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When all is said and done, she doesn't really feel like they won.
Cersei dies, but she’s not the one who delivers the final blow. Instead, it’s Jaime Lannister. From Kingslayer to Queenslayer, his fate was written long before she was born.
She kills Ser Ilyn Payne. She looks him right in the eye as she pushes her blade into his chest. The man who executed her father. The North remembers, she tells him. Arya Stark remembers.
The Mountain dies, but he takes The Hound with him. She’s by Sandor’s side when it happens, and even her threats of robbing him and leaving his corpse for the crows to feed on don’t work. The gash across his chest is too deep and too wide.
I always thought I would be alone when I die, little wolf bitch. But I’m not. Make sure you’re not either.
His hand is on top of hers when she gives him the mercy of her blade.
Her list is finished. She doesn’t know where to go.
-----
Meereen is beautiful. Tarth is even bluer than Brienne’s eyes. Vaes Dothrak is ashes on the ground, but the world rebuilds.
She misses the North.
-----
It takes her a while to make it back to Westeros.
He has his back to her when she gets there, eyes trained on the heart tree in front of him. It’s not the same as the one back home, but King’s Landing is his home now, she supposes.
“Do I have to call you Aegon now?”
He turns, startled, wide eyes already softening.
“How did you sneak up on me?”
She smiles before she runs to him. He’s always there to catch her.
-----
He still goes by Jon. Even his Queen calls him that.
-----
“Princess Arya, it’s so good to see you again. I was beginning to fear we would never get to know one another outside of times of war.”
Arya looks at the Queen across from her. It’s only been a little more than a year since the last time she’s seen her, but she looks older than she remembers. More frayed. She doesn’t have any visible scars, but Arya can see them in the way she holds herself. In the way she moves and talks and eats.
“It’s Arya, Your Grace.”
Jon smiles fondly, nodding solemnly at Daenerys when she turns to him.
“Sansa’s given up on it too,” he mumbles.
Daenerys grins.
“Arya,” she repeats her name, nodding apologetically.
Her smile is sincere, and Arya feels a sudden pang for her brother’s wife. She lost everything in the war. Everyone she ever cared for, everyone she trusted. If Arya had had it her way back then, she would’ve lost Jon too.
“I didn’t think I would be coming back,” Arya admits eventually. “The world on the other side of the Narrow Sea is beautiful. But I missed Westeros more than I thought I would.”
What she means is she missed the people in Westeros more than she thought she would. She wonders if she can ask Jon about him.
“I assume you don’t really mean King’s Landing by that,” Jon muses, reading her immediately.
“No, definitely not,” she grunts, wiping the sweat off her forehead with her forearm. She smiles when Jon raises his eyebrows in victory and Daenerys’ eyes almost disappear into her face. “Sansa told me about your news and I thought a visit was long overdue,” she shrugs.
“You’ve been to Winterfell then.”
Arya rolls her eyes.
“Jon, you’re my favorite brother but I wasn’t going to come here before the North.” Jon nods in understanding, laughing lightly. “Congratulations,” she tells him after a moment. She turns to look at Daenerys. The Queen is now cradling her small bump with a fond look on her face. “Let’s hope my niece or nephew has your wits rather than my brother’s, Your Grace.”
Jon gasps, clearly appalled, and Daenerys barks a laugh that’s both too loud and too mischievous for a Queen. Arya suddenly likes her ten times more.
“It’s Dany,” she corrects her. Arya’s brow furrows as she looks at her. “You’re family. If you’re going to insist I call you Arya then I’m going to insist you call me Dany.”
Arya’s features soften and the smile she gives her is a genuine one.
“Dany,” Arya says, trying the word on her tongue. She likes it.
It occurs to Arya that she’s heard Sansa refer to the Queen by that name before, and she wonders exactly how close the two women had grown in her absence.
She’s snapped out from her thoughts when a squire comes carrying a scroll for the King and Queen.
“It’s from Storm’s End,” Jon murmurs, breaking the seal on the parchment. It takes her a second to register Jon’s words, but when she does she drops her fork and looks up at her brother, eyes wide and ears pumping as she waits for him to continue. “Lady Marya has taken ill, so they can’t make it to the tourney.”
Lady Marya.
She feels an inexplicable pain in her chest. It’s the tangible physicality of it that jars her. When Theon died and Sansa told her about feeling her heart break, Arya didn’t realize how real her sister’s ache was. But right now, it feels like a million little ice shards have suddenly exploded inside of her, jagged little edges ricocheting through her body and biting at her organs.
She grips the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turn white. He’s gone and found himself a lady, just like she told him to. Just like a lord should.
“Oh no,” Dany worries. “I hope she’s alright.”
“He says it’s nothing to worry about, but he would feel much more assured if they stayed at home for the time being.”
“Of course.”
Arya still can’t do anything but listen to her brother and his wife speaking as watches them numbly, her hold on the table the only thing grounding her.
“Are you alright, little sister?”
She shakes her head and focuses on Jon’s concerned features, willing herself to keep it together.
“I’m fine,” she manages, reluctantly releasing one of her hands to take a bite of her food. She clears her throat. “How is the Lord of Storm’s End?” She tries to sound casual, but instead her words are clipped and forced. “Is he coping well with his new duties?”
“Oh, you know him,” Jon shrugs, putting the scroll to the side and drinking a sip of wine. “‘Keeps complaining about being too old and too gray, but I’d say he’s doing pretty decent work. His people love him.”
Arya drops her fork again. Her eyebrow push together.
“Old and gray?” She pauses, trying to gather her thoughts. It’s been less than two years since she’s seen him. “Since when is Gendry old and gray?”
“Yes, Arya, you’ve met Davos before. He’s not exactly a ripe man of twenty,” Jon says at the same time before he pauses. His brow furrows and his mouth hangs open.
They’re both stunned in silence for a few second before Arya’s heart starts hammering in her chest, a sudden panic taking over.
“Davos?” She asks, her voice breathless. In that moment, she can’t even think about keeping her mask on because all she thinks about is that he’s not there. That something might’ve happened to him. “What happened to Gendry?” It comes out as more of a whisper, the fear gripping her heart and making her voice crack.
“Oh,” Jon mumbles, something close to realization on his face. “I thought you knew. That he’d told you.”
“Told me what?” Arya demands, her tone still a little too unsettled.
