It had been four days since Arya had left Gendry slumped against the wall and she had never felt so alone, not even that first night on the Kingsroad. She could still see him when she closed her eyes, his mop of black hair plastered to his forehead, his piercing blue eyes and the lopsided grin he wore. The thought made her stomach turn. After she had been fed and washed by the attendants of Lord Kevin Lannister she was sent back to her own quarters but even with the weight of emotional exhaustion and her injuries she could find no rest. That first evening, cradling her bruised stomach with one hand she took Gendry's pin and struck the wall to check the concealed weapon's edge; satisfied when it left a thin white scratch against the black stone. The thick oak door to the room with her cot was heavy, heavier than her certainly, and it took her using her shoulder to open it.

She had to know.

Ignoring the fierce protestations from her aching and battered limbs she stepped quietly into the stone corridor, careful not to alert anyone to her presence. Slipping cautiously past the Lannister soldiers stationed at the juncture between the staircase up to the highborn quarters and the gateway to one of the quads she welcomed the cool air of the early evening on her face. The sky above was unusually clear, the sunset's bronze streaks made the tops of the black stone glint as though it were still burning from Aegon's dragons three hundred years ago. As the sun dropped lower the guards could already be seen lighting additional torches – some parts of the castle were so constantly in shadow the fires were kept lit.

Her feet led her where she needed to go, giving her rest to pause as she passed each cluster of heaped bodies. Arya's eyes scanned the grey faces among them, her breath held as she desperately hoped his wouldn't be there. It was a child's hope – even if she didn't find him he could still be there either buried too deep in the twisted pile of limbs to see or else in some other heap around the castle. Somehow she couldn't stand the thought he would be left unmourned; his body left as carrion for the crows like Lommy's or Yoren's or so many others. She wanted to be there one last time for him, even if he would never know that she had been.

The bronze sky had faded to near black when she was forced to abandon her search; she didn't have enough light to see more than the first few faces amongst each mound of deceased and a mixture of cold, grief and hunger finally wore her past the point at which she could keep looking. Weakly heading back to her quarters she paused when she saw a face she recognised staring back at her from one of the piles, the soldier Gendry had killed. Her heart skipped a beat as she ran to the nearest brazier drawing from it one of the longer sticks to serve as a torch. She cast the light over the dead faces, ignoring the way the twisted shadows it created as she searched out for his blue eyes. She didn't know how long she was standing there, making her way around the edge of the heap, before a familiar voice spoke out from behind her.

"A girl should not be here." Jaqen warned from the shadows, his crimson armour glinted in the light of her torch. When she kept searching in spite of him he continued, "A girl will not find what she is looking for in there."

"And what is a girl looking for?" Arya snapped back, rounding on him. He had a playful smile across his thin lips that told her he knew exactly what she was looking for.

"A girl owes a man two more names." He said calmly, the terms of their arrangement not forgotten on her.

She had saved him and two others – Biter and Rorge – from burning in the Goldcloak attack and denied the many faced god three deaths. He had promised her three deaths to make up the balance to the deity – the first she had used on the Tickler, largely for what the monster had almost done to Gendry. Not that it made a difference in the end.

"A girl will give two more names when she is ready." Arya shot back coldly, dropping her makeshift torch on the ground between them and walking back to her quarters with what strength she could muster.

When she made it into the tower from which Lord Tywin ruled she headed straight to her quarters but before she could even get to the corridor that led to her door she passed Lord Kevin Lannister. As the man looked down at her Arya though he seemed tired; likely just leaving a war council with his brother even at this late hour. When his eyes fell on her he seemed to soften slightly, evidently content his staff had done a good job cleaning her up. She suspected she looked as tired as he did. After a moment she thought she saw his lips curve upwards faintly before he kept walking away, turning at the end of the corridor to climb the staircase to his chambers. She too continued to walk intent on throwing herself in her cot and resting her weary frame but cursed when she realised too late that the route she was taking would bring her straight past the room Tywin held his councils in. Her hope that the door would be closed and she could slip past unnoticed was quickly dashed when she heard Lord Tywin's voice from inside just as she stepped into his view. The door was ajar.

"Girl." His voice was strong and commanding, but without malice.

She turned and took a few steps into the war chamber, "My lord." She said with a small smile that fooled neither of them.

Tywin put the papers he was holding onto the table and studied her for a moment, his eyes flicking down briefly to take in her full appearance. His gaze lingered on the side of her face where she knew a bruise must surely have formed but if he was thinking something he never said it. Instead he turned to look in her hair, clearly noticing the flower pin – she guessed it probably glinted in the light. "From an admirer?" He asked, seeming to take a genuine interest.

"A friend." She answered coldly, not wanting to think about Gendry.

