DISCLAIMER: not mine :)

Ok, so last chapter dropped a few bombs, I am pleasantly surprised to see that they were received well! This chapter was originally supposed to be part of the last chapter, but it got too long, so I split it all up.

Anyway, I really hope you like, I think we've all been expecting this to happen for a while! Over and Out xox

RECAP

Arya spends some time with Shireen and the two talk about their pasts. Shireen brings up Arya's betrothal with Gendry and asks some uncomfortable questions, which Arya is unable to provide answers for. To clear her head she goes for a walk and runs into Nymeria, who teases and prods her. Arya teases back about her pregnancy, and Nymeria responds that she shouldn't as she may be in the same shape soon herself. The comment scares Arya and she experiences another panic attack, and runs away, down to the lower town. She goes to a tavern to clear her head and sees the Hound, passed out drunk. She wakes him up with a bucket of water, the two talk. Arya tells him about his list and that he isn't on it, essentially forgiving him. He tells her that he never got to kill his brother as Aegon burned him alive with one of the dragons, which Sandor witnessed himself. He warns Arya that if she doesn't get her revenge she will end up like him, with nothing left. She realises he is right, and heads back to the castle as the storm begins to grow heavier. She realises that she is not ready to stay yet, and that if she did she would be putting Gendry in danger.

By the time Arya reached her chambers in the castle, she was soaked to the bone and shivering. Wet. It was something she was used to, yet no matter how many times she experienced it, she found that she was never quite ready for it. She knew cold, she was familiar with it; in the North it was an icy cold that swept in on blisteringly freezing winds, the snow that seeped through clothes and turned them to frost. But wet cold- Arya found it so much harder to ward off.

She closed the door behind her heavily, teeth chattering, perhaps from the rain, perhaps from the nervous adrenaline that had surged through her body since her realisation that she needed to leave. She fell back against it with a sigh and closed her eyes, ignoring the way rain water ran down her face in icy rivulets and dripped off her chin, the way it ran down her arms and fell to the floor from the hem of her cloak in a steady drip.

She counted to ten and then pushed away, intent on shedding her soaking clothes for something warm and dry. She considered calling Faye and asking for a bath to be brought up to her, and while the thought of relaxing her muscles in steaming water appealed to her she knew that she simply did not have the control to sit still for any amount of time. So instead she busied herself with frozen, fumbling fingers with the clasp of her cloak, allowing it to fall to the ground heavily as she moved onto the buttons and laces of her shirt. She pushed down her breeches roughly, the material rubbing against her wet skin, cursing as she realised she had not yet taken off her boots, which she scuffed off by the heel, unwilling to hop about half naked as she fiddled with the laces.

Her hair dripped in a steady stream down her back, and she used her fingers to squeeze the water out, so that it ran in a river to the floor, splashing about her bare feet. She rubbed her arms briskly, trying to warm herself up as she scanned the room for something warm and dry to put on. She cursed again as she remembered Faye cleaning up earlier, piling the sweaty, smelling breeches and shirts into her basket for cleaning. She sat down on the bed and dragged the sheet up over her shoulders, wrapping it around herself like a babe in swaddling. She was still shivering all over, and she wished for once that a maid had lit the fire, or at least saw fit to bring up some logs so that Arya might do it herself.

She stared numbly at the floor, her mind pulling up blank as she tried to focus on what to do. Did she stay, and figure things out, stay with Gendry and allow herself to be happy? Or did she leave, sort out her own messes and wait until she was ready to return? She knew in her heart that she needed vengeance if ever she wanted to truly settle down and be content, but... did she really want that? To be content, with no wants or desires or anything to drive her?

Her breath left her trembling lips in short pants, and she wiped roughly at her eyes with the now damp sheet. Before she did anything, she needed to change, to get herself warm before she came down with a chill, but as the thought crossed her mind it was in the voice of her mother, scolding her for playing in the snow too long.

She frowned and stood up on numb legs, and padded on her tip toes over to the chest at the end of her bad. Inside were the clothes that Shireen had had made for her, though she hoped that perhaps there was at least a spare shirt. As she rifled through the clothes, her fingers skimmed over a soft, white fabric, and she smiled, believing it to be a shirt, but as she pulled it became evident that, rather than some old, forgotten shirt, the piece was delicate and rich, not something she would ever own.

She hesitated and then shrugged, too tired and too anxious to care. She stood up and let the now soaked sheet to fall to the ground, and tossed the soft, flowing item on, uncaring and without focus. She barely registered the feel of silk against her skin, or the way the gossamer floated, too preoccupied with her thoughts as she paced back and forth, chewing her lip.

She was so... tired. She felt as though the weight of a thousand thousand ages were pressing down on her, and she was so tired of fighting it. She just wanted to feel... at peace. Whether that peace was from settling down, letting go of her past and moving on to happier times, or from finally fulfilling her long and close held desire for revenge, she didn't know. She didn't know.

