Gendry found little rest in sleep. His cot was tucked among a series of ramshackle rooms added onto the forge long after the burning of Harrenhal. It was a strange sight - the cobbled buildings would have been small even for a village forge, and under the enormous walls it looked closer to storage huts than somewhere people worked and slept. Inside, the wooden ceiling was barely taller than Gendry and the corridor to his bed was too narrow to walk more than one person across - it was almost easier to walk sideface. Gendry had smiled at that the first time, thinking of Arya trying to teach him to fight as if she was some kind of master of arms. There were no windows, it was almost like being underground..If any effort had been put into the building, the alcove where his cot was tucked would have made a nice place for a window.

In the night he rolled closer to the inside walls, the heat of the forges kept the stone strangely warm to the touch - if he was overhot he could roll the other way, enjoying the feel of the cool outside wall against his skin. It was the closest he'd come to having his own chambers, though he wouldn't call it pleasant. Without any light it was all too easy to imagine Qyburn's face swimming into view, or the Tickler scraping a bucket across the cobbles. Sometimes it was Ser Amory, daring him to find his feet, or the sounds of battle - the final gasps of Yoren, or Lommy or the whimper Arya made when she was thrown down. No matter what wall he leant against, or how many times he reminded himself he wasn't in the cell anymore, Gendry woke in the oppressive darkness, his unseeing eyes wide in panic and skin coated in sweat. The howling of the wind through the many hollowed courts was hard to tell apart from the groans of the people they contained, ever a whisper in the night. The walls themselves breathed in anguish, the collective sigh pressing him down against his cot.

His tiredness showed in the morning. Beyond his bruised eyes and terrible mood he managed to catch a nail at the wrong angle with his hammer, shearing the head straight off the body and drawing blood where it caught his thumb. Cursing loudly he threw the tool against the bench, scaring one of the boys near him with the sudden outburst. He mumbled an apology.

"Is that how they do it in King's Landing?" Lucan joked, wheezing a little as he walked over to Gendry, who reddened abashed.

"I'm sorry Lucan." Gendry said, rubbing his forehead before picking up the hammer he'd thrown.

"Let's get some air," the older man said, gesturing to the door to the forge before adding in a louder voice, "I'm sure the boys can manage without you for a few moments."

They left to a sudden flurry of activity as the boys picked up on Lucan's hint. As they walked, Gendry found his hand gripping his stick a little less tightly than before, even so he expected he'd have a limp for the rest of his life now. Outside the forge it was strangely quiet - the guards went about their duties and the cool air rang empty without the sounds of metal or the crackling of the furnace in his ears.

"You need to be more careful." Lucan said softly, a harsh edge in his voice.

"I'm sorry about the nail." Gendry apologised quickly, "It won't happen again."

"To the hells with the bloody nail, if I had a halfpenny every time I'd be a very wealthy man," the older smith shot back, barely holding back a cough, "I'm talking about your cupbearer friend."

Gendry meant to say something and his mouth went dry, throat closing uncomfortably in his neck and teeth clenching involuntarily.

"Most of these men haven't seen their wives in half a year or more and I trusted you for better than to draw any more attention to her." Lucan scolded him.

"I-" Gendry began, heart pounding fast against his ears and stomach lurching uncomfortably at how reckless they'd been in the open court the evening before.

"And you… Soldiers talk," Lucan coughed out, reaching up to wipe his mouth. "I don't know if they've figured out what you did but the Seven help you if they do. Attention of any sort is the very last thing you should be drawing."

"What I did?" Gendry shot back defensively, trying to gauge the old man's face for any signs of a trap and hide the rising panic he was feeling.

"Are you afraid?" Lucan's voice was not much louder than a whisper. Gendry's hand instinctively rested over his leg, the dull ache suddenly as fresh with pain as the day it was cut.

"Every day," He answered him honestly, meeting the smith's eyes. And not just for me.

"Good." Lucan said sharply, leaning in so close Gendry could practically feel the heat radiating off the man, "See I know you're name's not Lommy, and you're a good enough smith to trade in any number of shops so you didn't leave King's Landing by choice, you ran…"

"I left to join the Night's Watch." Gendry cut him off, but Lucan ignored him.

