A fat young man wearing a Maester's collar greets their party of six when they finally arrive at the Wall, exhausted, famished, and chilled to the bone from their long journey north.
"Lord Commander," the Maester says, nodding to Lord Snow. His tone is formal but the smile on his face is very broad. He takes Snow's heavy pack from him and hands it off to a waiting brother of the Night's Watch.
Once unencumbered, Lord Snow pulls the man into a bone-breaking hug. The Maester follows suit, throwing his arms around Lord Snow and clapping him heartily on the back.
"I've missed you, Sam," Snow says, formalities forgotten, his voice thick with emotion.
"I've missed you too, Jon."
Lord Snow pulls away first. His eyes, clear as a summer sky just a moment ago, are now glassy and rimmed with red. He swipes at them impatiently with the pads of his thumbs.
"Unfortunately, we have much to discuss," the fat Maester says slowly, sounding apologetic. He fidgets with his hands as he speaks. "It cannot wait."
Lord Snow closes his eyes and nods. "I know. Let's have done with it, then."
The two men walk off in the direction of Castle Black without another word. A pair of crows dressed in the blacks of the Night's Watch escort Gendry, The Commander, and the other men in their group to the barracks where they will stay while here.
"Wonder what they're in such a hurry to talk about," The Commander mutters, spitting on the ground as they walk.
Gendry doesn't know for certain. Lord Snow certainly didn't share his innermost thoughts with him during the fortnight it took to reach the Wall from Winterfell. He hardly spoke a word to any of them the entire journey, in fact.
But he has some guesses.
"The Queen's death, I'd imagine," Gendry muses. Suddenly, he's reminded of a conversation he had with old Yorik in what feels, most days, like a different lifetime. "Although… well, I think the Night's Watch doesn't involve itself in politics. But now that there's no one on the Iron Throne…" Gendry scratches his head, trying to puzzle it out.
One of the crows accompanying them to their quarters interrupts his train of thought with a sharp bark of laughter.
"You green summer boys," he says derisively. "The Queen's death will affect the Night's Watch, no matter what the Lord Commander might say." The crow, who looks like he's seen sixty name days if he's seen ten, shakes his head in annoyance.
"There's also them dragons for the Lord Commander and the Maester to talk about," Whiskey adds.
Gendry shudders a little. Before deciding to join the war effort north of the Wall Gendry never thought he'd come face to face with a dragon – much less face to face with three dragons, each apparently mad with grief over the Queen's death.
"Yes," Gendry agrees. "There's dragons for them to talk about too."
They continue in silence the rest of the way to the barracks, the treads of their heavy boots leaving large prints in the hard-packed snow.
When Gendry sees the single drafty room all five of them are meant to share, his earlier suspicions that Castle Black's accommodations would be austere are immediately confirmed.
He eyes the row of five narrow cots, with a few thin blankets folded neatly at the foot of each one, and sighs. He picks up one of the blankets and rubs the scratchy, threadbare fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Dropping it back onto the cot Gendry thinks, grimly, that the Night's Watch vow of lifelong celibacy is clearly not the only reason men see taking the black as akin to a life sentence.
But his comfort here doesn't matter. Now that he knows what it's like to sleep with Arya Stark in his arms, nighttime will never be pleasant for him again anyway.
Every night on his journey north from Winterfell, as he tossed and turned on the cold hard ground, Gendry thought of their one night together. He'd remember the feeling of Arya's small body pressed up against his under own those warm blankets in Winterfell's forge, her long brown hair tickling his nose.
Gendry drops his pack onto the cot nearest the back wall and wonders if Arya thinks of him at night now, too.
He knows it's wrong for him to hope for such a thing. But he does anyway.
Dinner that night is held in Castle Black's cavernous Great Hall.
Like their accommodations, the meal is meager – just some crusty bread and a bowl of thin mutton stew for each man. It's hot, though, and tastes better than Gendry expected. It's certainly no worse than what they ate on their journey here.
