Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

GENDRY

"How many roads must a man walk down

Before you call him a man?"

The world was cruel. I never knew any other reality but this one, there was never any kindness in it. Not for those like me, a Waters.

The Bastards were nobodies, there was no place for them. From childhood I began to understand that carrying that surname was a burden. A burden that made me grow strong and distrustful of everything and everyone.

The foolish days when I searched for a father in the faces of strangers trying to find some resemblance were over. I gave up trying to know who the damned man was who used my mother and left her with a bastard in her womb because it made no difference who he was, even if he was someone important.

I suspected this when the king's hand came after me, asking questions that irritated me. Despite the friendliness in his voice, I couldn't trust a stranger who wanted to know so much about my mother and looked at me as if seeing a ghost.

I stifled the part of me that wanted to ask who I resembled.

Because the answer wouldn't mean anything.

Gendry Waters would still be a bastard and bastards were worthless, had no place in the world except to serve and bow their heads. I kept doing all these things, forging swords and helmets, obeying the only father figure I ever knew, Tobho Mott.

Someone who one day took me from the tavern where my mother's weak, lifeless body lay and offered me a way to stay alive.

I accepted without hesitation even though it pained me to leave and abandon my mother buried in that place she hated so much. I followed that old man and observed and learned to follow all his orders to the letter. He never explained why he sheltered and helped me. And in my foolish childhood innocence, I believed he was just a lonely old man who lost his wife to fever and had no children, who was moved by a scrawny boy crying alone in a tavern.

But he never showed affection or concern, there were no praises when my forges became better than his. There was no tenderness, not even worry from him. But this stopped mattering over time because I had found something I was good at. When I was at the furnace wielding a hammer and shaping steel, giving it life as sweat ran down my face. I finally felt useful.

So I kept all my energy focused on that. I never took my eyes off the forge and tried to be part of something, have friends or court a girl.

No one would want a Waters as a suitor, or as a friend.

My fate was sealed in the hot furnaces and the hammer I wielded every day. But one day I received terrible news as soon as I entered the smithy. Tobho told me he no longer needed my services and suggested I'd be better off trying my luck at the Wall. Taking the black and using everything I'd learned as a good smith there.

"They'll appreciate someone who knows how to make swords," he said, handing me my things tied in cloth. With little choice, I decided to take his advice and leave.

Maybe at the Wall, where almost everyone was a bastard, I'd finally find a place where I belonged. But one hot, boring day like any other, following Yoren and the rest of the boys, a scene caught my attention.

A little boy being harassed by another much bigger and stronger one. I tried to focus on loading steel into the cart and ignore how unfair it was for that fat boy to pick on someone so much weaker than him.

But to my surprise, the boy drew his sword pointing it at the other's neck and stood up threatening him. There was no fear in his voice, no excitement as he pressed the sword. The boy walked backward and bumped into me. I helped the boy send him away, but judging by the serious expression on his face, he didn't like being defended.

This amused me for some unknown reason. The boy's angry face and furious look made me laugh inside. The fierceness in those green eyes was intimidating and fascinating at the same time.

Such a tiny thing was so much braver than me that it was almost humiliating.

That was the first time I stepped out of my comfort zone and forced myself to help someone who clearly didn't want help, though they needed it.

🦌

Arry was his name. The boy with the dirty face and high-pitched voice who kept disappearing into the woods for minutes too long, who never laughed at the other boys’ jokes.  

He stayed quiet, distant, seeming lost in another world. Keeping his distance with his sword as his only companion. A sword forged from noble steel, made for someone of noble blood.  He didn’t let me hold it without resistance—I had to give him my Bull helmet as collateral to get his Needle back.  

Yes, he’d named the sword. And with each passing moment, the feeling that this boy was hiding something big only grew. But as always, I ignored it. It wasn’t my business.  

I looked up at the sky, crowded with stars between the treetops, and checked the moon’s position, realizing with impatience that Arry had been gone too long.  I shook my head and leaned against a tree trunk, forcing myself to close my eyes. Ignoring the growing ache inside me—this strange worry I shouldn’t have been feeling over some stubborn, troublesome boy.  

I wanted something to distract me, to get the thought of that defiant little brat out of my head.  I fell asleep thinking of the time when I had no one to worry about. It was better that way—not caring.  

People had a habit of disappointing you, of betraying you without hesitation. And the last thing I needed now was someone distracting me from my only goal: escape.  

Arry would just be extra weight—another boy they’d miss, another reason to intensify their search, maybe even put a bounty on our heads.  

A bastard and a boy whose last name was a mystery.  

I woke abruptly to the sound of a twig snapping. Arry had returned, and I blinked, groggy and confused, realizing I’d dreamed of him again.  To my surprise, he didn’t sit far away like he always did.   He sat almost beside me, crossed his arms, rested his head against the tree trunk, and closed his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.  

I kept my eyes fixed on his face, which looked damp. I noticed his eyelashes were long and curved, his nose sharp and prominent, his lips thin and pink.  Suddenly, I was startled by how much time I spent watching, thinking, even dreaming about this boy.  

🦌

"My name isn’t Arry. I’m not a boy. I’m Arya Stark of Winterfell."

No words had ever hit me harder.  She was a girl. Not just any girl—she was a Lady. A Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King. The man who had come asking me questions just before losing his head for treason.  

"He wasn’t a traitor. He was my father," she defended, her voice low and furious when I mentioned the supposed treason.  

Her big green eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them fall.  

I had to use all my self-control not to reach out and touch her, pull her into my arms and hold her. It wasn’t right, and such a simple gesture wouldn’t go unnoticed by the others. Her identity had to stay hidden.  

I didn’t understand why she chose to tell me this, but I couldn’t help but smile when I called her "Milady" and she shoved me to the ground in anger.  

Nor could I ignore the warmth in my chest at her trust.  

But as I watched her small figure walk away, the weight of that secret began to press down on me.   She always called me "Stupid Bull," and I was starting to agree with her. For taking so long to see the obvious—that she was a girl—even though suspicion had always lingered in my mind.  

And now, reality had hit me over the head like a hammer.  

Arry—no, Arya —wasn’t just some lost boy I’d grown attached to and included in all my escape plans.  

She was a Stark. There were people looking for her. Her family was out there in Winterfell, probably thinking her dead, grieving her loss. She had a home, a family waiting for her—unlike me, who had nothing and no one.  A highborn girl born in a castle, who had servants at her disposal and was likely promised to some other noble.  

A sharp pain in my chest made me stop laughing. Reality had finally struck me.  

She deserved better than this. Better than living as a slave, serving others, surrounded by boys who said things no girl like her should ever hear.  

Arya was a Lady, and she belonged to another world. A world I had no place in, no right to reach. Someone like me could never get close, never be her friend... or anything more. Because she deserved far better than a stupid bull-headed bastard.  

Arya deserved her family back, and with a heavy heart, I decided I would do everything to help her find them again.  I would protect her. I would be her willing knight, even if she didn’t need one. I would be there, sword in hand—hammer if needed. Anything to keep her safe.  

Did a bastard’s vows even count for anything?  

🦌

“Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world won’t. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you." She deepened her voice, imitating someone important.  

"Bastards are my favorite kind of people," she said once, while I did my best to keep my mouth shut and distance myself from her.  

I was doing it the best I could—never letting her out of my sight. But the girl who was usually silent as a ghost had started talking. She spoke to one of the caged men, Hot Pie, who seemed to have earned some respect from her now. And finally, her Stupid Bull.  

No, I wasn’t hers. I corrected myself mentally, repeating it for the hundredth time.   She didn’t belong to me, and I wasn’t hers. We were nothing. I was no one, and she was everything.  

"My brother Jon is a Snow—a bastard, like you. And he’s the best person I know, without a doubt."

So she knew other bastards and liked them. I tried not to show any reaction to her confession, hoping it would irritate her enough to leave. But Arya Stark always surprised me—whether through her stubbornness or her bravery.  

She sat on a bench, eating an apple, and after watching me for a long time, she said:  

"Jon was the one who gave me the sword. He always knew I wanted one, and he gave it to me the day we left Winterfell."

Her eyes stayed dry, but even without tears, I could see the pain and the storm brewing behind them. I felt the grief and longing in every word and tightened my grip on the hammer—another failed attempt to keep my hands busy so I wouldn’t make the mistake of letting them wander, of pulling her into my arms the way she deserved.  

"Aren’t you going to say anything?" she snapped, irritated. "I just—"

"I didn’t ask you to tell me anything. You just walked in here and started talking about your life."

Arya opened and closed her mouth, clenched her fists. I expected her to punch me, maybe throw something at me. But she just smiled—a crooked, forced smile. She shook her head, looking at the ground.  

"You’re an idiot. I don’t know why I thought you’d be... Ugh!"

She turned and stormed off, leaving me standing there, feet rooted to the ground, my heart sinking, a lump the size of a lemon in my throat. I wanted to smash the hammer against my own skull for being so stupid and insensitive. Now she’d never tell me anything again. She’d shut me out like she did with everyone else. She’d be even more out of reach than before—and this time, it wasn’t social standing keeping us apart. It was my own damned foolishness.  

That night, she took longer than usual to return, and I couldn’t just lie there waiting. A thousand thoughts raced through my head.   Had she been taken? Killed by bears or wolves? Whatever it was, my feet moved on their own, and I started walking, ignoring Hot Pie, who always seemed too attentive to Arry and his strange habit of never pissing in front of the others. He’d once confided his theory to me:  

Arry was a eunuch.  

I had to force myself not to laugh, but then I remembered all the times I’d pissed right in front of her. In front of a Lady. I shuddered at the memory of Arry’s dirty face flushing or her looking away. But worse were the times her green eyes didn’t blink, didn’t look away from me.   I tried not to think about it, tried to ignore the improper, sinful heat growing inside me like I was back at the forge.  

I walked for what felt like miles until I heard a sound—a sob. I froze, my body stiffening instantly as I turned and found the source. And when I saw her curled up, it felt like someone had shoved ice cubes into my stomach.  Arya was perched on a rock, knees pulled to her chest, head resting on them as she cried, reciting names between sobs.  

"Cersei Lannister. Joffrey Baratheon..."  

"Arya." 

She lifted her head, eyes wide and red, lips parted in shock. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and turned away, still hugging her knees. She looked so much like a helpless child, lost in the world. She reminded me of my younger self—alone in a tavern, crying outside, feeling like the loneliest creature alive.  

"Go away," she ordered without looking at me.  

I took a deep breath before gathering the courage to do something I knew I’d regret—but if I didn’t, I’d lose her forever.  She’d shut me out so completely there’d be no crack left for me to slip through. No more smiles, no more shoves, no more "Stupid Bull" muttered under her breath.  

Arya would put me on that list of people she didn’t care about, and the idea of her hating me or being indifferent was too much to bear.  On this insane journey—between hoping to join the Night’s Watch—I’d met a boy who occupied my thoughts and made me break my own promises (never care). Then the king’s men came looking for me, and she saved me, telling them Lommey was Gendry. I stood there speechless, not knowing what to say ó do with so much information.

Why were they looking for a bastard? Why did this little girl care about someone like me when she was a Lady?  

On this journey, I’d started alone, expecting to take the black and serve until my dying day. But the idea of swearing vows to never marry or have children—something that never bothered me before—now festered inside me like a wound, a constant ache in my gut. Because even if I’d never admit it out loud, that idea didn’t seem so absurd anymore.  

There were girls who wouldn’t care about my bastard name. Girls who liked bastards, who thought they were the best kind of people.  

There were little girls braver than half the men in Westeros combined, who didn’t hesitate to save me.  I took another step and sat beside her. Carefully, slowly. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My throat felt full of nails, my mouth dry. I reached out, gathering all my courage, and touched her shoulder.  

