Chapters are probably gonna be more spaced out for a bit. I wish I had a good excuse, like finals or my job; alas I do not. The truth is simply that I got to the battle of Winterfell in my drafts and I'm just having a super not fun time with writing it. Soooo yeah.

Oh also—I'm so sorry about the lack of replies to all your reviews. It took me wayyy too long to realize I'm not getting any email notifications from this hellsite. Anyway, I'm getting to them now, and I'll be sure to recheck every few days from now on to make sure I don't miss any!

The arrow hit the wall behind the mark with a loud thwack! Arya suppressed a snicker.

"Shut up, Arya."

"You know, when you asked me to teach you archery, I didn't think you could be this bad."

"Shut up, Arya."

She sighed, rolling her eyes but otherwise relenting, and a part of Caitie felt strangely guilty for lashing out. Usually, she didn't mind all the teasing Arya gave her during their lessons; it was no secret that her archery rivaled a five-year-old's, and she wasn't exactly going to deny it. But after the last couple of days, with Jon and Jorah and Jaime Lannister and the queen… It was hard to muster enthusiasm for banter.

"How is it you're so terrible at this?" Sansa asked. She sat on a stone ledge nearby, a needle in one hand and a large swath of inky blue fabric on her lap. With Brienne training troops—most likely to spend time with their latest arrival—and the rest of her usual tasks delegated to Lord Royce, Sansa had a rare few hours free until she needed to meet with him. She claimed she was using it to spend time with her sister, but the cynical part of Caitie thought it was just so Sansa could watch her fail at archery as some form of petty revenge for the day before.

"I'd like to see you try it," she shot back.

Arya shrugged. "She'd probably be better."

"Thank you, Arya," Sansa said, a smug little smile on her face. "I think so, too."

Caitie huffed. "I hate that you're friends now."

"No, you don't," the Starks said in unison.

And unfortunately, she had no retort to that, because they were right.

Sighing, she took her stance again, pulling the bow taught with her arm and trying to visualize where she wanted the arrow to land.

Arya crossed her arms over her chest and observed, expression returning to that of an instructor rather than a mischievous brat. "Your stance is correct and your technique is passable—the problem is that you're working too hard trying to aim."

Caitie furrowed her brows as she lowered the bow. "What?"

"When you aim, you hold. Never hold. Your muscles tense when you do. Draw the string back to your chin and release."

"That doesn't even—how am I supposed to hit the mark if I don't aim?"

"Your eye knows where it wants to go. Trust your eye." When Caitie just stared, she nodded at the mark. "Go on."

This is ridiculous. She's just doing it to get a rise out of me. But Arya was still her teacher, and so Caitie took a deep breath and raised her arm. This time, she didn't think; she simply drew the string back and released, just as Arya had instructed.

And this time, the arrow hit the very edge of the mark.

Caitie broke into a grin, immensely proud of herself and deciding that she would never question Arya's instructions again. "I did it!"

"Congratulations, you're a master," Arya said flatly, and Sansa barely covered her snort with a lady-like cough.

Caitie huffed. "I know you're still angry about yesterday, but you could try to be supportive. After all, I did nearly let myself get killed for you. Multiple times."

"And I am very grateful for it," Sansa said primly. "But how are you to improve if I lie?"

"Haven't you ever heard of positive reinforcement?"

"How can I be positive when your skills at archery rival your skills at sewing?"

All Caitie could do was glare, unable to come up with a retort scathing enough to express the depths of Sansa's betrayal.

In a rare moment of levity, Arya placed a hand on her shoulder. "Well, you can't be worse at needlework than I am, at least."

It was such a perfect opening that Caitie was almost giddy with excitement from it. "But you are skilled at needlework," she said, and Arya frowned. "Needle-work. Get it?"

As Arya snorted in approval, Sansa shook her head, trying to pretend she wasn't smiling—and failing miserably. "That was absolutely terrible."

Caitie eyed her hopefully. "I take it that your smile finally means you're no longer mad at me?"

The smile turned instantly to a scowl. "No."

She groaned. "Sansa—"

"Whining at me isn't going to change anything. What you did—"

"I didn't mean to!" Caitie felt like she'd said so a million times today, but she couldn't truly begrudge Sansa her anger, either. "He just kept defending his actions, and I couldn't let it go." Sansa looked anything but convinced, Caitie didn't know if anything even could convince her at this point. Still, she took a deep breath and swallowed her pride. "But… I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Sansa stared at her for a long moment, eyes narrowing as she seemed to come to some sort of realization. "You really don't understand, do you?"

