A/N: This is a prequel to my first Arya/Gendry story, The Princess of Winterfell's Forge. I've had this done for a while now, though I'm just getting around to posting it. There may be a third part coming in this series, someday. Enjoy!

Arya huffed indignantly. She felt like a child, sulking about in her room like this. As Queen, Sansa became a crystallized version of everything Arya resented: responsibility, poise, feminine grace, wisdom...the list dragged on. She scrunched her face up at the thought of herself in long, lustruous dresses, with that stupid iron and weirwood crown. The only thing she would want to be queen for would be to legitimize Gendry, so that Sansa wouldn't have such a dirk in her arse about their being friends. If he was a proper little lordling, Sansa would do anything she could to make sure he got on with Arya, and she'd probably make them get married. It made her sick. "His blood's as good as mine!" she shouted to no one. Just thinking about him brought up the familiar rolling boil in her stomach, like a thousand dragonflies were all trying to fly out all at once. She thought of his easy smile, his serious blue eyes, and his ever-frustrating bullheadedness. She felt the heat rise to her face as she pictured hard muscles beneath sweating skin and lingering touches from calloused hands. I'll show Sansa, she thought, grinning wickedly. There are still five hours until sundown, that's more than enough time...

The sun was low in the sky, but the fire raging beside him was light enough. He brought his hammer to the steel and relished in its sweet song. Always, it seemed, Gendry tried to beat his thoughts of Arya away with the hellfire of hot steel. Every image, every memory was interrupted with a sharp, stabbing ring, and for that he thanked the old gods and the new. When he was working, the kiss of the hammer and the touch of the flame were all be lusted for...almost. Perhaps if the helm had stubborn grey eyes, or if his hammer called him stupid, it would be otherwise, but until the Smith or R'hllor above granted him that courtesy, he would always need Arya.

Gendry was in trouble, he knew. The Queen had caught her sister in the forge the day before, hanging about and carrying on when she should have been preparing for the Southron King and Queen's visit. Icily as the Wall itself, Queen Sansa had asked Gendry to finish the helms for her Queensguard by the week's end. It was a punishment in all but name—he had a helm and a half to go in only a few day's time. It made him busy enough to push Arya out of the forge when she came around, which he supposed was what the Queen had intended.

The helm in his hands, sixth of seven, was beginning to take its shape. What would soon be the ears and snout of the direwolf were still rough protuberances on the unpolished steel, but the toothy snarl would take its shape before the night was through. "Hopefully," he said out loud with a yawn. He turned from the fire to watch the sun dip behind the castle, setting aside the helm. By this hour, Hot Pie would have a plate or two of dinner for him. Then, he could work for another hour or so before going to sleep...his stomach rumbled. Time to quit planning and start doing, he told himself, emerging from the forge into the winter moonlight.

Surely enough, Hot Pie had some roast duck and vegetables on a chipped plate for him. "'S about time you got around to eating," he admonished his friend.

"I didn't want to interrupt you," Gendry countered. "I figured this place would be a hectic mess 'til the Southron King and Queen arrive, and I didn't want to be a bother." Looking around told him that his guess wasn't far off. Kitchenmaids flurried about, and two weak-looking apprentices were struggling to carry a large bushel of lemons and apples. Half a roll shoved in his mouth, Gendry stood to help them, placing the fruits where Hot Pie directed.

"Careful with those, smith! Those are for Her Grace and Her...Her...Other Grace!" Hot Pie called out. "Has Lady Arya been to see you?" the fat cook asked once Gendry had taken a seat again. "She was here this morning, told me the most bawdy joke...Though I don't really remember it," he added woefully.

Gendry rolled his eyes. "She's tried, but between the Queen and myself she hasn't had much luck."

Hot Pie's face fell. "She's in trouble again?"

"She's always in trouble, Hot Pie. If the Night's Watch took well-bred ladies, she'd be Lady Commander, you and I both know." He took a few more bites of his food, trying to push his dreams of her rebellious kisses out of his mind. "This is real good," he said, casually changing the subject.

"Yeah?" Hot Pie's round face lit up at the praise, "It's a Southron recipe, but done with Northern ingredients. It's a little tester for when the Southron Court arrives. I roasted the-"

"I'd love to talk about it, really," Gendry cut him off, "but the Queen wants the helmets done before the court arrives next week."

"Don't let me keep you, mate," Hot Pie said amicably. "But shit, does she really expect you to get them done? How could you even..."