Gendry tears his bread into quarters with some difficulty and dips the pieces into the stew to soften them. He pops them into his mouth, one by one, with his spoon. He chews carefully as he listens to Maester Tarly – called "The Slayer" by some and "Ser Piggy" by others, despite his station – describe the most effective way to stab a White Walker.
Maester Tarly uses one of Gendry's spears for the demonstration. In spite of himself Gendry can't help but feel a small flicker of pride as he watches the learned man handle the weapon he designed at Winterfell.
"We plan for each man to have ample spears at his disposal," Maester Tarly says as he finishes the demonstration. He sets the spear off to one side and sits down on the bench at the front of the room, right next to Lord Snow.
Lord Snow, who watched Maester Tarly's presentation with rapt attention, nods at the larger man and stands up. "To make certain everyone is well-equipped, and per my express orders, Ser Gendry Waters – the man who made this spear – will be stationed in the forge while here." Lord Snow's speaking voice is strong and authoritative as he gestures towards Gendry.
"Or at the least, he will be stationed there until we run out of dragonglass daggers," Lord Snow adds as an afterthought. He manages a small laugh, but it's a bitter sound, and no one joins him.
Gendry looks around the Great Hall at the faces of the men surrounding him. If anyone is angry or jealous over his relatively soft role in what is to come they show no outward sign of it. Most don't even seem to be listening to Lord Snow at all, choosing instead to play card games with each other or to doze over their stew.
"And now, on to other pressing matters," Lord Snow says, clearing his throat. He closes his eyes and rubs at his temples, as though trying to massage away a great headache.
"As many of you have no doubt already heard, while I was away at Winterfell and shortly before the White Walkers killed her, the Queen sent ravens to every corner of the realm with letters concerning me. These letters described our… relationship."
Gendry sits up straighter at Lord Snow's words. He has no idea what he's talking about. From the looks on his companions' faces Gendry can tell they don't know anything about this, either.
"As men under my command you have the right to hear directly from me, rather than through rumors and gossip-mongers, exactly what these letters said." Lord Snow pauses, and takes a sip from a flagon of wine that sits on a nearby table. "I will be blunt. These letters stated that I am her nephew and only surviving heir. They also informed the realm that she granted me legitimacy. The Queen gave me the Targaryen name, given that I was the bastard son of her dead older brother, Rhaegar Targaryen."
Lord Snow pauses a moment to let the weight of his words sink in. He glances around the room before continuing. "The Queen sent these letters and legitimized me while I was away. I learned about it from Maester Tarly, earlier today, when I returned to the Wall."
To Gendry's surprise, no one else in the room seems surprised, or even very affected, by any of this news. Or perhaps, Gendry muses, they just do not especially care one way or the other about any of it. Perhaps they view, as he once did, all highborn men and women, bastard or otherwise, as nothing more than different faces belonging to the same master. As interchangeable. One and the same.
"Before her death, Queen Daenerys made clear to me that she wanted me to sit the Iron Throne should anything happen to," the Lord Commander continues. "But she is no longer able to force my hand, and the Nights' Watch takes no part in the politics of Westeros. I may no longer be Lord Snow, but I took my vows, just as most of you did. And so I promise you now: I have no intention of leaving my brothers, or the Wall, for the Iron Throne."
Without another word, the Lord Commander steps down from the makeshift podium at the front of the room. He sits at the table where Maester Tarly and some other men Gendry does not recognize eat their stew. Maester Tarly and the Lord Commander exchange a long, meaningful glance. The Lord Commander gives the Maester a grim smile that does not reach his eyes.
The evening's presentations apparently over, the men sitting around Gendry begin eating.
But Gendry is reeling far too much from the news to eat. If the Lord Commander refuses the Iron Throne, does this mean another long, protracted war for everybody south of the Wall while the men in this Great Hall toil away north of it? And if there's another war, will Arya and her siblings, as the last surviving Starks, be drawn into it?
