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She opens the door to her room carefully, looking around before fully stepping inside, part of her expecting there will be bodies in here too. But a quick scan tells Arya that she’s the only silent body there.
Slowly lowering herself on the edge of her bed, she sits in the dark. There isn’t much point lighting any candles; it’ll be dawn soon. And even though she’s now put an end to the night, she’s still comfortable in the dark – she can still feel, taste, see in the dark.
Even closing her eyes, it doesn’t make a difference to how she feels the room, but she realises she’s tired in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. She realises she wants to hide in the dark not to gain something, but because she wants to hide; not to involve herself without being noticed, but to distance herself and not be involved at all.
She touches her fingertips to her temple, giving a slight groan at the pain that goes through her and the fuzziness that’s suddenly back. Frowning in discomfort, she sighs as she pulls her fingers away and feels the blood that isn’t already dried. It makes her realise her skin feels coated in grime, in death. Her hands lean by her sides as she sits at the end of the bed, trying to work through everything. She looks over to the bowl of water that sits on her dresser. It will be cold, and stale, but at least she could wipe away some of what itches her skin.
There’s a noise in the hallway, footsteps that stop outside her door. She can see their shadow, candles in the hallway lit unlike her room. The fuzziness and the fact that she didn’t expect it means it takes her longer than it should to realise it’s Gendry. He’s unsure, shifting back and forth on the spot.
Arya gives a moment to see if he’ll actually knock, but she feels the press and drag of it, impatient, and she wants to see him. She wants to see his smile, wants to hear him, wants to make sure he’s okay, and she’s too tired to ignore it, or to remind herself why she should ignore all those wants.
Getting up, she goes to the door and opens it. He’s surprised by her and his face becomes more and more shocked as he takes her in, his eyes going down and back up again; she sees his focus settle on her temple, the frown he gives before meeting her eyes. She’s assessed him in half the time it takes him. He seems okay, she thinks. A cut on his brow, and he holds himself like he’s tired, and sore, but okay. She’s a mess compared to him. And suddenly she cares about that. She cares about how she looks. He’s seen her dirty and in rags and knotted hair again and again, but not for a long time, not now and not here. It’s different now.
She turns away silently, back into her room, without saying anything, but she leaves the door open. The silence and the way the shadow now on her floor show he doesn’t move, only stands in the doorway. There’s a part of her that wants to tease him about it, and another that wants to roll her eyes at him, but more than that Arya realises she just wants him here. She wants to talk to him, wants to share things with him. When was the last time she wanted to do that with anybody? Probably with him.
“Beric Dondarrion is dead.” She says, hearing how numb her voice sounds. Not composed like it should, but numb.
Finally the shadow changes as he shifts. “Yeah, Clegane said,” he replies.
‘Clegane’ she notes. That’s how it is now.
“And…” He pauses and she tilts her head some in the direction behind her, but she doesn’t turn around. “He said Melisandre…” he stops again she hears it all. She isn’t sure which pain is louder, his or hers, but all of it screams at her, almost consuming her. “The Red Woman,” he corrects and similarly, she isn’t sure if it’s for his benefit or hers. “He said she talked to you, and that she knew you,” He’s quiet again, waiting for her to answer, to fill in what happened, but she doesn’t know she can. He sighs behind her, shifting his weight to his other leg and she stares down at the shadow he’s still casting on her floor. “Did she do something to you? Clegane said she didn’t, that you just talked, but he also said you ran out after and I…I know what she’s like.”
Yeah, she supposes he does know what Melisandre’s like. What she’s capable of, what she looks like, feels like?
“Arya.” He says after another moment of her silence and she hears desperation there. Worry.
“She didn’t do anything to me.” She says, realising she wants to take away that worry.
“Then what happened?” he asks and she hears not just the worry now, but fear.
Sighing, she stares at his shadow. “She knew.”
“Knew what?” the shadow moves, a shake of his head. She’s sure she can feel it too, almost waits for the sounds of the floors moving under him.
“She knew what I had to do. She knew it had to be me.” She says simply, that numbness still there and she stands. She can feel tension in her, running through her, building, but all she can do is stand there, blink, and wait for him.
