Thanks for the support so far! This is my first time doing this, and it's mainly just to get this out of my imagination and onto some "paper". I have to write them pretty hastily so apologies for grammatical/spelling errors. I try to check them as I go, but things happen.

"She's dead, boy. I know you don't want to hear it, but it's true, and the sooner you can face that the sooner you can move on and spend your time thinking about something else."

"You don't know that. She is highborn. The Hound knows she's worth more alive than dead."

"And you don't know the Cleganes like I do. Worth has nothing to do with it. All the wolves are gone, one pup means nothing to a man like Sandor Clegane. She will slow him down. Surely you've heard tale of what the Hound is capable of…if you pray for anything, pray he showed her more mercy than his brother would have and killed her quick."

The past five years spent at Storm's End had accustomed Gendry to the moods of the sea. At first, he'd hated it—the saltiness of the air, the damp, the constant roar of waves breaking on the rocks. It had taken lessons with Lord Davos before he was able to learn to swim, and even then, he'd been awkward. Bulky as he was, he'd felt a stone in the water, unable to float on his back like the children seemed to do so effortlessly. Eventually, though, he found his buoyancy, and even came to enjoy the feeling of the chilly water on his bare skin. The forge had made his shoulders strong, and once he learned how to move his arms and legs in the water, they carried him swiftly through the sea, even as as it was here. Edric had been raised at Storm's End and was a strong swimmer, but eventually Gendry was able to out swim him. Hardly a day had passed that he hadn't swam. There was nothing like jumping into the cool bay after a day working in the forge, letting the salt dissolve the grime and sweat. Gendry had no love for the Gods, but he could see why the Ironborn loved their drowned god.

Even so, a ship was different. He had sailed a fair amount, particularly after the war. Once Queen Daenerys came to the throne, the kingdom was broken. More houses and families were destroyed in the fighting than remained afterward, and the issue of who would fill the empty seats was considered carefully. Storm's End was given to his brother, Edric, who had been raised to be a lord. He'd learned how to wield a sword (though never how to make one, Gendry liked to remind him,) and shoot a bow. He'd even been taught how to dance. Edric, with his Baratheon features and charisma. Gendry didn't mind that his brother had inherited their father's house, he had no interested in ruling.

After the war, Queen Daenerys had legitimized him and sent him to Storm's End to live with his brother and their household. He was to work with a maester at his letters, learn to read, and after that learn about history and arithmetic. It was a great honor, and he enjoyed the stories and couldn't deny than knowing how to read had its perks, but he still felt a bastard from flea bottom sometimes. Except he'd grown, too. When the time came to pick up a weapon and train, he'd found he was quite good at it. His father was a great warrior, Davos told him. Even so, Gendry knew there would come a time when he was to find a wife and perhaps be given a castle and some land, maybe even have a forge of his own. Somewhere quiet by the sea, with a good, kind woman and children; a simple life.

The ship reeled on the open sea and so did Gendry's thoughts. He normally slept like hard but the voyage, or perhaps the destination, had stolen his peace these past two weeks. Tonight, as he had the nights before, he thought of Arya. My wife. That thought made him feel uneasy, so shook it from his mind. She had been a child the last time he'd seen her—they both had. He was a man now, five-and-twenty. For a long time, he thought the last time he'd seen her would be the last time he'd ever see her. Lem had convinced him she was dead, told him it was better that way, told him to pray it so. The worst part for Gendry, the part that kept the guilt alive, was that he had prayed for it. The thought of her being tortured or raped made him so angry he couldn't control his anger and had taken to beating whatever he could get his hands on—living or nonliving. Once he started thinking of her as dead, it hurt on the inside more, but at least the anger started to go away. It wasn't until a year into the Great War that word came from Winterfell that the castle still stood, and with it two Starks: the daughters, Sansa and Arya. He'd refused to believe it at first, and when Lord Davos had shown him the letter he'd pushed him, exclaiming, "You know I can't read, you Onion Bastard." But he hadn't been angry, not really. There was joy in finding out she was alive, but somewhere deep down there was more sadness, though he didn't know why. Eventually, the war had ended, the white walkers had fallen and the wildlings retreated back to the North. Gendry had sailed to the Stormlands with Lord Davos and his Uncle Stannis' body. They'd left from Karhold, never making it to Winterfell. Never making it to Arya.

