Authors note: This story takes place maybe nine years after Season 8 left off, except Gendry and Arya are living together in Winterfell (SEASON 8 DID THEM SO DIRTYYYYY), and Arya is finally dealing with all the trauma George R.R. Martin has put her through.
I also want to say that this is a work of fiction by an amateur, so please don't take this depiction of trauma seriously. Trauma and abuse are very serious matters that should be portrayed in a realistic light, or talked about if they're being elaborated and fabricated in a fictional sense, as I am doing with this story.
TW: emotional / physical / mental trauma, abuse, violence and death.
To Remember, To Return
Sometimes, more often than not, when the wind is still and the crickets are silent and the air is cool and clean, folks will say, will swear they can hear a woman's mournful and lonely sighs at Winterfell — especially in the godswood.
"Again?"
The Queen in the North needed not to respond. The fear in her eyes and the hardness of her lips had Gendry speeding past her without a second thought, quicker than lightning, a half-forged sword forgotten on the ground and abandoned embers dancing in the wind.
His feet seemed to sprout wings as he ran from the forge to the castle.
Some nights it was he who forgot he had escaped, forgot they had won, forgot it was over and done. He'd think he was still on the little boat, a floating piece of rotting wood, somewhere in the cold, deep unforgiving sea, stranded and alone, or he'd think he was still in the most northern part of the North, beyond the Wall, where the dead roamed the earth and ice dragons fell from the sky and blizzards and snow were as nasty as the knights that came sniffing for his name. He wouldn't know if he would ever see another sunrise or sunset again and he would almost choke on his own bile. He would pound his own hand flat as his mind overtook all other thoughts until only the instinct to escape and flee and run and hide was left and consumed him and ate him up.
And some nights it was she who forgot her name, forget they had died, forgot it had ended. She would snarl and snap at anyone who dare come near, much like the she-wolf that was lost to her all those years ago, drawing blood as quick and bright as sparks meeting dry kindle. She would cackle and sob as she chanted the names of all the lives that fell victim to her blade and all the lives she dreamed of claiming. Her nails would scrape her face to bloodied tatters on the nights when she couldn't bare all the hundreds of faces that threatened to replace and devour her own. The wars, all of them, the ones they fought together as children and as lovers, and the ones she fought alone, all choked and suffocated her. Who am I? Who am I? Who are you? Where am I? She would call out for Jon, for Father, for her mother, for little Rickon, for brave Robb or even Bran, and when she'd receive no response she would scream in despair and talk to the walls.
Tonight was no different. He found her in their chambers, glaring at shadows and clad in her small clothes. A wild, feral look gleamed in the Fiend's eyes, reminding him of a frightened mare that's been spooked by a breeze.
"You took her home," the Fiend was whispering. "You took her brothers, her parents, her family. You took everything."
"Arya."
She made no acknowledgment of his presence and practically hissed from beneath a black curtain of unkept hair. "You took her innocence. Her humanity. Her girlhood. Her love."
"Arya."
"You orphaned a child and forced her to become a monster. You are a monster. You all are. Even she. Me." She traced the cracks and crevices of the stones, outlining the figure of a shadow that Gendry could not see.
"I am a monster. She and you and I and we — we are all what you and they have created us and them to be."
Gendry took a step forward, hesitant to startle her. It had not ended well for him the last time he spooked her. He had scars on his biceps to prove it.
"She never asked for this. She never wished for this. She never wanted this. She never sought this path — to become this abomination. So vile, so cold. Like the snow that falls, falls, falls. That is what this place is named after, is it not? The coldest of seasons. The fall of snow. She once delighted in the cold, but that was before. Before, when she thought she could always find warmth. But cold is all she knows, now. She cannot be anyone else, because she is no one. Nothing. She... I... we..."
The poor girl was perplexed and confused and Gendry seized the opportunity. He rushed forward and grasped his lady by her thin, pale shoulders.
"Arya!" He shook her roughly, bruising her arms and rattling her teeth. He care little about hurting her; he knew a far greater pain would come of this situation if he didn't act fast.
His touch was like a spark and she seemed to flare to life. She began to thrash and buck in his grip.