Caitie furrowed her brows. "What?"

"I'm not mad about what you said to Jaime Lannister," Sansa said. "Don't mistake me, I'm not happy you interrupted the queen's trial, but I've learned to accept your inability to control yourself when it comes to giving your opinions. Besides which, you were right in what you said to him, and he needed to hear it."

"Then what…?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "She's mad you and Jon wouldn't stop looking at each other."

Oh. That. Caitie swallowed, suddenly very glad they'd decided on the privacy of the northernmost courtyard for their lessons. "It wasn't—"

"It was," Sansa said. "And you're just lucky everyone was too focused on the Kingslayer to notice."

"It's not as if I meant to!"

"I know," she said, her voice softening. "But you can't control yourself around him, so I think it's best if you avoid each other for the moment."

"I have! He's the one who—" Caitie realized what she'd been about to say just in time to stop her mouth from moving. Her jaw clicked shut, but it was too late.

"The one who what?"

"Nothing."

Sansa's eyes flashed. "The one who what?"

"Gods, nothing!" Caitie exclaimed. "The point that I'm trying to make is that he's the one you should be yelling at, not me."

Sansa scowled down at her lap, muttering, "Don't think I haven't."

Caitie frowned at this, for she and Sansa hadn't had a chance to speak to each other since before the queen's arrival. But obviously Sansa had Jon would have spoken—or, more likely, argued. She almost wished she could have witnessed it.

"Well, I thought it was brilliant, watching the two of you ogle each other," Arya said. "It was the most fun I had at that trial."

"There wasn't any ogling," Caitie insisted. But there had been; she knew that. There had been more than ogling only two nights ago. And if anything, it just made her angrier, because he couldn't have it both ways. He couldn't just take her support and comfort and friendship, then turn around and betray everything she stood for. If he was really in need of such things, he could go to the queen, since she was the one he'd chosen at the expense of everyone else.

But he had come to Caitie, hadn't he? Gods, was that truly how Jon saw her? As some lesser replacement to Daenerys, now that he was having to distance himself?

Nope. Not thinking about that.

"Anyway, how do you know about this?" Caitie asked. "You weren't even there. "

Arya shrugged. "I'm everywhere."

"Of course you are," said Sansa dryly.

"I'm just shocked you actually agreed with Daenerys on something after everything you've done to make her dislike you."

"I had my reasons."

"The reasons being that he really, really deserved to get eaten by a dragon?"

The corners of Sansa's lips turned up. "I knew you would kill me if I didn't at least try for it."

"Well, you're right about that."

"But," she said, lowering her voice to a near-whisper, "besides the fact that I don't trust the Lannisters and don't want them anywhere near Winterfell, if Ser Jaime were to die under Daenerys's orders, that would make Cersei more likely to do something stupid. The more angry she is, the more reckless she gets."

"If that's true," Caitie said, "then why did you agree to let him stay?"

"Because Brienne is loyal to us—and if I can't trust her, how is she supposed to trust me? Having the love of our people is more important than pitting the Lannisters and Targaryens against each other. And because, as much as I loathe to admit it, Jon is right about needing him in the fight against the Army of the Dead."

"Fine," Arya said with a grand sigh. "But I'll still be keeping an eye on him. One wrong move—" Her grip tightened around Needle's hilt.

"I certainly won't mourn his loss," Sansa said. Sighing, she set down her own needle. "I should go; my meeting with Lord Royce can't wait any longer."

"That's all right," Caitie said, setting down her bow. She had her own meeting in an hour with her men. "I think I've had enough of archery for one day."

The three of them packed up their things. Sansa left first, the fabric she'd been sewing tucked beneath her arm as she disappeared around the corner. But as Caitie went to follow, Arya called out to her.

"Hey, wait." She turned, and Arya pursed her lips, hesitating before she continued. "So, there's two ways this can go. One is that I pretend I don't already know you've spoken to Jon since he got back and ask if you have; the other is that I just tell you I know and you answer my question, avoiding all that nonsense where you pretend I don't know what I'm talking about."

Caitie sighed; she shouldn't have been surprised. "How did you know?"

"It was the way you looked at each other during that trial. Like you had unfinished business."

"Oh." Well, it wasn't inaccurate.

