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Chapter Text

Jon Snow had never seen the war room of Winterfell so full. Not that the room had been used often during his childhood, or that he would have been allowed in it anyway. People were cramped around the large rectangular table that dominated the room, where different currents of action were laid out to be examined and pulled apart piece by piece. They only had one chance to defeat the Night King, and the fate of the human race was at stake.

The Kingslayer, who had arrived at Winterfell’s gates only hours ago, had delivered the latest dreadful news—there was no backup army coming from King’s Landing. Now, with the Lannisters' swords out of the picture, their own pieces looked small, weak, and misplaced on the table map.

Sansa, who had of course been expecting this outcome, had already made plans and adjustments and was trying to explain them to the rest. Not that she was being very successful, Jon thought. Even though Sansa had grown up to be one of the smartest people Jon had ever met, she didn't have much experience on the battlefield. Her plans were rightfully thought out and logical, but they were too clinical. Jon could see several angles that could turn the fight against them because she hadn't really grasped the fact that the enemy just couldn't die. Daenerys had seen them too and was now pointing every one of them out to Sansa.

"...they need to have more ground to move on, more space, to actually make a difference," she was saying.

“We can’t place them so far from the walls,” Sansa interrupted. “They won’t be able to fall back if they need to.”

Daenerys made a dismissive hand gesture. “You don’t know the Dothraki. They don't run; they don't fall back. My men would rather die than beg for Westerosi aid.”

“None of that matters, you blind fools,” little Lyanna Mormont said, cutting in before Sansa could say anything else. Jon risked a look at his Queen, but she didn't seem upset at the child's boldness. “With our numbers, we might as well open the gates to make our misery shorter.”

Somewhere in the back of the room, Tormund grunted his approval. “The little one is right; we need more swords. That fucker has been planning this for only the Gods know how long. How the fuck are we supposed to outsmart him?”

“Well, there is no one else,” Jon said. “We’ve already sent ravens to every household in the North, great and small. Most of them didn’t even answer, either because they didn't believe us or because a lord's bastard was sending them. Only a few sent men, but with all of them combined, we got less than three thousand from them. Even if we send word to the south, there's no time for them to make it here.”

Silence followed his words, so deep that he could almost hear every person in the room working their minds to find a new idea or angle that could help them win. Jon could see the Lannister brothers talking too low for him to hear them. The Kingslayer had his back to Jon, but he could clearly see Tyrion's face, which seemed to grow redder with anger as he shook his head at his brother. Finally, the oldest of them turned around and faced Daenerys. “Your Grace—”

“Don’t—oh, for fuck’s sake, do you actually want to die?” the youngest Lannister interrupted him.

“Tyrion, what is the matter?” Daenerys asked, silencing both of them.

“Never mind us, Your Grace—”

“I was just wondering…” Jaime Lannister said louder before hesitating and continuing in a lower voice. “Well, considering what's at stake, which is literally everything… maybe House Stark would allow an—uncomfortable, more unconventional, ah… association that could help us,” he said, looking down at his brother. The Hand didn't meet his eyes. “Isn’t the survival of the human race enough to put old grudges aside?”

Sansa raised an eyebrow and looked sideways at Bran, who was sitting at the end of the table. “The fact that you're standing here, alive, answers your question?”

“I was thinking of the Freys, actually,” he answered.

The effect was immediate, as the room exploded with shouts from every Northman present. Many of them, including Jon himself, started to move around the table or even climb on top of it, trying to reach the man. How dare he, Jon thought, how dare he say that name out loud in our own home!

“Stop, all of you!” Sansa commanded, and she didn't have to ask twice. Every man in the room, including Jon, stopped and fell back to their feet. Once she had everyone's attention, she continued. “I should have your tongue cut out for that. You certainly don't need it to fight the Others.”

“Lady Sansa—”

“Don't fret, Tyrion. I won't, not this time at least,” she said. “I do see his point, as much as it pains me.”

“But Lady Sansa!” Lord Royce exclaimed, his eyes wide. “You would not seriously consider bringing those people inside these walls! After what they did!”