“Gendry turned the lordship down,” Dany tells her, her eyes soft when she looks at her. For a wild second, Arya wonders if she can hear how hard and fast and loud her heart is beating. If she can somehow tell. “He asked us to name Ser Davos in his stead.”
She closes her eyes for a brief moment, letting the relief was over her. He’s alive. Her relief is soon replaced by confusion.
“Why would he do that?”
It’s all he ever wanted, to be a lord. Why would he give it up?
“He said he didn’t have a reason to be a lord,” Jon recounts casually. “‘Said he liked being a smith just fine. We told him he could be a lord and smith in his own forge at his own castle. He’s the Queen’s cousin, after all. But he insisted he didn’t want the title.” If Arya was confused before, she’s downright lost now. The Queen’s cousin? “Of course you don’t remember your houses,” Jon huffs, reading her thoughts. “Robert’s grandmother was Rhaelle Targaryen. His father was both a Baratheon and a Targaryen.”
It still doesn’t make sense. Not the part about the Baratheons and the Targaryens being related, but that Gendry wouldn’t want the lordship.
None of it will be worth anything if you're not with me.
He can’t have meant it. He was drunk and wasn’t thinking straight. He told her as much himself, the morning after.
“In the end, the only thing we could give him was a last name,” Dany says after a few moments. “He’s Gendry Baratheon now, I made sure of it.” Arya looks at Dany, still struggling to understand. The other woman’s eyes are curious, some sort of secret realization on her pale face. “He’s at Last Hearth.”
“In the North?”
It seems that no matter how much she thinks she knows him, Gendry the bull will never stop surprising her.
Baratheon, she reminds herself. He’s Gendry Baratheon now.
“He said the North grew on him.” Jon looks almost amused. “I think he just wanted to be as far away from King’s Landing as he could be without freezing his balls off. He’s smithing for Tormund now.”
“Why didn’t he stay at Winterfell?” Arya wonders out loud. “If he liked the North that much. It’s nicer than Last Hearth.”
“I suspect he’s got too many painful memories there,” Jon says, sympathy lacing his voice. “Fighting for your life standing on a mountain of corpses cannot be a pleasant experience.”
He’s got good memories there too, Arya wants to say.
It’s where they kissed for the first time. It’s where they made love for the first time. It’s where he told her he loved her.
It’s where she left him.
-----
Hot Pie looks exactly the same.
It’s one of his more comforting traits, Arya thinks. That no matter how much time passes, Hot Pie is the same boy who nearly shat himself when Gendry threatened to hit him with his hammer that first day they all met.
“It’s the potatoes, Arry. No one knows that, but you boil some chunks and add them to the crust.”
Arya nods as she takes another bite of her pie.
“Are you still making direwolf loaves, then?” She always did love his cooking.
“Yes!” Hot Pie yells excitedly, making way too much noise as he hops off his chair and skips towards the kitchen. He comes back with two loaves and sets them on the table in front of her.
“You’re making stags now too?” Arya probes with amusement as she eyes the direwolf and the stag, side by side. He’s gotten much better at it since she last saw him.
“For Gendry,” Hot Pie shrugs as he slips into his seat again. “Did you know he’s a Baratheon now? Told me as much when he was here last.”
Arya’s pulse quickens. She tries not to let her surprise show, swallowing past the lump in her throat.
She’s gotten fairly better at holding herself together whenever Gendry is mentioned. She’s had to, really, because one of the things she’s learned since she got back to Westeros is that the topic of Gendry Baratheon seems to come up a lot more often than she had anticipated. It seems he’s grown quite popular since the last time she was here. Everyone’s a little smitten with the man who armed the North in their fight against the White Walkers.
“I might’ve heard that somewhere,” Arya mumbles, sipping some ale. “When was he here?”
“‘Don’t know, really. A few moons ago?” Hot Pie breaks off a piece from the stag loaf and shovels it into his mouth. “On his way to the North.” He pauses, his thick eyebrows pushing together. “Didn’t you see him in Winterhell?”
Arya hides her smile as she takes another bite.
“He doesn’t live there anymore.”
“No, I know that,” Hot Pie mutters with his mouth full, waving a piece of bread back and forth. “He’s at Last Hearth now. But he was at Winterhell before. He told me you were there too, that you won them the war.”
“I was. And I saw him when we were both there.” She tries to keep her voice level and shove the memories of their time in Winterfell to the back of her mind. “I didn’t stay for long after that.”
“Well, he looked quite alright last time he was here,” Hot Pie shrugs. “I don’t know if happy is the right word for it, I mean he’s still piss poor and bone tired. But even though he’s got a bigger hammer now, he’s not as angry I remember. Didn’t yell at me as much as he used to.” He pauses, contemplating her. “You don’t yell at me as much either.”
Arya rolls her eyes, amused. She breaks off a piece of bread from the stag loaf.
“Can’t yell at you. You make the best pies of anyone I know. Wouldn’t want to piss you off.”
The smile on Hot Pie’s face reminds Arya of the Riverlands she got stranded in with two boys, years ago. She smiles back.
-----
“You’re not staying here.”
Sansa’s standing in her doorway. Her hair looks almost like a halo of fire around her head in that light, the sun filtering through the window shining bright against it. She’s regal.
“I have something to do, Your Grace.”
“Don’t call me that,” Sansa groans, stepping into the room.
“You are the Queen in the North, are you not?” Arya raises her eyebrows at her sister, a teasing smirk coloring her features.
“Which makes you a princess, so do you really want to pull on that thread?” Sansa challenges. Arya laughs as she shakes her head, raising her hands in surrender. “Are you heading north?”
She stops in her tracks, her eyes widening as she looks at her sister.
“How did you-“
“You’re not the only one who got to know the people we fought the war with,” Sansa tells her softly. “You were gone a long time,” she adds. “Talking about you made it easier. It made us miss you less.” Arya swallows thickly, feeling a sudden urge to wrap her arms around her sister. So she does. “Don’t hurt him this time, little sister.”
Sansa’s arms tighten around her.
Arya doesn’t know if she can make that promise.
-----
Tormund‘s laugh echoes across the courtyard as soon he spots her riding through the gates of Last Hearth.
“Well if it isn’t my favorite warrior princess!”
His locks are even more fiery than she recalls, his blue eyes as bright as his grin is wide.