“What?” Gendry asks in a breath. “Killing the Night King? So it was you, you…” he trails off, doing that thing she always remembers him doing, talking through his thoughts before he realises and shuts up, expecting she’s thinking the same thing, like he believes he’s caught up to her. “Arya.” He repeats, that helplessness again that seems to be enough to shake her out of her haze.
Whirling around, she storms to the door, putting a hand on it. She watches him follow her movement, looking like he’s about to step back, about to leave. Like he thinks the door is going to be shut in his face. That annoys her even more. “Yes, I did it. Are you coming in or not?” she snaps.
He stares at her, and she takes it, but she feels more discomfort than she’d like. She’s not looking at him, her focus past him to the hallway behind as she waits, but she knows he’s looking at her. Finally he steps forward and it’s only when he does, when he makes the choice, that Arya feels something in her calm down. Just barely, but enough that makes it a difference. She swings the door closed and it’s dark again, and quiet, and she decides not to put any candles on for Gendry. If he wants them, he can do it himself, or get used to the dark with her. What she does do though is step away from him towards the dresser where the bowl of water sits. Soaking the cloth that was next to it, she starts wiping her face, riding herself of the dirt sticking to her, cleaning the blood from her cut. She bites her lip, refusing to make any noise of pain in front of him.
Arya thinks he might ask if he can help, and part of her wants him to so she can tell him no, but more of her hopes he doesn’t because she worries she might say yes.
He doesn’t ask, moving close to her bed so he’s standing behind her again. There’s no shadow this time, not at all from the side of the room she’s at, but it doesn’t make much difference to how aware she is of him.
“Why you?” he finally asks. “Is it…” he pauses, and she waits as he does it again, as he works it out for himself. “You said you knew death, is that what it’s about?” he wonders and Arya finds herself somewhat annoyed that he narrowed it down so quickly, so precisely, even if he has no idea what he’s saying. “What does that mean?”
How is she supposed to answer that?
“I’ve killed people.” She decides on. Taking everything else away, why, how, where, who – everything that means something, all the factors of who she is now, she draws it to what it comes down to, and what might drive him away.
“We all have,” is Gendry’s response. “It’s war.” He reasons. She doesn’t know who he’s killed, what she’s missed about him all this time.
Most of the blood she’s wiped away and she presses down on the cut, to stop the bleeding, to feel it. “I’ve killed people outside of war.” She’s killed people where there is no war, she’s killed people where the only war is the one she carried with her.
“To survive.” Gendry excuses, as if he’s sure, sure of her.
“No, because someone asked.” She corrects, partly to unbalance him, to get him to stop thinking he knows her, to stop herself from starting to believe that he might accept every part of her.
It’s quiet again and again, Arya can almost feel Gendry trying to work out what she’s saying. “I don’t…I don’t understand,” he says and there’s a moment she feels self-righteousness, thinks that she’s right and he can’t understand, not who she is, who she’s never wanted to be, but then he keeps talking. “And it doesn’t matter, not if you don’t want it to. You saved everyone,” he justifies on her behalf, shattering her triumph while also putting new expectations, new roles on her that she doesn’t want. She’s not the hero. “You ended the war,” he says and she remembers those words. “This one, at least.” He adds, joking. She hears the smile this time. His own challenge to her, trying to prove that he does know her. Remembering them bickering, remembering another time they survived.
Dropping the cloth from her temple she turns around to stare at him, unable to stop herself responding to him. “Beric died saving me.” She whispers, the words coming out of her mouth before she’s decided she wants to say them.
“He believed you were worth saving.” Gendry again reasons away, as if all they do is about belief, about morals and principle. Honour.
“I hated him, when he gave you up. I wanted to kill him.” She explains and it feels like a confession, of what he meant to her, how much he drove her even after he was gone, and of failing him, because she didn't kill Beric for him; she decided not to. But in the end, she was the cause of his death, because she failed, because she had to run. She didn’t ask him for his help, he shouldn’t have given it to her. The Lord of Light isn’t her god. She doesn’t want to be their hero, their purpose. She doesn’t want to be controlled by The Lord of Light, doesn’t want to be a champion for them. That’s not who she wants to be chosen by.