She didn't know what to do. She just wanted someone that could tell her, tell her what she was supposed to do when everything was falling to pieces around her, the shadows moving closer and closer, the ghosts of her past waiting, reaching for her. She wanted someone to reach out and take her hand and show her what she needed to do. It was like she was caught between darkness and light, constantly tossed and twisted and caught between them, not knowing which side to cross to- the deep, familiar, empty darkness or the warm, bright and strange light.

She was so exhausted. She just wanted to stop, and for everything to stop. Gendry and their future, or no future, Euron and Elmar and the Black Knight, vengeance versus forgiveness, staying or leaving, why she would leave, if she did, where she would go, what she would do, honour her fallen family by avenging them with the death of those who tore them apart, or through fulfilling what they would choose for her.

It was too much.

It was too much, and she was so tired of it all. She wanted to be able to stop thinking about everything, to just... be able to feel nothing. And through it all, it was always the same faces that flashed before her; her mother's and father's, Robb's, Rickon's, Cersei and Joffrey and Tywin Lannister, and all of their horrible, awful creatures, Bolton and the Mountain and Vargo Hoat. Jaqen H'ghar, the Waif and him- the Kindly Man. Euron Greyjoy. The slavers at the Pit, and the slave that wept and cried and sung that strange, foreign lullaby. Gendry. Always Gendry. Looking at her, with those beautiful, deep eyes, eyes like frozen water in the sunlight, and her, reflected back in them, broken and tortured.

Broken.

It was not a word that Arya had ever allowed herself to become too familiar with, but it was so plain to her now- she was broken. All of her life she had been so close to fracturing, like a glass vase, falling and falling, down and down, destined to crash and smash on the stone floor, broken from the moment it toppled but suspended in time, knowing that the end was inevitable and watching it grow closer and closer. But now... knowing what she must do, she felt as though the vase had finally broken, into a thousand thousand shards, all of them sharp and cruel and painful.

A helpless moan slipped though her lips, the timbre fragmented and shaking as she leaned over and pressed her hands to her face, over her mouth, as if she could hold it all in, though the tears escaped and flooded down her cheeks, faster and harder than even the storm raging outside of her window.

She felt so lost, like a ship, tossed and turned out at sea, with no sense of sea or sky, of north or south, east or west, helpless. Arya had never been helpless. She had never allowed herself to be. She had survived the streets of Kings Landing, she had weathered the road with Yoren, she had turned herself from a sheep to a mouse to a ghost, seizing whatever power for herself that she could, no matter how small or insignificant. She had kept herself alive, trained, fought, survived. Always, strong. But now... now she felt truly, irrevocably helpless. Hopeless.

She pressed her fingers tighter against her lips in an attempt to stifle the cries of anguish and hopelessness that grew inside of her and fought to escape, and her whole body trembled against the onslaught of despair.

She opened her eyes, and blinked at the candle light, her eyes feeling tight and throbbing after having had them screwed shut for so long. They swept over the room and came to rest on the window. Outside, the night sky seemed to pulsate with black and roiling thunder, the rain falling in torrents. Her hand came to rest on the window sill, and she jumped as lightening flashed outside, lighting up her whole chamber in a purple white glow.

She itched to run outside and let the rain fall on her face, though she had just began to warm up after her dash from the tavern, but her stomach rolled and coiled with panic at the thought of making her decision truly hit her. She couldn't go on like this any longer; it was eating away at her. The idea of staying had never sat well with her, not until the wager they made that she would stay for a year, but- things were happening so much faster than that. Already she had fallen prey to the weakness of being attached to another person. But leaving... that struck a chord of fear in her heart too. Not because she was afraid of what might happen to her, but the thought of leaving him... yet, staying? With all that she knew and never allowed herself to dwell on, those terrible, dark secrets that she didn't even dare to voice- they put him in danger too. Leaving him would ruin her, but losing him would destroy her in a way she knew she would never be able to come back from.

Arya turned away from the window, her head spinning, the room tilting and dancing around her. Idly she wondered if she was still drunk, but she didn't care, she didn't care, she just needed to think anything other than what she was thinking, feel anything other than what she was feeling, and there was only one way she had ever known to do that.

"Who goes?" The bellow was barely audible above the raging storm, and Rogue tossed his head with impatience, his long mane flinging up a shower of water. Gendry grit his teeth and kept hold of the reins, which were slick and difficult to hold in the rain.

"Your own Lord!" Anguy shouted, having to repeat himself twice after, his voice all but drowned out completely. With each moment that passed Gendry was certain the storm worsened, minute by minute. Only a few short hours ago, up on Sharp Point, it had been dry and almost normal, if not for the risen winds and black clouds, but now the wind whipped and roared as if there was a war in the heavens, and the rain fell like a newly made widow's tears.