Her body went stiff as stone. She didn’t turn or move, just stayed there, frozen.  

"I’m sorry," I murmured.  "I didn’t mean to say any of that." 

She sighed, her body relaxing slightly, but she still didn’t look at me.  

"I was stupid. Insensitive."

"No, you weren’t. I was! I never should’ve... told you any of that."

"No. You should have. You can. You can tell me anything, Arya."

She laughed bitterly and finally looked at me.  

Those big green eyes locked onto mine. They weren’t as green as usual—the haze that often clouded them was back. It looked like a storm was raging inside her, and I got lost in it, sucked in, breathless, drowning in a treacherous sea.  

"I can?"  She laughed again, shaking her head, biting her lower lip.  

"Yes. You can tell me everything. Or nothing. You can hit me, yell at me... You can trust me, Milady."

"Don’t call me that!" she snapped, and I smiled helplessly.  

"I’m sorry for... acting like a—" 

"Stupid Bull," she spat angrily, but it still made me smile 

"Yes, I'm just a Stupid Bull."  

"Why have you been acting like this? You've been pushing me away," she asked, looking at the ground, playing with the grass with her fingers. For the first time, there was no anger—just vulnerability in her voice.  

My hand moved closer to hers, brushing the grass. For a brief second, our fingers touched, and she gripped the grass tighter.  

"Because I thought it would be better," I confessed. She turned her face toward me, forehead furrowed. "I thought it would be better this way. That we should distance ourselves before it was too late."  

It was already too late, an annoying voice sounded in my head. Going after her to comfort her showed all the boundaries I'd crossed.  

"Why?" she asked, confused, in all her childlike innocence. I smiled, staring at the ground, not brave enough to look at her any longer.  

"Because you're Arya Stark of Winterfell. You're a Lady, and I... I'm a Waters, a bastard."  

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said to me, Gendry."  

I laughed a little louder. She scowled, flushing with anger.  

"Did you hear any of what I said? I have a bastard brother, he's my favorite—"  

"Where is he now?" I asked, and she closed her mouth, frowning.  

"At the Wall, but what does that have to do with anything?"  

"The Wall is home to all bastards. No one knows what to do with us, not even your family—they sent him there. Taking the black is all that's left for someone like me and your brother."  

"That's not true!" she protested stubbornly, and I felt like an idiot for not being able to stop smiling, even though it felt like a steel anvil had been placed on my chest. The irritated expression she made when contradicted was adorable, and in those moments, I wondered how I ever thought she was a boy.  

"I was going to the Wall too, remember?"  

"You were going to find your brother, who would probably just send you back home."  

"No. I was going to stay. Take the vows. Become a crow."  

"Arya, only men can be in the Night's Watch."  

"Nonsense!"  

"Nonsense? What were you going to do when you... grew up?"  

"I'd hide them..." she said dismissively, as if pretending to be a man was the simplest, most ordinary thing in the world.  

"Arya, some things can't be hidden. Sooner or later, people would realize you're not a boy, and women aren't allowed at the Wall."  

"That wouldn't be a problem. Sansa and Septa Mordane always said I looked like a boy..."  

I burst out laughing, and she frowned. When I didn't stop, she punched my shoulder.  

"Stop laughing! What's so funny? What I said is true. I could pass as a boy forever. Arya Horseface. Who would even notice the difference?"  

"Everyone! Eventually, everyone would find out. You won't be a girl forever, Arya... Soon, you'll be a woman, and believe me, there's no way to hide that."  

Arya opened her mouth but closed it, and I noticed her cheeks turning red.  

"Your destiny isn't at the Wall—it's going back home."  

"I don't even know if there's still a home, Gendry. Maybe I have nothing left. No one."  

"What about Jon?"  

She shrugged and hugged her knees again, staring ahead.  

"He probably thinks I'm dead. And now we're prisoners again," she sighed heavily. "There's nothing left for me."  

"There is," I said. She turned her head, resting her chin on her knee, and looked at me. She smiled and rolled her eyes.  

"Great, all I have left is..."  

"A Stupid Bull," I finished. "Afraid so, Milady."  

She rolled her eyes and shoved my shoulder, but she smiled. And I didn't look away. I wanted to memorize every detail of her face when she smiled. To keep every little detail for when she left. A memory of Arya Stark smiling—for when I lost her forever.  I could see the pain of betrayal shining in her eyes that night. Her face, lit by the flames, made her green eyes glisten, and the tears forming in them looked like two fallen stars staring straight at me. At someone who was leaving her, breaking unspoken promises and choosing what was best for both of us.  

🦌

Beric Dondarrion once said, with regret in his voice as he praised my forging skills:  

"You care too much about the girl."  

At that moment, I said nothing, just shook my head and denied it. He laughed.  

"She's not—"  

"Yes, she is. She could easily make men like you lose themselves. I've seen this story before, and I know how it ends. She can never be yours."  

"She's just a girl. I don't see her as anything but a little girl."  

"She may still be just a girl now, but soon she won't be. She'll become a woman. But what does that matter? She already has your foolish heart, doesn't she?"  

Beric's words were like poison flowing through my veins, and every day with her, that little girl grew before my eyes. The features of her face changed, her hair grew longer, and so did the rest of her. She was blossoming every day, like those blue roses that grow in winter—their beauty impossible to ignore, only admired. Arya Stark would become even more beautiful than she was now, fiercer and braver every day, and no one could stand in her way. Least of all me. I needed to let her go, let her follow her path.  

She was like the wolf she described with longing—fierce and untamable. She would be and conquer whatever she wanted. Like crossing names off her list, becoming a knight, and finding her beloved brother.  

I couldn't—and had no right—to keep her with me, to drag her down with me. It hurt, but it was a necessary pain. Maybe it was the best thing I could do—let Arya Stark leave.  

"I could be your family," she said, and my heart swelled with pain and joy at the same time.  

I smiled, but not with happiness. Because I knew she could never be mine. Our paths had to separate. A Stark would never be accepted with a bastard. Her beloved brother might be grateful that I protected his little sister, but he would never want her to be family to a Waters. And he'd be right—she deserved more than that.  

"You won't be my family. You'll be my lady," I whispered—the thing my heart had come to desire but I'd denied so fiercely.  

A stubborn tear rolled down my face, and she turned and left.  

If I'd known that would be the last time we'd speak, I would have said more. I would have told her how she changed my life. How she gave meaning to everything, how beautiful she was. I would have said she could be anything she wanted because she was the most incredible girl I'd ever known.  

But the words were lost inside me, and I hoped that by smothering them, they would die and turn into faint mold in a heart left uninhabited—filled with nothing but sorrow and grief.

🦌

When you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. 

It was funny how life could change in mere seconds. One moment I was with Arya, nearly becoming a member of the Brotherhood Without Banners. The next, I was sold like any common slave to a woman dressed in red. Arya screamed and called them traitors, but it was no use. Tied to a cart, my last image was of Arya crying and shouting before being grabbed by the Hound.  

This wasn't supposed to happen.  

She was supposed to reach the Wall and reunite with Jon Snow. She was supposed to return home and stay safe from this shitty world. I should have protected her—but I failed.  

🦌

Robert Baratheon—that was my father's name. The king who got my mother pregnant and made sure Tobho took me as an apprentice. A way to compensate for fathering a bastard son who had just lost his mother.  

The king was aware of my existence—and probably dozens of other bastards like me.  His precious blood was the reason for the hunt, for tearing me away from Arya, and now it would be the cause of my death. The red woman had gotten what she wanted.  

And I couldn’t feel anything but emptiness and defeat. I had sold myself so easily. All it took was my uncle’s promise. He swore he would legitimize me, and that alone was enough to cloud my judgment.  The desire to stop being a bastard, to have a real name—one I could offer her someday.  

A damned name that ruined my life.  I stayed quiet, just waiting for the moment they would end me. But maybe Arya was right—maybe the old gods really did watch over bastards too.  Davos took pity on me and helped me escape.  

"Go to Westeros," he ordered. I frowned, questioning the old man’s sanity.  "Believe me, they’ll never look for you there."  

Either he was a genius or completely mad. Maybe both. With no other choice, I rowed and rowed across the open sea until my arms ached and my stomach groaned with hunger and thirst.  

In that tiny boat, delirious from thirst and heat, all I could see was her face dancing in the water. I nearly fell into the sea, those eyes dragging me under—until I passed out.  

🦌

Years used to pass slowly, but now they crawled. Each day felt like an eternity—pure torment. Smithing, always smithing. Being ready was all that kept me alive. The chance to serve Queen Targaryen and the King in the North was the only thing that gave me the strength to keep living—and not follow my dear father’s example. Drinking until I dropped, until not a shred of consciousness remained.  

Because I wanted to forget those years. I wanted to erase those tear-filled green eyes and her screams. I wished I could wipe Arya Stark from my life entirely—because it hurt too much to think those same screams might have been the last thing to leave her lips at the Red Wedding.  

Arya Stark was dead. Arry—the stubborn, troublesome boy who barged into my life—no longer existed. The pain was too much to bear sober.  

🦌

Chances for redemption are rare. Sometimes they never come. But I knew mine had arrived when Ser Davos walked through that door. I followed without hesitation and met Arya’s beloved brother.   Jon Snow—former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, now King in the North. Even as a bastard.

I joined that suicide mission because I swore fealty to the King in the North. I hoped we might become as close as our fathers had been. But that wasn’t the real reason I braved the harsh winter beyond the Wall.  I owed a debt. And maybe, through Jon Snow, I could repay all the good his sister had done for me.  

🦌

"Quit whining like a bitch, boy. You’re alive, aren’t you?"

"No thanks to you! You sold me. I never should’ve let—"  

The little Stark bitch," Sandor Clegane cut in, walking past me. 

"Don’t call her that, you bastard! You took her, and because of you, she died at the—"

His laughter cut me off before I could finish cursing him.  

"The Stark bitch didn’t die at the Red Wedding. She was still alive—more alive than me. She’s the one who left me to die."  

"She’s... alive?"

"Aye, boy. Alive, with that damn list of hers growing longer by the day. Including me—and you lot." He pointed at Beric, who chuckled.  

"Guess the little wolf was really pissed about losing you."

I lost my breath, unable to speak after that.  Arya could really be alive?  How could she have survived alone all this time?  

It seemed impossible. I tried not to let false hope take root—but this was Arya Stark we were talking about. If anyone was built to survive, it was her.

🦌

The Dragon Queen had lost one of her children, and the lamentations of those remaining were devastating. She had lost one to save all the others, and by the grace of the Seven, Jon Snow was alive. I didn't want to imagine how Arya would react if she lost him too.  

"How is the King?"  

"Well, I suppose better than the two of us," Ser Davos answered, staring at the horizon with that serious, thoughtful expression.  

I thought he wouldn't say anything more, but he turned his face and looked straight at me.  

"Why did you agree to go on that suicide mission, boy?"  

"It was the right thing to do."  

"It wasn't. It was the worst plan ever made."  

"I know."  

"Then why did you want to go?"  

I smiled, looking out the window at the horizon—the dark clouds covering the entire sky, the freezing wind shaking the treetops as if they were made of paper.  

"Winter is coming," I whispered, remembering how many times Arya had said that phrase. Her gaze hardening like steel whenever she remembered home and her father.  

I had never understood that motto or why the Starks had chosen it. But now, far from King's Landing, feeling the freezing cold seep into my bones, after seeing the dead walk the earth—I understood its meaning perfectly.  

Hard times were coming, and the long night approached. Maybe I wouldn’t even get the chance to see her again. We’d probably die before reaching Winterfell.  Perhaps this was the Seven punishing me for leaving her behind. But the suffocating pain in my chest became bearable with the certainty that she had gotten everything she wanted.  

