a sense of duty (a tinge of pain)
Arya wanted the ground to swallow her whole at that moment, or the walls to close in on her. Either of those two options seemed promising.
Perhaps she could lash out, and storm out of the room in fury. Her bad character was famed after all, she knew that it would have all these men cowering in no time. Anyhow, as irritated as she was, she was no picky. Any form of disappearance would suit her just fine as long as she wasn't there listening to these arrogant lords quipping about, watching her with judgement, sneering at her manners and her attire. The unladylike lady of Storm's End. What a title.
"You've been wedded for nearly five moons, my Lord. Perhaps it is time to think about an heir," spoke Lord Bayne, prompting all the other Lords to start an unwelcome conversation about the Stormlands' line of succession.
Gendry rubbed the area between his brows, feeling a headache building, and wishing that Ser Davos had not traveled to King's Landing. These lords sometimes made him feel like he was losing his mind, caring about nonsensical matters. This, however, he knew to be important. He needed an heir to keep his claim and secure his position as lord of the Stormlands. He knew as much when he had accepted the position bestowed upon him by the Queen. The Queen!
"The Queen has been on the throne for nearly three years now," he spoke, his voice strong. "And yet, the realm has not seen an heir."
"It is known that her majesty is barren," spoke Lord Elwood. "I know naught of her plans of succession. Storm's End is of importance at the moment."
"She wants to assign an heir," replied Gendry. "I have recounted, times and times, that I will do the same."
"But, my lord!" spoke an affronted Lord Bayne. "You have a wife! She can give you children!"
"Do not speak of Arya like this," cut him off Gendry, his voice icy. "She is seated right next to me, I will not have her disrespected this way at my own table."
He felt Arya's hand on his arm, and he looked at her gratefully, his eyes filling with sadness at the expression on her face. Just like the Queen, Arya was also barren as far as they knew. No matter how many times they lain together, they were unable to conceive despite her never taking any precautions. He knew that his wife did not want any children, she had made that clear. She was not motherly, but she also knew that there were some duties that came with marrying him.
"If I am with child, I will keep it," she spoke to him once, after their coupling, and he felt his chest expand with happiness.
He would never force her to do anything against her wishes, gods, he would never even think of it. He was the luckiest man for having her seated next to him, for having her wanting him, and he would never spoil it, even in his wildest dreams. But he was grateful for her thoughtfulness.
Lord Bayne looked away, both fearfully and guiltily. "Apologies, my lord."
"It is not me you should speak to," retorted Gendry.
Lord Bayne looked at Arya, swallowing imperceptibly at the iciness in the Lady's eyes. She was feared and respected, and nonetheless loved by those who deserved it. But in that moment, Lord Bayne did not feel loved. She always spoke her mind, and it was worrying to have her silent presence watching them all with calculating eyes. "Apologies, my Lady. I spoke before thinking."
"It seems to be a reoccurring theme here, Lord Bayne," she finally spoke, her voice measured. "You've been goading my husband into finding a wench to bear him children, last I've heard. I hope for you sake that you weren't thinking then as well."
He looked affronted, but Arya, skilled as she was at the game of faces, could see underneath the mask that he was frightened by her findings. "My-my Lady! I would never!"
"But you did," she spoke again with a sigh, rising from her seat and walking around the table. She saw them all straighten up in their chairs, their eyes carefully following her. Her dagger was prominent against her hip, and many eyed it wearily. "You've been hiring beautiful women to work around the castle, don't think that I haven't noticed their lingering stares on my husband, and their wandering hands."
"My Lady," he spoke again, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish, trying to find an excuse to refute her claims.
"Don't get me wrong, Lord Bayne," she continued, now standing in front of him, a malicious smile on her face. "Gendry may be his father's son, but I would never accuse him of infidelity. You see, I trust him with my life. But you, on the other hand…"
Her voice trailed off, and her hand fiddled with the hilt of her dagger. Lord Bayne swallowed imperceptibly, lowering his head in both fear and shame.
"That's enough, Arya," softly spoke Gendry, who had been eyeing the exchange. Arya looked away, nodding at him, and promptly walked back to her seat. She felt her husband's hand on her thigh, a reassuring gesture that often brought her peace, a gesture that grounded her, reminding her that she was there, next to him.
"Now, let's go back to the matter at hand," he continued. "The smallpox breakout…"
Arya zoned out, her thoughts going back to that faithful day she had last faced the Waif. Her dagger had pierced her womb repeatedly, and she had fought dearly for her life, blood seeping out of her with every step. She had gone to see a Braavosi maester as soon as she could after leaving the House of Black and White. He had treated her to the best of his abilities, but the damage had been done. I fear for you that you may never be able to bear any children, he had said. He was nearly certain that it would be impossible, and if the seed took root inside of her, the pregnancy would certainly kill her. Her womb had been too damaged to bring a baby to term.
