Arya is happy for her brother, she really is. Or, well, she's happy for her cousin who was raised as her brother. Or maybe he's still her brother. Honestly, their relation has gotten a bit confusing as of late. It doesn't really matter, she supposes as morning rises on the halls of Winterfell. She doesn't have much mental space to ponder it with Gendry looking at her the way he is.

They are seated across from each other in the main hall, a sunrise banquet having been called to celebrate the newest royal marriage. The northern lords were not overjoyed when the newlyweds announced their union, but they begrudgingly accepted the match as a beneficial alliance. They still do not know of Jon's true name or heritage. Only those who were in attendance the previous night for the marriage ceremony are privy to the news. As the hall fills with lively conversation, Arya attempts to avoid returning Gendry's stare, but there are only so many places she can look without making her avoidance obvious. Finally, she forces herself to match his gaze. It's a surprising jolt to her nerves, and she does her best to mask her shock.

He has always been handsome, but she had noted it with objective distance before. Now, he has grown even more so, and she cannot ignore what that does to the blood in her veins. His crystal irises whisper of the ice castles of her youth, and she feels his gaze in on her skin with all force of the unwavering heat in Braavos. They haven't spoken since their abrupt and unexpected reunion the day before.

"You have quite the reputation around here," Gendry begins before Arya can find something to say.

She knows what he means but chooses to ignore it by saying, "Winterfell is my home. Of course I am well known here." He smiles, amused by her avoidance.

"It's strange imagining you growing up in this place," Gendry states. "I don't know how you could stand the cold."

"My apologies if the northern conditions are too harsh for your southern sensibilities." He meets her smirk with one of his own.

"No need, m'lady," he responds, his grin widening when she glares at him for using that term. "I quite enjoy the change of pace." They share a moment of contented silence.

"It may have been cold out there," she starts, gesturing ambiguously to the world outside of Winterfell, "but this place was always warm." The look he gives her tells her that he understands that she is not speaking of the weather.

"What was it like?" he asks.

"Awful," she jokes with a playful grimace. "My mother made me learn boring, useless skills like sowing. Sansa was great at it, but all I could think about was learning to fight."

Gendry laughs at that and says, "You never were a proper lady."

She shrugs and responds, "I never wanted to be." Her words give him pause, and his eyebrows scrunch together. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, as if he cannot figure out what to say, or how to say it. Eventually, he seems to find the right words.

"Where'd you learn the art of execution?" The question shouldn't shock her as much as it does. She is almost surprised enough answer honestly, but the clang of silverware reminds her of their public setting.

"I could ask you the same," she responds vaguely. Gendry tilts his head inquisitively. "Davvos may have told me a thing or two about how you came to be in my brother's service." he nods gravely, then looks around as if just now recognizing their lack of privacy. The small downturn of the right side of his mouth tells her that he has come to the same conclusion that she has: anything important they have to share requires them to be alone.

"My skills are rooted in craft rather than killing," Gendry finally says. "But certain circumstances have forced my hand in the past, and I have a feeling they will do so once more before this war is over." She can tell that he wants to say more.

After a moment of consideration, she clears her throat and stands up. A few heads turn toward her, but she just excuses herself from the hall, subtly gesturing form Gendry to meet her in the corridor adjacent to this room. He nods just as discreetly, and she goes to wait for him in their meeting spot. After a few endless minutes, he appears in front of her.

"What took you so long?" Arya asks.

"Some of us aren't royalty around here, m'lady," he retorts. "I had to come up with an excuse as to why I was leaving your brother's marriage banquet."

"And what did you come up with?"

"Said I had some work to do in the forge, of course."

"Don't you actually have work to do in the forge?" she asks. "Making weapons to use against the Night King?"

"Sure but I think I can spare a few minutes to catch up with an old friend," he says, grinning.

"War waits for no one," Arya states. "Minutes can be the difference between life and death." There is a moment of silence between them.

"You know, you were always pretty intense, but something's different about you now." Gendry's eyebrows travel inward, his gaze searching for something he's missed.