Arya rolled her eyes, mistaking the reason for Caitie's caginess. "Don't worry; I won't rat you out to Sansa. She's being stupid, anyway. No one noticed but us, and only because we know you two."

"Er, thanks. I think."

Arya watched her for a moment, head cocked to the side, then looked down at her feet. "When you talked to him… did Jon seem—I don't know—off to you?"

The question caught Caitie entirely off guard. Has he told her? she wondered as she observed Arya, trying to find some evidence of it in her face. If he was going to tell anyone in his family, it would be his youngest sister, but… Caitie didn't think so. And Arya seemed so uncomfortable with herself, picking at her cuticles, refusing to look Caitie in the eye, as if it would hide her vulnerability. Which meant this was personal.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Caitie stared, frowning, as she tried to parse out just what the fuck was going on.

"Don't look at me like that," Arya snapped.

"Like what?"

"Like you're pitying me."

"I'm not," Caitie said. "I'm just trying to figure out what made you ask me that question."

There was a pause, and then Arya sighed, this time heavy and exhausted. "I found him in the Godswood after he arrived with the queen," she said with another roll of her eyes. "We compared swords; he got to see Needle again. It was… nice." For a flash, she smiled wistfully—but then it fell into a scowl. "Until he ruined it."

"Ruined it?" Caitie repeated dumbly, for this was what Jon had wanted above all else for years: to see his sister again. What could he have possibly done to ruin that?

As soon as she posed the question to herself, she knew the answer.

"I know we've both changed," Arya said, as if she'd expected Caitie to point that out. "Trust me, I know. I just thought… I thought he'd be happier to see me. But all he wanted was to use me against Sansa."

Caitie's fists clenched. This was the sister Jon had loved and feared for and hadn't seen in years, and now he was what—using her to try to force Sansa to be nice? Of course he was. He's finally got his family back, but who cares about that when you've got a beloved queen to please—

"But you know him—the person he is now—better than I do," Arya said. "So if you don't think he's acting strange, then maybe it's just me."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged, pointedly not looking at Caitie. "Maybe he just can't get over the fact that I'm not the little sister he used to know. Maybe he doesn't like who I turned into."

Caitie chewed on her bottom lip, unsure of her next action, because she really didn't want to have this conversation. It wasn't her place; it was Sansa's or Jon's or anyone but her. Caitie and Arya were friends, as much as Arya could be friends with anyone, but she wasn't stupid enough to see herself as Arya's confidant or family. And right now, what Arya needed was family.

But… she needed the reassurance more, and she had asked. And Caitie might not be happy with Jon, but she did care about his sister, family or not.

"He is acting strange," Caitie said. "It's not just you."

"Then what do you think it is?"

She almost laughed. "I don't know. I wish I did. But he defended things I never believed he would defend. Not to me, at any rate."

"Burning the Tarlys?" Arya asked grimly.

Caitie frowned. "How—"

"Gilly told me."

"Oh."

Arya shook her head. "I've killed a lot of people. Most of them deserved it, and a lot of them didn't die quickly. But that… I can't believe Jon would defend that kind of death. Even for Cersei's men."

She looked down, left hand fiddling with Needle's hilt again, and in that moment, she looked so impossibly sad that Caitie found herself asking, "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing," was the immediate answer Arya gave, so quickly and so confidently that Caitie might have even believed her. But then Arya frowned, her brows furrowing, and after a pause, she spoke again, more quietly this time. "It's just... I met some of them," she said. "Lannister soldiers—on my way home."

Caitie hesitated. "Did you…?"

Arya's lips twitched. "Almost. But then I started talking to them, and they were kind to me. Let me sit at their camp, gave me some of their food. One of them had a pregnant wife waiting for him back home. He probably died when the Tarlys did." The sadness on her face turned to disgust. "But no, Sansa has no reason to be worried about the Dragon Queen; she just thinks she's smarter than everyone else."

"Jon said that?" Caitie asked, for she could see him saying that about Sansa, but it infuriated her that he had said it regarding this.

"And he expected me to agree, too. When I didn't—"

"You didn't?"

Arya stared up at the sky, pursing her lips. "I… may have said she was the smartest person I've ever met."

And that did her in; Caitie burst into laughter. "Seven Hells, I am so telling Sansa you said that."

"Try, and I'll end you before you can leave the courtyard."

The threat was not an idle one, and that brought Caitie right back to herself. "Sorry," she said, raising her arms in surrender. "I won't tell her. I'm just… surprised is all."