She had returned home and reunited with her family.  The she-wolf had found her pack and was probably wielding her sword against anyone who dared hurt them.  

Davos laughed, shaking his head. I frowned at him, and he squeezed my shoulder.  

"The King in the North isn’t the first Stark you’ve known, is he?"  

I lowered my head, ashamed, but nodded.  

"Is that why you accepted the suicide mission?"  

"I thought she was dead. All these years, while I hid and forged weapons for the queen who ordered my death, I thought of her. Every second of every day. I saw her in every sword I carefully shaped. And as I worked, I made myself a promise. When I heard the Starks had taken Winterfell back..."  

"You would pledge your service to him."  

"Yes. Jon was her favorite brother." I remembered the warmth in her voice when she spoke of him. It was a shame they hadn’t reunited yet.  

Davos frowned, looking confused as he rubbed his beard.  

"Lady Sansa? But I never thought they were close."  

"No, not Lady Sansa. Arry." I laughed, shaking my head, trying to blink away the tears that formed at the memory of the dirty-faced boy who changed my life. "Arya Stark of Winterfell." The name rolled off my tongue, her sweet voice echoing in my ears like a ghost’s whisper.  

"Why didn’t you tell him you knew her?"  

"Because I didn’t have the courage," I confessed, sighing as my shoulders grew heavy. "I know my place, Ser Davos."  

"You took care of her, from what I gather. You still care. Jon would be glad to know his little sister wasn’t alone in the world all this time."  

"She’s a Lady. A Stark. And I... just a bastard who never should have—"  

"Cared so much," Davos finished with a smile. I looked away.  

"You don’t know him. Jon Snow doesn’t care about titles or your relation to Robert Baratheon. He became King in the North, but that title means nothing to him. He takes pride in being a Snow, and I’m certain he wouldn’t mind that a bastard cared for his little sister so deeply."  

"Maybe you’re right," I shrugged. "He’s exactly like her."  

"Like who?" Jon Snow’s voice cut in as he appeared behind us, already dressed and looking far healthier than before.  

I paled, my mouth going dry. I lowered my head and said nothing, while a shadow in the corner laughed. Sandor Clegane lifted his head, his ugly face flickering in the torchlight.  

"Would someone explain what’s so funny?"  

"Nothing, Your Grace," Ser Davos interjected, glancing at me warily.  

Jon frowned and shook his head.  

"If you’re keeping something from me, now’s the time to say it." His eyes locked onto mine.  

"He knew her. The little Stark bitch," the Hound said, making my fists clench in rage.  

"Don’t call her that. She has a name."  

"What are you talking about?"  

"Your sister, Snow," Beric explained, stepping forward with a silver flask in hand. "Arya Stark."  

"What? You knew her?"  

Beric and Sandor laughed at the same time.  

"Knew her? We’re all on her damn list."  

"List? What list?"  

"The list of everyone she meant to kill. Cersei Lannister, the Mountain, all the Freys, the Red Woman, and the Brotherhood Without Banners."  

"She put you on her list?" I asked, confused.  

"Aye. Guess she didn’t take too kindly to me selling off her companion."  

"The only one of us who was never on it. Though now, you might be. You chose the Brotherhood over her," Beric accused. Nausea twisted in my gut at the thought of her adding me to that list—of her hating me as much as the others. But I deserved her hatred. I’d die gladly on the point of Needle if it made her feel better.  

"Why didn’t any of you tell me you knew her?" Jon demanded, looking between Sandor, Beric, and finally me. "Why didn’t you say anything?"  

He didn’t just look confused—he looked betrayed.  

"I didn’t know how to tell you, Your Grace."  

"Aye, I suppose you wouldn’t," the Hound mocked.  

Jon Snow shook his head, frustration clear as he rubbed his face.  

"You’re all coming with us to Winterfell," he declared. "Then she’ll decide whether to cross your names off that list."  

The King in the North gave me one last look—one that reminded me so much of hers. The raw disappointment in it made me shrink inside.

I lowered my head and walked away, ignoring Beric and Sandor’s remarks.  I wandered the halls, the icy wind whistling and burning my skin. But I didn’t care about the pain or the cold. All I felt now was sorrow and emptiness.

🦌

Chapter Text

JON

"I've become so numb, I can't feel you there"

"He's a good lad, Your Grace," Davos interjected.

"If he truly is, then why did he hide that he knew her? Why didn't he say so from the start?"

"Out of fear, Your Grace."

“By the Seven, stop calling me that!" I commanded, weary of this title.  

This damned title I'd coveted nearly all my life. Envying Robb for being Lord of Winterfell. Yet I never truly wanted the weight of a crown upon my head, but still this burden kept being thrust upon me. All I ever wanted was to be acknowledged by my family, for them to take pride in the bastard brother who only brought shame and discord between my father and Catelyn Stark.  

The name that once shamed me had now become my armor - but it had also been my shroud.  

I died for being a Snow, for trying to be as honorable as my father. Sansa was right. It was too much honor that killed him. I sighed, watching the flames crackle. My eyes were drawn to their dance, and I remembered her.  

The woman kissed by fire who'd spoken truth when she said I knew nothing.  

Arya, Bran, Sansa, and Uncle Benjen were proof of that.  

Sansa had been through hell, but left her naivety behind, becoming as strong and wise a lady as her mother. Those blue eyes that once sparkled with dreams of weddings, longing for princes and songs, had gone cold. There was ice in those eyes now, and likely no cheerful songs remained in her heart - only mournful tunes of what we used to be.  

Bran had survived beyond the Wall despite having no legs to run from danger. He'd faced death and known about the Others before anyone else. He had the greensight and became the three-eyed raven.  

Brandon Stark, who'd wanted to be a knight, who climbed walls and loved Old Nan's stories, had become the protagonist of one.  

He'd become someone who sees all, in Sansa's words.  

He was no longer the cheerful, dream-filled boy I'd left unconscious in a bed.  

And now there was her.  

Arya Stark, my brave little sister who hated being a lady and wanted to come with me to the Wall, to live a life wielding swords rather than being someone's lady. She was alive and had a list with her.  

Not of dreams to fulfill, but of people she wanted to kill.  

The Freys were just one name crossed off her list. It was hard to believe the person who'd made a pie of the Freys and left only one message:  

"The North remembers"

was a lost wolf seeking vengeance for her family. Doing for Robb and Catelyn what none of us could. This Arya who'd been with the Brotherhood Without Banners, left Sandor Clegane to die, and wanted to kill the Red Woman as much as - if not more than - Davos... was indeed my little sister.  

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how she might look now. If she'd grown as much as Sansa, if she still loved her bastard brother as she once had. Even though that brother had never searched for her.  

"They all knew. They all know her better than I do now," I lamented, and Davos sighed.  

"All the wolves walked separate paths. It's only natural they'd all change. You've changed too, haven't you?"

I smiled and nodded. I wanted to say the words buried deep within me. To say that Jon Snow no longer existed. That he had died, and another had been put in his place.  

At night when I slept, it was darkness that waited for me. There was nothing on the other side - no heaven, no Seven, no Lord of Light awaiting me to explain why I'd returned.  

What made me deserving of this second chance when others who deserved it more lay six feet under or had been burned to ashes on the wind?  

Chapter Text

SANSA

"When the snow falls and the winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

Petyr Baelish's crimson blood was still being scrubbed from the floors, his body carried away to burn on a pyre. Snow fell now, leaving a white shroud over the ground. No hint of green remained—only white and gray.  

The Long Night approached, and perhaps the sun would never shine again.  

An army of the dead marched north, and Winterfell stood in their path. The castle I'd grown up in, which seemed an impenetrable fortress in my childhood, would be crushed by the Dragon Queen's undead beast. Bran had calmly announced the Wall's fall. Nothing now stood between the living and the dead.  

Winter had come, and it would be the last thing we ever saw.  

There would be no winners in the game of thrones, no king to sit the Iron Throne. I'd never see my brothers grow older, never witness another wedding beneath the heart tree. All the great houses would perish. Nothing would remain.  

I waited for tears to form and freeze on my cheeks, but my eyes stayed dry. The grief I should have felt for all we'd never become—it wasn't there.  

Nothing was.  

I glanced sideways, and my heart leapt. Arya stood beside me—*No One*, as she preferred to be called—her hand resting on her sword's hilt like Brienne.  

"You'll freeze up here," she warned, surprising me with the concern in her voice.  

"I don't feel the cold," I said. "I don't feel anything."  

Arya just nodded. For a moment, we locked eyes, and I realized: she felt it too. This might be the first time we'd ever shared the same emptiness.  

"They're coming."  

"I know. Bran told us. I was there."  

Arya smirked. "Not the dead. Jon and his Dragon Queen." She handed me a scroll announcing the King in the North's return—with the queen he'd knelt to in tow.  

"Wonderful! He bent the knee, and now he brings her to Winterfell."  

"The lords revolted when they heard. Jon will be remembered as another king who knelt to a Targaryen." Arya paused. "At least you'll finally be Lady of Winterfell."  

I rolled my eyes, turning to glare—but froze when I saw her smiling.  

"Sansa Stark, Queen in the North at last."  

"Are you still on this? I don't want Jon's crown. I thought we settled that when Littlefinger died."  

"We did. I'm not accusing you." Her laughter startled me. It had been years since I'd heard it. Suddenly, her steel eyes softened. For a moment, she wasn't *No One*—just my little sister, the menace who'd once pulled my braids and terrorized Septa Mordane.  

"You'll rule over ashes and bones," she teased.  

"And you'll have an army of corpses to fight. Everyone on your list will already be dead."  

She burst out laughing, wiping a tear—then went still.  

"We're all going to die, Sansa."  

"I know."  

"But we'll die together. No more lone wolves. We'll fall fighting."  

I nodded, startled when something cold trailed down my cheek. I was crying without realizing it. Hesitantly, I reached for her hand. For once, she didn't pull away. Her fingers tightened around mine as we faced the white horizon.  

Home. Together. The weight felt lighter now.  

Chapter Text

BRAN

"You will not walk again," promised the three-eyed crow, "but you will fly."

Another crow soared freely through the sky, gliding over gray and white. Night fell, bringing with it the icy wind of death.  

The Wall had fallen. They were coming, closer and closer.  

Through the black eyes of a crow, I watched the procession approach. Jon Snow rode beside his aunt, ice and fire marching together toward the end.  

Behind them followed the dwarf and the Brotherhood Without Banners, Brienne and Podrick. But farther back, head bowed, was the Bull. A man whose blood could restore a house if there were enough time left.  He lifted his face, and grief shimmered in his blue eyes, deep as his father’s. The bastard trailed the procession as if searching for the blade that would cut him down.  

Needle.

The name he feared. And the hammer strapped to his horse was nearly identical to the one that had killed Rhaegar Targaryen.  The sound of a child’s cry pulled me back. I opened my eyes, feeling as though my body had flown miles and miles only to crash abruptly falling from a tower.  

"The things I do for love," echoed faintly in the distance, and the image of a lone lion riding toward the wolves’ home sharpened in my mind.  

"Sorry," murmured Samwell Tarly, rocking the baby as he left the room. His eyes were still swollen and red from weeping over the death of the father who had always scorned him.  

I turned my gaze to the fire and heard two familiar voices laughing.  

A stubborn smile tugged at my lips, surprising me. I hadn’t thought I could still do that. Smile.

But hearing Arya and Sansa bickering like they used to might have stirred remnants of the lost Bran Stark, the boy who climbed towers and dreamed of being a knight, the boy who listened to Old Nan’s stories without ever realizing he was part of them.  

The two entered the room, still laughing, but their smiles faded when they saw the one on my face.  

