Five Times Gendry Reminds Arya of Home and One Time He Doesn't

The Second: Septa Mordane, Catelyn Tully, and Sansa

Sorry that this was a little bit later than originally promised, I have exams all this week but I will try to keep this going as much as I can in the next few days because these little plot bunnies are the only thing really keeping me sane at the moment. Please enjoy! For some reason this scene decided it wanted to be set in an undisclosed forest location in the middle of the night. I guess that's just going to be a thing for now, let's hope it doesn't get boring for everyone!

Note: These drabbles are set in a random time frame where Arya and Gendry are traveling around by themselves/in Harrenhal/with Hot Pie/etc. just because I don't want to be specific because parts might appear in some form later in different stories.

Gendry rubbed his hand over his face and sat up, his blood rushed in his ears and his heart was slowly picking up pace in an irritating way that made it hard for him to hear clearly. He shook his head, trying to displace the rushing sound that echoed in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and them opened them rapidly, trying to adjust to the darkness of the night. It was no where near daylight; even through the cracks in the canopy he could see that there was no light in the sky. He sighed to himself and looked to his right where Arya was curled up on her side facing him. She was twitching slightly underneath the heavy woolen cloak he had stolen from the clothesline in a small village, he had felt bad about it but now, seeing it keeping her warm he couldn't help but let his uncomfortable feelings drift away.

Gendry was watching as Arya's face scrunched up in her sleep and she began to make small mewling noises that set his heart farther on edge. One of her small hands emerged from beneath the blanket and began to creep its way towards the spot where he'd been laying just a few minutes before. He watched is stumbling, shaking process as it made its way across the damp forest floor. When her hand had extended its reach, she splayed her fingers over the ground and it stilled, except for the occasional jerk as her body spasmed from nightmares.

Gendry hated waking up when Arya had nightmares, he never knew what to do. The first time, when he had shaken her gently by the shoulder, she had pulled a dagger from beneath her cloak and cut his finger. It hadn't been a deep cut but it bled something awful and stung like a bitch. He had spent the whole day with the tip of his finger pressed against his lips to stanch the bleeding and hadn't heard the end of it from her.

It had been a while since the nightmares had come. Normally he would wake when the frightened gasps started and lay on his side, staring at her as if her were trying to will himself into her subconscious and quiet her fears. He knew that her traumas were more than she had ever let on, but occasionally he would catch her chanting a string of names under her breath and that's what scared him the most, what made him think that Arya wouldn't make it out of this with her head fully on straight. He always teased her about being so quiet, but it was only for concern of what was going on in her head. He was afraid that being silent so long would completely destroy her one day.

Suddenly, Arya began to talk. She sometimes did this when her dreams were reaching an exceedingly frightening climax. Gendry turned his body towards her, watching her face with a concerned expression; his intent eyes focused on her twitching eyelids and parted lips. "Father, no. No don't, he's innocent!" He flinched as the whispers became more desperate and urgent. The hand that had come out from under the blanket began to reach again; for what, Gendry knew not.

"Please, let me go! I have to help my father! Father," the words were nothing more than pants and whispers but Gendry heard them clear as day, for he had heard the same words so many times. He imagined what she was seeing, knowing that it was her father up on the stage the day he'd been beheaded. He had never talked to Arya about her dreams but he wasn't quite as stupid as she always called him. He wondered if Arya had seen her father killed or if the monstrosity of the act had developed into a visual image of horror.

Gendry was snapped out of his thoughts by a new word, one that he couldn't make out. It came in short two quips of breath. In, out. In, out. Syllable, syllable. A plea, a cry, a name. "Gen-" breath out, "-dry." And he realized she was whispering his name. He was stunned, his whole body frozen in an instant as his brain gave up all control of his muscles in order to repeat the sound in his head: "Gendry, Gendry, Gendry." He couldn't tell if it was a cry for help or a cry for mercy. Was it his head she was imagining bent before the executioner's sword?

A particularly loud and sharp cry jolted Gendry and he reached out instinctively for her hand, which was flailing about in the foliage. Her tiny fingers were engulfed by his larger hands and after a moment of struggle, her whole body seemed to vanish as it relaxed and sank back to the ground from where her back had risen in anguish. Her short hair stuck up in the back and her lips were parted slightly but a small smile played their now, her eyes stopped moving behind their lids and she sighed contently.

