From day 2 of this year's AxG Week: Caught red-handed. The residents of Winterfell are a bit slow on the uptake, and Arya and Gendry are terrible at covering their tracks.

One day, and one day soon, Sansa would shackle her sister and keep her in a dungeon. That Winterfell didn't have one was a small matter. She would build one if it meant she could account for Arya's whereabouts at any given time.

But here she was, not half an hour before she was due to greet the visiting contingent from Bear Isle, chasing down her wild, wilful sister. She'd tried the training yards, the kitchens, her private chambers and even the council room, but there was no sight of her. She had traipsed down to the forge personally, not ten minutes ago, and walked in on Gendry running about, flushed with heat and breathless, and protesting his ignorance of Arya's whereabouts.

"Forgive me Lady Stark," he'd stammered, old swords in hand ready for repair or melting she wasn't sure. "I haven't seen her all day. Maybe she's done riding? She mentioned she was itching to get past the walls for a bit."

Well that did sound like her, even though Sansa would skin her if it were true. Brimming with frustration, Sansa decided to head back to Arya's rooms and lay out her clothes for her, before she renewed her efforts. She could order a rider to scout the woods closest to Winterfell and seek Arya out. Mayhaps she could stall Lady Mormont and her advisors enough to allow Arya an extra twenty minutes. She doubted it though. Lady Mormont was an ardent admirer of Arya Stark.

She pushed the doors to Arya's chamber open, strong enough for the door to smack loudly against the stone and came face to face with startled grey eyes.

Sansa nearly threw her clothes at her. "Where have you been?"

Arya was wrestling with the laces on her boots, hopping and staring at her sister. "I -um –"

Sansa bustled into the room, placing the clothes on the chair, and clasped her dainty fingers around Arya's raised ankle and dragged her hopping to the chair. She pushed her down and unlaced her boots with rapid accuracy. "You could have at least told me where you were going. I didn't know until Gendry told me you were probably riding –"

"Riding!" Arya blurted. "Yes, I was riding." She stood up and wiggled out of her breeches whilst Sansa unclasped her jerkin. "I've been cooped up in here too long, Sansa. Thought the fresh air would do me good."

Sansa paused in unceremoniously stripping her sister. She held the hem of Arya's soft linen shirt in her hands and spotted curious red-brown marks.

"Arya, what are these? Gods what have you been doing?" She maid to smooth out the crinkled fabric but Arya jerked away and ripped it over her head.

"Hurry up and help me, Sansa. Lyanna and those gnarled old advisors of hers will be here in ten minutes."

Sansa huffed and scrambled to find a comb somewhere in Arya's pig sty of a room – a search that took five of their precious ten minutes and pushed all thoughts of curious copper stains out of her head.

"Jon!"

Jon spun, already grinning at the sound of his youngest sister's voice. She was trotting towards him, feet nimble on the frosty ground and patches of ice, and Jon was nearly overwhelmed with how much she'd grown since they'd parted from each other all those years ago. How much everything had changed.

"Stop staring, you idiot." She thwacked him with Needle. Well. Perhaps not all things had changed. Jon didn't think he'd ever be so delighted to be struck by a blade, but there it was. "You needed me?"

Tormund grumbled beside him. "Aye, little Stark. Your damned stupid brother's lost his mind."

Jon huffed and Arya laughed. "I only said it couldn't hurt. Don't you want your people to be as prepared as possible?"

Tormund shoved him. "Prepared? We've fought crows and dead people, and army after army. It's not my people you should be worrying about." He turned to Arya. "Pretty lad forgets who saved his sorry arse whenever he's gotten himself into trouble."

Arya grinned, slyly, and shot her brother a look that immediately had him tensing. "Ah, I see how it is, Giantsbane. The wildling soldiers are lacking, is it? Well, I'm sure I can whip them into shape."

Jon groaned and Tormund roared. "Lacking? Fucking lacking, Starkling? Why don't you look at your little boys fresh out their mother's bellies with the balls to match. Lacking."