For a few moments Gendry thought that they weren't going to open the gates, and his stomach dropped as he clung onto Rogue, who was rapidly backing into the wind, trying to shelter himself, but then there was a dim shout, followed by the heavy cranking of the wheel as they pulled in the gates, though the heavy grinding was drowned out almost entirely. The small company rode hard through the gates, as if they might find it warm and dry on the other side.

"You get your good selves in the warm and dry now, lord," shouted the gates man, a wizened old man called Bors, with a long crooked nose and great bushy eyebrows that grew over his spotted eyes.

Gendry nodded down at him as he kept a tight hand on the rein as Rogue spun impatiently underneath him. "And yourself, Bors. Go keep your missus warm," he ordered, before turning the stallion on sharply and making haste to the castle.

By the time he finally stepped into the dry, Gendry was ready for a hot bath, followed by hot food and bed. His body shook as he stripped off his sodden cloak, tossing it over a chair without a glance, ignoring the wet slap of fabric on wood. He unlaced his shirt in haste, pulling roughly at the strings, his too large fingers stumbling and further knotting the wretched thing. He cursed with impatience, wishing that Arya was there, with her quick nimble fingers and sharp eyes. He couldn't stop his lips from curving into a small smile as he thought about her, and pictured the way she always tied his shirt for him when it was loose, unthinkingly.

He shook his head at his own softness, knowing full and well that if Anguy or Lem or any of the other ex-brotherhood members would laugh at him for such a display, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He stripped quickly, discarding his clothes beside his cloak, not caring that they would never dry all crumpled up in a ball, and dressed quickly in fresh, clean clothes. Water ran down the back of his neck, and he shook his hair out roughly like a dog, blinking as stray water flew off and landed in his eye.

There was a soft knock at the door, and he straightened just as it creaked open gently. Shireen peaked around the corner cautiously, smiling softly as she laid eyes on him. "Cousin," she greeted, stepping into the room as he beckoned her.

"Shireen," he greeted with a nod, running his hand through his thick hair. Shireen giggled unconsciously as he ruffled it, leaving it sticking up in all directions. He scowled, and ran his hand back over it in a halfhearted attempt to smooth it down, but gave up quickly. Perhaps I should just shave it all off. "Is there something I can help you with?"

He smiled and shook his head when her lips twitched, knowing that they were both thinking of the first time she had come to his room. He had called her in, and, uncertain of the etiquette, had asked her her business, before amending his words and apologising for his bruskness, something that she taken no offence at and found mildly amusing, despite her shyness of him.

She nodded, and he noticed the way she folded her hands in front of her, fingers twitching anxiously. "How was the Point?" she asked, thanking him quietly when he pulled a chair out for her, and sitting down gracefully.

He nodded. "Well, it's as ready as it will ever be," he said with a sigh, sitting down opposite her. "Some of the villages didn't have appropriate buildings to work with, so we had to make a few of the better barns larger to support them." It had been a hard days work, truth be told, and he found himself eyeing his bed readily, wondering if he should forego the bath altogether in favour of sleep.

Shireen nodded, though she appeared distracted. "And Arya?" she asked, causing him to crease his brows in confusion. "Has she also returned?" she prompted.

Gendry frowned. "I thought she was staying in today?" he asked, confused. She had offered to ride out and help the night before, but he had assured her that she wasn't needed and she was better staying in the castle. He had kept it to himself, however, that he didn't want her anywhere near the storm when it hit; it was bad enough for most, but a little thing like her would be swept right over the cliff by the heavy winds, and she seemed to lack the caution of any sane person.

Shireen paled at his words, and Gendry felt his stomach drop at her expression. "What?" he asked, his voice low and edged with concern as she only seemed to pale further.

"She was not with you?" Shireen asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"I've not seen her since this morning," he confirmed. "Shireen, what is going on?"

She shook her head. "I- I thought she must have ridden out to you, at least- Nymeria seemed to believe she had ridden out- She truly was not with you this afternoon?"

"This afternoon?" he asked, his hands tightening into fists. "No one has seen her since this afternoon?" He stood up roughly, pushing back from the table as he tried to think. He turned back to his cousin. "Shireen, what happened? Why is she not here?"

She licked her lips, and twisted the fabric of her sleeve in her hands. "She was with me late in the morning," she explained, her voice shaking, "and left shortly after in an upset. A f-"

"Upset?" he repeated, swallowing. "Why was she upset?" Arya didn't get upset- at least, she got angry, and reckless, but she didn't get upset. Not in the way that other girls did.

Shireen nodded. "We were talking about you, actually," she admitted quietly, and Gendry felt his heart miss a beat as it began to make sense. "I asked when the wedding would be, and she left a few moments later."