Gendry shrugged. "Don't have much of a choice, do I?" he responded, declining to mention Arya's involvement in his workload. "Anyways, thanks for dinner. I'll see you later." Hopping from the stool he'd been resting on, he left, ignoring the lingering glances from some of the younger kitchenmaids and serving girls.

"I'll bring you breakfast tomorrow morning, alright? Don't work yourself to death!" Hot Pie called after his friend.

Arya smiled proudly at the pack in front of her. Claiming female infirmities, she'd managed to convince Hot Pie to give her a few day's worth of fruit, cheese, and dried meat. Coupled with the few other supplies she'd gathered, the pack was barely enough to fill one of the saddlebags she'd be taking.

The moonlight cast a deep shadow under the lip of the stable's roof, where she sat with Nymeria. "I can't take my horse," she explained to the wolf, who appeared to be listening carefully, "and seeing as all of the others are afraid of you, you'll have to go ahead. I'll meet you in our spot, I promise," she assured the beast.

Nymeria responded by licking Arya's ear.

The reluctant princess smiled and scratched her neck, as if the enormous direwolf was no more than a spoiled lapdog. "Go on," she said gently, "I'll meet you in a few hours."

A small animal rustled in the trees. Nymeria's ears stood as the pupils dilated in her dark eyes, and she bounded off towards one of the wolf's doors that Jon had insisted be added to the castle's walls.

Arya couldn't help but smile for a moment before she got back to work. Swinging over the wooden fence and back into the stables, she gathered the rest of her supplies and set about quietly saddling an unremarkable rounsey called Oat. Her own horse, a black courser named Shadow, nearly whinnied in protest over being ignored before she patted the top of his head affectionately.

Oat was patiently waiting for her. Arya took the reins and they walked quietly from the stables. It was late enough for what she had planned.

Gendry laid on his small cot in the back of the forge. He'd managed the details on the snout in a blaze of furious determination. Ours is the Fury, he mused dimly, remembering the parting words Lord Stannis Baratheon had given him near the end of the war. Fat lot of good being a Baratheon does me, he thought, dwelling as ever on Arya. Something about their friendship had changed in the last year, and although it made him feel like his insides were being dragged by the Stranger through all seven hells, he still liked it. There were a long list of protestations that he weakly offered himself as to why he shouldn't feel that way for her: She was a princess, she was nearly four years younger than him, he would ruin her, she didn't think of him that way...the list went on, but at the end of the day it didn't matter. Daenerys Targaryen's dragons could shout the list from the top of the Wall and it wouldn't change how he felt.

It was with that determined, discomforting thought that he fell deeply asleep.

Gendry jolted awake some time later that evening when a hand clamped across his mouth and another held icy steel to his neck. "Don't shout," a gravelly voice warned, digging the blade a little deeper into the stubbled skin on his neck. "Don't move," it instructed further. Not that he could—it appeared his attacker had bound his hands before he'd woken up—but he supposed it was the thought that counted. The steel was pulled quickly away and his head was covered in what he guessed was a dark and vaguely smelly sack. "Rise," the dark voice commanded. Gendry thought about resisting, but obeyed. A feeling in his gut told him to wait to strike until he could see his attacker and properly judge his weaknesses.

The attacker led him noiselessly from the forge. Suddenly, the steel was at his chest, poking through thin shirt he'd worn to sleep. "Get on the horse, smith," the voice rumbled.

"That'd be easier if I could s–" the boot was in his stomach before he could finish his sardonic sentence. He fell to the ground, groaning in pain. His kidnapper (because it appeared that that was what this was) hoisted him up roughly, like he was no bigger than a child's plaything, and prodded him back towards the horse. Moving awkwardly to compensate for his bound hands, he hoisted himself up into the saddle.

He was getting frightened. He was one of the strongest men in Winterfell, and it was a rare strength that could lift up a man who weighed sixteen stone so easily. His abductor bound his feet tightly to the stirrups on each side of the saddle and led the horse out of the castle without another sound.

If he had to hazard a guess, he'd say they'd ridden about three hours. He knew he was in the Wolfswood, but that was about it. When the horse came to a stop beneath him suddenly, Gendry tensed his body, ready to fight. His captor released the binds on his feet and used the tie on his hands to drag him ungracefully from the horse. The cloth was pulled from his eyes... And he rolled them.

