A/N: Okay, so I got some mixed feedback. Everyone is upset about Arya's choices, saying they're not 'in-character', and why doesn't she pull out her ninja skills? This is NOT the same character or story as the original. She's not an assassin, sorry. In an earlier chapter, we saw Arya thinks she's better than she is; and worse out of practice. I'll fill in her backstory more later on or in the sequel. And yeah, I messed with the map and stuff to accommodate my story, just go with it, I trust you can still follow the gist you're smart people.

Clearly I'm not George RR Martin, he's amazing, and you can reread the books. Also, the show's good too, rewatch that. If you have a specific story in your head, write your own fanfic, I'll happily read it. But this is MY vision, and I'll write it how I want.

If this is too dark, too upsetting (how are you a fan of this fandom?) then stop reading. Seriously, no hard feelings, there's a lot more darkness up ahead. The more negativity I receive in responses, the slower I write. The more support I receive, the faster I'll get to it. Simple as that.

Okay, enough of that. If you're still here, great. I write this story for me, but also because I want people to enjoy the ride. If you've liked the story so far, maybe trust the process. Now, let's check in with Gendry and Jon at the Wall.

Also, some excerpts from this and my other story will be used in an academic paper by reading-is-in on fanfiction and authority. How cool is that?

Upon The Wall

Gendry

The continuous clink of hammer on steel is meant to be soothing, but it isn't. Too much pressure, not enough results. Story of his life.

He's more frustrated than ever. He'd as good as promised Jon he could make dragon glass, and all his efforts were for shit. He'd tried every variation he could think of: the hottest fire he'd ever burned, it singed off the hair on his arms but the blade simply melted. He tried a low flame, but the glass wouldn't form properly. He tried different compounds of metals, different durations of heating and cooling, hammering the metal from different angles with different intensities. Weeks with nothing to show for his troubles made him feel a failure, and he couldn't bear to let down the stern Lord Commander, who still hadn't quite warmed up to him.

In coming here, he'd made a silent promise to take care of things in Arya's stead. And here he was, contributing barely anything, wondering what he was even doing here. After going too long without sleep, reality was beginning to blur; he wasn't sure how long he'd been here exactly. Weeks, months, years- he wasn't entirely certain he hadn't made come to The Wall with Yoren and the recruits long ago. Stannis, Melisandre, marriage to Arya, and the time in Storm's End felt more like a dream than the bitter cold he was currently relegated to. Arya hadn't even written, and it ate at him, though he tried to reason it away.

Moreover, her token she'd given him on their parting was gone; he suspected Ghost had gotten a hold of it, but he couldn't really be sure. He just woke up one dawn to find it missing. Luckily, while looking through his packs frantically, he found her silver hairpiece from the wedding. Focusing on the small trinket hard enough meant he could summon up her image and scent well enough to reassure himself. Yes, his dream life was real, and he would get back to it. If he pounded hard enough or smart enough, he could get home quicker, they all could.

When he wasn't forging mercilessly or shivering in his cot attempting sleep, his presence was required in the training yard. With the strange and unnerving lull in the fighting, everyone was required to train.

The required time in the practice yard was not just to improve individual skills and stamina, but also to learn to fight as a unit, to watch each other's backs. He hadn't much wanted to participate, preferring to sulk and work fruitlessly in the forge. But Jon would not have it. No exceptions he barked.

He'd thought he was a good swordsman before, winning the sparring matches in Storm's End, and before that barely receiving a scratch in the battles he'd fought in his uncle's name. But actually, his wife had been right- his skills were mediocre at best. He'd believed she was just being snippy, but actually her comments were spot-on. Jon's critiques sounded a lot like hers, but far less pointed; he actually gave him some instruction and he was improving, little by little. Perhaps he was imagining it, but he actually thought there might be the beginnings of respect forming, finally.

Short of dying heroically up here, he was willing to do anything to get on the man's good side. He was a little in awe of him. Gendry would be impressed with any man who could fight and lead like that, kin or not. And the man had a confidence, real or faked, that people were just drawn to.

Must be a Stark trait, he thought.

