when he sees her again, she’s riding on the back of a wolf. not a small wolf, either–a wolf the size of a horse–a direwolf. he remembers a girl who always seemed to climb everything, castle walls, trees, so why not a direwolf?
he should say, “you’re alive,” should tell her that he’s missed her, that he’s spent years wondering where she’d run off to that night, but instead, he hears himself saying, “where’ve you been, then?”
she rolls her eyes at him, a hardened smirk playing at her lips. “it’s not where i’ve been–it’s where i’m going.”
“oh? and where’s that?” he knows the answer, knows it before the word even falls from her lips.
“winterfell,” she says, and rests her hand on top of the wolf’s head. “i’m taking my pack home.”
there’s something strange in her eyes–something wary. he’s never seen her look at him this way, not ever. he doesn’t like it. she always used to trust him implicitly. he doesn’t like it that she might not, still.
once she’d promised him that her kingly brother would find him a place to serve in his household. she’d been covered in dirt, then. she looks more a princess now than ever she had when she’d been a girl on that back of that direwolf. but there’s the same intensity to her face that he’s always known, and it’s that, more than anything else, that makes him open his mouth to speak again.
“do you only have your wolves? no army to take back winterfell?”
“my wolves are more than enough,” she says, looking back over her shoulder. there are hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, and gendry doesn’t want to think about what would happen if the hell bitch arya is riding decided that he looks edible.
“so you have no need of a knight errant, then?”
her eyes are bright now, shining and grey, like little moons in her face. “i have need of any who’d join me,” she says before pausing. “if…if you’d come with me.”
gendry takes a step towards her, and she vaults off the back of her wolf and is running at him and a moment later she’s in his arms, and he’s in hers.