Gendry sat in his awkward position with his back twisted half way around trying to hold her hand, for he didn't want to let go before he was certain she had slipped into more peaceful dreams. He didn't want to move. So he sat, slowly feeling the bottom half of his back begin to ache and cramp as Arya's breathing slowed and the sweat that seemed to pour from her small body began to evaporate in the chill night air. When she gave one last sigh and turned her body away from him in her sleep, he released her hand as it pulled from his grasp. The cloak had slipped down her shoulders in her fit. Gendry leaned on his knees over her and pulled it up to her neck. She snuggled down into the warmth and he brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead.

He sat back on his haunches and stretched, when he heard the snap of a small stick breaking. His whole body stilled and his eyes scanned the outline of the trees of where they had made camp that night. All was still and eerily quiet; he could hear the blood rushing in his ears again. Just as he began to relax and stretch out next to Arya, he heard an arrow loosed from its bow and whistle near his ear where his head had been not moments before. Instinctively, he dived forward throwing the top part of his body over Arya's, who woke with a snarl and a shout.

At the same moment three men appeared from the shadows.

Arya pushed on Gendry's chest, trying to wiggled from underneath him. The men watched silently, she hadn't noticed them yet. "What. Are. You. Doing? Get. Off. Me. You. Big. Fat. BULL." She punched his chest but he ignored her, his body had gone stiff from shock and the only thing running through his mind was: "keep her safe, keep her safe, who cares if you crush her in the process? No one touches her."

"Are we interrupting something?" One of the men purred, stepping a bit closer, cocking his head to the side like an inquisitive cat.

Arya stilled and Gendry felt her shudder beneath him. He had seen Arya stone faced in front of a dozen men with swords but in that moment Gendry realized just how small, just how scared she really was. His whole body coursed with red hot anger.

"Leave," he snarled, as he glared at the man who had stepped closer. The men behind him laughed.

"What are you going to do about it?" The front man said, cocking his head to the other side.

On the side facing away from the men he felt Arya's hand dislodge itself from where it had been stuck under his stomach. He looked down at her with his brow furrowed, a question written all over his face. In the dark the grey of her eyes were the only things he could see, in them he could read as plain as day: "trust me."

His nod was miniscule.

The three men all moved closer to him and he could see their swords were drawn, glinting in the moon, and pointing at the two, lying so vulnerably on the ground. He looked up the sharp point of the closest man's sword and into his face.

"Well, kill us then, if you're going to." He tried for nonchalant but as he was speaking he felt Arya's hand begin to search its way down his side, past his ribs.

"Ah, in good time my friend, but first the girl." He offered a hand as if to help him up.

"No," it came out of more of a rumble than an actual word but he figured they got the general idea.

"Fool, there are three of us and one of you." He motioned with his sword for Gendry to get up.

"Aye! C'mon, let us fuck the pretty wench. You can have 'er back when we're done." One of the men from the back quipped.

"Shut up," the leader growled and he turned back to Gendry with a smile, "let's not make promises we don't intend to keep."

All the while, Arya's hand had been searching Gendry's hip, her small fingers deftly moving around his belt, trying to find his dagger. He knew it was his job to keep the men talking, and to keep them from noticing. Finally, he felt her grab hold of the hilt. He looked down at her.

"Oi! We said: 'get off 'er!'" One of the men barked, with a guffaw.

He looked down into those steel Stark eyes and watched them move up and down once in nod. Even though his entire mind screamed in protest, he rolled himself off her, away from the attackers in one swift movement, letting his knees give him movement. As he rolled, Arya's firm grip on the dagger pulled it from its sheath.

Before the bandits had known what hit them one lay dead with a hole through their eye and another was being attacked with all the might of ninety pound girl. Gendry was on his feet in a moment and as the last man recovered from his momentary shock and raised his sword to strike down Arya, Gendry slammed in to him, sending them both sprawling to the ground. The man dropped his sword and it went flying a few feet away from them as they tossed and turned on the forest floor. Gendry's mind was single driven: "finish him off, help Arya. Finish him off, help Arya."