He’s always had an infectious smile, and it doesn’t take long for Arya’s own lips to curl up in a grin. She’s barely made it off her horse before she’s swept up in a bone-crushing hug.
It takes her a minute, but she wraps her arms around Tormund’s giant figure, feet dangling in the air as she allows herself to be held.
-----
Tormund’s just shown her to her room when she calls his name.
“Yes, warrior girl?”
Arya smiles softly at the affectionate title.
She remembers that morning so well. She was sparring with Brienne in Winterfell and had disarmed her for the third time in as many tries when Tormund surfaced out of nowhere, watching them with unmistakable awe and boasting about how the small warrior girl beat the big woman. She didn’t have a lot of time to get to know him after that, but in their short time together she grew rather fond of his unbridled love of life. She envied how fully he felt everything, almost like a child.
“Can you tell me where the forge is?”
“Ye need a new weapon?” Tormund wonders, his face lighting up in excitement.
“No, not this time.” She smirks as she looks up at him, wringing her fingers nervously behind her back. “Jon told me Gendry’s your blacksmith now. I would like to see him.”
“Ah, our bull.” Tormund’s expression turns to glee as he nods, and Arya doesn’t miss the hint of fondness in his voice. It makes her happy. “He’s not here.”
And with those three words, she feels the wind get knocked out of her.
“Not- not here?” Her voice cracks.
At this point, it really feels like the Gods are playing a cruel joke on her. Every time she thinks she’s close to finding him again, he slips through her fingers.
“At Castle Black,” Tormund explains. “Helping out forge some weapons for Grenda and her hunters. He should be back on the morrow.” Arya lets out the breath she’s holding, allowing the relief to wash over her for a moment. Tormund looks at her with amusement. “I’ll come find you when he’s here.”
She smiles.
“Thank you, Tormund.”
-----
Her stomach is in knots and her thoughts are running wild and sleep doesn’t come that night.
-----
It’s Gendry who finds her.
They’re eating breakfast in Tormund’s solar the next morning when the doors burst open and he comes crashing in.
“Tormund! Is it true? Is she-“
He stops in his tracks the moment their eyes meet, his mouth hanging open. He’s panting heavily, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide. He’s grown his hair again, inky black strands falling on his forehead the way they used to when they were younger. But his eyes are as stormy and blue as she remembers, his lashes thick and angry against his pale skin. He sounds the same, too.
Her stomach twists in a swirl of emotions, longing and happiness and pain and relief and sadness and something else, something she doesn’t want to think about right now, clashing together until it feels like her heart might leave her body. She doesn’t know what to do with any of it. She wants to go up to him and wrap her arms around him, but can she do that? Would he let her?
“Ah, bull! Good to finally see you back,” Tormund exclaims excitedly, startling them both. Gendry turns his attention to Tormund while Arya looks down at her plate and shovels the last of her food into her mouth. “Come, sit! ‘M sure you’re tired and hungry from the ride.”
Gendry nods but doesn’t make to move, and before he can do anything else, a young boy with a frizzy mop on top of his head comes rushing into the solar, yelling out Tormund’s name.
“Brella is fighting with Unger again! ‘Says she’s gonna kill him proper this time!”
The boy runs back out before he’s even finished talking.
“Bloody wildlings won’t ever learn,” Tormund mutters darkly as he pushes himself off the table. He turns to look at Arya. “Warrior girl, stay,” he orders. “I’ll be back as soon as I break a few bones. You,” he adds, pointing at Gendry as he passes him by, “eat.” And with that, he disappears outside the solar, closing the door behind him.
Arya stares after him for a moment before her eyes find Gendry’s again. They’re alone now. It’s been so long since she’s last seen him and though he’s so close, he’s still not close enough. She’s not entirely convinced he’s not a figment of her imagination, so she stands up and takes a step towards him and then another, her body moving on its own accord. She stops and she aches. He’s still too far away.
“He’s not really going to break any bones,” he mumbles after a moment. “He doesn’t do that anymore.”
Arya is momentarily distracted from her inner struggle, and she can’t help the delirious laugh that bubbles to the surface. Gendry smiles back at her, a little hesitant but no less real. He takes a step forward and she takes it as her cue, wasting no time and closing the distance between them to wrap her arms tightly around his middle.
She closes her eyes as she buries her face in his chest, her ear pressed against his heart.
For a few seconds, he doesn’t do anything but stand there, his heart hammering in her ear while his arms hang limply at his side, and she’s terrified she’s made a mistake, that he’s never going to hug her back. But then he slowly wraps his arms around her shoulders, one hand tangling in her now-long hair as he noses his way down her cheek before burying his face in the crook of her neck.
He smells like she remembers, too.
-----
It’s another three days until she sees him again. She comes and finds him this time.
He’s in the forge, hammering away. He doesn’t hear her coming, and for a few moments, she just stands there watching him work. It feels like a lifetime has passed since the last time she was able to do that. He’s just as focused on his work as ever, blue eyes steely and brows furrowed in concentration. His face is covered in soot, the way it always used to be, the fires in the forge flickering and illuminating his skin in a dance of lights and shadows that feels familiar to her.
She’s taken back to a night in a dimly-lit storage bunk, when they thought the wars of tomorrow would take them and they only had that moment to show each other all the things they wanted to say but couldn’t.
Gendry looks up from his work, startling her out of her thoughts. The familiarity of this too shakes her, and for a split second, Gendry’s eyes flash with unmistakable pain. He blinks and the moment’s gone, his expression now unreadable to her.
It terrifies her, really. In all the time she’s known Gendry, the only thing she was sure of was that she knew him inside out. That she could always tell what he was thinking just by looking into his eyes, or could tell how he was feeling by the curve of his lips.
But he’s closed off to her now, and it knots her stomach in unpleasant ways.
He smiles, but it doesn’t feel real to her, like he’s putting on a mask. She wonders if this is what she must’ve looked like to him, back when they were in Winterfell. When she was trying to bury the girl that she was under layers of careful faces and half-truths. Her mask had slipped a few times, back then, but his isn’t right now.
“What are you doing here?”
It’s not the right words, either.
“I haven’t seen you around and I was just wondering where you’ve been.”
The ease with which she tells him the truth startles her, and she makes a vow to herself then and there: she might not be able to talk about her feelings openly yet, but she would always be honest with him from now on. If she can’t be true, then she’ll tell him. No more lies, and no more masks.
