And then I did this. What am I doing. I need to focus.

Arya sat staring out the window at the chill, inky night, gazing up at the stars. The sky almost looks frozen over, she observed silently to herself, her hand absentmindedly resting on her protruding stomach.

Looking away from the night, she cast a glance at Gendry, who was fast asleep, still naked, a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He'd wake up soon enough, feeling the coldness of her loss, and demand that she come back to bed. He could be protective, but, as Arya remembered, when she was with child he was like a wolf guarding its mate from any potential harm. The thought of Gendry the wolf made her smile, but she supposed that he was more bull than anything else. Stubborn.

She let out a sigh and looked back out over the sky, trying not to think of what a mess it all was. Trying to resist the call of the open unknown. It had been easy at first, leaping to her feet every time the winds called, singing of adventure. Mostly, though, she ran to lose herself. It was so much easier riding like a shot through the forests and over the hills, keeping the peace, than staying at home to help rebuild Winterfell. She didn't have to be anyone, answer to anyone. She didn't have to be reminded of who she was, or the terrible pain she had endured, or what she lost.

But now she could no longer run.

When she realized that she was with child again, she had felt trapped. A horrible, choking feeling had consumed her as it all rushed in. She would have to stay. She would have to have the child. Gendry wouldn't let her run away again. She would never be free again. She would only be Lady Stark, constantly reminded of what Arya had lost. Of the things Arya had seen. Every shadow in Winterfell was a ghost.

She was being selfish, she knew. And once she rationalized with herself, and got her head right, she knew that all those things she thought were silly. Gendry loved her, Sansa loved her, as did Jon and Bran and Rickon. And Lawna was a wonderful child, who, it would seem, had taken after Arya in her love for all things unladylike. So what was she so desperately afraid of?

Love makes you weak, said a tiny little voice in her head. And this is a bad place, remember? This is the place where everything is taken from you.

She turned to look at Gendry again, who looked endearingly foolish in his sleep, his mouth hanging slightly open, a light stubble dusting his face. She remembered, nearly blushing to think so, of how it had all started. Of her return, and then some time after it, when she stopped tasting blood in her mouth and started to feel again. And how she had felt towards him.

They had been friends as children, but, now that she was older, sixteen at the time, she was a woman grown. Ready for marriage, Sansa had pointed out once in passing, if anyone would have her. Arya doubted they would. Lady or no lady, she was no maiden, but not far from that, in truth. Still, it didn't matter if she was inexperienced. A ruined girl was a ruined girl, and Arya had no problem being ruined. She never wanted to marry anyway.

But it had been a long time since she had felt a man's touch, though she had never wanted a man, at least, not with the desire or the feeling that she did Gendry. In Braavos, she had briefly taken a lover, but she had felt nothing from it, and had dismissed him. But, upon her return, the blacksmith had caught her eye in a way no man had ever before.

It's probably because of our history together, she had tried to reason with herself. He's the first boy you ever took notice of, even if it was only a little.

But... All the same, she found herself caught, more than once in his presence. Sometimes, they would sneak out for a walk, and Sansa would let them go because she liked seeing a flush in Arya's cheeks again. Most times, Arya would come back feeling a flicker of happiness within her from teasing him, but sometimes there were moments of danger. When, for a fleeting second, she would stop, her breath catching in her throat, and she would see him a way she really ought not to be seeing him.

Sometimes the light would catch his eyelashes, adorning his bright blue eyes in gold, and she would feel her heart cease to beat, and then, he would turn and say something stupid, and she would be left to laugh, feeling shaken and confused, and, most of all, angry. She made a promise to herself that, whenever she would have these moments of foolishness, that she would run and escape them, and it worked. After running so far, she could return and feel none of the foolish awkwardness that she had felt before. She could only be glad to see him again, and teach him how to spar with a sword, and tease him because he was so clumsy with it.

She could escape it, but only for a time. Soon she would be at it again, and the feeling was so sneaky too, always cropping up at the worst of times. When she went to visit him at the forge, and caught him without a shirt, a thing that she would at one time pay no mind to, but now left her staring. Or when their hands brushed, passing a weapon from one to the other.

But it had all came to a head, really, when she had caught him talking to a whore.

