Last chapter, peeps! Thanks for hanging in for this extended one-shot. AN at the bottom. And away we go!
The feral Stark daughter remained with her blacksmith when she defied the maester's orders and left her bed chambers. He worked on hinges and locks for doors, she on avoiding people in general. She hated the way they pretended not to stare at her ruined face, finally feeling the rejection the Hound had lived with. And when even the kitchen maid, who delivered their meals to the forge would sneak a glance, Arya would escape Winterfell altogether.
Snow blanketed the grounds again, the white nothingness erasing the battlegrounds, and smothering the ash. The sun, though, would break through the clouds, littering crystals across the fields, as if everything was perfect again, sparkling and impeccable.
It was those days that led Arya to chasing away the perfection with wine or whatever she could scare out of kitchen workers. When she drank too much, Gendry would bully her into laying down on his bed behind the forge. She'd wake hours later, sometimes the next morning, the rage from the world moving on tempered by the man asleep beside her on a bedroll on the floor. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth.
Syrio was right.
Later, silently, she watched his hammer swing and hit true. Each strike nailed her to Winterfell's foundation. "If I will not leave," she yelled between beats, "Will you stay?"
Gendry reminded her that she had been a Stark long before an assassin. She'd roamed the corridors of Winterfell, ever the shadow of her brothers, bloodlust absent. There had been no need for revenge, other than repaying the times Robb tripped her or Sansa tattled to Septa Mordane. No list or thoughts or murder. Though her father had his faults, she remembered his laughter most of all. And it was the memory of Ned Stark's smile that anchored Arya to the blacksmith pounding and shaping a new sigil to mount on the Eastern Gate, to replace the one ruined by the Boltons.
Gendry crooked his head back to her. "I haven't left, have I?" He shoved the metal into the furnace coals.
"There is no one to carry our family name. Bran is lost."
His hammer clattered to the work table. "You're talking to a bastard about a name." Gendry turned, wiping his hands on a dirty towel next to the hammer.
Arya wrinkled her nose. "I will be swallowed by the shadows if I stay here. I cannot fall into line with the queen's perfect thinking." She closed her eyes and pinched her nose. Jon's aunt, queen of Westeros, collector of titles, and fiancé to her brother—cousin—had off-handedly suggested an arranged marriage for the Stark daughters. Both women told the queen exactly what they thought of her idea, although Sansa had the tact to use polite words. In fact, Lady Stark took her sworn shield to the godswood that evening and returned with a new mantle she'd sewn herself, to punctuate her opinion of Daenerys' recommendation.
"I never thought you would. Let the queen think for herself. You are a Stark, a lady, a princess of the North." He stepped closer. "M'lady."
"Would you take me away?"
"Yes, if you wanted."
"Would you lord over me?"
"Not if I wanted to keep my balls."
Arya laughed. "Would you do anything I asked?"
"No."
She pulled up her eyebrows. "Brave man." Gendry had closed the gap between them enough that Arya grasped his wrist and dragged him to her. She laid her head onto his chest, and heard the thumps. Her eyes closed. His shirt was sweaty and dirty, but she snaked her free arm around his waist.
"What are you doing?" His words vibrated against her cheek.
"Listening."
His hand moved and held her head in place. "Would you take me away?"
Arya smiled into the shirt. "I cannot carry you, but you can come with me."
"Would you lord over me?"
Laughter burst from her and she looked up. "We both know I would."
He licked his lips. "Would you do anything I asked?"
Eyebrows high, she hooked one of his thighs with her heel and kept her eyes on his. "Depends on what you asked."
"Would you be my family?"
Arya stilled, heart thrumming beneath her vest. Calm as water. She inched her arms up to twine her hands behind his neck. Slowly and all at once, their lips met.
When they parted, Gendry rested his head on hers.
She smiled into his chest. "I just want you to know, that I asked first."
Extra big thanks to Winterlyn Dow. Ya'll should read her delicious stories. Thank you to the readers who've left reviews and sent encouraging PM's. Until next time! (because we all know I just can't leave Arya alone…) ~JS