Chapter 7
Wedded
Before I start – sorry for the delay (again). Real life got in the way again.
This chapter was supposed to be called "Wedded & bedded", but unfortunately that turned out to be too much to squeeze into one chapter. The good news is that most of the "bedded" part is written, so it should be posted on Friday.
Thanks for your patience and for still being here.
"Valar Morghulis," Arya murmured under her breath as she stalked back towards the heart tree and her people. But that, oh-so-familiar oath, offered no comfort today. The problem was - she couldn't kill him. Gendry wasn't just another man due to receive the Gift and hadn't she turned her back on the god of death?
She wasn't 'No one' anymore. She was Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell and, whether she liked it or not, Gendry was her Lord.
But that wasn't the whole truth. If she'd been forced to wed the Bolton bastard or bloody Tyrion Lannister, she could easily have killed them without a second thought, but Gendry was different. He was . . . well, Gendry. True, she hadn't thought on him in years, but now, when she did, it wasn't the horrors and despair of their time together she remembered; it was Tom O'Sevens and his bawdy songs, Anguy and his freckles, old Lem, Hot Pie and Beric and her wanting Gendry to be part of her pack. All these years later and she was still without a pack, still the lone wolf and that was just the way she liked it.
Yet it was strange how time and distance seemed to soften the jagged edges of memory and pain. If she hadn't been so determined to be angry, Arya might have let the smile that was tugging at the corners of her mouth come.
She wasn't that frightened little girl anymore and Gendry wasn't that stupid, bull headed, bastard boy. He was still bull headed, but he certainly wasn't stupid. He'd been far too clever so far; scheming, arrogant, conniving, lying and it was no wonder she hated him, given the way he'd tricked her. He was no boy either. He was big and strong and some foolish women no doubt thought him handsome. She wondered if King Robert had really looked like Gendry when he was young and if her father would have approved of their match.
With a start, Arya realised she had actually considered this marriage was thinking of Gendry quite fondly, so she gave herself a mental shake. Gendry was a lying, arrogant rat bastard and he was using her to get what he wanted. But the seven hells would freeze over before he would get everything he wanted.
"Lady Arya," old woman Cassel called out as Arya approached the Heart Tree.
Her son Jory had been Captain of the Winterfell Guard in Arya's father's time. Now the shrunken old grandmother was the self appointed spokesperson for Winterfell's smallfolk. She had been against sending all the men to the Wall and, although she would never dare criticise Arya directly, the old lady's tone held the ever present 'I told you so'.
"We know nothing about that man, except that he speaks like a Southerner," old woman Cassel said, the disgust in her voice clear for all to hear. Gendry being the Commander of a conquering army was bad enough, but his not being from the North was undoubtedly an even greater sin in the old woman's rheumy eyes.
"How do we know we can trust him? He hasn't even told us what House he's from and yet he's to be Lord of Winterfell?"
Arya looked from one thin, old, careworn face to another and at the hopeful, hungry faces of the children, all waiting for her word. She was a Stark, their Lady and they had put their faith in her. She had barely got them through the winter and she wasn't about to let them down now. Although she would never admit it to him, Winterfell needed Gendry and everything he brought with him. If Winterfell was to grow strong again, this alliance had to succeed and that meant they all had to work together. Looking around the expectant smallfolk, Arya felt the weight of her mother's words as never before - Family. Duty. Honour.
Her family was not limited to House Stark; it wasn't defined by blood. There were ties of loyalty to Winterfell and its people that she could never escape, no matter how far she travelled. Responsibility for her family meant she had to make whatever sacrifice was necessary to secure their future. Duty and honour demanded she hold to her bargain.
So Arya found herself defending the arrangement she hated.
Squaring her shoulders and adopting the voice Izambaro had taught her would carry to the furthest reaches of the stage in the Gate, she declared,
"I have signed a contract with Queen Daenerys and I will honour it. My Lord is Robert Baratheon's son. He took the Twins for the Iron Throne and brought me Walder Frey's head as my wedding gift. I accept him as my Lord . . . and so shall you."
Gasps of awe and surprise filled the glade as necks craned to look over her shoulder at the man King Robert sired. Arya thought Izambaro would have been pleased with her performance. Perhaps Tyrion wasn't the only one who should have been a mummer.
Old woman Cassel nodded sagely, apparently satisfied with Arya's theatrical announcement and a hundred pairs of eyes drifted from Arya to a point over her shoulder. Without having to look, Arya had already known Gendry was behind her. She felt his heat and breathed in the scent of him; metal and horse and something indefinably potent and very male.
He laid two heavy hands upon her shoulders and bent down to murmur against her ear, "I am delighted to hear you accept me as your Lord."
Although his breath was hot, it made her shiver.
"Does this mean you've decided to accept me into your bed tonight?"
"Never," she hissed through gritted teeth, while still maintaining her smile for old woman Cassel and the rest. Gods, but he was the most irritating man. He'd already got what he wanted; a name and a castle. Did he intend to repeat this same, repulsive request at every opportunity? Perhaps she could kill him after all.