“Do not worry, Lord Royce, I haven’t forgotten what those people did to our family, nor have I forgotten the role the Lannisters played in the murder of my family,” Sansa said, her gaze shifting between the northern lord and the Lannisters. “Rest assured, neither I nor any Stark would ever allow a Frey to step foot inside Winterfell, even if they could.”

As Lord Royce settled down, bowing his head towards Sansa, Tyrion Lannister spoke. “Whatever do you mean, 'even if they could'?”

“The Freys wouldn't be able to join us,” a female voice serenely explained. “Because the Freys are no longer.”

Jon, who didn’t even know his little sister had attended the meeting, was surprised to suddenly find her standing next to him. He was even more surprised to note the emotionless way she spoke and her inexpressive face as she looked at the smaller Lannister. Silence fell again, but this time it felt thick and heavy in the air around him. A shiver went down his back, as cold as an Other's hand. “What do you mean, little sister?”

“The raven came not long after you left, Jon,” Sansa said. “I haven't found the time to tell you the news.”

“What news? I don't understand,” Daenerys said, looking between the siblings.

“Every grown man who carried the name Frey and meant something to their line is dead,” Bran said, his face even more impassive than Arya’s. “They were slaughtered in the same room where they killed mother, Robb, and his wife, who carried their unborn child.”

“How? By whom?” Jon demanded, his voice sounding breathless to his own ears.

“The note did not say,” Sansa responded, without meeting his eyes.

“But there are whispers,” Lady Alys Karstark said softly. “Some people say that a ghost did it.”

“A ghost?” Varys said. “Stranger things are known to happen these days.”

“A ghost of Lyanna Stark,” Lady Alys spoke again, as if she hadn’t heard the spider.

“If what I’ve heard about those people is true, they probably killed each other over the last chicken wing at dinner,” Tormund murmured. “And you call us wildlings.”

But no one seemed to have heard him, either, because most eyes were fixed on his little sister. The older Northmen lords were looking at her with respect, even admiration; meanwhile, the Lannisters, Lord Varys, and even Ser Jorah were looking at her with various levels of surprise and fear. Jon turned towards her, and as he did, an old and almost forgotten memory came to mind.

They had been children, years before the horrors of the world had reached them. Arya, no more than a child of eight, had proudly broken into his chambers and exclaimed with a smile full of teeth, “Jon, guess what! I’m a bastard, too!” He, after getting a hold of his laugh, had asked for an explanation. “Don’t you see? Robb, Sansa, and Bran, they all look the same! I bet the babe mother is carrying is going to look just like them too. But I look like you, and you are a bastard! And I don’t like any of the lady stuff mother and Sansa like, and now I know why! I’m a bastard, Jon!”

“Arya, I remember your mother being pregnant with you. You are your mother’s daughter. Besides, everyone says you look like Aunt Lyanna, father’s sister.”

“They're just mocking me, Jon!” She said, in a tone that indicated he was being particularly dumb. “Father says she was beautiful! How can I look like her?” Arya protested.

“Because you are beautiful too, little sister,” Jon had said, ruffling her hair.

Arya’s smile was full of teeth now too, the same as it was when she was a little thing that barely reached his elbow. But it flashed only for a second, and then her eyes went cold and indifferent again, and she stood so still he couldn't even see her chest moving with her breathing. She didn't look like his little sister at all. She wore both her dagger and her tiny, thin sword as she always did now. “Once or twice,” she had said when Jon asked if she had ever used it. He thought she was joking.

“Winter has finally come, like father always promised,” Arya said. “And the North does not forget. I guess the Starks always pay their debts, too."

Chapter Text

“Would you stop fucking whining already?” The Hound growled, caught somewhere between wanting to tear the boy’s tongue out or rip his own ears off just to end the noise.

“He sold me! To a fucking witch!” Gendry’s voice cracked with anger, his face still red from the memory.

“And I’ll apologize again, lad,” Beric replied, though his tone carried little that resembled regret. “She served a Baratheon king, just as we did—”

“Bullshit,” the little she-wolf cut him off, appearing out of the shadows as she so often did, like a wraith that enjoyed frightening the living daylights out of everyone. Her eyes gleamed with a sharpness that unsettled even the Hound. “You lot only wanted the gold. You didn’t give a fuck who sent her, or what she wanted with him.”

