From this year's Gendrya Week.

I've always been interested in how Gendry interacts with different characters, and his use of eye contact. Sansa is suspicious of this stranger who's so attached to her sister, and tries to get to the bottom of things.

To say that Sansa had learnt to be wary of men was a cruel and cold understatement. She had learnt some of the hardest lessons of her life at their hands. Her father had taught her that no man could protect her. Joffrey had taught her that men would always find new ways to be cruel. Petyr taught her that to men, women were little more than currency.

Strange then, how after her own cruelties towards him when they were children, her bastard brother was the only man she trusted. Well, perhaps his kindly, true-faced advisor would someday join that list. Sansa like the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

Some when she was faced with a new man – a strange man – who was close to her family, Sansa felt her hackles rise – that thrumming, protective current she'd so often felt from lady in the short time they'd been allowed together.

Arya had thrown herself at the blacksmith. She'd thrown him around the training yard. She'd thrown him around the Great Hall in a reel at the last banquet. Though her fierce little sister may hum and bluster and divert Sansa whenever she tried to ask her about him, Sansa still knew; this boy was someone to Arya, which meant he had to become someone to her.

And he was a stranger, and Sansa never trusted a stranger. Especially on that did all he could to avoid looking you in the eye.

It had taken her a while to notice it. She'd thought him shy, and reclusive at first, and she supposed that was still true, but whether he was in the company of other craftsmen, messenger boys, cooks, lords or ladies – Gendry did his best to make himself invisible. With his massive frame, he couldn't hide anywhere, and so Sansa had watched him and saw how – even when talking to someone – his eyes would flit around, fix on some distant spot, and take in everything but whomever he was addressing. To Sansa, this spoke of hidden secrets, deceit, and treachery.

The only thing that kept her from expelling him from Winterfell, were the times she would catch him from the corner of her eye, calmly talking with Jon, excitedly showing Davos what he'd been working on that day, or hopelessly gazing at her sister as Arya barked orders at him and tugged him this way and that as she wanted him to accompany her at random points throughout her day.

So, Sansa had summoned him when he knew Arya had ridden off with a hunting party and wouldn't be around to thwart her plans until well into the evening. Brienne had announced him, her smile gentle and mischievous because of course Sansa's lady warrior was already inordinately fond of him. Despite his size, he had stepped carefully into Sansa's private council rooms, eyes fixed firmly on the flagstone floor. Even when she'd bade him sit, poured him some wine, and interrogated about his life in King's Landing, she'd barely gotten a glimpse of the famous blue eyes of House Baratheon.

Sansa switched tactics to get to the heart of this man, to weigh him and judge him and root out what he was to her sister – what he was to her family.

"Ser Gendry," she said. "I have not heard the tale of how you met my sister."

Victory. His eyes glanced up from the floor, settled close to her shoulder and held there whilst he hesitated around his tongue.

"It's not my story to tell, Lady Stark."

She bit the inside of her lip. Her fingers tapped the rim of her goblet. "Arya doesn't seem to think it a tale worth the telling, either. Am I to remain forever in the dark?"

Gendry tapped his knees. "That is between you and m'lady, Lady Stark."

She bit back a sigh. "Well. You can hardly blame me for being curious. You are the closest thing to a friend I have ever seen her have."

The edges of Gendry's lips twitched and Sansa thought she could see the faint dusting of a blush underneath his dark stubble. His eyelashes blinked slowly over eyes fixed on hands clasped in front of him.

"She' not the same girl I grew up with," Sansa said as she watched him. "None of us are the same, of course. But even after everything she's been through, you seem to know my sister better than anyone."

Gendry relaxed his hands, set back in his chair a little and the wood squeaked under him. He eyed the wine bottle. A gracious hostess, Sansa went to refill his cup, but saw that he hadn't even taken a sip.

"The wine is not to your liking, Ser?"

And she watched as his eyes darkened a flicker of something hard and angry briefly igniting as he glowered at the jug of sweet refreshment.

"I don't have much of a stomach for it."

Sansa sat back and considered. That was interesting, wasn't it. Bar her own excellent and misguided father, all men – even cunning Petyr who prized his sharp with above all things – were prone to indulge their thirsts. Whether power or wine or darker things that kept her sleeping with a knife under her pillow, men would always make their play, sooner or later. Yet here Gendry sat, his throat dry and only showing Sansa herself enough attention as her questions demanded, courtesies be damned. So Sansa asked herself, what did he want?

"I asked you here for your advice, Gendry."

He frowned, scratched his cheek with broken nails ad his eyes danced around the room. "I don't – forgive me Lady Stark, but I don't know what you could possibly –"

"On a matter concerning Arya."

His eyes stopped dancing. They fixed on the window where the light streamed in.

"You are one of the few who has seen first-hand what we'll be facing in this war," Sansa pressed. "So you know how important alliances are to us, now. Without able-bodied people, we will never make it through Winter. The best way to secure alliances is through marriage."

