Author's Note: This is going to be an explicit excuse for some Gendrya smut, I assure you. However, the first chapter is going to be a bit morbid. Apologies in advance! The way in which I depict Arya might very well bother some folks. If that is the case, thanks for trying it out and no hard feelings if it's not for you! Otherwise, consider this is a preemptive strike against the lukewarm reunion we're almost sure to get out of next season. Also, remember that Arya is probably about 19 years old.

Arya roamed Winterfell all through the night, dipping in and out of her room. She'd lie on top of the bed for a few moments, only to get right back up and find another area of the castle to pace. After an hour or two, she'd return again to her room. Trapped in an endless loop of restless and nervous energy.

Jon was finally expected back in the north as early as tomorrow. How could she sleep? Remembering her brother's scruffy brooding face had been one of the things that helped her bear the miserable life she'd lead since leaving Winterfell. It was one of the few parts of herself she'd refused to give up. That, and Needle. Though to Arya, they went hand in hand. Jon's face had been the first image that had popped into her head when she took a knife to the stomach. And it helped aid her in the darkness as she fought for her life, and for her freedom.

No matter how far apart Arya had seemed to separate from the body she'd inhabited, Jon had acted like an anchor that kept her afloat in the sea of anger she'd nearly drowned in. He was largely responsible for the humanity she'd retained. Arya hated that she'd lost all hope in Sansa's safety, or in Bran's. Assuming they'd succumbed to the cruelty of Westeros, as so many others have. Unfortunately, she'd been right to lose faith in Rickon's survival. But Jon, she'd never lost hope in him. Ever since her old friend Hot Pie had informed her that her bastard brother fought for Winterfell and reclaimed it from the Boltons, she finally felt something other than hate driving her. And it was more powerful than even her desire to kill Cersei.

Which she still planned to do. But not before seeing Jon.

Pushing her brother from her mind, she began to focus on her list. First, she'd put the Lion out of her misery. Every night she fell asleep dreaming Cersei's smug look neutralizing as the pull of death claimed her. In Arya's mind, she'd killed the bitch hundreds of ways. Strangling the life out of her with her bare hands, perhaps stealing the face of the twin brother she'd been fucking. Seems poetic, Arya thought. But not enough pain, no. Slitting her throat with her Valyrian dagger? No. Too easy. She thought of Petyr Baelish begging for his life, and though it gave her a rush, he died much too soon, much too easily. At Sansa's insistence, of course. Well, Sansa wouldn't be around to beg for mercy when Arya came for Cersei Lannister.

The bitch needed to suffer. She needed to be butchered. Just as she'd intended for Lady, Sansa's sweet wolf, who she'd ordered to have gutted like a pig. Yes. Arya liked this idea, very much. She began to stomp as she paced the ramparts, the snow crunching under the weight of her heavy footfalls.

The Mountain, she scoffed. She wasn't afraid of his size, she would happily accept the challenge of finding a suitable death for the abomination of a man. She thought of Sandor briefly, much too fondly. Part of her would always regret leaving him for dead. The other part of her remembered poor, sweet Mycah and his hair the color of flames as he danced with her, the sound of their sticks clanging as they practiced by the water. Sighing, she'd decided that fire would be a fitting death for the likes of Gregor Clegane. She imagined the way his skin might pop and bubble as the flames licked him. An eye for an eye, a burn for a burn, it was the least she could do for an old friend.

Ilyn Payne. The man who took Ned's head from him. Arya wanted to slowly carve away at his neck, around the circumference, keeping him alive as long as possible as she sliced away, his heart pushing his blood from his mangled neck as the life drained from his eyes. She began grinning ear to ear, nearly laughing at the thought.

Thoros of Myr. Beric Dondarrion. These heathens also deserved fiery deaths for selling Gendry off to the Red Woman like produce in the back of her wagon. She'd felt a stabbing sensation in her chest as she remembered his frightened expression after they tied him up, off to sacrifice him to their evil god. Feeling ambitious, Arya added another name to her list.

"R'hllor!" she shouted from atop the ramparts, her voice echoing against the emptiness of the castle walls, "Even the afterlife cannot protect you!" In death, she vowed to destroy even the evil god who dared to accept Gendry's life in exchange for whatever twisted magic his followers dabbled in. Disgusting, she thought, Cowards, the whole lot of them!

She tried to shake the thought of Gendry's face from her mind, feeling guilty at the frequency with which she thought of him, even after all of these years. She missed his voice, m'lady, he'd call her, unceasing despite her protests. She fondly remembered his laugh and the way his eyes narrowed with amusement as she pushed him into the dirt. Even the way his muscles danced beneath his skin as he twisted his body, resisting her sword-fighting advice as he tested his newly fashioned weapon. The clarity of his blue eyes as he confessed to her his desire to have a family of his own. His mere absence never failed to bring a sharp, stinging sensation right through her heart.

I can be your family, the sound of her own vulnerability echoed in her mind.

Rather than let herself get sad, she got angry, "You should've come with me!" she shouted to no one, standing in the snow completely alone. She growled, vowing to give the Red Witch the worst death of all... She would save that kill for last so that she could relish in her pain and misery. We will meet again, she had promised Arya. Hers would be the blue eyes Arya would shut forever, just as she'd predicted.