“I’ve just been a little preoccupied making spears for Castle Black. Their forges aren’t exactly in top shape, and their smiths are somehow even less sharp than I, so I’m helping ‘em out.”
He tips the spearhead into the cold water, watching as it cools down before he sets it aside. He grabs a discarded cloth behind him and wipes at his forehead. He only manages to make it dirtier.
She doesn’t like that he’s putting himself down.
“You’re sharp,” she tells him.
“‘Thought I was stupid,” he teases, his lips pulling up in one corner as he walks over to her.
His mask is slipping.
“You are,” she reassures, smiling back. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be sharp.” He chuckles but nods, coming to a stop when he feels he’s close enough. She thinks he’s still too far away. “Can I see what you’ve been working on?”
His eyes widen in surprise before his features soften.
“‘Course, m’la- I mean, of course.“ He stops abruptly, wincing as he clears his throat. It’s the first time he’s ever stopped himself from saying it. What surprises Arya is how much she hates that he did. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking at his feet. “Force of habit,” he murmurs. “Won’t happen again.” He turns brusquely and walks back to his workstation, leaving Arya standing there with a lump in her throat. “So,” he says after a moment, looking at her from across the forge, “do you wanna see or not?”
She nods mutely, walking over to him and trying to keep the ache she feels in that moment from consuming her.
-----
The forge is smaller than the one back in Winterfell, but it serves its purpose. The wars have all been fought so he doesn’t really need a big space.
Gendry is really good at what he does now. She always knew he was, trusting him to make her a weapon no one else could. But now it seemed everyone else knew it too. People were seeking his services from across the Seven Kingdoms, eager to have the blacksmith who armed the North forge their weapons.
He’s even learned to reforge Valyrian steel, and even Arya is impressed by that.
He’s changed in ways that she hasn’t; he stands taller now, more assured, stronger. But he’s also more guarded. He wears the armor that used to be hers; the one that she worked so hard to shed away.
He seems happy, important.
She wants to tell him he was always important to her. She doesn’t.
-----
Some part of her knows why she’s travelled as far to the North as she’s ever been to see him. It might be a little difficult for her to express it, but she’s not hiding from it anymore. She’ll give herself the time she needs. Most importantly, she’ll give him time. He’s still shutting her out, but she has to believe that she can get through to him.
So when Tormund, boisterously drunk and celebrating for no reason, asks her if she wants to stay a few more days, it’s too easy for her to say yes.
-----
“Tormund.”
The ginger man looks up at her. They’re sitting in his solar again, watching the fire as it flickers in front of them. He’s unusually quiet this evening.
“Yes, warrior girl?”
She takes a deep breath.
“Has Gendry ever talked about getting wed?”
There’s this girl, Ylda, who seems to spend a lot more time at the forge than Arya would like. And she needs to know. She needs to find out if putting away her selfish needs and leaving Gendry alone is the best thing for him.
If Tormund’s surprised by her question, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he huffs an unusually sober laugh.
“He hasn’t,” he tells her. “Davos and I tried to talk to him about it a couple o’ times - well, Davos, more like,” he corrects. “We don’t really care for stupid southron traditions like marriage here, but I offered to help him find a mate, if he wanted to. He’d have his pick of the litter here, men and women and whatever else he wants, and as many as ‘e wants. They all love him and he’d have no trouble finding someone.” Arya has no doubt about that, really. The only person who never could see just how amazing Gendry has always been is Gendry himself. “But he doesn’t want to. Will bed someone once in a blue moon, but never seems interested in what comes after.” She tries to keep the jealousy she feels at bay. She couldn’t exactly expect him to wait for her when she never told him to. “Davos said he had all sorts of suitors lined up before he fucked off and threw away his title and lands. He reckons he’s got suitors still. But the lad doesn’t want anyone. Just wants to beat at hot steel and drink the occasional skin of ale with me.”
Maybe he still loves me.
It’s a stupid thought, so she buries it in the furthest corner of her mind where it belongs.
-----
A few days turn into a few weeks. Tormund is delighted.
-----
The Godswoods here remind her of Winterfell. They’re not as big or as mighty, but the Northern air bites just as hard, if not harder. And at least she doesn’t have to remember Theon’s lifeless body or the stench of death and decay every time she takes a walk here.
She’s strolling about, one morning, kicking rocks and watching the crows flap their wings as they fly from one tree to another when she notices a familiar feature under the Weirwood Tree. He’s hunched over something in his hands, his black locks falling over his face and his brow wrinkled in concentration.
“Didn’t know you believed in the Old Gods.”
He looks up, features softening into a smile when he realizes it’s her. He shakes his head lightly.
“I stopped believing in gods long ago.”
“You have?”
They’ve never talked about it, but she always assumed he believed in the Seven. That’s who most southerners prayed to.
“Seen too many horrors,” he shrugs.
His eyes cloud up as he stares into the distance. He looks haunted, and for a second, Arya wonders about the nightmares that keep him up at night.
Hers all have to do with her family. She finds Sansa, or Jon, or Gendry, or Bran, but her happiness is ever short-lived because the closer she gets to them, the bluer their eyes turn. Sometimes they’re not wights, though, and that’s when it’s worse. Sometimes their eyes are their normal colors, but then they take off their faces and the waif is there. She always wakes up in tears from those dreams, running her fingers over the scars on her stomach to make sure they’re there. To remember she killed the waif. That she can’t hurt her or the people she loves anymore.
She shuts her eyes tightly to chase the dark thoughts away as Gendry turns his attention back to the scrolls in his lap. She realizes she lumped him with her family, but she’s not surprised. He was always her family, even when she didn’t know it.
He doesn’t seem in a particularly talkative mood today, and she wonders if maybe she should leave him alone. He’s almost never in a talkative mood anymore, though. And she misses him. So she walks over to where he’s sitting and plops down on the ground next to him, close enough for her elbow to brush his.
He looks at her in surprise, stormy blue eyes meeting her steel gray ones. They haven’t been this close since that first day when he let her embrace him.
She clears her throat, pointing at the scroll in his hands.
“What are you doing?”
“Davos sent me a raven,” he explains, pushing his hair off his face and waving the paper he’s holding in the air. He looks almost frustrated. “I’m trying to read what he has to say.”
“There’s two letters,” she points out.
