A/N:

Okay, this ship has sort of taken over my life. I never thought I'd be writing fanfiction for A Song of Ice and Fire but, uh, here we are!

Confession time, I've only seen the show and read the first book (just started the second book last night). So there is the chance that the characterization might be completely off. Admittedly, I'm guessing a bit with Gendry, although I think I did all right by him. But anyway, hopefully the characterization is fine *fingers crossed*.

But anyway, I do hope everyone likes it and please remember to drop a review! Thank you!

Go get lost where no one can be found
Drink so long and deep until you drown
Say your goodbyes, but darlin' if you please,
Don't go without me.

—"C'est la Mort", The Civil Wars

The first time she sees him she is barely six years of age.

She had heard her father mention something about the boy needing to be kept safe, but Arya, in her carefree youth, decides not to think too much on it.

He is following men she has never seen before, men who walk with their heads held high, hands on the pommels of their swords, men that the King sent. But the boy's blue eyes dart around him, taking in Winterfell with something akin to fear.

He looks about her brother Robb's age, with messy black hair that falls across his forehead and an unsure expression. She doesn't really know anything about him, just that he's from the South and that his last name is Waters.

Jon Snow told her that that was a bastard's name, but Arya doesn't see why being a bastard would make him any more or any less than any other man.

Jon is her best brother and he is a bastard. This new boy whose last name is Waters, perhaps he will be her new best friend.

She doesn't see him around much and so she forgets about him for some time. It isn't until she hears someone swearing loudly as she's passing the forge one afternoon that she decides to investigate.

She's been forced into a dress today, but Arya has already managed to get dirt and grass stains all across the front of the skirt. It's retribution, she thinks. They can dress her like up like a lady but she will most certainly not act like one.

It is hot in the forge. She sees him hammering a sword into shape and she frowns at how frustrated he's acting. He's only been working under Mikken for a couple of months, not too long, but Arya doesn't see how hammering steel could be so hard.

He hasn't noticed her. He pulls back, letting his hammer fall to his side and surveys what he's working on for a moment before cursing sharply.

She takes a few steps closer to him and he looks up and notices her for the first time. He about drops his hammer, his next foul sentence dying on the tip of his tongue. He straightens up (Arya notices that he's gotten broader since he first came to Winterfell) and glances around in confusion. It isn't everyday that a woman just marches into the forge, much less a girl. Much less a highborn girl.

The Waters boy finally settles on putting his hands behind his back and ducking his head in respect. "I'm sorry, m'lady, I didn't know you were here, otherwise I wouldn't of—"

"Can I see your hammer?" Arya asks. Then, after a beat, she adds, "And I'm not a lady."

There's a flush in the boy's cheeks now and he looks completely out of his element. "Beg your pardon, but you're—"

"Can I just see you hammer?" Arya interrupts for the second time, her childlike impatience showing.

The boy frowns. "You'll drop it."

Arya is personally offended. "Will not! I could probably hold a hammer better than you ever could."

"Fine, then." The boy holds out his hammer and Arya promptly walks up to it and snatches it out of his hand. She'd never pictured herself working in the smithy, but if it meant proving to this boy that he is wrong in every sense of the word—

The hammer is much heavier than she expected and the handle quickly slips through her grip. It drops onto her foot and the dull but heavy pain makes her eyes water.

The boy's blue eyes don't look so amused anymore, and he opens his mouth to issue an apology when she lets out a shrill of indignation. She bends down, trying to pick the hammer back up off the floor, but her hands are sweaty and combined with her frustration and complete embarrassment she finds that she cannot lift it up and hurl it at the boy like she so wants to.

She whirls around and marches out of the smithy, limping slightly, with as much dignity as she can muster. The boy's laughter follows her all the way back to the castle.

She wouldn't have had to continuously see his stupid, smug face all the time if he and Jon hadn't decided to become friends.

She finally learns that his first name is Gendry, and after the incident in the smithy she promptly decides that he is her least favorite person in the entirety of Westeros. She tells this to his face one afternoon while she and her brothers are practicing their swordsmanship, much to the scandalization of Sansa, who was watching on the sidelines along with a couple of her snooty little friends.