Lifting his head, Gendry spoke loudly for the benefit of those watching, "Your cloak My Lady." His deft hands began to unfasten her fur cloak.
Arya forced herself to say nothing and keep her eyes fixed straight ahead. Warm, sure fingers brushed against the cool, bare skin of her throat, raising goosebumps with every stroke. She hated anyone touching her, yet found herself imagining his hands drifting lower to caress her breasts, her teats tingling as he rubbed hard thumbs over them. With a great deal of effort, she banished that unwanted and disturbing image from her mind.
Having him near affected her in ways she couldn't control. It was as unsettling as it was annoying. Discipline over her mind and body had become a way of life in the House of Black and White, yet standing next to him made her react in ways she despised and it seemed she was powerless to stop it.
Once the ties on her cloak were undone, he took it from her shoulders, bundled it up and threw it to a waiting knight. All his knights seemed to have gathered in the Godswood now, ready to bear witness to their Commander's union with Winterfell's Lady.
Bending the knee, the nearest knight offered up two cloaks of the purest white fur. Gendry took one solemnly, carefully shaking it out and holding it up to display the grey Direwolf – Arya's sigil and soon to be his. Above them the leaves began to move again, as if stirred into life by the billowing white cloak.
"Wedding Gifts from Lady Sansa Stark, to her sister and her good-brother." Gendry announced. "My good-sister is now the Lady of Highgarden and has renounced all claims to Winterfell." Gendry cleverly reinforced the fact that their marriage was sanctioned by Lady Sansa and that the elder Stark sister was no threat to his position as Lord of Winterfell. His speech brought more gasps of surprise from the audience and left Arya wondering how she could ever have thought him stupid.
.
Gendry gently draped the snow white cloak across Arya's shoulders as the Heart Tree's soft whisper of "Stark, Stark, Stark," filled the air. The fur was soft as the first brush of snowflakes against her skin. Warm, sure hands fastened the silver clip around her neck. She gave another involuntary shiver that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with his fingers lightly caressing her skin.
Arya was determined to keep her eyes fixed straight ahead. She had to endure this ceremony, but she intended for it to be as formal and as impersonal as possible. But then he dropped to one knee before her. Taken by surprise, she stared down into his deep, blue eyes. His face was raised towards her, his expression sincere and yet determined and it tugged at something deep inside her, something she intended to keep buried.
This time when he spoke, his words were not merely a show for those around them; they were soft and they were for her alone. "I pledge my life and my honour, everything that I am and everything I have to you, for so long as I may live."
Arya was dumbfounded. This was a forced marriage, an arrangement that merely suited them both. Why had he made such a personal oath? She had never asked it of him; had never expected it and was unsure how to respond. Her first thought - to scoff and tell him to get up, seemed wildly inappropriate in the circumstances.
The customary acknowledgment for any oath taken on bended knee was to lay a hand upon the head of the kneeler. Unable to think of any other response, Arya tentatively reached out, intending to briefly touch his black hair, but he caught her outstretched hand in his. Pressing her fingers against his cheek, he kissed her palm.
His lips were surprisingly soft in contrast to the coarse scrape of his beard. Shocked by such unexpected tenderness, Arya jerked her hand away as if he'd scalded her. She smoothed her palm down the fur of her cloak, in a vain attempt to wipe away the memory of his mouth against her skin. Then she realised what she had done. It was only a kiss. It might even have been a kiss of allegiance or respect, yet she had reacted like a terrified maid who had never been kissed before, when she most certainly had. Many, many times before.
Mortified, Arya opened her mouth, intent on explaining, perhaps apologizing, only to close it again when the corners of his mouth tugged up into a sly smile. Blue eyes sparkled with amusement. Damn him. The rat bastard was laughing at her again. He'd done it deliberately and she'd responded exactly as he hoped she would; becoming flustered and with an embarrassing hot flush on her cheeks. This was all just a game to him; a game to get her to spread her legs. But she knew how to play that game only too well; she'd be taught to use every weapon and, to her, sex was just another weapon. So he found it amusing to tease her. She wondered if he'd find it quite so funny when he was on the receiving end.
Taking the second cloak from the knight, Arya leaned over Gendry, her cloak and her loose hair falling about them, shielded both their faces from their audience. He was still on bended knee. Everyone would think she only intended to fasten the cloak around his neck. But she had other ideas. She bent down lower than was necessary, until the tops of her breasts, pushed up and displayed by her dress, were level with his face. Hidden by the curtain of her hair, his eyes flicked from her face to her breasts and stayed there. She leaned towards him, feeling his warm breath on her exposed skin as she brought the cloak around his shoulders. They were so close; he could almost have licked the tops of her breasts. His eyes were hooded, his breathing had changed, coming fast and ragged. Had they not been surrounded by hundreds of witnesses, Arya had no doubt he would have tried to pull her to him and press his mouth against her skin. All men were the same.