Gendry thinks about all he and Arya lost during the War of the Five Kings and finds he no longer has appetite. He pushes his stew away from him and rests his head in his hands.
It's a warm, sunny afternoon – warmer than any afternoon in recent memory – when Arya finally sees Aleks and Maxim Karstark on their horses, slowly making their way towards Winterfell from the godswood.
"They're coming," Arya quietly tells Sansa, who's propped up on cushions near the hearth. Sansa gets up clumsily from her seat and brushes off the front of her skirt.
"I'll get Rickon," she says, rushing from the room as quickly as she can.
Rickon was very angry last week when Arya told him about this meeting with the Karstarks. He didn't care that their family's survival the rest of the winter depends on her ability to resurrect this former trading relationship. "And I also don't care that they've wed maids from The Neck since they were last here," Rickon added angrily, arms folded tightly across his chest. "Because that changes nothing."
Rickon was implying, of course, that the Karstarks' recent marriages do not mean they will be honorable with Arya and Sansa during this visit. Arya knows enough about men to know her brother is right about that. As she learned firsthand in Braavos, once a certain kind of man gets more than ten feet from his marital bed he all but forgets his wife and the vows he made to her on their wedding day.
Arya suspects both Aleks and Maxim to be exactly that sort of man.
But she has no choice but to meet with them today and hope they are coming with a mind to trade. In the months since Jon, Gendry, and the others left for the Wall, she and her siblings have hunted and picked the godswood clean. Winterfell's larders are now almost bare.
In the end Rickon reluctantly gave up the fight on the condition that Arya allow him to be present for the entire meeting. "To make certain the Karstarks stay gentlemen," he'd said, gritting his teeth.
Arya had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from laughing in her young brother's face. She isn't hopeful that the Karstarks will remember themselves today, either with or without young Rickon's presence. But it was simpler to agree to Rickon's terms than to either argue with him or tell him he was being ridiculous.
At length, Sansa returns to the room with Rickon in tow, a small axe in his hand and wearing a surly expression. He crosses his arms, hand still clutched around the axe's handle, and scowls at Arya.
"Are they here?" he demands.
"No," Arya says. She glances out the front window. "But they'll be here any moment. Their horses have crested the hill just outside Winterfell's front gates."
Rickon paces the room, muttering curses under his breath.
"Sansa," Arya says. She turns to face her older sister, six moons gone now, her belly round as an autumn pumpkin.
Arya and Rickon decided that Sansa should not be present while the Karstarks are here given her condition. Sansa had readily agreed. She nods at Arya now, hands splayed wide across her growing stomach, and beats a hasty retreat for the stairs.
Not a moment later, Aleks and Maxim stride brazenly into Winterfell's Great Hall, looking much as they did when they were last here.
"Sers," Arya says, forcing herself to smile and bow her head as a real lady would. "Please. Won't you join us in the kitchen."
The men nod at Arya and follow her and Rickon into the adjoining room. Sansa laid out tea service for them not an hour ago and the large iron kettle is still steaming. Once everybody is seated Arya pours tea for her guests.
"We were so glad to receive your raven last week, Lady Stark," Maxim says, stirring a sugar cube into his cup. "It had been so long since we'd heard from you, and –"
Arya cuts him off with a peal of bitter laughter.
"Spare me, Ser Karstark," Arya says harshly. She returns the kettle to the center of the table and sits down. "We've sent you four ravens since the last time you were at Winterfell. Four. All of them asking why you cut off contact with us. And all of them went unanswered, until the last." She shakes her head at them. "Why is it, exactly, that have you chosen to grace us with a reply now, after so long?"
Aleks Karstark clears his throat. "We realize now that we had been too hasty in our initial decision to cut off trade with you, Lady Stark." He looks to his brother, who gives him a small nod of confirmation. "We are but men, my lady. And our pride suffered greatly when you refused our offer of marriage. We handled it badly, for which we do apologize."