"This friend," Tywin said, rising to his feet and walking to the table in the corner to pick up a pitcher of wine and two goblets, "Did he…?"

Arya was confused to see him look at her with an expression that could only be described as protective. True, they had had conversations before she doubted other cupbearers and their Lords would have but this was by far the strangest – stranger than when he had talked of his own father and teaching his son – the Kingslayer – to read. Noticing he was waiting for an answer she hastily said, "No my Lord."

Although he seemed to accept her answer, he didn't seem to believe it. Nonetheless he placed the two goblets on the table in front of him, filling them both with red wine. He picked one up and held it out to her, "Drink."

"I don't like the taste." She answered without thinking, before realising what she had said and immediately accepting the goblet, "I'm sorry, my Lord."

Tywin seemed more amused than annoyed and went to sit in his chair by the fire. He brought his own goblet up to his lips and took a drink, she instinctively did the same. The wine burnt her mouth at first but when she swallowed it she did actually feel a bit better – it seemed to warm her up from the inside and took the edge off of the aching she felt. She wondered if this was what Yoren had meant when he said he didn't drink it for the flavour and took another sip.

Tywin turned to look at her, he was silhouetted by the fire and seemed to relax a little, she had noticed before he was always different with his own company to when in front of his men. "Sit." He commanded, gesturing to a chair opposite him. When she hesitated he said calmly but authoritatively, "It is impolite to refuse a Lord's request."

She nodded and sat across from him quickly, bringing the wine to her mouth for a third time. It really wasn't as bad as she thought it would be – once she got over the initial taste she found it made her head feel quite light, in an oddly good way. It did, though, make her more tired. After a few moments she sensed Tywin was waiting for her to speak; not because he did anything to make her think that, but because he said nothing himself. The old man simply stared into the fire. It crossed Arya's mind that despite the strength with which he held himself and the fact that he had clearly once been a military man, he seemed oddly weak now.

"Can you…" she began; he turned his face towards her sharply with a frown tugged across it. She knew she wasn't supposed to ask questions but couldn't think of anything else to say, swallowing and continuing, "Would you thank your brother, Lord Kevin, for me?"

He held her gaze for a moment before giving a slight nod, she let out a breath she didn't realise she had held in and relaxed back into the chair. The wine had made her brazen, or more brazen than usual anyway.

"Your friend," Lord Tywin said with an asking expression, "is he one of my captains?"

Then she understood. Lord Tywin wasn't asking about her injuries because he was worried about her, but because if one of his captains had struck her it could be taken as a personal slight against him. Lord Tywin was just making sure none of his men were expressing dissention. Some part of her was oddly disappointed. "No, my Lord." When Tywin looked like he still didn't believe her she realised that the skilled work on the pin probably made him think it was too valuable to be owned by anyone other than one of his captains, and since she was by his side most of the day she had close contact with many of them. "He was a smith." She added, answering Tywin's question.

The Lord Lannister seemed to lean back a bit further, content none of his men were making a statement against him. She didn't know if it was because she needed to talk to somebody or because of the wine loosening her inhibitions but she continued, "You saved his life."

He arched his brow up in a mixture of surprise and curiosity, asking her in a questioning tone, "and how did I do that?"

"The day you rode in, he was about to be tort- questioned." The faintest flicker of a smile passed over his face though whether it was because he remembered the event or because of her correction she didn't know. She kept going, "You asked his trade and when he said he was a smith they let him go."

Tywin took a sip from his goblet, "and he made you that?" There was an accusation in his voice, one that suggested he thought the pin a waste of steel and time.

"With slack steel my lord, when he couldn't sleep." She answered quickly, eager to defend Gendry. It occurred to her only afterwards he didn't need protecting anymore.

Tywin grunted in approval and leant back into his chair. He, like his brother, looked tired. There was a not unpleasant silence between them as Arya looked into the fire, remembering the way the light of the forges lit up Gendry's chest when he didn't wear a shirt. The memories of his body glistening from sweat as he focussed on whatever project he was working on made her blood run hot; she hardly noticed when she touched her lips, remembering the kiss she gave him. She had always thought the idea of kissing boys repulsive and stupid – something Sansa and the girls from the songs would do – but something was different about her last moments with Gendry, it felt right. It scared her.

The silence was broken only when she yawned, failing to stifle it in a less than ladylike manner with the back of one hand; Tywin looked over at her seemingly surprised she was still there – he too had been looking at the fire. "Go on." He told her, nodding to the door and clearly suggesting she should get some sleep.

She stood up shakily and looked down at her goblet, at some point she had finished the wine. She placed it on the central table carefully and walked towards the exit. Just as she reached the door she heard Tywin speak once more, "Girl."

She turned, yawning again and saying a very sleepy, "My Lord."

