.

.

As a lad, Gendry dreamed of learning the trade of a blacksmith.

He would create deadly, foreign weapons in Pentos never seen before and discover the secret of how to make Valyrian steel swords and daggers and chains for the maesters once more.

(Blacksmiths simply lived longer than the high lords of Westeros. No-one tries to kill them for their fortunes or rivals their power.)

His advisors inform him that Gendry's betrothed comes to visit from the North. There's no ships passing by Durran's Point where the great cliffs hang over the frothing, cold sea. Only a lackwit would travel through Shipbreaker's Bay. Gendry catches a brief, doubtful glimpse of Arya Stark from the boats rowing in through Massey's Hook.

Without bidding, Gendry runs forward, helping tug in the boat with the knights of Storm's End and reaching out for her small hand clasping his fingers. Pale like a loon's wing. But dirtied. The ocean-wind tangles and makes a nest of her dark brown hair.

"Thanks," Arya mutters, frowning and avoiding eye-contact. That's about all she means to say, Gendry expects.

It's not ideal for him either. He doesn't to marry. And especially not some sullen Northern girl.

Ned Stark greets him a little more amiable, clapping down on Gendry's shoulder and asking about his training with the sword.

During the hour of the nightingale, one of the castle's guards reports a missing horse. The old septa watching over Arya reports her missing as well. "Do not fear the worst. You can ride to the Rainswood," Ned announces to a deeply confused Gendry, his lips crooking into an exasperated smile. "If she is anywhere on this side of the stormlands, you'll find her there."

Gendry's horse takes him from the deserted coastal region to the edge of the quiet, misty forest.

He has heard so many tales about the First Men cutting down timber and enraging the Children of the Forest, about their conflict with the Andals, about the woods witch they deemed "Green Queen" who held the forest for a generation. It's primeval and grey and not without danger. Most of the people living here are far too superstitious to venture in without company.

Arya waters the stolen mare near a creek, wandering towards the cedars and redwood trees. She's in a pair of breeches and a men's tunic, her little teats peeking through the fabric. Gendry's cock stirs in interest.

"Thought it might be you," Arya yells, flashing a devilish, wide grin. No more indifference and slighting temperament.

He clears his throat, beginning to get flustered.

"My lady—"

"Haven't you heard?" Her teeth bare like wolf's canines. She slips off the tunic and approaches, flinging the still-warm linen into Gendry's face. "It's being whispered behind my back. But they're right—I am a wolf-bitch."

"My lady," he tries again, gentler, understanding, Arya's fingers clawing into his black hair.

"Don't call me that, my lord." Arya — sharp, ferocious, cold as the unforgiving sea — presses against him and Gendry is lost.

.

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GoT isn't mine. I HAD WAAAAAY TOO GOOD OF A TIME DOING THIS ONE. Requested by Millysaurusrex (AO3): "Gendrya. Gendry is Lord of Storms End, betrothed to Arya of Winterfell. Them meeting for the first time." Thank you and I would absolutely love to hear everyone's thoughts on this one!

((Want a request for GoT? I'm doing 100-500 word drabbles of any ship + any prompt until S8 ends. Rules: you need to comment here and provide a ship and prompt, as well if you want NSFW or SFW. The only requests I'll be looking at is if you ALSO commented about the fic you just read as well. It's only fair. You came to this fic to read it and me doing something for you later on is a sweet bonus!))