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"I thought you wanted to come with me?"

Jon has seen Gendry covered from head to foot in dead, filthy innards after swinging his weapon, has seen him face the Night King himself without an ounce of fear revealed his expression, as well as survived the bleak, frigid conditions Beyond-The-Wall — but a single step on the main road towards Winterfell's gates has stripped all color out of Gendry's face.

"I did… I do, Your Grace," he insists, sternly. Jon notices how Gendry's hair-dusted knuckles tighten around his war-hammer lugged over his shoulder. "I wasn't being false. It's been a long time, is all. I'm not sure she would recognize me."

Jon smiles and claps him roughly on the shoulder-blade. The nearness and heat between them flushes the tips of Gendry's ears. He clears his throat and walks alongside.

"Have a little more faith than that," Jon tells him mindfully. "Arya's smarter than the rest of us."

Gendry's smile comes back immediately and spreads open, overflowing with delight at the mention of Arya. It's almost breathtaking.

"Aye, she is."

Jon stares at him for a moment longer than necessary, chuckling and touching Gendry's shoulder this time instead. He shouldn't. Gendry's delight and his fondness for another person extends to Arya, and only Arya, it seems.

What happened Beyond-The-Wall between them, in the dead of night and in low, murmurous noises… it may as well remain there.

.

.

Sansa greets him formally while in front of their people, but not without a lively glint in her eye and a warm, scented kiss to Jon's cheek.

But by herself. Arya's missing.

"I don't think she's heard the news yet."

"That's alright. I know where to look," Jon says with a faint smirk, nodding politely to his sister.

To his growing bemusement, Arya isn't sneaking around the kitchens for the freshly baked apples fragrant with cinnamon or training with Lady Brienne surveying the grounds. Or anywhere else he expects to find her.

Did she run off somewhere…?

Instead it's a lone, secluded corridor he discovers her, Arya's cloak lightweight and black as shadows. Her fingers bleed around the silvered steel of a dagger, clenching on to the blade and dripping onto Littlefinger's ashen, lifeless face.

Jon approaches grimly, stepping over the new corpse, easing the catspaw's dagger out of Arya's right hand. "Did he harm you?" he asks softly, binding Arya's wounded fingers.

"He threatened me," Arya says, flatly. She doesn't bother looking up at Jon, or wincing as her brother examines the deepest gash.

"And you killed him?"

"Yes."

Jon eyes her. Arya had been so small and thin last he seen her, flighty and curious-minded and grinned as brightly as a summer sunbeam.

He knows they have all changed so much, and now she's dark eyes and darker deeds.

"There will be consequences for that."

Arya's voice remains vacant. "I don't care."

"No, I expect you don't," Jon says harshly, finishing the binding and dropping Arya's hand.

He glances down at Littlefinger critically. The man died with his mouth open in a soundless scream, choking on his own ruby-red blood.

"… Are you angry with me, Jon?"

At last, she gazes up and speaks his name. Jon meets their eyes, reassured by her hesitation.

"Maybe not," he whispers, lips quirking as Arya's facial expression relaxes from its previous hardness. "I did consider wanting to kill him myself."

The hug becomes rushed and breathless, hunching Jon awkwardly as he stoops down.

Jon holds onto her face, gentle as can be.

"I thought about you every day."

His confession lifts Arya's mouth. "I did whenever I swung Needle," she explains, patting her sword-belt at her side with her uninjured hand. Jon stares down, laughing.

"Gods, you kept it all this time…?"

"Needle was Winterfell, Needle was you, Needle was Arya Stark." A flash of nameless and raw emotion darts in her eyes. Jon lowers his hands, concerned. "I couldn't let that go."

As soon as it vanishes on the spot, he tries to put away its existence. Soon enough, he and Arya will speak of their time apart — without one of their enemy's corpses cooling at their feet.

.

.

"I didn't come back to Winterfell alone," Jon informs her. "I brought an old friend with me."

Arya frowns, but now intrigued. "A friend?"

