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It wasn't so easy though, ending the war. A war is a huge fire; the ashes from it drift far, and settle slowly — Margaret Atwood

As tired as she was, Arya couldn't stomach getting any rest knowing Gendry was somewhere on the woods.

Sansa rested her head on her shoulder without a word, shutting her eyes and pushing out a trembling breath.

Arya slouched against the log they were leaning against, letting her shoulders drop with exhaustion.

Her heart felt like two pounds of lead.

She couldn't stop thinking about Gendry.

The metallic tang of despair filled her mouth.

Arya tried to tell herself she was mistaken, that she could never care for him this much, but the hollow in her heart told its own story.

Pain stabbed.

Better if they'd never grown close, she thought. Her mouth twisted in a pained smile. She couldn't bring herself to wish that. Even now she couldn't regret her feelings.

Arya let out a heavy and unladylike breath.

She tried to keep her mind occupied and not think about Gendry. There were some memories, though, that never faded.

She remembered Nymeria and the rocks she'd thrown at her, to protect her, to save her. Since that day that was all she ever did. She kept throwing rocks at people … only this time the rocks were meant to save them and herself.

She thought that if she didn't let anyone in, she wouldn't get hurt when they left, because everyone she'd ever loved had left her.

Father, Mother, Robb and Rickon were dead.

Bran was nowhere to be found.

Jon was no longer her brother.

And now Gendry was probably dead.

Because of her – a voice at the back of her mind reminded her.

Arya shut her eyes.

She should have used more rocks. She should have made him run.

If he had ran, he wouldn't have stayed behind. He would be safe, happy.

She should have made him hate her. The rocks were meant to make him hate her.

But Gendry was too honorable to leave her, too good to hate her.

Arya shivered.

Gendry reminded her of her father sometimes; he had a good sweet heart beneath his solemn face… just like her father, and just like Jon.

"Why do you think Father didn't tell us the truth?" – the words stumbled out of her mouth, practically on their own – "About Jon, I mean?"

Sansa moved her head, so she could look at her sister.

"To protect him" – she said – "Robert Baratheon wanted the Targaryen lineage extinct" – she explained – "If he knew that Jon was Rhaegar Targaryen's son he would have killed him"

Arya remained silent for a moment.

"Mother wouldn't have hated Jon if Father had told us the truth" – she spoke – "You wouldn't have hated Jon" – she added.

"I didn't hate Jon" – Sansa stated.

Arya arched an eyebrow at her.

"You were awful, just admit it" – she said.

I was awful, just admit it – Sansa's own voice invaded her ears; she remembered the way Jon had smiled at her.

Whatever Jon was, for her, in that moment, he felt like home.

"I was occasionally awful" – Sansa said – "I sometimes wonder how could I've been so blind … He's so easy to love" – she tried to smile, but she could've sworn her voice cracked.

The Lady of Winterfell yanked a blade of grass out of the dirt, worrying it between her fingers.

"Do you?" – Arya asked after a few seconds of silence; Sansa looked at her, confused – "Do you love him?" – she asked again.

"I do" – Sansa smiled.

"Because he's king?" – Arya immediately asked; her voice was steel and stone.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek.

She wanted to yell at Arya. She wanted to tell her sister that she was wrong and to lecture her about how harsh and wrong and cruel her words were, but she didn't do any of those things.

She understood why Arya had said those words. She wished she didn't, but she did.

Arya didn't know her. She only knew the old Sansa, the girl who used to bicker over little things, the girl who liked nice things (things that made her feel better than everyone), the girl who dreamed about princes and knights and kings…

Sansa took a deep breath.

"No" – she said – "I've been in love with him before I even knew that he was not our broth –" – Sansa stopped talking; she sighed, trying to find the right words – "I love him because he's Jon" – my Jon, she added to herself – "I never thought I would be happy again, but then I found him … and everything changed" – she tried to explain – "I love him more than should be acceptable" – a breathless little laugh escaped from her.

Arya seemed to accept her answer.

The smile that spread across Sansa's face was so warm and happy, that Arya smiled back.