“Aye,” Beric admitted after a pause, his calm voice betraying no shame. “We did need the gold, too.”

“What witch?” asked the Stark bastard—the King in the North—his eyes narrowing as he stood protectively near his sister.

“A red witch, milord—your Grace,” Gendry corrected hastily. “She wanted me for my blood.”

“I see,” Jon said, his voice flat, as though such madness was to be expected in this world. “And how do you know about it?” His gaze shifted to Arya, sharper than the edge of a blade.

The Hound let out a rough snort, enjoying the boy’s discomfort. “Yeah, why don’t you tell him, lad? Why don’t you explain how you know his little sister?”

“I— I just, we—”

“Gendry and I are friends,” Arya interrupted smoothly, her tone deceptively casual. She shrugged as if it were nothing. “We met a long time ago, in King’s Landing.”

Jon’s eyes hardened. “Why didn’t you say anything, Gendry?”

“Yeah, lad, why didn’t you?” Sandor added, his mouth twisting into something between a grin and a sneer. He couldn’t help but wonder how the King in the North would react if he knew how close this bastard boy had once been to his little princess—how comfortable he’d been touching her, shoving her around like they were equals, or how they’d slept under the same blanket in that cave. Her pack, she’d called him once.

“Your Grace, I—well, I thought she was dead,” Gendry stammered, looking like a man confessing to a crime far worse than silence.

“And I thought he was dead, too,” Arya said firmly. “I thought all of you were dead, actually.”

“But we’re not,” Beric interjected, his voice swelling with that same tired fervor. “The Lord of Light has brought us back together, bound us to serve a higher purpose—”

“If you start a fucking sermon right now, my higher purpose will be sewing your mouth shut,” Sandor barked, his patience running thin. He hefted the heavy axe Gendry had forged for him and slung it over his shoulder. “Will you fuck off already.”

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed his way out of the forge. The sound of the fire and hammering dulled behind him, replaced by the cold bite of the night air. As he left, he caught the girl’s voice carrying after him, low and sharp with curiosity.

“What did she want with your blood, anyway?”

Chapter Text

The dead were coming, and fast. According to the Black Brothers, the Wall was down, and the whole army of the dead would be at Winterfell before sunrise. Gendry had seen the Wall, it was enormous, seven hundred feet tall- he couldn't even imagine something bigger than it. And they tore it down. How could they even hope to stop them?

Thankfully, Gendry wasn't in charge of any planning. He just needed to keep the forge going. He lost count of how many tons of dragon glass they had melted and reshaped into weapons, and yet it didn't feel like enough. Gendry had seen them, fought them, he knew what was coming. They were not ready.

A bowl of stew landed on the table, right next to the blade he was examining. Half of it fell out. “Eat. You'll pass out,” Arya said, taking the blade out of his hands.
Arya. Alive, in Winterfell. He still had trouble believing it was real. “Is that a command, milady?” he japed, before he could stop himself.
She didn't even bother to look at him. “We have enough weapons to arm twice the amount of men we have. We don't need more, and you need to rest.”
“It's not enough,” he argued. “I've seen them. Not all the dragon glass in the world is enough.”
“Then why even bother?” she pushed the bowl towards him. “Eat and stop being stupid.”
Before he could answer, probably with something stupid, Davos and Beric Dondarrion walked in the forge. Davos threw a weird look at him as they both approached them. Gendry realized he never told him about knowing Arya, either.
“My Lady, lad,” Beric smiled. “It's good to see you both, just like old times.”
“What do you want?” Gendry asked, at the same time Arya said, “Fuck off.”
Dondarrion chuckled. “Ah, I guess I deserve that. I've come to replace this old dagger, do you think you have one to spare around here?”