As she brought the ends of the silver clip together, she whispered in his ear, "I'll never beg you," smiling to herself as she imagined his frustration. He was the one who wanted to play games and it served him right if his balls turned blue.
Unable to resist one final taunt, she swept her tongue around the sensitive shell of his ear. She felt him shudder as she finally fastened the clip, before she raised her head to stare impassively at his knights.
Only Gendry's fist braced in the moss had kept him steady as Arya practically rubbed her breasts against his face. When he'd felt the pointed tip of her tongue in his ear, he'd have sold his soul to the Stranger to have her in a featherbed. But they were in the Godswood, in the middle of a wedding ceremony and he'd been unable to even touch her. But it had still taken all of his self control not to.
With a wry snort, he realised that having an audience wouldn't have stopped his father; it would probably have spurred the old fucker on. But Gendry had spent his whole adult life trying to be a better man than his father, so he kept his hands to himself.
There was no doubt he deserved what she'd given him. He shouldn't have laughed at her reaction to his oath, but Gods she was so easy to tease. The blush that had swept from the tops of her small, perfect breasts to her cheeks had pleased him no end. He enjoyed seeing her as distracted as he felt.
It took him a long moment to gather himself together enough to stand up, by which time Arya was smiling and accepting the cheers and congratulations of his knights and her people. If she thought to teach him a lesson by tormenting him like that, she underestimated him. He couldn't have dragged himself so far from Flea Bottom without a will of iron. Arya didn't realise she was playing games with the king of determination.
Gendry stood by her side as they accepted the cheers from their audience, but he was finding it quite hard to keep his mind on the here and now. It kept drifting back to the delicious smell of her and the feel of her hair cascading around him like a curtain of silk. He wondered if she realised all she had to do was snap her fingers and he'd come running. Some will of iron.
Once the noise had died down, he held out his arm for her. She only hesitated for a moment before she smiled quite graciously and accepted it.
As they walked away from the heart tree, she said softly, "I feel guilty My Lord."
He nearly choked on his surprise. Was he about to receive an apology? From Arya?
"You do?"
"Yes," she murmured, looking up at him through thick lashes. "I feel I put you in a terrible position. You felt obliged to swear an oath to me."
He'd made that oath up on the spur of the moment, but it had come from his heart. He certainly hadn't felt 'obliged' to do it. Was she up to something? He racked his brains, but came up with nothing. Perhaps she felt guilty for being a less than willing wife. But he doubted it.
"I wanted to do it and I meant every word," he said warily.
She shook her head, "No, I cannot accept it. It's my fault for giving you my oath first. You simply felt obliged to give me yours in return, but don't worry I won't hold you to yours."
What did she mean she didn't intend to hold him to his oath? Was she trying to wriggle out of this marriage already?
"I've never broken an oath Arya and I never will," he said firmly.
"Do feel so strongly about all oaths, that once made they cannot be broken except by death?" she asked, her face pale and serious.
"I do," he confirmed.
"So do I," she said, nodding her head vigorously. "At least we agree on that."
"Yes," he said, relaxing somewhat, feeling as if he had passed some kind of test.
"So you won't be angry when I stand by my oath – to die before I give you my virginity?" she asked with a smirk.
Damn her. She'd set a trap for him and he'd walked right into it. She didn't look so pale and worried now. She looked like the cat that got the cream. But she'd learn he had a few tricks of his own.
"Licking a man is not the way to keep your virginity safe My Lady."
"Did I lick you?" she gasped in mock horror, "I certainly wasn't aware of it. Do you have a fever My Lord? Perhaps you are imagining things?" She suggested sweetly.
The little liar. He should have been outraged that she told him such a bare-faced, blatant lie, but to his surprise, he laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he had enjoyed himself so much. Bedding her was going to be all the sweeter because she was making him chase her. He had a fever all right and Arya Stark was the cause.
Arya was quite pleased by the way things were going. She could play this game for years. After all, no one was more practiced at being someone else than she was – she'd been pretending her whole life. She would play the willingly wedded wife in public and in private he could kiss her arse. Not literally of course. Gods, his mouth anywhere near there was the last thing she wanted, but it didn't mean she couldn't have fun and she was.
"So what now My Lord?" she asked, "Perhaps you should see a Maester for your fever? Alas we don't have one here. I suggest you ride back to King's Landing with all possible haste."
"I'm hoping to cool my fever tonight. A release of pent up energy should help. Don't you agree?"
She huffed while he grinned. "Meanwhile, I think we should take a tour of the battlements."
A slight frown creased Arya's brow. Although it disappeared quickly, Gendry wondered what it was about the battlements that displeased her so. He supposed he would find out soon enough.
The walked together in silence for some time as his knights fell into line behind them. Gendry savoured the scent of her drifting to his nose, seeping into his bones; enchanting, evocative, erotic. It was impossible not to let his mind wander to the bedding. Tonight . . . he hoped. He was beginning to regret making that bargain with her. Even an iron will could snap if subjected to enough strain.
