It all comes back.
The blade is sharp, the sunlight catapulting itself off of steel that has been passed down from father to son for centuries. Beads of sweat trickle down the deep craters of his temples, down the stubble of his chin, down his neck. He's barely upright on his own – men hold him by his arms and his head hangs down in defeat. The tattered rags of on his body are loose and improper for a Lord to wear. Then, she can hear scream – her scream – when blood trickles down his neck and disappears under his shirt before a tidal wave of –
He takes her hand, rough callused skin against her own, rough and textured from her years of handling hits of swords and daggers. His thumb traces over her knuckle, bones, veins, anything to keep her mind off of the demons in her head.
"It's too much."
Arya expects him to look at her with pity. The maesters, Jon and his lot, all take pity on the little girl who disappeared from the world only to resurface to a war of the dead.
But he doesn't.
Gendry clasps her hand in his giant one. "I've got you."
He said it once, twice, ten thousand times and still, she is afraid of the day where it is too much and he will no longer be there; to ground her, to steady her, to love her.
"Still?"
It is an old question, meekly asked as she hid behind her hair. It has grown out since that day, barely grazing her shoulders. She looks more and more like Arya Horseface then Arry, now. Yet, even in her fancy gowns and intricately twisted braided hair, she still feels like the girl who was confronted by a large man who demanded her to show him her cock in order to prove her identity.
He did not kiss her cheek like most lovers do – like Sansa and her betrothed. He did not take her into his strong arms like Jon would, or mutter into her ear an inside joke that would make Torrmund turn the color of his hair.
Instead, Gendry nodded and said, "Still."
Arya whispered, settling herself back into her side of the bed, "Ok then."