Gendry gained purchase by sitting on the man's hips and without so much as a second thought grabbed the man's head between his hands and flexed his muscles. With a powerful crack the fighting body beneath him shuddered and went still. Gendry stumbled off the dead man and wheeled around. Arya had managed to pick up the sword that had belonged to Gendry's victim and was facing off with the last man standing. They lunged for each other and Gendry's body reacted, and before he could even blink he was standing in front of Arya as the death blow that was meant to take her down slid across his bicep. He cried out in pain before the fist of his good arm connected with the nose of the man.

The bandit fell on his back and before he could even react to the pain of his open wound Arya had bounded in front of him and with a quick, unmerciful swipe of her sword she slit the man's throat. Gendry had never heard a man die like that and the gurgled breaths that came for a few moments afterwards would haunt his dreams for nights to come. He didn't have time to dwell for as soon as the body still Arya whipped around.

"You! Stupid bull-headed boy!" She spat and he couldn't help but cringe a bit. She looked wild in the moonlight, her steel eyes glinting like the blood on the blade of her sword, her cheek covered in speckles of red instead of the usual freckles, her clothes disheveled and dirty, twigs and leaves clinging in her hair.

"Stupid? I saved you!" Gendry said defensively, gripping his bicep with his good hand, concentrating on the throb of pain coming from his knuckles instead of the pulsating sting of his cut skin.

"Saved me! You jumped in front of a sword."

He bristled, "yeah, to save you!" He gestured exasperatedly with the hand not clutching his arm. They stood and stared at each other as the fight left both their veins. Steel and ice, battling it out for the upper hand. Finally Gendry winced as a particularly painful jolt flew up his arm, Arya smirked.

"Are you hurt?" Gendry asked.

"Not a scratch," she said smugly as she wiped the edge of the blade on the dead man's shirt. "You?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine," Gendry practically snarled through the pain. Arya's smile faltered at the sound of his voice and she turned and looked at his arm. Dropping the sword she crossed carefully towards him, holding her hands out in front of her as if trying to calm a wounded animal.

"Let me see it," Arya's voice was surprisingly gentle.

Gendry found himself turning away from her. "No."

He felt her hands, small but forceful, on his shoulder. "Turn around, let me see."

He reluctantly turned his body back towards her. She gently took his hand between her own and pulled the vice grip off his bicep. He snarled as the full pain of his wound rushed to his arm and she flinched a bit but said nothing. She studied the wound for a moment, scrunching her eyes. "Oh bugger it, I can't see a thing. Let me get the fire going again."

"What unladylike language," he commented, laughing through the sting in his arm.

"Sit," she snarled and he laughed harder as he perched himself on a log by where they had built a fire earlier in the night. She trotted off to the edge of the woods and Gendry tensed.

"Stay where I can see you!" He called before he could stop himself.

"No!" She shouted back but stayed by the tree line, he watched her shadow as it crept around the edge of their camp until she came back a minute later with some kindling and started the fire.

She sat gingerly on the log next to him. "Here, let me see." Her fingers beckoned for his arm. He grudgingly gave it to her as he resolutely watched the flames, wincing as he felt her fingers ghost over the wound.

"Oh, Gendry," her voice was soft and reverent. He turned to her and he couldn't tell if it was just the dancing firelight or if her eyes were filling with tears.

"It's just a scratch."

"No, it goes deep, almost to the bone. I'll—I'll—" she swallowed hard, "I'll have to sew it up."

He gave her an incredulous look, "I will not have you anywhere near me with a needle!"

"And I won't have you die on me because I was too squeamish to sow up a wound and your pride wouldn't let me." She stuck her finger on the side of the wound and pushed as if to prove her point.

He all but howled in pain. She smirked.

"Do you even have a needle? Or thread?" He looked at her doubtfully and slightly hopeful.

"As a matter-of-fact, I happened to have a needle on me when we left King's Landing all those months ago."

"And you never got rid of it?"

"A lady never knows when she will require a needle," Arya said, sitting up straight and putting on a ridiculous voice.