"Well, he is," Arya had said, whirling on her elder sister. Sansa presses her lips together and looks away, as if she does not have the patience to correct Arya on her bad manners. It's not as if Arya would actually care about manners anyway.

To his credit, Gendry doesn't seem the least bit insulted. He takes Arya's statements in stride.

In fact, he smiles at her.

This only infuriates Arya further.

She is nearly eight and has gotten used to the bastard boy who follows her and her bastard brother around. Arya did not like this for the longest time, choosing to ignore Gendry when he spoke to her or openly not including him in her games, but after a sharp tongue lashing from Jon she finally came to accept the blacksmith's apprentice begrudgingly.

They would go swimming, riding or exploring in the godswood whenever the three of them had a moment to spare, and eventually Arya came to learn the Gendry wasn't so bad. He could be funny at times, and he was a fair swimmer. He had hinted at teaching her how to use a war hammer someday, a weapon which he was growing particularly fond of. Arya had pretended that his offer was subpar, when in reality she was beaming on the inside. She could barely imagine how incredible it would be if she could master more than one weapon.

She thinks that people have it all wrong in terms of bastards. She's pretty sure they're the best kind of people.

In retrospect, forcing her mount to jump over the fallen tree was probably not her brightest idea.

Nine year old Arya clutches her bleeding forearm and glares down at the leaf strewn ground viciously. Her ankle throbs with pain and she knows that there's no use attempting to get back up on her horse.

The steed stands a little ways off with its head bowed, eyes watching her steadily, as if it's sorry for balking at the jump and throwing her. Arya can't find it in her heart to be too upset with the mare. At least she'd stayed by her side and hadn't gone galloping back to Winterfell without her. That would've surely sent everyone into a panic.

Although, judging by the how close the sun is to setting, Arya wouldn't be surprised if there weren't people already out looking for her.

She manages to get to her feet, letting out a low hiss of pain in the process. She hobbles over to her horse and leans against, fingers reaching up and twisting themselves into the mare's mane for support. It will be painful, but she'll need to start limping her way back to Winterfell. Her breath is already clouding the air around her and she's shivering.

Grumbling under her breath the entire time, she manages to walk and lead her horse forward for about half an hour before the pain becomes too much and she has to stop and rest. She slowly eases herself down onto the ground and leans against a tree, gathering her cloak and wrapping it around her.

She's in the middle of contemplating the pros and cons of shouting for help when she hears it for the first time—crunching leaves.

Her head snaps up and she scurries to her feet as fast as she can despite her swollen ankle.

"Who's there?" she shouts, trying to make herself sound strong and fearless. She wishes more than anything that she had a sword at her hip. All she has is a tiny dagger that father makes her take with her whenever she goes out riding, although, of course, she's technically never supposed to go riding by herself.

Gendry appears, sword drawn, and she's not sure if she should feel relieved or flustered. He would be the one to find her. She feels the blood rush to her cheeks.

"Arya," he breathes, shoulders slumping with obvious relief. He immediately sheaths his sword. "Half of Winterfell is out looking for you."

Arya crosses her arms over her chest. "Yes. Well, I was actually making my way back to Winterfell on my own. I don't need anyone's help."

Gendry's eyes take in her and the fact that she's not atop her mare. "You fell off," he states.

Arya sniffs in indignation. "I was just about to get back on—"

"You're favoring your right foot. The other one is swollen, isn't it?" He's frowning and, to Arya's unending horror, he starts to make his way over to her with every intention of inspecting her injury.

She evens out her weight between her two feet, winces, and then about topples over before she quickly puts all of her weight back onto her left foot. Gendry steadies her with a hand on her shoulder and, before she can properly protest, he scoops her up and begins to walk back in the direction from which he came.

"Put me down!" she snarls. She wiggles around for a few seconds and then stills after realizing how unpleasant it would be if he were to actually drop her.

Gendry keeps walking, Arya's mare following behind him faithfully.

"I hate you right now," Arya snaps. "I didn't need to be rescued."

"Everyone needs to be rescued sometimes," Gendry points out simply. His glances at her briefly before looking back out onto his path. Arya can't help notice the barely there stubble on his jaw and the way his arms curve under her body with muscle. He and Jon are both so close to becoming men and the thought makes her sad, somehow. She knows that they will not all three be able to play together for much longer.

