To her relief, it doesn't take much to convince Gendry to slip out of the Great Hall with her that night.

She murmurs the idea into his ear as they sit wrapped around each other on a single small chair in the kitchen, Arya perched precariously on his lap. The hour is late, and they are quite alone, everyone else in the house having gone to bed hours ago.

"Take me to the forge," she whispers boldly, before tracing the outer shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue. He shudders a little and tightens his hold on her. "That way, if we make any noise…"

Gendry nods in wordless agreement and tilts his chin to capture her mouth in another kiss. She can still taste the sweet Arbor Gold they shared earlier this evening on his lips. As she wraps her arms around him and deepens the kiss she wonders, fleetingly, if she tastes of it too.


Despite the icy ground and the heavily falling snow, they practically run to the forge, nearly tripping over their feet in their haste to get there.

When they finally arrive, Gendry can't manage to undo the lock on the front door. His hands shake badly as he fumbles with it, making the door rattle.

Although Arya is little more than a bundle of nervous energy herself, she places her small hands over his much larger ones and gives them what she hopes is a reassuring squeeze. She leans up on tiptoe and kisses his stubbled cheek.

Gendry laughs a little, but it's a nervous sound. He closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, shaking his head as if to clear it.

After another very long moment he finally manages to turn the doorknob, her hands still splayed over his. Together, they step out of the frigid night air and into the forge.

Once inside, and without warning, Gendry whisks Arya up off the ground, as though tonight were their wedding night and this their threshold, and cradles her in his strong arms. He presses his lips to hers for what must be the hundredth time tonight and kisses her like he'll never be able to get enough of kissing her, making her heart pound in her chest and her knees weak.

Without breaking the kiss Gendry walks them both, very slowly, towards the back room of the forge. To where Arya will lie with him tonight, if he's willing, just as she's wanted to do ever since the night they first kissed in her bed chamber.

She hopes he's willing. If this is truly to be their last night together before he leaves her forever, she doesn't know what she'll do if he's not.

By the time they enter the darkened back room Arya feels about to burst out of her skin with anticipation. Gendry carefully lays her down on the neatly made, narrow bed before rushing about the room to light candles. She can't lie still, and she fidgets with her hands, her clothes, the bedcovers, as she watches him.

"I've wanted this for so long," Gendry murmurs, his voice husky, as if to the room itself and not to her, as he attends to the candles on his bedside table and bureau. He sits down next to her on the bed and picks up one of her delicate hands in his own. He gently traces the lines of her palm with one thick index finger, tickling her a little and making her giggle involuntarily.

Smiling himself, Gendry lifts her hand to his mouth and gently kisses the back of it before pressing its palm to his cheek. He leans into her touch, humming a little and closing his eyes.

When he opens them again the look he gives her fans the flicker of desire that's been pooling all night in the pit of her belly into a blaze.

Slowly, and with her blood thrumming hotly through her veins, Arya sits up on the bed. Without breaking eye contact with Gendry she reaches up and undoes the laces that hold the front of her bodice closed.

He's still looking steadfastly into her eyes as she pushes the thick fabric covering her breasts to each side. She has to bite the inside of her bottom lip to keep from laughing at the terrified look on his face.

"Gendry," she whispers, cupping his face in both hands. She kisses one corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, each cheek. He's trembling. "You can look at me. I want you to look at me."

He blinks several times and then squeezes his eyes shut tight. He shakes his head a little before reopening them.

Once open, his blue eyes dart downward, and he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat when he sees she's not wearing smallclothes underneath her dress. Arya reaches out and grabs at both of his hands, bringing them to her bare chest and covering her small breasts with them.

"Oh, gods," he whimpers, helplessly, as her nipples pebble up against his palms, just before she leans forward and crushes her mouth to his.

Everything happens very quickly after that. In an instant she's straddling his lap, rubbing against him as he massages her bare breasts with his large, calloused hands. Any doubt she might have had regarding whether Gendry had done this before vanishes as he leans forward and expertly takes first one nipple, and then the other, into his mouth, biting and sucking at her until she's nothing but a maelstrom of need.