To his surprise, Arya leaned in to him. He enjoyed having her close for a moment, before he realised it was just another ploy. She whispered conspiratorially, "I think we are doing a good job of convincing everyone that we are happily wed, are we not?"
It was Gendry's turn to frown. He was certainly happily wed, but her statement implied she was not. While he didn't expect her to be ecstatic about the way they had come to be wed, surely she could see it was for the best? At least her people would be fed and protected from now on. He decided he would play along with her. For now.
"Yes, I suppose we are, when in reality we are . . . what?" he asked, suspecting he wasn't going to like her reply.
"Forced into an arrangement neither of us would have chosen – had we a choice," she said airily, "Still, I am beginning to see the benefits for both sides."
"Oh?" he asked, trying to keep the conversation light. Had he the choice of every woman in Westeros, he would still have chosen her. Hearing her say aloud that she would not have chosen him, felt like a stab to his heart.
Arya sneaked a sidelong glance at him, hoping she was irritating him. Gendry ran a hand through his hair, which she took to be a sign of success. She'd never got to touch his hair when he knelt in the Godswood. She wondered what it felt like. It looked thick and soft, like the fur on a wolf cub. She gave herself a mental shake. What was wrong with her? Why was she comparing him to a wolf? He was a snake in the grass.
"The benefits for you are obvious - you get my name, a Lordship and Winterfell and I get . . . "
"A good man in your bed?" he interrupted.
She scowled. "I was going to say - food, supplies and an army."
He snorted, "Technically it's Daenerys' army."
"But I thought you said they would follow you through the seven hells?"
"They would," he said confidently and if sounded rather smug, then surely it was justified. He knew for a fact neither Jaime nor Aegon could depend on such unwavering loyalty from their men.
Arya looked up at him with her most innocent, guileless expression, and whispered, "Even if you wanted to claim your birthright?"
"Bastards have no rights," he said with all the patience he could muster. Was she deliberately trying to provoke him? Maybe she enjoyed poking vipers with sticks too.
"I'll rephrase that. Even if you wanted to claim your father's throne?"
"Don't," he growled sharply, hoping to the seven hells none of his men had heard that. Mercifully they were keeping a respectful distance back to allow him to talk to Arya in private. "Don't ever suggest that again. My loyalties lie with the Queen and House Targaryen."
"And not your new House, the North or even your Lady wife?" she gasped, slapping her hand to her chest and feigning distress.
He inhaled deeply; he'd fallen into her trap. Again. Was every conversation with her going to be a battle of wits and wills?
"And to House Stark and to the North and to you," he agreed with a sigh.
"I hope you are not spreading your loyalties too thin My Lord."
Mercifully they had reached the foot of the stairs that led to the top of Winterfell's massive, protective wall and he had a respite from the constant verbal sparring. He'd much rather she was coming at him with a sword than all with all these barbed comments with double meanings. He was a man of action, not words and all this talk was beginning to make his head hurt.
"After you My Lady," he said with a gallant sweep of his hand.
And have his climb up after her with his face inches away from her arse? Arya thought not.
"Surely it is a wife's duty to follow where her Lord leads," Arya countered with a little curtsey that belied the sarcasm in her voice.
His men were now arrayed close behind and his patience had worn through. He hoped his men didn't suspect the trouble he was having trying to get his wife to walk up a flight of stairs.
Turning his back to his men, he hissed, "Get up the fucking stair Arya or, Gods help me, I'll throw you over my shoulder."
"You could try," she challenged, still smiling sweetly.
Behind him, someone stifled a snigger.
"Don't make me do it Arya. You'll only end up with your arse up in the air and your skirts down around your head."
Arya growled through her teeth. Gendry had no way of knowing she wore no small clothes under the stupid dress, but she wasn't going to take the chance that he would find out, much less his men. Gods, but he was the most stubborn man she had ever met.
Tossing her hair back over her shoulder, she wondered why she'd even bothered to engage in a conversation with him in the first place. From now on, she would simply ignore him she decided, starting up the stone steps.
As she had predicted, she felt his eyes on her arse. Well, better his eyes than any other part of him. Perhaps it would have been more fun to tell him she wasn't wearing small clothes just to see the shock on his face, she thought with a wicked smirk.
To her surprise, more men were waiting on the battlements; lots more men, armed with longbows and quivers full of arrows. They all bowed respectfully to her, except the eldest, a grey haired man who had a hard air of experienced authority about him.
Gendry greeted him, by name – Peake. Arya thought it a name from the Reach, but she couldn't be sure. He carried himself like a Lord, but the golden rings on his arm suggested otherwise.
"I need to speak to you about the defences," the grey haired man said. He greeted Gendry as an equal while ignoring her. Arya took an instant dislike to him.
"Alright, let's hear it."