Arya decides that the best thing to do in this moment is swear and then pout. Swearing and pouting, of course, isn't very ladylike and certainly not behavior that a highborn woman should choose to partake in. That's precisely why she does it.

The tips of Gendry's lips curve into a tiny smile and Arya finds herself relaxing as he carries her. She decides, for the time being, that this isn't so bad and at least she's not having to limp along on her injured ankle anymore.

She'll just have to wait and give him hell tomorrow.

She is closing in on her tenth year and there is a direwolf pup nipping at her heels.

Nymeria is constantly shadowing her. Arya doesn't mind this at all and scoffs at the idea of tethering up the she-wolf. In truth, with Jon now preparing to take the black and Gendry elbow deep in his duties at the smithy, Arya has felt a bit lonely.

Granted, Bran and Rickon make decent enough playmates, but she isn't nearly as good of a climber as Bran and Rickon is still practically a baby.

She makes due with wandering around Winterfell by herself half the time, occasionally on horseback.

The whispers start around this time, whispers of Sansa being sent away to King's Landing and being betrothed to Prince Joffrey, whispers that Gendry Waters might go with Jon Snow and take the black, whispers that Arya might be sent off somewhere to be with her own betrothed, whoever he ends up being.

At night Arya curls up underneath her blankets and dreams of a future that is entirely her own. A future with Nymeria, her mare, the wind in her hair, and a clear path straight ahead of her. She wishes for these things in a low voice in the dark of the night, but time will tell if she'll ever get them.

Only the stars outside of her window seem to take note.

Jon gives her a sword the morning of his departure, a sword made specifically for her. She clings to her best brother tightly and manages not to cry until he and his horse have disappeared beyond the gates of Winterfell.

She feels so alone, and that's perhaps why she walks herself right into the smithy.

If Gendry is surprised to see it he doesn't show it.

Arya grabs a stool and quietly sits down. She stares listlessly at Gendry's working hands for what seems like ages before she finally remembers that she's walked in here without saying anything.

"Thank you for the sword," she says. "It's called Needle." Gendry stills and looks up at her. She's probably a sight to see. Her shoulders are slouched, her dress is rumpled, her hair is a tangled mess and she's much too unbothered by it to try and fix it like Sansa would, and her cheeks and eyes are still red from her crying. But Gendry only smiles at her.

"Jon asked me to make it ages ago. It would've been done sooner but…" Gendry nervously rubs his hands against his working apron. "I wanted to make sure that it was satisfactory. Needle is a good name."

And then Arya asks the question that's been sitting on her mind for some time. "There were rumors, about you joining the Wall with Jon. Why didn't you?" She jerks her chin up and meets his eyes, as if daring him to lie to her.

Gendry watches her for a long moment before finally turning back to his work. "Not all bastards are meant for a life on the Wall, m'lady."

Arya catches the bitterness in his voice and sits up straight, alarmed. "That's not what I meant—"

"Sure it wasn't, m'lady." There is sudden tension in his jaw.

"Don't call me that," she says, but her rebuke is halfhearted. She's struck a nerve and she hadn't even meant to. She wonders if she should have been honest from the start. She wonders if she should've just told him that she was grateful that Gendry didn't take the black along with Jon.

Now Arya won't be completely alone.

They're friends again two days later. She walks into the smithy with some sweet bread that she nabbed from the kitchens and offers him half. He takes it and pops some into his mouth and then they both strike up a conversation about things they both like. They don't mention Jon or the Wall, and Arya thinks that perhaps that's for the best.

For her twelfth nameday Gendry gives her a helmet in the shape of a wolf's head.

When he hands it to her he is anxious, and he can't look her in the eye. He's seven-and-ten now, and Arya thinks that you'd have to be blind not to notice how easy on the eyes he is. Most of the young girls of Winterfell give Gendry demure smiles when they walk by, or bat their eyelashes, or straighten their shoulders and stick their bust out. It's all very vomit inducing, Arya thinks. And yet, a small and very secret part of her wonders if Gendry likes that sort of attention. An even smaller part of her hopes he doesn't, hopes that he'll always be her Gendry, her best friend who works in the smithy and is always there for her whenever she needs him. Not that she needs him very often, of course.

