Work Text:
xxx
Arya has worn many faces over the years, but seeing Gendry’s face covered in soot and backlit by the roaring fire of the forge, makes her own feel very foreign.
It’s the blacksmith who is to blame – or more specifically, the smile he elicits from her, without even trying.
Between him and Jon, Arya is reminded that she hasn’t smiled, genuinely smiled, in what feels like years. The stretch of her muscles leaves her face sore and her mind muddled in a very unfamiliar way.
Ever since she went with Jaqen H’ghar, she’s had a goal in mind, a purpose. She did not waver in this even when she first arrived in Winterfell. Even when she and Sansa danced around each other while Bran remained buried in his secrets and visions.
It seems that the arrival of the Dragon Queen has spawned more than just xenophobia and distrust among the Northerners. It also brought Arya’s past right back to her doorstep.
Jon is wary of her – she can tell – and not because she has expressed her allegiance to Sansa.
He cannot reconcile who she is now with the hopeful, passionate, and righteous child sister he left behind.
That doesn’t unsettle her so much. She’s used to people’s uncertainty around her.
What she is not used to is the ease and familiarity with which Gendry converses with her. As if they’ve been apart for no more than a fortnight. As if he were always certain that she would survive and their paths would cross once more.
He is nervous when he initially speaks to her, but the tension quickly melts away, taking the form of their old acquaintance, much like the dragon glass he molds into whatever shape he wishes.
Except instead of hammering it into submission, all Gendry has to do to remind her of the past, is smile.
It is vivid in her mind’s eye even hours later, and her muscles stretch out again, in this unfamiliar way, as his face lingers in front of her. She scowls to herself as soon as she feels it and has the strongest urge to kick at the small lump of snow beneath her foot.
But she’s no longer a petulant child who cannot control her emotions, so she diverts her attention to the woods instead.
There’s nothing but inky, murky darkness in front of her, but she still detects movement to the left of her – she doesn’t need to see him to know who it is. If nothing else, her time in Braavos taught her that eyesight is unnecessary. Jaqen would perhaps argue that it is a distraction more than anything else.
In the case of her late-night visitor, Arya would have to begrudgingly agree. Especially as he gets closer and she inhales the familiar scent of sweat and smoke that shouldn’t comfort her as much as it does.
Comfort is a distraction too – one she cannot afford now.
“Davos was right about where to find you.”
His voice is low but the timbre is familiar, and much closer than before. All Arya has to do is turn her head slightly and she will be confronted with him all over again.
Perhaps that’s why she keeps her eyes trained on the forest.
“I will have to find a new spot then.”
Gendry takes an inhale that may have at some point sounded like frustration to her, but that was another lifetime, another Arya who would get annoyed by the bullheaded blacksmith.
“You know, you will not see them coming - the white walkers.” He says instead, and Arya has the strongest urge to roll her eyes.
“I don’t need to see them.” She replies cryptically, and finally turns to look at him.
He looks cleaner than before, a fresh tunic and a wash no doubt. It does nothing to stymie the warmth that courses through her as she sees the confusion play out in his blue eyes. She can see he is trying his best to understand, to decipher her words, and perhaps also to figure her out. She takes pity on him and breaks the silence.
“You’ve been North of the wall.”
Gendry takes this as an invitation to brush off the snow from the massive tree branch and seat himself besides her on it.
“Aye, I have. Never felt such cold in my whole life.”
“You were never fond of the cold.”
It slips out, and despite her better judgment, Arya turns to look at him again. The warmth in his eyes is brief but it settles deep within her bones, chasing the chill away.
This is more dangerous than any undead, she thinks.
“M’lady is right about that…but it was more than the temperature.”
Arya doesn’t even bother scolding him for the nickname, not when his subdued tone sparks her intrigue so. It reminds her that she’s not the only one who has seen horrors in their time apart.
“Is that why you came to Winterfell?”
“I came to be of use. Laying eyes on the undead only solidified my decision.”
She nods, not sure what to say. Gendry has no problem filling the silence.
“Besides, some part of me was curious to know whether Winterfell was as grand as someone once told me it was.”
Arya knows he's smiling even without looking at him, but she can’t help herself, and locks eyes with him again. She’s rewarded with a wave of nostalgia so strong, it threatens to disarm her.
