A.N.: Oh, it's about to get smutty!
Valyrian Steel
37
Brontide
The peaceful snows Larra and Gendry had wandered through were the only respite they had between savage storms threatening to rip the castle apart. A few days after Gendry's first reading lesson, they were woken, not by birdsong, but by the clamouring of distant thunder. The sun did not seem to rise that day; the entire sky was a roiling, mutinous black, as if the gods had upturned an inkwell. Whips of lightning lashed through the sky, volleys of light that seemed to go on endlessly, dazzling and horrifyingly beautiful. Instead of snow or sleet or even rain, a ferocious wind screamed across the moors, bending ancient oaks, sending young saplings hurtling through the air, tearing at the great stone walls and screaming in the diamond-paned windows.
The howling winds were nothing to the screams in the schoolroom, however, as Narcisa and Calanthe went to battle.
A panicked Crisantha hurtled into the solar, her billowing curls flying about her head like a mane, and for one of only a handful of times in Larra's memory, she met Larra's eye: She reached out, grasping Larra's hand, and pulled her to the schoolroom.
They heard the shrieking as Larra stalked along the corridor, following Crisantha.
They burst into the schoolroom, and Larra's jaw dropped.
Altheda and Rosamund huddled beneath the great oak table covered in books and artefacts and exotic potted plants from the hothouses; Delphine trembled by the hearth, her back flat against the wall as if trying to press herself into it; and in the arms of a wide-eyed, pale Neva, Leona was convulsing with soundless screams, her beautiful face bright red and tearstained. Maester Atten, kind and incomparably gentle man that he was, looked absolutely stricken, misty-eyed and bewildered, as Narcisa and Calanthe fought tooth and nail, hissing and biting, scratching and tearing at each other's hair.
Blood blossomed as Calanthe struck a practised blow to Narcisa's nose, and the older girl shrieked; Calanthe hissed and writhed as Narcisa dug her fingernails into her neck.
"Enough."
The one word, spoken with absolute authority, rang through the schoolroom. Leona, diamond-like tears dripping down her face, reached hopelessly for Larra, nearly toppling out of Neva's arms; Rosamund whimpered under the table, and Maester Atten gave Larra a look so aghast, so bewildered that Larra knew he was deeply upset to see the children he adored being so cruel to one another.
Calanthe got one last, ringing slap in, Narcisa's cheek flaming scarlet, and Larra stepped between the girls as Narcisa surged toward her cousin, bristling with rage. Her hair was dishevelled, her fingernails bloody from gouging at Calanthe's neck, nose gushing blood from Calanthe's hit: her cousin's braids were unkempt, her neck bleeding, and seemed to be twice her normal size, snarling with fury.
"Sit down," Larra ordered them in a tone that brooked no opposition. The two girls glowered at each other but Calanthe was the first to lower herself to one of the high-backed oak chairs, her emerald eyes glinting mutinously as she glared at Narcisa. The eldest Lannister pushed back: she glared at the flagstone floor, shaking with emotion, backing toward a chair, but refused to sit. Refused to bend to anyone's will but her own. Instead of shouting, Larra merely watched her, daring Narcisa to defy her. She had all the time in the world to win this battle of wills.
Calanthe sighed, shoving her sleeve under her nose, and slouched in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, taunting her cousin. Her emerald eyes – so like Narcisa's – flicked from Larra to her cousin, triumph and glee mingled there, eager to see Narcisa knocked down.
"That's alright, Narcisa; I can wait," Larra said softly, casting an eye over the table before them, the work spread out, maps and Far-Eyes and books of exotic animals and plants. A Geography lesson; once, one of Larra's favourite. She glanced at the maester. "Maester Atten, please could you be so good as to escort the girls back to the nursery and instruct their septa that they shall have hot spiced blackcurrant. They can sit before the fire and knit or play with puzzles." She gentled her voice even further, coaxing the two girls out from under the table. "Rosie, Al – it's alright, now; you can come on out." A soft whimper and Rosamund emerged, tearful; Altheda followed, looking stricken. Maester Atten rose from the table, shaken, and coaxed Delphine away from the wall. She looped her arm through his, and Crisantha took her little cousin's hands. Larra beckoned Neva, still struggling with a fraught, writhing Leona in her arms.
Larra lifted Leona into her arms, enveloping her the same way Gendry had embraced her in the forge. Her scent, her warmth, soothed and gentled Leona more effectively than any remedy. The little girl clung to Larra, her tiny fingernails biting through the wool of Larra's dress. Larra reached out, stroking Neva's hair, and bent to gently kiss the top of her head, murmuring gentle words in her ear before sending her off after the maester and the rest of the Lannisters.
As Leona sobbed soundlessly, choking and hiccoughing, overwrought and frightened, Larra gently rocked her in her arms, rubbing her back and stroking her hair, giving her gentle kisses and softly humming the lullaby that always soothed her. It did not elude Larra that Leona had reached for her, struggling to get closer to her, the moment she entered the chamber – that at her most upset, her most frightened, Leona wanted her.
Slowly, and while the others had left the chamber, Narcisa had deigned to lower herself to a chair, as if Larra would not notice.
For a long while, as Larra tried to work out how to proceed, there was silence in the chamber, but for the crackle of the fire and Leona's soft whimpers. Eventually, Leona grew heavy in her arms; she sucked her thumb, clutching her doll, and snuggled deeper into Larra's embrace, her tiny nose nuzzling Larra's neck, snuffling and sighing with contentment, safe in Larra's arms.
Calanthe sprawled in her chair – wearing the tunic and breeches she had first donned for her riding-lessons and had yet to be coaxed out of – smirking triumphantly at Narcisa. At one look from Larra, however, the smugness faded, replaced by contrition mingled with righteousness.