Jon and Sansa had found each other again moons before she had even considered coming back to Westeros, to Winterfell.

She couldn't find it in herself to begrudge Sansa's feelings.

"What about you?" – her sister's voice made her return to reality.

"What about me?" – Arya asked, meeting Sansa's eyes.

"You and Gendry" – Sansa explained

"There is no me and Gendry" – Arya scoffed.

"Anyone who spends five minutes with you can see how you feel about each other" – Sansa stated, noticing the way Arya was wringing her hands nervously; she took one in hers.

The younger Stark opened her mouth but no words came out of it.

Her cheeks were almost scarlet, so hot they could melt snow.

Her right hand went to her forehead. After a moment, she closed her eyes and shook her head, working to control her emotions. She failed.

Her heart lurched, banging against her ribcage.

When she opened her eyes, Sansa was looking at her, waiting for her.

Arya tried to slow her breathing. Tried to control her feelings. Control her emotions.

She forced herself to calm down, so she could organize her thoughts.

Why was she so nervous?

She was a grown woman.

She probably wouldn't ever see Gendry again, anyway, she thought with a sadness too deep for words.

"We shared a kiss" – she admitted; her heart was hammering.

"He kissed you?" – Sansa put a hand over her own mouth, trying to hide her excitement.

Never in a million years did she imagine herself having this sort of conversation with Arya. It felt good. It felt like the type of thing sisters should do.

"I kissed him" – Arya corrected her.

"You kissed him?" – Sansa did not even try to hide surprise at Arya's announcement.

"Aye" – Arya admitted, scratching the back of her ear – "But he doesn't know"

Sansa frowned, confused.

"What do you mean he doesn't know?" – she asked.

"He doesn't remember it" – Arya said, before her thoughts traveled:

A sound distracted her.

The scouts they'd been dodging had returned.

They hadn't lost them.

Arya gripped Needle.

The sound of an anguished moan caught her attention.

She turned her head and found Gendry with his back against a tree sleeping.

One of his hands was draped loosely over his chest, the other open at his side. He was damp from sweat and his body was shaking.

If he didn't stop making noises, Jon's soldiers would found them and all of her running would be for nothing.

He needed to be silent. He needed to wake up.

Arya approached him and at that precise moment he moved.

He was whimpering and his face was contorted in agony.

"Gendry" – she called softly – "Gendry, wake up"

Arya was about to rest a palm on his shoulder, when she remembered Maester Luwin once telling her that it was best not to wake a person in the middle of a nightmare.

She froze mid-gesture, uncertain of what to do.

Suddenly, a shout sounded somewhere close.

Gendry's eyes darted back and forth behind his shut eyelids.

His hand jerked, tightened against his chest.

"No" – the shout that issued from his contorted mouth sounded like it'd been torn from his throat – "Arya…"

Her heart contracted.

Was he dreaming about her?

Arya shook her head. She couldn't lose focus.

The men were close.

Gendry needed to stop talking in his sleep.

Her head spun.

She needed to do something.

Arya took Gendry's cheek in her hand, turned his head slightly, and kissed him.

All at once, the noise stopped.

He was the first man she'd ever kissed.

She could feel the hammering of his heart with hers, a passion sweeping through her body from her lips to her toes.

Unconsciously, she buried her hands in the thick silk of his hair; it was soft and warm between her fingertips as she toyed with it idly.

Hot pulses of need fired through her as her lips felt the subtle pressure of his; his lips moving against hers in a gentle exploration.

But then it all changed.

A searching stroke of his tongue against the seam of her mouth made the kiss became something else entirely.

Arya opened her mouth, brazenly playing with the stab and thrust of his tongue.

Gendry made a pleased noise in the back of his throat and his arms came around her, pulling her tight against him, onto his lap.

His right hand cupped the back of her head, his broad fingers splaying in her hair, the warmth from his skin spreading over her face like the sun.

Alarms began shrieking in the back of her head.

Arya's heavy eyelids opened.

Her heart lurched, banging against her ribcage.

Abruptly, she pushed Gendry away, hard enough that he let go of her.

