Warning?: There's a birth scene in here. It's not grisly or gory or anything, but I felt like I should give proper warning.

Jon

It had been one of Arya's longest visits. Months, really; and yet it seemed like days. Every moment Jon could feel it, a tension, a fear, that one morning they would all wake up and she would be gone. He saw it in Sansa's careful stitching, in Bran's furrowed brow and in Rickon as well. But, Jon knew, it was most prevalent in Gendry. He tried to hide it, but Jon could see. He did not want Arya to go with such a fierceness that it affected him in everything. Every moment Gendry was with Arya, every hug, or word they spoke to one another, he acted like that was to be their last. Jon often wondered if it was.

The only person who seemed fully confident that Arya would stay was Lawna. It drove Gendry to distraction, her assuredness, and brought a sadness to Jon. If Arya were to leave... It would crush the little girls soul.

"But she won't leave," Lawna insisted during one of their early morning lessons; something Jon had agreed to so that Arya and Gendry might have some time alone. "I know she won't."

"Your faith in Lady Stark is commendable, Lawna, truly-"

"How can you expect her stay when everyone believes she will leave?" Lawna angrily cut across him. "It's not fair!"

She had a point. A rare shade of wisdom for a soon to be seven-year-old.

"I suppose you're right," Jon had relented, "but if Lady Stark was to leave..."

"She won't," Lawna said with an uncharacteristic fierceness. Jon sighed and let it go. There was no talking her out of it, and he supposed that some lessons needed to be learned the hard way.

But all the same, he hoped fiercely that Arya could see how attached her little girl was becoming to her. Before, Lawna had adored her, almost worshiped her even, but it had been a adoration from afar. Arya had been something like a god or a distant relative. Something untouchable. But now... Now she was becoming her mother, and once made, that bond could never truly be broken.

"She adores you," Jon had said to Arya one day whilst they were breaking their fast.

"As I do her," Arya had said. "Look, isn't it lovely? She made it for me on our last walk."

She held up a half-wilted crown of flowers and grass for Jon to see. It was messy, to be sure, but when Arya placed it on her head, it fit almost perfectly with her wild, tangled hair.

I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass.

Arya laughed as Jon joined in with her for the last line. It was a genuine laugh, a true laugh, and there was actual merriment in her eyes.

"Don't hurt her, Arya," Jon said, his merriment vanishing as he stood from the table, having finished his meal.

Arya took the crown from her head, running her fingers over the flowers as though they were her child's hair, her eyes elsewhere. Jon left her there, with her crown and her thoughts, though he wondered now if he ought to have. Perhaps he should have waited for her to say something. Or perhaps she would not have said anything at all.

Now, however, the maester had strictly advised that Arya not go for her walks, no matter how much she protested. Her stomach had swollen to a point where she could barely even walk correctly, and, the maester had confided in Jon, her time was coming.

"I expect the babe to make an appearance any day now," he had said, so Jon and Sansa had been quick to make preparations for everything to run smoothly.

"It's going to be a boy!" Lawna chirped one warm morning when Arya had called her and Gendry to her room.

"And what makes you think that, my maiden of blue flowers?" Arya said, ruffling the girl's dark black hair.

"I just know," Lawna said proudly. Arya smiled, but there was no smile on Gendry's face. A shadow had fallen over him, and Jon knew that he was already reconciling himself to the loss of Arya.

And then, one morning as the snow began to melt, it happened. Or, rather, it began to happen.

"I think I'm feeling the child," Arya had said that morning at breakfast, her hand on her stomach. And then she had stood bolt upright, nearly dislodging the table, and Jon instantly saw why. There was a puddle of water at her feet.

They had sent her straight to her room, throwing the shutters open for air and had called for Gendry and Lawna. The first few hours were mild. Arya said she hardly felt any pain, and the babe hardly made a stirring, as was normal with births. But, as the sun began to set, Arya started wincing more and more, until she began to cry out and groan every ten minutes or so.

"It's coming," she gasped, and Jon promptly scooped Lawna up in his arms and whisked her from the room, depositing her in Sansa's arms.

When he returned, just to say a few things to Arya before he left again, Gendry was at her side, their hands clasped together. The maester was there, along with the septa, as well as a variety of other servants. What their purpose was Jon did not know. He knew little of birthing.

"I'll be outside," he said to Arya, clasping her shoulder.

"No," she gasped, her face screwed up with discomfort. "No, Jon, I want you here."

Jon grimaced. He wasn't sure he wanted to be there. Hearing her scream and swear outside the door was enough for him, but her eyes were pleading.

"Please."

"Oh all right," Jon grumbled, going to stand as far away from the base of the bed as possible.

Gendry gave him what appeared to be a sympathetic look. Or perhaps it was gratefulness. Once Arya started shouting, he really couldn't tell.

The real labor didn't start for another hour or so, and when it did Jon really wished that he had stayed outside. Arya's screaming was enough to drive him to insanity, the pain in her shrieks ringing sharply in his bones. For a good twenty minutes, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the noise, but it was no use.

When he opened them again, he saw Arya, coated with sweat and gasping, giving another raging roar of pain. But then, when the pain appeared to subside for a moment, she turned her head, and Jon noticed, for what seemed to be the first time, that Gendry was still holding her hand, and talking to her.

His face wasn't calm or placid, but there was a fierce determination there, and as Arya cried out and gripped his hand again, he did not retract his hold, nor stop whatever words he was saying. Instead, he reached out and gently stroked a bit of her hair away from her face.

Jon felt a bit of embarrassment rush through him. What kind of man are you? He thought to himself. This is your sister, you've seen and heard much worse. Stop closing your eyes and sniveling like a little boy.

Summoning up his courage, he strode over to Arya and took her other hand in his. Through her fevered state she looked up at him and smiled, giving his hand a squeeze. A squeeze which turned into a bone-crunching death grip.

Jon didn't know if he regretted his decision or not for those long hours while Arya labored. They were certainly the longest hours of his life, and one's that were very trying indeed. Arya screamed and swore and cried and begged, and all the while Gendry was there, saying something, and then, finally, as the babe was beginning to push through, Jon understood what it was he was saying. He wasn't saying anything. He was singing.

My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I'll lay you down,

I'll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown.

For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord.

I'll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword.

Arya screamed again, and Jon, just to distract himself really, began to sing along in whispers.

And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree,

She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me.

I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass.

And then it wasn't Arya who was screaming, but a child. A newborn, pink, and bloodied child, wailing loud enough to wake the dead in the crypts below.

"Oh thank god," Jon said weakly, feeling Arya's iron grip finally relaxing, causing much needed blood to rush to his hand.

Arya was breathing heavily, but she turned, and Jon saw Gendry take their entwined hands and plant a gentle kiss on hers.

"A baby boy!" The maester declared.

"Lawna was right," Arya gasped, an exhausted smile on her face. "She'll be so pleased."

"Maybe you should let her name it," Jon joked.

"Heavens no," Arya said with a raspy laugh. "This one I'm naming myself."

One more chapter plus an epilogue and then this fic is done.