After the fighting is over, then come the hot baths, ice packs, resurrection from the dead, political maneuvering, and happy endings (not like that, Tony).

The dead fell. The dead fell, and Gendry’s heart was racing, pounding so hard inside of his chest that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Silence crept across the courtyard and the sound of his heart beating only got louder. Puffs of air left his lips in tiny, gasping breaths as he stared down at the mountain of bodies below. Next to him, Tormund, the ginger wildling who had somehow wound up next to him atop the heap, spun in a circle, surveying. Across the courtyard, Gendry could hear someone shout, “What is this?” “Is this a trick?” Someone else responded. “He did it,” Tormund breathed. His voice was as soft as a whisper. Gendry turned to him, his heart still pounding in his chest and his fingers still wrapped around his hammer so tightly that he could seldom tell where his skin began and the shaft ended. Tormund’s blue eyes turned to him, wide, joyous. “That bloody crow did it.” Gendry couldn’t speak.

This, Fox thinks, staring up at the fabric of the tent above him, is absolutely not what he remembers from before he closed his eyes. Right along with the realization comes the desperate, sinking sort of feeling that what he was most afraid of happened again. One step down the hallway in the Senate, heading somewhere, and then—