him a little to see her angry expression was the same, at least. "It's not just about stupid crown anymore, Sansa! These are our lives, the lives of everyone we've ever met, of everyone we haven't met yet, at stake! Forget the past! If we don't do this, we won't have a future!"
The two sister's glared at each other, and for a tense moment Gendry considered separating them- he knew only too well how Arya's temper could flare from words to blows, though they'd only been kitten swipes to him. Then, Sansa cracked a smile, and folded her tiny, glaring sister in hug. "How I've missed you, Arya. All these lords are altogether too nice and boring. I need your fire to keep me from going mad."
Arya stood frozen for a moment, before winding her arms around her sister and burying her face in Sansa's shoulder.
Sansa drew back after a few seconds and said, "You're right. We need to show the Lannisters they're not the only ones who can make strong allies. When's she arriving?"
"Three moons, in Dorne. She needs to find a ship large enough to carry the dragons, and another four for her army."
Sansa's eyebrows shot up. "Army?"
Arya grasped Sansa's hands, glee shining in her eyes. "Ten thousand Unsullied, and five thousand Dothraki screamers. Fifteen thousand warriors, Sansa."
"Oh," Sansa huffed. "Oh Arya, well done." She grinned. The her eyes narrowed. "Only what does she get out of it?"
Arya bit her lip. "Sh- She…" She trailed off, but Sansa held her gaze. "She gets the south. And she gets Jon."
Sansa's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"When the war's over, Jon will rule with her. The Targaryens will restore their dynasty."
"But… Jon, your vows-"
"I should think they released me when they stuck the knife in. And besides, I don't think I was a very good Lord Commander, to be honest. Maybe I'll be better at court." He gave a sad grin. Sansa had told him of Jon's honourable nature. It would probably have been hard for him to abandon his brothers, Gendry suspected.
"She's going to legitimize him as a royal prince when she lands. We'll need to make ready before that, though-" Arya said, before Sansa cut her off, flying into the fussy, fidgety mode she'd been in before her sister's arrival.
"Yes, of course, we'll need to send ravens, and open more rooms, and-"
"Sansa, calm yourself," Arya said, catching her sister's arm, who had started towards the door. "I haven't finished my story."
She sat back down, and Sansa followed suit. "When I had everything planned with Daenerys-"
"Daenerys?" Sansa interrupted.
"The dragon queen. Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, and Breaker of Chains. Our newest best friend." Arya winked. "She's really quite lovely, strong and good, too. And beautiful. The most beautiful woman in the world, she's called."
Gendry found that hard to believe, with the way Arya's eyes were shining in the firelight, her face flushed and her lips slightly parted with excitement, but he listened as she continued.
"Once I had secured things with her, I knew I had to go to Jon. So I got the next ship, landed at the Saltpans, and rode to the Neck. On the way, when I made camp one night, I dreamt of Nymeria. She knew I was close. I waited there for a day and a night, and as I was about to give up and leave, she came bounding through the trees. I cannot tell you how happy I was to see her." Arya smiled at her sister, stroking the direwolf that never left her side. "She came with me to the Neck. I met Howland there, waiting for me. Have you ever heard the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, sweet sister?"
Sansa shook her head.
"I'll have to tell it to you sometime. Howland has his own links with the children of the forest. He knew I was coming, knew why, and when I arrived at Greywater Watch he just smiled at me and said: 'You are your aunt's niece in truth, Arya Stark.' And then he rode off, knowing I would follow." She rolled her eyes, and Gendry loved the sarcastic look of the small movement. "He likes to be mysterious, our Howland." She said, grinning at the crannogman. "We scarce slept on the way to the Wall, riding both day and night. We went not to Castle Black, but to the Nightfort. Bran had told me of a gate beneath the ruins, and the words I had to say to pass through it. We found Jon easily, and Howland told him the truth of his parentage. He was there, you see," Arya supplied, when her sister looked confused. "He was with Father at the Tower of Joy. He's known everything, all these years, but he kept Father's secret, because there was a time when Lyanna had once done him a favour, and kept a secret for him. Jon didn't believe him, but I helped him reach out to Summer, and when Bran showed him what he had shown me, Jon knew there was doubt as to what we had to do. And then we rode south, for Winterfell. We stopped at Last Hearth to send a raven, and then continued for home. And here we are."