He had been doing nothing wrong, in truth, because they had made no promises to each other, or even interacted in a way that was supposed to be romantic, but it had felt like a betrayal. She had come back from one of her rides a bit early, to catch him chatting with a blonde haired woman, her breasts barely contained in her shift, and she had known, in that instant, that that was not the first time that he and the yellow haired whore had spoken.

A blind, horrible anger had filled Arya, and she lost all sense, kicking her heels and charging the horse at the pair, nearly trampling the whore to death before Gendry threw her out of the way. Arya was deaf to his roars as she rode away, towards the stables, hell at her heels and blood in her mouth.

Hatred filled her until she choked, and she leapt from the horse and stormed from the stable. The only thing to quench her burning thirst was blood, and as it was, there was nothing to kill. Except that whore and Gendry, but she was not about to slit his throat. No amount of anger could do that.

Instead she settled for a nice goat, one that could be eaten for dinner that night. She was just setting to skin it when she heard the sound of heavy footfalls behind her, and didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

"You could have killed her!"

She turned around placidly and gave Gendry a cold look.

"It's a right shame I didn't," she snapped, feeling a rush of vindictive satisfaction at the look on his face. "I thought you knew better, being a bastard yourself. I thought you wouldn't want to bring another one into the world just to satisfy your needs."

Gendry didn't say anything, but there were sparks in his eyes like the ones that burned when he made the steel sing.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded. "You have no right to be angry. I've made no promises to you."

Arya stabbed the goats flesh, hard.

"No," she snarled. "That's right. How stupid of me. Why would I ever want promises from a bastard?"

There was a sound of Gendry gasping, a low, shocked gasp, and she turned, in spite of herself and then cringed when she saw the look on his face. He was so hurt, and confused, and he didn't understand at all. How could he be so stupid? She thought. How could he not see? But that was unfair, because, until this moment, she hadn't even seen herself.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

But it was too late. He was already gone.

She had tried to apologize to him, but, even though he accepted her apology, she knew that he didn't. Not really. The look he gave her was cold, and the usually teasing glint in his eyes was gone.

She had left, rode the farthest and longest she had ever ridden, but he would not escape her. Even when she kicked her heels and forced her horse to run as fast as it could, so that the wind whipped her face violently and the world turned into a blur of frantic colors, the look in Gendry's eyes after she had called him a bastard haunted her, refusing to go away.

She had no other choice but to turn around and ride back for Winterfell. Unfortunately, if Arya had learned anything from her return to Westeros, it was that ghosts had away of refusing to go away until you confronted them straight out. And Arya Stark was no coward.

He did not come out to greet her, or even linger on the sidelines, watching from afar. She tried to go to the forge straight out, to confront him, but Sansa would have none of it.

"We are having a feast," she snarled. "In your honor. You've been gone nearly a year, Arya. The blacksmith can wait."

"He has a name," Arya had snapped back, "and it's Gendry. We didn't part well, and I want to make it right."

"Make it right after the feast," Sansa had commanded with a tone of such severe finality that Arya had no choice but to agree.

As the evening wore on, Arya couldn't help but feel a rotting dread within her. A good amount of wine would have stopped that in a beat, but Sansa, it appeared, was going through a bit of a protective streak, and as a result, every time Arya reached for more wine, the jug mysteriously disappeared, trotting down the tables happily in the hands of a cup barer. So, unfortunately for Arya, when she made her way down to the forge, it was entirely sober.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," he said gruffly, not even bothering to turn around as he worked the metal, his blows especially vicious. "Here to apologize again?"

"Yes," she said, her mouth turning to cotton. She wasn't very good at this, making things right, talking about feelings. It was much better to settle things with a sword than with words.

"I don't see why," Gendry said, slamming his hammer down and sending sparks flying. "I said I forgave you."

"Yes, you said," Arya snapped, "but you didn't mean it, which is the more important part, I should think."

He didn't respond, but instead pounded away, leaving her to fill in the gaping silence.

"I let my temper get the better of me," she said, picking her words with care. "What I did, and the things I said... I only said them because... Because I was angry."

What she had meant to say was 'because I wanted to hurt you just as much as you hurt me' but somehow the words sounded foolish and cowardly in her head, and she could not bring herself to say them aloud.

"I don't see why," Gendry said again, through what sounded like gritted teeth, "like I said before, I made no promise-"

"I don't want your promises, damn you!" Arya snapped, the fiery feeling of anger beginning to kindle within her. "I just don't want you talking to that whore!"