"How many men have you killed?" The old smith practically growled, pointing towards Gendry's leg, "You don't get those sorts of wounds sparring, and you don't survive 'em if you don't win - it's a miracle you survived them at all."

To anyone else Gendry looked still - almost calm except from his breathing, too shallow, and sweat slick on his brow. He fought the overwhelming urge to run, to throw up, to fight, to do anything but stay exactly where he was. I am a killer. The words stuck in his mind - killers were other men, evil men. He'd been sent to Castle Black with killers and thieves and had never felt like one of them, still didn't feel like them even now. The sound rushed back before the memory, the gasping as the first man he'd struck down tried to stem the blood from his wounds, and then the second. Gendry had wanted to kill the second man. I should have been in those cages.

He studied Lucan, really looked at the man. Against every part of him that screamed he shouldn't trust anyone, against every part of him that said it put him in unnecessary danger, Gendry wanted nothing more than to tell him everything - or almost everything.

"My name… it's Gendry." He said quietly, "My master sold me to the Night's Watch to get me out of the capital ." He took a shuddering breath and added, "I made a promise, and to keep it I killed two men, and I need to go north."

He pushed back his panic - it was a gamble. Lucan already knew he'd trained under Tobho Mott in King's Landing, a word to the goldcloaks and he'd have been found out anyway. And yet Lucan had already done more to earn his trust than most of the people he'd ever met.

"You're even thicker than you look, telling me all that." Lucan practically growled, reaching forward and roughly pulling Gendry close to him until they were eye to eye, "and you don't look smart."

Gendry swallowed nervously, "You saved my life once already." So that I could save hers.

"You don't trust anybody, not here - not ever!" Lucan shot back coldly, "Least of all me. I don't know you, who are you to me? You're able hands and barely able at that."

Gendry paused for a moment, thinking about Arya and Yoren and Hot Pie - about Tobho and his mother, all the stories he'd heard from Arya on the Kingsroad about her family. He didn't believe that Lucan didn't care. Not everyone could be bad, he had to believe that there were some good people out there - especially in a place like Harrenhal. "Trusting you is my mistake to make."

Lucan frowned, the man's scraggly white eyebrows drew shut across his pinched forehead. For a moment Gendry thought he looked sad. "What's so important 'bout going north?"

"It's not my secret to tell." Gendry said quietly.

The older man laughed at that, "Best you keep it to yourself anyways, there's not much love for the northerners here." The old smith straightened up to his full height, only a bit taller than Gendry even at Gendry's young age, and said a bit too loudly, "Back to work Lommy."

"Thank you Lucan."

Even so, Gendry found no more rest in work than sleep.

They didn't break for food until long after the sun had passed the midday mark. Gendry couldn't help but welcome the outside air after so long in the forge - it had been repetitive work, delicate enough that he couldn't let his mind wander and not interesting enough to inspire him. He missed being able to swing the hammer hard against the steel: hearing it ring, feeling it ripple and shudder and shape and form under his careful ministration. He could still remember the last blade he'd been making in King's Landing, a ceremonial sword with silver vines around the hilt that bloomed into flowers on either side of the crossguard. The pommel was embossed with the seven pointed star and the blade itself was inset with letters that Gendry couldn't understand but could copy across - Tobho had helped with that. They hadn't finished it before he had been forced to join the Night's Watch recruits, he wondered what it looked like now, whether the balance was right or if he'd ever get to make something like that again.

He ate apart from the apprentices, perched on a ruined wall and enjoying the relative quiet away from the roaring fires. It was surprisingly peaceful - as far as Harrenhal could be - guards and prisoners alike set about their duties and people and carts carried supplies. Wagons brought foods for the kitchens, wood for the carpenters, hyde for the stablers, metals for the smiths and cloths for the many seamstresses and banner makers - all of them made their way through misshapen gates and arches to wherever they needed to be. A thin looking boy ran behind one of the food carriages hoping some might fall off the back, though none did. He closed his eyes for a minute, letting his legs swing underneath him and turned his face up towards the sky - it wasn't particularly sunny but there was some warmth under the clouds, even though it still felt cold after a morning in the forges. It was as peaceful a moment as he'd had in a long time.