"I am disgusted by what I have just witnessed," Larra said softly. She rarely raised her voice; it rarely yielded the desired result. But keeping her voice low and calm was just as effective on little girls as it was lords. Authority radiated from her. "I hope you two are just as ashamed of yourselves by this exhibition as I am." Calanthe's shoulders drooped just a fraction. By contrast, Narcisa's chin rose, though her eyes never left the flagstones. "I would like to know what provoked such appalling behaviour. Narcisa? You are beyond old enough to know better."
Narcisa exploded. Leona jolted awake in Leona's arms, whimpering, and Larra glared at Narcisa. Coldly, she cut through her tirade, and said, "I will listen when your tone of voice matches my own. Calanthe?"
"I only asked if she wanted my help reading the passage Maester Atten was talking about," Calanthe said, and it clicked into place. Maester Atten had spent days carefully watching and assessing Narcisa in the schoolroom. They had just days ago had a long discussion about how to proceed with the eldest, proudest Lannister. "Then she said something horrid about Mother, and about you."
Larra gave Narcisa a very cool look. "Were you listening to Calanthe, Narcisa? Is that true?"
"Yes, it's true," Narcisa snarled. "What I said about her cunt mother and about you."
"I am sure you believe it to be so," Larra said coldly. "Calanthe, you may go. Go to the Maesters' tower and have your neck seen to, but tell the maesters Larra Snow said to avoid giving you stitches if at all avoidable."
"Will it scar?"
"Hopefully not," Larra said, but Calanthe snorted.
"I hope they do; I'll look like just like the bastard wolf's-whore of Winterfell," Calanthe said, pausing at the door only long enough to spit venom at her cousin, her eyes glinting maliciously. She shut the door with a bang before Narcisa could throw herself out of her chair.
Larra clicked her tongue. "The bastard wolf's-whore of Winterfell," she repeated softly, patting Leona's back as she swayed gently, soothing the little girl. She refused to be insulted or hurt by the words; she had heard far worse. Never forget what you are… "Did you hear that elsewhere or is it of your own invention? For I know you certainly have not read it somewhere."
Narcisa flinched, her face colouring with fury – and perhaps a little humiliation, too.
Larra reached across the table for one of the books Maester Luwin had painstakingly created for Larra when she was a little girl, and which Rosamund and Altheda were now working their way through together. She turned to a page about vibrant flowers from the Summer Isles and set the book before Narcisa. "I'd like you to read this page to me."
"I have no desire to read it."
"No, but I have asked you to."
"Why should I?" Larra gave her a cold, unyielding look usually reserved for the most reticent of the lords.
"I have asked you to. Prove to me that you can, and that what your maesters and septas believe is false. That you are lazy and arrogant rather than uneducated. Prove that you did not raise your hand to harm your cousin because she noticed you were struggling, and offered you help," Larra said icily, and Narcisa gave her a mutinous glare that made Larra's hand twitch, thinking of all the times a younger Sansa had given her the same look – one full of disdain, an utter lack of respect. That was not Narcisa, Larra knew, not a truly accurate reflection of what she felt for Larra: humiliation made her vicious and cruel.
Shoulders back, Narcisa turned to the book, resting her fingertips against the edges of the pages, and her emerald eyes focused on the first word. Larra could see it: the mounting frustration, anger and humiliation as she struggled. Unable to decipher even the simplest of phrases. Larra sighed heavily and reached out, gently closing the book and setting it back at the places where Altheda and Rosamund had been working.
Gently, she asked Narcisa, "Are we the first to notice you are illiterate?"
Hoarsely, her eyes glinting with tears of humiliation and fury, Narcisa said, "Mama never cared that I should read. She insisted that I learn etiquette and courtly manners, High Valyrian and dancing and embroidery and the high harp. My septa said I need only know how to count my children."
"You were taught to embroider and dance and please," Larra said delicately. "You have been failed by the people responsible for preparing you for the world."
"My mother loved me," Narcisa said fiercely, flinching, and Larra thought it an interesting thing for her to say. It had never been a question of whether Narcisa was loved. But in her mind, perhaps Narcisa linked the two – that if she had truly been loved, why had she not been taught properly all the things she would need in her adult life?
"Yes," Larra said gently.
Narcisa's eyes filled with tears. "Why didn't they teach me?"
Larra sighed heavily. "Because your septa was not alone in her views. As women, we must fight for everything we have, and that includes an education. If you did not fight for yours, it is because you did not know it was a thing you could fight for." She gazed at Narcisa, whose shoulders drooped – the first time Larra had ever seen her with poor posture – and who looked utterly dejected. "If you care to learn, I shall teach you. None of your cousins need ever know."
"Or Cadeon?" Narcisa asked quickly.
Larra laughed under her breath. "Or Cadeon," she assured the girl. Funny how Narcisa's thoughts sprang instantly to the scarred boy. Thinking of him made Larra think of Gendry, and her heart sped up at the thought of their next reading lesson. Night after night, they had spent hours in the nursery, becoming more and more at ease with each other, casual and intimate, teasing and flirtatious…thrilling…
She yearned to be in that fire-lit nursery, entangled with Gendry on the settle beneath heavy blankets, drinking herb tea and thrilling over every stolen touch, fire racing through her veins at every covetous look, aching for more.
A spear of lightning slashed blinding white light through the schoolroom and Narcisa jumped, her breath catching. Larra watched the diamond-paned windows shrewdly. Today was not the day for lessons, she decided. Today was a day the girls could cuddle together under blankets and distract themselves from the storm with their favourite things.
"I want you to go to your chamber and tidy yourself up," Larra said quietly. "When you are calm, and ready to be among them, come and join your cousins in the nursery."
Narcisa stood up, making her way to the door. When she reached it, she stopped, and looked shamefacedly over her shoulder at Larra. "I didn't mean what I said. About Calanthe's mother. Or about you."
"I know," Larra replied gently. "We all say things we regret when we are upset."