"You don't want me talking to that whore?" Gendry repeated, putting the hot metal in water, steam hissing from it. "That sounds like wanting promises to me."

Arya growled, feeling her temper licking at her again, ready to flare. He really was insufferable.

"Well," she said frostily, "obviously you'd rather spend your time between some yellow-haired girls legs than with me-"

"Why can't you just come out and say it?" Gendry demanded, throwing down his tools and turning around at last.

Arya blinked, completely thrown.

"Say what?" she said stupidly, but Gendry, though simple, was not a fool.

"Don't be coy," he snarled. "You know what I'm talking about."

She took a deep, shuttering breath, and suddenly found herself speechless. She couldn't find the words to fit what she wanted to say, probably because she didn't know what she wanted to say herself. But it seemed like she didn't need to find words, because they were building up in the back of her throat and tumbling out before she could stop them.

"I lost everything," she heard herself say softly. "I don't want to loose you too."

Gendry's eyes widened, and then he seemed to melt, his entire body, tensed in an angry, cold stance, sighing. The hostile and threatening look on his face slid away, and he let out a long, slow breath.

"I'm sorry," he said unexpectedly. "I didn't think you cared, or would care."

"No," Arya said meekly. "I can see where you wouldn't. I haven't been exactly forth coming."

"No," Gendry agreed gently. "That you haven't."

They stood there, awkwardly for a moment, and Arya began to wonder, almost frantically, what she should do. It was so difficult, in these moments of emotion, to know what to do or say, when it should be so obvious. She just stood there, like a stone, feeling closed off and confused, unsure of what to do, or what she wanted to do.

But she didn't have to do anything, because suddenly Gendry was there, and his arms were wrapping themselves around her, and he was holding her. Her bones went rigid, and she gave a sharp intake of breath, surprised and still unsure, but then, closing her eyes, she let herself go, and found that she was embracing him as well.

He was warm, and smelled of warmth too. A perfume of burnt embers and scorching metal, of dust and straw and dirt, all mixed together with smoke. At first, her nose curled at the strength of the scent, but then she realized that she rather liked it. It reminded her of him, of his youth, the picture of him working the metal floating into her mind.

He's still strong, she thought absently, her head against his breast, listening to his wildly beating heart, the strength in his body wrapped around her like some sort of rope or string, and yet... And yet she didn't feel trapped at all.

"You were gone so long," he said into her hair, the rumbles of his voice pulsing in her ear along with his heartbeat.

"I know," she said.

"I was afraid I'd forget your face," he admitted.

"I never forgot yours."

She had not meant it to be romantic in the least. It had been the truth. In fact, it wasn't romantic at all. Her guilt had haunted her like a ghost in the night, screeching at her to make it right with him. She would have told him so too, if he hadn't taken it as a romantic gesture, and suddenly pressed his lips against hers.

Arya felt herself freeze again, seizing up, unsure of what to do. She could only think of how cold her lips felt, when his were hot and warm, and how her entire body felt as rigid as ice, but his was like burning water. But, though ice swallowed fire, fire melted ice, and she found herself kindling to his heat, feeling it rush through her cold skin and inflame it, her hands running up around his neck, her mouth opening against his, as if to gulp his fire and passion. To drink it in like a dying man quenched with thirst.

This was strange, she thought to herself, to feel so full of fire when it was so cold outside. But within the forge there was only warmth, a hot, suddenly uncomfortable warmth, and Arya could feel her cheeks flushing along with her body, her skin itching for a spell of cold air.

Her hands flew to the ties on his shirt, knitting and twisting them until they came undone, and then she pushed the cloth away, dusking the tips of her fingers over his hot, fevered flesh, drinking him in. She had seen him like this before, even with less clothing on, truth be told, but she was a child then, and his body at the time had been of no consequence. Now, however, it was an entirely different affair.

Before she could do much more, he took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. It was different than their other kisses, Arya could feel it, in his lips and hands. This was a kiss of want, but a different kind. Not just of her flesh, but of her entire being. He cares far more for me than he let on, she thought foggily.

But the time for thinking was being taken over by much more urgent matters, and she blindly pushed whatever Gendry might be feeling, other than lust, out of the way. The unpleasant, over-heated feeling was still there, crawling under her skin, and she was tired of it. Pushing Gendry's lips from hers, she reached down to her bodice and began to undo the laces of her dress.