Peake gave Arya a wary glance. She gave him an icy one back.
"Anything you need to say to me about our defences, you can also say to My Lady."
Peake pursed his lips and looked as if he was about to object, but Gendry snapped, "Out with it," leaving the man no option but to continue, although he avoided looking at Arya as he spoke.
"Very well. The walls are down to a single layer of stone in several places and could easily be breached. A hard shove with a strong horse would do it."
Gendry nodded, his brows drawn together. "I presume you've already started the necessary repairs?"
"Of course," Peake replied with a tight, smug grin.
Arya felt her face flame with embarrassment and shame. Maintaining the walls was a perpetual problem and, while she had done everything she could to maintain the illusion of impregnability, the severe frosts had taken a heavy toll on the stones. The old man was correct; the walls might look solid, but in too many places they were woefully inadequate. Arya knew it. But she did not like hearing it, especially from a man like Peake.
"Another problem is the length of wall we have to guard. Are we doing the usual –stationing each guard in clear sight of the next?"
"Of course," Gendry confirmed.
"Then I reckon we're going to need at least 200 men per shift."
The new Lord of Winterfell gave a long, low whistle as he calculated the number of men he was going to need. Three shifts per day, plus training and rest meant he'd need to assign a pool of 1,000 men to guard the walls alone and that didn't include the stonemasons and labourers required to carry out the urgent repairs. Gendry had known Winterfell was huge but he hadn't realised the enormity of his task.
As Gendry hesitated, Peake began, "If you think that too many . . ."
"No. We'll do it the way we always do."
Finally turning his attention and his hard, black eyes to Arya, Peake said, "Aye, we'll do it right."
No one could miss what Peake implied – that Arya had done it wrong. The worst of it was, Arya had no doubt her father would have agreed.
"Winterfell survived the winter unscathed. Let us hope we fare as well," Gendry snapped at Peake. He bowed his head respectfully, but for Arya, the damage had already been done and everyone had heard it.
"It seems you have matters well in hand and that I am not needed here," Arya said, turning on her heel, wishing she had some clever, biting retort to throw back at the cold, grey man, but she had none. How could she, when her failings as a leader were so obvious? As calmly as she could, she headed towards for the stairs they had climbed only moments ago. As soon as she was sure she was out of sight, she ran, with her new white cloak, billowing out behind her.
She heard Gendry bark out something angry and indistinguishable, but she didn't care what he said. She only knew had to get away from here.
Unfortunately, more men stood at the foot of the stair. Years of training had made her footsteps effortlessly light and silent. They never heard her approach, but she heard them.
"What the fuck are we doing, making concessions to these Northerners? Have you seen the state of their walls? We could have been over them in half a day."
"Over them?" another scoffed, "More like through them! They've got no men and no weapons. We should just take what we want. Instead we're giving them all our food?! Bugger this shit," he swore and spat on the ground.
Arya stopped dead on the stair, just as Gendry called out her name from above.
Hearing his voice, the men looked up to see Arya standing above them and their Commander, already looking none too pleased, at the top of the stair. They wisely scattered, leaving Arya free to finish her hasty descent.
She should have been able to outrun him easily, but she was hampered by her stupid dress. Even hoisting it up to her knees didn't help, as her stupid shoes were made to look pretty, not for outrunning angry knights. She wasn't surprised when he caught up with her half way across the yard, grabbing her arm and spinning her around.
"Don't you trust me to do what's best here? What's best for Winterfell? For . . . us?"
He was going to say "for you", but Winterfell was his now too and he wanted her to remember it.
Steeling himself for another fight, he was surprised when she said quietly, "It seems you are quite capable of rectifying all Winterfell's problems." For the first time, she wouldn't look him in the eye.
"Peake is Daenerys' man. I don't like him, but he's good at what he does. He won't disrespect you again."
No sour, insolent retort? No angry glares? No taunting him? Loosening his iron grip on her elbow, he led her off towards an alcove in the walls, where they would be out of sight of the men above. When she didn't even try to shake off his hand he knew something was very wrong.
Standing in the shadows, he tried to explain, "We need to defend our position. It's every commander's first priority. That's all I'm doing Arya."
Still, she said nothing and seemed to be fascinated by a patch of lichen over his shoulder. Taking her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger he turned her head. She half heartedly tried to turn it back the other way, but he was stronger, more determined and above all, concerned. He tilted her head up so she had to look at him. To his surprise, her eyes were shimmering. He'd never wanted her more than he did in that moment. When she was taunting him, when she was raging at him, he could just about resist the temptation, but seeing her eyes so full of pain and fury, need and defiance, undid him.
He had already begun to lower his head with the intention of gently brushing his lips against hers, when she blurted out, "It's not fair!" and the moment was ruined.
He blew out a long, frustrated sigh. Surely she had learned by now that life wasn't fair? Pointing that out to her now was unlikely to help matters. He realised she was shaking and he wasn't sure if it was with rage or something else. Something worse.