Gendry laughed.

"My septa used to say that, and Sansa made sure I was never without."

Gendry was quiet.

Arya looked at him for a moment and her eyes were soft. "It's probably going to hurt."

"Have you ever stitched someone up?"

She shook her head, staring at his elbow, where blood was beginning to collect as it traveled down his arm. She stood up suddenly and looked around, biting her lip. Suddenly her eyes locked on Gendry's shirt and she smiled, he couldn't describe it as anything but predatory.

"Arya?" he said questioningly, but she did not respond but instead reached out and undid the bow that kept the front of his shirt from falling open. "Arya?" his voice was a little more high-pitched than he meant.

She smirked and began weaving the laces from their home. As she worked Gendry's chest slowly became visible. His heart pounded and he realized as she made the way lower down his stomach her fingers began to shake. He dry swallowed and sucked in a breath as the last of the criss-crosses where undone and Arya stood, holding the thin string in one hand, staring at his chest, and looking obscenely satisfied with herself.

He used his good arm to try and close up his shirt before she could see his heart beating with her wolf-sharp eyes.

"What are you covering up for?" she asked and that childish innocence crept back into her voice. The moment was broken and Gendry looked down at his knees.

"Cold," he mumbled.

She laughed, "no need to be shy, Stupid. I've seen you without a shirt plenty of times before." Her voice sounded awkward as she finished her sentence and she cleared her throat.

Gendry looked up at her, she had her brow furrowed and she was staring unabashedly at his chest. He could feel the rumble of desire beginning again.

"Right…so, sewing you up." She laughed a little nervously and sat back down on the log next to him. She rummaged around in her pockets before pulling out what seemed to be an industrial sized needle. Gendry swallowed loudly.

Arya ripped off a piece of his sleeve.

"Hey!" he said in surprise, staring at her incredulously.

She held it in front of his face like she was feeding a horse. "Bite this."

He gave her a hard look.

She wiggled the cloth in front of his face. "I promise, you'll thank me later."

With a sigh he opened his mouth and she clumsily stuffed it in his mouth, her fingers brushing his lips a few times as she worked. It tasted of blood and sweat and he longed to run his tongue upon his lips and taste her there. He shook his head to clear it. He noticed she already had the needle threaded and ready. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Lot's of practice," she shrugged.

He raised his eyebrows further.

"Shut up!" she said jokingly and went to gently punch him in the shoulder. His other hand grabbed her fist before it connected with his open wound. He gave her an imploring look. She let her hand fall, sheepish. "Right, sorry." She held the needle to his skin, the cool of the metal was welcome against his burning flesh. He noticed her hand was trembling, or was it just a trick of the fire and shadows?

He sucked in a breath and so did she. He closed his eyes and Arya was glad he did so that he did not know that she had too. It was endless minutes of seizing pain. He was glad for the cloth because he would have chewed his own tongue off with the pain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She kept muttering as she worked, and her stomach churned with each sharp intake of breath he made. After it was over they both looked at each other. She chuckled nervously.

"What do you think?"

He spat the rag that had been his shirt sleeve on the ground and turned his arm, which still twitched painfully and felt oddly tight. The stitches were uneven at best but they were deep and they were true.

"I would've liked them straighter," he said in a dry, raspy voice. He had been trying to go for humor but it came out as a painful croak.

"I'm sorry! I know. I should have paid better attention to Septa Mordane. She would have known exactly what kind of stitch to use! I'm worthless at stitching, Sansa used to tell me all the time. And mother would chastise me for having the hands of a Master of the Horses and not a lady. Oh! I'm sorry." She buried her head in her bloodied hands.

Gendry was taken aback by the passionate response and sat staring awkwardly at her for a moment. He turned towards her and gently pried her fingers from her face. She tilted her head up to look at him.

"Thank you," he said, with a small smile.

She smiled back under the tears that sat unshed in her eyes. "You're welcome."

He drew away from her and looked at his now bumpy arm. "You really are shit at sewing though."

She punched him in the chest, "and you're shit at being a gentlemen."

"I am no lord, m'lady, just a humbled lowly man."

She shot him a look of pure loathing.

He laughed.