Gendry began to pace, his long strides swallowing up the room as he tried to think. Lightening flashed outside as he turned back to his cousin. "What happened after that?" he demanded, uncaring if he was being impolite.

"Well, a few hours later the Lady Nymeria came to me, all worried because she had said something to Arya and Arya had left in a rush," Shireen answered, her brows pulled together in anxiety. "We all assumed she had gone to find you-"

Gendry shook his head. "I told you, I've not seen her since early this morning," he replied absently, trying to think where she might be. Normally he'd assume she had taken Astrid out for a gallop to clear her head, but even Arya was not foolish enough to do that amidst a storm, especially at night. He looked back at his cousin. "And you haven't seen her since then?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I stopped by her chambers a couple of times, but I received no answer and the door was locked," she said. "So I assumed she had stayed out with you."

Gendry was already striding towards the door. "She may not have answered to you, but she'll answer to me," he said. "Or the gods help her," he added on, muttering.

As he marched towards her room, Shireen practically running at his heels to keep up, Gendry wondered what on earth could have upset her so that sparring wasn't the first thing she did; that was what she always did, when something upset her, or she needed to think. She would take herself somewhere quiet and practice, sparring for hours and hours until she had calmed down or come up with a solution. He wondered if perhaps she had found herself an old hall to practice in, somewhere where she wouldn't be disturbed while the yards were swept about by the storm, but he doubted it.

He considered whether perhaps she had barred the door to her chambers to be left alone- she had done the same at Kings Landing, and he remembered how he had been forced to force it open, though by then she had been long on her way to Duskendale.

His insides turned to ice when he finally reached her chamber, knowing immediately that something was wrong. The door was wide open, and he knew instinctively that she wouldn't be in there. She never left doors open, not ever. He stepped into the room, his eyes landing on the wet footprints and the sodden pile of clothes by the bed. Her boots were still there. He frowned. They were the only boots she had, surely she wouldn't have gone anywhere without them? She was always so calculating, so prepared- she rarely did anything without thinking it through, so surely she wouldn't have run away and left her boots behind?

He strode across the room and yanked open her trunk, dread coursing through his veins that she might have decided to leave, to leave him, but all of her things- few as they were- were still in her trunk, and a quick search of her desk proved that she had not left a note.

"Perhaps she has gone down to town?" Shireen asked from the door, watching him as he rifled through the room, searching for something, anything that might hint as to where she had disappeared to.

Gendry shook his head. "Everywhere will be closed now," he said. He stooped beside another trunk, smaller and longer than the first, and ripped it open. He frowned at the contents, and reached inside to show Shireen, who frowned.

"Her swords?" she asked. "But she never goes anywhere without them."

Gendry nodded, and placed Needle back down and closed the trunk, relieved. She would never have left them behind if she didn't plan on returning. "I need to speak to Lady Nym," he said decisively. "She was the last one to see her, perhaps she'll have some answers."

Moments later he was banging his fist at the Dornish woman's door, standing impatiently in the corridor. It was late, and he imagined she had been abed, but he found he did not care if he woke her. "Lady Nymeria," he called through the door, stepping back as a soft orange glow bloomed on the other side of the door, visible through the seam of the doorway.

Moments later came the sounds of a lock sliding out of place, and the door opened, a sculpted, tanned face peering cautiously through the crack.

"Lord Baratheon?" she asked, blinking as she opened the door to him. She held a candle in her hand, illuminating her face, though the single flame left the rest of the room dark behind her. "Is something wrong?"

He nodded. "Arya is missing," he said hurriedly, and watched as he face fell. "No one has seen her since you this afternoon. Do you know where she went?"

The pregnant woman licked her lips anxiously and opened the door wider as Shireen caught up, panting. "I think you had best come in," she said, turning and walking into the dark room.

Gendry waited impatiently as she moved around the room, lighting the candles so that the room slowly grew orange and they could see each other properly. The storm howled outside as she did.

"Nymeria, what did you talk about?" he asked, impatient. "Why did she leave?" She seemed to hesitate, her hand stroking her belly anxiously, as if the movement might soothe her child. He sighed. "I'm sorry, but if she has ridden off, in the middle of this storm-"

"Astrid is still in her stable," Nymeria said, shaking her head. "I checked. And Arya didn't run that way anyway. She ran to the west of the castle, towards the town. I tried to follow her, but I couldn't keep up."

Gendry sighed and rubbed his jaw wearily. "Tell me what happened," he said, gesturing for her to sit.

She nodded and sat down carefully, her elegant brows pulled down low. "I found her pacing in one of the yards," she said. "It was clear that something was bothering her, so I sat down and tried to cheer her up, but she was too unsettled. She has been for days- you have noticed this?"