“This,” he holds up one parchment, “is an old message that I’ve memorized in my head. This one is the one Davos sent me today,” he continues, showing her the other scroll. “I use the old one to find words I know, and then I compare letters. See?” He says as holds up the old parchment, pointing to a word. “I know this word here is “hear”, so this one,” he points at the same word on the other scroll, “is the same.”
Arya stares at him in awe. He’s really teaching himself to read. It’s not a very practical way to learn but he’s trying and Arya feels a mixture of pride and an overwhelming burst of affection for this man.
“I can help you, if you want,” she offers, voice barely above a whisper. “Read this now,” she clarifies when he turns to look at her, “but also read and write other things, later.” He’s staring at her so intensely that she has to look away, so she turns her attention back to the letters in his lap. It’s then that she notices her name on one of the scrolls. “That’s Jon’s handwriting,” she realizes, slowly reaching for the parchment. Gendry inhales sharply before he lays a hand on top of hers to still her movement. Her eyes snap to his, and what she finds there is a mixture of pain and fear. “Sorry,” she mumbles, but she doesn’t move her hand. His palm feels heavy against her knuckles, warm and callused and real. “I don’t mean to pry.”
If she twists her hand just so, then she can link their fingers together.
She doesn’t get the chance to.
“No, it’s alright,” he croaks out, removing his hand and nodding his head lightly. His face is clear now, like he’s made up his mind. Once again, it hits Arya just how close they’re sitting. She only has to lean slightly closer and her lips would be on his. “You can read it.”
“Are you sure?” She asks, trying to swallow past the lump in her throat. She already misses his touch, but her hand is still in his lap, her elbow almost resting on his thigh. “I don’t have to-“
“It’s an old letter, it’s alright,” he reassures.
Arya nods, taking the parchment and smoothing it out in her own lap.
Gendry,
It’s good to hear from you, my friend. I was starting to worry you’d gone and died in a ditch somewhere. Arya would never forgive me if I let that happen. I know that you’re wondering about her, so I’ll put your mind at ease. She survived. But she’s gone. We don’t know where to, she slipped away at night. We tried to track her, sent out our best men with Ghost. I went with them and Dany and Drogon tried to find her from above. We searched for days. But you know how she is. If she doesn’t want to be found, then she’s not going to be. I hope I hear from her again. If I ever do, you’ll be the first to know.
Now tell me, how are you doing? Sansa near lost her mind when you disappeared from Winterfell without a word. Please come visit. I promise, no one will force you to be the lord of anything. Just come see us. Davos is worried, and so am I.
I look forward to seeing you, brother.
Jon
She feels her throat close up in the most horrible ways. She doesn’t know how old this letter is, but judging by Jon’s tale, it was written right after she left. When she walked away from the carnage of war without stopping to think about everything that she was leaving behind. Everyone she wouldn’t be saying goodbye to.
But she couldn’t say goodbye to them. Some part of her always knew she would come back, and she knew if she’s stopped to talk to any of them, she wouldn’t be able to go. And she needed to go. She needed to be alone for just a little more time, to grieve her losses and heal her wounds before she went back to her family.
It’s just that she never stopped to think how much it hurt them. How they would try to find her.
“Why did you give up Storm’s End?” Her voice cracks, and when she looks at him, Gendry’s attention is on the ground. He’s pulling at some leaves next to his thigh.
“Didn’t want to be a lord,” he mutters, his face giving out nothing. He sounds angry though, and he’s yanking at the strands of grass a little too hard. “Can you read the other one for me? Trying to figure it out was starting to give me a headache.”
She nods silently, trying not to take the dismissal personally. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. She reaches for the scroll her offers her.
“Lad,” she starts, “I don’t want to hear from Tormund that you’re being reckless again. You didn’t row all the way to Flea Bottom and fought an army of bloody wights only to die chasing a deer. Get yourself a woman, she’ll distract you from being stupid.“ She swallows thickly, the last words bitter on her tongue. “Remember, Storm’s End will always be yer home. Davos.” She pauses, handing him the parchment. “What’s he talking about?” Gendry raises his eyebrows at her. “The deer thing.”
“Hunting trip gone bad,” he grunts, a small smile on his face. “Got attacked by a stag. Still got the scars where its antlers dug several holes in me,” he shrugs, laying his palm over his left side. “Would’ve been quite the irony. Surviving the Lannisters and White Walkers to become the only Baratheon left in the world, just so I could die at the hands of a stag.”
“Don’t say that,” she snaps, her eyes angry. She doesn’t want to think about a world where Gendry’s not alive. She absolutely hates how surprised he looks. They’ve been through so much, how does he not know that she cares?
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“‘S’alright,” she relents, sighing. “Just don’t joke about death. Not yours.” Gendry’s face flashes with something akin to affection before he closes off again. “Is it home?”
His brows push together. “What?”
“Storm’s End.”
His features soften now. “Davos sure seems to think so.”
“And you?”
He sighs for a long moment, cleaning some dirt off his breeches before he looks up at her. “I don’t think anywhere feels like home anymore.” She nods, understanding. “How about you? Winterfell still home?”
“Yes and no,” she muses. “I’ve kinda stopped seeing home as a where and more as a who.” It’s his turn to nod. “Jon, Sansa, Bran.” She pauses, taking a deep breath. She has to say it. He has to know. “You,” she confesses, looking away. “Tormund, Brienne. Even Hot Pie,” she adds and Gendry bursts out laughing.
It’s loud and true, and she doesn’t think she’s heard him laugh quite so freely since she got here. Her lips pull up in a smile.
“Hot Pie is home.” His voice is hoarse but the affectionate all the same.
“Did you know he’s making stag loaves now?”
“Is he?” Gendry grins, surprise coloring his face.
“Because you’re a Baratheon,” Arya explains.
“You’ve been to see him then?”
“On my way from King’s Landing. Stopped by his inn. ‘Talked my ear off about his pie crust.”
“And the potatoes he puts in it?” Gendry guesses and Arya laughs in response.
“Yes!” She pauses, breathing deep and drinking this moment in. “We should go visit him together,” she suggests before she can think about it.
Gendry’s laughter dies down but the smile on his face is genuine.
“Yeah, maybe we will.”
-----
It’s the mild anger bubbling within her that shakes her. The rage and pain that she feels whenever she spots Ylda going into the forge or notices Gendry smiling at her. She hates how it makes her feel.
-----
A few weeks later, she finally snaps.
