Chapter Text
That went better than expected, Arya thought as she filed out of the council meeting.
After the intensity that preceded and followed the Last War, she’d thought this summit would be accompanied by more fanfare or bloodshed, both of which she was happy to do without, but still ready to meet with the pointy end of her trusty Needle if necessary. Instead, the meeting concluded with everyone agreeing on the decisions of Aegon Targaryen, formerly and newly renamed Jon Snow, the Last King of Westeros.
Things had been tense since Queen Daenerys Targaryen had been slain by her nephew in what remained of the Red Keep. When Tyrion was arrested for treason, Jon had gone to discuss pardoning the retired Hand, but the queen only sought to punish Jon over his betrayal of her. She’d called her dragon to invoke the Queen’s Justice, uttering a terse “Dracarys” and waiting to watch Jon burn. To his—and her—astonishment, Jon remained standing, naked as his name day yet unburnt and unharmed by the flames that engulfed him. It was at this point that Daenerys began rambling things that Jon wouldn’t remember completely, something about being “the last dragon” and promising to “burn it all.” With a heavy heart, Jon walked over to embrace her, holding her close one last time as he silenced her threats with a knife to the heart. By the time help arrived, Drogon had taken off with his mother’s corpse in tow, leaving Jon alone in the throne room surrounded by fire, ash, and melted iron. Seeing the state of his surroundings, it didn’t take much to convince the others of the truth.
Now weeks later, the most important lords and ladies of Westeros formed a council to decide what to do in the aftermath of the war. It was Samwell Tarly who suggested that the ruler be voted upon as they did in the Night’s Watch. Though many were hesitant to trust the common people with such an important political decision, especially so soon after a genocide-level tragedy, they agreed that those present should have an equal say for this selection, as baseborns and highborns were both represented in the current grouping.
Tyrion followed this up by nominating Jon to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Not only did he have the birthright, but he also had the mindset of a proper king. The way the youngest—and now last—Lannister put it, “The mark of a true ruler is his reluctance to rule.” He said it with such melancholy in his eyes and determination in his voice that Arya wondered which dead friend had spoken that phrase to him, who was he honoring in that moment. After some resistance from Daenerys’s loyalists as to whether a Queenslayer was fit to rule, with Tyrion arguing self-defense and innocence proven through a “trial by fire,” Sansa silenced them all with one of her infamous glares. She ended any further debate by reminding them of the destruction the Mad Queen wrought, and warned the Queen’s followers that they had escaped being branded war criminals only through leniency of the very man they opposed.
The vote was unanimous in Jon’s favor.
Of course his first ruling was also his last, as Jon decreed that Westeros be dissolved into its constituent realms, and that the rulers of each kingdom work together to maintain peace throughout the continent. Sansa was to rule the North, Tyrion the Westerlands, Gendry the Stormlands, Robin Arryn the Vale, Edmure Tully the Riverlands, Bronn the Reach (because the fucking Lannisters always pay their debts, even to sellswords apparently), and House Martell would retain Dorne. The lands that made up the Crownlands were to be divided and reabsorbed into the Riverlands and Stormlands, as they existed before Aegon’s Conquest. Jon further granted independence to the Iron Islands, and named Yara Greyjoy as their Queen.
As for Jon himself, he stated that he would go to live beyond what was left of the Wall and unite the tribes as Mance Rayder once accomplished. He argued that the Wildlings deserved to live how they wanted and that they were no different from those seated at this table, but needed guidance to prevent any wars from breaking out with the “southerners.” To prevent the Westerosi people from encroaching on their lands, Jon named the area north of the North the Freelands, and declared that it belonged only to those who would proudly call themselves Free Folk.
Bran nodded his assent of this choice before voicing his own desire to follow Jon north. “The first Brandon Stark built the Wall to weather the dark night,” he had stated calmly. “Now the Long Night is over for good. It is my purpose to see my namesake’s legacy is fulfilled.”
Arya was confused over the meaning of his words, as she was whenever Bran spoke, but she had the distinct impression that he had no plans to return home. While Jon’s proclamation seemed to imply that he would visit on occasion, she couldn’t help but feel the same emptiness as when he left for Castle Black the first time. At least she knew where Sansa would be, back at the home she once dreamed of escaping for a sunny southern castle to take orders from her lord husband. Back then, Arya could only imagine such a pitiful fate for her prissy lady sister. Now, she couldn’t think of a more suitable role for Sansa than Queen in the North.