“I felt the same about Thoros, when we were beyond the wall. I hated them, as soon as I saw them again…” Gendry says and she remembers Sandor saying that Thoros was gone. “But I tried to save Thoros, and he died saving Clegane,” He half-turns, looking around himself and she thinks she sees him realise the bed is right behind him before he faces her again. “And even after all of it, I’m in Winterfell, with you,” he adds easily, like that’s it, that’s the thing that matters – the thing he’s decided matters. She’s made that choice too, about what matters, over and over. “Are you alright?” he asks, and it’s obvious he’s trying to see as much of her as he can in the light.
She looks him over, standing there in her room, in front of her bed, like he said, in Winterfell, with her. Putting the cloth back down, she faces him again. Slowly, she walks towards him. “A little tired.” She says under her breath as she closes the distance, now looking up at him as he stands between her and her bed.
He stares back, his mood changed again, affected by her. Nervous now. At least she can still do that, she thinks.
“Ri-ight, of course.” Gendry stammers, his breathing shallowing. Yes, at least she can still do that.
Her eyes run over the only injury she could tell he has, a small cut by his right eyebrow. It almost matches hers.
Side-stepping him in a single move, she moves forward and sits on the end of bed. He stays standing for a moment, seemingly surprised, trying to decide what he wants, she wonders.
“I lost the weapon you made.” She says, partly because she wants to tell him, wants to apologise for it, and partly because she thinks it might calm him down some, might reassure him. Something familiar to him instead of the back and forth, and she doesn’t mind giving it to him in this second, even if she isn’t sure she can make up her mind to the next.
Looking over his shoulder at her before he fully turns, he sits down next to her, more confidently than Arya thought he might. “That’s okay. I can always make you another one. I think I’ve still got some dragonglass left over,” he says before he pauses, clearly wanting to say something else. “Did it help?” he asks.
“Yes.” She replies honestly.
He nods, she feels the movement in the bed. “Good.” He sits back some, relaxing next to her.
“It felt good using it. It had been a while since I’ve used anything like it.” She says, giving him even more, though she keeps her head down, feeling torn. That energy is back, tingling at her skin. She can’t relax like he is.
“Are you going to tell me about that?” he asks, seemingly thinking he’s ready to hear it, but she’s not ready to say it. Even if there’s something pushing at her, something whining inside of her that she should tell him everything.
Looking at him for the first time since he sat down, she stares. “I thought it didn’t matter?” she challenges. The window is on the side of the room behind her, and though smoke and haze still blocks out any moon, there’s still snow, still enough reflection to see him. And what she can’t see outright, she can still feel. She doubts he can see her as much from this angle though; she’s happier for it, but she’s also not.
“Arya…” Gendry starts, soft and caring and she doesn’t want to hear it. She fists a fur half-way up her bed, grabbing it as she stands up. “What…what are you doing?” he asks, confused now, unsure again and she does want that, wants him as off balance as she is.
She lets the fur drop to the floor. “How many nights did we spend on the ground?” she asks frivolously.
She assumes he’s frowning, watching her as she keeps her back to him for the third time since he hovered outside her door, since she decided to make the choice for him by opening it. She starts untying the laces at her neck.
“A lot,” he says with some roughness, his voice confirming to her that he’s frowning, that the crinkle between his brows will be there. “Which is why now that you have a bed again, like you should have –”
Turning to face him, she continues to pull her laces, undressing. “You wish we’d fucked on a bed?” she cuts him off.
He takes a breath and she takes the victory, it spurring her on. She just wants to work him up as much as she is, to make him as uncomfortable as she is. She’s had individual goals for so long now, that’s what she relies on, what she decides her actions on. Now she doesn’t, now she feels conflicted and lost and guilty. She wants to hide, but she doesn’t. But she can decide on this, right in this second.
“That’s not –“ he goes to refute her.
“Was it not what you wanted?” she interrupts again as she opens her cuirass, before removing it. The last time it came off was by his hands as much as hers and she hopes he’s reminded of that as much as she is. There’s cold and crusted blood and dirt on it that wasn’t there last time and she wants to feel better for having it off her, but there’s still sweat on her, on her skin.