Gendry threw a frantic look at the entrance of the forge. No one was there, there was only darkness.

"A-Arya?"

She laughed, in spite of herself.

"I've never heard you to sound like such a frightened little boy," she said, coming towards him, unlacing each lace with every step. "Not even with a knife at your throat."

"A knife would be swifter," Gendry said in cracked voice. "I cannot imagine Sansa's wrath when she finds out I've ruined you."

Arya laughed.

"You'll not ruin me," she said, setting to the laces of her small cloths, the front of her dress hanging loosely from her body.

"Then you'd better stop that," Gendry said, and when Arya looked into his eyes, they were not their usual blue, but dark with want. She grinned.

"You cannot ruin me," she said slowly, now so close to him that she could feel the heat from his body, "because I am already ruined."

Gendry's eyes snapped wide open and he looked at her, as if searching her face for a jest. There was no jest, of course, and not to her surprise, an angry expression flickered across his face.

"Who was it?" He demanded. "Rapers?"

"No," Arya admitted. "Not rapers."

There was a long silence, and for a moment she was frightened that he would demand she lace up her clothes and leave the forge at once, but he did not do that. Instead he sighed, a look that was almost sad passing over his face.

"Does Sansa know?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"I think she suspects," Arya sighed, "but I don't really think she wants to know."

Gendry nodded in understanding.

"I suppose you want me to lace up my dress now," she said, and she had meant it as a bit of a joke, but her voice had come out hard and biting.

"No," Gendry said, and she saw in his eyes and in the shift of his pants that he did not. "That doesn't mean I don't think you should."

"Good," Arya said, taking his hand and placing it on the crook of her collar bone, leaning up to gently take his lips in hers. "I never gave much thought to what you think anyway."

Gendry made a noise like he was going to protest, perhaps throw in an insult of his own, but that was stopped swiftly and replaced with a gasp as she pulled her body upwards to meet his, his hand cascading down to her breast, their forms pressed together as one shadow in the flickering light.

She felt the rough skin of his hands push aside the thin cloth covering her chest, and then move inside it, cupping and squeezing her breasts until she moaned in his mouth, her entire skin aflame with what felt like liquid fire.

She pressed against him again.

His hands removed themselves from her breasts up to her shoulders, and she felt a whoosh of cold air as he pushed her clothing from her, her small cloths still clinging to her hips, her skin as bare as the day she was born.

Before she could cover herself, or even move, she felt his arms around her, and his lips against her throat, carrying her gently to his bed, and then spilling her in it, so that she stared up at him, leaning over her, his face glowing in the fading light of the embers, standing out against the blackness of night around him.

With haste, he undid the laces of his trousers, and she watched as he got up and quickly shimmied out of them, turning to her, a slight heat in his cheeks. He was strong. Every muscle in his body was well worked from pounding metal all day, and it felt like his whole form seemed to echo strength, from his blue stubborn eyes to the pronounced muscles in his legs, built up from all his years of travel.

Kicking his pants off into the dark, he crawled back in bed over her, his rough hands again on her skin, tugging her small cloths off so that they were both naked, staring at each other, completely breathless.

He began to kiss her again, gently, sweetly. First her lips, then her neck, then her collar bone, and then her breasts. But it was all too slow and too soft for Arya. The kisses he left were gone the instant his lips removed themselves from her skin, too easily forgotten. And she didn't want to forget anything.

She rose upward and grabbed his shoulders, crushing him to her, kissing him fiercely, passionately. She wanted every touch, every caress to be imprinted on her skin in a burning flesh memory. She did not want to wake and not remember what it was like to make love to him. Everything good was far too easily forgotten here.

He didn't seem to mind her sense of urgency, in fact, he returned it vigorously, kissing her with as much want and fever that she did him, his hands on her body firm and scorching.

They tumbled back onto the bed, and she felt him, nagging at her, and rose her hips to meet his. They coupled fiercely that night. Desperately. And it was like nothing she'd ever forget. Even now, remembering it, she could feel every touch, every sigh, as though she were there, on the bed, living it.

And after that, she knew it would never be the same. She would never be the same. And though she tried so desperately to close herself off, to escape the raw vulnerability loving something brought on, she found herself cracking more and more each day. Each return was like a knife, cutting away at the frost over her heart, weakening her.