They’re sitting around a fire in the courtyard, drinking ale and feasting on boar and apples. The mood is festive even though they’re not really celebrating anything, and she’s tucked between Tormund and Brella, a dark-haired warrior she’s grown quite fond of.
Gendry is slumped next to Brella, Ylda by his side, and she can’t help the way her blood boils whenever she sees her smiling at him. It irks her because she knows that under any other circumstance, she would’ve loved this wild woman. She’s loud and boisterous and damn fierce, but as it is, her green eyes are bright as she looks at Gendry, her hand on his shoulder as they laugh at something together. And Arya just wants to kick her.
She’s momentarily distracted by Tormund raising a toast to the “bloody fucking Queen in the North” but she still catches it. She can recognize Gendry’s voice in a crowd, after all, so when Ylda says something to him and he replies with “as you fucking wish, m’lady”, Arya nearly loses it.
She leans over Brella, watching the pair laugh together for a second before she chucks her half-eaten apple at him. It catches him square in the forehead.
“Ouch!” He yells out, turning to look at her with wide eyes, surprise clear on his face. “What’s wrong with you!?” He rubs his forehead and raises his eyebrows in confusion as Ylda cackles next to him.
Arya squints her eyes at him but says nothing, pushing herself off the ground and storming off.
She cannot believe she just did that.
“Where are you going?” She hears him yell out in the distance, but she doesn’t look back at him, walking away from the crowd. She’s turned the corner past the stables when she hears him call out to her again, and she realizes the stupid bull is actually following her. “Arya! Arya, stop!” She comes to a halt, turning to stare back at him, trying to keep her emotions from eating up at her. It’s the first time that he’s called her by her name since she’s come to see him. She hates that she knows that. “Are you okay?”
Her brows push together in a mix of anger and confusion. She just threw her apple at him and stormed off without a word. Seven hells, his forehead is still red from where she hit him and yet here he is, checking to make sure that she is okay. That boy never had any sense of self-preservation.
She wants to tell him so, wants to punch him maybe, and she takes a few steps to do exactly that, but the moment she’s close enough she reaches for his face, standing on the tip of her toes to press her lips to his.
He wastes absolutely no time in returning the kiss, one hand resting on her cheek and tangling in her hair while the other snakes around her waist to pull her closer. He gasps into her mouth when she sucks at his bottom lip, mouths and tongues and teeth clashing together. She wants him closer.
Just as she’s about to wrap her arms around his neck to get better access Gendry gasps again, pulling away so suddenly that her now-empty arms linger in the air for a moment.
Gendry’s panting when he looks at her, emotions swirling on his face. It’s the first time in a long time that she’s seen him so clearly, that he’s let himself feel so openly around her. She can see the anger, the confusion, the longing, the fear. It’s all there for her to take. He shakes his head before he turns his back to her and stomps away angrily.
The lump in her throat is threatening to choke her, tears pooling at the corner of her eyes, when he comes back suddenly and starts pacing in front of her like a mad man. She blinks the tears away, pulling herself together.
“Gendry…”
He stops and turns to her, his eyes flashing in a panic.
“Why- why would... why did you do that?” His voice is loud and frantic.
She doesn’t really have an answer, though. Or maybe she does, but she can’t really tell him she’s been wanting to kiss him since she got here but was too worried he wouldn’t want her to. Can’t say that she saw him flirting with Ylda and it made her skin crawl.
“You called her m’lady!” She says instead, as if it explains anything at all. It’s irrational, she knows. But it’s also the truth.
Gendry’s anger turns to even greater confusion. “What?”
“I just… I just saw you with her, and it drove me mad,” she finally confesses, shutting her eyes in an effort to clear all the muddled thoughts in her head.
Gendry’s face falls. He looks so young, all of a sudden. Like the boy she met in King’s Landing.
“But… but you didn’t want to be,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“My lady. You didn’t want to be that.”
He takes a step towards her but then stops himself, standing up straighter.
Arya’s not stupid, she knows exactly what he means. She knows this isn’t about titles or pretenses anymore, knows what he’s telling her and what he wants her to be.
But he looked happy with Ylda. He was smiling. He barely smiles, anymore.
“I know,” she admits. He looked happy, she reminds herself. And she doesn’t want to take that away from him. “I didn’t. I- I don’t, but—“
“‘S’not fair, you know,” he interrupts, shaking his head as looks at the ground. She hates how upset he seems. “You can’t keep doing that.”
He’s right, she knows he’s right.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She wants to kiss him again. She shuts her eyes tight, keeping the tears at bay before she turns her back to him, walking away and leaving him standing there.
-----
“Tormund?”
“What is it, warrior girl?”
His eyes are soft when he looks at her, like he can see through her.
“I have to leave soon,” she tells him. “Tonight.”
“You don’t have to leave, but I know you’re going to anyway.” She wonders if Gendry talked to him at all this morning. He looks like he knows a lot more than he’s letting on. “At least stay another night. We’ll throw you a feast tonight and you can leave on the morrow.” She’s about to object when Tormund throws an arm around her and guides her to the courtyard. “Come on, girl. Let’s spar. It’ll take the edge off.”
She relents.
-----
Gendry doesn’t come to the feast. Ylda shows up, though, and wastes no time sidling up to Arya like they’re old friends.
It’s when Ylda points at a blonde woman across the room and tells her “look at my woman, isn’t she the most beautiful highborn you’ve ever seen?” that it suddenly dawns on Arya, how stupid she’d been.
She pushes herself off her chair and runs to find Gendry but he’s not at his stupid forge. He’s not at the stables, in his chambers, in the courtyard or in the kitchens. He’s not in the Godswoods either.
-----
She can’t find him the next morning.
She waits for as long as she can for him to show up and see her off, but he doesn’t.
She hugs Tormund and Brella goodbye and starts riding away.
Maybe she got it all wrong. Maybe they were never meant to be.
——
She doesn’t know what to do now. She’s been riding through the woods for some time, galloping South and wondering what her next move is. Winterfell, maybe? She hadn’t thought beyond going to see Gendry, and now she has to. She didn’t even get to say goodbye.
She closes her eyes to clear her head, and when she opens them again she thinks she spots a flash of fur somewhere in the distance, the mishmash of brown and gray and white so familiar.
She’s almost certain it’s not her, probably a stray wolf or some other animal, but she follows the creature anyway.