"You never speak much when you're upset," Narcisa said softly.
"One hard look and people will tell you everything," Larra said. "My father taught me to listen when that happens."
"And he taught you the look."
"He did," Larra confirmed.
"Your father taught you a lot?" Narcisa prompted.
"He did," Larra said, her voice turning hoarse as her eyes burned. "And yet there was still so much I had yet to learn from him."
"So you know how it feels," Narcisa said softly. Larra stared at her, sighing heavily.
"I know it is no easy thing to be the last one left behind to look after the rest," she said grimly, and Narcisa nodded. "My little brothers lashed out because they were confused and frightened but most of all angry. I had to try and gentle the rage in Rickon at being abandoned, and support Bran without deciding for him as he ruled the North in our brother's stead. I had to remind them that they were still loved and cherished and important. Even when they forgot to remind me. My brothers and I were all we had left in the world; and I had to fight every urge to take it out on them, the way they did on me."
Silently, Narcisa left the chamber, and Larra sank into a chair, Leona asleep against her chest. "What am I going to do with them?" she murmured, gently kissing Leona's tightly-coiled curls.
Everything she had planned for the day had to be thrown out of the window: the other girls were too fraught, too upset. She sent a message to Sansa to tell her what had happened, and that she would have to miss their scheduled engagements for the afternoon – today involving sitting with the Northern ladies to gossip and hear complaints and keep up to date with proposed marriages and requests made on behalf of their husbands or their sons or grandsons. She was glad to take that hour back. While Sansa entertained the ladies, Larra tamed some lion cubs.
She carried Leona back to the nursery, gently waking her so that she could play dolls with Altheda and Rosamund. She noticed the sad, wistful look Neva tried to conceal as she watched the Lannister girls playing with their exquisite porcelain-faced Qartheen dolls. Larra crooked her finger toward her, and Neva came to sit beside her on the settle, smiling delicately; Larra had been teaching Neva how to crochet, something that Neva had taken to naturally, making large squares with different patterns each created to resemble a Northern wildflower. It was the same way Larra had learned, and Old Nan before her: the knowledge of the stitches and patterns was passed down from generation to generation, added onto and embellished with new designs shared beside the hearth during long winters tucked safely inside Winterfell.
The return of a bandaged Calanthe and a wan but quiet and calm Narcisa made for an interesting afternoon: Altheda went to the pianoforte, letting Neva play with her doll, while Crisantha sat on a small footstool beside Larra, her head in Larra's lap, silently embroidering something shimmery silver-grey. Narcisa practised new hairstyles on Delphine's long, glimmering hair; and Calanthe sat before the fire fiddling with cyvasse pieces.
"Where did you find those?" Larra asked. She had never seen the pieces before; and cyvasse was a rare enough game in the North. To her knowledge, only Lord Manderly had any affection for the game: he used to play with her whenever he came to Winterfell, and sometimes he had gifted her with unusual and beautiful cyvasse pieces from Volantis, where people were mad for the game.
Calanthe sighed, glancing at Larra. "They're from Grandfather's cyvasse set," she said miserably. It wasn't the first time Calanthe had mentioned her grandfather.
"Did he teach you how to play?" Larra asked, and Calanthe nodded glumly.
"I'm not very good."
"Then you'd best practise," Larra said.
"Do you know how to play?" Calanthe asked, her eyes widening.
"I love to play," Larra admitted. She very often played with a Knight of the Vale, but so far her most thrilling adversary in the game was Lady Nym – Nymeria Sand, who oozed sensuality and danger with equal measure, and who seemed just as delighted with Larra as an opponent as Larra was with her, likely surprised that anyone in the North could play cyvasse – or provide such a frustrating challenge. Calanthe retrieved her grandfather's cyvasse tiles and figures, and Larra sat cross-legged on the fur before the hearth with Leona cuddled in her lap, teaching Calanthe how to play.
Larra spent the day in the nursery with the girls, playing games, braiding hair, untangling knitting and cuddling dolls. They enjoyed hot spiced blackcurrant and fresh toast with jam as a treat to sooth rattled nerves. The boys joined them for their evening meal, and finally, the children were sent to bed. The storm still raged outside, but in their chamber it was warm and cosy. Larra tucked the girls in, doling kisses out generously, and with a great groan of relief mingled with exhaustion, she pulled the nursery door to behind her, glad of the quiet and the calm. She raised her hands to knead her eyes, exhausted. Spending all day with the girls was always exhausting, though they had done nothing but play. It was a rare day that Larra just played, but they all needed it. The girls had needed her presence, needed her there to have a cuddle with and a chat as they played with dolls, or hear her praise as they played the pianoforte or paraded a new hairstyle. It was important they see her as more than a disciplinarian. Seeing her in the nursery, strengthening bonds with them, meant she would have to very little disciplining in the future. On Maester Luwin's advice, she had done the same with Rickon. Play, but set firm boundaries, her expectations of his behaviour.
The fire crackled softly in the grate, and she yawned widely, kneading at her eyes. Her entire body felt stiff and heavy – she had not been able to train for days, cooped up either in the nursery, the solar or the library.
She opened her eyes at a soft noise, and smiled gently to herself.
Gendry was already sat on the settle, his handsome face drawn into a frown of concentration as he went through the cards they had been working on. His lips move soundlessly as his fingertip traced each letter. At the sound of the door closing, he glanced up and went still, watching her. His frown deepened and he neatened the stack of cards.
"I heard about the battle," he said softly, and Larra nodded. He set the cards aside and held out his enormous hand to her. She smiled softly, drawn to him, and placed her hand in his, letting him coax her closer, until she was stood between his powerful thighs and gazed down at him. She reached out a hand, sifting her fingers through his riotous curls, trailing her fingers along his strong jaw swathed in a short, well-kept beard, smiling as she felt the dimple in his chin. She raised her hands to cradle his face, tenderly stroking her thumbs against his cheeks.