She closed her eyes, as if she couldn't bear to look at him. "You just turn up out of the blue and you've got all these men and horses and you just fix things. You make it seem so easy and it isn't."
Gendry stared down at her for a long, thoughtful moment and that damn ache in his chest began again. Shadows of exhaustion lurked below her eyes and she looked pale and vulnerable.
She'd struggled all winter to keep her people alive with no help, no allies, nothing except her own strength of will. He'd been careful to make sure to defer to her in front of her own people, but he'd slipped into issuing orders and behaving as he always did to his own men. He hadn't given a thought to how his coming here and issuing commands in her home would affect her. Gods he was a fool. But he didn't need her going to pieces now. He'd planned this feast tonight as a show of unity. He needed her people to see that she had wed him of her own free will, seven hells, he needed his men to see it too, as Peake would undoubtedly be reporting back to Daenerys. He needed Arya by his side tonight. If she wasn't there, refused to go, ran away or some other damn thing, then his men would think he hadn't got the grip on Winterfell he should have and her people would blame him for any slight to their Lady.
This wasn't just about him and what he needed. Arya was on the edge, he could see it, and if she went to pieces tonight, the damage might be irreparable. But she was tough and strong and brave. She always had been. She'd endured everything the war and the winter had thrown at her and she'd coped with it all because she was angry.
He'd never seen her cry, but he could tell she was close now. If he let her succumb to those tears, Gods only knew when she would stop or what she would do. There would be a time for that, but it wasn't now and it certainly wasn't tonight. He didn't need unpredictable, emotional Arya, he needed her hating him – he could deal with that. The best way to keep Arya going, to keep her where she needed to be, was to keep her angry with him. Arya was tough. She'd keep on hating him and she'd get through tonight. He knew what he had to do.
"You're tired, you're hungry and I know you're impatient for the bedding tonight," he said, giving her his best wolfish grin.
She scowled and, quick as a snake, jabbed one finger at his neck, one of the few places exposed by his armour. He hadn't expected that and Gods, it hurt much more than a poke from a woman's finger should. It sent pain shooting through his bones and down his arm. But it was also perfect. Keep her furious with him and they'd be fine.
Gendry hid the searing pain with a tight smile and quickly flattened his palm against the wall beside her head, leaning into her and at the same time stretching out his throbbing arm.
"If you're so eager to touch me, we don't have to wait . . ."
He tilted his head, and deliberately moved in for an open mouthed kiss, knowing she'd hate that. She would take the opportunity to escape; either that or she would stick him with a blade. He hoped it wouldn't be the blade.
She ducked under his arm as he hoped she would. When she was safely out of his reach, she sneered, "Have the seven hells frozen over yet? No. So don't touch me."
Success! Angry Arya was back and all would be well. Lazily rolling around so the back of his head was against the wall, he cast her a sly, sideways look.
"Oh, you haven't begged me yet, but you will. I see you watching me when you think I'm not looking. You want me, but you're scared."
"I am not!" She spat, "Why should I be scared of you?!"
"Because you're wet for me now."
"You're disgusting!"
He shrugged and smiled, "Yet you don't deny it."
Her face turned scarlet and it took all of that iron will of his not to pump the air with his fist in triumph. Instead he sighed, "Why don't you go to the kitchens Arya? Get something to eat – it might sweeten your mood and your breath."
She was so red and angry he thought she might explode and he didn't know whether he should feel delighted he had more proof she wanted him, or like shit for manipulating her like this.
Cursing him loudly, Arya turned on her heel and stomped off. She had no intention of going to the kitchens or doing anything else he told her to do, she just wanted away from his odious presence.
As soon as she was around the corner and out of his sight, she cupped her hand to her mouth and exhaled as hard as she could. Her breath didn't stink, did it? Oh, he was the most hateful, arrogant, man she had ever met. And why did he have to be so right? She did watch him when he wasn't looking because he fascinated her; the way he moved, they way he'd changed and grown into a man. He could be a king and he would be a magnificent one.
He'd been going to kiss her that first time, she was sure of it and she wanted to feel his lips on hers. But she'd panicked and blurted it 'It's not fair!' She groaned with embarrassment. Hopefully she'd covered her mistake well and made him think she was talking about his having the resources to repair the walls, but that's not what she meant at all. She meant it wasn't fair that, after all his lies and tricks, despite knowing he was using her, he could still want him. She was just a means to an end for him. He'd got her name, he'd got Winterfell, but he wasn't going to get her. She'd be better off hating him and then she wouldn't get hurt. She thought she'd wanted Jaqen and look where that had got her.
As she strode through the courtyard, men everywhere stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads in deference. They'd never seen her before, but her virginal white cloak marked her out as Winterfell's Lady.
