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She’s never seriously thought there would be an after, until suddenly there is.
Cersei is dead. The war is over. And Arya Stark stands in the middle of it all, heart pumping blood just that same as it did yesterday, just the same as it will tomorrow.
Only tomorrow, there will be no fighting, there will be no bloodshed.
There’s only after .
It’s an easy thing to slip out of King’s Landing and into the camp of Northern soldiers laid out past the outskirts of the city. Her steps are as nimble as they ever are, but her body is numb in a way she has never experienced. She has felt hollow, she has felt alone, and she has felt like no one, but this is something else entirely.
She is adrift, cast out into an open sea, but for the first time in her life, she is not wanting for lifelines. The world stretches wide at her feet, waiting for her to take her first steps forward, the first ones that are entirely free of any burden, of any expectation. Waiting for her to make a choice.
The thought is terrifying. She has a choice .
No one pays her any mind as she walks between the tents of the Northern camp, just another young soldier lucky enough to see the other side of this war. The world is quiet around her, and though she knows the camp is celebrating their victory, is drowning both their jubilation and their sorrows in ale, she can only hear the steady drumbeat of her heartbeat paired with the ragged rhythm of her lungs. It is a pressing, ever constant reminder that she is alive , that life will continue on past this day, that she has made it to an after.
Her feet take her to the one place she banished from her mind these past several weeks, but is careful to keep to the shadows, not yet ready to reveal herself to this strange, new (peaceful) world. The ringing crash of a hammer against steel echoes from the camp’s makeshift forge, a strange sound to hear in between the cheers and whoops. There are no need for weapons in a camp that has won the battle.
He stands silhouetted in the burning glow of the fire, covered in soot and smoke, hammer swinging to meet the anvil in a hypnotizing pattern. He pauses, regards his work, quenches the steel in a water bucket nearby. A cloud of steam erupts into the air, obscuring his frame, and Arya takes a full breath for the first time since she’d seen him there.
She hadn’t known for sure that he would be with the Northern contingent, if he had instead elected to remain at the forge in Winterfell. But he is here, standing not thirty feet in front of her, still breathing, still living.
There’s a crease between his brows as he works. She wonders if she’s put it there, and feels the irrational urge to reach out and smooth it away. Her foot twitches against the muddy ground, urging her to go to him, to spill every last thought she’s had of him.
But she remembers a giddy kiss on a night flush with victory, a flood of words becoming muddied with misunderstanding, a plea whispered into cold winter air, and thinks to herself that, considering the farewell, he deserves a better greeting.
She will come to him when she is not so tangled up inside, when she lets herself believe that this after is real, and that she might take part in it.
But in the meantime she watches him, the corners of her lips turning up into a small smile.
Three days later, she finds him again.
The camp has settled into a kind of routine as King’s Landing adjusts to its new normal, and the soldiers rest their bodies and build their spirits before the long journey back North. He still works at the forge, repairing bent armor, replacing broken blades, and anything else the camp requires of him. The crease between his brows has not gone away.
Arya watches him for an hour, not knowing how to approach him, and for a terrifying second, wondering if he even wants her to. But his quiet words still ring in her ears -- you have to come back .
So she does.
His back is to her when she finally takes that first step forward, then another. She pauses at the entrance of the forge, unsure of what to do with her hands.
Time stops when he turns around.
The helmet in his hand crashes to the ground. He places a hand on the anvil next to him to keep steady. Arya wants to cover it with her own, but there are things she needs to say first.
He swallows once, twice. “You came back.” His voice is hoarse.
“You asked me to.” So is hers.
“I didn’t know if you’d listen.”
I always listen to you , she wants to say, but doesn’t.
Gendry starts to say something else, but she holds her hand up. “Please, let me -- there are some things I’d like to say. Since I didn’t last time.”
He nods without hesitation, and she tries not to notice his white-knuckle grip on the anvil.
“When I was younger, before… everything, my mother would always fuss at me for getting mud on my dress, or twigs in my hair. She’d pick them all out, one by one, and would ask why I couldn’t be more like Sansa. Why I couldn’t be a lady like I was supposed to be. And my father,” -- she swallows a hard lump in her throat -- “he was kinder in that he’d let me play at swords with Jon and Robb, but I remember one day when he sat me down and told me that my future was to marry a lord and be his lady. That I was supposed to bear his children.” She meets his gaze head on, much like she had the last time they’d spoken. “I told him that wasn’t me.”
“I don’t --”
She shakes her head and cuts him off. “I know. Especially now, I know. But when you asked me to be Lady of Storm’s End, all I could think of was my father telling me to be some pretty little decoration on the arm of some lord. Even if I knew, deep down, that’s not what you were saying.”
“I get it,” he says. “I do. And I know I said it wrong.”
“But that’s not -- that’s not it. Not entirely.”
He is patient while she gathers her words. “I thought -- I knew that I had to go to King’s Landing. And I knew that there was a possibility I wouldn’t come back. I thought if…” Her words grow quiet, as though she is ashamed to say them.
Gendry takes two quick steps and he’s at her side, but all he does is take her hand and rub his thumb across her knuckles, a soothing gesture to anchor her.
“I thought if I didn’t make it back, it would hurt you less. If I said no.”
“Arya.” And oh, she only ever wants to hear her name like that, so heartbreakingly tender she thinks her ribs might crack open. His other hand comes up to caress her cheek. She leans into his touch. “Saying no didn’t make me love you any less. And losing you would have hurt the same no matter what.”
“I was scared,” she whispers. “I think I still am.”
“So am I,” he confesses. “Less now that you’re here.”
“I’m not a lady.”
“No one’s asking you to be.”
“I don’t wear dresses.”
He shrugs. “Never seen you in one.”
“I’m not proper.”
“Neither am I.”
“I can’t sit still.” Her gaze is eager, searching. “I might leave.”
“So long as you come back.”
All she can see is blue -- rich, tender, infinite blue.
“Always,” she breathes. That will be her answer to his plea: always .
He leans down, his movements slow and careful, giving her time to accept him, if that is what she wants. She surges up, pressing her lips to his, and while this is not their first kiss, it is by far their sweetest.
She is breathless when they pull apart, but she has enough to say, “Ask me again.”
“What?” The crease between his brows appears again, but this time, she lets herself smooth it away with her thumb.
“Ask me again.”
His expression lifts into hopeful joy. He leans forward until his mouth is right by her ear. “Be my family,” he whispers, arms wrapped tight around her waist.
Not lady, not wife, but family .
“ Yes ,” she whispers back.
And finally, she has her after.