"Not today not today not today," she screamed. "Valuor Morgodus! Valuor Morgodus!" She kicked him in the shins, rained blow upon blow across his broad chest, scratched at his face, scrabbled for Needle that's long been confiscated. A wild frenzy was in her eyes and for a moment, he wondered if she was truly lost.
"Arya!" Gendry grabbed a fistful of her small clothes and wrestled her arms into a trapped position behind her back. He held her firmly against his chest as she wiggled and fought; as his blood welled from wounds and bruises appeared on his skin.
He had to get her to snap out of it, to remember, to return.
Tears streamed down both their cheeks as the Fiend struggled like an eel caught in a fisher's net. Still, he would not quit. He would not let it win.
Ours is the fury. And oh, he was furious. Furious with the world, with life, with fate, with the gods. Oh, how his hatred and loathing simmered beneath his skin as he held her wild bucking form.
For three days he clung to her throughout the night and when each dawn came, he greeted them with stone-like resilience. Many offered suggestions of rest, but he would not budge. He would only accept a few sips of water now and then and meager portions of food.
He knew what they were saying, outside, beyond the sanctuary of their chambers' walls. Never before had the youngest Stark been empty of mind this long. Her insanity spells were lengthening. It was troublesome and unnerving. She was lost on them. Lost in her past, lost in her mind. The beloved she-wolf of Winterfell was long gone and there wasn't any use of him putting up with this ghastly beast anymore.
He wanted to kill each and everyone of them for saying such things, for even thinking such things, but he could do nothing but sit in here and wait and watch as his love struggled between Arya and the Fiend, never knowing who he would wake up to or find.
On the fifth day he tied her to the bed so that she would not tear off her skin or pull out her eyes. Although he was free of her struggles, he gained little rest. He wasted away for days, watching her sleep and scream and howl to the moon. He would trickle cool water into her mouth when she slept, fed small bits of bread between her gnashing teeth, and coax honey down her throat to sooth its rawness from screaming.
He didn't think visitors were the best idea with her condition and all, but her royal sister demanded to see her, which he could not refuse, and that ended just as he feared. Poor Sansa, proper Sansa, noble Sansa, smart Sansa, and now Queen Sansa, went flying from the room, cradling her hand and trailing red and tears. The foolish girl had tried to cup her sister's cheek, an action that was wrought from the heart and hurt of a thousand years and regrets and loved ones (now dead ones) past, and was rewarded with a jaw clenched around her pinky.
Gendry wouldn't be surprised if she'd lose the finger completely, but then again, the maesters here in Winterfell were nothing like the maesters in Flea Bottom or anywhere else he's been, so he wouldn't be surprised if the finger could be saved, after all.
It was Sansa's own fault, really, for daring to come so close when the Fiend was awake, but he couldn't help but feel bad about the pain in the Queen's hand, and even more so for the pain in the Queen's heart.
That night Gendry wrote for the very first time in his life. A letter, of all things. It wasn't much of a letter, more of a note, for he wasn't much a scholar and knew his alphabet very little, if at all, but it got his point across and he was satisfied and so it was sent immediately with the quickest raven they had.
Gendry's never been a particularly religious person but someone once said a star is born from a dead or dying soul, so every night Gendry counted the lights of the heavens, praying with all his heart to whoever or whatever might care to listen. No new stars in sky just yet, which was good, which was the same thing he always found night after night... so why did he still have such a bad feeling?
Jon Snow arrived on the ninth day with ice in his beard and fear in his eyes. He spared not a glance at the place he once called home or the woman whom he also called sister, who bristled only slightly at his slight and cradled her hand with rehearsed care. No, Jon Snow marched straight up to Gendry, no hellos or how do you do's, and asked (demanded was more like) how his youngest and dearest sister fared.
"Not good," was the solemn report.
"Take me to her," was the curt reply.
The walk to their chambers was long and tedious and fast and horrible and both men were nearly out of breath when they finally stumbled upon the room. Gendry hesitated only a second before pushing open the door, and Jon followed him silently inside. He heard the shorter man's sharp inhale as he took in the scene.
Arya, in a sweat soaked nightgown, back facing the door, feet bare despite the winter cold, sat rocking in the corner.
"Arya?" Jon whispered.
The girl's heard whipped up, eyes widening to the size of moons. She made not a sound but her lips moved in the shape of a name. Jon?