"He’s smiling?" Sansa asked, shocked.  

"Might be a grimace. From here, I can’t tell," Arya retorted, frowning.  

"Maybe it’s a good vision this time." Arya arched a skeptical brow, and Sansa huffed. "What? Can’t he see anything good?"  

"Green-seers see everything. The good and the bad," Sam explained, appearing behind her and glancing at me over her shoulder. "And he’s not having visions now—he’s awake." He grabbed a blanket and the thick book left on the chair before leaving again.  

"Bran, are you all right?" Sansa asked, her voice so much like our mother’s that Arya looked away when the eldest sister took my hand, scanning my face for injuries or any trace of pain.  

"I’m fine."  

"So, another damned vision," Arya said, and Sansa shot her a glare.  

"We should prepare all the available rooms. The Dragon Queen’s retinue is large."  

"Is that all you saw?"  Sansa pressed, uncertain if she truly wanted to know.  

"There’s something important I need to tell you both." 

"What is it? Is it about the Wall? The Night King?"

"No. It’s about Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen."

🐦‍⬛

Arya leaned against the wall, expressionless, as I revealed the truth about their most beloved brother. Arms crossed, she stared at the stone, while Sansa sat speechless, eyes fixed on the hearth.  

"His name is Aegon," Sansa repeated, disbelieving.  

"It’s a terrible name," Arya muttered. "Jon will hate it."

"So Jon is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Arya said, as if she couldn’t believe the words leaving her mouth.  

"What difference does it make? Do you really think the Dragon Queen would give up the throne for her nephew?"Sansa snapped, irritation flashing in her eyes.  

"Maybe. Perhaps that was their destiny."  

"Bran, please… Must you speak in riddles?"

"Ice and fire have met. And they will rule the throne together."

Arya and Sansa exchanged glances. Sansa pressed her lips together and laughed.  

"They’re together. That’s why he knelt so easily."

"Jon wouldn’t kneel for that, Sansa!"

"Oh, wouldn’t he? Then why else would he?" 

"To protect his people. Swearing fealty to the queen was the only way to fight the Others," Bran explained.  

Sansa paced, then did something someone else always did filled a cup with wine and drained it in one go. When her eyes met ours, she arched a brow.  

"What? Why are you looking at me like that? I need wine right now. Everything’s better with wine."

"The Imp used to say that. He’s your brother."  

"Yes, Bran. My husband always said that. And he was right." 

She refilled her cup and sank into the armchair.  

"It was all a lie," Arya broke the silence, still staring at the floor, her hand resting on the sword at her hip. "Robert’s Rebellion was built on a lie. Our uncle, grandfather, and so many others died for a lie."  

"Lyanna was never kidnapped. She loved him."

"I understand why Father never told the truth. No one would have accepted it. They would have turned on Lyanna." 

"But the blame is still hers. She started this," Arya accused, not realizing how much she resembled her aunt when angry.  

She never wanted to be a lady. She wanted to be free. She was fierce and hated injustice. She fought in the Tourney at Harrenhal."

Sansa laughed and looked at Arya.  

"Now I see why you were his favorite sister."

"I’m nothing like her. I would never choose a Targaryen and run away, leaving my family at war," she spat.  

"People don’t choose who they fall in love with, Arya," Sansa said softly, her eyes sad. "She would have been forced to marry Robert if she’d stayed. Married off just to unite houses."

"Since when is that a problem? You dreamed of marrying Joffrey and Loras Tyrell." 

"I’m not that foolish girl anymore, Arya. And I know how awful it is to be forced into a marriage just to strengthen alliances. Lyanna wasn’t like me. She was like you, she would never let others choose her fate."

"Lyanna’s fate was written. There was no other way. It was her destiny to love Rhaegar." 

"She was a Stark! She should have chosen her family, never gotten involved with a dragon." 

"Dragons and wolves can unite, Arya. Just as a she-wolf and a stag disguised as a bull can find their way back to each other."

Arya’s eyes widened. Sansa frowned and stood, asking if her younger sister was all right.  

Arya shook her head, a sad smile touching her lips.  

"No, they can’t. The stupid bull is dead. And if he isn’t, I’ll kill him myself," she declared, her voice icy and emotionless.  

Her face turned to alabaster, indifference hardening her features. Without another word, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.  

"What was that? What did you say to upset her so much?"

"I only told her the truth. There’s someone in the Dragon Queen’s retinue Arya believes is dead but he isn’t."

"And if she thinks he’s dead, why would she want to kill him now?"

"Because he left her,"I explained, and Sansa’s confusion only deepened.  

"Who is this person? What did he do to our sister?" she demanded, her voice grave, her gaze as cold as her mother’s so much so that it tightened my throat.  

I took a deep breath, ignoring those fleeting moments of sentimentality.  

"You are now the three-eyed raven. The one who sees all and knows all. Brandon Stark died in that cave. The boy became the crow." 

The voice hummed in my ears again, and the sound of a crow’s caw was enough to drain any lingering emotion from me.  

Bran, are you all right? Are you having visions again?"

"No."

Sansa sighed, rubbing her temples as she laughed.  

"What did you mean about the stag disguised as a bull?"

I didn’t answer, turning back to the fire. Sansa murmured under her breath.  

"A stag… That can only mean one thing. A Baratheon." She looked to me for answers. "But all the Baratheons are dead, aren’t they?" 

"The seed is strong," I replied, echoing the words that had brought death to Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark, the same words he had whispered before dying.  

Sansa frowned, but then her expression softened. Understanding dawned in her mind.  

She had changed. She had taken pieces of everyone into herself. The cunning of the Lannisters showed in her thoughts, even in the small gestures she unconsciously mimicked. The little bird trapped in a cage had learned to observe and adapt.  

This woman with Tully-blue eyes and fiery hair was not the sister I remembered. She shared the same face, but not the same soul.  

"A bastard," she said, fitting the last piece together. She smiled, staring into her wine, but it didn’t reach her eyes.  

"Even her, of all people, found someone." She swirled the cup and drank the last of the wine. Then she stood, leaned down, and kissed my cheek.  

I didn’t move or blink. I remained frozen, staring far beyond the castle.  

But Sansa didn’t mind my distance or indifference. Every night, she kissed my forehead, just as our mother used to.  With a sweet smile, she wished me pleasant dreams, even though she knew my eyes would never close again, never slip into the innocent unconsciousness of dreams where Bran Stark still climbed the walls of Winterfell, with Summer watching below.  

She clung to the boy who no longer existed. It was easier to keep his memory alive than to accept the stranger who had taken her little brother’s place.  

I closed my eyes and felt the chains binding me to this useless body snap. I flew free over the sky, watching the snow blanket the world below, the gray clouds drawing near, bringing with them the endless night.  

Chapter Text

ARYA

"The girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I'm going home."  

Even with the snow falling outside, the air felt heavier and colder in the crypt. Perhaps it was the weight of death lingering in that place—the alabaster faces of my family that looked so much like the ones I carried with me. Hollow, misshapen shells that bore no resemblance to the living.  

I lifted my chin and stared at the statue of the one who started it all. The one my father always compared me to with a mix of longing and regret. Did he think I would disappoint him just as she had?  

And though I stood so close, I could see no resemblance to Jon’s mother—no. His name was Aegon. He wasn’t a Snow, much less a wolf.  

He was a dragon.  

Perhaps it was the blood that bound him to the queen, making him kneel and swear the North’s fealty to a foreign conqueror. One who would rule no differently than Cersei Lannister. Because all of them, without exception, wanted only one thing:  

Power.  

The damned power that had slaughtered nearly my entire family.  My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms. I shut my eyes, refusing to cry. I was no longer a helpless, frightened little girl.  

I belonged to myself now. I had become everything I ever wanted.  

Arya Horseface pretended to be Arry, became the lost daughter of Eddard Stark, was kidnapped because of her name, turned into “No One”, and now was simply Arya Stark of Winterfell.  She had learned to wield a sword and poisons that could kill with a single drop. She needed no one to protect her—she could kill a man in the blink of an eye. The lone drop of Petyr Baelish’s blood on my clothes was proof of that.  

Killing meant nothing. Death no longer frightened me.  

She was just an old woman, wrinkled and sadistic, who placed weapons in the hands of those thirsty enough to fulfill her insatiable hunger for blood.  I was one of her weapons. And I felt no remorse.  

Someone had to do the work.  

I opened my eyes and found the twisted face that bore no resemblance to my lord father. Even if the stone didn’t match, his face was etched into my memory—his voice, his scent, his smile, the worried yet loving look in his eyes.  All of it still as fresh as the blood that had drained from him when his head was parted from his body with his own sword.  

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." 

A smile escaped my lips at the memory of his deep voice repeating those words. The distant look in his eyes whenever he took a life. He would sit before the heart tree, and no one but our mother dared disturb his ritual of cleaning the blade.  

What would Eddard Stark think of his daughter if he knew the dishonorable things I’d done? How many people I’d killed at the command of the Faceless Men?  

What would Jon think when he learned his little sister had been replaced by another?  

A no one.

An empty, hollow soul who lived only to cross names off a list.  

None of them would understand. The horror would be plain on their faces, just as it had been on Sansa’s frightened expression and in Bran’s wise, dark eyes—eyes that didn’t judge or recoil from me only because he, too, had become a monster like me.  

Judgment would come from Jon, who—even if not Eddard Stark’s son—was still the most like him.  

Honor would be his death. Or rather, it already had been.  

As I climbed the crypt stairs, my footsteps echoed, the torchlight flickering as I passed. My shadow danced the water dance with every step.  And the thought I’d tried so hard to lock away—along with everything that could summon the old Arya—began pounding at the door.  

No, not pounding. Hammering.  

"A she-wolf and a stag disguised as a bull may yet find their way back to each other."  

Bran’s riddles were beginning to infuriate me, making less and less sense each time.  

What did "a stag disguised as a bull" even mean? Was he truly implying that he was alive?  

I swallowed hard, my throat tight, a sharp, uncomfortable ache in my chest.  

Something as simple as a name shouldn’t have had such power.  

The name of a dead man.  

Gendry was dead. And even if, by some miracle, he had escaped, it wouldn’t matter. He was dead to me. I might not have his face in my collection, but his grave was set beside the others that meant nothing to me.  

🐺  

Sleep was difficult with so many thoughts swirling. Accepting that Jon wasn’t my brother but my cousin. Trying to understand what drove my aunt to flee with a Targaryen, leaving chaos in her wake while she spent ten months living her love story at the cost of blood and pain for everyone else caught in that stupid war.  

Trying to fathom why everyone compared me to someone so selfish. Sansa— she was the one who would do something like that. Marrying a prince and becoming a queen had always been her greatest aspiration.  

Sansa was the girl songs would be written about, the one men would go to war for. Not someone like me.  

Not Arry, not Arya Horseface. The ghost of a laugh made me shiver in bed. Now, every detail about him was resurfacing, no matter how hard I tried to block it out.  

Those ocean-blue eyes haunted me the moment my eyelids closed.  As I drifted into a world of familiar nightmares, a bull’s head emerged, keeping company with a dirty little girl, making promises he never meant to keep.  

🐺  

I woke in the middle of the night to a sharp pain in my stomach. I threw back the covers and found the linens stained with blood.  

I touched between my legs, my fingers coming away wet.  

"Oh, Arya! You’ve finally bled. Now you’re ready to marry and have horse-faced babies."  

Septa Mordane’s grating voice echoed, and I realized Winterfell was infested with ghosts wandering the castle.  I wondered if all the spirits of the North eventually found their way home—or if only those who died here remained trapped.  A grimace twisted my face at another sharp pang, the mere thought of Littlefinger and Ramsay lingering forever making my skin crawl.  

