Time for round two of AxG week, this time featuring the prompt 'Abandon'. These stories are all linked, by the by. I could've gone for oneshots, but it felt better like this.

Thank you everyone who's read/favourited/followed/reviewed so far, you're all utterly lovely and I hope all your OTPs become canon :) (Hopefully Gendrya is one of them XD). I probably should have mentioned this before, but this is purely TV-verse because I am a heathen and haven't read the books. Hope that isn't too much of a bother! After writing this and looking over what's planned for the rest of the prompts, I've decided to change the genre to not-actually-as-much-angst-as-I-first-thought. I'm also thinking about changing the title, but that's currently up in the air.

Anyway, without further ado I present:

~Abandon~

Something is different, and Gendry knows it is only a matter of time before she demands him gone from their party. Too much has been said, too much to forget or forgive, and the knowledge eats away at him. The Tickler's rats were better than this, he thinks – at least then it wasn't his fault. But this is his punishment justly deserved for giving in to the beast. He is a bastard blacksmith and she is a lady, and this is how it was always meant to be.

It's just...

It's just he wishes she was not acting so strangely.

Arya has taken to rising early, things already packed, and walking far ahead from them. She does not speak or look at him at all, and only gives short commands to Hot Pie when setting up camp. It's wrong, so horribly wrong, and he does not know how to fix it. She is meant to be fire and biting frosts, not this shell of a person that seems to drift on the outskirts of existence. It was not worth it, not for a few brief moments of lust and heat alone in the forest. Nothing is worth this.

He stares morosely at the campfire and contemplates throwing himself in.

There is movement beside him, and he glances up in surprise, heart in his throat. Finally she's come to pass judgment. Gendry does not know which would be worst – death or banishment – but finds himself craving both just as eagerly. But it is not wrath made flesh that greets him, just a round, sweaty face and concerned eyes.

"Oh."

Back to the flames, then. It would not be quick or clean, but it might burn away this awful perversion from his bones. Beside him, Hot Pie is settling himself down, shifting to get comfortable. Some abstract part of the blacksmith wonders how he can still be so fat with meals so scarce. It isn't fair of him, he knows that, but such casual cruelty seems to be a running theme these days.

"It weren't right, what you said about her family."

"I know."

They sit in silence, the crackling of the fire impossibly loud between them.

"Then why'd you say it?"

Because I wanted to fight her. Because I needed to know that I can make her feel anything at all. Because every time she looks at me, she makes me feel like I'm someone I'm not. He does not say any of this. He doesn't say anything at all, but he can feel the boy's eyes on him, and he gets the feeling that he might as well have screamed it to the heavens. Shame rises uncomfortably up the back of his neck.

"It can't go on like this forever."

"I know."

Though nothing else is said that night, he can't shake the feeling that something significant has just taken place. When he finally lays down to sleep, he sees Hot Pie still sitting in front of the fire, stirring the embers into life.

That afternoon, as they break for lunch, Hot Pie decides that they cannot travel anymore. He tells them their food is running low, shows the empty bags, pleads sore feet and blisters, and even from where Gendry sits a safe distance away from them he can see the way Arya's shoulders tense in anger. It is the first sign of emotion she has shown in days. Not a shell after all. He's surprised that Hot Pie is holding ground, but despite the look of pure terror he insists that they can't go on without hunting. She snarls and spits, inches away from skewering him, and for a moment the world seems to hold its breath. Suddenly there's a whirl of movement, and Arya has stormed off into the trees with a knife and bloody murder on her face. Hot Pie looks ready to faint, but he is not done just yet; turning on Gendry, he asks the blacksmith to find water and fish for supper. He does not relish the idea of it – it's a mile back the way they came, for a start – but there is something almost wily in his friend's expression, and so he finds himself trudging through the undergrowth, lugging buckets and their gear behind him.

"No sense letting the water go to waste," Hot Pie had said. "Might as well wash some of our clothes too." At Gendry's look, he'd hastily added, "I-i-if you don't mind, of c-c-c-course."