"Mind if I ask you what the hell you're doing, Your Grace?"

"Shut up!" Princess Arya Stark kicked him. "You're no fun at all as a prisoner," she'd added, untying him. "You didn't even try to figure out who I was or where you were being taken. If it was anyone but me, you'd be dead."

He rubbed his wrists. "That's because I knew it was you, Princess," he half-lied. He'd suspected her, for sure, but he hadn't been certain. "No one else can move through the forge, the stables, and the Wolfswood that quietly. Why are we here?"

"Sansa told me it was improper to carry on with you like I do, so I decided we were leaving."

"You're a proper wildling, d'you know that? Stealing me away in the night-"

"You can't talk to me like that!"

"Excuse me," he bowed melodramatically, "I meant you're a proper wildling, m'lady."

She roughly tossed a pack at him in response. "Would you have rather I stopped seeing you?"

He hadn't answered.

Arya had waited until Gendry was back asleep before curling up against Nymeria for a few hour's rest before morning. When she woke, he wasn't there, but he hadn't gone far. And if he has, she thought, Nymeria can find him.

He wandered back from the edge of the clearing, stretching. "And here I thought coming north with you was the end of my shitting in the woods days," he said grumpily. "Why can't we have had a fire, at least, m'lady?"

She rolled her eyes at him, silently worried. Dragging him out here had been a huge gamble on her part. What if he didn't feel that way about her? The one time she'd tried to kiss him he'd stopped her cold... It could destroy their friendship, tenuous as it was with Sansa's interference. "If you like the castle so much, just go back," she answered sullenly after a time.

Gendry made a face at her, then groaned suddenly. "Shit, Arry!"

"What?" she asked hurriedly. He only called her that when one of them was in some kind of panic or danger, a relic of how they had met. "What is it?"

"I hope you brought me out here for a reason, 'cause the Queen'll have my fucking head whenever you bring me back," he swore.

"Why?" she stood, crossing her arms. "What's Sansa want with your fat head?"

"Excuse me?" he seethed before shaking his head. "I don't know if you've forgotten, Your Highness, but I'm more than just your plaything! I'm to finish the Queensguard helmets by week's end, as a punishment for letting you hang around me so damned much!" he grunted in frustration, pacing around the clearing. "As much as I'd love to live the Lord's Life and idle about the castle all day, I don't have the privilege! And I'm about to lose what privilege I have when the Queen de-fucking-capitates me!" he stopped in front of her, panting like a bull.

Arya saw red. She shoved him, and he tripped over a root and fell down. As soon as he landed, she leapt on top of him an starting banging her small fists on his chest, her wild brown hair flying around her thrashing head. "I hate you!" she shrieked, "You stupid, bull-headed, stupid idiot! If Sansa's so fucking important why don't you just go back to the castle and leave me here, it doesn't matter to me at all you idiot, stupid boy! I hate you, I hate you! It's not like I have any feelings for such a stupid bull anyways, you idiot stupid—"

Gendry extended his arm, resting his palm against her forehead. It made it extraordinarily difficult for her to hit him, and she relented for a moment, arms crossed and pouting. "What was that last part, Arry?"

Her eyes went wide and a heat rose to her cheeks as she realized what she'd revealed. "You're stupid, and I hate you," she responded as cooly as possible.

He rolled his eyes and sat up, causing her to slide off his chest and into his lap. Their eyes were even, her steel and his sky meeting. "I heard you," he said quietly, "and I'm giving you a chance to explain."

Arya couldn't breathe. As fast as she could, she wrestled herself out of his too-close touch and ran off into the woods, her wolf at her heels.

"Great, got it, thanks," Gendry muttered to himself after she took off, running a hand through his coal-black hair.

He shouldn't have allowed himself to hope, but still, he'd heard what she said. Calmly, he laid all of the evidence out in his mind, considering each memory and moment.

The first time he'd begun to think of her that way was when she wore the silly dress that made her look like a tree at Acorn Hall. She was ten, and he had just turned fifteen. It had felt so queer; one moment she was just Arry, then all of the sudden his stomach was lurching and his breath was short and he was light-headed...then she'd shoved him, wrestled him to the ground at half his size, and he felt almost normal again. Almost. Things were never quite the same after that. The feelings that he'd had that day were what led him to becoming a knight. He'd wanted so badly to impress her, to be closer to her, that he hadn't realized he'd single-handedly pushed her across the Narrow Sea.