"Of course I'm different," she retorts, feeling conflicted all of a sudden. She had thought she wanted to tell him about her past, but a voice in her head is telling her not to. Telling her that he wouldn't understand, that he would be disgusted. "We haven't seen each other in years. You've changed, too."

"You're right," he agrees. "I almost died at the hands of that Red Witch, and I barely escaped with my life thanks to Davvos. I'd been working in King's Landing ever since, biding my time when Davvos came to get me again, told me what your brother was doing, and I knew I had to help, had to fight." He pauses, steps closer to her. She notices how secluded this corridor is, how hidden and private and small. She notices the exact amount of space between Gendry's body and her own. She wants to believe it's just her training, wants to convince herself that she's just taking in her surroundings. But she's not fond of wishful thinking, and Gendry is no threat to her.

"So yeah I've learned a few things, been through some shit," he continues. "But you, Arya, you disappeared a stubborn, clever little girl and came back a warrior. That doesn't just happen."

"Maybe it does," she says, hoarding her secrets close to her chest, hoping they won't spill out of her grasp before she's ready to let them go. "Maybe I lived in the forest, learning to fight and survive. Maybe I got bored eventually and decided to come home." He shakes his head.

"No, you didn't," he states, like it's fact, like he can see into her mind and read the truth of her experiences. "Whatever it was, it wasn't peaceful or boring."

"How would you know?" she asks, trying to hide the telltale clench of her jaw.

"I know you," he declares, as if she should already know the answer. He tilts his head slightly. "I know who you used to be, and I know that now there's a...darkness inside you." She attempts to continue breathing normally, but it's hard, especially with him standing so close and peering into her heart.

"Does it scare you?" she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Do I scare you?"

"Yes," he breathes. "But not because I think you'll hurt me." There is almost no air between them, no space. She's looking up into his icy irises, confused at his words, his fear. But then, she thinks maybe she understands after all. And she, too, is terrified.

"Gendry," she exhales, surprise and amazement and desire fusing together at her core.

"What happened all those years, Arya?"

"You might not like me so much if I tell you," she struggles to say. The words taste like dirt in her mouth.

"Not possible," he breathes, leaning into her. Any tension he had a moment ago slips away. It's like he's finally made a difficult decision, like he's letting go and giving his fate to the Seven Faced God. As he moves closer, her eyes are falling closed of their own volition, and her senses are filled with him.

His lips graze hers and suddenly the heat of Braavos seems chilly in comparison to the fire his kiss ignites. Strong hands come up to grip the sides of her face, calluses rough against her skin. His mouth his soft on hers, light and hesitant. She's burning, slowly, from the inside out. Melting at each point where his skin mets hers. She's hungry, she realizes. Hungry like she's never been before. She's about to pull him closer, about to devour him, when he leans back, breaking the contact of their lips. He doesn't let go of her though, his hands still holding her head like her neck isn't doing a good enough job. He's looking into her eyes like her irises hold all the answers in the universe, like they are pools of pure ecstasy and all he has to do is dive in.

"I probably shouldn't have done that," he says, his chest rising and falling heavily. His words are remorseful, but nothing about him seems sorry. He says the words like he knows it's what he should say, what he should feel or know or think. But he doesn't. His eyes are alight with mischief and wonder and some emotion she can't quite place. They are jumping from her eyes to her lips and back again.

"Yeah, probably not," she responds, finding her own voice a bit hoarse. And she can see it in the flick of his tongue on his lower lip, in the hot breath coming too fast from his eager mouth, in the way he is staring like he's never seen anything like her before and may never again. Arya has spent years on the run, in the streets. She knows hunger when she sees it. And Gendry is starving.

So she reaches for him desperately, pulling his lips down to hers once more, allowing him to fit his body against hers. She craves the fire in his touch. He is rain in the deserts of Essos, bread in the midst of famine, a sword returning to its sheath after a long, bloody battle. Or maybe this kiss is the battle, for their lips are aggressive with each other like they are caught in a duel. She's never done this before, never cared to, and she's not sure that this is how it's supposed to be, not sure that she's doing it right. But if she's doing it wrong, Gendry makes no complaints.