After he left, Gendry couldn't help himself. “Was he on your list?”
Arya shugged. “For a while, he was,” she said, and Gendry will never admit how warm he felt, knowing it was for him.
“A list?” Davos asked, who Gendry had completely forgotten that was there.
“Of people I'm going to kill,” Arya explained. Davos stared. Gender shrugged.
“His Grace was looking for you,” Davos said eventually. “Your sister and younger brother are already at the Godswoods, waiting for you.”
“If you haven't eaten the food when I get back, I'll shove it down your throat.” Arya said as she walked away. And Gendry was definitely not looking at her bottom when he noticed she was talking with her the blade he had been working on.
“Hey, that's not yours!”
“This is my family's castle. Everything is mine.” She didn't turn around.

“She's… something,” Davos said, a while later.
Gendry smiled. “She's just Arry.”

Chapter Text

The courtyard of Winterfell was alive with sound. Not the joyful sound of feasts or laughter, but the hammering of steel, the creak of leather, the barked orders of commanders drilling their men. It was the kind of noise that should have steadied Jon Snow’s heart, that should have reassured him that preparations for the coming storm were underway. Instead, every clang of hammer on anvil, every cry of exertion, weighed heavier on his chest.

The Long Night was coming. He had seen its face, heard the silence that marched with it. He knew the dead did not tire, did not falter. No number of sharpened swords or barricades would ever feel like enough.

He pulled his cloak tighter against the cold, though the chill in his bones had little to do with the wind that swept through Winterfell’s stones. He passed rows of Unsullied standing in disciplined silence, wildlings mending furs and sharpening axes, northern men trying their best to swallow pride and suspicion. It was a fragile alliance, one forged by necessity, not trust.

Are they ready? Jon wondered, his jaw tightening. Are any of us?

A sudden cheer, loud and raucous, broke across the yard like the call of a war horn. Jon stiffened. Dozens of men were gathered in a circle near the training grounds, their voices raised in laughter and shouts of encouragement. At a time when every moment mattered, when every hand should be at work, they had gathered here, wasting precious hours.

Jon’s blood quickened with anger. He imagined the scene before he even reached it: Northerners squaring off against Dothraki, or wildlings taunting Unsullied, old grudges boiling over while the world stood on the edge of annihilation. He set his jaw and strode forward, Ghost padding silently at his side.

“Enough of this foolishness,” he muttered under his breath. “We don’t have time for petty fights.”

He pushed through the ring of men, ready to pull them apart, to remind them that death was on their doorstep. But what he found stopped him dead in his tracks.

In the center of the circle, moving with the speed of a shadow, was Arya.

Jon’s breath caught as he watched her dance between two towering figures—one a burly wildling with an axe, the other a Dothraki with curved arakh flashing in the winter sun. Neither man was holding back. Their strikes came swift, powerful, meant to batter her down. Yet none of them so much as grazed her.

Arya slipped beneath an axe swing, her feet barely touching the ground, and used the man’s momentum to send him sprawling into the dirt. The Dothraki lunged, blade whistling, but she twisted, parried with the wooden staff she wielded, and sent him stumbling back with a crack across the ribs.

She wasn’t just holding her ground—she was toying with them.

Jon’s heart thundered. This was no child’s sparring match, no careful play with blunted edges. The men attacking her were strong, dangerous, and yet she flowed between them as though she’d been born to it.

When did she become this? he thought, awe bleeding into his confusion. What has my little sister turned into while I was away?

A low voice stirred at his side. “I always knew there was fire in that one.”

Jon turned to find Beric Dondarrion watching the fight, his one good eye gleaming with something unreadable.

Jon frowned. “You know her?”

Beric’s mouth twitched as if he’d said too much. He shifted uneasily, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. “I… have seen things. Flames reveal truths, sometimes. Glimpses of what was, what will be. Your sister burns brighter than most.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Flames. Visions. You speak of her as though you’ve stood beside her. Yet I don’t recall you ever being near Arya Stark.”

Before Beric could answer, another voice cut in, sharp with barely masked irritation.

“You’d better explain exactly how you know Arya,” Gendry said. The blacksmith’s arms were crossed over his chest, his dark eyes fixed on Beric with a mixture of suspicion and something Jon couldn’t place—something rawer.

