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It is the sharp tossing and turning, the covers shifting back and forth roughly, that wakes him more than anything. Some of her cries are piercing, but he might have slept through them. The sounds of her fear and despair are, after all, ever present in his own nightmares. He could be forgiven for thinking, at first, that her sobbing is the product of his sleep. But when the cold night air hits his bare thigh, sending a shiver up and down his spine, he knows this is no dream.
She is flailing now, fighting her demons viciously in her sleep. She might have hit him too, but he takes her wrists gently in his. She stills, but not from feeling comforted; rather, her body freezes and her limbs stiffen, as if from the effects of falling into a trap. He has seen this happen to his wife before; her demons are his closest friends. Especially at night.
“Arya.” He breathes, rolling over and releasing her arms only to cradle her between his own. She is trembling violently, as if she were out in the middle of the storm instead of here in their cozy chambers, between the warmth of Winterfell’s naturally hot walls, between the warmth of his embrace.
Gendry whispers her name again, then kisses her forehead softly, softly. He doesn’t want her to mistake him for one of her night terrors. He couldn’t bear for her to look at him that way.
Slowly, slowly, she comes back into herself. Her eyes flutter open, confusion palatable in her gaze. The dread is still there too. Her body is still tense. A cold sweat has broken out over her brow. She blinks several times before she focuses on his face. Still, her eyes search him as if he is a stranger, or worse, as if she once but no longer knows him.
“You’re alright.” He promises her, as he has so many times before. And she is; he takes so much comfort in that truth.
“You’re safe.” He vows. He kisses over both her eyelids, her lashes fluttering delicately against his rough, unshaven jaw.
Beneath him, Arya’s frame relaxes. Her tensed arms and legs go lax. She melts into him, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
“You left me.” Her voice is small when she says it, but it cracks him in two. These are her nightmares he hates the most. The ones he has caused, no matter how unintentionally or indirectly.
“Real or not real?” The worst part is the hope, just there, in her voice that she might be wrong, that it never happened the way she’d just dreamed it.
But he couldn’t lie to her.
“Real.” His voice was hoarse, both from disuse and from the ugly truth.
She is trembling again. It could not be said of his wife that she was unsure of herself, that she was uncertain or even frightened. During the day, she was the warrior princess Arya Stark of Winterfell, the Night Wolf, daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, slayer of lions and leader of wolves. Only Gendry saw this side of her, during the darkest hours of the night. This was when her demons loved to taunt her.
“I came back.” Gendry asserted suppliantly. “Real or not real?”
She stares up at him, willing the truth to present itself. As if he might be some sort of delusion or hallucination. She lifts her hand and presses her palm into his face, her fingers trailing his forehead, his cheekbone. Then, clutching his jaw between her thumb and index finger, she brings his face down to meet hers.
The kiss is rough and desperate, an interrogation, a demand. She releases him finally, both their breaths ragged. He rests his forehead on hers, and he feels her hand clutching the back of his neck, as if he might disappear if she lets him go.
“Real.” She confirms. Her sigh of relief is everything he needed to hear.
They lay there looking into one another’s eyes, looking away, breathing into and out of each other. He knows she needs to know more. She has seen so much this night, all with her eyes closed.
Finally, she speaks.
“I killed.” Arya pauses. Then- “Many.” Her eyes are haunted. “Real or not real?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You defended. You avenged. You protected. You served justice.” Then- “Real.”
She blinks up at him. It is his turn, he knows.
“You saved Winterfell. You saved your family. You saved me.” For this, he brushes her lips with his. Another promise. “Real or not real?”
She searches his face again desperately. The pads of her fingers now run soft lines across his face, tracing his eyes brows, the curve of his nose, his top lip.
“Real.” She finally settles on.
So he kisses her again, a real kiss, deep and unquenchable. She breaks it off. She has another question that can’t wait.
“My mother. She came back. Dead. Angry. Miserable.” Her breathing has gone uneven again, and not from the kiss.
Gendry soothes her hair back and traces her face now with his own fingers. He lays over her, hoping to smother her with his love so there is no room left for the demons. He knows it is a painstaking task, drawing them out of her one by one, but he knows it is worth it. She is worth this.
“Real.” He breathes. Then- “You got them back. Your pack. Jon Snow. Sansa. Bran. Rickon. Me.” He kisses the smooth skin of her neck now, feeling her veins pulsing beneath his lips. The proof that she is alive, that she is there, no matter how much the demons try to take her from him. “Real or not real?”
She tremors beneath his kiss, but it is no longer from fear. “Real.”
She hesitates. And he knows before she speaks her next word that he cannot protect her from everything, no matter how hard he tries to.
“Robb.” The word is hollow in her mouth. She tries to swallow, but her throat seems dry. “Real or not real?”
“Real.” He can’t save her from what she has already suffered, happenings he was powerless to protect her from back then. All he can do is ensure she never has to suffer another such loss.
“Robb.” It is a question. His hand goes to her slightly rounded belly. After all, they already had a little Ned. “Real or not real?
Tears spring to her eyes, but finally, they are the product of joy, not sorrow, not anger, not fear. “Real.” This time she’s the one who promises.
“You were always just trying to protect me.” He knows she is referring to so many things. One was his decision to stay with the Brotherhood, out of the need to do what was best for her no matter how much he wanted with her. Coming back was another. Finding her. Bringing her back to herself. Bringing her back to her family, her pack. Reminding her that no one isn’t no one after all. “Real or not real?” She asks.
He has one of her hands clasped in one of his. He runs his thumb over her skin. “Real.”
She doesn’t give him his turn. Instead, “You’re still trying to protect me. Real or not real?”
“Real.” He pauses, a sly smile forming with his lips. “But m’lady doesn’t need protecting. Real or not real?” He teases, nuzzling her nose with his.
She laughs despite herself. How many times has she said so? I don’t need anyone to protect me. “Not real.” She kisses the edge of his jaw, savoring the feel of his stubble. He is so rough and so soft, all at the same time.
“You’re mine.” It is much more of a command than anything, but Arya asks anyway. “Real or not real?”
Gendry gives her a blazing kiss. His lips linger near hers when he tells her, “Real.” So she steals his lips back easily. He lets her. For a moment. Then- “And you’re mine.” His is a plea more so than a demand. He places a kiss on each cheek, then her nose with each following word. “Real or not real?”
“Real.” Arya’s turn to vow.