She isn't 100% cognizant anymore. It's worrying but not nearly as much so as the ringing in her ears. The mob had cracked her head against stone and she's been dazed ever since though its the loss of hearing that is truly jarring. She'd been blind for a time and learned not to fear the dark but she relies on sound and with the high pitched whine the word is muted. It is easy to imagine its quiet when The Army of the Dead falls and thousands of corpses litter the ground. Through her hazy eyes Arya searches for life among the dead and meets Bran's milky gaze. That emptiness she struggles to face because it is so familiar to her. In that gaze is knowledge of who she is and what she has done. It is second nature to flee.
There are no grand romantic notions for why she chooses the forge. It doesn't even really register that in her flight for shelter and quiet she'd found the loudest place in the keep. Everything is fuzzy and on some level she knows she is concussed as well as wounded but can not find it in herself to care. All she wants is calm and quiet someplace safe. Safety has always rested within his arms since she was a small child filled with far too much anger and pain.
The rough little cot she finds is far from luxurious especially when compared to her own lavish quarters yet it smells like him and with the world rocked that is what finally puts her at ease. She cannot face finding her pack yet be they dead or alive. She has done her part yet not soon enough so it is part guilt and part fear that keeps her curled on a threadbare cot smelling of her smith. She is Arya Stark once more, afraid and frozen by fear. It's irresponsible, people will be looking for her and now is not the time for selfishness but she is so tired and drifts off with his scent in her nose.
There is a loud clang that echo's off the walls and sends her scrambling. The blood on her face has dried to a crust and sleepy eyes are unfocused yet Needle is drawn and ready. She'd rolled to a crouch on the small cot and must look feral as she is sneering at the supposed danger. Her world is still fuzzy but there are booted feet and the source of the sound seems to have been an oversized war hammer she'd know anywhere. Before she can raise her eyes to confirm the burning hope large palms covered in callus are cradling her jaw ever so gently.
"Arya." The deep burr stirs her blood at the same time as it soothes the frantic panic still lingering. Sound registers again and the world is suddenly loud again. There is shouting and grunting, the sound of swords being moved and the thud of what she knows must be bodies. It's sobering to be sure. Still crouched she dares to meet those stormy blue eyes, eyes that have seen her when the rest of the world had thought her dead and buried. The panic there makes her feel guilty.
"Gods Arya. No one could find you! Bran told John you lived but we searched everywhere and I feared…" Slim fingers halt the rest of his words as her head begins to pound fiercely. Through slit eyes she reaches out to pull him closer. When he is settled on his knees leaning towards her touch, hands refusing to budge where he cradles her face, she settles gingerly seated before him with her legs bracketing his large frame and murmurs lowly.
"They threw me into a wall. Think I have a concussion. Yell later." There is a huff but Gendry does not argue and instead moves her so he can inspect the wound to her forehead.
"You need a Maester." She'd started to shake her head but that makes the world spin again causing her to clutch at his broad shoulders for support. He'd always been large, especially so compared to herself but in their years apart he'd grown positively massive. He is packed with muscle and exuded power and she'd never felt safer.
"Arya." Its exasperated but his hands finally move so that his arms can engulf her so she doesn't mind.
"Arya I'm not the only one looking." Of course he wasn't. The world would be looking for her soon enough.
"Please." A Faceless Man does not beg, would never lower themselves and reveal their vulnerability this way but she has no fear of him. She cannot face the world yet. The burns on her neck and arm throb and various other wounds need tending before they turn but she cannot face the noise yet. He does not look happy yet moves to a bucket of water nearby she hadn't noticed to set it beside her foot. Another empty one is upended so he can sit and using a rag fished from the edge of the first begins to very carefully clean the blood from her skin.
"What are you doing here? Don't have a bed in that fancy castle of yours?"
"Mine doesn't smell like you." It is offered without thought and later she'll blame it on her head injury but it is almost worth the embarrassment to see his eyes widen and a red flush rise to his cheeks. It's a bit like when she'd attacked him in the storeroom before the battle. Arya watches him fumble rather adorably for a moment before leaning forward to crash their lips together almost brutally. She's dazed for an entirely different reason when he allows her to catch the breath he's stolen.
"God's you can't just say stuff like that Arya! You had me in a bloody panic looking for you only to find you here all curled up in my bed fast asleep. Covered in blood and looking more gorgeous then you've any right to smelling like you do!" Her grin is positively wolfish and makes her throat pull but Gendry is still holding her fast against his chest as he rants and it's bloody perfect.