He'd lived four years without her, blaming himself every day, and he thought she was gone forever. But she wasn't. Next in his mind was the time he'd first seen her again, when she'd whispered that he had brought her back from across the sea. He didn't know what it had meant—even now, she'd deny she said it before she explained.

Not long after that she'd begged him to come with her back to Winterfell, to never leave her like he had before.

Then and now, he attributed those declarations to the fever she'd had when the Brotherhood found her, clutching Needle and howling like a wolf in the hills outside the ruins of Summerhall.

He'd been true to his word, though. Each night that they'd stayed with the Brotherhood, waiting for her to heal, he'd laid her blanket next to his. He barely slept for weeks, watching her and holding her tiny hand, making sure that she was well, that she would be alright, that she had food and water, that she wasn't too warm. At the time, he hadn't known what to call it, though the Brothers thought they did. Tom Sevenstrings sang sometimes lewd, sometimes sweet songs about it, much to his embarrassment, and Gendry remembered flatly denying his feelings when Anguy and Lem individually pressed him about it. The whole company knew of his blood, courtesy of their meeting with Stannis Baratheon during the war, but Thoros had dutifully reminded Gendry of his status, blood regardless.

Finally she'd healed and they'd set off for Winterfell, a few Brothers coming with them (but most staying). They'd found Hot Pie, and he joined them. Along the way, others had joined, and half a year later when they arrived at the gates of Winterfell he had still been at her side.

Though it had been over four years ago, Gendry could remember the feast that the Queen had thrown for her sister's return like it was yesterday. As a member of Arya's party, he'd bent his knee during the ceremony in the Godswood and then was allowed to sit at the Queen's high table for the meal, right at Arya's side. She'd looked so beautiful, in a long dress the color of her eyes, the years of dirt scrubbed from her face and hair, a wreath of blue winter roses worn like a crown. It was intoxicating, like something out of a past life, and he'd never felt anything like it before. Of course, he could never tell her that; she'd hate it—or worse—she'd laugh. So he told it to his cups, getting a little too drunk, and he went to bed early, falling heavily into the feather cot in the small guest quarters he'd been assigned to until the forge was ready for him and dreaming (rather curiously) of his father.

He remembered being irritable for weeks every time a new suitor would come for her, then grinning like a fool for nearly as long every time she inevitably drove them off. It wasn't as if he held any hopes of marrying her—there was his status, for one, and to hear her tell it, Aegon the Conqueror, Baelor the Blessed and the Prince of Dragonflies could throw themselves at her feet and she'd laugh and turn them all away—but knowing that she wasn't marrying anyone else was nearly as sweet.

He dug through the pack for an apple and some hard cheese, then resumed his brooding.

Some days, she hung around the forge like she had at Harrenhal, watching him work. She got in the way or wasted his time more often than not, but he never minded.

Some nights she wandered there as well, sleep stolen by nightmares. He'd stay up with her for hours, sometimes talking and sometimes silent, and when the sun turned the sky the pale blue of a winter rose she'd disappear back into the castle.

Lately, she hadn't bothered to go back to the castle. A few times she'd asked him to hold her as she tried to find sleep, and once (only once) they'd both fallen asleep that way. After that, she'd disappeared for nearly two months on a trip to Karhold without so much as a goodbye.

He'd considered his hopes crushed after that, or he would have, if not for the feast that followed her return. She only ever wore grey dresses, and only for feasts and events that she deemed worth her attention. In Gendry's mind, each steely gown was more beautiful—and more truly representative of Arya—than the last. For this feast, the silk skirt rippled like Valyrian steel and the bodice hugged her athletic but delicate form. There was another completely maddening crown of winter roses that nearly glowed against her rich, brown hair, and Gendry had felt faint all evening.

That feast had celebrated both her eighteenth name-day and her return from Karhold, and she'd decided that she needed to drink like a Mormont, an Umber, and a Karstark combined to celebrate. Needless to say, things got out of hand rather quickly, and the feast ended prematurely when Jon Snow carried a snoring Arya away from the high table. Gendry had chatted for near on an hour with Hot Pie and the kennelmaster before returning to the forge to go to bed...and finding Arya there. Before he could even question her, she'd leapt up and planted her lips onto his in a sloppy kiss. Stunned, Gendry kissed her eagerly...before remembering who and where and what he was and forcibly pulling away. She started crying, and Gendry took her by the arm and led her back to Jon, hoping she wouldn't remember by morning. By the grace of one set of gods or another, Jon hadn't asked what happened. The two bastards of Winterfell were friendly enough, but Gendry guessed that his involving himself with Arya could end that rather quickly.