She digs her fingers into his back, pressing his body tighter against her own, needing to feel more of him, all of him. He's sighing into her mouth, her cheek, her neck, pressing her back into the wall that she had barely noticed behind her. His hands are travelling along her torso, tracing nonsensical patterns into her skin through the fabric covering her body. And suddenly she wants to rip off all the layers between them, just to feel his skin flush against hers. As if sensing this, Gendry shrugs off his heavy coat, stipping her of her jacket as well. It's better, but still not enough. She has a feeling that she'll never be able to get close enough to him to satiate her desire.

Her hands have moved to his head, holding it in place so that she can take from the endless luxury that is his mouth. She thinks she hears him saying her name, sealing it to her own lips, like a whisper of gratitude to a god who answered his most desperate prayer. But she can't focus on anything right now, can't understand anything but the taste of his lips, the feel of his skin, the heat of their embrace. She's sure that later she will find scorch marks all over her body where he's touching her. They are an inferno, a fire that refuses to die, the brightest, most searing part of a flame.

He bites her bottom lip and she thinks that this is it. This is the moment they catch fire entirely. The lords and the ladies of Winterfell will come to watch them go up in flames together. They will wonder at the charred figures intertwined at the center of the blaze; they will question the source of the heat, here in the halls of her home in the dead of winter. They will whisper of two lovers caught up in mutual destruction, mermer their condolences with just the slightest hint of condescension. Arya can't force herself to care.

Because now he's picking her up, his craftsman's hands gripping her thighs, burning handprints into her skin. She wraps her legs around him and makes an inhuman sound in the back of her throat when he presses closer, a new kind of heat building between her legs. She's ravenous now, and she's never known hunger like this before. The more she takes, the more she wants. She wants more than two hands with which to touch him, more than one mouth with which to kiss him, more than one body with which to worship him. She wants another heart because she doesn't think the one she has is going to be able to take much more of this without exploding.

She has never experienced wanting like this. She thought she wanted revenge more than anything, thought she understood what it was to be driven to near insanity by desire. But that feeling pales in comparison to this all consuming fire. It's in her blood, in her bones. It's elemental, like a devastating storm or waves crashing against a shoreline. Inevitable, unstoppable, powerful. Her hands find the hem of his shirt and she tugs up, up, up, until they are both gasping at the feel of her fingers against his abdomen. She hesitates at the way he tenses up under her touch. They both go still for a moment, looking into each others' eyes, chests heaving.

Then he says, "Don't stop," and she doesn't need to be told twice. She runs her hands all over her bare skin as he finds a tender spot near her collar bone to kiss. He is hard, toned muscle and sun-kissed flesh. He is sharp lines and the faintest taste of metal. His body is forged of relentless work, yet it melts under her touch. His lips against hers are soldiers charging onto a battlefield, never knowing if today is the day they will perish. She's about to try pulling his shirt off entirely when the sound of her name breaks her concentration. It's not Gendry's voice saying it, but it is a voice she would recognize anywhere. They break apart immediately, and her eyes land on perhaps the last person she wanted to find them like this: Jon.

Jon hasn't said a word to Gendry since they set off on their mission a few hours ago. In fact, he's barely said a word to him since he found the man wrapped in a heated embrace with his little sister. Or cousin. Either way, he's not sure what to say about what he walked in on this morning, nor does he trust himself to be completely civil if he does decide to open his mouth. So they ride in silence.

He wishes he had had time to talk to his bride about Arya and Gendry before he left. Even though it's been only a few hours, he misses Daenerys fiercely. Jon did not want to leave his wife the day after their wedding, but his duties called him to the Wall. So that's where they are headed, to face the destruction that Gendry informed him of the day before.

It feels strange to Jon that he returned to his home only yesterday, with all that has happened since his homecoming. His mind continues wandering back to the events of the past few hours, even as he fights to remain alert. Unwelcome, the memory of Gendry and Arya together in that corridor rushes back to him.

