Gendry stared out of the narrow window, and fervently wished he was any place else.
Rain lashed the leaded glass, which was banded with metal to make breakage more difficult. Although the winds raged with much more fury than anything he'd ever seen during his childhood In King's Landing, it apparently wasn't much of a storm by Storm's End standards. The heavy wooden storm shutters were wide open, letting in what passed for daylight in this grim, gray world in which he found himself.
The light of five hundred candles danced overhead, illuminating the long wooden table, loaded down with roasted fish and wild game; sweets and stewed vegetables; pastries, pies, and potatoes; ales and liquors and spiced wines; and other food he could only guess at. His stomach growled loudly. The food was one part of his new life at Storm's End he would never get sick of. He'd known too much hunger as a child in the slums, as the bastard child of a stranger. He'd been told he was lucky, growing up, that at least he had a stranger for a father who sometimes sent money for his keep. However, his mother all too often chose ale over feeding her only son, and hunger had been his constant companion during those early, vulnerable years.
And now: he sat in fine but uncomfortable clothes, surrounded by luxury, as people who would have once sneered at him all but bent themselves over to curry his favor. It made him want to laugh, at the capriciousness of his life, at the cruelty of the world and the wonder of his sudden change in fortune. But today, he very much just wanted to eat some of the fine food in front of him, guzzle some ale, and slink back to the chambers he'd claimed from his dead uncle Stannis. But it was not to be. He shifted a bit in his fine linen trousers, and smoothed the fur-lined cloak underneath him, and tried to cheer himself up.
Look on the bright side, Gendry. She's beautiful and clever. You won't have to worry about stupid heirs.
"I said, I'd like some wine," a clear, bell-like voice insisted from his right side. The voice was a bit too loud and formal, as if it had been repeating itself. Gendry snapped his fingers, and a servant scrambled forward with a golden pitcher full of the stuff.
"I'm sorry, my lady," Gendry heard himself say. "You must forgive me. I'm distracted by the … storm outside."
"You've been distracted by something, that much is certain," his companion murmured, too softly for anyone's ears but his. Gendry's heart sank, as he realized he was being rude. He turned his full attention to his companion.
She sat perfectly still in her chair, her chin upturned, her dark hair hanging in loose curls threaded through with ribbons of gold. A gold and diamond filigree tiara sat tightly on her brow, matching the diamonds sewn into the golden silk of her gown. Gendry knew the silk must be too thin for the climate at Storm's End, that she had to be cold, but the fabric clung to her full, luscious figure so well that she had so far refused to wear anything else. He tried to be grateful for this, for her ripe body and quick mind. He tried to tell himself he could grow to love her, one day.
He wasn't quite sure he believed himself. At least, not today.
But if he couldn't love her, he could at least practice not being an ass.
"My Lady Martell," he said, rising swiftly and unbuckling the silver and emerald clasp that bound his fur-lined cloak. "Our betrothal is a joyous occasion. I will not tolerate you being cold." He draped the luxurious fabric across her lap with a small bow.
Elaynna Martell accepted his gesture with a smile and a small nod. "Thank you, my lord," she said, clutching the cloak and pulling it over her legs. "I find I could get quite used to your attention, after all," she whispered, leaning forward so her breasts strained against the silk. She favored him with a smile, and he answered her with one of his own, but it felt like a pale ghost of a thing on his face.
He wanted so much more than a witty beauty to warm his bed. He wanted….
Her.
Intelligence and valor and honor and fierceness and adventure, all wrapped up in the figure of one feral young woman who'd saved an entire kingdom, and taken nothing for herself in return.
She had become a legend, but he knew her as the hesitant young woman he'd taken to his bed: Arya Stark, Slayer of the Night King, Explorer, Adventuress, and, he was coming to suspect, the only woman he would ever love.
He'd been so happy when the Dragon Queen raised him up, making him a lord. He'd lived through intense hunger and need, growing up, but his first thought hadn't been for the riches and security the position would bring him. His first thought had been that now, he'd have something to offer her. A lordship, with an ancestral home to rival Winterfell.
And yet, she'd refused him. Refused the title, the lands. He'd never forget the look in her eyes as she turned him down, and as much as it hurt, as much as it made him ache, he understood, and hungered for her even more.
Arya Stark could never be caged. He'd been a fool to try.
"Perhaps we could retire someplace more private, my lord," Lady Elaynna Martell said, and Gendry realized he'd made her repeat herself once more.
She wasn't Arya, but she was, by all accounts, a smart, sweet girl who seemed to be eager to please him. She was noble and would bring power and might to Storm's End though an alliance. He'd be a fool not to marry her.
"We do have much to discuss, " he acknowledged. Gendry bowed to the lady at his right and reached for the wine glass on the polished table in front of him. He drank deeply, finishing his glass off in one swift go. He snapped his fingers at his cup-bearer, a slip of a thing who hurried forward.
He decided to see what drunkenness could do to improve the situation. As he swallowed more wine, he realized he didn't know if he was drinking to celebrate the impending marriage, or to mourn the fierce slip of a girl he could never have.