Gendry turned his had to face her, eyes still down though his jaw was tenses, his nostrils were flaring, and his hands were clenched tightly in his lap. Sansa pushed him a little further.

"Arya would never consider it herself of course. As her sister, it falls to me to consider it for her."

Sansa flicked her eyes to the folds in her dress just briefly, idly picking at a stray thread she made a mental note to fix later. Yet, when she looked up, Gendry was no longer looking at his lap, or the windows, or the floor, or any possible escape routes. For the first time since Davos had led him through the gates, Gendry Waters – the bastard Baratheon – looked her in the eye.

There was no uncertainty. No apology. His eyes – bright and blue and steadfast – held her where she sat.

"Consider what, Lady Stark?"

"Marriage." Sansa was proud of her even voice. "I would ask your advice on who would most suit my sister in marriage."

Sansa wasn't sure what she had expected when. Stuttering blushes, stony silence, shame or embarrassment. Well. She would have been wrong on all counts if she had.

She'd heard about his temper. Not malicious and arrogant like his Father had been. But the smithies that worked under him grumbled under their breaths about how hard he worked them, the standards he expected of them, and his ire when they didn't meet them. Jon would grimace every time he had to go the forge to relay news he knew would upset his friend. Arya would always laugh and tease the man for being a stubborn bull.

And Sansa could see it now for herself. There was something crackling behind those eyes – a heat that burned up all the hesitancy and shyness she'd sidled into the room with.

Ours is the Fury, indeed.

At length he spoke. "You would do that to her, after everything?"

One of Sansa's sleek brows quirked, surprised. That hadn't been the answer she'd been expecting. But Gendry continued.

"She's fought for you – to get back to you and whatever was left of her family. Ever since King's Landing and –" A hand rubbed violently against his nose and he fell silent.

"My sister will have to marry eventually, Ser."

Gendry threw up his hands, brought a thumb up to his mouth and bit down – as if he were forcing words back down his throat. As he breathed, steadying himself it seemed, she saw something seep into his eyes – something that softened the hardness there.

"Your former Brotherhood," she said, "brought a young lord with them, I believe. He seems quite partial to my sister. Granted he is a little to…eager to please, but I'm sure he could learn quickly –"

"Dayne?" Gendry spluttered. "You want to marry her off to Ned Dayne?!"

"You do not think it a good match?"

And then, it was if Gendry had forgotten he was speaking to the Lady of the House he had sworn to serve. Because before the eyes of Lady Sansa of Winterfell, Gendry sat and sulked.

"No," he muttered. "No, it's a perfect match. Couldn't be better."

Sansa pressed her lips thin to stop from smiling. "He seems kind and genial," she prodded. "He would treat her well and I would not force her into an unhappy union."

"But you're still forcing her into one! Why must you force her at all?" There. Sansa contained her glee at pushing Gendry off that precipice. One tumble and she would have the answers she needed. "She doesn't want to-"

"-to marry?" Sansa cut him off. "That was true when we were children, but she's a woman grown, now. I'm sure her feelings have changed."

"Yes – for the worse. Getting married is the last thing on her mind. All she wants is her family and you can't – you can't force her from her home because it's convenient for you. Gods, she swore you'd changed. She swore you wouldn't do this to her –"

"You know this how?" And if Sansa sounded sharper than she intended, Gendry didn't say anything. "How do you know my sister's feelings?" How do you know my sister?

"Because she tells me!" Gendry was on his feet, staring down at her. "She tells me that finding all of you again has finally given her some peace. She tells me that she's afraid of this war not because of the dead, but because she's terrified that she'll lose someone else. She tells me how proud she is of you for being the Lady the North needs. She just wants to be happy. She just wants –"

"You?"

Her words acted like water, dousing the fire that had ignited within Gendry. His breathe left him in a hard huff, his entire frame deflated, and his eyes fell back to the floor.

Sansa was furious with herself.

"That's not –"

"Gendry, look at me." The command was clear, and Gendry obeyed.

"What do you want from my sister?"

And it seemed Gendry had read as much from her in that moment, as she had from him. Where she saw a sadness, and a warmth that she suspected the mere mention of Arya helped to blossom within his chest, Gendry must have read her true intent, and he sighed and spoke.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Lady Stark. I'm not here to hurt her – or anyone. I just want her to be happy." He ran his hands through his hair, drew a breath and braced himself. "M'lady always seemed to like Ned. She became friends with him straight away when they met. If she must marry – if I can't change your mind on that – then yes. Ned's a good man."

He lurched to his feet and turned his back to Sansa. His steps seemed heavy and his shoulders stopped as he thrust the door open and made to step outside.

"Gendry –"

He didn't turn back to her. He didn't give her a final look into his eyes. But his voice was hoarse and thick and she thought, perhaps, that was a mercy. "S'a fine choice, Lady Stark. But I need to be getting back to my forge."

He stepped out the door and was gone.