A sound at the door snapped my attention, and in an instant, I was on my feet, Needle in hand, pointed at the intruder.  

Sansa lost all color, raising her hands in surrender. I lowered the blade, irritated at having moved for nothing—but the shock on her face was almost worth it.  

"By the Seven, Arya," she gasped, a hand pressed to her chest. "Must you always greet me with a sword at my throat?" 

"I didn’t know it was you." 

"Who did you think it was?" 

"The walking dead. Or maybe a sellsword with daggers."

"Or maybe a bull," she muttered under her breath.  

My head snapped toward her. "What did you say?" 

"I said—" She stopped mid-sentence, mouth falling open. "Arya, you’re bleeding!"  

"No, really?" I rolled my eyes.  

She rushed forward, eyes wide. "Did you cut yourself with your sword?"  

"Between my legs, Sansa? Only if I were a complete idiot." 

Her face softened in understanding, which only annoyed me more.  

When Sansa did that, her expression shifted—and suddenly, it was like looking into Mother’s eyes.  The lump in my throat swelled, more uncomfortable than the pain and the awful sensation of blood running freely down my legs.  

"You won’t be a girl forever, Arya. Soon you’ll be a woman—and believe me, there’s no hiding it."

I gritted my teeth, furious at myself for thinking of him now. For finally understanding what he’d meant by those words, that smile.  

"Is this your first time?" Sansa asked softly.  

I wanted to shove her out the door. I didn’t want her kindness. I didn’t want her concern.  

I was about to do just that when I noticed the wetness on her cheeks, tears streaming down her beautiful face. I frowned, reaching up to wipe one away.  

"Why are you crying, Sansa?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.  

It was the second time she’d cried today—and from what I could tell, my sister didn’t cry in front of anyone.  

Crying was weakness. It was like showing the scars of the war we’d survived. Neither of us liked displaying emotion in front of the other—and yet here she was, weeping and smiling.  

"I’m sorry," she said, wiping her face with a laugh. "I’ll fetch you clean linens and a basin of water."  

And without another word, she left.  

🐺  

To call it a strange night would be an understatement.  

Having my sister and a doe-eyed maid change my bedsheets while Sansa explained "how it works" was surreal.  I’d rather be on the road. Or baking Freys into pies.  

After washing and dressing in fresh clothes, I found Sansa sitting at the foot of my bed, staring at her tangled hands. She looked up and smiled when she saw me.  

"Do you feel better?"

I nodded, too embarrassed to speak. I lay back down, expecting her to leave.  

But she stayed, statue-still, gazing at the floor.  

"Sansa," I said impatiently, ready to dismiss her as politely as I could.  

But the words died when I saw the tears streaming down her face.  

Uncertain, I reached out and touched her shoulder. She flinched, turning her face away in a failed attempt to hide.  

"Sansa, why are you crying?" I asked, as gently as I could—and it sounded strange even to my own ears.  

She laughed softly, her red hair falling forward. "It’s nothing. I just... got a little emotional." 

"Over what? Me bleeding?"

"It’s disgusting and painful. It feels like being stabbed all over again—only this time, they’re twisting the blade."

"Again? You’ve been stabbed before?"  

"Yes. But only once. It’s a long story." 

"I don’t mind hearing it."

"Well, I mind telling it." I instantly regretted snapping. She was only trying to help—trying to know the strange sister standing before her.  

"I understand. Some things are better left buried." Her jaw clenched, hands gripping her dress.  

An awkward silence settled. Sansa seemed lost in another world, like Bran.  I knew she was remembering something painful—her fists tightened, her tears stopped.  

"What was yours like?" I asked.  

She blinked, as if seeing me for the first time. "Painful. Like yours. It happened just before I married Lord Tyrion."

"Did he touch you?" 

She laughed, shaking her head. "No. Tyrion Lannister never dared. But I almost wish he had." 

"What?" I couldn’t process that. "You wanted him to consummate the marriage?"

"Not then. At the time, it was the last thing I wanted. He respected that. He said he’d never take me against my will." She sighed. 

"But if I’d known then what I know now..." 

"What would you have chosen?" 

"For Tyrion Lannister to not be so kind. For him to have claimed his rights."  

"You’re saying that because of Ramsay, aren’t you?"

She flinched at his name, and I wished I could bring him back—just to torture him for days before feeding what remained to his hounds.  

"Tyrion would have been gentle," she murmured, ignoring my question.  

I squeezed her hand, remembering the accusations I’d thrown at her. For the first time, I imagined what my fate might have been if I’d stayed in the castle—forced to live among my father’s murderers, married to the Imp to keep me captive in the Lannisters’ golden prison.  

Raped in the home I grew up in.  

Sansa’s ghosts were far crueler than mine. After all, my ghosts became ghosts by my own hand.  She wouldn’t have survived what I lived through. And I wouldn’t have endured what she suffered.  

I squeezed her hand again, and Sansa reached up, touching my face.  

"Does it still hurt that much?" 

l"No. It doesn’t hurt anymore."  

"Then why are you still crying?" 

My eyes widened. I touched my cheeks—wet.  

I turned away, but Sansa caught my chin.  

"Arya."

I bit my cheek, hating this. Hating the wave of emotion I’d thought myself incapable of feeling.  

Her voice was as soft and firm as hers. She looked just like Mother.  Sansa must have been the spitting image of Catelyn Tully at that age. No wonder Littlefinger’s obsession had transferred to her.  

"It’s normal, Arya. There’s no shame. I know it’s strange and confusing, and your whole body hurts—even the parts you didn’t know could hurt. But it passes. At least for a few days."  

I shook my head, wiping my face as a laugh escaped me.  

Sansa smiled, confused.  

"I’m not crying because of that. At least... I don’t think so." 

"Then why?" Her lips pursed, eyes flicking to the moss-green basin. "Because of the Bull?" 

I growled in frustration and threw myself back onto the bed.  

"You should go. It’s late, and the queen’s party arrives in the morning."  

She sighed, nodding. "If you need anything—" 

"I know." 

She left, and as the door closed, the tears came freely.  

I cried like the lost little girl with no family and no place in the world. I hated the sobs that wracked me, hated the excruciating pain when Sansa’s face blurred into Mother’s—imagining her here, happy that her little girl had become a woman.  

Crying over the ghost of a bull-shaped helm with blue eyes brighter than the stars, stubbornly haunting me.  I tried to ignore Bran’s words. It could be someone else wearing that helm. An enemy wearing his face.  

The thought alone made me boil with rage.  

But there was still the slim chance he’d survived the Red Woman.  And if he had—why hadn’t he come back? Why hadn’t he looked for me? I laughed at my own stupidity, scrubbing my face.  

Why would he care?  

I was just a pebble in his path. A girl he pitied, and so he protected.  

But I was nothing to him. Nothing to anyone.  

No one. 

Even if I refused the title, it still belonged to me. It was my second skin.  Maybe that was why Winterfell didn’t feel like home. I didn’t belong here because the Arya who’d searched for home and her beloved bastard brother had died.  

I should have gone right. To King’s Landing.  

Crossing another name off my list — the queen bitch who destroyed my siblings’ lives — was the only thing that made my heart race.  But now there was Bran. There was Sansa. How could I leave them defenseless against the walking dead and the Dragon Queen?  Sansa might be a great lady, as good as Mother was. But she wasn’t a warrior. And Bran was an easy target, always lost in another world.  

I groaned, muffling my frustration into the pillow.  

Emotion had gotten the better of me. I should have known better — never follow your heart. Love was weakness. My attachment to my family had led me astray from the path I was meant to walk. Now I was trapped in my home.  

Winterfell—the place that was supposed to bring me peace and safety. After all, "A lady's place is in her castle."  His voice echoed, mocking me. I wondered what he’d think if he saw me now—dressed in a nightgown, lying in a massive bed.  

"Stupid bull."  

I would never be a lady. Never be like Sansa. But he hadn’t believed that—he’d chosen the Brotherhood over me. Chosen to be part of a cult rather than my family.  

"You wouldn’t be my family. You’d be my lady."  

I bit my lip, eyes closed. The last memory of him—buried deep, sealed under a pile of stones—was breaking free. Roots slithered through the cracks, and a stupidly beautiful winter rose bloomed, coloring the gray face I’d kept as a memento.  

Gendry wasn’t alive. He couldn’t be. And if he was—I’d have to kill him.  

Because he tangled my thoughts, stole my focus, and dragged me back to that foolish, helpless little girl who craved his protection and company.  

The girl who’d wished, so many times, to shed her disguise and fall asleep in his arms.  I took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. With every second, I imagined his face crumbling to ashes, scattering in the wind.  

When I finally released the air, the ache in my chest had dulled.  

With the image of ashes blowing away, I fell asleep, determined.  

There was nothing left of Gendry Waters inside me.  I had burned him on a pyre. And soon, his ashes would vanish with the wind. And he would finally, truly, be dead. Buried in the grave he should never have left.  

Chapter Text

JON

"The North remembers."

As I rode toward Winterfell, all I could think about was them. Bran and Arya. My living siblings, safe for now in the home they never should have left.  

I should have been strategizing or reliving the night—perhaps the first and last—I'd spent beside Daenerys. But as the black stone walls of Winterfell grew clearer, anxiety consumed me.  

"You look nervous," Daenerys observed, smiling as she sat upright on her horse. I marveled at that smile, at eyes as blue as the ocean.  

I returned the smile, bowing my head slightly, still uneasy with everything.  

How things had changed in so little time. Weeks ago, I'd been forced to leave Winterfell begging for help—from a Targaryen, no less. The daughter of the Mad King who burned my grandfather and uncle alive. A woman who at first seemed as arrogant as any queen I'd had the displeasure to meet, demanding I kneel before we'd even spoken.  

"What's so amusing?" she asked seriously, watching her dragon— no, her son— circle the gray skies.  

I thought of Viserion, the child she'd lost because of me. Of Uncle Benjen sacrificing himself to the dead. My smile faded, guilt and grief smothering any joy or anticipation.  

She turned her head and sighed. "Don't blame yourself. None of this was your fault."  

I opened my mouth to protest, but the faint smile she gave me silenced me.  

"I should have believed you. Had I done so from the start, focused on the war that truly matters, my child would still be alive." She lowered her head, a stubborn tear escaping. I reached up to wipe it away, and she smiled.  

"No more talk of this," she commanded as I began to speak. "Tell me about them. Your sister and brother."  

I swallowed hard, the raw pain in her eyes conjuring images of Bran paralyzed in bed, Arya weeping as she bid me farewell. I forced a deeper breath, lungs burning with cold, wishing winter could freeze my heart and its grief.  

"The last time I saw them, they were just children. Bran had just fallen from a tower—no one knew if he'd wake. I never got to say goodbye." I remembered his pale face, deceptively peaceful as if asleep, not condemned to endless darkness without the legs he'd loved. "Arya... I did say goodbye to her. I gave her a sword."  

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "She wanted a sword?"  

"She always did. Dreamed of being a knight, riding with us on hunts. Hated embroidery and dresses. Swore she'd never be a lady or marry anyone." I smiled at the memory of her defiant little face, so determined not to be like Sansa.  

But then the unwelcome image surfaced: the boy with the bull helmet and giant hammer. A young Robert Baratheon paired with a child Lyanna Stark. A bitter taste filled my mouth.   Daenerys noticed my grimace.

"What troubles you?" I couldn't explain. Didn't understand why it unsettled me. I should have been glad Arya found protectors—so why did it sting that strangers like the Hound, Brienne, and Beric Dondarrion knew more about my sister than I did?  

"Nothing," I lied, still confused. "Just... I don't know what awaits me at home."  

"They'll be happy. They'll have a chance to survive. Your siblings are probably more anxious than you."  