The sound of shouting drew him from his thoughts. A brown blur he'd recognise anywhere was sprinting across the court as if all the beasts of the seven hells were chasing her. Further back he could hear the voice of Ser Amory, a voice that even now turned his blood to ice. She weaved in and out of walls bumping into one of the guards before she slipped out of sight. He leapt off the wall instinctively to make after her, but his leg gave way as his feet touched the ground - without his stick to hand his knee buckled and the earth stung cold against his face. He could taste iron inside his mouth. Fighting against the nausea moving his head brought with it, he was relieved to see no blood from his leg, fearing his wound might have reopened.

He was no good like this, he couldn't run or fight - he may well be getting stronger each day but even he knew it could take years to recover, or he might never recover fully again. It was a selfish thought but not for the first time he wished he'd died that night in the corridor - after he'd fought off her attacker and she'd kissed him, that it would have been over. He wished he'd never woken up to the screaming in Qyburn's cell, so delirious he couldn't tell it was even his voice calling out in the darkness. Gendry was tired through and through - achingly and exhaustedly tired; the kind of tired that no amount of sleep would soothe, nor rest recover.

She had gone by the time he pulled himself back up again. He reached out for his discarded stick and drew some comfort from the support. His worry turned to dread when the peace of the afternoon began to break and the guards started rushing around the castle. Bells rang loud as the Lannister forces secured the battlements and entranceways. Among the fearful whispers he heard someone say it was the Starks - that they had marched to Harrenhal, others said it was the Tullys, that they'd regrouped and struck out from Riverrun. Someone claimed it was the curse of Harrenhal finally coming to end them once and for all. As whispers begat whispers and the Lannisters began rounding prisoners up at random for questioning and punishment, one truth spread across the castle. One truth that had shattered the fragile peace.

Ser Amory is dead.

The atmosphere in the forge was tense. Gendry could hardly focus as the hours stretched on. A crude wooden frame had been raised in one of the nearby courtyards where a number of people had been tortured and hanged. The soldiers had claimed that they'd been involved in whatever plot had killed Ser Amory, but somehow Gendry doubted it. He was fortunate the roaring of the furnaces was loud enough to blot out most of the sounds of the castle - the pleading, the screaming and then silence.

He felt a tight grip around his arm as Lucan grabbed him, hissing in his ear, "You best stay put tonight - if you can't work get some rest." The old man softened a little and smiled slightly, "Go on, sleep. You look like shite."

He didn't need telling twice and all too soon he was in his cot, staring again at the dark ceiling. In the day small cracks of light fought through the dark beams and stones above him - it could almost be mistaken for starlight. His mind drifted back to those nights under the stars on the Kingsroad. He'd been so frightened he'd hardly taken the time to notice the stars or the beautiful scenery, he wished he could go back. As the evening drew in the stars overhead dimmed, and went out.

He wanted to hate her. It would be easier - she was reckless and stubborn and it would get her and probably everyone around her killed. It had almost got him killed. Whatever Ser Amory had been chasing her for, he had to hope she got away - that she was safe. He hated how vulnerable he was around her, that somehow her life had become more important to him than his own. Above all he hated that he couldn't help her, she could be trapped and desperate and he was here in his cot, unable to run, unable to fight - unable to even sleep.

She could be dead.

He sat upright as the thought swept through him, a dizzy chill resting heavy on his chest. He pushed back the unbidden image of her swinging in the courtyard and drew himself to his feet, mindlessly walking back towards the forge.

It was almost empty now, the fires had burned low though were still being tended to by the younger boy with sandy hair. Gendry guessed it must be almost dawn - he must have managed to get some sleep after all - and dismissed the boy. Idly Gendry made his way over to one of the swords Lucan had been working on, it must have been an officer's sword. It was ornate, but not overly so, he thought, tracing around the golden lion that roared proudly either side of the crossguard. Without thinking he began inspecting the dents and chinks in the metalwork, and set about restoring the weapon.

When he heard her voice he half thought it was his own mind.

"Gendry?"

She was stood near the entrance to the forge, as if waiting to be invited in. He crossed the space in a handful or strides and pulled her indoors, out of sight from the courtyard.

"Arya?" He asked, hands tracing down from her cheeks to her shoulders and then resting on her arms as if checking that she was really there. He breathed a sight of relief into her hair as he pulled her close to him, "Thank the gods."

