Gendry doesn’t even know what he thinks he’s doing. It’s not like Arya is ever going to let go of her old sword, the one her brother gave her, but the thing is old, it’s rusty, and it’s not as sharp as it was before she apparently buried it somewhere in Braavos - she never told him the entire story. It’s not like Arya as she is now is ever going to take it the way he hopes she would. Back in the day she’d have thought that he was doing it just because she was a lady - and what a lady. Right now - right now he doesn’t even know. She’s wary and doesn’t trust most people - even less than before - and while Winterfell has been rebuilt and most of her family is back in it - except the dead, obviously - she looks restless. He wishes that he could just stop feeling whatever it is that he’s always more or less felt for her - after all, she’s still Arya Stark and he’s still Gendry Waters. Learning about his father hasn’t changed anything, and even if it did it wouldn’t have turned him into some kind of lord overnight.
Not that Arya is a lady, but still.
This stated, he still is using his free time to put together a new sword for her. Which means that he has to do it at night, because there’s always use for a blacksmith in a castle that is still being rebuilt. He makes it slightly bigger than the one she had back then, but he takes care to keep the shape slim and not to make it heavier than necessary. She fights differently now, more gracefully (and more lethally, from what he’s seen), and he doesn’t know what training she had, but he tries to make a sword suited to it. Something easy to handle and quick to draw out of its sheath.
The handle is a wolf’s head. He doesn’t know how much she cares for house sigils anymore, but still. She’s a Stark. He couldn’t have done otherwise.
When he’s done, he decides that there’s no use in waiting, and he goes to find her - she’s in the godswood.
With her wolf. And her brothers’ wolves - well, not the white one, the other two. (Gendry would have liked the white one better, to be truthful - at least that one is quiet and doesn’t show his fangs half of the time.)
He keeps a hand behind his back and clears his throat - Arya stops staring at the heart tree and turns her eyes on him.
“Is there something you want?” she asks. He wishes she didn’t sound this - he doesn’t even know the word for it. Empty doesn’t cover it.
“Yes, actually. Uh, could you - could you come here?” He can’t tell her your brother’s wolf is looking at me as if he was considering me for dinner.
Arya huffs (and that reminds him painfully of the way she used to be when they met) and walks towards him, motioning for the black wolf to stay behind - thank gods.
“I’m here. So?”
Damn it - she’s wearing breeches and a man’s shirt that are as clean as his own, and he still feels like she’s above him enough that he could never reach her even if he tried.
“I - I made you something.” He knows he’s flushing.
“You made me something.”
“Your sword. It’s - not as good as it used to. And I just thought - oh, hells, just take it.”
He almost shoves it in her hands, realizing that he doesn’t have the presence of mind to put it nicely - not that she’d appreciate.
She takes it, her hand gripping the handle with ease, and then she turns it over, running her left hand along the blade. Her lips are parted, her mouth open in surprise, her fingertips touching the steel almost reverently.
“You made this for me?” She asks again, but now she sounds awed.
“Do you think I spend my spare time providing new swords to the entire castle? Of course I made it for you.”
The last thing he’s expecting is for her to place it carefully on the ground before throwing her arms around him and placing a very firm kiss on his cheek. It’s - he doesn’t even know how to put it into words. She never smiled like that, not when he could see her, anyway.
“It’s beautiful,” she sighs then as she picks it up again. “And I need to try it.”
“Right, just not when I’m near. That thing’s sharp.”
“You’re such a craven,” she replies, but she sounds so pleased, he doesn’t even bother correcting her. And then she’s running back to the castle.
“Keep telling yourself that!” he shouts after her. He’s smiling as he does, though. When he realized that none of the wolves is growling at him he figures that at least he did this right.
Not that Arya is a lady, but still.
This stated, he still is using his free time to put together a new sword for her. Which means that he has to do it at night, because there’s always use for a blacksmith in a castle that is still being rebuilt. He makes it slightly bigger than the one she had back then, but he takes care to keep the shape slim and not to make it heavier than necessary. She fights differently now, more gracefully (and more lethally, from what he’s seen), and he doesn’t know what training she had, but he tries to make a sword suited to it. Something easy to handle and quick to draw out of its sheath.
The handle is a wolf’s head. He doesn’t know how much she cares for house sigils anymore, but still. She’s a Stark. He couldn’t have done otherwise.
When he’s done, he decides that there’s no use in waiting, and he goes to find her - she’s in the godswood.
With her wolf. And her brothers’ wolves - well, not the white one, the other two. (Gendry would have liked the white one better, to be truthful - at least that one is quiet and doesn’t show his fangs half of the time.)
He keeps a hand behind his back and clears his throat - Arya stops staring at the heart tree and turns her eyes on him.
“Is there something you want?” she asks. He wishes she didn’t sound this - he doesn’t even know the word for it. Empty doesn’t cover it.
“Yes, actually. Uh, could you - could you come here?” He can’t tell her your brother’s wolf is looking at me as if he was considering me for dinner.
Arya huffs (and that reminds him painfully of the way she used to be when they met) and walks towards him, motioning for the black wolf to stay behind - thank gods.
“I’m here. So?”
Damn it - she’s wearing breeches and a man’s shirt that are as clean as his own, and he still feels like she’s above him enough that he could never reach her even if he tried.
“I - I made you something.” He knows he’s flushing.
“You made me something.”
“Your sword. It’s - not as good as it used to. And I just thought - oh, hells, just take it.”
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She takes it, her hand gripping the handle with ease, and then she turns it over, running her left hand along the blade. Her lips are parted, her mouth open in surprise, her fingertips touching the steel almost reverently.
“You made this for me?” She asks again, but now she sounds awed.
“Do you think I spend my spare time providing new swords to the entire castle? Of course I made it for you.”
The last thing he’s expecting is for her to place it carefully on the ground before throwing her arms around him and placing a very firm kiss on his cheek. It’s - he doesn’t even know how to put it into words. She never smiled like that, not when he could see her, anyway.
“It’s beautiful,” she sighs then as she picks it up again. “And I need to try it.”
“Right, just not when I’m near. That thing’s sharp.”
“You’re such a craven,” she replies, but she sounds so pleased, he doesn’t even bother correcting her. And then she’s running back to the castle.
“Keep telling yourself that!” he shouts after her. He’s smiling as he does, though. When he realized that none of the wolves is growling at him he figures that at least he did this right.
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