She accepts the helmet with a grin and immediately puts it on. She pulls out Needle, which is on her hip whenever she can manage to have it out. She's not sure how she looks but she feels good, as if she's slowly becoming who she was meant to be.

Gendry takes her in with those bright blue eyes of his, and Arya could swear that he looks awed. "Very intimidating," he says with a nod before stepping back.

Still grinning, Arya sheaths her sword and pulls the helmet off. She'll have to go show Bran and rub it in that she has a personalized helmet and sword and he doesn't.

Her hair whips about her face because of the wind and, quick as a flash, Gendry's hand reaches out and swipes locks of her brown hair behind her ear. His hand falls back to his side and she freezes, completely unsure of what to do. There's a blush on Gendry's cheeks.

They both eventually settle on carrying on with their day and pretending it never happened.

Later, Arya will look back on this moment and realize that that's when their relationship shifted.

She bleeds for the first time only days after she turns four-and-ten. She knows that soon she'll be shipped off to her betrothed and married, just like Sansa.

Ned tells her to trust that he'll make her a good match, but Arya knows deep in her gut that this isn't the life that's meant for her.

Like Nymeria, she is a she-wolf, and she needs freedom and the wild like she needs food and air.

But she never tells her father this. Arya does not like to think of herself as a coward, but something inside of her always crumbles at the idea of disappointing Ned Stark.

When she hears her future husband's name for the first time, she feels nothing, neither pleasure nor displeasure. His name is Edric Dayne.

They will be married within the next couple of years, when the two of them are a little older. Arya knows she must cherish her remaining time here in Winterfell.

"He's a nice young man," Catelyn says. "Arya, I think you will be happy."

Arya says nothing, only moves away from her mother, out of the castle, into the courtyard, and towards the smithy. Towards Gendry. Towards the only person who could possibly provide her with sanity.

But he isn't there. She asks Mikken where he might be, but the older man doesn't know.

She finds him drunk as a skunk three hours later outside of the brothel. For the most part he's coherent, his head leaning back against the wall. When he hears her, his head lolls over and he stares up at her, eyes glassy.

Arya's not sure why she's suddenly so angry. Perhaps it's because she well and truly needed him and he wasn't there. Perhaps it's because a part of her is wondering why he's outside of the brothel and whether he did anything inside. She grabs his shoulder and forces him onto his feet, shouting at him the entire time.

"Bloody idiot!" she yells, shoving him forward. He manages to stumble in the proper direction. "I needed to speak to you and where were you? Drunk! Outside of the fucking brothel."

Gendry hiccups and then smiles down at her. "I like it when you swear."

She smacks him upside the head and he laughs and laughs, half gone. He smells sweet from whatever wine he was drinking and Arya resents herself for stepping up closer to him.

They make it back to the smithy and to his small room and cot. She helps him lay down and he groans as she gathers a blanket around him. "Stay," he mumbles, fingers circling weakly around her wrist. And then he's sitting up and cupping her face in one hand. Before Arya can properly react, his mouth is on hers and it's hot and clumsy.

She sucks in a breath through her nose and then he's pulling away and falling down against the cot. She sits there for a full minute before clearing her throat.

"Can't stay, stupid," she snaps, her fingers curling around the edge of the cot.

"Feel funny," he says, eyes already drifting shut.

"Serves you right." She gets up and lingers in the doorway briefly before making her way back to the castle.

The thing is, she had wanted to stay.

The next afternoon he makes his way over to her while she's crossing the courtyard on her way to the stables. He apologizes profusely about the night before, although Arya can tell that he barely remembers any of their interactions. Perhaps that is for the best.

"Does your head feel like it's splitting open?" she asks curtly, not looking at him.

"Yes," he answers honestly, keeping up with her stride for stride.

"All right, then. I'll speak to you later," she moves away from him and leaves it at that, only barely managing to hide a small and satisfied smile.