Arya relaxed. "So was I. I'm not even sure why I said it; I just couldn't stand the way he was… It felt like he was betraying us—betraying me. But then I started to wonder if it's just because he didn't trust me anymore. Maybe that's why he wouldn't be open with me like he used to."

"So you think that the reason he's acting distant is… because of you?"

Arya looked away.

"Arya," Caitie said gently, "the things you went through, the things you did… he wouldn't care about that."

"You don't know the things I've done."

"That's true, I don't—and I'm not here to absolve you for them. Only you can do that, if it's what you want. But what I can tell you is that none of that would matter to Jon. He would love you even if you killed half of Westeros."

Arya snorted; Caitie pretended not to see the redness in her eyes. "Even I'm not capable of that. And I'm capable of quite a bit."

Caitie nearly placed a hand on Arya's shoulder, but changed her mind at the last second. Arya didn't do well with idle touches; probably a remnant of her time with the Faceless Men. Or before. Caitie tried not to think about it. "Look, I don't know what's going on with him, but I do know that it has nothing to do with you. He loves you more than anyone. And nothing is going to change that, not even a little murder."

And she believed it, for she might not know Jon as well as she thought she did, but the one thing she could always say with absolute certainty was that he loved his baby sister. So maybe he was just trying to get her to like Daenerys because he wanted his sister to get along with his great love, or maybe it was just because of his—Gods, it was strange to think—parents. But if he was acting oddly with Arya, it was because of his issues, not hers.

Which, in some ways, was more insulting—though she wouldn't say it out loud.

"It was a lot of murder," Arya corrected, and for the first time since Caitie had known her, she cracked a true smile. "But… thanks."

"Of course. Anytime."

"I'm going to head over to the forge. I'll see you later."

Caitie nodded, ready to go her separate way, before she snapped her fingers as she remembered the weapons she'd asked Gendry to make. "Oh, actually, would you mind if I joined you? I wanted to check on my orders."

"I thought you already had dragonglass daggers."

"I do, but I commissioned some for—"

"Johnna, Willa, and Arthur," Arya finished. She pursed her lips, and Caitie swore there was a red tinge on her cheeks that had not been there before. What she had to be blushing about, Caitie hadn't the first clue, but at last Arya frowned and said, "Fine. Let's go."

Caitie followed obediently as she turned on her heel and strode off. They walked to the smithy in silence, an oddly stormy expression on Arya's face, and soon enough, Caitie started trying to think of an excuse to leave without making things awkward. She had yet to come up with something that didn't sound like an excuse when they arrived at their destination, and it was too late.

There was smoke everywhere. Caitie waved at the air in front of her as she coughed her way into the forge, Arya a silent shadow at her side. How she remained unaffected by the polluted air was a mystery for the ages—Caitie's lungs burned, her throat stung; hells, she could hardly see, and as they passed dozens of blacksmiths and their apprentices, she wondered, once again, how anyone managed the forge for longer than a few minutes.

None of the smiths noticed them, too busy working on the weapons they were making. Some were dragonglass, others were normal steel, which seemed to be the source of all the smoke. Caitie had no idea why, but she wasn't about to tell any of them how to do their jobs.

At last she reached Gendry, who smiled pleasantly when he saw her making her way towards him. "Oh, hello, Caitie."

She smiled back. "Everything going well over here?"

"Mm. Jon—I mean, the Warden of the North—has given me everything I could need; I've never worked with such good tools before."

It was infuriating how merely the mention of her—former—best friend made her heart rate spike. She told herself it was due to her disgust for his life choices, her anger at his flippant response to the unjust deaths of two men, because both of those were much preferable to the alternative.

"That's… good," she said, praying her expression didn't give her away her discomfort. To her great dismay, Gendry's eyes narrowed, and she grasped for something—anything—to distract him. Remembering her companion, and endlessly grateful that she had one, she turned to introduce Arya, expecting to see her nearby.

Yet Arya was nowhere to be found. When did she—

"Something wrong?"

Caitie blinked as she looked back at Gendry, his brow furrowed in concern. "I… no, I guess not," she replied. It wasn't as if this sort of thing was unusual for Arya—even if it was strange to disappear when she'd been the one to suggest going to the forge in the first place.

He shrugged. "If you say so. Anyway—here for your weapons?"

"Are they ready?"