He was walking towards her; she hadn't even heard him get up and cursed the wine. She looked up at him as he stood in front of her and realised too late what he was going to do – he took the pin from her hair and turned it over in his hands. She felt fear shoot through her and all of a sudden as tiredness slipped away from her. If Tywin knew its true purpose as a concealed blade he would undoubtedly take it from her, but as the lord inspected the petals of the flower he showed no signs of thinking it anything other than what it was. Gendry had done a good job of making it look as much like a simple pin as possible.

"This is good work." Tywin said; surprise evident on his voice before he handed it back to Arya. He walked away from her to put his goblet on the table and added, "Your smith has a good future here."

"Had." Arya corrected before she could stop herself.

Tywin turned to face her and asked, "had?"

"He's dead, my Lord." She told him coldly, the words feeling like poison in her mouth, "He died this morning."

She knew Tywin Lannister was not the type of man who was easily shocked, nor was he a stranger to death or blood – if he felt anything at all at her revelation he certainly didn't show it. He paused for a moment and looked away, before giving her a very thin smile and saying "Off to bed."

She hadn't needed telling twice.

It had been four days since that night, four days in which she continued to serve Lord Tywin and the others in his council chamber, in which she searched the heaps of bodies as best as she could for any sign of him and in which she sought out news from the kitchen's about Hot Pie. Although she hadn't found a body for either of them and part of her wanted to hold onto hope the other part knew that she could've missed them, they could've been burnt or dragged elsewhere in the castle. The thought made her sick. She missed them, both of them, but most of all she missed Gendry – more and more she missed him in a way that made her stomach hurt, that stole the breath from her lungs.

She kept thinking back to everything that had passed between them, that morning on the Kingsroad she had woke up with his arms around her, the way he held her in the Pens between his chest and his chains, the way he grinned every time he saw her and always tried to protect her even when he needed protecting more than she did. She thought about the way he had squeezed her hand to tell her everything was going to be alright, how he had hugged her tightly when he first saw her after they were separated and the horror in his eyes as he thought he'd lost her to the Lannister. Being around him had been doing something to her she couldn't explain; her heart beat faster when he smiled, her glances lingered too long and he just made her feel more alive… and now he was gone.

What did that mean for her?

Though the warm rays of the sun shone lazily through the holes in the room, all the warmth in Dorne would have done nothing to relieve the coldness that had settled in Gendry's body. He ached from the constant effort of shivering and lay stricken between exhaustion and sickness; a thick layer of perspiration coated him and, beneath several uncomfortable blankets, he felt the great weight of a singularly bitter and icy grip baring down on him. He could not feel his left leg at all save a dull and distant throb, as though the limb didn't belong to him. The rest of his body seemed in an equally poor state – if he managed to open his eyes his vision was blurry, unfocussed and useless, his mind felt hazy and oddly quiet and every time he tried to move a wave of agony burnt through him.

Gendry couldn't say how long he'd been in the chamber, he could barely think and had scarce knowledge of the comings and goings around his cot. He had seen Qyburn skulking, he even remembered Qyburn talking to him but the words were lost from his mind. His waking memories had all the clarity of a dream; the harder he tried to remember details the further away they slipped from him. He was sure others too had visited him but their faces disappeared, for a moment he believed he'd seen Hot Pie but dismissed it, after all, Hot Pie was likely long dead by now. The pox did not leave many prisoners, for all Hot Pie's resilience Gendry doubted he would make it through; and while he hoped that he would, he just couldn't believe himself to trust for it.

It was tough to tell how many days had passed, even though he could make out the outside world through the great cracks in part of the ceiling and furthest wall which, admittedly, was less than two of his arm's reaches away. The room was cramped and barely longer than the cot he lie in though he was thankful at least he wasn't back in Qyburn's other chambers. It was only when an attendant, a young boy not older than Lommy had been, lit a candle and brought up food that Gendry realised it was night again, the rays that had graced his face just moments earlier had faded and fled from sight. The bowl of water the boy provided him tasted of iron and the bread was akin to what they had eaten in Yoren's company, hard and stale. Gendry stopped eating after only a few moments, the pain it took to lift his arm to his mouth was too much, he tried calling out to the boy for help but his throat was weak and the boy had already slipped into the darkness.

The candle had burned low enough that the dripping wax had flown over the edge of its terracotta holder when Gendry was next disturbed. Out the door of his chamber he could make out two silhouettes, lit by a single torch held between them. Even in his near feverous condition he could tell them by their voices, Lucan and Qyburn.

"How is he?" Lucan asked, Gendry couldn't tell

Qyburn answered in his surprisingly small, but strong, voice, "I have done all I can, I have stitched and cleaned his wounds, gods permitting the rot is kept away he might even recover fully one day."

"How long?" Lucan questioned, placing a hand on the door frame and observing the prone form lying in the darkness.