"I will avenge you," she whispered to the wind.

Before she could even fantasize about her preferred torture methods, a terrified-looking guard approached her.

"M'lady?" he began. His words were like a blow to the stomach. The right words, the wrong voice, she thought, remembering how much better it sounded with his Flea Bottom accent.

"What?" She spat angrily. Now was not a good time.

"I'd heard shoutin' from the ground, ar-are you alright?"

Arya bit back laughter, as if this guard could protect her had she not have been!

"I'm fine," she barked. "Any word from the scouts on my brother's estimated arrival?"

"N-no, m'lady," he cautiously stuttered. She was used to this behavior. Most of the guards around Winterfell had been scared of her after the execution of Lord Baelish. No matter.

"Stop calling me m'lady," she demanded. She couldn't bear to hear it again, at least not from this bumbling guard, and certainly not after remembering her dear friend and the terrible way in which he'd been taken from the world.

"What should I call you?"

"Nothing. Next time, just say your piece and be done with it," she ordered him, agitated. She pushed past him and back toward the keep, knocking his arm with her shoulder.

. . .

Arya awoke shivering. Even inside her darkened room, she could see her breath before her. Every day it grew colder. Her head began pounding nearly as angrily as the pounding at her door. She rubbed her temples, trying to sift through the grogginess enough to answer whoever had come calling. How long had she been out?

"What?" she shouted at her door, rubbing her arms in an effort to generate warmth.

"The Queen will be here any moment, Arya," Sansa cried through the locked door. Arya could hear the disdain in her voice, still unhappy about Jon's decision to kneel to Daenerys Targaryen. "Get out of bed and get down to the gate to greet our brother."

After sprinting to her door, Arya swung it open to see Sansa already rushing down the hallway. She shouted after her, "Why didn't you send someone to wake me?"

"I sent several people to wake you," she growled, before breaking into a sprint, her skirts billowing behind her like crashing waves.

Oh, Arya thought, feeling a bit guilty that her sister had to stomp her way up to her room to retrieve her. She'd had no memory of even falling asleep. Quickly, she smoothed her hair out, pulling it into a tight bun and out of her face. Slipping her belt around her waist, she equipped Needle on her right side, her dagger to the left. With whatever energy she could muster, she hit the ground running as fast as she could, ready to finally reunite with Jon.

Once outside, she realized she'd spent the better part of the day asleep and evening had been fast approaching. Arya examined the faces of everyone pouring in through the gates. Where is he? She waited impatiently as men of all different shapes, sizes and colors marched past the castle walls. She thought of the cultural landscape of Braavos in that moment, impressed with the Dragon Queen's ability to unite people of all backgrounds, from literally all over the world. Arya had been terribly curious about the Dothraki in particular, as well as the Unsullied. Everyone in the north had seemed perturbed by the foreign armies. Arya, on the other hand, might finally be surrounded by other fighters closer to her caliber. Aside from Brienne, that is.

Still no Jon, she thought, feeling a mixture of disappointment and worry as she kept scanning faces, taking note of the worried expressions of the northerners around her as they likewise watched the Queen's party arrive. The north had been quite homogenous, often mistrustful of even Westerosi from south of the Neck. Of course, after the Red Wedding, as it came to be known, Arya could hardly blame them. However, any stranger who considered themselves enemies of Cersei Lannister had been alright by her, no matter how far away their home had been.

Suddenly, a figure wandered through the gates who towered over everyone else in the vicinity. At first, she assumed it was Brienne until she saw the darkness of the hair the closer the figure had gotten to where she'd stood. It couldn't possibly be, she reminded herself, I left him for dead!

Squinting to be sure, she'd taken note of the giant man's miffed expression and his air of discomfort. The man's mouth was twisted shut in a tight grimace as if biting back insults he'd had ready to hurl at anyone who dared to challenge him. Realization washed over her—the graveyard of her loved ones had not been as extensive as she'd assumed. Even those she'd already mourned the loss of had been here, floating around Winterfell like ghosts. Sansa. Brandon. Sandor.

Before she could even consider her actions, her feet had carried her over to him.

"Hound!" She'd shouted with glee using every last bit of air in her lungs, "You're alive!"

And before he could even react, she took to the air, her small frame colliding against his barrel chest. His name had long since been crossed from her list. He'd paid the price. She could feel several broken pieces of her heart aligning with the edges they'd cracked away from. Leaving Sandor for dead had been one of the toughest decisions of her life, and though she didn't quite regret it, she couldn't deny the happiness she felt as she wrapped herself around him for all to see. Tact was never at the top of Arya's priorities, but the world was ending, after all. And soon. Winter has finally come, just as her father had always promised.

Before she got lost in her embrace with Sandor, she remembered she still had yet to greet Jon. She hoped she could keep her tears in when her arms found their way around her brother again. Hoping to impress him with her newfound strength, she'd been anxiously waiting to finally show him all the work she'd put into honing her skill with the sword he'd gifted her as a girl. It was because of Jon that she had been alive today. It was because of Jon that she could never fully lose herself.

She opened her eyes. Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

Another ghost.

How could it be?

He'd even aged. He must be real. But how?

Standing before her, a nervous frown crept across his face. Her heart skipped a beat as his clear blue eyes locked onto hers.

Gendry.