Jon nudged her shoulder with his. "You'll pay for that later," he muttered as they watch Tormund storm off, his great voice rumbling from his chest about Starks, and pride, and "I should have let those fuckers die in the first place. Save myself some trouble."

"I hope so," Arya grinned.

"Where were you anyway? I haven't pulled you from something important?"

Arya grimaced. "Isn't it all important at this stage. Not a second to lose, or so Sansa keeps saying whenever she sends me on some errand or other." Jon looked solemn and nodded. King in the North or not, he'd been reduced to Sansa's messenger boy more than once, and he wasn't ashamed to admit he'd went meekly. "But I was just visiting Gendry. He was melting down the old steel."

"I can tell."

Arya snapped to face him at the teasing lilt in his voice. He was smirking, his dark eyes dancing along her hairline. Deftly, he reached up with gloved hands and plucked a small reddish crusted flake of something from the strands that were so like his own.

Arya stilled as she showed it to her.

"Rust," he explained happily. "Training the recruits not enough for you, little sister? You have to try your hand at smithing as well?"

She couldn't believe her luck. Arya had heard the teasing Jon often got – usually from the wildlings – about being dense and oblivious and knowing nothing. But could she truly be so luck that he was that clueless.

Jon patted her on the shoulder. "Gendry has plenty of help. I'm sure he appreciates the company – but his talents are in the forge and yours are behind the blade. And I need you where you can help me, Arya. Not hauling rusty swords around for Waters."

Apparently yes, she could.

She laughed part exhilarated and relived, part hysterical and in disbelief, and let Jon tuck her under his arm as he ruffled her hair and dragged her off to thrash Wildlings five times her size.

It was rare they could take a moment for themselves.

Nights were getting longer and colder, and they all knew the time would be upon them soon to face this war, but tonight – tonight they had made the Great Hall warm and prepared what food they could without being wasteful and came together to make merry.

It was late into the night. Jon was pleased to see that everyone had made the most of the opportunity to live for a night. From servant to nobility, all were welcome to share in the hospitality of the Starks that night, and the hall had shook with music and dance and raucous laughter.

Most had given up the ghost and left for their beds. Sansa had departed an hour ago, up since before the dawn making sure everything was perfectly in place. Jon sat, with Tormund and Podrick, Bronn and Jamie Lannister, and Sandor Clegane slumped against a wall nearby, eyes closed and breaths deep and even.

"Wait until he wakes up," a hoarse breath laughed into his ear and Jon jolted, spilling half his ale over the table. "I'll never let the lightweight live this down."

"Arya," he breathed. "Fuck sake. Tread heavier, just for my sake."

She cackled and perched herself on the table – as there was no more room on the bench. Podrick, gallant lad that he was and utterly taken with his little sister, found some cloth and mopped up Jon's spill so she could sit without getting her breeches wet. She tipped her cup at him in thanks.

Jon reached over and squeezed her knee. Hard. He remembered she used to hate it when they were children, and sure enough she yelped and swung her free hand round and thwacked him around the head.

"Stop it, you shit head!"

"My Lady Arya!"

Jon glanced at Podrick, thinking he was about to protest about calling his King a shit head, only he wasn't. He wasn't doing anything but staring at a sport on Arya's legs and pointing. "Did you injure yourself my lady? Should I fetch Maester Tarly?"

Jon quickly looked where he was pointing and saw the edges of a coppery brown hand print creeping from her thigh around to the back of her legs.

"Seven hells, Arya," he sighed. "Did you cut your hand again – did you at least wrap it? Wiping it on your breeches isn't enough, you know." He reached over and snatched her hands in his. "And the amount of tumbles you take in the dirt every day. I won't have it becoming infec-"

Jon frowned as her hands turned up clear of slices, gashes, pokes and any other type of wound.

"Arya what –"

"Gendry lad I'm tellin' ye, there is a world outside of that god forsaken forge of yours. And look – here it is!"

Davos entered the hall, one hand wrapped around the back of Gendry's neck and all but dragging him alongside. A cheer went up from their table, and Jon had everyone shuffle around to make room. There was just enough room for Davos to perch tenderly on the edge. Gendry meanwhile, simply shuffled up to Arya's side, and leant his hip against the table edge.