Gendry sighed again and sat down heavily. "Aye," he conceded. "She has seemed... on edge, of late." If he was being truthful, she had been unsettled since their arrival at the castle. As if she constantly expected to have to run, or even desired to- if he was being honest, she had been on edge as far back as her arrival at Winterfell, all those moons ago. He remembered what Jon had told him, and frowned.

"The girl from the stories I told you- she's gone. Or at least, buried, hidden deep away inside. There are moments when I think we have our Arya back, but they never last long, and she's soon replaced by this interchangeable warrior, fire one moment, ice the next. She is completely unpredictable these days. Arya... she isn't the same anymore, and I am worried that she will never be the same again."

Gendry had thought she had changed since then, but perhaps she hadn't. No, that's neither fair nor true, he berated himself. She's just afraid. He remembered how Jon had told him that she had never even wanted to return to Winterfell, that he had to fight her all the way, and how once they did arrive, she rarely stayed in the castle for more than two or three days before leaving under the pretence of hunting. Maybe she was still as restless and unsettled now.

On the road down to the Stormlands she had seemed happy enough, he thought, but here, in the castle, she was like a caged wolf, desperate to leave. He felt guilty for a moment, wondering if she had felt like a prisoner, but he was certain that wasn't the case, at least- not a prisoner of the castle, not a prisoner of him. He had told her that if she wanted to leave she could, that he would not make her stay. If she had chosen to stay then it was surely because she wanted to? Unless... she felt duty bound to stay?

He knew that she was confused. It was like she was at war with herself, as if the different parts of her person were entrenched, deep in battle, and there was no victor. Her eyes, her sad, grey eyes- they always appeared so troubled, so conflicted. Even when she appeared to be at ease he could tell that she was on edge, her mind far away.

"Gendry?" He looked up. Shireen reached forward and placed her hand gently on his shoulder, gazing at him with concern. "Where do you think she is?"

He shook his head, at a loss. "I don't know," he admitted, turning back to Nymeria. "What did you speak about that made her leave?"

Nymeria looked at him guiltily, and somehow he knew what she was going to say before she said it, and it made his stomach lurch violently. "You," she admitted, just as Shireen had done, and Gendry began to see what had upset Arya. "She wouldn't say explicitly, but I believe she was afraid of something."

Gendry started. "Me?" he asked, shaken. Arya wasn't afraid of him- she couldn't be, wouldn't be. He had given her no cause to be, but maybe... dread settled low in his guts, and he listened to the dornish girl more closely.

She shook her head. "Not you," she said hesitantly. "But I believe the idea of her being... attached to you, scares her. She seemed at ease after a moment, and then I made a joke, a stupid joke, and-"

"Joke?" Shireen asked. "What do you mean?"

Nymeria looked down at her belly, and Gendry pushed back from the table violently before she even opened her mouth, not needing to hear to know. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice shaking. "I didn't think-"

"No," he snapped, "you didn't. Fuck."

Shireen looked back and forth between them, confused. "I don't understand," she said.

Nymeria licked her lips. "When she spoke to you, you asked about the wedding, yes?" she asked. Gendry didn't turn around as Shireen nodded, but he assumed she must have as Nymeria continued. "That was what upset her initially. And then when she teased me about being with child-"

"-you made some remark about how it could be her turn in time?" Shireen asked, clearly understanding the situation now. "And you say she headed towards the town?"

"I think so-"

Gendry turned around sharply. "I'm going to ride down to the town, see if she's still there or if someone can tell me they saw her," he said. "Shireen, if you would inform the servants, tell them that if they see her to let one of us three know immediately."

As he reached for the door, Nymeria spoke up, her voice weaker than he had ever heard it. "And me? What should I do?"

Gendry grit his teeth as he opened the door, turning to look at the floor over his shoulder, refusing to look at her. "I think you've done enough," he said harshly, before storming out of the door and slamming it behind him.

On some level he knew that he wasn't being fair to her- she couldn't have predicted that Arya was a canon with a short fuse, a powder keg just waiting to explode. The comment had been insensitive, perhaps, but not ill intended, and it wasn't as if Arya had ever been easy to read. He himself had set her off plenty of times, but, as he marched in a fury towards the stables, he was in no mood to care if he had hurt Nymeria's feelings. When Arya was safe he would apologise, but until then he wouldn't waste a thought on anyone that wasn't Arya.

He cursed at himself for not having seen this coming. Arya had never been good at waiting and not doing anything, at least, not the Arya he remembered. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of an Arya that was a stranger to him, an Arya who was as cold and still and deadly as ice. He wondered when she had adapted that particular habit. The Arya he remembered from their youth was like fire, wild and raging. He wondered which one she was now.

But this- this he should have expected. Either way she wasn't good at doing nothing, she always seemed to need to be doing something. He guessed he could understand that; if he had so many conflicting thoughts and feelings inside, he wouldn't want to sit still long enough to have time to reflect on them either.

