When the watch sounds the alarm, Arya is asleep.

It takes her a moment to realize that something was wrong- preparing for battle here was not like the men getting ready for war back at Winterfell, or running from the faceless men at Bravos.  Here, it was silent, the wind snatching away the sounds before the men could even make them, the snow softening the endless clamor that normally comes as weapons and horses and men shift to shore up the defenses, but Arya still knows within a moment that the whitewalkers have come, because the horn is sounding so loud it seems to shake the snow off the top of her tent, once, twice, a third time of that long drawn out cry, and even Arya knows what that means.

She stumbles out of the tent, wrapping her cloak around her, not bothering to get dressed beyond shoving her feet into a pair of boots.  The Hound is waiting for her outside the tent, a sack of provisions thrown over his back, but she just pushes past him.  With all the torches that the men are carrying, he flinches back, but he follows, because that was what he was sworn to do.

Some people are worth following, he had told her, and then spit onto the ground, and Arya was not sure if he meant Jon or Sansa or maybe even Arya herself.  Some people make it all worth it. 

Arya doesn't check to make sure that he's behind her, just pressed through the crowd.  The men, once so proper and polite, do not spare her a second glance.  They have become something animal in their fear, a swarm or a stampede, fallen prey to their own panic, and Arya feels that same fear rise up in her.

"Jon!"  His name rips from her throat and she feels young again, like she was just heading off for King's Landing and trying to keep herself from hugging him tight enough that no one could make her leave.  He wouldn't be waiting for her, wouldn't look for her, too caught up in his duties and his title and probably expecting her to be already on her way out the gates, but Arya knew that this time, she could not leave without saying good bye.  The Hound seems to know it, too, because he does not stop her, just fights behind her, and when one of the soldiers knocks into her a bit too hard, Clegane throws him to the ground with one arm and steadies her with the other.  Arya doesn't bother with saying thank you.  "Jon!"

She might be crying.  She doesn't know.  She makes it across the court yard and slips, tries to make it up the stairs only to have to flatten herself against the wall to get out of the way of a cluster of boys tripping their way down the path towards her.  From their faces, it is not clear if they are fighting or deserting, and even though she tries to make herself small, one of their elbows catches her in the side of the face.  Blood blooms in her mouth and Arya spits it out onto the ground before moving again, the red a vibrant shock against all the snow.

"Jon!"  Her footsteps are light.  The Hound cannot keep up, so she bursts into the queen's chambers without anyone to hold her back, and tumbles right into the middle of a council meeting.  She doesn't have time to be embarrassed about all the faces that have turned to stare at her (Jon, Tormund, Gendry, the Queen) or the way she must look, with blood streaming from the corner of her mouth and shivering in her nightclothes, just stumbles her way across the room to Jon.

"What are you doing here?"  He kneels at her feet.  He looks half aggravated and half embarrassed, like she is a nuisance that he would rather not have to deal with, but Arya would not let herself walk away without seeing him.  Would not give herself that regret, on top of everything else.  "You should be gone by now."

"We're leaving.  Soon.  I just wanted to say good bye."  He hugs her, murmurs something conciliatory in her ear, and over Jon's shoulder she catches sight of Gendry.  He is holding himself stiff, but they meet eyes, and she wants to run across the room to him, too, but doesn't.  It isn't proper, and pride is always so important to Gendry.  If he wants to, he will have to come to her.  "I didn't want..."

I didn't want you to die and me not see you one last time before, is what she intended to say, but that cannot possibly be helpful, so she falls silent, clutches at him again, digs her fingers into the fur of his coat. 

"It's going to be fine.  Alright?"  Sansa had told her, once, when she was finally talking about Ramsay and the things he had done to her, how when she saw Jon for the first time since they all went their separate ways, she felt nothing but relief.  It went away a second later, but in the moment, she said that she finally felt like there was going to be someone to take care of her, that she hadn't felt that safe since father was there to hold her.  Arya understood.  "But you need to go."

"No."  Arya was always stubborn.  She doesn't know why either of them pretended that she would be willing to go without a fight.  "I'm not leaving you here.  I can help."

"You're going."  He doesn't look like her brother.  He looks like a fighter, like a stranger, like a king.  "That's final, Arya, this was the plan from the beginning."