"And here you are." Sansa repeated softly. "You've done beautifully, Arya. It's time to avenge our family." Her gentle blue eyes hardened, and for a moment she looked startlingly like her sister. "What now?"
"Now, we wait. We gather the lords of the north to us. Jon did Alys Karstark a favour once, she should be able to send us the strength of Karhold. We wait for Daenerys to land, and then we got to war, Sansa."
Something was niggling at the back of Gendry's mind, under the daze of seeing her again. Something- something important, only what was it?
And then he knew.
"Waiting for her to land, you say?" He said, fixing his eyes on Arya.
She froze at the sound of his voice. She does know me. His heart was soaring.
Until she levelled a cold, empty gaze at him. "Yes, I do say, ser." Her voice was a icy as her eyes, and suddenly Gendry's soaring heart was cold in his chest.
His mouth was dry. "W- well, m'lady, it's just- just-"
"Spit it out, ser."
Did she hate him? He prayed she did not, for it might kill him. To seven hells with winning back her trust, if she hated him he wouldn't be able to bear it. "She must have already landed, m'lady."
Confusion clouded the icy disdain in her grey eyes. "What do you mean?"
"The Lannisters are fighting both Stannis and a- a Targaryen, m'lady, to hear most tell it. Might your dragon queen have come early?"
Arya's nostrils flared, and she began to pace the room. "No, no, she wouldn't have, we had everything planned perfectly, she wouldn't have-" She raised her burning grey eyes to his. "You're sure of this?"
"Q-quite, m'lady." He stuttered. Her eyes are so beautiful, and she's speaking to me, at last-
She stopped her pacing once more, after she had resumed once he'd spoken. "You're sure it's her, Daenerys Targaryen?"
"No, it's a boy." Rickon yawned.
"What?" Arya whirled on her little brother, where he'd been dozing next to Harry.
Rickon looked startled at the fire in his sister's eyes. "I heard them talking about it. A Targaryen prince is fighting in the stormlands."
Arya knelt in front of him. "Who did you hear this from, sweetling?" She asked him gently.
"The stable boys- the one's who took your horse today."
Arya stood, nodding. "We will see them-"
"Sister, this has been a day of many surprises." Sansa interrupted her. "These stable boys are most like passed out drunk right now. Leave it until the morrow, when their heads are pounding so badly that they will not think to lie. We are all tired. I've had your old rooms readied. Go rest, Arya; you've earned it."
Arya suddenly looked bone-weary, all the fire gone out of her. "You're right, Sansa," She agreed. "I'm exhausted. I haven't slept properly since I stepped off the ship in the Saltpans." She rubbed her hands over her face. "Goodnight, Sansa, Rickon." She dipped her head to Harry. "Goodbrother." Sansa swept Rickon up in her arms, and instructed a guard at the door to show Howland to his rooms. Harry followed her out the door, and suddenly they were alone.
"Arya-" He began.
She silenced his words with a raised hand, and fixed her gaze on him at last.
"Do not call me m'lady." She said in a hard voice, and strode from the room before he could say anything else, leaving him standing alone.
~X~
Gendry didn't sleep that night. The smithy grew cold at night, so Sansa had demanded he take rooms in the castle. He had protested, but it made no difference. Sansa Stark knew how to make things work her way.
His chambers faced the godswood, with large windows and a spacious feel to it . It was a warm room, with a roaring fire and condensation beading on the frozen windows. He was exhausted, and everything in him wanted to sleep, but he could not. He had dragged a chair to face the windows, and sat looking at the cold, high moon, thinking.
She must hate him. She'd never looked at him like that before, not even when she realised he was leaving for the outlaws. Her eyes…
He could hardly bear to think of the look in her eyes. Everything about Arya had a cold edge to it, it was in her blood, but she had this inner fire that glowed outward. Once upon a time, he had believed that that fire had burned brighter when she looked at him. Now when she looked at him, all he saw was cold, empty indifference.
He blamed himself, of course. How could he not? If he had not joined the Brotherhood, Arya wouldn't have been angry, wouldn't have stormed out the way she did. The Hound wouldn't have kidnapped her, and she wouldn't have been missing for sixyears.
He was sorry. She had to know that. He was so, so sorry. The only reason he had come to Winterfell in the first place was to seek some kind of forgiveness, even though she wasn't there to give it. All this time, her loss and the guilt of his mistake had torn at him, and now she had returned he had to make her understand that. They weren't just children anymore. They never were.