"M'lady," he smiled, and Arya grinned into her cup having ripped her hands out of Jon's grasp the second his attention had been diverted.

"Gendry."

Jon reach over and clapped him on the arm. "Glad you could join us at last, Gendry. Took your time, though."

Gendry chuckled and tipped his head. "Yeah I – uh – just wanted to get somethings cleared up at the forge. One of the crucibles had a crack in it and if we hadn't spotted that before the annealing tomorrow then w-"

Jon shook his head, all soft like and eyes bright as he smiled at his friend. "Don't think I'll ever stop being glad that Davos pulled you out of Fleabottom, Gendry. Truly, thank you."

Abashed Gendry ducked his head, but a proud smile blossomed across his face. "It's no bother. It's my forge to keep in order. Which Davos here seems to have taken exception to," Gendry laughed and brushed his hands against his clothes, leaving ruddy smears in their wake and holding up his palms covered in reddish powder for all to see. "Didn't even let me wash the rust off after tidying up before dragging me straight here."

Arya stilled, like deer when they heard the snapping twigs. Bronn sat up a little straighter, Jamie's face lit up with a smile and looked giddy, and a small frown started to burrow between Jon's brows.

"Rust you say," Bronn drawled. "Leaves that residue behind does it?"

Gendry nodded ruefully. "It's a nightmare to get out."

Bronn swallowed a mouthful of wine to keep from cackling. He swallowed hard. "I bet it is."

Jamie snickered. "Well look at that now. Looks like Robert got his wish, after all."

Gendry's eyes darted between them all, confusion clear on his face. He side-eyed Arya, who closed her eyes and grimaced.

Jon stared at the offending hand print on her thigh. "That's not from a bloodied hand." His voice was low, almost like he was speaking to himself.

Arya tried to step in. "Jon –"

"It's from rust," he spoke over her. "From Gendry's workshop."

Finally, Gendry understood. His skin, normally ruddy and warm from his time in the forge paled. His eyes widened, panicked. He took a lumbering step back.

"Now Jon –"

Tormund was beside himself, cackling and pounding the table. "Didn't think you had it in you lad. You should have said! I wouldn't have kept quiet about that lass there if it were me!"

Jon growled, and thumped Tormund on the arm. "It's from rust from Gendry's hands."

Arya thrust herself off the table and positioned herself between her brother and Gendry. "Jon, calm down –"

But he glowered, his eyes fixed on Gendry. "Can you tell me it isn't?"

Arya may have become a spy, and assassin and soldier and a warrior, but in the face of her beloved older brother, she was a shit liar. He traitorous lips were fixed shut, and Gendry was gaping, stammering, stuttering.

"I – uh, um. Jon, look Uh –"

Jon pounded the table and leapt to his feet, Bronn and Jamie cheering him on. Davos scurried forward and corralled Gendry by the collar, shaking him and muttering things Jon couldn't hear and didn't care about, but had Gendry blushing and protesting. Tormund was doing his best to be Gendry's champion. "Ah what are you pissants fretting about? Nothing wrong with a boy and a girl enjoying some company. Nothing wrong with two girls, or two boys, or even a group –"

"Tormund!"

Silence fell. Jon stared Gendry down. Gendry tried to swallow his fear and failed. After a second, Jon took his hand from the hilt of Longclaw, and watch as the tensions slowly, slowly started to drain from Arya and Gendry's shoulders. He smirked. Good.

Low, purposeful, and commanding, Jon's voice echoed in the hall. "Ghost. To me."

"Ah, shit!" Gendry threw Davos' grip from around his next and fled the hall. Bronn and Jamie's whistles in his ears, and Tormund's cheers. "Run lad – run like the forge is Eastwatch!"

The hound bolted upright, Tormund's bellowing finally breaking through his heavy, ale-induced sleep.

"What's all your yammering about?!"

"Jon's trying to kill the blacksmith for fucking his sister."

Clegane snorted and lifted the nearest goblet to his lips and drained it. "About fucking time."