Her chest rose and fell in nervous fluxes of air.

Gendry's eyes flew open. For a moment he looked simply dazed.

In that moment, Arya realized she wanted him as something more than a friend.

A sort of fear swept across her eyes.

She sucked in a breath; the urge to run almost took over.

Her right hand found the handle of her sword.

Then she hit him with the hilt of Needle across the head, knocking him unconscious… and erasing any evidences of their shared moment.

"It doesn't matter. I probably won't ever see him again, anyway" – Arya said, avoiding eye-contact.

She felt a sharp pain in her chest, as if she had been stabbed.

She shook her head. Her breathing came hard and sharp.

"You will" – Sansa stated; she grabbed Arya's hand – "And I think you should tell him about –"

Arya rose to her feet, so Sansa's hand was no longer touching hers.

"No!" – she ran a frustrated hand over her face – "I can't…"

"Why not?" – Sansa insisted.

Arya shivered.

Her father's voice echoed in her head:

You will marry a high lord and rule his castle. And your sons shall be knights and princes and lords.

No – she had said – That's not me.

Arya caught her ragged breath.

"That's not me…" – she said so low that she didn't know if she had spoken at all.

– … that's Sansa.

"Why can't you just admit your feelings for him? It's so obvious" – Sansa spoke – "A blind man could see it" – she added, smiling.

Arya's shook her head.

She couldn't admit her feelings for him.

It was easier to be alone; it was less scary.

She couldn't shape her life around love and then watch it fall apart.

She just couldn't.

She couldn't let him in.

He would regret tying himself to her.

She knew he would.

Sooner or later Gendry would begin to resent her because she was not a lady.

She wouldn't bear to watch that happen.

Arya did her best to breathe normally but her emotions kept getting the best of her.

"I'm not like you!" – she exclaimed – "You can sew and dance and sing. You write poetry. You know how to dress. You play the high harp and the bells …" – she continued to say – "I'm not a lady" – she added – "I even told Father that I didn't want to get married…"

"You want to marry Gendry?" – Sansa's eyes widened.

"What … I …" – Arya stammered.

Suddenly, a twig snapped loudly in the woods, a small distance from camp.

Arya and Sansa stared up into the dark woods. The younger Stark gripped the sword sitting alongside her; the Lady of Winterfell seized a dagger from her weapons belt.

They both tentatively strayed from the campside.

Taking slow cautious steps, Arya and Sansa made their way through the trees.

Arya grabbed Sansa's arm.

"Wait" – she muttered warily.

A figure approached them.

Arya took a step forward, ready to strike.

Suddenly, she froze mid-gesture.

She would have recognized him anywhere, at any time, no matter how dark the room or how unexpected the sight of him.

Her heart started to beat faster as soon as her eyes met his. A small shock of longing went through her. She was drawn to his warm blue eyes.

"Gendry" – his name escaped Arya's mouth in a shuddering whisper – "You're not dead"

Her heart was pounding.

Gendry had cuts on his cheeks, hands and arms, but he was alive. He was safe.

She threw her arms around him, hugging him tight.

Gendry was taken aback for a split second, before he finally embraced her in return, rubbing slow circles on her back, bringing her closer without even thinking.

Sansa watched through red-rimmed eyes.

They're so beautiful together – she thought.

A moment later they drew back.

Arya felt her cheeks flush.

Emotions she didn't dare name rose in her throat, and she choked them back because she couldn't let herself feel so much for Gendry.

She pursed her lips and didn't look him in the eye.

"I'm glad you're alright, Gendry" – Sansa said, touching his forearm and offering him a warm smile – "How did you manage to escape?" – she asked.

Gendry cleared his throat.

"I had help" – he said, before looking over his shoulder.

Sansa and Arya followed his gaze; they immediately saw red eyes gleaming in the dark woods.

The direwolf approached them soundlessly, like a cloudy white shadow.

"Ghost…" – Sansa breathed.

She took a few steps before dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around the wolf's neck.

Ghost sniffed deeply of her, accepting the embrace.

Arya's heart thundered in her chest as she looked at Ghost.

