Chapter Three, Bound. Set about a year after chapter two. Sorry about the late update.
Chapter Three
Bound
They weren't married, but they were bound for life with one another. He was hers, and she was his, from the moment they'd moment. And that's how it would always be. And it didn't matter to her that he was a bastard, that he was lowborn, that he couldn't read, because she loved him. And she knew that now.
They lay together for the first time on the hard ground, under the protective blanket of the trees. They were a few yards from the rest of the Brotherhood, sleeping soundly, oblivious to them in their moment of passion.
Gendry took her gently her first time. It was slow, and he kissed away her pain as he broke through her maidenhead and tried to keep himself still as she adjusted. She didn't cry, she didn't make any sounds of pain, but it showed on her face, in the way she grimaced and the way her lips curled in discomfort.
The second time, he had drunk too much wine, and he had snuck into her room at the inn they had been spending the night in. Arya was shocked by his outward declarations of love for her, too dramatic and too poetic, and she'd teased him about it every moment she could.
By the fifth time, the Brotherhood already knew they were lovers and had not said anything yet. It took Anguy to stumble upon them during the seventh time, covered by a threadbare cloak behind a thick bush, as he came by to take a piss, to get it out in the open.
It didn't matter to Arya that they weren't married, and probably never would be. And it didn't matter to her if they had any kids (though she was fifteen by the time they'd made love together for the seventeenth time and had already bled a year past) because they'd be theirs.
Hers and her stupid, stubborn bull's.