“And is it?”
“It has its merits.” He doesn’t look away and Arya feels like her eyes are unwittingly frozen on his face, her mind cataloguing everything about him, but not for her typical purposes.
No, this entire exchange is purely for her, a selfish interlude amidst all the chaos. It’s in this precise moment that Arya knows without a grain of uncertainty that if anyone is capable of bringing the old Arya back, it’s this boy – no, man, in front of her.
And that’s what makes him so dangerous: his teasing grin, intrusive eyes, and skilled hands that have forged countless weapons in the days he’s been here.
“Arya.”
She doesn’t need to be a seer to know what he’s going to ask.
“Where have you been all this time?”
It’s not the fear of his disapproval that prevents her from answering him truthfully.
Gendry, of all people, would never hold her actions against her. He might even understand, and that’s what stops her. Understanding leads to acceptance and acceptance leads to hope, which Arya cannot spare any more of, if she has any chance of helping to defeat the undead and completing her list.
She needs to stay focused.
“It doesn’t matter where I’ve been; only that I am here now.”
Seven hells, she sounds like Bran.
“It matters to me.”
It’s the danger streak inside her, the risk-taking part of her, that wants to ask him why. Why does he care?
“Well, it shouldn’t. Your only concern regarding me should be the weapon you promised to fashion.”
She hopes this will put him off, but she’d be wise to remember why his nickname was once The Bull.
“Have the years apart diminished m’lady’s fate in me?”
The urge to roll her eyes is too great for even the new Arya to ignore, and Gendry smirks at her, looking entirely too pleased with himself for eliciting such a childish reaction from her.
“They’ve diminished nothing, including the reminder of how damn stubborn you are.”
When she sees the warmth spark in his eyes, she almost doesn’t mind how involuntarily her expression changes, when her lips stretch across her teeth.
It feels altogether pleasant and dare she say it comfortable, which is of course when Gendry has to go and ruin everything.
“Was it you who murdered The Freys?”
Arya knows he’s just trying a different approach to find out her secrets. Nothing connects her to the Freys. She didn’t even bother taking their faces – no use for that disgusting family.
However, being confronted with the question so directly sprouts a seed of fear that perhaps Gendry will look at her differently if he knows exactly what she did to those traitors; what she still plans to do to the people on her list, or anyone else who tries to harm her family.
“I was wrong.” She stands abruptly and turns to look at him, schooling her features back to the face that feels familiar to her.
Even with him sitting, she still barely towers over him and it would irritate her how unperturbed he looks if the urge to flee wasn’t so great.
“The years did diminish a few things. I didn’t remember you to be so nosy.”
Gendry at least has the decency to conceal his amusement but Arya catches it anyway. Her hand curls into a fist, ready to punch or shove him like she would often do when he would tease her to distract her from the horrors happening in the neighborhing room while they were in captivity together.
The memory knocks the wind right out of her – it’s so vivid. She has to leave, lest she spill all her secrets to him. The intensity of the urge to do so is the first thing that has really shaken her, and she needs to get away from him if she has any hope of clearing her mind.
As if sensing her next move, Gendry rises but Arya stubbornly refuses to look up to meet his eyes. This, she discovers, is the wrong move, because now she is confronted with the broadness of his chest and his confident stance. Everything about him says he is a man who knows what he wants.
It's a different kind of danger than what she is used to, but it's danger nonetheless.
She can feel his eyes trained on the top of her head, trying to seek out her gaze, but Arya doesn’t grant him the connection. Instead she turns away, intent on leaving without saying anything else.
Gendry foils her plans as usual.
“I’m not going to give up.”
And there’s that hope again. It makes her waver in her step. Such a precarious thing to feel when the likelihood of them both surviving what’s to come is so slim.
The overwhelming desire to see Gendry live, to see him survive this impending war is ultimately what makes Arya turn back to look at him over her shoulder. She says nothing, but there must be something in her gaze that reassures Gendry that she doesn't want him to give up, even if she can’t verbally express it.
“Get some rest, smith. You have a special weapon to make and little time to make it.”
She walks away so quickly then, that his response of “yes m’lady” almost gets lost in the howl of the wind, but she hears it anyway.
This time, her smile feels a little less foreign.
xxx