Arya had been glad that a burden bestowed upon every Lady was lifted off her shoulders. But now, every time she saw Gendry's soft eyes lingering on her scars, she felt guilt. He deserved a Lady who could bear him the small army of children he wanted, the family he had always dreamed of. A lady who would run his castle and tend to him. But she was no Lady. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell, the She-Wolf, the girl who wanted to feel and taste freedom and adventure at every turn.
"Arya," she heard him speak softly into her ear. She abruptly came back to reality, focusing on his blue eyes and warm touch on her thigh, and smiled. "The council is over, let's head to our chambers."
She saw the other Lords walking out, and she nodded, standing from her seat. Gendry reached for her face, putting a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and bent down to kiss her, his lips softly brushing hers. His touch almost made her cry with emotion, but she only reciprocated, putting her arms around his waist. Where Gendry was soft and pliable, she was hard and rigid. His eyes were kind, despite everything he had been through. She had been told constantly that her eyes were cold, a window that was constantly shut to keep the world out. For that difference, she admired him for his vulnerability. It made him kind and just, and she knew that she would never be able to let her guard down like that.
They walked to their chambers hand in hand, and she felt happy to be doing that in the open. She recalled a time where they had to sneak around the castle. She wasn't ashamed per say, but she disliked people seeing that side of her, so she always hid it in the intimacy of their encounters.
When they reached their room, Gendry opened the door, his other hand still in hers, and beckoned her inside. He shut the door behind him, and promptly turned her around to grab her other hand.
"You shouldn't listen to them," he muttered, looking down at her. Arya thought she was good at reading people and their intentions, but gods, Gendry knew her like the back of his hand. He knew what tormented her and what made her unravel with pleasure, what made her ache and what brought her happiness. Right now, he could read the torment in her heart as clear as day.
"I know," she mumbled, sighing deeply. "It's just…I asked you if you were sure that you wanted to marry me. We can never be the family you've always wanted."
His eyes hardened. "Don't speak that way. We are the family I've always wanted. You've always been enough and beyond, and I knew what I was getting into from the start."
"But they'll never leave you alone now," she replied, her big eyes staring into his. His heart ached at the vulnerability he saw in them, and it shook him to his core to see this side of her that she refused to show to anyone else. If he ever spoke to anyone about this side of her she showed at this moment, they would believe him to be lying.
"It doesn't matter," he replied, his voice hard. "I love you, gods, I can't even describe how much. I'm the luckiest man for waking up next to you every morning, and if I have to listen to them squabble like that to be with you, I would subject myself to that treatment every single day."
"I love you too," she whispered back, tearing up.
She put her arms around his neck, her fingers toying with the hair at the nape on his neck. She stood on her toes, and kissed him deeply, sighing into his mouth at the feel of his beard rubbing against her jaw, and his soft lips pressed into hers.
This is perfect.
Two moons later, Gendry woke in the middle of the night to his wife sobbing softly next to him. He promptly sat up on his bed, alarmed by the odd sound.
"Arya," he nearly shouted, his hand blindly reaching for the lamp next to their bed.
When he found it, he hastily lit it, and promptly turned around to discover the source of his wife's distress. What he saw terrified him; his wife was sitting in a pool of blood, the covers -also dripping with blood- were discarded to the side, and she was sobbing, clutching at her stomach.
"What-what happened?" he stuttered out, half-mad with worry. Deep down he knew exactly what the pool of blood between her thighs meant, but he refused to acknowledge it.
She mumbled incoherently, her voice muffled by her loud sobs, and he quickly grabbed her and carried her out to the maester's quarters. The maester, already watching over a sleeping woman who had just given birth, ordered him to lay her on an empty bed. He immediately set to examining her. Gendry stood by her side and held her hand, his forehead pressed against her temple, whispering soft words into her ear.
"Will she be alright, maester Noren?" asked Gendry, his voice barely above a whisper.
The maester, who had been hard at work and had barely uttered a word, looked at him. His eyes softened at the vulnerability in his lord's eyes, and he sighed. "She seems to have lost the babe. She needs rest, but she will be better in a few days." Physically, at least.
"Gods, Arya," he whispered, closing his eyes.
"She was about two moons into her pregnancy," he spoke again, his hands softly prodding the scars along her midsection. Gendry knew that if she hadn't been in the state she was, she would have surely punched his lights out for laying his hands on her. She detested being touched.
"We thought she couldn't be with child," said Gendry, his statement sounding like a question.