"He wasn't mine first," Jon says aloud, not bothering to mask the humor out of a cryptic sentence. "I told him to wait by the gates. Invite him in. He's probably thirsty from the long ride."

She motions pointedly to the dead man.

"What about…?"

Jon bends over, tugging on Littlefinger's arms to slide him across the floor.

"I'll take care of it, s'alright," he huffs, nodding dismissively.

Arya nods in return, spinning around, hurrying down another corridor. She's sure Jon can handle it. He's seen loads of dead men by now. Fought them, or so she's heard.

One of the stewards calls to her, as she dodges a tiny band of servants gossiping and laughing together, carting some of the older hardskins. Arya stops short of the outer gates, her jaw loosening. It's a tall, muscular man pacing around underneath, bored and sulking. The stag on his war-hammer impossible to miss.

He realizes she's gawking at him, and straightens up to his full height as Arya wanders uncertainly in his direction.

"Should I be calling you 'my lady' or 'princess' now that your brother is King in the North?"

Arya's face twitches, vanquishing the daze.

"You won't be calling me either unless you want your head separated from your shoulders," she says calmly, but starting to grin. A booming laugh erupts from Gendry's mouth.

"Can you even reach that high?"

"My sword can."

Gendry slowly steps towards her, glancing her over and smiling just the same. Her mouth hurts from the burning stretch, from the lack of using those muscles, but she's not sorry for this.

Arya clasps onto his empty, bare hand, surprising herself with how her heart flutters, pulling him. "Jon told me to invite you in," she says.

"He did?"

She raises an eyebrow, pulling Gendry harder. "Are you going to disobey him then?"

It doesn't look it as he follows dutifully, but Arya ventures towards an unoccupied end of chamber-rooms instead of the Great Hall. She could have grabbed a pitcher of the sour, red wine, so they could share and reminisce over it, but decides against that.

Gendry stares completely bewildered, entering and watching a determined Arya strip off her sword-belt, tossing it noisily onto the cold, stone-floor.

"Do you… need help, or…?"

"No," she says curtly, wrapping her arms round Gendry's neck and kissing him on the mouth.

It's a passing, impulsive thought Arya kept to herself, for so long, but she's badly wanted to kiss Gendry. Just to know what it's like. To know because she trusted him with herself.

His lips taste hot and filmy with soot, and it's not perfect. Not the least bit. Perfect doesn't exist.

Gendry does.

He resists a little, breaking another deeper kiss.

"Arry…" Gendry breathes out, tilting his head back and watching Arya thrust open her own jerkin, exposing a loose-fitting, ivory tunic. "Wait, wait a damned moment, will you?" he yells, clutching onto Arya's hands lifting up the hem.

"I'm done with it," she hisses out, splotches of pink rising up Arya's cheeks. "I'm done waiting. I'm done letting other people control what happens to me. I'm done losing my family." Moisture stings against the corners of Arya's eyes, and she loathes the feeling of needing to cry. She can't do it in front of him. Not him. "I thought I would never see you again, Gendry. I thought you were dead."

"I'm not," Gendry mumbles, shaking his head. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, alright?"

Arya's hands push against his, untangling.

"Good."

It sounds like a command, instead of a simple word, and Gendry curses lowly, against the heat of Arya's opening mouth, against her neck, heaving her up off her feet and carrying Arya onto the silks and furs, rolling down with Arya's legs still bracing his waist, and Gendry feels—

.

.

"Good," Jon mutters ruefully. He scratches his beard. "That's all we need right now. Suspicion."

Arya gives a one-armed shrug and peels off a skinny, green rind off her baked apple. It's only them left from the previous council meeting, after Sansa trails off. She seats herself up onto a table's edge.

"Why is Gendry so nervous around you?" she asks nonchalantly, glancing sideways as Jon halts from arranging his scrolls.

"… He's nervous around you, too."

Arya hums thoughtfully at this.

Not entirely false.

"That's because he likes me," she replies, popping a bit of cinnamon-flavored apple past her lips, "and he wants to put his cock in me."

