The moon's too bright, the chain's too tight
The beast won't go to sleep
I've been running through, these promises to you
That I made but could not keep
-I'm your man, Leonard Cohen
She's been a blind beggar girl and a cup bearer, a boy (well not really but after all that they've been through she's not going to argue with Sansa about that, is she?) and a direwolf. She can speak three languages and can dance on water. But this new dance that they seem to be doing, she can't seem to wrap her head around it, can't seem to figure out the rules. There's no Syrio to give her daily lessons-though she doubts this would be his area of expertise- and although she could ask Sansa she doesn't think she could stand how much more insufferable her sister would become if she were to do so. Anyway, there's enough romance in this place to make her body want to expel her dinner the wrong way- Sansa's been making eyes at Margaery across the table and Jaime and Brienne seem to be living each day (and night) like it were their last.
And so they carry on in this fashion, neither of them ready to make the first move, quietly circling each other as the music continues to play. Two can play at this game, they think, each waiting for the other to give in, to yield. Until that night, in which there's been too much wine further intoxicating a crowd already drunk on Stannis' victory (he had, after all, promised an independent North). He doesn't know what comes over; all he knows is that he's reached his tipping point. Blue eyes meet grey ones across the courtyard and before she can grin in acknowledgement, he magically disappears and reappears by her side. He grabs her by the waist and raises her high, spinning her round and round till he's giddy, whether from the motion or her proximity, he cannot tell.
He carefully lowers her, bringing her body flush against his. She's frightened by this sudden onslaught of desire and her first instinct is, as it always has been, to fight it off, fight him off. But Gendry seems to be having none of that tonight. He steadies her face by cupping it in his large hands, as if doing so will somehow calm his erratic heart; she closes her eyes as his moves closer and closer until suddenly all she can feel are his lips on hers; soft but insistent. She knows he's reigning his emotions in, letting her decide where she wants this to go. I'm a Stark, I can be brave, is the last coherent thought she has as she smiles against his lips, and decides to make an honest man out of him.