Maybe he should have spent more time with her. He had been so busy since their arrival that he only saw her in the morning and evening, unless they were helping with reconstruction at the same place that day. Or maybe he should have given her more space to think by herself. Maybe he had unintentionally pressured her into thinking she had to make some kind of choice and it had frightened her.

The truth was, Gendry had no idea what to do. He needed to see her, to speak with her, really speak with her, and find out what she was actually thinking. Even in her most honest moments he always sensed that she was hiding something from him- not a secret necessarily, but never the whole truth, as if she was only showing him the bare bones of her actual thoughts and concealing the rest until she could figure them out for herself. But sometimes people needed a little help doing that, and Gendry thought that perhaps that was the problem. Arya never wanted help. Never asked for it, probably never desired it, maybe didn't recognise that it was even an option.

By the time Gendry got to the stable Rogue had only just started to dry off, his coat still damp on top. He seemed to watch Gendry, as he advanced down the barn towards him, warily.

Gendry held his hands up in apology. "Sorry boy," he said, reaching for the horse, who backed away, apparently unwilling to go out in the rain again. "We've got to go find her." It didn't take long to tack him up, though he received a nasty nip to the arm as he cinched the girth up tight, and he trotted out of the barn.

He was drenched within moments, his cloak running with water, and Rogue shook his head with irritation at being immersed in the storm once again. Gendry patted his neck apologetically, and spurred him down the steep, winding streets, his eyes scanning for that familiar head of dark hair, pale skin and sad, grey eyes, but the streets were completely empty. He stopped at a number of houses, asking after her, but either they were unwilling to say or the doors remained barred to the storm, the inhabitants perhaps not recognising the sound of his fist on the doors as knocking amidst the thunder.

As time passed Gendry found himself worrying more and more. Perhaps she had made it back to the castle while he was out, and was soaking in a hot bath as he searched, but he knew, deep down, that she was still out here, somewhere. As he passed a tavern he wondered if perhaps she had stopped somewhere for a drink to drown her worries, but he doubted it- Arya never drank. She would drink ale if it was there, or sip at a rum, but he didn't think he had ever seen her drink anything else. He had certainly never seen her lose her wits to drink, not even a little bit. She was always so alert and on edge, and he had seen her watching a room carefully and assessing it's contents enough times to know that she wouldn't deliberately get drunk. Besides, he knew that sometime between his return to the castle and her leaving after her conversation with Nymeria that she had returned herself, for her wet clothes had been left on the floor.

He stopped by an inn anyway, thinking that perhaps she had stepped in for shelter from the storm. No one answered at the first, and though a pleasant man with a droopy moustache answered at the second, he did not remember seeing her. Gendry was about to ride on, hoping against hopes that she had made her way back to the castle while he was gone, when there was a commotion at the end of the street.

He pushed back his hood slightly to watch, the scene before him obscured by the downpour of rain, but he would recognise that burned old face anywhere, and a weight dropped into his gut as he realised what must have happened. He spurred Rogue towards them, and vaulted off with a shout.

Two men were pointing cheap, old steel swords at the Hound, who rocked on his feet, reaching blindly over his shoulder for his axe. At Gendry's shout the two men stopped.

"Who are you?" one of them spat, stepping forwards threateningly, his companion squaring up just behind him.

"I'm your lord," Gendry snapped, pushing back his hood to show his face. "What is this?"

The man's eyes widened in shock and he lowered his blade, though it was so blunt and bent that Gendry doubted it could have done him any harm in the first place. "My lord of Baratheon," he sputtered. "He insulted us. We was jus' showin' him what was what."

Gendry pursed his lips. He didn't have time for this. "Never mind that," he growled. "Have you seen a maid?" he asked. "Small, dark hair, Northen. Grey eyes. About so tall?" He raised his hand halfway up his chest.

The first man made to shake his head, but the second stepped around him. "We seen her," he said, appearing excited, perhaps expecting silver as a reward. "Some time after noon. She was sat with-"

"You're looking for your wolf bitch, is that it?" growled the man who Gendry had first recognised. When Gendry turned to him, scowling, he laughed. "Aye, she was here. She's changed."

Gendry glared at the man. He was drunk. Sodden drunk. His face was pasty and his eyes unfocused, speech slurred and heavy as he swayed on his feet. Would he find her in a similar state? "She was here?"

"I just said that, didn't I?" the man growled. "She was here. She's even angrier than I remember. Left after I passed out."

"When?" Gendry asked, shouting over a roll of thunder.

"How should I know?" the Hound spat. "I was unconscious."

Gendry moved to grab the man, his insides hot with anger that he didn't seem to care that she was missing during a storm, but one of the men with the cheap steel spoke up instead.

"An hour gone, and some," he said. "She looked mighty troubled."