As he continues to lavish attention on her breasts she reaches down and tugs on the bottom hem of his tunic, desperate, suddenly, to feel the heated skin of his bare chest pressed against her own, but unable to focus on anything but the sensations coursing through her. He understands her meaning well enough, though, and he fluidly tears off his shirt and throws it onto the floor. He resumes his ministrations a half heartbeat later, and she throws back her head and keens unintelligibly, grabbing the back of his head and pressing him into her, feeling like she might die if he stopped touching her.

A moment later she's on her back, and he's scrabbling at the skirt covering her lower body. She watches as he fumbles with the ties, breathing hard and swearing, his erect manhood jutting out almost comically and making a tent out of the front of his breeches. She tries to help him but he lightly slaps her hands away, and so she lies back, arms folded, admiring the broad planes of his muscled chest as he works but wishing he'd be quicker about it.

At length, he gets the ties unfastened, and he tears down her skirt impatiently. She sits up a little and helps him undo his breeches, refusing to be deterred when he insists on doing this part himself, too.

"I've waited long enough," she tells him.

When at last they are bare before each other, Gendry pauses. He sits back again and drinks in her nude body with hungry eyes.

"Arya," he murmurs worshipfully as he takes in every inch of her. He gently runs his fingertips along the curves of her body, under the swell of her breasts, down and along her hips and thighs. As though trying to commit the landscape of her body to memory. The gentle scrape of his fingernails along her sensitive skin makes her shudder. "You are more beautiful than I ever imagined," he says, his voice wavering a little. He swallows audibly, his eyes glassy. "And I just… I can't believe we're here."

Arya doesn't say anything in response, not trusting her own voice to be steady. She gives him a small smile instead, and reaches out to take him in her hand.

She wraps her hand around his length and thrills at his sharp intake of breath. Smiling slyly and looking into the depths of his blue eyes, she slides her hand back and forth over him, very slowly, again and again, reveling in the feel and the weight of him in her hand. His eyes roll back inside his head and he bites his lip, groaning, as she continues to work him, taking her own physical pleasure from the pleasured sounds he's making.

When she brings him, at last, towards the juncture between her thighs, damp with need for him, he puts his hand over hers and stops her.

"Please," he begs, breathing very heavily now. "Arya, please tell me if I hurt you," he insists. "I can't – I can't always control myself very well once I start, and –"

She cuts him off by placing her finger over his lips.

"Gendry," she says. "I'm not…. That is to say…" She closes her eyes and worries that she's about to ruin everything. But at this point, there's nothing to be done for it.

"I'm not a maid," she says plainly. She wonders if she should elaborate but decides against it. She finds she cannot look him in the eye. "You won't hurt me. I promise."

She half-expects him to recoil from her in disgust. She closes her eyes, bracing for a rebuke.

But none comes.

He's quiet for a beat, then chuckles softly.

"Well… I'm relieved to hear that, honestly," he admits. "It makes everything a lot simpler." She opens her eyes. To her great relief, he's smiling down at her.

"And I'm not a maid either," he continues, more seriously. "So… I guess we're square?" He rests his forehead against hers and sighs before kissing her eyelids closed again.

Then he slides into her and all conversation ends.

Arya never knew it could be like this. She has no idea how many Braavosi she laid with while in service of the Faceless Men. Dozens, probably. But as Gendry begins to move inside her, and she reflexively matches his thrusts with movements of her own, her soul feels full fit to bursting in a way that's entirely new.

She wraps her legs around his waist as he moves, changing the angle slightly and wrenching an indelicate moan from him. The incoherent sound of his pleasure inflames her, and she begins to speed up the movements of her hips without intending to as she pushes back against him again and again.

He leans forward, grunting, sucking a nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue around and around the tender pink bud. The added sensation is too much for her. She closes her eyes and she cries out, throwing her head back against the pleasure that's beginning to crest inside of her.

But it doesn't last long. Gendry's thrusts soon become more erratic and more desperate, and he digs his fingers into her hips and cries out her name as he shudders and falls apart inside her.