She met their greetings of "My Lady," with either indifference, or a scowl. She didn't want to be their lady and she particularly didn't want to be his Lady. She just wanted to be plain old Arya Stark and for them to bugger off and leave Winterfell to her. But his men were already swarming everywhere. Horse drawn carts and soldiers continued to pour through the South Gate. More men barked orders, marched purposefully around or unloaded wagons, handing their bundles to eager Winterfell women. Children ran back and forth squealing with excitement. Arya hadn't realised how deathly quiet Winterfell had been before until she was confronted with all this noise. Had it been like this when she was young? Was this the way it was supposed to be? That thought did nothing to improve her mood.
She decided she should get something to eat after all, but could hardly squeeze into the kitchens for the various sacks and the barrels of wine that lined the entrance, while men were bringing in yet more. Arya's stomach growled as she passed an open crate of ripe, purple plums. She helped herself, thinking, 'What's yours is mine,' as she bit into the first one. But the burst of sweetness on her tongue took her by surprise. It tasted like summer. She had almost forgotten what summer was, until a taste of sweetness reminded her. She had been a sweet, summer child once, a long, long time ago. War and then winter had made her bitter.
Arya shook her head swiftly to clear her mind of such stupid, sentimental thoughts. What was wrong with her? She never cried. Not even when her father was beheaded. Not a single tear had escaped and yet being confronted by her failings up on the battlements and the taste of a stupid plum was enough to bring a lump to her throat. She blinked and swallowed hard, sliding into the shadows in case anyone should witness her weakness.
Gendry's cook was a large man with sandy hair. He stood in the middle of the kitchen bellowing orders and cursing everyone colourfully; they were all too slow, or else they were too quick to drop their sack in the wrong place. The cuts of meat were too big and the vegetables were being chopped too small. Arya hoped his cooking was as enthusiastic and inspired as his swearing.
A dozen Winterfell women were stationed at each of the long kitchen tables enthusiastically kneading dough, while casting surreptitious glances at the men bringing in the supplies. The soldiers seemed just as interested in the women. As Arya watched, one young lad walked straight into the back of another because he was too busy making eyes at a giggling maid to look where he was going.
The rest of the women and the soldiers erupted in gales of laughter as the lad's heavy sack landed on his foot and he hopped around, cursing while potatoes rolled in all directions.
Cook scooped up a rolling potato and launched it at the lad's head.
"Keep your eyes on the job if you want to eat tonight," Cook threatened the soldiers. "And girls, keep your hands on that dough. These fine southern men need fed. Keep their strength up and they'll give you a better seeing to tonight."
Cook's advice was met by raucous laughter from the women. It seemed they had worked up quite an appetite over the long, lonely winter and it wasn't only for food.
"Mark my words girls! The way to a man's heart is through his stomach."
Arya thought going through a man's ribs to get to his heart with a long, pointed blade was less considerably less messy than going through his stomach. Plus it didn't stink so badly. But only she would be thinking about death while everyone else was thinking about food or sex. It looked as if there was going to be a lot of sex tonight, Arya thought dismally.
Throwing Winterfell's women together with Gendry's men, adding food and wine into the mix made the sedate, formal feast she had imagined look like a naive fantasy. Even when the guests hadn't been sex starved all winter, a bedding always encouraged bawdy behaviour.
This time Arya couldn't stifle her groan of dismay. The bedding. She had almost forgotten.
Cook must have had hearing like a bat, as he swivelled around and shouted, "You lurking back there, show yourself, you work-shy little . . ."
Fortunately he didn't finish his insult; his mouth dropping open the moment Arya emerged from the shadows. As did hers.
After all these years, it couldn't be . . . could it?
"Hot Pie!" "Arry!" they yelled together.
"I mean, Lady Arya of course," Hot Pie corrected himself in a fluster as he bowed as low as his big belly would allow.
"What are you doing here?" Arya gasped, surprising herself with how excited she was to see him again.
When Hot Pie straightened up, his piggy eyes had lit up with excitement. He took two steps towards her as if he was about to embrace her and then stopped suddenly, as if remembering the chasm between their positions.
"Forgive me, for not greeting you properly My Lady," he muttered wringing his podgy hands together, "But I was right excited to see you."
"And I'm excited to see you too," Arya smiled, feeling as awkward as Hot Pie looked. She wanted to be 'Arry' and to greet him with a hug, as she once would have. But Arry was long gone, buried under layers of other names and faces.
"He sent a dozen knights to fetch me," Hot Pie explained, grinning. "Imagine that. You should have seen old Sharna's face when they rode up to the Inn flying their Targaryen banners and asking for me by name."
"You were still at the Inn of the Kneeling Man?" Arya asked incredulously. She had gone so far and done so much and yet Hot Pie had stayed right where they'd left them. It was somehow reassuring to know not everything and everyone had changed.
"Aye," he said proudly, puffing out his barrel chest, "Still making the best bread in all of Westeros. People came from far and wide to taste Hot Pie's food they did, but I'm only cooking for you now," he said proudly. "You and Gendry of course," he added quickly, "And the rest of this lot," he nodded behind him at the dumbstruck men and women.