Now, here he was, five years later, tucked away in a fine cabin on a galley headed to White Harbor, where he and his envoy would ride the rest of the way to Winterfell. His brother and the Onion Knight had brought news to him of his betrothal like it was a gift.

"It's a great honor, Gendry." Edric had told him that night as they looked out over Shipbreaker Bay. "The Starks are an old house, Winterfell a great castle. Your son will be Warden of the North some day."

"I'm not a Stark though," Gendry stated dryly. "What reason have they got with me?"

"There is much love between the stags and the direwolves, going back a long time. And the Queen wishes to see you gifted, for the fighting you did in the war." Edric even spoke like a Lord. Gendry had never quite gotten rid of his accent from King's Landing, although he could say a proper "My Lady" these days. He still had a hard time remembering to hold his h's though, and anyone with even a moderately keen ear could place his upbringing upon hearing him speak, particularly if he was at all in the cups.

"Why not you, then?" Gendry peered at his brother. "Wouldn't it make more sense for you to marry Arya?"

Edric lifted an eyebrow at the casual mention of her name. "My place is here. The father to the heir of Winterfell needs to be in Winterfell." He responded dismissively.

Gendry rolled his eyes at the tone, "Well then. I'm glad I could be of service."

"I just told you, Gen, it's a great—"

"Honor, yes. You've said that. Frequently. Forgive me for not feeling overwhelmed with gratitude. What will I do in Winterfell, other than make heirs?"

"That's for you and your Lady Wife to decide. I'm sure you will be granted a keep nearby if you wish, or you could live at the castle. You may be part of the Lord and Lady's council or head their armory. They're good people, Gendry. You will be welcome there."

Gendry sighed, silent for a moment as though contemplating what he would say next. "Have you heard much about Lady Arya, brother?"

"Some," Edric conceded, leaning his elbows on the stone wall. "I hear she's beautiful and intelligent."

Gendry snorted, "That sounds like a horseman's pitch."

"Doesn't mean it isn't true. And best not to get into the habit of referring to your wife as a horse."

"Did you know I knew her? Before, I mean?"

Edric was silent for a moment, "Yes, I knew. Davos told me. That is part of the reason I thought this arrangement would please you. It sounded as though you may have had some affection for the girl."

"She was a child," Gendry sighed. "We went through hell together. Her father'd just been executed, I'd been sold by Tobho. We were headed north, on the run from the Gold Cloaks. She knew why, I didn't. We saw terrible things, did terrible things. Saw our friends die. Killed people."

Edric paused, "Strong bonds are sewn from tragedy." When he thought a moment longer on what had been said, he added. "I'm sorry you went through that. Both of you."

"She's not like anyone else I ever met, Edric. She was strong, even as a girl. Stronger than me. Wild." He ran a hand through his thick black hair. "She never seemed the sort to marry."

"Ah," Edric grinned slightly at that. "You worry she won't want you."

"I know she won't. She's no lady."

"But she is," Edric argued gently. "Do you doubt the love she has for her family?"

"No," Gendry answered at once. "She's a wolf, through and through. I've seen it in her eyes."

"Well, then, she will agree. Because without you and her, the Starks are no more."

Gendry knew his brother meant well, but that thought made him feel even more miserable than he had before. Arya was strong and fierce and wild, it was what he loved most about her. The thought that he may be the thing to finally be the undoing of that, that he may play some part in her taming seemed cruel and sad. His brother left not long after that, leaving Gendry to stare out at the sea with eyes that matched its color. Eventually, the wind grew cold and Gendry found his way back to his chambers, where he fell asleep. That night he had dreamt of a wolves and stags and snow.