"And I take it your pride has recovered since you were here last?" Arya asks, one eyebrow raised. "Now that you've found other women to wed and to warm your beds?"
The Karstarks shift uncomfortably in their seats. "Well," Maxim begins. "The truth of it is…" he trails off and scratches at the back of his neck.
Arya rolls her eyes. "Out with it," she demands. "Why are you here, now, when you weren't willing to trade with us before?"
Aleks sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "We need gold," he says bluntly. "That's the short of it. Our wives are now both with child, and we were… over-confident, you could say, in our ability to manage financially without our trading relationship with House Stark."
"We wrote to you in the hopes that you and your family were willing to let bygones be bygones and pick up where we left off," Maxim adds.
"What are your terms?" Arya asks, opening Winterfell's ledger and taking her quill from its ink bottle. No need to prolong this meeting any longer than necessary. "Are your prices what they were previously?"
"Actually… no," Aleks says, slowly. He leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. "No. Our prices have doubled. Times being what they are, with war raging all around us."
Rickon scoffs loudly and slams Arya's ledger shut. "Get out of here," he mutters at them.
Arya turns on him. "Rickon," she spits at him. "Shut up."
Rickon does as he's bid, but he's clearly unhappy about it. He sits back in his chair, glowering at the two men across the table.
"Sers," Arya begins, reopening the ledger. "Doubling your prices on us is unconscionable." She shakes her head. "We won't pay the new rate unless you can convince me why it's necessary."
Aleks shrugs his shoulders. "It's necessary because you have no choice, Lady Stark. Do you have any alternatives to dealing with us? Any other sources of food, of supplies?"
"Of course we do," Arya lies. "We don't need to do business with you, sers. We have many options."
Maxim snorts derisively. "Oh, I'm certain you do, Lady Stark."
Arya raises an eyebrow at him. "We do," she says, trying, and failing, to keep the edge of petulance out of her voice.
The room is quiet for a long moment. Arya doesn't think for a second that the Karstarks have believed her bluff. She expects them to end the meeting any minute now and braces herself for it.
But they don't end the meeting. "If what we ask of you in gold is not suitable to you, Lady Stark, we are prepared to make an alternative proposal," Aleks eventually continues.
"Well?" Arya prompts. "I'm listening."
Maxim chuckles softly, but there's no mirth in it. "We will not resume business with you, Lady Stark, without a significant increase in the price you pay us." He rubs the back of his neck. "That said, the payment does not need to be in the form of gold."
"Agreed," Aleks says. "If there's some… alternative, form of payment you can think of, Lady Stark, then by all means, we are open to suggestions."
Arya looks from Aleks to Maxim, who is now openly leering at her. Instantly, Arya understands what they're proposing. She jumps to her feet.
"There is no other form of payment on offer," she tells the men firmly – thinking of the vow she made to herself to never again live as she did in Braavos; thinking of Gendry and their one perfect night together.
"In that case, Lady Stark, we will be on our way." Aleks nods his head to her in mock politeness. "You may not have others with whom you can trade. But House Stark is not the only source of Queen's gold in the realm." He rises from his chair and Maxim follows suit.
"Stop," Sansa's voice rings out, loud and clear as a bell from behind Arya's chair, surprising everyone and making Arya jump. "We'll pay you the gold you are asking for."
"Sansa," Arya says quietly. "What are you doing?"
"We'll pay it," Sansa repeats, ignoring her younger sister. "We have the gold, and if double is what you ask for in exchange for your goods, it's yours."
The men look at each other. Maxim shrugs.
"Very well, Lady Stark," he says to Sansa. He nods at her and smiles. "I believe we have a deal."
Later, after they've eaten their fill of the ham and potatoes they purchased from the Karstarks earlier today and Rickon has gone to bed, Arya turns on her sister.