"C'me 'ere," he murmured, taking her waist, and she smiled, linking an arm around his massive shoulders, perching on his powerful thigh. He readjusted her in his lap, until her toes barely touched the flagstones and she was safely tucked in his arm. His heat and his scent enveloped her, the same way they had that awful day in the forge, and she sighed, nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder, tempted to close her eyes and just stay there, his enormous hand hot against her hip, his other arm draped around her, cuddling her close. He rested his cheek against her head, sighing deeply, contentedly, and she smiled, ready to melt into him, so comfortable was she, so relaxed. Perhaps she did. Perhaps, for a few moments, she dozed off; him readjusting his embrace so she didn't topple out of his lap seemed to rouse her.
"I was trying not to wake you," he said softly, but she smiled, fidgeting until they were both more comfortable, her arms loosely draped around his neck, his arm tucked close around her waist, his other hand on her thigh, and she rested her hand on his chest, flicking her gaze over his face. Those intense eyes, imperfect nose, handsome beard and firm lips. Her gaze flicked from those intense sapphire eyes to his firm lips, and she couldn't help it – didn't want to: She leaned in, nuzzling his nose, and Gendry made a soft, deep, masculine noise, raising his hand to cradle her neck, rubbing his thumb along her jaw, and she leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.
She leaned away: his eyes were fixed on her lips. Breathless, they gazed at each other, and his eyes glimmered in the firelight, warm and full of yearning; he saw the desire smouldering deep in those violet flames and was filled with relief as he leaned in for another taste, another kiss that this time was not sweet or hesitant but slow and fierce and consuming. With a soft moan, she shifted in his lap, his fingertips trailing over three silky scars at the base of her throat, and he froze. Broke away from her. She made a soft noise of confusion, her brow puckering as her eyelashes fluttered, and gazed down at him. Suddenly, she flushed, looking…appalled.
She's kissed a bastard armourer, he thought.
"I am sorry," she whispered, looking horrified, and started to climb out of his lap. "I thought perhaps – but I mistook – I am sorry to have kissed you when you did not wish–"
"I did!" he blurted, only then realising he was breathless from kissing her. "I have – I mean… I do wish to kiss you. I have since the moment I first saw you. But I thought…"
"What?" Larra asked gently, looking as confused and embarrassed as he felt. His eyes dipped to her throat, and he noticed her fingers trembling as she raised them to the scars there. "My scars?"
Gendry grimaced softly, "People talk about how you got them…"
"I've dozens more, and far worse. I killed the ones who gave me these scratches," Larra said, her voice taking on that stern bite he was becoming so used to. She didn't like to talk about her experiences in the True North but she didn't shy away from acknowledging she had had them. He gently pulled on her hand, coaxing her back into his embrace, and she nuzzled his jaw, making him groan when she kissed his neck, and murmured breathlessly in his ear, "Are you going to let dead men stop you kissing me?"
A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, and Gendry grinned, pulling her closer. Soft, tender kisses deepened to something wild, demanding and fierce, greedy for the taste of each other, igniting embers racing beneath their skin, becoming more and more aware that their bodies were tangled together. She explored his broad shoulders, squeezing and stroking his muscles over his tunic, kissing fiercely as he adjusted her in his lap to squeeze her hip, her backside, and she moaned and broke away, breathless, her lips red and plump from kissing, to take his hand and cup it over her breast, diving in for another fierce kiss as she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned at the heaviness of her breasts in his palm, cupping and squeezing, gently kneading them until he could taste her tiny whimpers and feel her squirming in his lap, and the throbbing ache of his cock, hard and straining for her as she nibbled his earlobe and gentled stinging nips of his throat with gentle sucking and sweet kisses, her tongue darting between his lips, gasping against his lips as he cupped and massaged her breasts, pressing her body against his, her entire body alight with awareness of him, of the hardness pressing against her thigh, and as he trailed kisses up her throat, making her whimper and groan as he sucked at one sensitive spot beneath her ear, she panted, reaching down between them, desperate to know the feel of him. Her palm seemed to burn as she brushed it against the hardness beneath his leather breeches.
He froze.
Gendry went cold.
And she noticed. Her entire body trembling with desire, yet she noticed, and removed her hand. Shaking with need, she sat up straighter. Put distance between them. Her eyes read his face, and Gendry swallowed, hard.
Now? he thought, bewildered, frustrated – and angry. Now he thought of the Red Woman? When Larra seemed desperate to melt into his body, ached for his touch and was desperate to touch him?
"You went somewhere else," Larra said softly, and his cock throbbed at the throatiness of her voice, at the sight of her kiss-plumped lips, of her vivid eyes smouldering with intensity, her entire body thrumming with pent-up desire and aching need. She desired him, ached for his touch. She shivered in his lap, and for all the Red Woman's hold over him, he could not let Larra go. His hands, clamped on her waist, were shaking, and his breath came in frantic pants. "With someone else."
Tenderly, she combed his curls away from his face, stroking his hair until he visibly calmed. Frustration, confusion and embarrassment flickered in those intense blue eyes, but he did not lash out at her. He leaned in to her touch as she stroked his curls.
"Would you like me to leave?" she murmured gently, her fingertip trailing along the curve of his ear, the length of his jaw. Tender. The touch that had excited him now soothed him.
"No," Gendry gasped out, his hand squeezing her hip as if he was afraid she would climb out of his lap.
Larra stroked a hand through his hair, asking softly, "What would you like me to do?"
Gendry gulped, his eyelashes flickering as he glanced around the chamber, overwhelmed. "I don't know."
She nodded, as if she understood, and Gendry relaxed, relieved, when she whispered, "I promise not to touch you until you ask."
He knew about her scars; she knew about his.
