"Why didn't you get married?"

Gendry's so shocked to hear her voice that he turns mid-conversation, stunned.

It's really her, although her skin is tan, as if she's spent long hours under the sun, and her hair is longer than he's ever seen it, tied back neatly with a cord. She's also wearing strange, outlandish clothing, and the horse she's riding is unusually heavily laden.

Jumping straight in with the uncomfortable questions though- that's obviously the same.

The gate guards are running behind her, red-faced and shouting, but he waves them back. Like she'd let something as trifling as gate guards stop her.

"I thought the King said you'd sailed West," he manages, still shaken by the sight of her.

She dismounts smoothly, shaking her head dismissively, obviously irritated that he'd avoided her question. "I did. And I've just got back. Stopped in King's Landing and Bran said you weren't any closer to married than you were a year ago. I want to know why."

Gendry's mouth works, at a loss for words. As if she could have forgotten.

And then he remembers that he's a lord now, and not a mere blacksmith, and he doesn't actually have to answer her. So he takes a couple breaths to try to settle his temper and eyes the darkening sky before he swallows and thinks of the words he's supposed to use.

"Arya of House Stark, The Hero of Winterfell, be welcome beneath my roof and at my table. There's a storm rolling in, so forgive the lack of courtesy. If you'd like to put your mount in the stable, and refresh yourself, I can join you for the evening meal once I'm done here with my tenants," he says, gesturing at the couple standing before him.

She blinks before she inclines her head belatedly. "My apologies for interrupting. Thank you, my lord."

He beckons to Gavin, one of the stableboys.

"Run and ask the housekeep to get the guest room in the east wing ready for our honored guest."

And then he turns back to his tenants, heart pounding and half expecting her to make some sassy remark. But all he catches is a bemused smile before she does as bid.

Always a first time for everything, he supposes.

She's washed off the road dust and changed into a blouse and trousers when he finds her in the dining room, polishing off some cheese and bread and paging through a book pilfered from the library. "Told you you'd be a good lord. My father always made sure his tenants were second only to his family," Arya says, and Gendry shrugs uncomfortably, taking the chair across from her.

"Thanks. Took a while to get used to it. Ser Davos was a big help, but his keep 'n lands are a lot smaller. Just another nobody in King's Landing, but here they all knew exactly who I was when I rode up, just from the look of me."

"Ser Brienne said she mistook you for Renly when she first saw you," Arya says thoughtfully. "She been down here at all? Tarth is one of your banners, isn't it?"

Gendry shakes his head. "Her father holds Tarth and she's actually a Kingsguard-" He stops himself. It's far too easy to just slip back into talking with her like they're friends. "Seriously Arya, why are you here instead of up north with your family? You could have sent a raven. Maester Darren taught me to read and write, and I'm getting faster at both."

She shrugs, her face carefully impassive. "Can't play the game of faces unless you're face-to-face. Besides, Bran sent me here."

She hefts a medium sized sack onto the table. "Found you some sand that smells like blood in the Grey Wastes."

He gives her a puzzled look, and she shrugs. "He said you'd know what to do with it."

He raises his eyebrows, baffled. "Well, I'll give it a look, but we've got plenty of sand down the bay."

When he reaches for it, she places one hand over his suddenly.

"You were supposed to get married and have a family and be happy," she says quietly. "Why didn't you?"

His heart's beating too fast, and he wishes that he didn't feel like this all over again, that she wasn't always so bloody insistent. But it's not like she's ever given up getting answers, and he has some that might suffice. "Well, it's not for lack of trying. Met a lot of ladies of marriageable age. Most of them were a bit taken aback that a former bastard with a Flea Bottom accent ended up Lord Baratheon. Although they'd suffer me, or their fathers thought they should, to get the title. Which sounds about as miserable as what my father had with that Cersei Lannister, so I didn't make or accept any offers."

She raises her eyebrow in acknowledgment, then tilts her head. "You said most of them."

He jerks his hand back, eyes blazing. Why does she always need to pry? "Well, you were there, weren't you, when I got turned down the first time?"

Her eyes snap to his, but instead of the cold indifference from that night, she's angry. "Well, you were an idiot to ask! I've never been a lady and you know it!"

"Oh, I know it, do I? Because lowborn folk swan into my forge and ask for custom made weapons to go with their Valyrian steel daggers? Because lowborn folk expect me to answer personal questions instead of being told to mind their business? Because lowborn folk worry about vengeance more than trying to stay alive?"

"They killed my family!"

"And you expected to be able to do something about that! And you did, didn't you, Arya of House Stark? They still talk about what happened to the Freys. I just wonder how many smallfolk you snuffed while you were playing your power games."

Her proud little smile disappears. "None. I offered only their names. It's rarely those who take orders that are wrong."

"Well, good!" he snaps, and then his temper gives out as suddenly as it had flared when he sees how tense and unsure she looks. "I mean, I don't blame you. You were raised having servants to do as you bid and to be proud of your family. And you always did your fair share of the work, never acted like you should have been sleeping on a featherbed instead of the ground with us- but you still think like a highborn, is all I'm saying."

She's definitely rattled. "I thought you meant I could have your babies and wear a dress."

He scoffs. "Like I've ever seen you in a dress! You ever see Ser Brienne in a dress? Or Lady Greyjoy?"

She shakes her head once, then looks him in the eye. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head dismissively. "Naw, it's not-" He stops, shocked. "Did you just apologize?"

She smiles, flushing, and rolls her eyes. "Don't get used to it."

They both laugh and she lowers her eyes and hesitates. And that's all it takes for the atmosphere to shift between them.

Which makes him nervous all over again. He hates that he'd been a fool, that he still wishes he hadn't driven her away; that the sense of connection and love and rightness had been all one-sided.

Hates knowing that if she wants to use him for another romp, he'd be a fool all over again in a heartbeat.

So he swallows and looks towards the kitchens, standing awkwardly. "I'll just go see what's keeping supper. You must be starving after being on the road for so long."

He doesn't know how she moves so fast, or so quietly. But she's suddenly right in front of him, in his space, studying his face with that quiet intensity that makes his heart trip faster and his hands ache to touch.

"I really didn't mean to hurt you. It was just supposed to feel good."

He swallows. "It did. Feel good, I mean. And I know, so don't worry it."

"It was good for me too. Too good. I wasn't ready for that."

He knows he's a fool, but he can't stop that painful rush of hope. After all, he might be misreading her feelings again but-

"I think- I think I'm ready to be with you now. If you still want to."

She's not like anybody he knows, never has been. And maybe it wasn't right before, but this time when she kisses him, he hopes maybe it is.