Beric let out a humorless laugh. “Strange, coming from you, lad. Should I ask if you’ve explained to Jon just how well you know her?”

Gendry’s cheeks colored. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, words dying on his tongue. For the first time since Jon had known him, Gendry looked… caught.

Jon’s gaze flicked between the two men, suspicion knotting in his gut. “What are you talking about?”

Neither answered. Instead, another roar of cheers went up from the crowd, drawing Jon’s eyes back to the circle just in time to see Arya plant the end of her staff into the Dothraki’s chest, sending him crashing onto his back.

The wildling she had floored earlier was already on his knees, panting, watching in disbelief as Arya extended a hand toward the Dothraki. He took it, and she pulled him easily to his feet. For a moment, they exchanged words Jon couldn’t hear, the cadence unmistakably Dothraki. The warrior’s surprise gave way to respect; he inclined his head, a gesture rare among his kind, and Arya returned it with a simple nod.

The crowd erupted again, stamping feet, clapping hands against shields. But Jon heard none of it. He was watching Arya—his little sister—moving through them with steady poise, sweat shining on her brow, as though none of this had been more than a passing exercise.

And then she turned her eyes on him.

If she was surprised to find him there, she gave no sign. Her expression was cool, calm, unreadable, as if she had already known he would come.

Jon’s throat tightened. For a moment, he was no Lord Commander, no King in the North. He was just a brother staring at the girl he’d once teased in Winterfell’s courtyard, who’d once begged him to help her practice with Needle. That girl was gone.

Arya stepped closer, her gaze flicking briefly to Beric and Gendry before settling on Jon.

“We need to talk,” Jon said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Her lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smile. “Do we?”

The words unsettled him more than the sparring had.

He followed her away from the crowd, through a quieter stretch of the yard where the wind carried only the distant hammering of forges. Ghost padded at his heels, silent as the snow. Arya walked with the same lightness she fought with, as though she were never quite tethered to the ground.

Jon broke the silence first. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

Arya tilted her head, eyes sharp. “The road teaches. You know that as well as I do.”

“The road doesn’t teach you to fight like that,” Jon pressed. “I’ve fought wildlings, free folk, even some of the dead. But what I just saw…” He shook his head. “Those men were stronger, faster. You shouldn’t have stood a chance. And yet—”

“And yet I won,” Arya finished for him, her tone flat.

Jon stopped, frustration gnawing at him. “You’re my sister. You disappear for years, come back a stranger, and now I find you besting Dothraki as though you were born to it. Tell me, Arya. What happened to you?”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Her gray eyes, so much like their father’s, studied him with unnerving stillness. Finally, she shrugged.

“I became who I needed to be.”

Jon stared at her, searching for the girl he remembered and finding only shadows.

Behind them, Beric’s voice carried faintly on the wind as he murmured to Gendry. Jon couldn’t hear the words, but he caught the shape of Gendry’s scowl, the flush on his cheeks. Secrets pressed in from every side, and Jon hated secrets. They had cost too much already.

He turned back to Arya, his voice low. “When this is done, when the dead are gone… you’ll tell me everything.”

Arya’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “If there’s an after,” she said.

Jon swallowed hard. He wanted to promise her there would be. But the words wouldn’t come. Not when the memory of ice and silence loomed so close, not when he knew just how slim their chances truly were.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The weight of the coming night hung between them, heavier than any sword.

Then Arya’s lips curved again, not quite a smile, but close. “Don’t look so grim, Jon. You’ll need all your strength for what’s coming. Leave the rest to me.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Jon with Ghost at his side, Beric and Gendry’s uneasy silence behind him, and a thousand questions burning in his chest.

Jon watched her go, and for the first time since returning to Winterfell, he wondered if perhaps it wasn’t the dead they needed to fear most—but what the living had become in their absence.

Chapter Text

The dawn broke gray over Winterfell. The air still smelled of smoke and burnt iron, a lingering reminder of the battle that had nearly shattered the castle. The walls stood blackened and cracked, their scars visible even under the veil of frost. The courtyards were littered with broken timber, splintered wagons, and dark stains the snow refused to swallow.

