this is our homecoming (this is a land half forgotten)

8

Jamie leaves with Brienne and the baby.

Sansa leaves, and takes all the northern guards with her.

The wildlings go back North, up to the rubble that used to make up the Wall that was still spread over the snow, and the Dothraki go back across the sea.

Missandei goes home to Naarth, to see the shores again and find peace among her people. Greyworm goes with her, and so does most of the unsullied. They have no place here.

Gendry, though. Gendry stays.

So does Arya.

The castle is empty.

Emptier.

"They like her." Tyrion sounds surprised. He had stepped down from being Hand of the Queen, officially, with Jon taking his place. Gendry sort of thought that it was a conflict of interest, to be both a Targaryen and the Hand, but maybe they would appoint a new one when things die down. "They really like her."

"She saved them." Liberated them, not with fire and blood, but with swords and a conglomeration of armies that had no place being this far in the south or that near a city. "Of course they adore her."

Adoration is a good word. He can see it, shining out of every face, dripping from every word. Daenerys had made the people her first priority, ignoring the ruins of the castle to rebuild the city streets, calling on all the lords and ladies of Westeros to send their aid to help feed and shelter those who were left without a home. She walks through the streets, and if you had not been told of it, you would not think that this woman could wage a war, not with the way she holds out her hands to the children and kneels at the feet of the beggars, pressing coins and bread into their hands.

I took this kingdom, she had said, that first night. Gendry had barely been paying attention- had just been looking at the blood smears still staining the throne room floors. It used to be a great place, once. He supposes she'll have to make it great again. That's what all of them here were doing, washing away the sins of their fathers to restore their houses to something better, so that they could become someone better. Now I have to protect it.

"And you?" Tyrion's an ugly little thing. Gendry's always just a bit uncomfortable under his gaze, even though he tries not to be. "Do you adore her?"

"I fought for her."

"And you could fight against her."

"No." Gendry shook his head, like he could shake the thought away. No one else has voiced the thought out loud, but he can see it in Arya's face, sometimes, whenever the Queen falls quiet and happens to glance at Gendry, the idea that if someone would want to place a claim against her right to the throne, Gendry would be the best contender, especially now that she made him true born. In those moments, he's almost certain that Arya would rather kill the Queen and face down the whole unsullied army than let Daenerys raise a hand to him. He would do the same for her, but still- the devotion startles him. "No one would follow me."

"You could make them."

"I can't." He nods his head in the Queen's direction. She was being given a bundle of wildflowers, already wilted, and she had proclaimed the girl that gave them to her the fairest in the land. Her voice is clear, kind, and beside her, the ever somber Jon let's his face break into a smile. Those are the only children that I will ever have, Daenerys had said, whenever someone talks about her dragons, but it seems she keeps collecting more and more. "Not like she can."

Tyrion considers it, nods.

"Besides." Gendry grins. "I'm too stupid to be a king."

"Ah, my boy," Tyrion says, all wry and weary and smiling at something that Gendry cannot see. "That's the only kind of king there ever is."

They are sparring.

Gendry is losing.

"Come on." Arya shoves out at him, hits him in the chest with her staff, and he can feel the impact of it in every place but the dead skin spread over his ribs. It's a bit concerning. "You can do better."

He doesn't.

"You're letting me win," She says, and laughs like it's stupid, and then hits him harder, so he stumbles. He's close enough to the edge that one more step would have sent him tumbling down into the ocean. He can't swim. He would have drowned. He really should learn how to swim, considering how often he keeps finding himself beside a giant body of water. "Come on." She hits him again. It hurts, and he wheezes out a breath. "Hit me."

She swings her arm out at him for a punch, light and lazy, and he catches it, keeps her wrist closed in his fist. "No."

Arya grins, sinks her other arm into his stomach, and he doubles over. "Yes."

"Arya," She dances forward, hits him again, and he's done playing, so he wrestles her for the staff, sends them both crashing into the pile of rubble and wilted hedges. "Stop."

She smiles and then stops. "What?" There's uncertainty dancing over her face and then she hides it, moves over a bit so she can reach for her staff. "Don't you want to?"

"Do I want to hurt you?" He reaches out to her, traces the map of blue veins running up her arms. After days spent walking through the court yard and in the forge (not to mention hours lounging out in the gardens with her, mocking everyone who walks by), he had grown tan, but she was still pale. Still cold and northern. "No."

"Why not?" She's on her feet, standing over him, and in her hand, the staff swings, point down and swaying, dipping nearer and nearer to his neck. She could kill him. He wouldn't even lift a hand to stop her. "I can take it." She reaches out a hand and hauls him to his feet. "I've had worse than you."

"Do you really think that was my point?" She stares at him, and something shudders over her face, turns her into no one again. He hates it when she goes back to that. It's a bit unfair, seeing as how he can't follow, can never hope to match. "I don't want to hurt you because I don't like you being hurt."

"Everyone hurts. Better you practice with someone who's willing to stop when you say so." She says things like that, sometimes. Always cryptic, always teasing, daring him to ask her about it. He never does. Maybe that was a mistake. "Better you be ready."

"Your list is done." He thinks so. Maybe there was more. Maybe she's still adding to it. "There's nothing to be ready for."

She stares at him, shakes her head.

"Really, Arya," He reaches for her, and she let's him. "You're safe now."

She stiffens against him, pushes him away, and he does not know where he went wrong. Why she won't believe it. Why she thinks that castle walls and an army and two dragons aren't enough. Why she thinks that he wouldn't be able to protect her.

"No," She says, and repeats it, then laughs at him. "The moment you start believing that is the moment you start to die." She picks up the staff, and moves to stand on her side of the square. Their little arena. He had said it as a joke, but it seems that they do have their best fights here. "Now are you going to help me practice, or do I have to find a replacement?"

He should be at the forge. He should be with Jon. He should be learning how to read, not doing this, not going through these same old motions with her.

But this is where he is.

This is where he wants to be.

"Alright," He says, and she does not look surprised when he picks up the sword.