Shakily, he took her hand, tenderly kissing her palm, then looped her arms around his neck, pulling her closer. He leaned in, kissing her neck at the point where he knew made her whimper and squirm in his lap, and she nipped his ear as punishment when he chuckled deeply. Grasping her backside, he cupped and massaged her breasts, and she squeezed and kneaded his muscles, tangling her fingers in her hair, as they sank lower on the settle, almost reclined, Larra draped over him, and if the castle crumbled around them, neither of them would have any idea, they were consumed by the taste and smell and feel of each other, sharing ferocious kisses that left them breathless, left Larra moaning and aching with need and Gendry panting and desperate and frustrated, his own aches ignored as they kept kissing.
They writhed, tangled up in each other, until the screams of the wind were replaced by the weeping of small children.
Blinking dazedly, they parted, panting and shivering with need, and Larra glanced over her shoulder toward the door. "Is that someone weeping?"
"It sounds like it," Gendry panted, startled to find his hands shaking as he reached up to push his hair out of his face, once again ignoring the throbbing, unbearable ache in his breeches. Larra's lips were plump, her eyes bright, and her braids had become unpinned, draped heavily down her back, and her heavy wool dress looked rumpled. She gave him a reluctant look, almost pouting, and they both moaned softly – from the ache and the sudden loss – as she pushed herself off him, rising to a shaky stand. She plucked at the cuffs of her dress and her waist, straightening her bodice where his groping had rumpled the fabric, and exhaled shakily as she shook out her trembling fingers. She was halfway to the door before she turned back, swooping in for a fierce, lingering kiss that made him growl and grasp her backside in his hands, pulling her closer.
Laughing breathlessly, Larra wriggled out of his arms and out of the nursery. Gendry grinned, watching her long braids whip after her, and realised the fire had burned itself out, leaving the chamber in darkness. His body was still alight with awareness, though, of her, and of his desire for her; it took a long time for him to calm down, and by the time he rose to leave the nursery, Larra was closing the door to the Lannister girls' chamber behind her.
Her eyes glowed in the firelight from the torch beside the girls' door, and he noticed her lips, still plump from kissing him.
"You know," he said softly, "it won't work."
"What won't?"
"Trying to seduce me to get out of giving me my lesson," he said, his lips twitching, and Larra grinned.
"I can only try," she said, and he grinned back at her. He liked teasing her; he liked that he could tease her. And he liked it when she flirted back. She hummed softly to herself, gazing up at him through her lashes. "We can go back to the nursery if you wish."
"The fire's burned itself out," Gendry said.
"What to do?" she said softly, her tone teasing, clicking her tongue. Her eyes glinted and the naughty glint in her eyes made his blood simmer. She took his hand and led him down the corridor to another chamber. Her chamber. He knew it was hers the moment he saw it, just by the paintings and the books on the table, the crochet in a basket by the rocking-chair strewn with embroidered pillows, a mobile dangling by the diamond-paned window, things glittering in the volleys of lightning that bombarded the castle. There was a small settle on the other side of the hearth, and the other half of the chamber was dominated by a large bed made up with fine linen, quilts, crocheted blankets and furs. He tried to ignore it, and Larra certainly looked like she was, too; she went to her rocking-chair and sat down, inviting him to take the settle.
That was the last night he had his lessons in the nursery.
Every night after, he joined Larra in her chamber.
He looked forward to cuddling on the settle together, buried beneath blankets, drinking herb tea or mulled wine as Larra read to him from The Lord of the Rings. Sometimes, though, Larra would sit in her rocking-chair, crocheting or embroidering while he painstakingly sounded out his letters.
Every time he mastered a letter or sound, he earned one of her fierce kisses.
He mastered them very quickly.
He learned his letters; and when the lessons were over, they learned each other.
Tangled up in blankets on the settle, sitting in his lap, she explored under his tunics, her clever fingers dancing across his skin, sifting through his chest hair, squeezing his muscles and delicately scraping as she panted and writhed and he learned his way under her skirts. He knew the shape and strength of her legs, knew how her thighs quivered when he kissed her beneath her ear, and his favourite sound in the world became Larra's whimpers and mewls in his ear as she bit her lip and writhed her hips under his touch, stroking and teasing between her thighs. He loved the sting of her fingernails as she scraped them across his chest while he stroked her, the startled look on her face as intense pleasure overwhelmed her – pleasure she had taught him how to give her. He was awed by the slick, intense heat of her as she gasped and writhed and took his fingers into her, writhing and eager, clutching his wrist to guide him the way she wanted, harder and deeper, stroking herself until he learned how to do both at the same time. He loved how she shuddered and writhed and yielded everything to him, emotionally stripped bare and utterly vulnerable in his arms. He loved when she went limp, utterly lost to the world, drunk on her pleasure – and trusting him to bring her back with gentle strokes and soft kisses, and the way she would kiss him, breathless, panting, utterly boneless, and glance at his breeches, biting her lip, pure yearning in every line of her face, yet never touched him.
The first time they had tumbled to the bed, locked in fierce embrace, they were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Rosamund and Leona, upset by nightmares, tiptoed into the chamber, teary-eyed and shivering, and climbed into Larra's bed. She tucked them in, and gave him a deep, lingering kiss he could feel all over his body, smiling regretfully as she closed the door on him.
The next night, Gendry joined Larra in her chamber and she asked him, breathlessly, "Would you mind if there was no lesson tonight?"
"No," Gendry growled softly, grabbing her for a kiss, and Larra wrapped herself around him, pressing her body against his with a sigh of relief. They tumbled to the bed, losing themselves to each other. He had been thinking of this all day, and Larra panted the same thing in his ear before nipping it, sucking and kissing her way down his neck as he groaned, grasping her hip, and stole fierce kisses from her, smoothing his hand from her neck to her hip, caressing and squeezing, cupping and massaging the way she liked. Their boots fell with loud clunks to the flagstone floor, with the soft hiss of Larra's laces coming undone in his hands, letting him prise her bodice open and shove aside her chemises to kiss and suck and nip at her breasts, his hand cupping the other, the rough callouses on his palm delicious against her aching nipples. Larra rolled to her back, pulling him on top of her. He groaned at the pressure between them, and she nipped his chin, kissing and sucking his throat, pulling one of his hands free from her bodice as she shivered at his kiss, guiding him to the hem of her dress.