"I can't just leave," She started, maybe thinking that this, like so many other things, was something that she could push her way through.  That if she kicked hard enough and screamed loud enough, Jon would be forced to give in, never mind how that would make the both of them look in front of the council.  Sansa used to do the same thing when father wouldn't let her go riding, and sometimes it even worked.  "Starks don't run away."

"Someone has to warn your sister."  The queen's hand was cold when she touched Arya's shoulder, which was strange. She always assumed that her blood ran warmer than everyone else's.  "The raven's won't make it through the snow.  That's why we let you stay, but now it means you have to go."  Arya wasn't sure if it was true, and wanted it not to be, to be able to think that Jon had let her stay because he missed her and trusted her to make her own decisions, but she also knows that he does nothing just because he wants to.  There is always some deeper motive.  Winter has arrived, and there is no longer any room for weakness, no matter how well meant.  Besides, Daenerys wasn't wrong- in the blizzard, the ravens would die before they even made it to Mole's Town.  "First light, you leave.  And you don't stop until you reach Winterfell."

She doesn't stay for the council meeting.  Arya wants to, but she is terribly aware that she is in nothing but her nightclothes, and the whole time that Jon is talking, Gendry is doing nothing but looking at her.  She knows that he needs to be paying attention, so she gives Jon one last look and then slips out, letting the door close softly behind her.

"Right."  The Hound fell into step beside her, still watching the torches warily.  "Are we leaving now?  Because I swore to protect you, girl, but I also swore that I was never going to fight those fuckers again, and I meant it, I don't care if it makes me a coward-,"

He's still talking when she ducks into the tent and falls down onto the pile of blankets, chucking one boot across the room and then the other.  At one point Arya might have been worried that he would steal both their horses and leave, but she isn't anymore.  The Hound loves her like a daughter, and no matter what, he would rather face the whitewalkers than leave without her.  She wishes that she could say she would give him the same loyalty, but Arya doesn't know.  She's learned to be a survivor over everything else. 

When the tent flaps open the second time, she thinks it is the wind, until she hears the sound of someone else's breathing.  There's a prickle of fear, and she can't help but have her hand search out beside her for Needle, but mostly, Arya isn't bothered enough to look.  "First light, Clegane."  She had taken to calling him by his name, because The Hound was the title that Joffrey had given him.  "Try and rest until then, won't you?"

You're going to need it, she thinks, and when there's no response she sits up, the motion sending the furs pooling in her lap.  It's not the Hound.

"Oh."  There's a voice in her head telling her that this isn't proper, and that if Gendry was going to stand there in the middle of the tent, than Arya really should reach over and pull her cloak around her shoulders.  The voice sounded like Sansa, so Arya ignored, just like she did with the real Sansa.  "I didn't think I would see you."

That was a lie.  She was hoping that she would see him, and knew that she would go search him out before she left if Gendry didn't find her first.  But she thought it was best to keep up pretenses.  The Sansa-voice in her head seemed to approve of that, which made Arya want to scowl.

"Gendry?"  He still wasn't talking.  Still wasn't moving.  He was pale, though, his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might break his teeth and his hands pressed carefully to his sides.  It was a motion that reminded her of when Jon would grip onto Longclaw, a way to steady himself.  "Are you alright?"

"I only,"  He shakes his head as if to clear it, and when he meets her eyes, he looks a little less likely to be sick.  Arya wishes he wouldn't look so afraid.  She doesn't really know what to do with someone else's fear, having spent so long ignoring her own.  "That first night, you offered to let me stay.  Is that," Arya wondered why this was harder than anything else they had done together.  "Would that be okay?"

She's quiet long enough that Gendry seems to think that he made a mistake.  Arya can see it move over his face, the little flinch of embarrassment, the beginnings of an apology that she neither wanted or needed.

"Yeah."  They had slept together before, of course.  On the walk to the Wall, when he kicked someone away from the spot by the fire and then laid down beside her, protective and glaring at whoever came close, his helm tucked up underneath him.  Then in Harrenhall, him leaning back up against the post with her pillowed up on his chest, his arm around her, and Gendry only half sleeping, always watching.  "Gendry."  She moved to side, gave him more room than he really needed, and pulls the furs back like an offering.  "Course you can."

He's hesitant, is the word for it.  Doesn't seem to think that he should be doing it, even as he kicks off one boot than the other and eases down to lay beside her.  Gendry doesn't seem to think he has the right to move, now that he's done it, so Arya is the one to pull the blankets up over them both, and it is Arya who tucks herself in close to him, laying her palm flat across his chest.  Other than moving his arm a bit to let her press against his side, Gendry doesn't give any sign of knowing that she's there, just stares straight up at the ceiling.