The name-day feast was a month past. In that time, she'd mostly avoided him and he'd tried to avoid her. It killed him, but it was better for her and that was more important. Or so I thought, he mused. Her kidnapping him had changed everything.

Gendry rose. She'd been gone a while, and while he knew Arya could take care of herself better than anyone in the Wolfswood, he had something to tell her.

Arya slammed the back of her head rather forcefully against the tree trunk, hot tears spilling unwanted from her eyes. I had my chance and I was too craven to take it, she fumed miserably. She had been so close...but then she saw the same hard, distant look that she'd seen in his eyes the night she tried to kiss him and she had fled, panicked. Now everything's ruined.

"Arry? Arya!"

She groaned, not having expected him to be looking for her so soon.

Gendry thundered through the underbrush, all might and no subtlety. "Where in the seven hells are you? Arry please, I just want to—" there was a loud thump, and Gendry stopped shouting to curse profusely, "—talk!" he shouted, his voice strangled.

Leaning over the branch she was perched on, she watched him blunder his way towards the tree she was in.

"Seven's shit, is that you?"

Arya winced at being found.

"How the fuck...are you part squirrel, woman? That's nearly twenty feet!" he said irritatedly. "Get down, I need to talk to you!"

Her breath caught in her throat. This is it, she thought, steeling herself. He's going to tell me he doesn't feel that way, that there's a serving girl or some other he favors...Unless... She had an idea. He couldn't talk to her if she didn't talk back, right? Gently, so as not to bother the knot she'd earned herself earlier, she rested her head against the tree again.

"Arya, please won't you—Are you serious? You're a child, d'you know that, Princess? A complete child!" Gendry huffed and sat at the base of another tree, situated so that he could see her at all times.

They sat there, just like that—she staring at a tree in front of her, he staring at her—for over five hours. Her body ached and her stomach was growling so loudly that he could probably hear it, but she didn't want to give in. Gendry could probably sit there for days—she called him a stubborn, bull-headed boy for a reason—and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of winning this small struggle, especially when he was about to crush her anyways.

Near the fifth hour of his vigil, Nymeria had wandered over to him. Nervously at first, he petted the enormous wolf. He'd never had a problem with the direwolf before, but Arya had never been more than a step away when he'd petted her. Eventually he relaxed, and Nymeria purred like a house cat and settled herself next to him.

That gave Arya pause. Excluding Gendry himself, nobody protected and guarded her more completely than her wolf. If he were here to hurt her, Arya was certain his entrails would be all over the forest floor by now. Nervously, she bit her lip, then spoke. "What do you want?" she asked evenly.

Gendry jolted, surprised to hear her voice. He stood, stretching the stiffness of the long hours out of his body. "Come down here and I'll tell you, Your Majesty," he replied, his tone matching hers. He had a habit of getting progressively more over-the-top with his honorifics as he got more frustrated with her.

Effortlessly, Arya climbed down the tree. He was waiting at the base for her, his face unreadable. As soon as both of her feet were back on solid ground, he wrapped her in his strong arms.

"I love you, Arry," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You're mad as a bloody Targaryen, you beat me, you call me stupid more often that you call me by my name, you're a warg and I didn't even know those were real, you're terrible at being a princess, you swear like you're ironborn, and like it or bloody not you're beautiful and I love you."

She answered his confession with a sharp punch to the gut.

Gasping for air after the unexpected blow, he fell on his arse and cursed noiselessly.

Arms crossed, she stood over him. "If you love me so much," she questioned skeptically, "why wouldn't you let me kiss you on my name-day?"

Gendry struggled to stand, answering with labored breath, "Because you were very drunk. And you're a lady and I'm—" he paused, wincing in pain, "—a bastard smith, and we were nearly in plain sight," he finished, standing again.

"Then why are you telling me now?"

"I don't recall there ever being a Princess of the Wolfswood, but I didn't have a maester and a septa as a babe, so I could be wrong," he murmured, his breath recovered. Slowly, so as to avoid another errant punch or kick, he leaned in and kissed her deeply with the passion of all of the years he'd loved her.

She returned the kiss with her own fervor, her fears defeated.