A Future We Would Make Ourselves

By littlelights

Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.

Chapter One

He should have been dead.

When the Red Woman had taken Gendry Waters away from the Brotherhood without Banners, Arya had thought he was being led to his death. She'd mourned him in the only way someone so young and traumatized by war and loss could. She didn't cry, she lashed out with anger and then silence. The tears she should have shed filled up her insides like water in a cup. When her heart filled up, the grief and loss turned it to stone. The lack of feeling in her chest had saved her when she became apprenticed at the House of Faces and became No One. It protected and fueled her when she made the long journey back to Westeros and sliced Walter Frey's throat open and freed her Uncle Edmure from his prison. Her stone heart had impressed the seven hells out of the Brotherhood without Banners, and together they hunted down the rest of the Frey and Lannister forces in the Riverlands, slaughtering those they could find. She killed them all with a merry song in her heart and a smile on her face.

Then Nymeria returned, and her rock-like heart began crack. Arya's big, beautiful, Direwolf had found her in the Riverlands, leading a pack of wolves on a crusade of blood and survival. When they met again, Nymeria had licked her hand, a rare gesture of outward affection, and Arya sunk to her knees in gratitude, embracing the direwolf by the neck. Tears came. The hot emotions of her childhood came rushing back. The stone in her heart dissolving under the pressure of an emotional waterfall. Tears for the years they'd been parted. Tears for her father, her brothers, her mother. Tears for the life she'd had before King Robert had arrived in Winterfell. Tears for a happy and stable childhood lost forever. The realization of the people she'd lost and their importance in her life. The name of one dark-haired young man never fell from her lips but it ran through her mind later that evening, when she'd recovered and fell asleep by the fire with Nymeria at her side.

Gendry Waters. Her friend. Not a friendship borne of childhood innocence like Mica, but a friendship forged in the embers of survival over precarious odds. Father had always said you find your true friends on the battlefield, and the precarious years between her father's death and her arrival back at Winterfell had been a constant string of war and struggle. She and Gendry had kept each other safe, protected each other's secrets, took turns saving each other's lives. He had been family, back before her body and mind would have processed what she felt as something more than brotherly love. She thought he was long dead.

The raven carrying Jon's note from Dragonstone stated otherwise.

They were in Sansa's solar, reviewing messages received by riders and ravens of the day. On the table, accounts of inventories, supplies, and finances were waiting for review. Reunited with her sister, in their childhood home, they worked side by side reviewing figures and making plans. It struck her how they were both different people now. Gone were the petty competitions and foibles of their youth. The anger was gone. Forgiveness had been asked and freely given. Where there had once been distaste there was now pride and admiration for each other. They tackled the work their father, mother, and Maester Luwin would have done, and it humbled her. It was a strange way to spend her time, cooped up with ink and piles of parchment, but she welcomed the work. Neither of them had much experience with such responsibilities. They pressed ahead anyway. The raven from Jon had a been a brief respite from the columns of numbers and lists of supplies needed for the war ahead.

Sansa read the scroll first, scanning for news of Jon's return. She looked at Arya, handed her the paper, stating simply, "This is for you." Her brother's handwriting, a flow of neat and precise words tumbled from the page. It took less than a minute to read it, and longer for the words to sink in.

Gendry Waters is here at Dragonstone. He claims to be the baseborn son of Robert Baratheon. Ser Davos supports his case, stating Waters was nearly burned alive by Stannis and the Red Priestess as a sacrifice to the Lord of Light. He carries the king's war hammer as proof of his lineage. He pledged himself to the Queen, and asks to be legitimized. Queen Daenerys is considering him heir to Storm's End. He requests news of Arya, as he says he traveled with her after her escape from King's Landing.

Gendry was alive. Or someone pretending to be him was alive. She wasn't sure she could trust the flicker of hope which suddenly sprung to life in her chest. 'Valar Dohaeris' the pragmatic side of her mind spat. But that stubborn little flame of hope wouldn't be extinguished. He may be alive. Alive and revolving in the same spheres as her brother.

Sansa looked at her expectantly, those powerful blue eyes reflecting a maturity and gravity Arya had never seen when they were younger. Those eyes reminded her a bit of their mother, but where Catelyn Stark's fierceness had been fixated on properness and adherence to duty, Sansa's bore the sharpness of strength born from sorrow.

Arya met her gaze, unflinching and open. "I'll send something."

What 'something' was, Arya hadn't quite formulated yet. How does one respond to the inquiries of a dead man? Then it came in a rush of words. Memories of a moment, known by only three people in the world: an armorer's apprentice, a lost girl, and a baker's boy. Arya dipped her quill in ink and scratched out a response.

If he can tell you the name of the Flea Bottom baker and the bread he made for me, the man is Gendry Waters. Missing Old Nan's cooking and Nymeria. I am well. Please come home soon.

Jon would understand the answers to her question lay in the references to Old Nan's warm kidney pies and her own direwolf. To anyone else, it was an idle line of small talk to her brother.

"Do you think it's him? What did you tell Jon?" Sansa asked. Her voice and expression held no judgement, just curiosity and warm concern.

Arya stamped the Stark seal on the message and blew on the wax softly. "I told him everything he needs to find out the truth."

Sansa reached across the table to gently squeeze Arya's hand. A gesture of support and trust. Arya met her gaze, and squeezed back. It had taken time to build a rapport and a feeling of family when they'd been at each other's throats when they were younger. Jon had said they needed to trust each other if they were going to survive the long night ahead. When they were first reunited, she and her sister had spent evenings together, awkwardly sharing stories of their years spent apart. The lighthearted moments were the easiest to share first. The darkest times were glossed over, if they were acknowledged at all. Her time with Gendry had been brought to light when she and Sansa discussed news of Lady Melisandre. Sansa had agreed he'd probably been put to the torch for Lord Stannis' bid for the Iron Throne, just like little Shireen Baratheon.

"I hope it's your friend." Sansa said softly. "Apparently, he's concerned for you."

"I missed him too." Arya replied. She didn't speak of her hope that Gendry was alive. She couldn't elaborate on what it would mean, or what would happen in the future. Those were words for another time, when Jon could confirm Gendry's status in his next letter. "I need to send this right away."

Sansa smiled, and sat back in her chair. "I'll take care of these if you want to go." Her eyes swept to the papers still stacked on the table.

Arya rose from her seat, turning out of the room, down the hallway and up the stairs to the raven tower. She didn't run, although she wanted to. Her fingers didn't fumble when she attached the letter to the raven's leg, but they trembled a little when she released the bird up into the air. She didn't cry when the raven soared with the wind toward Dragonstone, but she did feel wetness on her eyelashes.

She could see Gendry in her mind, sitting next to him on the road to Castle Black, sharing what food they had for dinner. Memories of him working away in the forge of Harrenhal, muscles straining and gaze focused. The happy and relieved smile he gave her each evening after Lord Tywin dismissed her from her duties. The rush of running away with him and their friend to freedom. Standing side by side together as equals, ready to confront whatever lay ahead of them. The pain and betrayal on his face when he was sold like a lamb to slaughter to the Red Priestess.

Seven hells, it still hurt.

Arya Stark closed her eyes. She didn't pray to any of the Old Gods, The Seven, or the Many-Faced God anymore. The voice of her beloved dancing master Syrio Forel echoed in her ears. Dear Syrio, she still missed her first teacher. 'There was only one God, and his name is Death. What do we say to the God of Death?'

"Not today," she whispered, and her words floated like a wish into the air.

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