Arya, hand still on her stomach, as if it was some sort of permanent resting place, climbed down the latter and into the forge. She turned, taking in the smell of burning coals and metal, something that she now had began to miss when she went a long time without its perfume. Finally, her eyes rested on the sleeping child, curled into a peaceful ball, three blankets around her shoulders for warmth as she cradled her sword.

She's so fond of that sword, Arya thought, the coldness in her heart melting slightly. Just like I was of Needle.

She crossed the expanse of the forge softly and slowly, each step silent. There were some things that she had learned that she could not shake, and being silent was one of them. Here, it was only helpful. The last thing she wanted to do was wake the little girl from her peaceful slumber.

She stopped just next to her and sank slowly down, not making a sound as she took in Lawna's peaceful, innocent face. It was a blank slate, not touched by war, or sorrow. Not a single scar scorched her smooth skin, nor was there a single crease of worry in her smooth little brow. Arya felt her throat seize up, Lawna's image conjuring up what she had been like when she was so young.

And yet... It was not as though her daughter had grown up untouched by unpleasant things. She was born a bastard, to a bastard, and to a lady mother who had no hope of ever marrying her father. But... Did Arya even want to marry? It seemed, to her, a silly thing. We are more man and wife than hundreds of married people, she had often thought to herself. There seemed no reason to her to trap themselves in such a bond.

Gendry would hate being a lord or a knight, she knew with certainty, and she couldn't imagine what it would be like if she forced him to be something he wasn't. Stuck in a stuffy castle all day, learning the proper ways of the court, being constantly whispered at and the object of every jest. She could just hear them, in her head, there goes the bastard lord now, too common to even know how to run a castle. It brought a boiling rage just to think about it, and it hadn't even happened.

And this, she thought, looking around the darkened forge, he would lose this. And that would be cruelly unfair.

She sighed, turning back to Lawna again, and her heart pinched, from what she didn't know. Was it guilt, perhaps? At leaving this child so often? At being, admittedly, glad, that she did not call her mother?

It's better that she calls you Lady Stark, the tiny voice said in her head again. Lady Stark is immortal, a legend, a story. She can never die, or be taken from her. It is better this way, safer this way.

But was it? Arya looked at the little girl's form again, hugging a sword instead of her mother's hand. That sword is more of a mother than I am, Arya thought to herself a bit bitterly. But all the same, she could not help but feel like Lawna was luckier than she was. At least she knows what a loss is like, Arya thought. At least, when something horrible comes, because something horrible always comes, she will be prepared.

The lie in her own head turned Arya's mouth sour. I've shrouded myself in a false cloak of nobility, she thought in disgust. She wasn't protecting her daughter, quite the opposite actually. She was protecting herself.

What am I so afraid of?

The question seemed to hang in the thick, cold air of the night, waiting to be answered. And, for a long time, there was no answer. Only when Arya turned to look back at the little girl did something stir deep within her.

Her, she thought, I'm afraid of loosing her. I'm afraid that if I give myself to her, my heart and my soul and all my love, that she'll be taken from me, and I shall never, ever recover from it.

The thought struck her with such gravity that Arya felt a rare rush of terrible sadness take hold of her unexpectedly, and she blinked, tears beading at her eyelashes. All at once, the sadness made her want to take the little girl in her arms and beg her forgiveness. To hold her forever and never let her go.

As it was, she did none of those things.

"Arya?"

She looked up to see Gendry, having come down the ladder, dressed, a blanket around his shoulders. She must have been so lost in thought that she had not heard him.

"When I woke up and you weren't there..." he said, and she saw the lines of worry on his face, his expression torn between being relieved and annoyed.

"I thought she might be cold," Arya said, her voice cracking slightly. "I thought... That she might like it if we slept with her. To keep her warm."

Though it was dark in the forge, Arya saw Gendry's eyes soften, and he smiled.

"I think she'd like that best of all," he said, and so they laid down, the little girl, still fast asleep, between them. And just as Arya closed her eyes, ready for sleep at last, too exhausted for anything else, she felt the little girl stir, and then roll towards her. And her little hand reached out in its slumber and, ever so gently, latched itself onto Arya's.

And I rated it M now. Look at me. I think this is it, for this one. I'm not sure, but I've started reading, and to be honest, once I get into my reading cave, it feels like pulling teeth to get myself out of it. So I might work on stuff, I might not. Mostly, though, I'm just going to read