“Nymeria?” She calls out, but the animal doesn’t turn back, and Arya chases her through the woods. “Nymeria!”
The direwolf finally comes to a skid, turning to look at Arya briefly before she continues to make her way slowly.
Arya follows her, he heart in her throat. She jumps off her horse and ties its reins to a nearby tree, before going after the direwolf on foot.
What she eventually finds is the last thing she expects, so much so that for a minute, she genuinely believes she’s imagining things. But she blinks a few times, and they’re still both there.
Gendry is sitting in front of a makeshift fire, Nymeria standing next to him with a squirrel clutched between her teeth, offering it to him. Gendry takes the animal from her, petting her fur and scratching behind her ear with a smile on his face.
Arya takes another step forward, a twig snapping under her feet. Gendry and Nymeria look up at the same time.
Gendry looks a lot less surprised to see her than she does seeing him, but he gets up all the same when Nymeria starts trotting towards her.
Arya walks another step forward before she kneels carefully, reaching out a tentative hand towards the direwolf. Nymeria approaches hesitantly, baring her teeth at first. Arya hears Gendry inhale sharply but she can’t even look at him, her attention entirely on the animal in front of her. Nymeria lowers her head when she finally reaches Arya, her growls turning to soft whimpers as she butts her head against Arya’s shoulder affectionately, allowing the girl to run her fingers through her fur. Arya laughs, a tear escaping her eye. She wastes no time wrapping her arms around the direwolf, thoughts of the last time she did that running through her mind. Back then, she thought she was setting her free.
“I missed you, girl.”
Nymeria whimpers again, pulling back and bumping her nose against Arya’s cheek. Arya grins as she nearly topples backwards, feeling an overwhelming sense of happiness.
The fire crackles loudly and she finally turns her attention back to Gendry. He’s still there, which still makes no sense.
“How do you know Nymeria?”
Nymeria bumps her nose against Arya’s cheek one last time before she saunters off to where Gendry’s standing and settles down next to him.
“I didn’t know she’s Nymeria,” Gendry admits, looking a little confused. “Jon and I stumbled upon her once long ago, when he came to Last Hearth. Ghost was with us, but Jon never said… She’s mostly here these days, and she keeps me company when I’m passing through these woods. I always thought she liked me because she could smell Ghost on me. But now…” Maybe she always smelled me on you, Arya thinks. She doesn’t say anything, though. She isn’t even sure what to do, now. Does she stay? Does she leave? “Are you hungry?”
Gendry holds up the squirrel he was about to skin and Arya takes the peace offering for what it is. She smiles as she walks over to him.
“Give it here,” she orders, nodding at the animal. Gendry raises his eyebrows. “I was always better at it than you were, you know that,” she challenges.
“Maybe I’ve gotten better,” Gendry argues but he gives her the squirrel all the same. She smirks as she sits down next to him, unsheathing her dagger.
“Not at this you haven’t.” Gendry scoffs as he sits next to her. He presses close, closer than she expects. Something’s shifted between them, and Arya’s not sure she minds it. “You’re good with a hammer, not with a knife.”
“And you’re skinning an animal with a Valyrian steel dagger,” he points out, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I always knew you were a rich girl.”
“Says the Queen’s cousin,” Arya shoots back.
Gendry chuckles as he presses his palm to his heart like a wounded bird.
“Jon has a big mouth.”
Arya laughs too, her heart soaring. Things haven’t been this easy between them in a long time. Not since he first came to Winterfell. But they still need to talk about what happened. She needs to tell him.
“I looked for you last night.”
She huffs, struggling to pull away the squirrel’s coat.
“Wasn’t in a very festive mood.”
Gendry reaches for the animal and she offers it to him. He takes the pelt off in one swift motion and hands it back to her so he can stick it into the fire.
He gets up from his spot, walking towards a nearby horse that Arya hadn’t noticed before, reaching into one of the saddlebags the animal is carrying to grab some water and a piece of cloth.
“Are you going somewhere?”
He walks back to where she is, offering the torn cloth to her and holding the skin of water above her hands. Arya takes the cloth gratefully and leaves it aside before she holds her hands in front of her. Gendry starts to pour some water as she wipes away the blood from her hands. She grabs the water back from him and returns the favor.
“South.” He settles back next to her, eyes on the fire in front of them. “Thought I’d visit Jon for a bit.” Nymeria yawns, walking around Arya and wedging her head in the small space between them. They both laughs at the sudden intrusion, their hands moving at the same time to pet the direwolf. Gendry’s wrist winds up on top of Arya’s, but he clears his throat before he removes his hand and sticks to scratching Nymeria’s fur on his side. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“You didn’t yell,” Arya tells him, immediately understanding.
“I did,” he insists, staring ahead. “And I shouldn’t have.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “It wasn’t fair of you to kiss me, not when you don’t want me.” His voice is low, apologetic. Hurt. “It wasn’t fair because you know how I feel about you. But I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“Do you?” She asks, unable to tamper the hope she feels. “Still feel the same way?”
He smiles sadly, looking at Nymeria as he continues to run his fingers through her fur.
“You know I do, Arya,” he admits. Arya’s breath catches in her throat. “You can’t be that blind. No one ever came close.” He finally looks up at her, his blue eyes locking with hers. “But it doesn’t matter because you don’t want to marry me.”
“Why does it have to be one or the other?” Her voice is low and thick with emotion, but she doesn’t care.
He stops moving his hand, holding in a breath as he looks at her. “What?”
“I don’t want to be a lady. That hasn’t changed. I don’t want to sit idly and knit by the fire while you run some castle.”
“I never said I wanted to rule a castle alone,” Gendry starts but Arya shakes her head.
“I know, Gendry.”
His eyebrows wrinkle in confusion as he tries to follow her train of thought.
“Okay, then what-“
“I want you.”
Gendry’s jaw snaps shut, his eyes widening in surprise. She wants to laugh, really, because only he could be stupid enough to actually be surprised by what she’s admitting to.
“You do?”
“Yes, stupid,” she tells, smiling. “I always did.” His face melts, a hopeful smile playing on his lips.” I wanted you before the titles and I wanted you after the titles. I just don’t want to be stuck in that life. It’s not me. I’m not made to rule or take care of a house or raise children. I don’t want any of those things. Not now, anyway, and maybe not ever.” She expects Gendry to look upset, or hurt at the admission. But he doesn’t. He just looks hopeful. “But I do want other things,” she adds, reaching over to grab his hand on Nymeria’s fur. “A home, someday. Maybe sparring grounds and a few horses,” she shrugs. “Mostly though, I want the man I love there with me.”
