You're alive. You're alive, and that's the first thought that strikes you as you stagger through the wreckage of Winterfell. The stench of burning flesh still hangs heavy in the air; clouds of ash swirl around your boots, catching at your throat like a madman’s grip. The fires are out, but the dead are many, and each heap of bodies feels like an accusation. But still—you’re alive.
You pause to help shift a charred beam from a pile of rubble, revealing what’s left of two curled corpses beneath, their hands intertwined even in death. That could have been you. Could have been her. But she’s alive too—Arya—and the thought is enough to send a reckless grin flitting across your face.
The girl who saved you all.
The girl who kissed you, bold as anything, before running out into the night to kill death itself.
A woman now—you know that well enough—and yet you can’t stop thinking of her as that fierce child with the dirty face and wild eyes. Your mind drifts back to when she was nothing more to you than Arry, a grubby little lad on the run with no sense of fear or propriety. You never expected this, not then; she'd said she wasn't a lady but there she was warming your bed before you rode into certain doom.
And now here you are, alive. Alive and breathing and—by the gods—legitimized. A name and a castle to go with it: Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End. It sounds strange in your ear, like someone else's title entirely, but it's yours all the same. Hers too, if she’ll have it.
If she’ll have you.
Your heart pounds louder than any smith's hammer as you spot her across the yard, standing amidst piles of timber being stacked for pyres. Her hair is tangled and dark with soot; her face smeared with streaks of dirt; her eyes bright as flames in the night sky.
"Arya!" you call out, and just saying her name lifts something inside you like wings unfurling.
She looks up from her work, wipes sweat from her brow with the back of one hand. No smile yet—that would be too easy—but neither does she turn away when you approach.
"Thought you'd be gone already," she says, voice casual as if asking about scraps for supper.
"Not without speaking to you."
Her gaze fixes on yours then: sharp, assessing—a dagger-eye stare that pierces right through any armor you've ever worn.
"What did I say before?" She straightens up; crosses her arms over her chest.
"You weren't done yet," you reply. "Neither am I."
The corner of her mouth quirks upward at that—a shadow of amusement—and it's all the encouragement you need.
"I want..." You're breathless suddenly, unsure how much to say or where to start or what words will reach her wildling heart: an arrow shot in the dark that might miss its mark entirely—yet still you've got to try. "I want it to be more than that," you begin again; voice steady now like steel taking shape beneath your hands. "More than just one night."
She blinks at you slowly; seems almost puzzled by this notion.
Then she turns away, tilts her head; gestures with a nod. "Come," she says, cutting through your words like they're nothing more than smoke. You hesitate a moment, watching her retreat into the castle.
Your mind races as you follow her, trailing behind as she winds through corridors and out into the open again. The morning sun pierces low through the trees, bleeding red over snow and ash. Her stride is unbroken; relentless as ever. Past training yards and battlements she leads you, through smashed gates and beyond where the fighting was thickest.
The air clears as you reach the woods. Arya moves fast, sure-footed among the birch and fir as if she knows every tree from memory. Mist rises around her—tendrils of white that curl away from each step—and for a moment she seems like some spirit leading you deeper into an unknown world. But then she's there ahead of you: real and solid, breathing hard like you are.
A small clearing opens before you, revealing a forest pool untouched by war. The water is still; dark glass mirroring gray sky and bare branches above.
Arya stops at its edge; stands there a moment with her back to you. When she turns, what she does next takes your breath away.
She strips off her clothes—not slow or shy but quick and deliberate—like shedding a skin that's grown too heavy to bear. Her bare shoulders are smeared with soot; streaks of dried blood run down her arms like paint from some savage battle-god’s brush.
She looks older than you've ever seen her—older than anyone should ever have to be—but the way she stands makes your heart twist inside your chest: defiant still; unbroken but so very tired.
"Tired of death," she says softly, meeting your eyes with a weariness that speaks louder than words.
Then she's in the water, disappearing beneath its surface with barely a splash before rising again like something reborn. She brushes fingers over her face and hair; scrubs gently at stains of ruin on her skin.