"I missed you all day," she breathed, and moaned loudly as Gendry sucked on the tender skin below her ear.
"Where were we?" he panted, trailing his fingertips up her leg, caressing her thighs, and she stretched and writhed, a breathless smile flashing across her face before sighing and moaning and melting into his touch as he stroked and caressed her. Tongues tangling in a fierce kiss, her breath caught in her throat as he pressed his finger inside her; her toes curled, breaking away from his kiss to whisper, "Two, please! Two!"
She moaned loudly, rocking her hips to meet him as he worked two fingers inside her, a delicious rhythm that made her thighs tremble as delicious pressure sparked through her body. She gripped his curls in her fingers, pulling him down for a fierce kiss, gripping his hip with her other hand, squeezing his backside, panting and writhing and aching for his weight over her, and he did roll over her, bracing his weight above her, dipping his head to kiss from her ear to her nipples, sucking and nipping the way that made her moan, growling softly as he thrust his fingers and her hips rolled to meet them, and she tugged and freed his tunics, letting her hands roam, exploring his muscles and panting, nipping at his collarbone as he buried his head against her neck, kissing her as she shuddered and gasped and gave in to the ecstasy rippling through her body under his touch.
His gentle kisses brought her back, as they always did, and she smiled lazily, utterly sated, as he removed his fingers, tenderly stroking her thighs until they stopped shaking, giving her neck and face tiny kisses.
"Come here," she panted, smiling, and he smiled lazily, sinking into the cradle of her thighs, kissing her from her neck to her breasts and back while she squeezed and kneaded his backside, his hand cupping her breasts, massaging and playing with her nipples, and she sighed, moaning at the delicious pressure already building again as he rocked his hips against hers. His impossible hardness poked at her and she whimpered, writhing her hips to change the angle, shuddering as he stroked against her, hot and insistent. Her palms itched to feel him; instead, she squeezed his backside, spurring him on as he slowly rocked against her, sucking on her nipples until they throbbed, kissing his way up her throat, giving her a fierce, deep kiss that made her toes curl again. Her fingers trailed to his chest, wrapping her legs around him, and he levered himself over her, kissing her deeply as he thrust his hips, grunting softly with each thrust, his entire body shuddering.
As she kissed his neck and sucked his earlobe, her fingers trailing across his chest, enjoying the feel of his chest-hair against her palms, the pressure rising between her legs again, he froze.
His massive body shuddered above her. She panted, startled, and stared up at the expression on his face – bewildered, furious.
"Gendry?" she gasped, suddenly concerned, and she felt him, felt the absence of his hardness and heat against her. He shook his head sharply, his dark curls dancing, and squinted his eyes shut. Took a few deep breaths and opened them. He stared into Larra's eyes, and she saw it – the aching desire and his fear.
He gulped and pushed himself off her, stumbling off the bed. Larra sat up, her body alight and trembling with desire and thwarted pleasure, and reached for him.
"Gendry," she said softly. He shook his head sharply.
"I'm sorry," he panted.
"Gendry, it's alright," she said gently. They had been going at his pace – and within the limits Larra had set by promising never to touch him without his asking, he was voracious. Curious, fierce, passionate, tender, patient and proud. He was a proud lover, she saw it every time his eyes lit up at watching her come. At watching her tumble through ecstasy because of him.
"No – no, it's not," Gendry blurted, wide-eyed. His massive body thrummed with frustrated pleasure but also with fear. She remained still, watching him carefully. He panted, his entire body shuddering, and his hands shook as he shoved his tunics into his breeches. "It's my fault Robb Stark is dead."
Larra sat, stunned, staring at the place where he had stood long after Gendry left the room.
Days later, Larra was still uncomfortable in her own skin: Gendry's touch had left her excited and unable to satisfy herself.
She was grumpy. Wisely, Sansa did not ask why Larra was particularly impatient, but Larra knew her sister was no fool. She likely knew Larra and Gendry spent hours together every night, and Gendry always left her chamber with his curling hair wild and his lips swollen.
Instead of chasing after him, Larra let Gendry be. She did not know what to say or how to approach him, not after what he had said. It's my fault Robb Stark is dead.
What on earth did that mean?
How could he think he had anything to do with Robb's murder?
Not until a few days later, when she saw him in the forges, did Larra approach him. His massive body rippling with muscle made her mouth water, but the look on his face… Intensity. Pure ferocity, taking out his anger and frustration on the anvil. She wished she could do that; but the throbbing ache he had created refused to be gentled.
It's my fault Robb Stark is dead…
She sighed, frowned, and carefully approached the hulking armourer. She loved everything about how big he was, from his arms like basilisks to the shoulders that could wreck stone doorways to those powerful thighs she ached to feel between her own, his enormous chest carved with muscle and dusted with dark hair. Those fierce eyes, his handsome beard. His enormous, calloused hands that were so talented.
She cleared her throat gently, and his body tensed as he approached.
Softly, she said, "I think I'm owed an explanation for what you said to me." He shot her an intense look, then nodded.
"If you still wish to continue your lessons, I can find someone else to teach you," she said softly. Gendry glanced sharply at her, his eyes intense.
"I want to keep learning," Gendry said quietly. "I don't want anyone else teaching me."
Hours later, there was a soft knock on Larra's door. She set her box of cards down on the small table before the hearth and smoothed her braids before opening the door. Gendry stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, and he slowly raised his eyes to her face.