"Back to work!" he barked when he noticed they'd all stopped working to listen.
"Don't you worry Arry . . . erm, Lady Arya. Hot Pie will have them licked into shape in no time. I had three boys working for me at the Inn and even old Sharna did what I told her," he added with wink, "I can handle this lot."
"I'm sure you can," Arya laughed, certain that nothing and no one could come between Hot Pie and his cooking, "And I can't wait until tonight to taste your bread again."
Her stomach rumbled right on cue.
"Your belly knows when a good thing is coming. Don't you worry My Lady, Hot Pie will see your belly all right. I'll have you and the rest of them scrawny ladies fattened up in no time. You mark my words!"
When he laughed, she could not help but join in. It felt good to have Hot Pie in Winterfell and be surrounded by food and laughter.
"You'll all be needing to loosen your corsets now Hot Pie's here," he said, waggling a fat finger at the women. Then he looked at Arya in surprise as if just noticing she was wearing a dress, "You look like a proper Lady now. Right pretty. No wonder he was in such a hurry to get here."
Hot Pie's big faced flushed scarlet as if he'd just said something he shouldn't.
Being reminded of why Gendry was here brought Arya's happy thoughts crashing back to reality.
"The Dragon Queen ordered him to come here and take Winterfell," she said firmly. She didn't want Hot Pie thinking there was anything more to it than that, because there wasn't.
"But some of the men say the Queen knew he wanted yo . . . err, to come here and that's why she sent him. They say the Queen is kind and good and she gave Gendry what he wanted because he's the best Commander she ever had. Aren't you pleased we're all together again? Gendry's right happy about it."
"I'm sure he is," Arya said through gritted teeth. She could tell Hot Pie that Gendry only wanted a Lordship and that he had had lied to her in order to get it, but she wouldn't, because Hot Pie hadn't changed at all. The innocent, hopeful expression on his face was just the same as it had always been. All Hot Pie ever wanted was to cook and as long as he had that, he would be happy. She'd called him stupid and craven and broken his nose before and what had it changed? Nothing. Telling him the truth about Gendry wouldn't change anything either.
"I'm sorry I broke your nose," she said, not knowing what else to say.
He shrugged. "I didn't mind. I can still tell when something's burning."
She smiled too. She was glad he was here.
"I'd better let you get on."
"I'll cook you a feast to remember," Hot Pie shouted after her as she left him in his kitchen. Arya had no doubt she would never forget the feast, but it probably wasn't going to be because of Hot Pie's cooking.
The courtyard was even busier now than it had been when she made her way to the kitchens. Her white cloak stood out in stark contrast to the Targaryen black and red and the bowing started again. She wanted to get rid of this cloak and get out of the stupid dress.
At least there were fewer of Gendry's men inside the Keep and none on the upper floors. She felt a moment's horror when she realised the door to her room was ajar. No one from Winterfell would dare defile her private place. She angrily shoved the door open, expecting to find some thieving men, but the room was empty except for her narrow bed and bare mattress. No one would dare – except Meera. She had forgotten all about Meera's demands that she move rooms. Meera obviously hadn't forgotten; she had been as efficient as ever.
If Meera thought Arya was going to share a room, never mind a bed with that arrogant man then she was very, very wrong. Arya would have to see about getting all her things moved back in – not that she had much, but she wanted it here.
She sat dejectedly on the bare mattress in the empty room and rested her chin in her hands. She was so tired of all this fighting and struggling. Was there no end to it? She wanted to be Arya Stark again, not a wife, not a lady, not an assassin, not any one of the dozens of aliases she'd lived under. She wanted to be the carefree girl again she was before the war, with nothing to do except what she wanted. It didn't seem much to ask after she'd spent a whole winter putting other people first, but no one seemed to care what she wanted.
With a weary sigh, she realised she wasn't only tired of fighting, she was just plain tired. She hadn't slept at all last night and not much the night before that. The thought of trailing to her parent's rooms to find her britches wasn't appealing and there was also the possibility that she might bump into Gendry on the way and she didn't feel ready to face him yet. She'd let him see her weakness on the battlements and she didn't intend to let that happen again. She'd feel better, stronger, when she was rested. Even wolf blood needed to sleep sometimes.
Lying down on the bare mattress, she wrapped the soft fur around her and fell instantly asleep.
-o-
I can't thank Brazilian Guy enough for his endless patience over what has been an extremely long, slow chapter. You Ser are the angel on my shoulder.
His being an angel just reminded me of our initial discussions about this story. Music is a big thing with us (as I may have mentioned before) and this time we kinda each had a theme song for the way we saw the story going. If I tell you his was "Halo" by Beyonce for Arya and mine was "Undisclosed desires" by Muse for Gendry, you may see where my inspiration for some of this story came from. Our choices probably say quite a bit about us both too – he's much nicer than I am!
So, onwards and upwards. Until next time . . .