They were the children of war, and death had become as familiar as a mother's face to them. Blood had spilled like rain around them, but they had come through it. They had come through too much together for her to hate him now. If she hated him, all their enemies had won, because to hate someone who was once your best friend means you've been broken. And he couldn't let Arya Stark be broken.
He'd been half dosing in his chair, still looking out the window when he saw her. A slight figure in a black cloak, creeping into the godswood under the cover of darkness. It could be no one else. No one moved like she did.
She had disappeared into the shadows for a few seconds before he made up his mind. He had to speak to her, to convince her. He got to his feet, tugged on a tunic and crept out of the room.
The castle was silent, not a soul awake. The candles had burned down to stubs in the feast hall, the few men who had fallen asleep before they could stumble to their rooms lying sprawled over benches. He crept past them, and made his way to the godswood.
He had stayed away from this place since coming to Winterfell. The old gods were not his gods. He didn't even know if he had any gods. The north was a hard place, so he guessed its gods were even harder. He didn't think they would welcome the boy who had lost one of the last Starks, a true northerner.
But she had come here, so he had followed. He would follow her anywhere.
The trees loomed high and dark above him, forbidding and shadowy. The snow lay thick on the ground, but with the branches blocking the moonlight he could hardly see her tracks.
Eventually, after much turning about and circling, he glimpsed her through the trees, kneeling in front of the pool, behind which the weirwood loomed. The cloak pooled about her slender form. Her head was bowed, the finally unhindered moonlight shining on the unbound hair spilling down her back.
He stayed in the shadows, watching her. Just for a moment, he thought, gathering his courage. He laughed silently at himself. Afraid of this slip of a girl. Isn't that masculine. He was afraid of her, though. Afraid of what would happen if he couldn't remind her of what they used to be, of who they used to be.
They had been friends once. And he needed her friendship.
He was taking a deep breath to steady himself when her voice broke the silence.
"What are you doing?"
The way it cracked like a whip startled him, and he lost his footing on the icy roots of the tree he'd been standing on. He slipped backwards, whacked his head on the frozen bark of the tree, and hit the ground with a whumpf of breath.
She laughed spitefully. "Always were clumsy, weren't you?"
"Arya, I-"
Her shoulders sagged. "I can't, Gendry. I can't talk to you."
He scrambled to his feet, furrowing his brow angrily. "Are you talking to someone else?"
"Obviously not." She said tiredly.
"Then you can talk to me, m'lady." He said angrily. This cold, empty way she acted towards him, he couldn't take it. She had to care, he had to make her care, the girl he'd once known couldn't be gone. Where was the anger, the sarcasm? He'd give anything for her to call him a stupid bull-headed boy again, and she'd usually done that when she was angry. So he'd make her angry.
Her head jerked up at his old pet name for her. She glared over her shoulder at him. "I told you not to call me that. You really are stupider than I thought." She ground her teeth, her jaw tight. "Just go away, Gendry. Leave me alone.
"No." I can't. "You have to talk to me sometime, Arya." Please.
She leapt to her feet. "Why? Why should I? What right do you have to speak to me?"
She's learned what the word 'bastard' means, he thought angrily, though it was laced with hurt. But he had to keep riling her. "What, I'm too bloody lowborn to speak to m'lady high?" His words echoed a different night, a different place, a different argument.
"No, you stupid boy, you can't talk to me because you left me!" As she shrieked at him, she made to dart past him, but he caught her arm, shocked by the tear tracks on her face. Why was she crying over him?
"I left you?" He asked incredulously. He had been going to leave her, but only because he was afraid of hurting her, hurting her reputation. "They Hound kidnapped you! How did I leave you? For all I knew, you had left me! You could've run away, like when you tried to escape Harwin when you realised they weren't taking us to Riverrun. In fact, you already left me, when you ran then!" He said, trying to keep hold of her as she scrabbled and tried to shake him off. "Why are you crying, you stupid little girl?"
"I'm not crying!" She said fiercely. He laughed, grunting when she swung an elbow into his ribs, but keeping a grip on her arm. "And I'm not a stupid little girl! Not anymore!"
"What do you mean by that?" He said, bending and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He tried not to savour the feeling too much as he straightened, lifting her. Her feet dangled a good two feet off the ground. She really hasn't grown at all. Well, she had grown in other places; he tried to ignore the swell of her chest under his arm.
She bucked and kicked, scratching his arms as he carried her past the pool. He thought about dropping her in, but then realised that it would probably give her another reason not to talk to him.