But it wasn't until they put a war hammer in his hands that his full force came out. Highly trained men, near-born with castle-forged steel in their hands were struck down with one or two blows. The other men began to look at him differently, seeing not just the middling soldier they'd come to know, but also an intimidating presence, one which deserved respect. Not just because of his unearned status as Lord, or the marriage beyond his station; but because he had real power.

They even forced him to practice with some of the Wildling women, women unmatched with spears, arrows, daggers and the like. He hadn't wanted to, worrying he'd hurt them, thinking it a bit foolish. Each would scoff and narrow their eyes in anger at his hesitance. After a few bouts, he had to admit- they were excellent, forces to be reckoned with. It made him realize he had been short-sighted where Arya was concerned. Once again, she was right and he was wrong. He sincerely hoped no one was keeping a tally, he was pretty sure he wasn't winning. Not that he minded so much just now.

She had wanted this so badly, just to be given the chance to fight, to be seen as a warrior; and he'd forbidden her like a child. He promised himself he would apologize upon his return, and she could practice to her heart's content. Most likely, she already was back in Winterfell. Picturing her terrorizing Lommy brought a hard-earned smile to his face. In fact, he could imagine fighting her himself, she in trousers, that adorable sneer on her face. Though he would go easy of course; the two of them ending up panting and pressed up close; clutching at each other; neither winning nor losing. Yes, things would be different once he returned victorious to Winterfell. At least that's what he kept telling himself.

With renewed vigor, and to keep from going insane, he switched to basic repairs of the men's armor and shoddy steel swords. They seemed grateful enough for his efforts, pleased with his work; and he thought perhaps he really was doing some good here. His hammer arm, whether used for smithing or fighting; was all he could offer. Well, it would just have to be enough.

As usual, he let his mind wander while he worked- he imagined sneaking away in the middle of the night to Winterfell and surprising her. In his imaginings, home looked like Storm's End since he'd never been to Arya's home, but the details could be filled in later. It always started the same. He'd come home, haggard and cold and tired; trudging through the gates. And there she'd be, dressed in that green dress she'd had before it was ruined. In his fantasy, she still had it, ripped up the sides, clinging to her just right. He'd smile, expecting to be welcomed with open arms, and she…

She'd probably scream at him in front of everyone and call him a craven for abandoning the men. He chuckles aloud at the image, the sound echoing throughout the forge; her cute little nose scrunched in annoyance. No. He wanted a hero's welcome. He wouldn't run away from his responsibilities, and if he lived through it, well then, that would be a different homecoming all together. The White Walkers were another matter entirely.

"Such a hard worker. Glad to see some things haven't changed." A voice purrs, and he stops working instantly. He hadn't heard her, hadn't even smelled her. But now that he was paying attention, that spicy scent of ginger and cumin over a crackling flame floods his senses.

"Then you can see I'm busy. Go preach to my uncle." He bites out, eyes still focused on the unfinished sword he'd been working on.

"Not when it's you I need to speak with." She places a delicate hand on his shoulder and he shakes it off. He turns around to face her though. Red hair, braided back, crimson silk dress, thin, and somehow immaculate despite the harsh conditions. Eyes so dark, they're nearly black. He knows better than to stare into them, so he looks to her throat instead; creamy skin cold and uninviting now.

"And I told you I'm not interested. I won't listen." He counters.

She sighs, disappointed in his response, or lack thereof. She circles the room, fingering various tools and blades. Looking as if she owns all of it, everything belonging to her. His fingers twitch with the need to pry her touch off his things, then choke the life out of her.

"I'm trying to warn you, Gendry." She touches her throat lightly, almost as if she can feel his intentions on her skin. "You'd do well to hear me. If you don't, you'll soon wish you had." She looks almost sincere, eyes wide. Liar, he reminds himself.

"If that means being around you any longer than necessary, then no. Not worth it. Fuck you, and your warnings, and your prophecies. Save it for someone who's interested." She shakes her head, as if speaking to a child.

"If only ignorance made threats disappear, fools would rule all. But it doesn't work that way. I have no control over what I see, nor of whom. I can't even wholly understand what I see most of the time. But it is real." She insists.