He collapses on top of her a moment later, a sweating, panting heap.

"I'm… I'm sorry…" he says sheepishly, fighting to catch his breath. "That was… well. Terrible." He pulls out of her, and she shudders as he moves to stand up.

She whines, unable to help it, and squirms impatiently on the bed, beyond frustrated and nowhere near finished.

"Gendry," she begs, breathlessly. "Please…"

She snakes one hand down between her legs and begins to rub tiny circles on the small bundle of nerves where she's neediest. She groans as the pleasure begins to mount inside her again, and she starts bucking against her hand.

She reaches out for Gendry with her free hand, looking right at him and whimpering.

The sight of her writhing on his bed, touching herself and begging him for release, causes Gendry to bite his lip and moan softly. He wraps his hand around his length, despite the events of the recent past, and slowly strokes himself.

He climbs into bed and starts kissing her everywhere. He kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, her neck, her slender shoulders. "I'm sorry, Arya. I just… I couldn't… help myself," he breathes in between frantic, needy kisses. "But. Let me make it up to you?" he proposes, already kissing his way down her neck, and down her heated, sweat-slicked body.

She runs her hands over his back, curls her hands into fists in his dark black hair.

The world soon contracts until it is nothing but the feeling of his head between her legs, his tongue against her core, and she shatters, screaming his name.


It's well after dawn when Arya wakes again, flush with pleasure and nestled comfortably in Gendry's strong arms.

She rolls over a little, towards him, and sees he's already awake. He's looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his face.

She cups his face in her hands.

"Don't go," she says. She doesn't elaborate, but she doesn't need to. She burrows closer into his side. "Please, Gendry. Stay with me. Don't leave with the others today."

He closes his eyes.

"Arya…" he says, sounding pained. "I have to go."

"No. You don't," she insists. She rolls him onto his back and lies atop him, her bare breasts pressing into his broad chest. She places her hands on either side of him to steady herself. "You need to stay."

He gently rolls her onto her side and pushes back the bedcovers so he can climb out of bed. He's still naked, and she can't help but admire his bare backside as he walks to the bureau across the room from her. He begins opening drawers and pulling out clothes.

"This war is unwinnable, Gendry," she says, sitting up. "Jon thinks so, too. I'm already going to lose him. I can't lose you too. Not again."

Gendry turns to look at her, his face a mask of agony.

"You heard Lord Snow," he says. "You know those… those things are already south of the Wall."

He walks over to the bed and kneels by it. Arya crawls to the bed's edge so their faces are only inches apart.

"I love you, Arya Stark," he vows. "And… and I want you. I want to be with you. Not just now, but always. If I don't do everything I can to protect you and something happened to you as a result, I just…"

She cuts off his speech by throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close.

"I want you too, Gendry," she mumbles. She traces the contours of his back with her fingertips, her heart sinking, knowing both that this struggle with him is futile and that she has no choice but to fight it anyway. "And I love you too. And if you leave with them you will die!"

Her vision blurs as her eyes fill with tears. She angrily brushes them away with the back of her hand.

He rests his forehead against hers.

"I have nothing to give you, Arya," he murmurs, so quietly that his words are but small puffs of air against her lips. "Not even a name."

She's about to yell at him – to tell him, again, that none of that matters to her – when he pulls back abruptly and looks her in the eye.

"But if there's even a chance I can make Westeros safe for you," he says, with a ferocity in his tone she's never heard before, not even when they were starving children together, "well, that's something I can give you, isn't it. And I'm going to take that chance."

"Gendry –"

"And if we win," he continues, gritting his teeth, not letting her interrupt him, "then nothing will be able to tear me away from you again." He shakes his head vigorously. "Not unless you order me away."

She buries her face in his shoulder and lets her tears fall freely.

"You don't owe me this, Gendry," she whispers, sniffling. "I'm Arya Stark, and you are Gendry Waters, due to nothing but the accident of our births." She presses a gentle kiss to his neck. And then another. "I am nothing. No one. No better than you, or the men you came here with. Name doesn't matter, a person's House doesn't matter, none of it matters. And I will not have you marching off to die to… to… to prove something to me..."