"Yes, that's right, it's me," Jon said. He smiled, sadly, hopefully, and slowly crept closer. Gendry moved closer as well, wearily watching the siblings' greeting, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.
Arya peered at the Crow curiously, face twisted into something fierce, like she was trying to place a forgotten memory.
"Arya?" Jon was saying. "It's me. It's Jon, your brother. Your family. I'm home."
Arya pressed her palms, black from playing with ashes from the fireplace, to her eyelids as if to prevent tears from leaking out.
"You're not Jon," she said sadly. "You're not my brother. My brothers are in the ground and at the Wall, all long long away, and they never come back except for dragon queens and iron thrones and late night horrors."
Jon frowned, clearly not expecting his existence to be challenged by a mad woman, and shot a bewildering look at Gendry, who merely jutted his chin out in a manner that said, Go on.
"I am Jon," Jon said carefully, inching closer still. "This is me. I heard you weren't well, Sister, so I came back. I wanted to make sure you were alright. I'm worried about you. I love you."
"You needn't worry," she said, hands dropping by her sides. Her eyes clouded with confusion and her head swung back and forth between the two men. "You're not real so you don't have to worry."
"No, love, he is," Gendry interrupted. "He is your brother and he is here."
Jon reached for her in desperation, for what better proof is there than solid, physical, touchable proof? But this was a ruinous mistake.
Arya reeled back as if she'd been struck, scooting further into the corner, and when her back hit the wall she bared her teeth like some ferrel thing.
"Arya, please, you must know it's me," Jon pleaded, but Arya was gone, or whatever little that was left of her that spoke to them was gone, and in its place was the Fiend.
"Get out," she hissed. She clawed at her hair, pulling black chunks and pieces of her scalp.
Gendry took Jon by the arm, meaning to guide him out, knowing she'd only grow more harmful if they stayed. But Jon threw off his hand and pushed him away, wanting to go to her, to help her, to stop her, not seeing or knowing that he would only make it worse.
Gendry responded to Jon's push with a shove of his own, and soon the two were wrestling.
"She's hurting herself!" Jon gasped as he dodged one of Gendry's grabs for him. Gendry, who really hadn't planned for Jon's visit to go like this and didn't want to be fighting with Arya's brother, half heartedly threw a punch at the abdomen, which Jon easily avoided.
"We can't leave her like this!" Jon cried. The Fiend began to wail in the corner.
"She'll keep hurting herself if you stay here!" Gendry bellowed.
He hauled Jon up and shoved him towards the door, out the hall, and pinned him against the wall.
"She. Isn't. Well," he bit out, chest heaving and arms trembling.
And she isn't getting better was what he left out, was what he refused to say, was what he knew and Jon knew and Sansa knew and the whole goddamn north knew, but did not dare utter for his sake.
They stayed there like that, Gendry pressing Jon against the wall, but his grip slackened and so did Jon, and soon it was hard to even think, let alone stand.
And then, to his astonishment, Jon finally met his narrowed glare with eyes that glistened like a cavern of precious jewels. "Then let it be done," he whispered, and Gendry finally felt all his strength leave him.
His arms dropped away and he staggered backwards until his legs buckled. Jon slide down to meet him on the ground and then they were just two wandering souls, once lost and then found and now lost again, collapsed and caving and sinking beneath the weight of their grief and love and loss.
"She loves you," Jon said hoarsely, voice filling the empty hall. "Told me so herself. Thought I was hearing things. Arya Stark, wild buck Arya, untamable Arya, knights-and-swords-instead-of-ladies-and-stitches-Arya, admitting she's in love? Unimaginable, I thought, until I watched her face and knew it to be true."
Gendry closed his eyes and let his head thump against the chilly wall, energy completely spent. He didn't know why Jon was telling him this and he didn't know if these words were like soothing salve to a scrap or a sharpened knife to the heart.
"You best get back in there. Make sure she doesn't kill herself," Jon said bitterly. He was quiet for a moment, then said: "The screaming's stopped. Guess you were right about me needing to go."
Deep breaths Arya would say when he wavered in faith or courage or strength, and so Gendry let himself breathe. Once, twice, then pulled himself up. He went to open the door again, paused, and glanced back at Jon, who couldn't have been smaller in all his life.