"She can't," affirmed Noren, cleaning the blood off her stomach. "These scars-they're far too many and the wounds have been far too deep. The damage to her womb is irreversible. She is lucky to have lost the child now."
"Lucky?" nearly shouted Gendry, standing up from his crouched position, but Arya's soft hand held him back. He looked down at her, and he was struck into place by her big teary eyes.
"Had the pregnancy been more advanced, the babe would have killed her," calmly explained the maester. "The seed can take root, but her womb is no condition to host a life. Not until the end, at least. The child would kill her before the birth."
Gendry wondered how he would know all of this from these few moments he spent examining her. "How would you know? Maybe it was just an accident. She rides and trains a lot."
"I've come to see him before," muttered Arya, her eyes vacantly staring into space, and he saw them trail to the women laying on the bed next to them, sleeping soundly with her child in her arms. "When I missed my last cycle, he advised me to drink moon tea, but I couldn't. I know how much you want to have a child."
"I've told her that the babe may not survive, but she decided to risk it," added the maester his tone almost reproachful, and Gendry felt irritated by his demeanour.
He sat back on the floor next to her, and the maester finished cleaning up the blood before going back to his other patient. Gendry softly sighed into her ear, gently stroking her hair in a reassuring manner.
"You should have told me," he muttered.
"I didn't want to get your hopes up. I wasn't-I didn't know if it would survive," she replied, tearing up again.
"Please don't ever do it again," he said, his voice hard. "I don't want you to risk your life. You heard the maester, it may kill you. I would never forgive myself if you died because of a selfish want I have."
"It's not selfish to want a family."
"Not when it comes to the cost of your life," he retorted, his hand going to her midsection. He gently caressed the scars underneath the bloodied fabric of her tunic. "Please, I want you to always drink moon tea. I can't-I can't risk losing you, not again. I've lost you so many times."
"Gendry," she spoke softly.
"Please," he retorted, and he felt hot tears running down his cheeks. "Promise me, Arya. You're the only family I have."
She brought a weak hand to his face, and gently wiped his tears away with her thumb.
"I promise."
A week later, Gendry came back one afternoon from a council session with his lords, and found his wife dressed, her clothes packed into a modest bag.
After being forced to rest by her doting husband, she felt much better. The traumatic experience left her with more unseen scars, and although she claimed to be unaffected -I already have a lot of blood on my hands, what's this, but a mere drop in the ocean? -, Gendry could see the sadness and sorrow in her eyes. He hated himself for making her feel like she owed him a child, like it was a duty from her for marrying him.
It felt odd, much unlike the Arya he knew, to care for such matters. After all, she was the one who was adamant about not being a lady. But a few days after the incident, she confided in him in the dead of night that she felt like it would make him forgive her for leaving him twice if she gave him a piece of her.
"I've already forgiven you. I don't think I was ever angry in the first place."
"Well, you didn't seem to be happy to see me when I came back from sea."
"I was ecstatic. I was only trying to play hard to get. But deep down, I knew you had me by the balls."
It had made her laugh, and his chest expanded with relief and happiness at the sight of her letting down her guard and forgetting her sorrow, if only for a moment. But seeing her determinedly asserting her need to leave Storm's End, he knew that it had only been a fleeting instance.
"Where will you go?" he asked, before she could even open her mouth to explain herself.
"I need to go to Winterfell," she said, her eyes cast low, refusing to look at him.
"Will you be back?" he inquired, smiling sadly.
She looked up, her eyes hopeful. "I am the Lady of Storm's End. Of course, I will be back to you. I just-I need to be home right now."
This is your also home, he thought bitterly, but the words must have left his mouth, for she looked at him, her brows furrowed.
"This is my home, you're my home, as much as Winterfell. I need to see Sansa, Jon and Bran," she explained, her voice getting louder and her words muddled. "I can't-I won't stay here forever. I need to move."
He knew, deep down, that one does not cage the free wolf. Arya felt caged in in this castle with all the lords prodding and inquiring about their marital affairs and heirloom duties. She would sometimes leave from dawn to dusk, her trips getting progressively longer, either riding away or training in the forest, even hunting occasionally. He'd always known that she would eventually come to leave, it was something he had to accept from the start. He was grateful that it was only for a short while. This time at least.
"I love you," he said, and she immediately ran up to him, and he wrapped his arms around her, his chin resting atop her head.
"I love you too, stupid bull," she muttered into his shirt.
"Please don't find a stupid northerner to replace me while you're there," he joked, and he smiled at the laughter he felt bubbling out of her.
"That's impossible. You keep all the stupid with you," she retorted.
Later that night, as he watched her ride away without a cavalry to accompany her north, her wild hair flying in the wind, he smiled softly to himself.
Until next time, my lady.