Memories flashed through her mind. Incidents long since forgotten. Insignificant events. Simple, happy times. The moment Jon and the boys arrived home with six direwolf pups; Ghost much smaller, licking her hand; Nymeria sleeping at the foot of her bed.

I told her to run, to go be free, that I didn't want her anymore. Only she kept following.

A sudden and sharp pain of sadness and loss filled her, and she shuddered.

I hit her twice. She whined and looked at me and I felt so 'shamed, but it was right, wasn't it? The queen would have killed her.

She shut her eyes.

It was right – her father had said – And even the lie was … not without honor.

Suddenly, she felt something warm and soft touching her left hand.

Arya looked down; Ghost was licking her hand.

A sob rose in her chest.

She slid her sword back into her sheath, before dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around Ghost's neck.

The direwolf smelled like North, like her childhood, like home.

She giggled when a warm pink tongue darted out to lick the underside of her chin.

Half-unconsciously she turned her head and found Gendry's deep blue eyes staring at her.

His lips curved into a half smile.

Arya's breath turned uneven as she thought how astonishingly beautiful he was.

A rush of heat flashed across her skin.

She pressed her face into Ghost's fur, hiding her smile.

A fortnight later

The Targaryen army was like a city on the march. Scouts ranged far ahead of the main column, alert for any sign of enemies, while outriders guarded their flanks.

They missed nothing.

Jon's eyes were drawn to the caste.

Much of Harrenhal had far gone into decay, however its walls were incredibly thick and its rooms were built on a scale that would be more comfortable for giants than humans. From outside the gatehouse, only the tops of five immense towers could be seen because the height of the walls obscured the view of them.

Of the castle's five towers, the shortest was half again as high as the tallest one in Winterfell, yet none of the towers were proper, being bent, lumped, and cracked from the melting of the stone during the burning of Harrenhal by the Targaryen dragons three centuries earlier.

It was said by some that Harrenhal's Wailing Tower was occupied by ghosts. Jon knew it was occupied by Margaery Tyrell … and Sansa.

Rage flowed in his veins. If someone dared to hurt a hair on her head, (more) blood would spill.

Most of the Tyrell men were formed into shieldwalls; companies of archers were higher up, in the Tower of Dread, one of Harrenhal's major towers.

The enemy had the advantage of high ground.

"They got reinforcements coming from the south. If those forces hit the crossing while – " – Ser Davos said.

"It is time" – Jon cut him off.

He pulled Longclaw free, signaling the advance.

The King in the North led his men towards the fight.

Horns blew as the archers drew up behind.

A moment later, arrows flew into the lines of men making up the Tyrell shieldwall.

Shouts and cries rose up.

The enemy archers took their own shot. Hundreds of arrows arched down from the Tower of Dread to hit the front ranks.

Scores fell to the ground, yet the advance did not fall apart, it charged.

Ser Davos commanded all archers stop to loose straight at the shieldwalls as Jon's men approached the Tyrell army.

The enemy shieldwall held steady with spears and pikes aimed forward.

For the first time in a long time Jon's mind cleared and all that was left were his actions and his reactions.

It was a chaotic skirmish of riders and infantry.

There was blood everywhere.

Hours later, horses and riders were being impaled all down the line, falling in ever growing numbers.

The King in the North signaled the men to form columns.

A spear cut through his horse's armor.

Jon struggled to get his mount back under control.

The riders formed together into tight columns so Ser Davos's archers, further back, could get a glimpse of their targets.

The Tyrell lines frayed.

Jon dismounted, cutting and opening the enemy lines.

His breathing was labored, his legs burning.

He saw riders falling, while others fled.

The battlefield was a mangled mess; torn flesh and blood everywhere.

Jon blocked a slash aimed at Grey Worm's back and shoved.

The King in the North pivoted on his foot, slashing down the man's calf. Then, he slit his throat open.

Jon had just stepped back from the body when Ser Loras Tyrell rode straight at him, sword slashing downwards, but Jon was faster. He met the blow and threw it aside as the man passed.

Ser Loras charged again.