She undoes her shirt; she can’t tell him everything, but she can show him, she can give him something of her.
“That’s not what I meant.” He bites back. More irritation than the nervousness before, more surety than edginess and that annoys her. Last time, just hours ago, he was in a similar place, sitting down as she stood, waiting on her, but she doesn’t feel the same power, she doesn’t feel the same connection.
Untucking her shirt, she slowly lifts it up her body and over her head, more controlled this time. This isn’t something she needs, isn’t something she craves with every thought, with every feeling she has like before; it’s just something she’s choosing. “No? Then what did you mean?” she taunts as she lets her shirt drop. She knows exactly where she’s standing in line to the window now, knows exactly how much he can see of her. “You wanted a Lady in a featherbed?” she raises her eyebrow at him.
He scans over her, she thinks, but he doesn’t look at her the same way this time and his silence isn’t what she wants. It makes her pause before going continuing with her pants, her fingers on the lace.
“Why are fighting with me?” he finally says, his voice more controlled than hers and it stops her cold. She has to tense her muscles to stop from covering herself. Instead, she lets her eye contact drop from him and turns to her cabinet where she gets a clean shirt. She makes herself go at a normal speed until she’s covered again, but she wants to shove the thing over her head and run away. She wants to tell him to fuck off. All she allows is a slam of her drawer.
What if he was only in ever in her life so she could lose him? What if some stupid God she’d never served made people hurt him, so they could set her up to be a purpose? What if that’s all over now? What if it ended the second she put her dagger in the Night King? Blue eyes. The only blue eyes Arya ever thought about, that lingered in her mind, in her dreams, were Gendry’s. Now she’ll always be connected with other blue eyes. Death where Gendry’s were life.
“I don’t care where,” Gendry’s voice breaks through, oblivious to what she’s thinking, dismissing it all even though he has no idea. “Arya…” he tries again and she still can’t.
“So it’s not that you don’t care where, you just don’t want to.” she continues her provocation.
With a sigh, Gendry pushes himself off the bed and starts towards her. She watches the small amount of glow move across his face as he enters the space she’s in, where the window lights them as much as it can in the night. It hits his jaw, the shape of his eyes, his brows. Arya thinks he might be beautiful. She hasn’t seen many beautiful things for a long time, but he might be. “We’re not about to die, we’re alive. You’re alive.” He says, using her words, her reasoning.
“Then why not feel alive?” she points out. It would help, she thinks, to feel that again, to be that consumed by one single thing like she wants to be. There’s too much in her mind, too much on her body. If she can just make it about one thing, him, it’ll be better, she’ll find her focus again.
“Because you’re hurt, and you’re tired, and you’re upset,” Gendry reaches out and smooths along her temple, near the cut on her head. "And I care about those things more."
Her eyes close over, and she feels tears behind her lids. “I don’t want to be any of those things.” She whispers. None of them are who she’s supposed to be anymore, none of them help her be who she wants to, they all just get in the way. Those things pull her down, and keep her down.
“Then rest.” He comforts, but his hand falls away from her. She feels him move away from her completely, air and emptiness where he was.
She swallows, before letting out an uneasy breath through her mouth. Opening her eyes, she looks at him, finding him back by her bed and grabbing another fur.
Facing her again, Gendry looks down at the fur in his hands, nervousness back. “Think you could spend another night on a floor with me?” he asks and he’s cute. That humble nobility that he’s always cursed, that he has no idea the power of, the strength of.
Arya feels a half-smile tugging at her. “You don’t want the bed?”
The frown he gives is forced, his lips tightened as if he’s thinking it over and the crinkle of his brow deeper than ever. “I think we’re okay down here,” he decides, and she feels the smile wanting to widen. “We never had furs before.” He shrugs, clearly trying to win, clearly thinking he’s going to win. Just like when he’d stared at her in the forge, when he’d known he could get a reaction from her, even after all that time.
She laughs, because he’s beautiful and he’s cute and he’s still stupid. And he still knows how to make her smile.