"You're only trying to stir up trouble, make others miserable. You feed off it, like a leech." He chuckles but it's angry. "Leech. That's what you are. You can leave me and mine well enough alone."

"Your wife, you mean. Yes, that was news I took no joy in delivering." He feels a stab in his chest at her surety; she believes whole-heartedly in the prophecy.

"And yet you went out of your way to whisper your bullshit warning into her ear, on the eve of our wedding mind you. And now she can't forget it. If it's me you meant to torture, leave her out of it." He shouts.

"I have no ill will toward you, what happened between us wasn't personal." It felt rather personal to him. "And as for Arya, as a matter of fact, I quite like the young wolf. Why wouldn't I? She has a place in the rebuilding of this world, that much I know without the benefit of my visions. And she has a healthy respect for sacrifice, very rare. Besides, we sisters of this men-driven hell scape need to look out for each other, I always say." What? Hell scapes? Bloody hell. "I was trying to warn her, both of you. And I have yet more to say, if you would but heed me." A threat perhaps? He swallows thickly as he considers his response.

"Fuck. Off." He makes himself as clear as possible, making the effort to meet her eyes. She only sighs.

"As you wish. You will make your own decisions, as all men do. Good luck, to both of you, I mean that." She opens her mouth to say more, and then closes it.

And she's off, off to stare in the flames, sacrifice an innocent, or bleed some poor boy dry. He doesn't care. But he ruins the next blade seeing her milky skin in his mind's eye, imagining cracking her pale clavicles with his great hammer, trying a little too hard to ignore her words.

It's when he's cooling the thousandth sword, the spit sound of the heated metal hitting the water that he hears the alarm sound. White Walkers, lines of the dead down below, ominous; staggered before The Wall. They were just standing there, still, haunting in their intensity. What they wanted, what drove them, what they feared was much talked about among the men; but trying to understand these creatures was like trying to trying to understand the ways of the Red God. After the last attack, there were significant losses on both sides. But every man or woman that fell, rose again on the other side, recouping the enemy's numbers instantly. The surviving men had retreated back behind The Wall. It seemed The Others had begun a new tactic, a new means of intimidation. Waiting. Watching. Unnerving.

Jon has trained them well, each stands in his own place, each with a sense of purpose. All hold still awaiting his command, muscles clenched in wait. Tense, afraid.

Whoosh, whoosh. Whoosh whoosh. All heads turn from the fearful sight of the undead to snap up to the sky. Nothing, but then the sound of deep screeches, and flame igniting. There's a beating, a flapping. He looks up into the white sky, and there he sees them crisp against the foggy air. Flying marvels.

They seem bigger than before, but that was months ago; had it only been months? It felt more like years. Circling overhead, playing with each other, tiny spurts of flame dispersed by the cold atmosphere. The dragons were here, flying in close formation, one lone rider sitting astride the largest dragon, the black one.

Many of the Crows and Wildlings were watching the flying spectacles with awe, unmindful of training or watch duty. The Lord Commander is among them, a light in his eyes for perhaps the first time since Gendry's met him. Dragons will do that.

The dragons fly overhead, swooping in impressive loops and circles. Up up up. Like most, Gendry's eyes follow their every graceful move. He hears orders given in a language he doesn't understand; but the dragons do. They fly beside each other, spread just far enough apart to stretch their wings fully. At another of the Queen's commands, they freeze in mid-air, waiting, poised to attack the enemy below.

The dragons lower themselves slowly, controlled, hovering right above The Others. For their part, the unholy creatures stare up in fascination. And then three heavy streams of flame, waves of fire, are let loose upon their dead faces at once; reflected in white blue eyes. When the first few rows burn, all within the space of an instant, the ones behind fall back; a calculated retreat.

And just like that, a few dozen undead charred to nothing; hundreds of Others are still unharmed, fleeing, but the sight causes everyone to let out a breath of relief. A win, a small one, but a win.

They had little Valyrian steel, one less dragon glass dagger, and not near enough men or women. But now. These dragons would make a difference, they could win, and he could go home all the sooner.