"I love her," he said. Simple words, nothing flowery or fancy, and Gendry suspected Jon already knew (he'd never agree to their union otherwise), but he felt that it should be said even so, for it just felt like one of those things.
Jon looked up and smiled with all the sadness in the realm. "I know."
Gendry nodded once, braced himself for battle, and went back inside.
Five days later, day fourteen of this madness, the Fiend strangled a visiting Hot Pie to death, who happened to stumble across her in the wrong place at the wrong time. She bore no recognization or guilt in her eyes as they pulled her off of him, nor when Gendry got her alone and pleaded with her to look at him, to talk to him, to say something, anything, please, I beg of you.
The Fiend simply sneered and snarled and grinned that secretive, cunning, calculative grin that belonged to Arya and had no business being on another's face, and sweetly asked for more blood.
This was when Gendry finally came to a decision. He spent an entire day and night questioning and wondering and doubting and reassuring, but when the sun finally set and the Fiend still sang for the taste of sweet blood, he knew it had to be done.
And so the evening of the twenty-third day (and counting) found Gendry Baratheon in the bed chambers he once lovingly shared with Arya Stark. He let himself breathe once, twice, then forced himself to unlock the door, forced himself over the threshold, and forced himself to go to the bed where she laid.
He stole a selfish second to watch her sleep, for in sleep there was no telling difference of Arya and the Fiend. In sleep there was no telling difference of what she had lost and suffered and taken and done. In sleep she was still his childhood companion, his lover, his best friend, his wife. In sleep she was still his, still Arya, still Arry, the feisty direwolf of the North, the jewel of his heart.
Gendry knelt in sorrow and nuzzled her head as gently as a newborn kitten. "You have been wronged in so many ways, my love," he mumbled in her hair. "Forgive me."
As calmly as an archer might reach for his arrow so to not scare off his prey, Gendry unsheathed Needle with a beautiful sort of delicacy to his fingers, and with a collected fierceness of mind and heart, he swiftly plunged the trusty little blade into her throat.
Needle was ever so faithful and at her side all her life and it seemed fitting it would both save her and end her.
Gendry cradled her tenderly as life quickly fled her convulsing body. She, as if she knew all along what he had planned, only opened her eyes once at the very end, and he knew it was her, truly her, Arya Stark of Winterfell, the woman and girl and warrior and hero he hadn't seen in days, weeks, months, years, who smiled up at him.
And then it was done. And then it was over. It was easier than he thought it would be, and harder than he would ever understand.
"Papa?"
Deep breaths, he thought, glancing at the door. He rose on trembling legs and placed a kiss on his wife's cooling brow. He closed her eyes and mutely pulled a sheet over her face.
Gendry went to his children, two tiny things with black hair and grey eyes; practically striking images of their mother, and silently knelt to the ground.
"Is it done?" his daughter whispered, voice high and sweet and untouched by time.
Gendry nodded once, drinking her in. She was perhaps the same age as Arya when they first met in Kings Landing. He turned to find his son's eyes filling with tears. He had always been more sensitive than his sister, but tonight he fought courageously to keep the tears at bay. Gendry's heart nearly broke as he watched.
Gendry held out his palms and the three of them walked to the godswood, hand in hand. There they erected a stone that bore her name among the tangled, ancient roots of the heart tree.
"Your mother sleeps," he told them. "She finally rests."
He placed an affectionate hand on his son's shoulder and bestowed a loving kiss on his daughter's head.
The three of them stood there for a long time, he mourning the life and love he caught only a mere glimpse of, and them mourning the mother they hardly even knew.
"Come," Gendry finally said, and lead the two away.
Sometimes, more often than not, when the wind is still and the crickets are silent and the air is cool and clean, folks will say, will swear they can hear a woman's mournful and lonely sighs at Winterfell — especially in the godswood.
Others claim it to be nothing but voices on a faraway breeze or echoes from the empty castle halls or phantoms of the mind.
But whatever it is, spirt or wind or phantom or imagination, one thing is for certain; it still mourns for life, for the happiness it once briefly and fleetingly tasted, for the love and warmth that it must witnesses everyday.
But one night, when Gendry is old and withered and his two and only children are grown and have beautiful lives and families of their own, he closes his eyes, breathes his last breath, and the mournful and lonely sighing finally ceases, and two new stars twinkle fondly side by side in the sky.