When Arya is five-and-ten she decides that she is tired of waiting for Gendry to make a move. She doesn't see why it should matter that she's technically promised to another. She didn't want any of that, she wants this and she's damn well going to take it.

She waits until no one is watching before cornering him against the wall. Gendry understands what's she's doing and puts his hands on her shoulders to stop her. He is taller than her, broader than her, and arguably much, much stronger than her, but she manages to break through his grip with relative ease. He wants her as much as she wants him; only honor was keeping him back.

Their lips part and meet and soon Arya finds herself pushing her body up against him, searching for friction. There is a heat between them, but it is a good heat, a promising heat. Her hands curl into his shirt and his clutch at her hips and Arya wonders if it'd be best for the both of them to run away and forget about the lives that they are supposed to lead.

Gendry finally pulls away and they both stare at each other for a drawn out moment, utterly dazed. Arya's breathing is shallow and she leans into his chest for support.

"Maybe we shouldn't do that again," Gendry says. He sounds confused, even saddened, but he doesn't move his hands away from her hips.

Arya looks up at him. "Are you saying you don't want to do it again?" she challenges.

He answers by putting his mouth upon hers again and Arya finds herself smiling into the kiss.

She is six-and-ten and the world is starting to lay heavily on her slim shoulders. She's leaving Winterfell in two months to marry a man she has never even met.

She spends most of her time with Gendry, too much time, perhaps. People talk about them. People know. But Arya decided a long time ago that she didn't care what people thought of her.

That's when the fever hits.

Gendry's chest rattles with the fever. The sickness has a tight grip on him and he's been bedridden for a couple of weeks. Arya is at her wits end. She stays by his bed, keeps a cool washcloth over his forehead, and tries her best to keep him entertained.

He stopped responding to her voice yesterday. He's not truly conscious anymore and the maester says that he doesn't have long, that his body is too weak to fight.

She leaves his side long enough to go to the godswood.

She kneels in front of the heart tree with its bloody eyes and prays. She asks for what is in her heart, asks for the gods to spare the only person who can make her happy. Her hands form fists into the earth as her body shakes. Arya Stark does not want to be helpless.

Her soft prayers turn into screams. She flings leaves and dirt at the heart tree, and she wonders if the gods will curse her for this kind of disrespect. She dares them to try their damndest.

A future that would be entirely her own, that's all she had wished for when she had been little. But Arya has never been allowed to be the ruler of her own fate.

The rage leaves her body as quickly as it had come, and she sinks to her knees in front of the tree. She lets the tears spill down her cheeks, lets herself be vulnerable just this one time with no one but the gods and her direwolf to see.

Nymeria is howling beside her and Arya sits on the ground for a long time. It isn't until her father wraps her up in his arms and starts to take her back home does she feel well and truly lost.

The fever takes her in its heated grip and soon Arya's mind only exists in lucid dreams.

The dreams are not so bad. Arya thinks that perhaps it would be best if she were to stay here forever. They gods have listened to her prayers, she realizes. They're taking her from this world before her spirit can be broken.

She remembers cool water being poured down her throat, remembers a voice telling her not to die, please don't die.

Stay.

When she wakes she sees his face and swears that she's dead.

Gendry shakes his head. He is beside her, sitting on the edge of her bed, and how many times did Arya wish to see him in her quarters for once?

"You died," she croaks.

"I didn't."

"How?"

"I got better. You got better." He's gripping her hand and she finds her eyes drifting shut again. This time she feels at peace.

She slowly but surely regains her strength. Soon she is walking about as if she was never sick to begin with.

She leaves in two days.

When she walks into the smithy Gendry cannot look at her. Their goodbye looms over both of their heads and he doesn't want to let go. He hammers away at steel for some time before he finally acknowledges her presence. "M'lady," is all he says.

"I've a mind to run." Arya's heart is beating quickly in her chest and she feels alive with excitement, with hope.

He looks up at her and slowly puts his hammer down. "And where would m'lady go?"

Her smile is wild. "Nowhere. Anywhere. Would you follow me?"

He stares at her for what feels like ages. Arya thinks that he might say no, that he might decide to be responsible one like he always has to be.

But then the corners of his mouth tilt up and she knows that he's trying not to smile. "As my lady commands."