“And that’s me?”
Arya positively seethes. Even he cannot be that stupid. But Gendry’s confused expression suddenly turns to a mischievous look, his lips pulling up on one side.
“You miserable little shit!” she yells as she shoves him away.
He barks a laugh, reaching for her hand before she can pull away and holding it close until he’s almost dragging her down with him. She shrieks and laughs, holding on to Nymeria to keep from falling.
The direwolf huffs between them, looking less than impressed at their antics. Gendry settles back, keeping Arya’s hand firmly in his and pressing a kiss to her palm.
“Do you think Jon would be okay with that?”
He looks at her in earnest and Arya can’t help but chuckle.
“How is it that you’ve been living with Tormund for the past year and you’re still worried about being proper?” She asks incredulously. “Jon will learn to accept it. He was with a wildling before he was with Daenerys and he thinks I don’t know but Samwell Tarly has a big mouth.” A thought dawns on her, and she looks at him, her eyes growing serious again. “Unless you don’t want this.”
He rolls his eyes, letting go of her hand and standing up. Her heart races as she watches him go, but he only walks around her and plops down on her other side.
He reaches out to touch her face, ghosting his fingers ever-so-lightly across her cheek. She allows herself to lean into his touch.
“Nymeria’s massive head was getting in the way,” he grunts and Arya laughs.
“Couldn’t stay away?”
He grins when she waggles her eyebrows suggestively, but then his features turns serious again. “At the risk of getting rejected again, I’m going to try.” Arya holds her breath. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to propose again,” he reassures immediately. She snorts. “I just need you to know that being the Lord of Storm’s End, or ruling a holdfast or having an army under my command… that was never my dream.” He rubs his thumb over her cheek lightly, carefully. “I meant what I said in Winterfell. None of it would ever mean anything without you. The only reason I ever really wanted to be legitimized was to be good enough for you.”
“Stupid,” Arya mutters. “You were always good enough,” she tells him, reaching out and playing with an idle thread on his tunic. “I asked you to be my family when I was 13 and you were just a smith.”
“I’m still a stupid smith.”
He looks at her all soft and fond and she can’t help the flutter she feels in her chest.
“Not as stupid as you were when you thought you needed to be a lord for me to love you.”
She rolls her eyes but Gendry laughs anyway.
“I didn’t see you for five years and then you came back all, well.” He pauses, leaning back and looking her up and down as he waves his hands and tries to make his point. He doesn’t. “I mean, look at you!” He finally blurts out and Arya looks down to hide her smile and flushed cheeks. “I didn’t know what to think after that,” he tells her. “I thought I had to have something better to offer a woman as fierce and beautiful as you. And I guess I just forgot that you were still the same girl I knew.” She smiles wider, looking back up at him. “What?”
She doesn’t say anything, pulling him over to her by his collar and kissing him soundly. He melts into the kiss immediately, curling his hand into her hair. She sighs happily into it, pulling away and pressing her forehead to his cheek.
“Gendry, I love you but you can be quite daft.” She pulls further away to get a better look at him, running her fingers along his jaw. “I chose to spend what could’ve been our last night alive with you. How did that not make you see?” He grins, scrunching up his nose in amusement and shrugging his shoulders. She smiles back, sighing happily. “So” she starts after a moment, “what now?”
“We eat,” he tells her, turning to look at the fire. Their catch is almost charred, but they could probably salvage a few bits of meat. “After that, I go where you go. So you tell me.”
Arya grins and kisses him again.
-----
Sansa is waiting for them when they ride together into Winterfell.
“It’s about damn time.”
She lets go of her sister to hug Gendry.
“Wow, Sansa. Don’t be so crass,” Arya teases.
Sansa rolls her eyes but her grin gives her away.
-----
“So, you will not marry?”
Gendry chews his food while Arya raises an eyebrow at Jon from her seat next to him.
“Not now,” she tells him.
“Maybe not ever,” Gendry shrugs once he’s swallowed his food.
Jon looks absolutely crestfallen while Davos snorts loudly and Sansa and Dany smirk in amusement. This is a lot more fun than Arya thought it would be.
Dany squeezes Jon’s hand, trying to hide her mirth.
“Where will you live?”
“Winterfell,” Arya tells him. “Last Hearth. The Riverlands.”
“I’ve never been to Braavos,” Gendry interjects next to her, shoveling another piece of pie into his mouth.
“Braavos too,” Arya adds quickly, quite enjoying the way Jon’s eyes somehow grow wider with every word.
“Missandei says Naath is beautiful,” Dany adds mischievously and Jon narrows his eyes at her.
“Pyke.” Sansa smiles fondly. “I’m sure Yara would love to have you there.”
“Naath,” Arya nods, “and then Pyke.”
“Volantis,” Davos throws from the other side of the table.
“Ser Davos, not you too,” Jon pleads and Gendry barks a laugh next to Arya.
“Marya tells me it’s pretty, Your Grace,” the old man says, shrugging his shoulders.
“Volantis and Dorne.” Arya takes a sip from her drink before she continues. “Oh, and maybe beyond the wall, or whatever that’s called now that there isn’t a wall.”
“Arya, I’m being serious, here.”
“So are we,” Gendry tells him firmly. Arya shoots him a smile. “We’re not in a hurry to settle down anywhere.”
“Storm’s End, someday,” Arya adds finally, reaching for Gendry’s hand and linking their fingers together. “We’ll have horses and sparring grounds. Oh, and a forge,” she adds, eyes mischievous as she looks at Gendry. “A big, very well-heated forge.”
Gendry nearly chokes on his drink. He coughs loudly, eyes dark as he grins at her. His leg brushes up against hers under the table. She smiles wider.
Gendry turns his attention to Davos after a moment. Arya follows his gaze.
“It’ll always be your home, lad,” Davos answers the silent question.
Arya smiles affectionately at the old man. She never got to know him that well, but she knows he’s been more than a father figure for both Jon and Gendry, and for that alone, she loves him.
“It will be if she’s there,” Gendry shrugs.
Arya flushes, but when her eye catches Jon’s, she finds that he’s smiling.
She smiles back.
-----