Jon's eyes go round. "Arya," he says, warningly.

"Did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Put his cock in you." Arya doesn't even blink. She takes another entire mouthful of fruit, muffling out, "Or was it the other way around?"

Jon looks like he's somewhere between wanting to burst out in uproarious laughter or disappear on the spot. "We're not having this discussion. Find something else to talk about."

"Something happened, or else he wouldn't be looking at you like that."

An exasperated sigh.

"We kept warm," Jon admits. He forsakes the scrolls, rounding the opposite side of the counsel's table. "I'll say nothing else of it."

Arya leaps down from the edge, sucking on a finger or two.

"I don't mind if you bed Gendry. He might like it," she says loudly, witnessing Jon tense up and restrain himself from further scolding her. Like she's being an impetulant child. "He might even if we got married, and had little lordlings and ladies after you've legitimized him. He's the last living Lord of House Baratheon."

There's no malice in this statement, and Jon smirks. "You don't want lordlings and ladies."

"I don't," she agrees, wrinkling her nose. "I don't think Gendry does either. At least now. But you will legitimize him, won't you?"

"Soon enough. I take it you and him…"

Jon trails off, and the answer lies in the wistful, knowing smile lingering on Arya's lips. Gods.

"You're a woman grown," he murmurs, suddenly feeling old. "I didn't think I would live to see it."

Arya's small fingers lazily twirl the apple-core.

"Me neither."

The serenity behind her words, eclipsed and bloated with past experiences, fall without any featherweight. She stiffly inhales when Jon's arm wraps around her comfortingly.

"I haven't gotten to talk with you about everything that's happened…" He peers under her bangs shielding her. "Can we do that, Arya?"

A stiffer, jerking nod.

She's not ready to tell all of it, but… Jon will understand why it had to happen. She hopes so.

.

.

After successfully catching a wight to bring back to Daenerys Targaryen and Cersei Lannister in King's Landing, and making it back alive, nothing should be as difficult. Unfortunately, it seems covering up Littlefinger's death needs more work.

He puts off thinking about it, strolling towards the eastern wing, through a separate winding hallway. He needs to get the edge off. Or something like that.

The door Jon glimpses cracks open, revealing a girl wearing only a knee-length, featureless tunic.

Arya lifts her chin up and taps her finger to her lips, signaling for his silence. Jon nods in amusement, waiting for her to creep past before thrusting open the unbolted door.

"Back for more, have you?" Gendry calls out, naked as his nameday and strutting about. He reddens to an ugly, mortified color, grabbing a pillow to hold over himself and bowing when Jon crosses his arms, snorting. "Your Grace…"

"Have I disturbed you?"

"Y-You haven't. I was…"

"With Arya," Jon finishes for him plainly, saving Gendry the trouble of coming up with an unconvincing lie. "She and I have already discussed what to make of this, Gendry."

He unclasps the inner straps of his drab, heavy cloak, draping the material over Gendry's chair.

Gendry sits himself down on the cot, less embarrassed by this but no less naked. He places away the colorless, goose-feather pillow.

"Which is…?"

Jon sheds his thick, fur-lined gloves, and deliberately pushes apart Gendry's legs. He leans in, voice dropping, "Be good to my sister… be good to me… and you can remain in Winterfell without any troubles." Jon narrows his eyes, licking his lips. "If there are troubles…"

Gendry smirks. "Exile?"

"I'll feed you to Ghost myself."

Instead of being unnerved, that thoughtless, boyishly-wide smile reappears on Gendry's face. "Might take a while for him to get to the bones."

Jon's nose bumps against his, their mouths skimming. "It's unwise to belittle a direwolf," he says quietly, smiling, feeling Gendry's hands bracketing his hips, yanking him closer, urging.

A frustrated moan.

"You Starks—"

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GoT isn't mine. LAST INSTALLMENT! Hope you guys enjoy! :) It was a lot of fun and I'm very attached to both ships now. Any thoughts/comment appreciated!