Victory over the dead did not feel like victory. There were still bodies to burn, banners torn and trampled, survivors who limped through the ruins carrying their grief as heavily as any weapon. Yet life endured. The living moved like ants across the keep, hammering planks into broken gates, dragging rubble, binding wounds. Winterfell breathed, wounded but alive.

Arya Stark sat on a chipped stone bench at the edge of the courtyard, a small tray balanced beside her. A hunk of stale bread, a bowl of thin porridge, a clay jug of water. She was not hungry, not truly, but she forced herself to eat anyway. That was a lesson she had learned long ago: when there was food, you ate. You never knew when there would be more.

She chewed slowly, her sharp eyes following the bustle of the courtyard. The clang of hammers on iron echoed against the walls. Children darted between workers carrying buckets of water. The air was alive with voices—orders barked, laughter forced, laments murmured.

And then she saw him.

Gendry crossed the yard with a beam of timber across his shoulders, two other smiths at his side. His tunic clung to him with sweat despite the biting cold, muscles taut from the weight. His jaw was set hard, his steps sure. But when he passed close by, his head tilted just enough to catch sight of her.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met.

The look lasted only a moment, but it was enough. Arya saw the shadow in his expression, the heaviness in his gaze, the way he quickly looked away—as though the ground ahead were suddenly more compelling than she was. He did not stop. He did not speak. He moved on, and the distance between them yawned wider than ever.

Arya’s fingers crushed the bread in her hand until it crumbled. Something in her chest tightened—annoyance, guilt, a strange hollow ache she refused to name. She hated that a single glance could unsettle her so thoroughly.

A low grunt broke her thoughts.

“Mmgh.” A noise thick and guttural, followed by a hacking cough.

Arya turned her head. A few yards away, sprawled against a wall of half-toppled stone, Sandor Clegane sat like a corpse that had refused to fall. The Hound looked worse than usual—eyes swollen from drink, beard matted, a cloak of filth wrapped about him. An empty jug rolled near his boot. His sword lay within reach, as though even in a drunken stupor he refused to let it stray.

“What’d you do to the poor boy?” His voice rasped like gravel dragged across steel. He nodded faintly toward where Gendry had disappeared. “He looks like someone kicked him in the balls.”

Arya narrowed her eyes.

“Nothing.”

Sandor snorted, one corner of his ruined mouth twitching upward.

She looked away, tearing another bite of bread with her teeth. Silence stretched between them, until finally she muttered, flat and unwilling:

“He asked me to marry him.”

For a moment, Sandor simply blinked. Then a low rumble welled up from his chest. A chuckle, then a laugh, then a roar that shook his broad frame. He bent forward, pounding a hand against the ground, his laughter spilling across the yard.

Arya’s frown deepened.

“What’s so funny?”

“Seven hells…” Sandor wheezed between bursts of laughter. “That boy… that boy’s got stones the size of dragon eggs! Marry you? Hah! Fuck me, I thought I’d seen everything!”

His booming laughter drew curious glances from nearby workers, but he didn’t care. Tears streaked the corners of his eyes, his body trembling with mirth.

“You’re going to piss yourself,” Arya said coolly.

That only made him howl louder. He wiped his face with a filthy hand, still chuckling as the last echoes of laughter faded into rasping breath.

“Well then,” he said, voice still thick with amusement. “What’d you tell him?”

Arya gave no reply. She chewed, slow and deliberate, staring at nothing.

Sandor tilted his head, studying her like a wolf watching a stubborn pup.

“Don’t tell me…” His lip curled in mock surprise. “You said yes?”

Her eyes snapped to him, hard as daggers. The glare was answer enough.

Sandor barked another laugh, shorter this time.

“Right. Stupid question. Of course you didn’t. The princess of the North, the bloody Bringer of Dawn, settle down as some smith’s wife? Hah!”

Arya’s jaw tightened.

“He’s not just a smith. The queen named him Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

She rose abruptly, gathering her tray though most of the food remained untouched. The cold bit her skin, but she welcomed it. Anything was better than the heat in her chest.