"What were you thinking, Sansa?" she asks. "Don't you realize that by agreeing to their unreasonable terms today, you sent the Karstarks a clear message that they can ask whatever they want of us in the future?"
"Can't they, though?" Sansa asks. She's leaning against the cushions on the plush settee by the hearth, hands covering her stomach protectively. "They have food and we don't. We don't have anywhere else to get it. We have no choice but to do what they ask of us in order to survive. Today, and every day until winter ends." Sansa closes her eyes. "All I did this afternoon was save our family precious time. You would have eventually come to the same conclusion I did."
Sansa carefully eases herself off the settee and walks to the staircase. She makes to climb up to her bedroom but pauses halfway up the stairs.
"It's only gold, Arya," she says. "As long as we have it, and the Karstarks are willing to accept it, we will survive." Sansa looks at Arya with a fierce determination that Arya has not seen since Sansa arrived on Winterfell's doorstep, delirious and violently ill, four moons ago. "Nothing else matters but our survival. Not your pride, nor the dead Queen's gold, nor anything else."
Gendry rushes to the small desk inside the forge, hands trembling.
He's written dozens of letters to Arya over the past year. Sweet letters. Letters with detailed information about the war. Letters that were little more than his heart laid bare for her on the page.
Once or twice he's even written Arya letters describing, with great detail, exactly how he plans to worship her body should they ever meet again.
But today – right now – he will write Arya the letter he's been dreaming of writing ever since leaving her at Winterfell so long ago. And now that it's finally time to write it he feels about to fly out of his skin with anticipation.
Arya has repeatedly assured him in letters of her own that should he ever return to her she'll marry him the second he arrives, name or no name. But can she really mean that, after all this time? When he sees her again in less than a moon's turn will Arya finally, at last, be his?
Gendry tries to push these worries aside as he plucks the quill from the ink bottle on his desk. He begins to write, his dirty hands accidentally smudging the page as he does so. But he can't be bothered to care about that right now.
Dear Arya,
By the time you read this I will be on my way back to you.
It's happened. Less than a fortnight ago, rangers finally found the cave where the last of the White Walkers have taken refuge. The Lord Commander rode the largest dragon, Drogon, bareback, straight to the cave as soon as he heard the news, Drogon's brothers following closely behind.
(Gendry pauses, chewing on the end of the quill, and thinks of how to best describe the sight of the Lord Commander flying on a dragon, half a thousand feet in the air. He eventually decides it's something he cannot adequately describe in writing, and vows to give Arya the best description he can manage when he sees her again.)
The Lord Commander left the dragons, still mad with grief over the loss of their mother, to guard the cave. The rangers now report that Drogon and the others refuse to move from the spot where the Lord Commander left them. They are taking it in turns to create a barrier of fire beyond which the White Walkers appear unable to cross.
As the White Walkers are impervious to fire we do not understand why this is proving an effective entrapment. Either way, it's working. Not a single White Walker, and not a single wight, has been spotted since the dragons began their vigil by the cave.
I do not know if this means the war north of the Wall is over. I no longer believe that any of us will ever be truly safe in Westeros – whether the danger presents from supernatural monsters, or from dragons, or simply from ordinary men who wish us dead, there will always be something. But last night I saw the Lord Commander smile – truly smile, mind – for the first time ever, when he relieved all men who are not part of the Night's Watch from duty. Effective immediately.
Gendry pauses again. There's so much more he wants to tell Arya. He wants to tell her that he dreams of her almost every night. He wants to tell her that his memories of their one night together, and his fervent hope that they'll create more memories just like them in the future, are what have gotten him through this long and horrible year.
He wants to vow to her, for what might be the thousandth time, that once they are reunited he will never again leave her side.
But the raven is already waiting impatiently for this letter. And Gendry must begin his preparations for leaving within the hour.
So his letter's closing is very brief.
I love you so much, Arya Stark. I'll see you soon.
Yours,
Gendry