4. The Brotherhood

Arya Stark was a little shit.

Gendry took another swig of ale from his mug as he sat, bitterly reflecting. He knew he should have talked to her. He knew he should have sat her down, explained his intentions, his reasoning behind becoming a knight.

But how could he, when he wasn't even sure himself? Would she understand? Would she even care? What would she say if he somehow managed to explain to her that he did it for her, for his best friend, for Arry? Would it have made a difference?

It didn't matter now. She was gone. She had ran away, even after he apologized, even after he tried- he had tried so damn hard to make her understand him without saying the words he wanted to say.

And now look where it had gotten him. Before, he was just a stupid bastard boy with a girl. Now what is he?

Gendry slammed his cup down on the table, causing some of the liquid to slosh out onto the wood. He pushed his chair roughly back in place, his head slightly fuzzy as he took the stairs two at a time. He wanted out of the inn, in all its loud, drunk merriment. Didn't they know that Arya was gone?

What was there to be happy about anymore?

He collapsed on the bed, blowing air out of his mouth in a huff. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. But he couldn't, because sleep means dreams and dreams mean her.

How the hell was he supposed to forget her if she was all he saw the second he closed his eyes? He breathed out again, slowly this time, willing peaceful images, darkness for once instead of her face.

By sheer willpower, Gendry forced his mind to go blank. He recited the houses of Westeros in his head, trying to recall all the sigils, words, and lords. He was snoring soundly within a few minutes.

The dream was safe enough at first. He was back at King's Landing, back in the forge where he had learned his trade, serving under the master he had once thought cared for him.

His hammer hit the metal rhythmically, beating it flat, each hit matching the pulse of his blood through his veins. They were one and the same, him and his hammer. He would have been content if the dream had just gone on like this indefinitely, with him working in the forge and the sweat running down his back and his muscles straining.

But just like it had happened back then, his master called his name. "Gendry! Someone here to see you, boy."

Unlike back then, however, this time, it wasn't Jon Arryn or even Eddard Stark that stood in front of him when he looked up. It was Arya.

His breath caught in his throat. She looked just like she had the day he first met her. Needle hung down by her side and her hair was chopped short, close to her head, with her grey eyes looking up at him imploringly. "Arry?" He whispered.

She didn't say anything, and he thought it was strange. She should be yelling at him by now, calling him an idiot and a stubborn bull, her fists finding new places to bruise on his skin.

"Arya?" He reached out, his fingers brushing her shoulder. There was a choking noise.

He looked down and saw redness seeping through the off-white of her shirt. He blinked, watching as the blood spread out and out and out until there was nothing but red. When he blinked again the tip of a sword appeared, skewering her through the middle like a pig for slaughter.

He was incapable of moving, incapable of doing anything but stare. She said nothing, didn't even scream. He thought it was appropriate- for a girl who was so loud and outspoken in life to be utterly silent during her death.

He looked down, seeing that he was covered in it too, now, her blood, even though he wasn't even touching her anymore. She was painting him red as well.

When he looked up again to her face, it wasn't Arya anymore. It was his mother, a face he vaguely remembered smiling over him as a young child and toddler. Then it was Lommy, then Yoren, then Jon Arryn, Lord Stark, and every single nameless face, every single faceless scream, every drop of blood spilled at Harrenhal and in this whole fucking war.

People, dead people, burned, scarred, cut, ugly people. Faces flashed, too quickly to differentiate one from the other. They were all twisted into similar expressions of agony.

He blinked.

The faces settled, stopping finally at Arya. She opened her mouth to speak and Gendry leaned forward, desperate to hear her voice.

"You left me."

Three little words. It was a question, an accusation, a plead, and a lament all at once. Three little words, and he was spiraling.

He shot up out of the bed, panting, his chest rising and falling as he tried to reassess his surroundings. He looked down at himself, half-expecting to still be soaked through in her blood.

There was a pounding on the door, frantic and loud. He got up, still shaking a little bit, and walked over to open it.

Beric Dondarrion stood before him, looking more shaken than he had ever seen the usually stoic man. In his hand, he clutched a small piece of paper. "There has been news."

Dondarrion made no move to enter his room, but merely stood there looking equal parts afraid and uncomfortable. When he did not elaborate on his previous statement, Gendry raised his eyebrows expectantly. "News of what?"

The man stood there opening his mouth and closing it, like there were words he wanted- needed- to say, but his voice wasn't cooperating. Impatient, Gendry held out his hand. "Give me the message."

Beric looked away as he handed him the note, appearing ashamed at his inability to convey his thoughts. Gendry unfolded the crumpled paper that had been crushed in his leader's fist, flattening it out with the palm of his hand.

The paper was small and stained, with talon marks evident where the raven had clasped it in its claws. The writing was hurried and scratchy, as if the message was one of urgency.