He hears Gendry clear his throat before saying, "The closest entry point should be coming up to our left." Jon does his best to avoid looking at the the other man. They fall into silence again, but the tension has somehow increased.

"You never told me that you knew Arya," Jon blurts, trying to keep the suspicion out of his tone.

"Never came up," Gendry answers. He pauses, as if unsure of how to continue. "And I honestly thought she was dead."

"How did you meet?"

"She was pretending to be a boy," Gendry answers, something like fondness in his voice. "But I could tell she was a girl. Oh she used to get so mad when I called her m'lady."

"Why was she pretending to be a boy?"

"To escape King's Landing after…" He trails off. "She was going with us to the Wall. To meet you, I think. She always spoke so highly of you. That's part of the reason I decided to tell you the truth about who I am when we met." Jon lets that information sink in.

"But you got separated somehow?"

"Well we spent some time under Tywin Lannister's thumb," Gendry recounts. "Arya got us out of there, though. Then we stumbled across the Brotherhood, and I decided to take up with them."

"I still don't quite understand why you didn't tell me that you knew her," Jon states. Gendry shrugs, looking slightly confused himself.

"It's not as if I purposefully kept it from you," he responds. "It was just painful to think about her, and I figured it would be even more painful to bring her up."

"What happened this morning…" Jon begins to say, clearing his throat mid sentence. "Were you two always-"

"No!" Gendry cuts him off with a strong shake of his head. "No, we were never anything more than friends. I mean, she was barely more than a child when we knew each other." Jon lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"So that was…"

"The first time anything like that has happened between us," Gendry states, his cheeks slightly red, though Jon cannot tell if it has more to do with the cold or this conversation. "I swear it."

"I feel I must ask, what are your intentions with my sister?"

"I care for Arya very much, Your Grace," Gendry responds after a moment of contemplation. "My intentions are to do as she wishes. If she wants to be with me, I will be glad for it. If not, I will respect her wishes and we will speak of it no longer." Jon looks at him a while before nodding. They continue in contented silence.

Just as the sun is beginning to set, a loud screech turns the heads of both men.

Gendry perceives the attack in flashes. One minute, they are alone in the middle of a snow capped wasteland; the next, they are being descended upon from all sides. The Queen's deceased dragon comes first, its blue fire stark against the ice, its screech grating against his ears. Gendry looks to Jon for guidance, for a signal. But Jon's eyes are on the horizon, on the fast approaching army of the dead.

Suddenly they are afloat in a sea of blue eyes, drowning in the Night King's soldiers with no life boat. They use fire and valyrian swords, use the dragon glass daggers Gendry brought along just in case and the hammer he made just for this occasion. Jon fights valiantly as ever by Gendry's side, and Gendry tries to keep up but he's no warrior and they both know it. Still they trudge on, laying waste to white walkers as they try to retreat. It isn't enough to save them.

The Northern King goes down at some point during the fight, though Gendry cannot say how much time has passed since the initiation of the battle. Jon howls beside him, and he turns to see that the man has been run through with a long sword, skewered like goat's meat. Jon drops to his knees as the light begins to leave his eyes. Blood leaks from his mouth, trickling down his chin like a waterfall.

Gendry's thoughts go quiet, replaced by a faint ringing. This is it. This is how and when and where he dies. Fighting the Night King alongside the King in the North. He'll admit, it's not a bad way to go. Pretty honorable for a king's bastard son. He thinks of all the ways he could have died by now and knows that this is not the worst end he could have hoped for.

But then he thinks of Arya, her face and her wit and the feelings they have only begun to explore. He thinks of the devastation she would face in the wake of both his and her brother's deaths. He thinks of all the years they spent apart believing the other to be dead only to find their way back to each other. And suddenly he cannot bear the thought of not living to see her again. Their story is not over yet. This is not the end.

So, with Jon Snow dying beside him, Gendry raises his hammer and prepares to fight.