She had only taken a few steps before Sandor’s voice boomed after her:

“Nothing’s ever good enough for bloody ladys!”

The courtyard swallowed her again. Workers bustled, wood groaned, hammers rang. Life carried on, heedless of her turmoil.

And still, his words clung like burrs.
“Princess of the North.”
“Bringer of Dawn.”
“Lady.”

She was none of those things. She never had been.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall of Winterfell was warmer than the courtyard, though the fires did little to chase away the tension. Long tables crowded with soldiers and servants stretched out beneath the high rafters, the smell of roasted meat thick in the air. At the dais, the high table was filled with Northern lords and the Stark family.

Arya sat among them, shoulders squared, back straight. The years had taught her that even stillness could be a shield.

Across the hall, near the lower tables where the newer lords sat, Gendry was a dark blot of discomfort. He wore a tunic finer than any he’d owned before, though it hung stiffly on him, like armor that didn’t fit. His hands twitched toward his knife, his cup, the edge of the table, never still, as though he’d rather be at the forge than surrounded by banners and goblets. He laughed when spoken to, but too quickly, too harshly.

Arya watched without meaning to. He looked wrong here. Wrong in the same way she had always felt at these tables when she was small. Yet he kept his head down, swallowed his unease, tried to play the part of Lord Baratheon.

Her jaw clenched.

Beside her, Sansa’s soft voice slid into her ear like a blade hidden in silk.

“Strange,” she murmured, her eyes fixed forward. “You’re sitting here, when I would have thought you’d prefer the company down there.”

Arya turned her head, slow and sharp. “What do you mean?”

Sansa did not look at her. Her expression was calm, composed, every inch the Lady of Winterfell. Only the faintest curve of her mouth betrayed the teasing glint in her words.

“I thought you and Lord Baratheon were… friends.”

Arya’s breath caught, though her face betrayed nothing. She forced her voice to remain flat. “You thought wrong. We’re not.”

At that, Sansa finally turned her head, eyes cool and knowing as frost.

“Mm,” she hummed, as if she didn’t believe a word of it.

Arya looked away before the heat in her chest betrayed her. She reached for her cup, swallowing wine she didn’t taste, ending the conversation with silence.

But the words lingered. Friends. That had been true once, hadn’t it? Long ago, when things were simpler, when she was simpler. Now the word felt like another stranger staring at her across the hall.

She did not look at him again that night.

But she felt his presence, like a bruise she couldn’t ignore.

–

The next day, the yard echoed with the scrape of steel on steel.

Arya’s wooden staff cracked against a soldier’s blade, driving him back two steps before she swept his legs out from under him. He hit the frozen ground with a grunt, the breath punched out of him. The ring of watching men broke into uneasy laughter—nervous, brittle.

None of them wanted to fight her. Not really. She saw it in their eyes: awe curdled with fear. They whispered her name the way children whispered ghost stories. The girl who killed the Night King. A warrior of legend, not flesh and bone. They came to spar because their comrades dared them, but the moment her strikes landed, sharp and merciless, most regretted it.

Arya’s chest rose and fell with quickened breath. She tossed her braid over her shoulder and looked for another challenger. None stepped forward.
Her lip curled in frustration.

And then—there he was.

Across the yard, beyond the ring of hesitant soldiers, Gendry stood in the shadow of a broken wall. His arms were bare despite the cold, scarred and strong, folded across his chest. His eyes found hers.

This time he didn’t look away.

For several heartbeats, he held her gaze. Not with the wounded glances of the past days, but steady, searching, unflinching. It was the longest he’d looked at her since that night.

Her pulse hammered in her ears. And then, just as sudden, he turned and strode toward the forge, vanishing into the haze of smoke and the clamor of hammers.

The silence he left behind pressed against her skin. Her grip tightened around her staff until the wood creaked. With a growl, she flung it onto the dirt so hard it snapped. Soldiers flinched. She ignored them.

Her boots carried her after him before she could think better of it.

The forge was alive with fire and noise. Sparks spat from anvils, the heat of the flames clung heavy in the air. Blacksmiths shouted orders over the roar of bellows, iron rang like church bells in endless rhythm. Gendry moved among them, broad shoulders towering over the younger apprentices, hands wrapped in thick leather as he reached for a glowing bar pulled from the coals.