The black dragon descends gently to hover just above the training yard, where even more men are gathered, allowing the delicate figure to lightly hit the ground. The Queen is dressed in her savage leathers, looking regal as well as fierce. All the men (and some of the women) eye her appreciatively, some even bow accordingly; pale blonde hair braided in endless knots around her head, Targaryan eyes, slim waist, and tan skin. The Lord Commander himself seems to be having a tough time focusing on both her and the dragons.

It's Stannis who speaks first and breaks up some of the tension.

"My Queen. It is a great pleasure to see you once again. You do have an excellent sense of timing." And he does look pleased to see her. He'd even gone so far as to thank her for saving their arses. Well, as much as he was capable anyway. His uncle had changed in many ways, and he felt warmer towards him.

"And you, Lord Stannis." Her returning smile seems genuine as well. Well that was one small comfort; the occupant of the Iron Throne was well and truly decided at long last, even half a world away.

Stannis seems to remember himself, and subtly directs her over to Jon. After a quick caress of her dragons, her babies, and a few loving instructions, she follows after the true Lord Baratheon.

"This is The Lord Commander." Stannis introduces a Jon whose face has taken on a shy pink tinge.

"Your Grace." He responds politely, bowing enough so he doesn't have to look her in the eyes. He seems much much younger then, even grasping his long sword.

"Lord Commander. I see now what you've been dealing with here. I apologize for not coming sooner." Gendry makes his way over as well, wanting to greet The Queen properly. She was their savior after all.

"Not at all. Your presence here will make all the difference. We are truly grateful." The both of them are staring so hard into each other's eyes it's a bit sickening.

"Ah. Gendry, there you are." Stannis greets as he notices his presence. Things were certainly much friendlier between them as well, though they'd barely spoken since reaching The Wall, and Stannis' reunion with the witch. Who was thankfully absent. Gendry much preferred Ser Davos by Stannis' side.

"Uncle. Lord Commander." And he faces Daenerys directly. "Your Grace." And he bows as low as his hulking frame will allow, remembering his courtesies.

"Ah, Lord Gendry. How wonderful to see you again. I thought I might. How have you been?" She does seem genuinely pleased to see him, one side of her mouth curving upwards.

"Quite well, Your Grace. Thank you." He responds carefully. She looks about to say more, but Stannis interrupts.

"You must be exhausted, flying all the way here- alone. Surely you've bought us some time with your efforts. Time enough for a celebratory drink or two anyway." Stannis suggests. "Let's eat, rest, and catch up."

All agree, and once more Gendry finds himself in the Lord Commander's quarters sharing drinks, and remembering the world south of The Wall. Everyone seems more at ease, Crows and Wildlings alike, confident the tides had turned in their favor; he wanted to believe so as well.

He's struck once more how different things have turned out than how they were meant to. He wasn't sure what he believed in, by default it had just sort of become R'hlorr. He didn't doubt his power, nor did his uncle, and Melisandre was a force to be beheld. Thoros believed, and of course Lady Stoneheart was proof enough. He grew up in the ways of the Seven, but never thought on it much. His marriage, the binding itself, that was before The Seven as well. But Arya clung to the ways of the Old Gods, and he had to admit, he'd heard something in the trees once she'd brought his attention to it. But he certainly wouldn't call himself a religious man. Though something was guiding him around, that was for sure; they were either on his side or setting him up for a big joke. To go from eating bowls of brown in the heart of Flea Bottom to dining in the Lord Commander's quarters with The Queen herself. He'd have to wait and see, tomorrow he could very well be back to brown.

Either way, he was meant to be here at The Wall, that much is clear. Only difference was he wasn't just a bastard recruit, but a legitimate guest of honor; comfortable in the main quarters, supping with the Queen of all Westeros herself. It still didn't feel right, and he supposed it never would; except of course with his highborn wife by his side.

No, stop thinking about her. He commands himself and tunes back into the conversation.

"We thank you again, My Queen. Truly, your dragons will prove invaluable against the White Walkers. Thank you." Jon raises his glass in a toast, looking softer than he'd ever seen him. Everyone hurries to follow suit, but Gendry has the distinct impression the celebrating is a bit premature.

"There is no need for thanks, this is part of my kingdom as well. As long as I have the means to save lives, I will do so." She smiles around her cup, sipping daintily, clearly pleased by the recognition. "Besides, I've been meaning to visit the Great North for some time now. I've friends here."