You join her without thinking; clothes abandoned on the banks behind you. The cold bites sharp at first but soon numbs everything except this clear sense of being alive—alive with her, here in this hushed place where nothing else matters.
She's close enough to reach now, not resisting as your hands find hers beneath the water's surface; helping wash it all away: the soot, the blood, maybe even this bone-deep exhaustion that's settled in both of you like old ghosts refusing to leave.
There's silence again as you work together—rubbing grime from flesh until it runs clean and pale under your touch. The mist swirls low across the pool's surface; birds call out somewhere far off in the woods.
"You meant what you said?" Her voice cuts through it all—the question hanging like frost in the air.
Every part of you aches to answer yes—to say that you'd give up castles and titles if it meant waking beside her every morning for what's left of your life—but something holds you back: an unspoken fear that she'll vanish like smoke if pressed too hard.
Instead: "I'll always wait for you."
She turns toward you then—really looks at you—and this time there's no doubt or hesitation in her eyes.
"I know," she says simply, like it's already decided.
The sun climbs higher overhead; frost melts into droplets on bare branches above. Slowly but surely they fall—one by one into the pool—sending ripples outward until they reach where you're both floating there amidst the quiet light.
She kisses you then, fierce and sudden. Her lips on yours spark something wild that burns through you both like fire racing over dry fields.
Your blood rises fast as your hands roam freely over the wet slick of her skin—the warm curve of her back, the sharp jut of her hips—and she moves closer, pressing against you until nothing else exists but this: two bodies and the water and the sky above.
Her hand stops yours just as it's finding its way between her thighs. A sly smile plays across her mouth. "Not here," she says, teasing as always, and then she's pulling you out of the pool.
Back to the castle you go—hastily dressed; shivering and breathless and alive with wanting—through woods and yards and up into chambers that echo with emptiness and creaking wood.
Her room is sparse but familiar; rough-hewn walls closing in like shelter from a storm. She pushes you onto the wide bed there, the mattress dipping beneath your weight.
Before you can catch your breath, she's tugging at your clothes with deft fingers; stripping them away until there's nothing between her gaze and the length of you rising to meet it.
Then she's on you again: mouth against mouth; skin on skin; heat building between each touch like blacksmith's work at daybreak.
Her fingers weave into yours briefly before letting go to explore your body. Down your chest, across your belly—the path relentless as she is—and you're gasping for air when finally she reaches what she's after.
The world narrows to this moment: Arya Stark straddling you with a warrior's grace; taking you in hand soft but sure; lowering herself onto you in one slow stroke that's almost too much to bear.
She's tight and hot around you—gripping close like she'll never let go—and it's nearly enough to finish things right then. But you hold on somehow; grit your teeth against this sweet agony while she moves above you in a slow and steady rhythm.
You watch her face—the way it twists from focus into pleasure—and it undoes something deep inside: unravels it until you're both lost together in this tangled rush toward some new horizon neither has ever seen before.
Faster now, desperate—her pace demanding more than you're able to give—yet still neither of you lets up until there's nothing left except one last shared cry that echoes off the stone walls.
Her body clenches tight around yours at the end; pulls everything from you as if taking claim not just of flesh but also heart and soul and all else besides.
Then she's collapsing beside you: spent; panting; still wrapped around your chest.
A silence grows between breaths—a silence that feels different than before: fuller somehow; less haunted by all those ghosts you've chased away together.
And when she speaks again it's with certainty that makes everything else seem small by comparison.
"More than one night," Arya says, more promise than question this time.
You nod; pull her even closer while sunlight spills through window cracks like gold coins piled high for futures untold.
"Aye," is all you manage.
* * *
The yard is full of noise and motion, and Arya is lost in it as the day wears on. You catch glimpses of her through the smoke and chaos, hair wild as she scowls orders and makes quick work of clearing the dead. Her brothers are near her at times, moving bodies with silent grimness; burning them in rows like sheaves of wheat at harvest.
Her eyes meet yours once, fierce and blazing before she turns away again—called by duties neither of you can ignore—and you find yourself wishing for nightfall.