Arya’s voice cut through the din like a blade.

“What’s your bloody problem?”

Gendry jerked so violently he nearly seized the glowing metal with his bare hand. He cursed under his breath, tossing his tongs aside before spinning on her.

“My problem?” His voice was sharp, low enough to keep others from hearing, but hot enough to sear. “What’s yours?”

Her brows knitted, fury rising fast. “You act like I betrayed you.”

He turned his back, reaching for another tool, muscles taut beneath his sweat-soaked shirt. He meant to dismiss her. To ignore her.

“So that’s it?” she spat, stepping closer. “You’re just going to turn away? Pretend I’m not here? Now that you’re a lord, you can be as unpleasant as you like?”

That got him. His shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, his mouth twisted in something that was half sneer, half pain.

“Yeah,” he muttered bitterly. “You’d know plenty about that.”

Her anger snapped. She shoved him hard in the chest. “You’re an idiot!”

The force made him stumble a step before he whirled on her. His face was thunder, eyes storm-dark, voice ragged with hurt. He closed the distance between them in two strides until their breaths mingled.

“Right. An idiot. That’s what you think of me. A fool. A nobody. Not worth the ground you walk on.”

She blinked, startled. “What the hell are you talking about? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Oh, it makes perfect sense.” His voice cracked like iron on stone. “It doesn’t matter what name I carry, or what title the queen threw on me. To you, I’ll always be the bastard on the King’s Road.”

Arya stared at him, utterly lost. Then—her mouth twisted into a scowl, sharp and biting. “But you’re not. You’re Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End,” she recited in mocking sing-song, each word dripping with disdain.

He flinched, as though she’d struck him harder than with any blade.

“And what good does it do me?” he growled. “What use is it? The one thing I want most—the only thing—I’ll never be worthy of.”

Arya’s chest tightened, anger and confusion knotting until she felt breathless. “Worthy? What are you even talking about? I can’t be what you want, Gendry! I won’t!”

“I don’t want you to be anything!”

“You asked me to marry you!” Her voice cracked. Her fists trembled at her sides. “You’re a lord. What did you think that meant?”

He blinked, staggered, as though he hadn’t understood until this very moment. “That’s why you said no?”

But Arya was already tumbling forward, words spilling raw and fierce. “What did you think I’d do? Put on dresses? Birth seventeen children? Host feasts and bow to fat old men? If that’s what you want, go find Sansa!”

Her voice shook, not from fear but from betrayal. From the wound of being misunderstood.

Gendry reached for her, desperate. “Arya—”

“You don’t even know me!” she shouted, tears stinging, though she would have rather swallowed glass than let them fall.

He grabbed her wrist, holding tight despite her struggle. His eyes blazed with equal fury, equal desperation. “I do know you! And I don’t want any of that! None of it matters—titles, lands, bloody Storm’s End. I’d throw it all away if I could. Do you hear me? All I want—” His voice broke, raw as hammered iron. “All I want is you.”

She froze. His grip loosened, though his eyes never left hers.

“But you’re a lord,” she whispered, the words torn between anger and sorrow.

“Fuck being a lord.” His chest heaved. “If it meant losing you, it’s worth less than ash.”

Her heart pounded so loudly she thought the whole forge must hear it. For a long moment she could only stare at him, fury and hurt warring with something deeper, something far more dangerous.

And then—because words had failed them, because nothing else could—she surged forward, her mouth crashing against his.

It was not gentle. It was all teeth and fire, the taste of iron and salt, the clashing of stubborn wills. He gripped her shoulders, pulling her closer, and she fisted her hands in his tunic, nearly tearing it. The forge roared around them, heat and smoke rising, but neither felt it.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and raw, Arya’s voice was low, fierce, trembling.

“If I ever married anyone, it would be a smith. Not a lord.”
Gendry pressed his forehead to hers, eyes shut, a rough laugh escaping him. “Good. Because a smith’s all I’ll ever be.”

For once, she didn’t argue.