However strong his reservations had been, Gendry can't stop the little sigh of contentment as he slips into the cool water and wades into the middle of the stream. The sun is strong against his back, the clothes drying on the bank, and as he feels the wind ruffling his hair, he thinks perhaps all is not as bad as it seems. No matter the countless horrors Westeros has to offer, there is a kind of perfection here and all he can do is bask in its glory. And, he thinks, spotting a flash of silver scales, catch some supper.

He is by no means a good fisherman; what little experience he possesses comes from the rare afternoons off, playing with the other boys down at the sea front. String and wires and the odd feather if they were lucky, and they lost far more hooks than they'd ever caught fish, but it'd been some of the best days of his life. There'd been one boy in particular who possessed a magic touch. Fish seemed to throw themselves at his feet in their haste to be caught – he'd said it was the lure he'd made with his own golden hair that got them so excited – and his name was... gods above, what was it? Lor-something? Waters. Bastard like him, only his father had admitted it when he was born. Some petty lord that'd had one too many drinks and no sight of his wife for half a year. Loran, that was it. Loran Waters, wanted to take the Black when he was old enough, but there'd been a fight and his golden hair had turned red with blood.

Gendry stares down at the lure in his hands, the yellow feathers shining in the sunlight. Shaking the memories from his head, he casts the line as far away as he can and waits. To his surprise it doesn't take long, and by the time the sun has started to set he's filled the bucket with more than enough fish to last a week. He packs his things ready to head back, but before he does he spots the lure from the corner of his eye. It's soggy and drab now with water, feathers hanging limply from the cord. His hand drifts towards his head, and before he knows what he's doing, he's ripped out a few strands and tied them round the feathers, stark black against gold. Hesitating a few moments (this is beyond stupid, Arya would laugh her arse off if she found out) he mumbles a quick 'thank you', tosses the lure into the stream, and hurries back to camp.

Somehow the gear feels lighter this time.

The night finds Arya and Gendry stretched out on the grass, watching the stars in companionable silence.

She'd returned shortly after he had, arms laden with rabbits and birds. Apparently venting her frustration on the local wildlife had done wonders for her mood, and she'd even helped them prepare the food. There was still something between the two of them, some wall not yet breached, but no longer did he face the icy silence of the past few days. Hot Pie had prepared something more akin to a king's banquet than a traveller's rations, and all of them had eaten themselves fit to bursting, laughing and chucking scraps at each other when getting up was too much of a hassle. It had been a long time since any of them had felt so happy. But the night could not last forever, and eventually Hot Pie had gone to sleep on the far side of the fire. There had been something odd about the way he'd looked at Gendry, some secret message he was meant to understand. You know what to do, it seemed to say.

And so here they are, the night sky above him and the grass tickling his ankles. He turns to her, and falls a little bit more – not in love, she is a lady and only a child, not in love – when he sees the way her eyes are bright as the stars. The words are thick and clumsy on his tongue, and when he says them they seem to stumble and trip up on themselves, but he says it all the same. It can't go on like this forever.

"I'm sorry."

She does not look at him, her entire body still as the grave. He prays he has not said something that will ruin this moment between them, prays it with all his heart that he can fix this rift between them before it is too late.

Arya turns away.

And then she throws herself at him, hitting and biting and scratching and cursing him, and with every drop of blood he feels his heart swell. His wilding wolf home at last. When he manages to catch her, he pulls her into a bear hug and squeezes her close. She is far too small and his ribs are aching horribly, and all of it is so Arya he starts laughing breathlessly into her hair. She's squirming against him, but she does not pull away and he dares to hope she's returning his embrace. A mumble comes from somewhere in his chest, and it is so muffled by his shirt and petulance that it takes him a few tries to understand what she's saying.

"Stupid bull," and "don't you dare leave," and "say that about Jon again and I'll make Hot Pie eat you".

He laughs all the harder.