However, all these changes left Arya questioning her own place in the world. Deep down, she knew she did not belong back at Winterfell. The walls were too cold, the scent tainted with death and smoke, and the lack of familiar faces—while at the same time being haunted by the ghosts of dead loved ones wherever she looked—made her old home quite unappealing. Perhaps Jon would let her ride with him beyond the Wall, though that idea did not elicit the same joy it would have when she was a little girl seeking to follow her favorite brother to the end of the world. But those couldn’t be her only two options. Perhaps there was another. One with black hair and blue eyes, tall and strong and sweet all the same…
These thoughts of Gendry came unbidden to the forefront of her mind and she quickly tied to shake the burgeoning feeling of guilt over rejecting him. It’s not like she had been the first to do so in their relationship. “I can be your family,” Arya had once said, not entirely realizing the extent of what she was offering up to him. Back then, she was blind to the idea that the tension in her chest and butterflies in her stomach when she looked at him meant anything more than friendship or admiration. Granted, she never got that feeling when looking at Hot Pie or Lommy, but Gendry was different. He didn’t talk down to her when they first met, nor did he patronize her when she admitted her highborn roots. He had always protected and supported and believed in her. Until he didn’t. She had offered him her home, her companionship, her entire heart, and he snubbed her for the bloody Brotherhood, who then turned cloak and sold him to a witch. Yet he’d somehow found his way back to her, and for that she could almost forgive him. Almost.
Despite having been with him as intimately as possible, the memories of his desertion still caused her grief. Sure, he loved her now, but back then he’d allowed social hierarchy to dictate the terms of their relationship. The tender moments they’d recently shared could not assuage the lingering sting of her first heartbreak at his hands. Even right after they’d made love for the first time, when Gendry covered their nakedness with his cloak then stroked her hair until falling asleep beside her, Arya remained awake contemplating just how much more he could break her heart if he did not live to see the morrow.
But dawn broke and they had both survived. Arya emerged as the titular savior of whatever songs the Northern bards would verse about that day, and Gendry had embraced her newfound heroism with complete adoration. In the hours afterward, he led her back to her quarters where he helped her wash away the grime of battle, dressed her wounds, and put her to bed with a gentle kiss to the temple.
Then the Dragon Queen legitimized him, and instead of rushing to her to resume the intimacies of that fateful night, the stupid bull proposed. Arya did not blame him for the proposal, at least not fully. Though she had always been adamant in her disinterest of being a lady, she knew that his intent was misspoken in his zeal and celebratory drunkenness. And even if he’d asked properly, she would have refused all the same.
Arya still had a list, a thirst for vengeance that superseded any selfish, saccharine desire she may harbor. So she joined the Hound on the Kingsroad until he implored her at the last moment to choose life. Of course the first image to pop into her head when thinking of life was her family. She pictured Jon and Sansa and Bran surrounding her, along with Gendry and, surprisingly, Sandor himself. Arya knew she could not stop the disgraced knight from completing his own list, but she could honor his memory by living to become more than just another version of him. As she fled through the burning streets of King’s Landing, her thoughts remained on her family encouraging her forward, beckoning her towards life. And when she succumbed to unconsciousness, her final thought was of Gendry holding her hand and whispering a heartfelt “Not today, m’lady.”
Despite Arya’s life-affirming revelation, there had been little time to dwell on how she would maintain this resolution after the war had ceased. Everyone was too busy cleaning up the destruction of King’s Landing or planning on how to make reparations and move forward in the aftermath of the Last War. But as Arya stepped out from the Dragonpit, she inhaled a deep breath, mindless of the ash and debris that accompanied it, and felt truly free for the first time in years.
Then she spotted him and choked once more.
Gendry had his back to her as he exited the summit, and Arya could only stand there and watch him retreat on the way to his new lordly holding. Perhaps it wasn’t fair of her to try and regain his affections. She meant what she’d said about any lady being lucky to marry him. Maybe he should find some willing, submissive wife to support him and birth him heirs. A small part of Arya felt happy at the thought of him experiencing a proper lord’s life. A larger, more jealous part wished to skewer that nameless woman for daring to consider herself worthy of Gendry Waters, the bastard smith with the courage and strength of a bull.
Regardless, he’d taken his second chance with her at Winterfell, so why shouldn’t she do the same? They’d already overcome so much to find each other again, Arya wasn’t going to let him slip from her grasp without fighting for him. She needed to give him the option, meet him halfway, and whatever happened next would be for him to decide.
So, after bidding farewell to her northbound siblings—and making them promise that they would see each other again—Arya grabbed what little belongings she held dear, mounted her white horse, and started south to Storm’s End.