"The daggers are. The longsword's gonna take a bit more time, since we had to figure out how to do it without shattering the material."

"Considering it's a longsword, I'm not surprised."

Gendry furrowed his brows. "What?"

It took a good few seconds of his blank stare before Caitie realized that he wasn't simply playing dumb, but that he honestly hadn't picked up on the pun. For a moment, she stood there, stunned, because it had been so obvious to her, before she shook her head, embarrassment prompting her to move on as quickly as humanly possible. Gods, she never thought she would miss having Sansa for an audience. "Never mind, it's no problem. Where should I…"

"Uh, check over there," Gendry said, nodding towards the other end of the forge, where a rack of gleaming black weapons lay. "Ask Beren if you can't find them; he should know where everything is."

"Thanks." Caitie gave him one last smile before heading over to where he'd directed her.

She exchanged a few pleasantries with Beren, who was more than happy to help her find what she needed, guiding her over to a less smoky area of the forge and gladly presenting her with Johnna and Willa's new daggers so that she could test their balance. When she was sufficiently convinced that they were correctly weighted for the girls', she thanked Beren, and turned to leave the smithy as soon as she possibly could.

Or she would have, but that was when she noticed Arya again.

She was standing right in front of Caitie, facing away from her—and the fact that Arya didn't seem to notice this was one of the strangest things Caitie had encountered today thus far. For a moment, she thought Arya was simply ignoring her, but… that didn't seem right. Her posture was too relaxed as she stood nearby a wooden column, her hands resting at her side rather than itching towards one of her weapons. Her feet, usually set slightly apart—a stance that screamed battle-ready to anyone who knew what proper footwork looked like—were too close together, as if she didn't believe she would have to do any fighting at all. Stranger still was the way she seemed to ooze discomfort in the way she held herself, as if she were actively trying to appear less dangerous than she knew she was.

Needless to say, Caitie was intrigued.

She was just tall enough to see what had captured Arya's attention, and perhaps it shouldn't have been surprising that it was Gendry. Though Caitie had never known Arya to care about this sort of thing, that didn't mean much—and Gendry was by no means ugly; his rolled-up sleeves revealed sculpted arms, his face was boyish and kind, his eyes a piercing blue. He didn't do much for Caitie, personally, but he was an objectively good-looking man, and she certainly understood Arya taking notice of it.

Caitie didn't dare move from her spot, for Arya's hearing was too acute. Slowly, she shifted on an axis, her head first, then her torso, and finally her feet, until her only her profile faced them. At least this way, if anyone were to look at her, they would think she was studying the dragonglass weapons rather than… not eavesdropping. She was just keeping an eye on her friend. To make sure everything was okay.

Gendry looked up from his work, eyes alighting on Arya. "Don't you have something better to do?" he asked, in a voice that was more friendly than antagonistic. And the way he looked at her... fond, and above all else, familiar.

Oh, Caitie thought with dawning realization. I get it now.

"You make my weapon yet?" Arya called back.

Gendry strode over towards one of the weapons racks, only a few feet away from Caitie's, and as Arya's eyes followed him, she was suddenly very glad she'd turned away before now.

"Just as soon as I'm done making a few thousand of these," he said, and out of the corner of her eye, Caitie saw him pick up one of the many dragonglass hammers available.

Arya took it from him, pacing around the forge. "You should make mine first. And make sure it's stronger than this."

He grabbed it back from her and slammed it into a wooden stump beside them. "It's strong enough."

As Gendry headed back into the forge, Caitie risked a glance at Arya, who stared up at him with a look that made no effort to hide her desire to do things with him that would probably get them both banned from all of Winterfell's public spaces.

Caitie couldn't blame her for it; she remembered being Arya's age—and she remembered, at that same age, her and Grenn's many rendezvous in various locations of Castle Black, not all of them as private as they both would have liked.

"It's going to be safer down in the crypts, you know."

Caitie barely stifled her snort in time; had anyone else said that to Arya, they would most likely have been a bloodstain on the wall by now. It said a lot about how much she liked Gendry that she merely arched a brow, the look of lust slipping off her face as she leaned casually against a wooden post.

"Are you going to be down in the crypts?" she asked.

"No, but—"

"But you're a fighter."

Gendry stopped, considering her. "I've done my share."

"You've fought them?"