When she trails off, Gendry kisses her forehead, letting his lips linger on her skin for a long moment. But at length, he pulls back. He reaches behind his head and gently pries her arms from around his neck, disentangling himself from her embrace. He presses one last kiss to her hand, and then walks back to his bureau to resume dressing.

"You should hurry back to the castle," Gendry tells her sadly, pulling his shirt over his head. "You don't want Sansa and Rickon to notice you're gone."


The sun is high overhead, reflecting brightly off the snow-packed ground when Arya stands outside Winterfell's front gates with Sansa and Rickon to see the men off on their journey north.

They do this every time. Before Winterfell's guests leave for the Wall, Arya and Rickon wish the men good fortune and good luck, and they thank them for their service to the realm on behalf of House Stark.

It's not something the Queen requires them to do. Arya isn't even certain the gesture means much to any of them. But they do it anyway.

It's normally a simple affair. A curtsy from her, a firm handshake from Rickon and the men file out of Winterfell's gates. This afternoon, however, Arya greets the departing men with red, puffy eyes that match Sansa's. Only Rickon, standing between his older sisters, stands stoic and silent.

Jon's goodbye to them is restrained. He gives them each a nod and a stiff hug and nothing more. It's a much more subdued goodbye from her brother-cousin than Arya expected – given how long it's been since they've seen him, given how unlikely it is that they'll ever see him again. Given everything.

Then again, she's never known Jon as a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch or of anything else. To her, he will never be anything but an older brother who used to tease her and rumple her hair. Arya supposes Jon, given his position must maintain a level of decorum around these men that she's never seen in him before.

As the men go through their packs one last time, making certain their provisions are in order before the long march north, Gendry approaches her. He looks almost shy. In light of how they spent their last evening together it tugs painfully at her heart.

"You big idiot," she mutters, trying to be angry with him.

She cannot manage it. When he opens his arms wide for her, Arya is drawn to him as though pulled by an invisible string.

She doesn't know what Sansa's or Jon's reaction to the sight of them embracing might be. She also cannot bring herself to care. He envelops her in his arms and holds her tightly against her chest. His heartbeat is steady and strong beneath her ear, and he smells faintly of soap, of leather, and of her. She breathes deeply, trying to absorb his scent and trying to absorb him, only half-realizing she's doing it.

"I'll see you soon, Arya," he promises earnestly. "I swear it."

Arya wants to scoff at him. She wants to call him a filthy liar. She does neither of these things. She just clings more tightly to him, willing him, silently, to stay.

Suddenly, a man whose name Arya never learned yelps, loudly, in surprise. Arya and Gendry, still embracing, turn to look in his direction.

"A raven, Lord Snow," the man calls out in alarm, a large black bird perched on his right arm. He extends his arm in Jon's direction. The bird bears the telltale leg markings of a raven used by the Nights' Watch in delivering messages.

Jon, frowning, strides over to where the man stands and takes the bird from him. "I wasn't expecting a message today," he mutters under his breath.

Arya watches as Jon unrolls a parchment sealed with the Night's Watch's insignia from the bird's leg. He's silent as he reads its contents, and then pales and gives an involuntary cry when he reaches the end.

His legs buckle under him and he falls to the ground.

"Jon!" Sansa shrieks, running to him, propriety apparently forgotten in her haste to make certain he is well.

Jon looks up at Sansa with a mixture of gratitude, and something else Arya cannot identify, as she helps him to his feet. Sansa doesn't let him go once he's righted, and he clings to her with both arms like a lifeline.

"The raven was from Samwell Tarly," he tells Sansa, but loudly enough for everyone assembled to hear. "The maester at the Wall." He buries his face in the front of Sansa's dress and she holds him close.

"What is it?" Sansa asks in alarm.

He lifts his head and looks Sansa right in the eye. His next words are clipped and precise.

"The Queen is dead."