By evening you've forgotten what sleep feels like; forgotten nearly everything but blood and ash beneath your nails and how much you want to see her again. The bath you take leaves you clean but exhausted; thankful for the empty bed that welcomes you soon after.
When morning comes, it is bright—so bright that the sun streaming in through window cracks feels like accusation. You groan against it; turn your face into the pillow until something moves just beyond your closed lids.
Your eyes fly open to see Arya there beside you: smiling down all mischievous with light haloing around her like some radiant goddess. She looks so beautiful that you're stunned silent.
"You're awake, my lord," she teases.
Before your brain catches up, she's kissed you—a quick theft of warmth that leaves you breathless and grinning like a fool.
"You seem rested," she says when finally you draw apart. "I've been up half the morning already. I'm hungry."
There's no mistaking her meaning—or the way your blood races again when she lets clothes fall to floorboards one by one until she's naked before you in the light.
You roll to your feet—every inch of you eager and ready—“Aye, m’lady!” She looks you over slowly, appraising, then drops to her knees with wordless intent. “Tie me,” she commands, wrists crossed behind her back. You hesitate for only a heartbeat before knotting them with a length of cloth.
You stand above her, cock demanding and close to her lips. She glances up, eyes locking yours like a challenge. Then she claims you in one swift move; takes you almost whole from the start.
Your knees nearly give way at the feel of it: wet heat and wicked tongue; depth so sudden and sure that you're gasping for breath between groans. She works you hard like this—pulling back slow before swallowing deep again; cheeks hollowed and relentless—until it's too much to hold on.
She pops off and you cum spectacularly—spurting onto her face in thick white torrents—and it's almost an apology that leaves your lips when you finally find your voice.
But Arya only laughs; smiling through the glaze of your cum like this is exactly what she'd wanted all along.
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She stands with wrists still bound and presses against you, slippery and shameless until need rises sharp in your belly once more.
"Untie me," she says, mouth grazing your ear while she squirms against your chest.
You do as you're told; free her hands then pin them against the wall just above her head. This time there's no waiting before you lift her off the floor; wrap her legs high around your waist and find your way inside her fast and fierce.
She's even tighter than before—and it's a bruising pace she sets with hips and heels urging you on.
"Don't stop," she demands when sweat begins to sting your eyes like salt. Her fingers tangle into your hair; pull hard enough to make heat flare white-hot at every root.
There's nothing gentle in the way either of you moves now; just raw want and sharp edge chasing toward another high that's rougher than first light but every bit as bright.
When Arya comes this time it's wild and untamed—a high keen wrenched from deep within—that pulls you over the edge with her in a last brutal thrust.
You sink down together afterward; bodies spent but greedy for closeness they can't seem to get enough of.
Later, after breath returns but before words do, she wraps herself around you tight as when you'd started.
“Will you—” she starts, and you feel her breath against your skin; feel her pause then press even closer before trying again.
“How long—” is all she gets out this time before slumber pulls her under.
You smooth wild strands of hair from her cheek. Whatever Arya has asked, you know the answer; feel it in your bones as you drift off with her.
"As long as it takes," you murmur, but she's already asleep before the words find air.
When you wake it's past nightfall and she's gone from your side. You've known this was coming; could sense it in the way she held you—too tight for anything except goodbye—but still there's a hollow space where heat and heartbeat used to be.
Her scent lingers on the pillow beside yours. You bury your face there.
By morning the ache stays but some part of you has left with her; chased after that uncatchable girl like wind trailing a hawk across wide open sky.
They say she planned to go to the west; that no one will ever find her there, but you nod when they tell you this: nod because understanding comes easy when it's about Arya Stark and how she lives best untethered by anything except herself.
You ready yourself for the long ride to Storm’s End—a future less bright yet still more than you'd ever dared hope for—and wonder how far she'll get before missing you as much as you miss her.
You’ll have her rooms prepared for her like she would want them - simple, practical, and next to yours.
The sun spills through the window once more as you turn to go. It feels different this time: not accusation, but a promise wrapped in gold.
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