"You can touch me.  I won't-,"  Won't what?  Won't break?  Won't throw him out into the cold?  They both know that none of that really applies to her.  "I'm not afraid."

He squeezes his eyes shut like it pains him.  "I am," and the words come out in a puff of fog, his breath mingling with the cold air, and the reminder of the chill makes Arya huddle closer.  "I'm so scared, Arya."

She doesn't want to tell him not to be.  Doesn't know how to make him feel better, can only lay there, feel the skip of his pulse underneath her fingers.  What she wants to do is tell him that he won't have to do it alone, that she'll be right there beside him just like she had been for everything else, but she doesn't, because Gendry will be staying here and she will be going back to Winterfell.  The only other option is to ask him to come home with her, but he won't.  She doesn't think she'd love him like she does if he would turn out to be the type of person to run when he's afraid, even when that fear is justified.

"It's just one fight.  And then you can come home." Arya doesn't think that will make him feel better.  Didn't really expect it to, but it's what she always told herself, when there was something that she didn't want to do- one more mile, one more day, one more offering to the god and then she can run along back to Winterfell.  And besides, her father had once told her that being coddled isn't good for men about to go into battle, even if it's what they think they need.  "You can come back home and stay with me, and you won't ever have to fight another bloody thing."

"You'll do the fighting for me, I suppose?"  He's smiling, at least, and he's reached up to take her hand in his, placing them both against his lips. 

"Yes."  The word is a little biting.  Arya hasn't learned how to be soft, even when the situation calls for it.  "And we'll go to those oceans, like you said.  The blue ones."

"And you'll be my lady," He replies, just like he's supposed to, only she has the feeling that he means something different, that agreeing with him would mean making a promise that she doesn't understand. 

"Yours," she whispers back, and she holds onto him tighter, not sure what else to do, not really even sure what they are saying, only sure that he is going off to fight and that he might die tomorrow and Arya isn't even entirely confident that she will make it back to Winterfell before the whitewalkers catch up to her.  Thinks that this might be their last night together, and feels the tears sting her eyes.  Arya looks away from him, because her fear does not need to join his, not when Gendry is trying so hard to be brave. 

He doesn't say anything for a while after that, long enough that she's starting to think that he had fallen asleep.  "I just wanted to know," He says, and the words brush against the shell of her ear, the tenderness and fear in them making her screw her eyes shut to stop the flow of the tears that had suddenly appeared, "What it felt like.  Just in case I," He falters, and his grip tightens around her, and Arya's breath hitches, but Gendry doesn't seem to even notice.  "Just in case."

When Arya wakes up, Gendry is gone.  Jon is up on the wall, somewhere she can't reach, and the Red Woman is waiting with two horses, the Hound glaring at the ground beside her.

"Arya."  Her voice is deeper than any other woman's Arya had ever heard before.  "The King sends his regards."

Arya doesn't answer, just places one foot in the stirrup and swings herself onto the saddle.  The Hound spits on the ground and moves to join her, and Arya tries to channel every bit of the royal blood everyone keeps pretending she has by staring down at the Red Woman.  She likes it when other people are shorter than her, though the fact that Arya has to climb on things to do it sort of ruins the effect.

"The Darkness," The Red Woman says, unbidden, unprompted, reaching up to grab Arya's chin just like she had the other time, her nails digging into Arya's skin.  She wants to shove her away but doesn't, because Arya had learned that whatever this woman is, she isn't a fraud like Davos liked to pretend.  Arya might not have made it to be a faceless man, but she had spent a long time in Bravos, and she had learned the truth of the god they serve.  When the priests have something to say, it's best that you listen.  "It's fading."

There's a cry from behind them, and then two echoing screams of the Queen's remaining dragons.  "Go."  She pushes away from her, and horse gives a start, moving forward a few steps before Arya pulls it still.  "I'll give your brother your love."

Arya stares at her for a moment, trying to figure out what to say, wondering if she had to say thank you, but then the dragons scream again and the wall turns into fire.

"Come on, girl."  The Hound's face is set.  He is terrified, but not of the dragons, and not of the fire.  "Time to go."

This time, she doesn't bother protesting.

This time, she knew it was time to go.