I smiled but bowed my head, laughing at her naivety.  

"What worries you so?"  

"Everything. You don't know the North, how my people think. They won't rejoice that their king knelt to a foreign queen."  

"A Targaryen, you mean. I don't see why they'd object. You weren't the first to kneel."  

"No, but I'm the first bastard to do it. Kneeling swears fealty to another ruler. The last Stark who did that lost his head to his own sword. And the North remembers."  

"I'm not my father, Jon. Nor am I a Lannister or Baratheon," she said, almost offended.  

"I know. But they don't. All they know of you—"  

"—are terrible stories of me burning people with dragons and armies," she finished. "But it doesn't matter. You're the King in the North. They'll follow your command."  

She made it sound so simple. Leadership seemed to flow in her blood—she wore the crown effortlessly, unlike me. I was an intruder. Sansa should have been named queen. Or Bran. Not me, the bastard who crawled back from death with no idea what to do.  

I took a deep breath and rode in silence. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, steeling herself for the horrors ahead and the son she'd lost.  Then I lifted my head—and there they were. The black walls. My heart raced, wondering how she would look now. If she'd be waiting. All I wanted was to hold

Arya and Bran, to see with my own eyes how they'd grown.  

Chapter Text

GENDRY

Maybe I'm defective
Or maybe I'm dumb
I'm sorry, so sorry
For what I've done

It was close now.

Just a few miles to her. Even now, we could already glimpse part of the castle, and with every step closer, my heart seemed ready to leap out of my chest. Part of me wanted to rush past the king and queen to get there before Jon Snow reunited with his little sister and asked who the hell Gendry was and how we knew each other.

While the other part wanted to turn back and march to any tavern to drink and warm up from the freezing cold that made my jaw tremble so hard my teeth ached.

I wanted to drink and drink until the alcohol erased her existence completely, until no detail remained of those green eyes that haunted me every night.

Sometimes she was just his little friend Arry, disturbing his peace with thousands of questions. Other times she was a giant wolf that appeared. The eyes weren’t the same color—not green like hers—but somehow, he knew it was her.

She always appeared out of nowhere, behind bushes, growing larger each time she came in the dream. Staring at him like he was dinner, but never attacking. Just watching him, her mouth wet, her eyes going blank just before he woke up.

Now she was something else. A version without a face. Just her shadow watching him, always with a sword in hand, but never raising it toward him.Even if he couldn’t see her face, even not knowing how her girlhood features had changed now that she was a woman,He would still recognize her presence.The Faceless Woman, now known as cold and deadly. The girl who avenged House Stark and killed everyone who orchestrated the Red Wedding.She didn’t frighten him. There was no strangeness in it either. He had always known she would cross off those names. He had always known that the courage to kill was hidden deep in that green and treacherous ocean, the one that could drown him without even trying.There was no surprise in him. He felt nothing but the anxiety of wondering whether his name had also been added to that list.

"Hey, boy," Ser Davos called. I looked up and realized I had stopped walking. The procession was already far ahead. "Are you coming?"

I nodded and urged my horse forward, trying to catch up with Ser Davos, ignoring the way my stomach turned and flipped and the way my heart seemed to be running a race on its own.

I tried not to remember her voice describing this place. Talking about the brothers she lost and the parents she loved so much.

But it was a useless effort. Her voice was clear, stubborn, echoing through my thoughts.

Suddenly, I felt like I’d already been to that castle before. I could even imagine a much younger version of her running through the halls with her little wolf beside her, pretending sticks were deadly swords.

🦌

The gates opened. Contrary to what I imagined, there was no celebration or smiling faces to welcome the king. We found dozens of faces inside the castle, but none looked happy to see the return of the King in the North. Maybe it was just me. The people of the North didn’t seem to smile or get excited over much. They were hardened, quiet, and solemn.

Just like Jon Snow and Arya.Two figures stood out from the rest. One tall and one short. My mouth went dry and my heart pounded so fast it felt like it might stop at any moment from the strain. Standing above us was a red-haired woman in a fur coat and black leather. Her blue eyes were locked on Jon, who smiled when he saw her. She didn’t return the smile. Neither did the boy sitting beside her.I looked around, trying to swallow the wave of disappointment that hit when I didn’t find her beside her siblings.

But there was nothing. I lifted my eyes again to the pair and noticed the boy’s gaze fixed on me.He stared without blinking, without showing any reaction, and somehow, that was even more unsettling. It was the kind of stare the Red Woman used to give.

A look that searched your soul as easily as breathing.That had to be Bran, Arya’s younger brother. The one they now called the Three-Eyed Raven. Whatever that meant, it couldn’t be normal. Or just some nickname like Hot Pie or Bull.That name wasn’t just a title. It was who he was now.

He carried the same air as the Red Woman, but he wasn’t trying to enchant anyone. I looked around, still shocked by the atmosphere. There were no joyful, tearful reunions among the Stark siblings.

They seemed even colder than the wind blowing around us. Jon’s smile slowly faded as he found no warmth in his brother’s dark eyes. He glanced at Davos with a furrowed brow. The queen lightly touched his hand, and he forced a smile when she asked if everything was all right. That only seemed to harden the redhead’s stare. She descended the steps with grace and no rush.She stopped in front of them and stared at the queen for a few seconds, during which everyone seemed to hold their breath.

 Finally, she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and said they were all welcome in Winterfell. Her gaze passed over Jon’s shoulder, and suddenly she froze. Curious, I looked back too and saw her eyes fixed on Lord Tyrion.She blinked, raised her hand to gesture that Jon and the queen could enter the castle, then followed them inside without a second glance at the queen’s hand.

Jon paused halfway up the stairs, looking around as if searching for someone, and I knew it was her.I stood frozen in place, unable to move. The images I had of her were always of a frightened, dirty little girl. Sometimes her face was bloodied and thrown in some dark corner. Even now it felt hard to believe she was alive.

"Where is she?" Jon asked the redhead, who let out a loud sigh.

"You should help your queen settle in first," she suggested, though it sounded more like an order. Jon seemed to realize that too and gently took her arm.

"I need to see her, Sansa," he said, humble, almost desperate. The redhead pressed her lips before meeting his eyes, and finally, a sad smile appeared on her face.

"I'm sorry, Jon. I don’t know where she is."

"What do you mean... She left again..."

"No."

I closed my eyes and let out a breath of relief, as if a steel anvil had been lifted off my chest.

"She’s still here. She wouldn’t leave us now."

"Then why isn’t she here?" he asked, impatient. "I thought she’d be happy to... see me again."

"She was. She is. She missed you. You were always her favorite brother."

"Were?"

"It’s best we go up now. Your queen must be getting impatient."

"Sansa," he called.

"Jon, if she wanted to see you, she would be here. Don’t worry. When she’s ready... she’ll come to you."

The redhead walked up the stairs. Jon stayed where he was, leaning on the stone railing, sighing. Then his eyes met mine. And even though I didn’t know him well, I could feel the pain and disappointment radiating from him.

🦌

The Starks decided to serve the banquet. Or rather, the last supper. Everyone went to the hall to eat roasted meat and drink wine.But I couldn’t bring myself to go in and take part in all that. To sit at their table and listen to talk of the dead marching and all the chaos getting closer with every second. So I asked permission to begin my work. Dragonglass and steel were made available to me, and I started doing the only thing in the world I was truly good at. The only thing that brought me peace. By the heat of the forge, I focused on shaping and breathing life into swords and small daggers with dragonglass.

I poured all my attention into that. Tried to ignore the redhead’s words. Arya wasn’t there, waiting with her siblings for the brother she once longed so much to see again. She didn’t want to see him, not even the one she had fought so hard to find. But fate had always done everything to keep them apart. Suddenly, all the things they said about her started to weigh on me. The rumors took shape, echoed through my thoughts, growing until my head ached. I was forced to understand something Jon Snow refused to admit. Arya wasn’t the girl he left behind. Not anymore. She wasn’t his little sister waiting helplessly for his return.

She was someone else now.

A woman. Someone whose heart and mind were like shifting sand, the kind you could sink into with a single wrong step. She would build her armor, raise her blade, and create mazes no one could navigate.It was ironic, and a dry laugh escaped my cracked lips before I could hold it back. Just when I finally learn that she’s alive and so close, she pulls away.

Vanishes into the air like smoke, leaving no sign that she wants to be found. Only a few yards separated us, but it felt like miles. Like a wall of ice between us. A wall I helped build. Maybe I even placed the first stone. The day took its time to arrive. And even when morning came, the darkness still ruled.The Long Night they all spoke of had come. I looked toward a small gap in the door, hoping for the golden light of the sun. But there was only cold and darkness waiting.I opened and closed my hands, rolling my neck until my bones cracked in the process. I yawned, exhausted and heavy with sleep. There was a mattress with a stack of blankets prepared.It seemed Lady of Winterfell had thought of everything, even the blacksmiths and the queen’s Unsullied. They all had a place to escape the cold.I forged two more daggers and one sword until my eyelids grew heavy and the chance of chopping off a few fingers became too real.

Defeated by exhaustion, I collapsed into the bed and fell asleep immediately.

🦌

I woke up startled after horrible nightmares of the dead invading the castle. The white blanket of snow was covered with rotting corpses and blood. And in the middle of it, there was a familiar head. The giant head of a wolf, with green eyes.I rubbed my face to try and erase those horrific images and noticed how wet my face was. I must have been sweating and screaming all night, or day. From the slit in the window, no light came through. Maybe the sun would never rise again.

"Having nightmares?" a hoarse voice asked.

I jumped, startled, turning to find an old man sitting in a rocking chair. I frowned in confusion, and he laughed at my expression, showing his yellow, crooked teeth.

"Who are you?" I asked, staring at his wrinkled face, full of brown freckles. His eyes had once been as blue as mine, but now they were just dull and gray.

"I should be asking that, don’t you think? After all, this is my room."

"Yours? I’m sorry, I had no idea. I didn’t just walk in. The Lady of Winterfell said I could stay here, closer to the forge."

"So you're a blacksmith’s apprentice?" he asked, smiling. But I caught the sarcasm in his voice.

The old man smiled constantly and watched me with those clouded eyes that probably couldn’t see past his nose, like I was the strangest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. He said the room was his and he was probably one of Winterfell’s blacksmiths. But something about him didn’t fit. The constant smile, the sarcasm, the tanned skin like someone who spent hours in the sun.

He didn’t seem like he belonged to the North.

"I’m no longer an apprentice. Haven’t been for a long time."

He raised a thick, gray eyebrow and twisted his mouth in what looked like a grimace of disapproval.

"Then you’ve got a lot to learn. Your swords are duller than I am," he said, getting up with the help of a stick.

He walked hunched forward, limping with his left leg. He opened the window, and freezing wind burst into the room, making me pull the blankets up to my neck and shiver. I was definitely not made for this cold. The old man, on the other hand, didn’t seem to feel a thing. That calmed some of my suspicion. Only people from the North seemed immune to the kind of cold that froze your balls off.He rasped that it was already late and told me to leave his room. I got dressed in a rush but stopped, bothered by how the old man sat in his wooden chair, drinking something steaming, his eyes still on me. He smiled when I turned slightly to look at him.

I raised an eyebrow, and he did the same. Something in that gesture felt terribly familiar.

"What’s wrong, boy? Never changed clothes in front of a man before?"

"Sure, but none of them stared the way you do."

He smiled that way again.

"Where’d you come from, boy?" he asked, still watching me with that look.

It was like the wolf in my dreams. A fierce and treacherous look, memorizing every breath and step I took to trap me later and devour me. It sounded insane, I know. Feeling all that toward an old man with gray eyes and a creepy smile. I knew I should have just gone to find Davos and ask for another place to work.But I stayed. And suddenly, I was telling that stranger about my life.