"And how are you finding it? Hospitable, I hope." Sam asks. And Gendry realizes for the first time that Sam must be highborn as well, education aside, he spoke with easy words; he loved to talk. But then again, so did Hot Pie.

"Cold." She answers laughing. "But quite pretty, actually. Flying over I saw quite a lot of the country, very spread out, open. Too much space, really. But I've lived within a sea of grass. Marched through deserts and lived off dried horseflesh. So, it rather depends. I must confess, I do prefer a few more landmarks, more signs of civilization if I'm honest." She looks to him. "Let's ask Lord Gendry. You're from the South; it's as night and day am I right? How are you finding it up here?" Of course, he'd never come up with anything so clever as her answer.

"It's alright." He says, careful not to offend anyone. "But I hear Winterfell is truly beautiful, and that the walls are actually warm there. Now you're here, I expect I might actually get the chance to see it." He raises the glass in another toast, and everyone follows suit. At least he'd picked up a few lordly manners.

"You're quite right. This isn't the North. This place is something else entirely. It doesn't even feel like Westeros. You'll have to make it down to Winterfell." Jon remarks addressing the Queen.

"I intend to. I'm meant to visit an old friend there. Actually… I'd hoped to find your fierce lady wife here among you. I suppose I must wait. She is there isn't she? She is well?" She asks. He sighs, having just stopped thinking about her for a whole minute.

"Yes, Your Grace. She's in Winterfell. Preparing and getting settled." He answers.

"By herself?" She answers her own question, rolling her lovely violet eyes. "Of course. Sounds like her. She always was reckless. For all her cleverness, sometimes I swear..." She chuckles, smiling warmly in Gendry's direction. "Well you know she can be… difficult. Wolf blood I suppose." He smiles in agreement. Arya was smart, too smart; but so far it had only ever bitten her, and him in the arse. Still, he wouldn't trade it for anything.

A few have to bite their lip to keep from laughing, the Queen looks around, obviously not aware of the joke.

"Your Grace, The Lord Commander is Arya's brother." Gendry tells her, trying hard not to smile.

The Queen looks at Jon anew, and then turns her full smile on him.

"Of course. You know, you have the same look about you now that I think of it. Arya spoke of you often. I'm very glad to see you alive." She's very sincere. Clearly pleased on her friend's behalf. The admission feels intimate, like he and the others shouldn't be witnessing it.

"Thank you." Jon's response is simple, but he's clearly touched by her genuine concern.

"And I meant no offense. I truly admire her wild blood and her recklessness." She nods at Gendry as well.

"Hmm." Gendry agrees good-naturedly.

"That sounds like her. I'm glad to hear she hasn't changed too much." Jon jokes back; the most upbeat Gendry's ever seen him. "Always getting into trouble. She always took her punishment though, to all of our endless amusement." For all his efforts to impress the stern young man, he'd barely made any headway; the Queen had just arrived and already coaxed a smile from him. Whether it was the charming Queen or her fire-breathing dragon that lightened his mood, he couldn't be sure; but he was glad of it. Every man and woman on the Wall seemed to take their cues from the Lord Commander. The air was much lighter now with her here.

"Anyway, you can't help but love her for it." She adds.

"Aye." Both men say at once, chuckling at the sentiment.

It's a nice moment, enjoying spirits and hearty stew, all in pleasant moods. The arrival of the Queen and her dragons was a very good omen indeed, she'd turned the tides of the battle, and helped ease the tension between he and his new 'brother'. He can see the winged saviors are enjoying meat in the courtyard, quite comfortable and relaxed, to the men's amazement. A fine moment indeed.

"I am very disappointed Lady Arya is not here." The Queen repeats. He's pulled back into the conversation once more. "I hoped to catch up a bit, hear how things were going." She takes a hesitant draft of her drink, savoring the warmth it brings, smirking devilishly. She meant gossip, and she meant him.

"She's safer in Winterfell." Jon says, a little flushed from his drink. Good, they were of the same mind when it came to Arya's safety; he'd thought her brother believed him an idiot. He might well be, but he knew enough to keep his wife, his world, out of harm's way.