"Come in," she said softly, and he nodded, entering the room silently. He took his place on the settle, and she leaned back in the rocking-chair as he reached for the box of cards. They started as they did every lesson, reviewing all the letters and sounds Gendry knew, then reading short stories Larra had written for her brothers which matched the sounds. Small steps, Maester Luwin used to say. Small steps.
They went through the cards one by one, Gendry giving examples of different words he knew from memory that contained the sound; she would write them on a thin sheet of slate mounted in a wooden frame using a stick of chalk, and sometimes they discussed why certain letters made different sounds, or why the same sound was written differently.
When he reached L, Gendry said softly, "Larra." He glanced up at her, and Larra smiled softly. She wrote her name down, and watched him reading it, working out the sounds of the different letters and how they merged together to create her name. "Anvil. Longbow. Ballista. Cudgel. Battle. Valyria. Lys. Love…" He cleared his throat softly. "Elbow. Elephant. Sigil. Jonquil. Lace. Lady. Lobelia… Leeches…"
He fell silent after that last word, leaning on his elbows and staring hard at the card in his hands. Larra waited patiently. Neither of them had mentioned what he had said to her the other night.
He cleared his throat softly, flinching, and focused on the card as he started to speak, "During the War, the Brotherhood without Banners sold me to a red witch from Asshai… She followed the Lord of Light. Her men took me from the Riverlands all the way to Dragonstone…" His voice became brusque, his face colouring with shame, when he told her, "She – seduced me. In a grand bed, she had me bound, stripped off my breeches and put leeches on my cock. Then she called Stannis Baratheon into the chamber. When the leeches were fat from my blood, she plucked them off. Each time Stannis threw one of the leeches into a brazier, he said a name." His jaw flickered, and Larra waited. She watched his chest heaving. Though his voice was gentle, he was far from calm. "Joffrey Baratheon, Balon Greyjoy and…Robb Stark." She closed her eyes. Robb Stark. "It was blood magic. She used my blood to sacrifice to her god."
Quietly, Larra asked, "Why would this priestess believe your blood holds power?"
"It's my father's blood she wanted," Gendry murmured, staring into the fire suspiciously, as if the red witch's Lord of Light lurked in the embers. "King's blood." He blinked suddenly, glancing at Larra, and grimaced guiltily as he said, "I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard…"
Larra's lips parted, and she leaned forward in the rocking-chair, staring into his face.
She had only ever seen Robert fat, drunk and deeply unhappy – no: She had seen him, once, in his prime. At the Tourney of Harrenhall, when he had danced with Lyanna Stark. Her lips parted as she stared, for there he was – Gendry looked incredibly like that young man. Robert had given Gendry his eyes, his dark hair and his strength – but the rest was all Gendry. The intensity in his eyes, the gentleness of his strong hands, the purpose behind those muscles, the thoughtfulness and care. Gendry was far more handsome than Robert had ever been. And a far better man than Robert could ever have hoped to be.
"She used my blood to murder them," Gendry said quietly, finally setting the card down on the table. He leaned back in the settle but clasped his hands tightly, glaring down at them, chest silently heaving.
Larra watched Gendry silently, thinking over what he had just revealed to her. Blood magic had had a part in Robb's death? She knew that there was great power in blood-magic. She also knew that gods took little interest in the wars of men. At least, no war beyond the Wall.
"I want you to listen to me very carefully. Their deaths are not your fault," Larra said, her voice gentle but stern. Gendry glanced at her and held her gaze. "Joffrey was a vicious cunt and deserved a more lingering death even than the one he earned. Balon Greyjoy's brother coveted rule of the Iron Islands; the motive for his murder was as simple as that. And Robb…" She sighed, shaking her head. "Your blood had nought to do with his death. He crossed a very dangerous, conniving, evil, cowardly little man. It would be easy to ignore Robb's mistakes because of how brutal and devastating his murder was… He sealed his fate the moment he wed his Volantene." Larra sighed, slumping in her seat, and shook her head. She loved Robb, she missed him and she had respected the man he was, but could not excuse the mistakes he had made. "Robb's love for her was the death of his duty to the North and it cost thousands their lives, including his." Robb had been the architect of his own demise. "How did the Red Witch convince you she had the power to murder through your blood?"
"She didn't. But I'd seen the power of R'hllor with my own eyes before she took me to Dragonstone," Gendry admitted. "When I was with the Brotherhood, the Hound killed Beric Dondarrion in a trial-by-combat. Thoros of Myr prayed to R'hllor and Lord Dondarrion rose from the dead. If the Lord of Light can give life then surely he can take it."
"And there's no better time to do so than during a war," Larra said grimly. "Gendry… You are the last person responsible for Robb's death."
"When I reached King's Landing…when I heard what they'd done to him, and…to his wife and to their little baby…" Larra flinched, and he fell silent. She could see the pain and grief and guilt in his eyes. "My blood did that."
"No. Robb did that," Larra said fiercely. "He broke his oath. I am saying this as his sister, who loves him and misses him still. Robb was fierce and brilliant and honourable – until he wasn't. He broke his word and he died for it. I won't let you hold yourself to blame for Robb's mistake… I miss him. I miss arguing with him. I miss loving my brother. I miss them all. You're the last person to blame for his death. As for those leeches… Belief is a powerful thing. Their deaths weren't inevitable but they were all involved in open war. The red witch took advantage of that; she took advantage of Stannis Baratheon's belief to secure her own position."
For a while, they were both silent. The fire crackled in the hearth and Gendry watched it warily. He frowned, glancing at Larra; his eyes were impossibly blue in the firelight. "How did you know I was with Arya, before?"