Gendry licked his lips. "Aye, she would." He swung up back on Rogue, and pulled up his hood. "Get yourselves out of the storm. It's only going to get worse."

"Aye lord," the first man said, before grabbing his friend and pushing him into the dingy looking tavern.

Gendry looked down at the Hound. For a moment he considered leaving the man there to fend for himself. He had other things to worry about, far more important things, but as he watched the broken, drunken old man, he felt a spike of pity for him. "Go to the castle," he said. "Someone will find you a place to stay and wait out the storm."

He spurred Rogue on, not caring whether the man did as he said or not. He had offered shelter. If he didn't go, that was up to him, but if he was being honest, Gendry didn't care. Arya may have forgiven him for stealing her away, but Gendry certainly hadn't.

He rode aimlessly through the town, knowing that she wouldn't be there, but riding back to the castle seemed wrong somehow, as if he was giving up, and he wasn't. I never would, not until she was safe again. He had given up once before, when she ran away and never came back. He had searched all through the night and the next day too, though by then the Hound had already ridden off with her, and when they didn't find her he had drunk himself into a stupor. He would never make that mistake again. He wouldn't give up on her again.

He tried to imagine he was her, imagine where she would go, but he couldn't. Maybe he didn't know her as well as he had thought. She was impossible to know, and sometimes when he looked at her he couldn't help but wonder if she was truly a stranger to him. Once, when she had been asleep, Gendry couldn't stop himself from watching her, her beautiful, mysterious face, and feeling that, deep down, he didn't really know her at all.

But he did know her. He knew the way she liked to keep busy to distract herself, the way she constantly seemed to battle between who she had been born to be and who she had been forced to become. He knew how she faced confrontation head on and how she wasn't afraid to face danger-

And then suddenly he knew.

He yanked on the reins and kicked Rogue on, who snorted with displeasure at the brash treatment before plunging forward, his heavy shoes striking the stone almost as loud as the thunder. He urged him forwards towards the gates, shouting out at the stationed guards to open the gates, who had been huddled under the stone trying to keep dry. He didn't slow Rogue down as they approached, and the guards seemed to realise that he wasn't going to stop, rushing to the great wheel. For a moment he thought that he would crash straight into the gates, and Rogue tossed his head, metal shoes skidding on the stone, but Gendry wouldn't let him stop. He couldn't waste a second.

The gates had opened but a few feet, and Gendry galloped straight through without stopping to think, and onto the great stone bridge. The wind howled and snatched at him, as if it was going to snatch him up and toss him over to the raging, black sea, to drown in the churning waves as his ancestors had so long ago. As he galloped, wary of being caught up and tossed over the cliff, he began to wonder if he had been wrong. She may be afraid, she may be confused and angry and hurting, but she wasn't a fool. She was reckless, that was true, but the risks were always calculated- she valued her life, he was sure of it, or she would have given up the moment Ilyn Panye used her family sword to cut off Ned Stark's head. He was about to turn around and ride back to the castle to see if she had returned in his absence when his eyes were drawn to something that left him cold and grief stricken inside.

Instantly he was transported to the first evening that they had stayed at Greywater Watch. Arya had stabbed him with a fork and left, and when he found her, sitting by the waters edge in the moonlight, Gendry had thought he had never seen something both so beautiful and so sad at the same time. It had reminded him of the song, and the verse in it that went I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair. She had just been sitting there alone, silent, and so still that at first he had thought she was asleep. So beautiful that he had felt an ache deep in his chest, and an overwhelming sadness in his heart for this one, beautiful, broken girl.

Her voice came to him then, from another night, as they had listened to Tom O'Sevens sing his sad songs, and Gendry had remarked how he couldn't understand how something so beautiful could be so sad. He had thought Arya would just wave him off, and had been struck by the melancholy expression on her face as they lay side by side in the dark.

"It's called a tempo rubato," she had said, so softly that Gendry had thought for a moment that she hadn't spoken at all. "It's the pause in music before the final note. It translates to stealing time for ourselves." She had paused then, just long enough that Gendry had thought she was finished. "It is both beautiful and tragic that we cannot steal time in real life. To do so is to do it in defiance of reality. Time will pass with or without us: time is not something any of us can control. But, in the small moments, sometimes we can take just a little something back. A moment to stop, and really look at life. A breath before the plunge."

And in this moment, Gendry finally understood what she had meant.

For, as he stared at her, just a glowing white speck, so far away, he felt as though time had stopped to stand still. As if all there was in the world was her, so beautiful, and so, so tragic. This one girl, this one lovely, broken girl, who could bring death so ruthlessly, yet held all of life in her sad, grey eyes.

She had lost so much in her life. She had been beaten, time and time again, yet there she stood, in defiance of the gods and the life they had given her, facing the storm. Her white gown whipped back from her, snatched up in the wind and rain, which threatened to throw her right over the edge, yet she did not appear afraid.