"Still." She continues, freer in her speech. "She has a way of making things more interesting. Though things don't seem too boring around here, more dangerous than anything. Gods, she must be beside herself to know you yet live." The Queen remarks in pleasant conversation. Both Gendry and Sam stare at him pointedly. Jon looks down into his cup as he responds.

"Well, she doesn't, quite…" He trails off. It was amusing, to see the self-assured Commander tongue-tied. Sam defends him as ever.

"There are no more ravens in Castle Black. No news leaves The Wall. It's the end of the world, unfortunately there's no way to communicate with the outside." The plump man says in his usual friendly tone before something occurs to him. "You didn't bring any ravens did you?" He asks pleasantly.

Daenerys shakes her head. Of course not. Too much to hope for.

"Has she not written herself?" She questions.

"No." Gendry answers sullenly, swallowing the lump in his throat. He didn't like to think on why she hadn't written him. The idea of her not thinking on him in his absence too depressing. After a while, he realizes there's a forced silence after his answer. Jon seems sullen at the thought as well.

A messenger, a delicate young boy named Satin, enters with a sealed letter and makes his way to the center of the room. Everyone perks up at the perfectly timed letter, and the prospect of fresh news. Gendry asks The Red God, the Seven, and the Old Gods just in case; that the letter is from Arya and she's alright.

"Thank you." Jon says, making to take the letter. But the boy holds onto it, squinting in apology.

"Uh, Milord Commander, sorry, but it's marked Baratheon." He specifies. Jon sits back disappointed, eyeing him resentfully. Or maybe he's imagining it. Gendry feels hope well up in his chest, perhaps someone had listened to his request. But which God was it? Stannis' chest puffs out as he reaches for the letter. "Lord Gendry Baratheon." The boy says at last. Stannis sits back disappointedly. With the letter in his hand, it feels like his nameday, the parchment almost warm beneath his fingertips. Very aware of the eyes watching his every move, he nervously rips into the envelope.

Slowly he takes in every word, very slowly as he's still new to the whole reading thing. The others staring on, impatient for news.

"It's from my cousin, Shireen." He tells them as he continues to read, eyes never leaving the paper. He's glad to hear from her, very glad; and her news is good as well. But he'd hoped for word from his wife, detailing how she was settling in, how much she missed him, maybe something to do with making love or the like.

"Is she alright? What does she say?" Stannis is concerned, actually acting like a person, a father. Well, it was hard not to like the girl, blood relation or not.

"Everything's fine, just checking in." He says with a disappointed sigh.

"Oh. What does she say, Lad?" Davos asks, as fond of the girl as he.

"Read it aloud." Jon prompts. He hesitates, not just out of a sense of privacy; but also not eager to embarrass himself with his piss-poor reading. Luckily, the Queen spares him.

"Leave him be. It's private." She insists, using her most regal tone.

"Come now, what news?" Stannis insists, looking put-upon, plucking the letter from out of his fingers before he can stop it. Damn. The older man reads through it more quickly, more than once, and raises an eyebrow up past his thinning hairline. He hands the letter back. "Well it seems matters have worked themselves out with that girl, I needn't have intervened at all." Stannis dismisses, clearly a bit upset he wasn't mentioned. Really, what did he expect? He was hardly the ideal father.

"What girl?" Sam asks, clearly anxious to gossip.

"That girl, the pregnant one. I went to a lot of trouble to keep things quiet. But it seems I needn't have bothered; the father has been identified. Some guard or other. It looks like you're off the hook. Funny how these things work out."

"Pregnant?" Jon's cold grey glare lands on him, and he feels a kind of terror as the man takes his turn to read the letter. As Lord Commander he's entitled to read all correspondence. Daenerys looks concerned on his behalf, fretting her lower lip between her teeth.

"Jon…" He starts, and he doesn't get a chance to finish, because the smaller man punches him in the jaw, so hard he thinks he hears a crack. A smaller man might have been knocked to the floor, but he clutches the table for support. He sets himself right and glares right back at his 'Good Brother'. And damn, but the man was starting to warm up to him.

A/N: More Gendry next chapter.