"So you were in King’s Landing all this time, forging weapons for the queen who ordered your death?"

"Well, yeah." I shrugged. "Over time, the hunts for King Robert’s bastards stopped. The queen was too busy blowing up the Sept of Baelor."

"You just stayed there. Never tried to escape?" the old man asked, his voice rough and a little indignant.

"No, I didn’t try... I had no reason to run..."

"Then why leave now? Why come all this way just to forge weapons against the Others when you could have stayed where it was safe, being a coward?"

I sighed loudly and rubbed my throbbing temples with my elbows on my knees.

"For your king. I heard rumors about the battle of the bastards, and when I found out Jon Snow had taken back Winterfell and gone to Dragonstone seeking help... I volunteered."

"Why, boy? Are you an idiot or something? Do you even know what’s about to break into this castle?"

"I do. I saw it with my own eyes." I lowered my head, staring at the floor as the freezing wind made me shiver. The memory of the horrors beyond the Wall mixed with the nightmares that haunted me ever since.

"Then you’re even dumber than I thought," he spat with a scornful grin. Something in the way he insulted me made my stomach twist.

"You think I’m stupid for not staying in King’s Landing, but I did what I had to do. Your king needed every bit of help he could get, and even if I’m not a warrior and I’ll probably die the first chance they get... I’m doing something useful. Doing what I do best. The swords may not be as sharp as you’d like, but they’ll kill some bastard walking around out there."

"You don’t care if you die?"

"No. I don’t mind dying fighting to keep the people of Winterfell safe."

"An honorable bastard," he laughed bitterly and spat on the floor. "Seems like there’s a lot of you now. Bastards trying to prove their honor by dying or bowing to conquering queens. Honor used to mean something, but not anymore. Now even the North has a bastard king."

"That bastard nearly died bringing help when no one else did. He’s only doing what a good king would—saving his people. Doesn’t matter how. I thought that’s what a good king was supposed to do."

The old man fell silent and returned to his rocking chair. A long, strange silence settled between us. I was about to stand and leave when he asked one last question.

"If you’re not afraid of dying, then you’re either very brave or incredibly stupid to think you can save anyone."

"Yeah, I must be stupid. Because I still have faith in the North. I believe in the Seven. I believe we can win this long night. I’m not afraid to die for that. I have no one waiting for me at home. No one would miss me. I lost everything I had, and all I have left is to fight. To protect those she... loved."

"So, there is a girl," he laughed. "There always is. And that’s why you’re playing the hero."

"I’m not trying to be a hero. I don’t want to be anything other than the stupid blacksmith who makes the swords. I don’t have anyone to impress. And if she’s even... alive, she’ll never forgive me. There’s nothing left for me. Just dying in battle to protect her home, her family, everything that once mattered to her."

"Idiot, always an idiot," the old man muttered, standing faster than his age should allow.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"None of your business," he growled, pulling on a brown coat.

"Wait, you don’t need to leave. I’ll go," I said, standing.

"Stay. I don’t think Winterfell needs my services anymore."

"No!" I grabbed his arm. He stiffened like stone and didn’t turn to face me.

"Don’t go, please. This is your home. And the North needs help."

"They’ve got queens with dragons, Unsullied armies, mercenaries... Oh, and bastard blacksmiths and another one who calls himself king. They don’t need old men like me," he spat with disdain.

He pulled his arm free and slammed the door on his way out. I stood there, frozen, not understanding what I had said that was so repulsive to make that man leave his own home.But maybe it wasn’t something I said. Maybe it was just my existence. Bastards were unwanted wherever they went. Maybe the Wall was the only place left for us.

That old man probably despised me, and Jon, and every other one of us in the world. No wonder he preferred leaving rather than breathing the same air as me.Even angry, I couldn’t let him leave his home to face the cold and whatever else came with it. I opened the door and was hit with a blast of icy wind, cursing the North as I went after the grumpy old man who hated bastards like me.

🦌

The hall was full, and the conversation at the main table sounded heated. The imp drank his wine in silence, staring at the floor. Jon and the queen argued about Cersei’s betrayal, and no one else said a word. Arya’s siblings were there. But no sign of her.

The boy turned his head and looked straight at me, as if he had felt my presence. I swallowed and looked away, still searching for the old man. But as I walked through the hall, his dark eyes followed me. It bothered me so much I ended up tripping on a table and spilling wine and bread everywhere. Blushing with shame, I tried to pick up the trays, feeling everyone’s eyes on me. Someone called my name, but I didn’t look. I just focused on picking up the tray and not making more of a mess. Suddenly, a shadow stepped in front of me, and my heart jumped, hoping I’d lift my head and find green eyes waiting.

"Need help?" Ser Davos asked with a teasing smile. I couldn’t respond. The disappointment was too heavy, stuck like a lump in my throat. Davos sighed, shaking his head.

"Disappointed?" he asked as he helped pick up the last tray.

"Mm, no." I lied. He chuckled.

"Still don’t know how you’ve survived this long being such a terrible liar."

I just bowed my head slightly. I could still feel the boy’s eyes on me. And now there was a second pair. Blue ones, watching.

I shivered, feeling exposed in that massive hall under the weight of their stares.

"Why didn’t you join us?"

"I wanted to start making the swords," I explained. He frowned.

"That, or you were avoiding someone."

"Her?" I laughed, eyes on the floor. It was safer that way. Keeping your head down and your mouth shut had kept me alive.

"Never. I’d never run from her again. But now she’s the one running."

"Maybe she doesn’t know you’re back," Davos offered.

"Maybe about me. But she didn’t even come for the brother she longed so much to see again," I sighed, lifting my gaze and locking eyes with the boy. A faint smile formed on his lips.

That kind of smile of someone who knows more than they let on. It drew the attention of his sister and brother. And finally, the queen.

A cold stare that didn’t match the Queen of Fire. I turned away and focused on the only trustworthy, kind face in that place.

"Ser Davos, I’m looking for someone."

"I know. She hasn’t appeared yet—"

"I don’t mean Arya." He frowned. "I mean an old man. Grumpy, walks hunched, wears a brown cloak."

"I haven’t seen anyone like that around here. But who is he?"

"I have no idea." I shrugged. "He never said his name. But the room I was given is his. He’s Winterfell’s blacksmith, and he was really offended about having a bastard in his home."

"I haven’t seen anyone like that either. Maybe if you asked Lady Sansa..."

"Ask about what?"

Lady of Winterfell appeared, raising an eyebrow. Her brother Bran was beside her, still watching me without blinking. Like he was reading my soul.

"Lady Sansa, this is..."

"Gendry Waters, milady," I said, bowing my head slightly. She nodded and exchanged a glance with her brother.

"You’re the blacksmith Jon mentioned." I nodded. "So, what did you want to ask me?"

"He’s looking for an old man. Possibly Winterfell’s blacksmith."

"Oh yes," she pointed to a corner where a man not much older than Davos sat drinking with the others. "Would it be that one?"

"No, milady. That’s not the man who was in the room I was assigned."

"No? But that man is our blacksmith."

"What did the man look like?" the boy asked, still without any change in expression.

"He was very old. Long gray hair to the shoulders. Thin, yellow teeth, and very grumpy."

Sansa and her brother exchanged a long look. Davos and I frowned at them.

"Is something wrong?" Davos asked before I could.

"Nothing," the girl said, looking at the ground. "Except you just described someone who is already dead."

"Dead? But... he was very much alive. He kicked me out of the room and left in the middle of the night."

"Who exactly would this dead man be?"

"Based on that description, there’s only one possibility. Walder Frey."

"Frey... The one who..."

"Killed my mother and brother. Yes. That one."

"How is that possible?" Davos asked, confused, as my mind finally made sense of what had happened.

The grumpy old man was her. It was Arya who killed the Freys, from what I heard. And somehow, she had his face, his voice... everything. Arya had been right there, beside me, and I hadn’t recognized her. She was so close, and I let her slip away again.

"Gendry, are you alright?" Davos asked, worried, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I couldn’t speak. I was too busy reliving that strange conversation. Realizing why she asked so many questions. Why that smile felt familiar.

"Gendry," Davos called again, but I shook my head, swallowing hard, scanning the hall for her. I looked at every stranger, searching for any trace. A smile, a stare, anything to help me identify her. Then I remembered how the crooked smile faded. How repulsion took its place. How she spat the word "bastard."

Bastards are my favorite kind of people. Her sweet, childish voice echoed, and a sharp pain in my chest made me shrink. Arya had given me the answer I was searching for.

"She hates me," I muttered. Davos shook his head.

"Calm down, boy. You’re not making any sense."

"You don’t understand..."

"She doesn’t hate you," a voice cut in. I looked down and saw Bran, staring at some point on the wall.

"If my sister hated you, you wouldn’t even know she was there," Lady Sansa added with a faint smile.

I lowered my head.

"You’re wrong, milady." I smiled without humor. "She hates me. She’ll never forgive me... I’m probably on her list now."

Lady Sansa opened her mouth to reply, but I didn’t let her. I asked for permission to leave and practically ran out of that hall.

I only stopped in the courtyard, panting and shaking from the cold. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. Nothing hurt as much as the certainty that she hated me.I leaned against the wall. The tears came, and I didn’t try to hold them back. I felt lost, suffocated.It was like being struck with my own hammer, and all the air had been knocked from my lungs. The weight of her hatred was too much to bear. I wished she would just appear and strike me from her list with her Needle.I was sitting on the floor, back against the wall and eyes closed, when I heard a sigh. I opened my eyes and saw the King in the North staring up at the dark sky. He let out a long breath and then turned to look at me.

"I heard you had a special visitor tonight."

I swallowed hard and lowered my head, unable to face him. He looked back up at the sky.

"How did you meet her?" he asked softly. "Tell me something. Anything about her," he pleaded, and his voice sounded so low, so defeated, I took a deep breath before choosing what to say.

"Once she told me bastards were her favorite kind of people." I smiled, wringing my hands. Jon turned to me. "She said she had a brother like me. A bastard. And he was her favorite."

Jon smiled at the ground and murmured "Was" so softly I almost didn’t hear it.

"She carried her sword, her Needle, when I met her. She was fighting a boy much bigger than her."

Jon lifted his head and looked at me. He didn’t need to say anything—I could tell he wanted more.

"We were all heading to the Wall to serve in the Night’s Watch. She pretended to be a boy. Told me her name was Arry."

Jon laughed.

"For a while, I believed she really was a boy. A brave and troublesome one. But one day, the Queen’s Gold Cloaks showed up."

"Were they after her?"

"No. But she thought they were. That’s when she told me who she really was. She said her name was Arya Stark of Winterfell. She had run away right after... seeing your father beheaded."

"She saw?" Jon asked, horrified, his face pale. He leaned against the pillar, looking sick. "She shouldn’t have seen that. Shouldn’t have gone through any of it..."

"But she did. And even after seeing her parents and brother die in front of her, she never fell apart. Never gave up. She searched for you all this time."

Jon lowered his head.

"You were the only thing that kept her going, Jon."

"I was. Not anymore," he whispered. "I failed her."

"Then we both did," I murmured. "But you’re her brother. You always will be. She might be angry or disappointed now. But you’re her family. As for me..."

I laughed, even though I had no reason to. Even though all I wanted to do was cry or melt into the ground.

"As for you?" Jon repeated and laughed. "You’re the only one who made her leave her hiding place. She wanted to see you, more than she even realized."

"She hates me, Jon."

"No. She doesn’t. If she hated you that much, we would’ve found your head in that room. She doesn’t hate you. Whatever you did to upset her, it wasn’t stronger than the desire to see you again," he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"And she doesn’t hate you either, Jon. She just needs time," I said, even if I couldn’t understand what was going on in Arya’s head.