He dropped her in the corner of a thicket of trees, where she was penned in, a V of three oaks growing too close together for even her to slip between them. He stood in front of her, blocking off escape. She glared up at him, roughly rubbing her wet cheeks.
"Just let me go!" She said through gritted teeth. "Seven hells, Gendry, just leave me alone!"
"I can't." He said resolutely. "Not until you tell me why you seem to hate me so much." If she told him, maybe he'd be able to apologise. He owed her that much, at least.
She stayed silent, glaring sullenly at the ground.
"Well, guess I'll just have to talk," He said, studying her. Her bottom lip jutted out stubbornly, the way it used to. Her fists were balled up, and that little crinkle was between her eyebrows. He hated himself for making her cry, but at least it had gotten some feeling out of her.
He knelt, and brushed away the tears on her cheeks. He expected her to swipe him away, but she just looked at the ground.
"Why are you crying?" He whispered.
She was quiet for such a long time he feared she wasn't going to answer.
"Because it's not fair." She whispered.
"What's not fair?" He asked.
"That you're here." She said, raising her eyes to his own. They were brimming over with tears, and her slender shoulders were shaking with sobs. She buried her face in his shoulder and cried.
Suddenly he felt the same fear and uncertainty he'd felt when he first learned she was a highborn. She'd never cried before- well, before today, and he was fairly certain those had been tears of joy- and he didn't know how to comfort her. When they'd been on the run, they'd traded insults, not cuddles.
Awkwardly, he put his arms around her. Arya only let herself be held for a few seconds before she disengaged herself. He looked at her tenderly, expecting the tearful girl she'd been five seconds ago. What he got was furious grey eyes, and a small but strong fist slamming into his face.
He dropped onto his backside, hands flying to his mouth, where he tasted blood. He saw the beginnings of a sunrise through the bright spots of colour clouding his eyes, and heard her soft footfalls as she fled the godswood.
~X~
When he woke in the morning, his split lip was scabbed over, and a magnificent bruise was blooming on his cheek.
She can hit hard for such a little thing. She'd hardly grown an inch in height, but she'd certainly learned to hit harder.
He looked at the clothes he'd worn last night. The cloak and to the knees of his breeches were soaked and dirt-spattered, his boots caked in frozen mud and dead leaves. He was at a loss how he was to explain how they'd gotten them so dirty to the manservant Sansa had insisted wash his clothes.
Deciding to cross that bridge when he came to it, he pulled on clean garb and his spare boots, and went down to breakfast.
When Sansa exclaimed over his face, he'd said had a nightmare and fell out of bed, hitting his mouth and cheek on his side table in the process. He took Harry's teasing with a smile, and sat down. He would not give up her secret. She avoided his eyes, and he sighed into his porridge.
Suddenly Rickon piped up. "What did you have a nightmare about, Gendry?"
He blanched, looking at the little boy. His eyes had dark shadows under them from his late night, and his hair was messy, like he'd tossed and turned sleeplessly.
"Um, I dreamt about- about-" Suddenly, the right words came to him. "I was in the woods. There was a she-wolf there. She was crying." He said, stealing a glance at Arya. She had gone very still, eyes down to the half-full bowl in front of her, spoon grasped so tight her knuckles were white. There were shadows under her eyes too, but her hair was in a smooth braid down her back. He suspected that was the work of the handmaidens Sansa had instructed to serve her, though.
"A direwolf?" Rickon said, drawing his eyes back to the boy.
"Yes." He said. "I tried to stroke her and comfort her, but she turned around and bit my face."
Rickon laughed. "You don't stroke a direwolf unless it lets you!"
Gendry smiled wryly. "I've learned that."
"Did it look like Shaggydog?" He asked eagerly.
"No, not really." Gendry replied. The boy looked disappointed.
"Shaggydog'd bite someone's face if I told him to." He said, puffing out his chest.
"I'm sure he would." Gendry agreed placidly.
Rickon went back to his food for a minute or two. Then-
"Did it look like Nymeria?" He asked curiously.
Gendry looked at the huge direwolf accepting morsels of sausage from Arya's fingers. He was startled to see they were trembling slightly.
"Yes, she did, some." He answered neutrally.
"Did it have yellow eyes like her?" The boy asked, his eagerness back.
"No," Gendry said softly, turning back to face Rickon. "Her eyes were grey."