He sighed internally, realizing that this would be harder than he anticipated. Arya had been teaching him to read before she left, and although he was good at it, many of these words were unfamiliar to him. Scanning down the message quickly, the first things he recognized were the names.

Robb Stark…

Catelyn Stark…

Gendry swallowed a gasp. There it was. Her name.

Arya Stark.

He could pick out words here and there, but not enough to get the big picture, not enough to know the contents of the letter.

"What does it say?" He asked, struggling to keep his voice at a reasonable volume as he shook the piece of paper in front of Beric's face. "What does it say about Arya?"

Dondarrion made a pained noise. "There was a wedding at the Twins." His sounded raspy, like it physically hurt for him to say the words aloud. "They were betrayed. The King of the North was slain, along with most of his banner men."

His stomach twisted inside out. This was not the news he was expecting. "And Arya?" He spit out hurriedly. "What of Arya?"

Beric took another cleansing breath and Gendry found himself wishing that the man would just fucking tell him already. "She was believed to be in attendance. Although they identified no remains… Arya is presumed dead."

Dead.

The word echoed in his head as he replayed the swiftly fading images from his dream. A sword in her stomach. Her shirt stained red. Her lips unmoving. The fire in her grey eyes, dwindling… then out in a puff of smoke.

Somewhere in his mind, he was aware of his legs moving on their own accord, of his friend behind him, calling out his name. There were other men as well, rushing around him, some sitting, some weeping, all suffering through different stages of grief.

He walked straight down to the stables, grateful that in his drunkenness; he had fallen asleep fully clothed. He heaved a saddle off the wall, throwing it on the first horse he saw and harnessing it with careless speed. Riding was another thing he had been trying to get the hang of.

"Gendry!" A hand grabbed his arm, jerking it back so hard he nearly fell over. His mind was cloudy with emotion, but he could distinctly identify the furious face of Dondorrion through his fog of pain. "And just where are you going?"

Beric was strong, but Gendry was stronger. He ripped his arm away, continuing on with readying the horse. "The Twins." He grunted, swinging a leg over the saddle.

He didn't wait for the other man's response, but merely rode off, not wanting to hear the admonishments he knew were coming. He rode swiftly, for what felt like a long time, but if it was minutes or hours; he wasn't sure. He heard voices in the background, not just Dondorrion's, but many voices now, all calling for him, cursing him.

But he was more focused on the patterned thumping of the horse's hooves against the hard, cold ground, each pound whispering in his head "Your fault… your fault… your fault… your fault…"

He had left her once. He had let her leave him once. He would not let her do it again.

His horse was fast, but he would have to be an idiot to think he could outrun the whole Brotherhood. They were on him in seconds, their steeds circling around his own; causing him to halt to such an abrupt stop he was nearly thrown.

"Do you have a death wish?" Beric screamed at him, staying a few arms lengths away on his own mount.

Gendry just scowled. The men all glared at him, despising the fact that their own grieving was interrupted to go chase after the stupid, selfish blacksmith.

"She's gone, boy! Gone!"

"No!" The growl ripped from his throat so ferally that he surprised even himself.

"They're dead! They're all dead and you can't save them."

He wouldn't believe that. "You can't stop me from leaving."

"I can and I will." Beric responded dangerously, steering his horse close to him so he was right next to his ear, hissing into it. "Do you think this is what she would have wanted? Do you think she would have wanted you to run off and kill yourself as well? She cared for you too, you know. She wouldn't have wished you dead any more than you wished it for her."

His use of the past tense was jarring for Gendry. Wished. Not wish. Wished.

Arya would never wish again. And now, neither would he.

"I'm the one who did it." Gendry whispered, all anger gone from his voice. "I'm the one who made her run away."

Beric's eyes flashed. "No, Gendry. This wasn't your fault. This was Walder fucking Frey. He killed her, no one else. Don't forget that."

And then he left, taking the rest of the men with him. He turned his horse back to the inn and walked away, leaving Gendry alone with his thoughts.

He felt empty, hollow. It was quiet and dark around him, as if even nature had taken to grieving her passing. There was no sound but the soft breathing of his horse, and Gendry did nothing for a long time but sit there, unfeeling.

The horse whinnied, breaking his trance. He let out a shaking sigh, and then another, trying to ward off the swarm of incoming emotions for just a little bit longer. He took the reins in his hands, urging the horse on.

He moved slowly this time, too tired to worry about bandits or animals or any other dangers of the night. He was just a stupid bastard boy after all. And now… he wasn't even a stupid bastard boy with a girl.

Now, he was a stupid bastard boy with a useless title and a ghost that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Gendry would do anything to take it all back.

A/N: This is where the story gets a little more AU. The books don't follow Gendry that much, so this is a little bit speculative, sorry. Also, there isn't technically any Arya in this chapter, but there will be in the next two, I promise. This is a really angsty chapter, too. I warned you it was coming! Anyway, thanks again for all the reviews, I am forever grateful.