Gendry wasn't particularly religious, he'd never really thought much about the existence of the gods - he'd asked the smith for blessings before, but he'd never expected a real answer. He'd sworn to any god that would listen he'd trade his life for Arya's, and even now he'd no idea whether it was the old gods, the seven or no gods at all that had heard him. If the gods were real, they probably didn't pay too close attention to what was going on in Westeros. Even as he thanked them, he did so out of habit.

"I'm fine." She said, but her voice was cold and eerily level.

"I thought, Ser Amory - that you might be…" He couldn't say the word, as if saying it might make it true somehow.

"Dead?" She finished for him, still sounding detached.

He nodded, adding quickly "What happened, why was he chasing you?"

There was almost no sign she had heard him - her eyes seemed glassy in the candlelight, and her skin was cold and sweaty to the touch. He squeezed her arm gently, trying to ignore how thin it was beneath the cloth. She furrowed her brow and looked at him like she had only now noticed he was there.

"Gendry?" She asked, a little timorously.

"What happened Arry?" He asked as gently as he could.

"Father always told us whoever passes the sentence should swing the sword," she stated very matter of factly, "do you think he was right?"

The question caught him by surprise, "I don't know," he answered, thinking about it, "sounds like the decent thing to do, why?"

"I didn't swing the sword." She said quietly, "I gave two names to the red god and they're both dead now."

"What?" He asked, confused, "Arya what are you talking about?"

"Ser Amory and the Tickler, I gave a man their names and now they're both dead."

"A man? Is this about your list?" He asked, her eyes shot to his as if daring him to make fun of her.

"A man is Jaqen H'ghar," she shot back defensively.

"Who the fuck is Jaqen Hghar?" He didn't hide the frustration in his voice.

"One of Yoren's prisoners - he told me I saved three lives the night Yoren died, and that the red god is owed three deaths."

"So what, you speak three names - any names - and this Jaqen will kill them?" Gendry asked disbelievingly.

"Yes!" She said exasperatedly, waiting for him to catch up.

"And he's serious? He can actually…" He asked, hesitantly.

"He has already - the Tickler and Ser Amory."

"And this Jaqen, he was Yoren's prisoner? 'Arry he's dangerous-"

"He's helping us!"

"He's a murderer!"

"So are we." She said coldly, he ignored the uncomfortable feeling that settled in his stomach.

"You told him to kill Ser Amory?" Gendry asked, trying to find out what exactly happened earlier that afternoon.

She nodded, "He was going to catch me - I stole something from Lord Tywin, thought it might help Robb… and..." Arya looked away from him as if embarrassed.

"And the Tickler?

"He deserved to die." She practically spat out.

"There must be a hundred torturers in this castle, why him?" Gendry asked her directly.

She turned back towards him, steel eyes bright reflecting the embers of the forge "Why does it matter so much to you?"

"It matters Arya - three names, you could have picked King Joffrey, you could have picked Lord Tywin - you could end this war."

"Shut up." She shot back angrily, "I'm glad they're dead - both of them, They had to die - for everything they've done, for what they did to you."

She was scowling at him, and yet despite her anger she'd never looked more beautiful to Gendry. The warm glow from the fire brought back some of the colour to her face, the soft light hiding the weight she'd lost since King's studied her as if this was the last time he'd see her, committing her face to memory. He didn't know what to think about Jaqen or any of it but he was thankful Ser Amory was dead, the Tickler too. He knew it was wrong but a strange part of him even felt warmed that she'd killed them for him.

"You're incredible." He said softly, the words slipping out without realising. He leant forward slowly and pressed a kiss against her lips, He lingered there for a moment before she drew back, her cheeks tinged with red.

She stepped away from him slightly, though still close enough to feel his hands on her side. "I should go, I shouldn't have come - I just..." She trailed off, offering him a small smile and her eyes not leaving his even as she stepped backwards.

"You shouldn't - but I'm glad you did." He answered as her hands slipped out of his and she made her way towards the door. Just before she left he called out "I… Be careful.."

Before she could say anything back they heard someone coming from the corridor where the smiths slept. By the time Gendry saw Lucan step into the forge she was already gone.

Author's note

Thank you for all the wonderful messages and reviews, I hope you are all staying safe and well, please do let me know what you think X