As a sudden gust hit Rogue and pushed him to the side, fear gripped Gendry as he saw her sway dangerously close to the edge. One sharp gust and she would be gone, dead, smashed upon the rocks so very far below. He spurred Rogue to go faster, faster, willing him to get there before something so bad happened that it could never be undone, before she was taken from him again, yet it seemed an eternity that he watched her rock and sway in horror. Just like she had said in the music. Time, standing still, as we steal a moment for ourselves.

As soon as they were close enough Gendry threw himself out of the saddle. He shouted her name, but his voice was lost in the wind as he moved towards her. He wanted to run and grab her and pull her back to safety as fast as he could, but he was terrified that one wrong move and she would startle and fall. In her white gown, she looked like the bride of Death. The Stranger's daughter. He shouted her name again, and when she did not move his eyes flickered to the heavens as he prayed to the gods to keep her safe.

As he reached for her, heart pounding in his throat, blood as cold as ice, he saw her face. Her beautiful, sad face, utterly blank, perfectly still, but her eyes- such sad, broken eyes- so full of hurt and pain and turmoil, like a tempest. A void, like she had said. Something too great to ever be held.

"Arya!" he shouted again, but either she couldn't hear him or she was so lost in her own head that she didn't, but either way she made no movement. For just a split second, the wind dropped, just the smallest amount, and he took his chance. He lunged for her, his great arms wrapping around her and dragging her tiny, bedraggled form back away from the edge. They fell backwards onto the ground from the force, and she struggled away from him, but he would not, could not, let go, not now that he had her, not ever again.

He pulled them back and back, though she kicked and struggled, shushing her softly, though he knew she couldn't hear him. "It's alright," he said, again and again. "Shh, it's all alright, you're safe, you're with me." But she didn't hear a word of it. He pulled them to their feet, keeping her enclosed tightly in his arms as she sobbed, her back against his front, her hands clutching his arm at her waist, the only thing keeping her up as painful sobs wracked through her entire body. "I am here," he said, voice cracking. "I am with you."

Then suddenly her face screwed up and she was screaming and screaming, screaming everything that was inside of her at the storm, a scream that spoke of all of the unimaginable hurts she had suffered in her life, a scream so laced with the deepest, purest agony that even the storm seemed to hover, stuck in time, this tempo rubato that she had once spoken of as she took this one, single moment to throw at the world all of the misery and anguish it had thrown at her. Gendry had never heard such pain, such direst agony, in all of his life. Her scream seemed to carry for an eternity, while they stood, frozen on the cliff in the wind and rain, while lightening flashed all around them, and for a moment Gendry wondered if she was too far gone to ever come back from it. She had warned him, warned him of the tempest inside of her, that, if unleashed, would destroy her.

And then she was gone. Her form slumped forwards over his arm, and he understood immediately that she was gone. He took the chance, ears ringing and blood frozen in his veins, to lift her up, cradling her small form against him. Her head rolled back lifelessly, and for a moment he couldn't help but think she was dead, that she had been right, that the tempest had destroyed her, but her eyelashes fluttered and from the way that her lips moved, just barely, though he could not hear what she was mumbling, relief flooded his gut.

She was so small, cradled in his arms and tucked into his chest, that for a moment Gendry forgot just how deadly she was, how one short glance from her could send people running, how she had looked that night at the Burning Village, relaxing and cleaning her blade in a hall full of corpses. This girl, this tiny, shattered girl- she could not be the monster that she warned him about. He remembered with a lurch what the Ghost of High Heart Hill had told him once, when he had stopped there with some orphans from the Inn on the way to the Brotherhood at Acorn Hall. A girl who's lips will taste of sweet summer wine to kiss, but beneath, the direst poison. That is the girl you dream of. That was what she had told him, but surely, that was not this girl, cradled in his arms?

He laid her gently over Rogues shoulders as he climbed up, before pulling her back against him and securing her with his arm. Her sodden nightgown, which he recognised as one of the one's Shireen had gifted her with, and, up until that point had gone entirely ignored as far as he knew, was soaked through entirely. Stood on the cliffs edge the long, train like skirt had billowed out behind her in the wind, but now it clung to her, twisting around her like a second skin, the white layers of fine fabric soaked through and tinged see through. Her hair was plastered to her form, clinging to her back and shoulders, the thick, dark tresses almost black from the rain. For a moment Gendry thought she looked like some kind of run away bride, in the white gown, but realised with a start that she looked more like a corpse at a funeral, as beautiful in death as in life. The idea frightened him, and he urged Rogue back to the castle.

And all the way, the girl in his arms dreamed of nothing but snow.

WHEW!

Now that was wild to write. I hope you liked! Stay tuned for the next chapter... over and out! xox