Why she came for me and not her favorite brother was still a mystery.

Jon smiled and extended his hand. Hesitantly, I took it and stood up. He placed a hand on my shoulder.

"I’m glad my sister found someone who cared enough to protect her."

"Actually, she never needed protecting. She was the one who saved me."

"Yeah, that sounds more like my sister," he laughed. "Still, she was lucky to find someone who cared enough to follow an idiot king on a suicide mission."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Jon tilted his head and smiled before walking away. I returned the smile, grateful that Arya and Ser Davos had been right. Jon Snow was a good man. And maybe he didn’t think bastards were the worst kind of people after all.

Chapter Text

I didn’t know if I was in that room to see him up close or to kill him with my own hands.
I couldn’t understand how he could have survived the Red Woman.
He could only be an impostor, a very good one, because he mimicked every expression and look I had learned to memorize over time.

Even though his face, hair, and body had changed, he looked taller than I remembered, and his eyes seemed even bluer. Maybe it was the contrast with all that snow, or maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me.
Because it couldn’t be him. Gendry was dead. At least, he should have been.

He was big and intimidating, though not as much as the Hound, who for some insane reason was still alive, alongside Beric Dondarrion.
The world had turned upside down, and my mind couldn’t process so much at once. That was it, a breakdown.

He didn’t want to feast with the others, have his last supper, or fall asleep in the arms of one of the prostitutes Tyrion Lannister had brought along. He had asked for permission to start working and hadn’t left the forge since. I had to make sure he ate something, because at that pace, he would pass out from hunger.

By morning, he finally gave in to sleep, and I was able to enter the tiny room where he had chosen to stay without asking for anything or complaining about the lack of comfort.
He slept as he always had, on his side, one arm dangling off the bed that was far too small for him. But what was a short bed compared to the hard ground we were forced to sleep on during the journey to the Wall?

I moved closer without making a sound, and even if I had, he wouldn’t have woken. He slept heavily like a bear and sometimes snored so loud that I had to nudge him at night, something that had once annoyed me, but in some strange way, I had gotten used to it. I even missed it when I was alone, a slave to the darkness I thought I would never escape.

That sound was familiar, comforting.
It brought back a little piece of the girl I had left somewhere along the road to Braavos.

Looking at his square jaw and the slow rise and fall of his chest, I tried to find some scar that would give him away and confirm my suspicions, but there was nothing.
No mark at all.

Suddenly, he began to stir and sweat.
I frowned when his face twisted into a grimace. He murmured something I couldn’t understand, the frown still deep on his forehead. I was surprised to feel the urge to reach out my hand, not to smother him with a pillow but to wipe that expression from his face. I swallowed hard and felt that familiar discomfort in my stomach, that irritating unease that made my heart race.

He opened his eyes and sat up, breathless.

I sat on the old chair against the door and took a deep breath, counting to five, imagining everything around me becoming silent and colorless.
Forget all color, all form, all expression.
Lock the girl inside you and never let her out again.
She was reckless and foolish, distracted by sounds and colors, especially any shade of blue that reminded her of eyes like his.

He rubbed his face and sighed. That was when I opened my eyes fully, forcing myself not to show anything other than disgust and irritation toward the bastard who rushed out of my room.

He was a bastard of King Robert.
That was why his face had seemed so familiar when I met him. That was why the Queen had hunted him, and it was because of the blood in his veins that he had nearly been killed by the Red Woman.
He spoke of his journey back to Westeros, of the hellish days spent forging weapons for the very queen who had once ordered his death.
He had been there all along, under Cersei’s nose and the Gold Cloaks’ watch.

He was alive. He had managed to stay safe.
And he had thrown it all away for the stupid wish to fight in a war that wasn’t his. I clenched my fists, gripping the piece of wood I used for my disguise so tightly that I nearly splintered it, just to keep from punching that face until it was unrecognizable.

He went on about wanting to meet the King in the North and serve him until the end of his days, which, according to him, was very near.
Even after all these years, he hadn’t stopped being a stupid bull.

Suddenly Bran’s voice echoed in my mind, as if he were laughing at me.
Damn Bran and his green visions. Damn all the bastards of the world who thought they could be heroes. I gripped the chair, nails digging into the wood, while he rambled on about his foolish aspirations.
Then he told me the real reason.
A girl.

Of course there had to be a woman involved. Gendry was a man, after all, and became utterly useless at the mere thought of a cunt.
For a moment, I drowned in that bitter feeling that had long been my old companion. Rage burned through my blood, and even in that freezing night, I felt heat.

All I could do to calm myself was picture the horror on Walder Frey’s and Petyr Baelish’s faces before my blade and dagger took their last breaths. Then he looked down, defeated, and answered the question I hadn’t wanted to hear. To hell with his noble reasons; he was a fool to follow my brother so blindly, as if coming to Winterfell were some sacred promise he couldn’t break.

"I don’t want to play the hero. I don’t want to be anything more than the stupid blacksmith who forges swords. I have no one to impress. If she’s still alive, she will never forgive me. There’s nothing left for me but this, to die fighting and protecting her home, her family, and all that’s left for me."

A few seconds passed after his words, which sounded like a lament. Even his eyes had lost some of their light; they looked dull, empty, like mine.
And that was my fault.

He was here because of me. He had followed my brother without hesitation, not caring if he died in the process.
All for the sake of a little girl he barely knew, a girl who should never have meant so much.

After all, that girl wasn’t special. She wasn’t beautiful like Sansa, nor would she ever know how to handle the devotion of a man like Gendry Waters.

I stood up, dizzy, as a lump grew in my throat. It felt like I had swallowed a dozen nails scraping against my insides, forcing tears I didn’t want to shed. I cursed at him, hoping my words would hurt enough to shut his damned mouth.

When had he started talking so much, pouring out his thoughts to strangers?
After insulting him, and every bastard who ever lived, I finally saw that wounded look of someone treated as nothing but filth.

I ignored the tightness in my chest that came from causing it.
He deserved it. He was a stupid bastard.
So stupid that he went after the old man, even after being insulted.

"Jon is looking for you."

A voice spoke behind me, and I was startled that I hadn’t noticed anyone approach. I had been too distracted thinking about Gendry and his declaration of loyalty to a girl he thought was dead.
Sansa was smiling when I turned to face her. All the tension in her face had been replaced by amusement.

"Nice disguise you picked. Though some people might drop dead if they saw Walder Frey’s ghost wandering Winterfell."

With a sigh, I removed the mask and gave her a crooked smile.
"How did you find me?"
"I knew you’d come here eventually. You always hide here when you need to think."
"You act like you know everything about me." I laughed bitterly, but her gentle smile didn’t fade. "We were never close. You didn’t know me then, and you don’t know me now."
"That’s true," she admitted softly. "I didn’t know you when we were children. You were my opposite and did everything you could to annoy me and mock my dreams."
"Of finding a handsome prince to sing you songs and cover you in jewels and roses," I finished, mimicking her, but even that didn’t wipe that infuriating smile off her face.

Sansa was far too calm for someone on the brink of collapse over Jon and his Dragon Queen’s arrival.
"Yes, my foolish dreams of a prince who would make me the lady of his songs," she said, looking at the ground with a sad smile. "I was a silly little girl with silly dreams, who never knew how to appreciate the happiness and peace her home and family gave her."

I rolled my eyes, irritated at myself for feeling the urge to comfort her.
"You were a child, Sansa. No one could have imagined our dreams would be our ruin," I said, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice. Staring at our father’s statue didn’t help ease the heaviness in my chest.

"You’re right, Arya. I didn’t know you. I still don’t. But I’d like to. Even now, with the end of the world at our door. Even now, when there’s no time left to dream of anything but sunlight on our faces again. I still want to know my sister," she said, her voice trembling.

There were no sarcastic words left in me to untie the knot in my throat as her blue eyes, so much like Catelyn Stark’s, pleaded with me to give her a chance. I lowered my head and wiped away the stubborn tear I shouldn’t have let her see.

"Thank you for not telling Jon where I was," I said, staring at the wall, unable to meet her gaze.
"I knew you didn’t want to see him," she sighed. "Even I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see him again."
"And did you change your mind?"
"Yes. Even though I was angry enough to want to take his head off, I realized I was more afraid that he wouldn’t come back. A Stark never survives long away from the North."
"He’s not just a Stark. He’s part Targaryen. Did you forget?"

The weight of that truth fell between us. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating, fitting for a place surrounded by the dead who had taken that secret to the grave, and others like my mother, who had died never knowing that the husband she loved had never betrayed her.

Every resentment Jon had been forced to carry since childhood had been built on a well-told lie that no one had dared to question.
Because knowing the truth would destroy the North, and my father knew it, bearing that burden until the end.

"Arya, can I ask you something?"
"You already are."
She laughed, and I nodded. She bit her lip and twisted her hands together. I frowned, surprised to see Lady of Winterfell, with her icy composure, looking nervous over a question.

"You can ask me anything, Sansa," I said, encouraging her, and saw surprise light up her delicate features. Her eyes gleamed as she smiled.
"Who is the Bull Bran mentioned? The one who disturbed you so much?"

The question caught me off guard. I met her gaze and felt a knot form in my stomach at the thought of Sansa discovering that Gendry was actually a Baratheon.
Something twisted inside me, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

Sansa must have read my mind because she quickly apologized.
"I’m sorry, Arya. I shouldn’t have asked. You’ll never trust me, will you?" She turned to leave.
"His name is Gendry Waters. A bastard of King Robert," I said, staring at the flickering torchlight that illuminated the crypt.

Sansa turned, eyes wide.
"He..." I frowned, remembering his confession, his loyalty, and his absence. Suddenly his voice echoed in my head. I could hear him calling me Milady and laughing when I threatened to hit him.

I will never be a lady.
I will never be anyone’s family.
"You won’t be my family. You’ll be my lady."

I swallowed hard, unable to stop the urge to scream, cry, or hit something or someone.

"He... he was..."
"You don’t have to say it. I understand."

"Ugh." I groaned in frustration, unable to put into words how I felt, unable to say who Gendry was or what he meant to me.
"He ran from the hall when Bran said the man he saw in that room was a dead man. He thinks you hate him."

I opened my mouth and closed it three times, unable to say a single word.
"I tried to tell him he was wrong, but he didn’t give me time. If you hated him as much as he thinks, his face would already be hanging from your wall."

A laugh escaped my lips, though it must have sounded more like a sob, because Sansa sat beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I stiffened immediately, but that didn’t stop her from rubbing my back in a useless attempt to comfort me.

"Jon went after him."
"He what?" I asked, alarmed, and Sansa laughed.
"Don’t be mad at Jon. He did what any brother would have done."
"Intimidate Gendry?" I asked irritably.
"He didn’t go to intimidate him. That would’ve been more Robb’s style. Jon went because Gendry is the only one who really knows you, Arya." She sighed, eyes still on the floor, her arm still around me.
"Jon just wanted to know what you went through, and whether Gendry helped you or..."
"He helped me. He protected me. He never told anyone I was a girl. He was too stupid to take advantage, even though a highborn girl could’ve earned him a fine reward. He did nothing but... protect me," I confessed, and Sansa smiled, tears running down her cheeks again.
"Seven hells, Sansa. You cry over everything."
"I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I’m just glad you found someone good-hearted who protected you when none of us could. Jon and I will always be grateful to Gendry Waters for that."

I rolled my eyes, but her smile drew one from me as well. Saying his name out loud, admitting what he had been to me, somehow made the weight on my chest feel lighter.
But another weight pressed on me.This time it wasn’t blue eyes haunting me. It was black ones, northern eyes staring directly at me and Sansa, frozen in shock.

"Jon."
"Arya."