"That I do not know," Qyburn said truthfully, "A great many men would have died from his injuries, I must confess I am still quite surprised he hasn't." There was an air of playful curiosity in his voice. "His blood is strong."

"He is one of the best smiths this castle has had in years, even if he can't smith himself the younger lads could learn from him." Lucan said openly. "It's been too long since I had a man with a decent eye for steel under my command, I wouldn't mind keeping him on after you and your companions have moved on. The gods know this castle was less miserable before you all arrived."

Qyburn laughed a hollow laugh and placed his hand on Lucan's shoulder, "I was lot less miserable before I arrived," He paused for a moment and looked back at the cot, adding more seriously. "I will have someone tell you if his condition changes."

Lucan nodded and thanked him, turning on his heel and heading away down the corridor. As he left, the light left with him.

When Gendry next blearily opened his eyes Qyburn was sitting in front of him inspecting the wound on his leg. Seeing his patient was lucid Qyburn's expression mellowed somewhere between idle curiosity and amusement as he looked Gendry over. After a few moments his thin lips cracked up faintly and he said, "Do you remember what happened?"

Gendry pushed back thoughts of his violent altercation and shook his head, feeling sick the moment he did so – in part because of the movement, but also the fear that even if he left this cell he would simply be killed for murdering the Lannister bannerman. He gritted his teeth and swallowed dryly, waiting for the pain to abide and wishing that if they planned to execute him that they would just get it over with.

"There are some members of the guard that don't believe the man you killed was – how was it put by your smith friend – addled by pox?" Qyburn flashed another smile as Gendry's stomach writhed uncomfortably at the thought of Arya – both out of fear for her and something else.

He remembered the softness of her lips against his, the taste of their sweat and blood and her; it was everything he had wanted, more than he had hoped for, in circumstances he couldn't have wanted less. In his dreams he used to imagine himself rising up to be a knight; wearing the armour he had made and marrying a good woman in the eyes of the seven; he had both hated and envied the highborns. Looking down at his leg covered as it was by stained bindings, he doubted he could be a knight anymore and he knew he could never take a wife – not now – but in his own way he had come closer to his childhood fantasies than most others ever would. He had fought to protect a highborn lady that he cared for and that cared for him back... Arya Stark, a highborn from one of the oldest houses in Westeros… and she had kissed him. He thanked the gods she wasn't like the rest of the highborns and prayed she was safe, he wondered if she knew he'd survived and how she'd react when she saw him. His heart hammered in his chest at the thought of scooping her into his arms and placing another kiss against her, or several, but even in his moment of elation he knew that although his whole world had shifted, the rest of Westeros hadn't: here, in the walls of Harrenhal – they were both lowborn, they could be whatever they wanted to each other, but outside… He groaned, it didn't bear to think about it.

Qyburn was still talking, "Of course without a body to check against I can't say." He paused, letting the air linger heavy between them. "Were you not a smith I doubt you'd have been sent to me at all, and I can't guarantee that if you do survive you won't just be put to death anyway." The man looked intently at Gendry's leg, prodding the swollen flesh with a gangly finger and frowning, "Perhaps the safest course would be to cut it off, it's a wonder you've not succumbed to infection already…"

"No." Gendry growled, his voice low and threatening. The strength in his reaction seemed to catch Qyburn off guard and he eyed his patient with a new appreciation.

"Then again," the man said calmly, "I suppose it is possible it will heal… Your hand appears to have mended itself after all."

"How long 'til I can get out of here?" Gendry grunted out groggily, he hated being trapped in the dingy room and the longer he was stuck down here the longer Arya was on her own.

"You are rather putting the carriage before the horse," Qyburn quipped, "How long you're here," he said, emphasising the word in a way that made Gendry uncomfortable, "depends entirely on whether you can hold off an infection."

Gendry looked up at the vaulted ceiling and gritted his teeth, now he was awake it wouldn't do to die tucked away and unknown already in a stone coffin. He had to make it, he had to survive. After all, he loved her.

Author's Note:

I'm very sorry for the delay, I've been quite seriously unwell - this is the first of two prepared chapters which should bring the story to a much happier position while I finish treatment :) I really hope you enjoy it, I had some trouble writing it as I've had no experience with Tywin before - hope I captured him alright. This is the end, you'll be happy to hear, of the very dark section of the fic - from here on out it's much nicer lol. Their reunion is in the next chapter :)

Thanks everyone for the support you've given the fic, it's been amazing and great to know people like it - definitely what I've needed to read with the last few months being as they have. Reviews are really appreciated.

Also, I've made a Gendrya Youtube video so if you're into that kind of thing I'd love it if you took a look at our OTP: watch?v=05fMYchn2Zc

Take care, AG.