She smiled without humour. "Well…since you've been brave enough to be honest about the Red Witch, perhaps you'll believe me…"
She started from the beginning, or what she believed the beginning to be: her dragon-dreams, the dreams she now believed had been planted by the Bloodraven to ensure she believed Bran when he started to have dreams of his own. She told Gendry about the King's visit, and Bran's fall. She told him about their journey north beyond the Wall to the great weirwood. She told him about Jojen and Meera and Hodor and all the others they had met and lost along the way. She told him about the Children and about Lord Brynden Rivers.
She didn't tell him about Rhaegar and Lyanna, though. That was still Jon's secret, and he didn't even know it yet.
Larra gave Dark Star to Gendry to examine, the closest he had ever come to true Valyrian steel.
"I know about this sword," he said in quiet awe, watching the way the firelight seemed to caress the rippling blade, making it seem to come alive like a blade of living smoke rippling and whirling and lethal. "Everyone knows about this blade. It was thought lost."
"Just kept safe," Larra said quietly.
She let Gendry examine the sword in minute detail, until he sheathed the fine weapon, examining the jewelled hilt one last time before propping it against the hearth. Then she told him about Bran and his visions, being a greenseer. That she – all of them, actually – were wargs through their Stark blood, which allowed them to see through the eyes of animals. Bran was different; he could see through the great weirwood trees, and through them could see the past and the future, as well as the present.
"That's why he's so quiet," Gendry guessed. "He's overwhelmed with memory."
"Yes," Larra said. "And possibility… He showed me Arya's journey from King's Landing, the day Father…"
"The day he was murdered," Gendry finished for her, and she nodded.
"I watched her being picked on by some boys…and there you were. You frightened away the bullies. The two of you were inseparable ever since. You kept her secret." She glanced up sharply at Gendry. "That's why the Goldcloaks were after you."
"My blood. King's blood," Gendry grated, looking fierce - angry. "Lots of men died because of it – they did," he said stubbornly when she made a noise of protest, and Larra knew it was true. "There's no use denying it. Yoren protected me; the Goldcloaks came back with Clegane's men and killed a lot of us, including Yoren."
Larra sighed sadly. "I liked him. So did Uncle Benjen."
"You knew him?"
"He was a wandering crow; he would always pass through Winterfell," Larra said. Tyrion Lannister had once said that everyone was connected in some way to everyone else in the world. It was strange to think that the thread binding Larra and Gendry was Yoren. He had been not only Arya's protector, but Gendry's too. He had been their brother. "He was gruff and good-humoured and dangerous."
"He was a good man," Gendry said sorrowfully. "He was the first person to ever protect me for no reason other than because it was right."
"There must have been others," Larra said softly. "You couldn't have survived otherwise."
"Someone paid for my apprenticeship, but after I found out who my father was, I know whoever it was didn't do it for my own good," Gendry said, shrugging. "They knew who I was. Maybe I could be useful to them… But maybe that same person knew my life was in danger, and had me sold to the Watch to get me away from King's Landing. Life was simpler when I didn't know."
"Much," Larra agreed, thinking of Rhaegar and Lyanna and the locket Benjen had kept for decades now burning a hole in the enamelled box on her dressing-table. The fire burned low and Larra gazed at Gendry. She murmured, "I'm glad you told me."
"I'm sorry I didn't before now," he said gruffly, and she could hear the shame in his voice.
"It was no small thing," she said softly. "What you went through – why people forced you to endure it. It is not an easy thing. Especially not to share it."
"I… Every time I…" Gendry struggled, and shook his head, sighing. "I am afraid…"
"Of her," Larra said quietly, and he nodded, staring at his hands. "You're afraid of being used to hurt people."
"I hate that she still has this power over me."
"Only if you let her," Larra said quietly. "When I was a girl, I was desperate to be loved by Lady Catelyn. She pretended we did not exist, Jon and me. If her gaze ever landed on us, I remember feeling such shame that I dared be there. Jon used to quake and hide, afraid of every word she uttered, even of her entering the same room… I was different. I started to see her for what she was; a hateful, ungodly woman who punished innocent children out of jealousy and spite for their mother. She made me feel ashamed to be loved by my family; she made me feel afraid in my own home. She made me small. I stopped letting her; I took that power from her. I decided that no-one in the world has the power to make me feel small."
"Is it that simple? Just deciding?" Gendry asked, and Larra gave him a wan smile.
"No. The thing is, you have to keep reminding yourself. Whenever you hear their voice in your head, you obliterate it. Replace it with other things; memories of you at your fiercest, your most capable," Larra said. "Sometimes, I just picture my brothers and sisters laughing. Knowing I loved them with all that I am, and they loved me the same, is the greatest power I have over that nasty little voice. It's been a long time since I heard it last. I know who I am and what I'm worth, what I'm capable of. I know what I've earned. That's a powerful thing."
Gendry rose to his feet, offering his hand, and Larra smiled, letting him pull her gently to her feet. He cupped her face in his hands and leaned in to give her a slow, savouring kiss.
"Will you stay?" she whispered, and Gendry nodded. They went to the bed, tugging off their boots, and Gendry groaned as he lay back; she tugged on the bedding, pulling quilts, blankets and furs over them, and lay beside him. He gathered her up, her head in the crook of his shoulder, and she sighed as he gave her a kiss.
"You left me hurting," she said quietly.
"I'm sorry about that," Gendry said, reaching up to caress her cheek, and gave her another slow, savouring kiss.
"You should be; I've been an absolute terror," she murmured against his lips. She sighed and lay back, gazing up at him. She reached up to push his curls out of his face so that the firelight caught in his sapphire-blue eyes. She sighed, admitting sadly, "I used to have no need for anyone else; I could take care of myself. Now, nothing else will do… No-one else will do."
Gendry leaned in, nuzzling her nose, and gave her short, sweet kisses, murmuring against her throat, "Let me take care of you."
As his hand slid up her skirts, she sighed and murmured against his lips, "Please do."
A.N.: I think we'll all agree we want/need/deserve a Gendry in our lives.