Jon sidestepped the man's attack and cut at the horse's leg. Both knight and the horse screamed horribly as the animal tumbled and threw him from the saddle.

The King in the North thrust his sword deep into the Ser Loras Tyrell's chest.

Breathing heavily, he stared down emotionless at the dying man.

"Your Grace!" – Brienne's shout caught Jon's attention – "Your Grace! They're laying down arms" – she added – "We've won!"

Jon stared down at the red blood coating his hands.

The reality of what had just happened began to sink in.

Men cheered while most of the Tyrell men still fighting began to drop their weapons.

Jon broke into a run.

Harrenhal's Wailing Tower had no roof, only incredibly thick walls partially ruined and half melted; the floors were smooth slate.

The first thing Jon noticed was how quiet it was.

The King in the North was familiar with the story of the Burning of Harrenhal: it was a major engagement in the War of Conquest, in which Aegon the Conqueror used his dragon Balerion to burn the castle of Harrenhal; the entire castle was blasted with dragon-fire.

Jon could still remember Old Nan's tale:

And King Harren learned that thick walls and high towers are small use against dragons. For dragons fly.

Jon didn't have a dragon. He didn't need a dragon.

His blade was slick with blood.

He walked in direction of the only table in the chamber; his steps echoing through the deserted room.

His hands were red with blood and his shirt was stained with it.

Margaery Tyrell's back was turned to him.

She was facing the dark window, seeing a clear reflection of him in the glass.

The table stood between them.

"Where is she?" – Jon asked; his voice sounded terribly loud in the silence of the room.

Margaery remained silent as a tomb.

"Where is she?" – he growled.

"She's gone" – Margaery spoke, finally.

Jon's heart stopped, clutched between icy fingers.

She's gone.

He let out a shaky breath.

The King in the North shook his head, slowly at first, and then hard.

No, no, no.

Sansa was all he had in the world. No, she couldn't be gone.

Dead.

His skin prickled.

He shuffled back a few steps. Sansa couldn't be dead. She couldn't be. This couldn't be real.

Trying to regain his senses, he concentrated on controlling his breathing while his heart rate continued to increase.

A boiling terror crashed over him.

Jon saw again in his mind's eye Ygritte's dead body. His own hands around her body.

"No" – he said – "You're lying"

Jon swallowed the hard lump settling at the base of his throat while tightening his grip around his blade.

"She's gone" – Margaery spoke again – "Dead"

"I don't believe you" – Jon said, a hint of desperation coloring his voice.

His foot inched forward, but suddenly his whole body halted.

What he noticed next sent chills up his spine.

On the table was a red braid – Sansa's braid.

He froze in horror.

Jon let the blade slip from his fingers and fall to the ground.

He felt lightheaded, as if all the blood had drained out of his brain.

She's gone.

He felt Margaery's words clawing at his guts, felt nails pierce his skin. And then the terrible agony of his bowels being ripped out.

He ran a hand through his hair. Normally one to keep calm, he was starting to panic.

Dead.

This could not be happening.

He felt an ache within him, a fury.

I have lost everything. Lost everything. Everything.

He felt like he might faint; his body was shaking and he felt detached.

He couldn't move.

Jon felt so cold he felt like he'd been buried in snow.

Darkness was spinning around him.

He couldn't stop thinking about the fact that Sansa had died.

Hundreds of horrible scenarios ran through his head.

How had she died? What had happened in the moments leading to her death? Had she suffered?

Guilt pounded at him.

Jon felt as if his blood was rushing through his veins.

"Jon!"

Someone was calling his name, but he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear it, because he knew it wasn't Sansa's voice.

A warm hand touched his forearm.

The King in the North turned his head and met Daenery's eyes. Then, a movement caught the corner of his eye.

He heard a click.

Margaery pointed a crossbow at him.

Before Jon could see her pull the trigger, Daenerys launched herself at him, making him land hard on the floor; his head slamming painfully.

His vision wavered.

His chest was aching with Dany's weight upon it.

Jon moved his right arm. His hand touched Daenerys's back.

He felt something warm and damp against his skin.

Blood.

Thank you so much for reading this chapter.

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