"I did. Some of them," Gendry said, voice graver than she'd ever heard before, and that was when she realized—he had fought them. Because he… had gone with Jon. Caitie almost broke her cover then and there to ask him what the fuck had happened up in the north; the only reason she didn't was because Arya spoke before she could.

"How many?"

"A few," Gendry said, fiddling with the dragonglass weapons on the table in front of him so that he wouldn't have to look at Arya's face. It didn't take an idiot to realize he was trying to hide his terror at the memories—and that a few probably meant the entire horde. "That was enough."

"What are they like?"

"Bad. Really bad."

"Really bad," Arya repeated sardonically. Caitie cast her eyes back down at the weapons display in front of her to avoid catching Arya's eye as she walked around the table to move closer to Gendry. "Even a smith's apprentice can do better than 'really bad'. What do they look like; what do they smell like? How do they move; how hard are they to kill?"

In the time it took Gendry to formulate a response, Caitie could have answered every question, for the images of her fights with the dead were scorched into her retinas for all time. She could remember every detail of the White Walkers and their army with perfect clarity. Death—that was what they were, in their most basic and elemental form, and that was what fighting them was like. They looked like death, moved like death. They were as hard to destroy as death.

And so it wasn't a surprise when Gendry gave Arya the same answer.

"Look, I know you want to fight. And I know you're not scared of rapers or murderers or…" He shook his head. "This is different. This is… This is death. You want to know what they're like? Death; that's what they're like."

Arya absorbed his words silently, staring down at the pile of dragonglass daggers between them. At last, she picked one from the top and held it up to the light. The dragonglass reflected it, shining brightly even on such a cloudy day. "I know death," she said, her voice flat. With a flick of her wrist, the dragonglass dagger went flying, landing in the wooden post across from them with a dull thud. A blacksmith nearby flinched, looking around for the source.

"He's got many faces."

Another dragonglass dagger went speeding towards the post, embedding itself right beside the first. The smith scurried off in terror.

"I look forward to seeing this one."

As the third dagger landed beside its brethren, Gendry stared at them, breathless yet smiling. Arya strode around the table and stopped beside him, her face impassive as she said, "My weapon?"

"I'll get right on it," Gendry replied, his eyes still fixed on the daggers.

Caitie couldn't blame him. She'd always known what Arya was—and she'd always know how lethal Arya could be when she wanted. But this display… it needled at her, and she couldn't place why. The fact that Arya was an assassin, trained by the Faceless Men of Braavos had never seemed so important before. It had never mattered to Caitie, beyond what it had meant to Sansa's safety—for Arya was her and Jon's sister, a girl who had gone through horrors no person should ever have had to face, and who had somehow come out of it to find her way back to her family.

But she was an assassin trained by the Faceless Men. She was more powerful than Caitie could have ever anticipated—and for some reason, that made her skin prickle.

Or maybe she was just imagining it.

"Do you ever think that maybe you have a problem with eavesdropping?" a flat voice said, and Caitie jumped.

"I wasn't eavesdropping." The lie rolled off her tongue as she settled back into her skin and turned towards the source of the voice, wondering briefly if she was about to be the recipient of its next dagger.

But Arya merely snorted. "You're a shit liar."

"Hey," Caitie said, her fears forgotten in the wake of her offense. "I'll have you know that I bluffed my way through the Night's Watch for three years before I was caught."

"You got lucky. You wouldn't have lasted a day at the House of Black and White."

Considering that she had never been to the House of Black and White, Caitie had no argument against that.

In the silence, Arya looked away; Caitie followed her gaze to where Gendry was gathering up the dragonglass daggers she'd thrown. Her skin prickled again at the sight, and she scoured her memories for some understanding of what was making her so uneasy. But it was no use—whatever it was that had triggered her response, whatever it meant, was too deeply buried. And anyway, it didn't matter right now.

Sighing, Caitie studied Arya once more. "I still have half an hour before I meet with my men. In the meantime, how about we do something that I'm actually good at for once?"

"Like what? Sparring?"

She nodded.

Arya considered this for a moment. "All right. We can work on that dagger trick you've been pestering me about. Just… don't ever mention this. To anyone. Ever."

"Mention what?"

Arya pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. At last, she said, "Good. Let's go."

And as Caitie followed Arya out of the smithy, she snuck one last look at Gendry, carrying out his duties with a dopey smile on his face.

My beta reader is a cultural history major, and boy oh boy was she NOT HAPPY to see how the show portrays the making of obsidian weapons. So I fixed it, as much as I could.