Chapter 8: Gendry

Author's Note: so, what did you folks think of the last chapter? I'd like to thank all the people who tooke some off their precious time to drop me reviews and comments and stuff.

Gendry jogged quickly down the steps, most of his thoughts obscured in hazy, drunken clouds. His head was throbbing, his blood pumping, and his heart was racing—he wasn't sure if it was the exercise, the alcohol, or something else entirely that he couldn't quite make out with all the confusion that buzzed in his head. One minute he would have a thought going and then it was gone as soon as it had come. Gendry knew but one thing.

He needed to go back.

Back to the dining hall and get himself some more drink—and that was where his legs took him. He doubled his pace, taking two or three steps at a time, not worrying whether or not he'd slip and bang his head on the stone stairs given the condition he was in: drunk.

In no time, Gendry had arrived. He pushed the wooden doors wide open and strode inside, seeing most of the men were either passed out like corpses after war in all sorts of places—on the table, perhaps underneath it—while some were too preoccupied with more drinking, games, stories and laughing to notice Gendry as he came in. But the hall was quieter than when he had first left it, snores replacing half the voices he'd been hearing earlier that night. He never bothered to check for his friends, knowing that they all had weak heads for ale and would probably passed out tangled drunkenly around each other in the same place they'd stopped to drink.

He went to the nearest table and grabbed two wine skins, draining what contents they had left before refilling them. He slung the skins on his shoulder and left almost as soon as he had come, as quick as a shadow.

Gendry had a large upper floor in his armory.

The whole structure itself was a gift from the king, and though he had been given his own room in Winterfell, he was the most comfortable there in his work area and as a result, he had a room for himself in its upper floor. There he slept when the cold wasn't too bad up there in the North (where he always kept wood for a fire and skins and blankets beyond count), but really when the cold winds hit there is no place safe other than the walls of Winterfell. In love as he was with the North, Gendry still had the skin of a southerner.

One more thing he loved about his armory was the terrace he had on that same upper floor. Gendry hardly ever went there when the sun up, but he loved sitting down on the wooden floor with his back to the wall during night time. You could see most of Winterfell from there, from the castle just nearby and the woods on the other side, and the wide expanse of glittering starts against the black winter skies above. He stayed their frequently when he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts—or to let them slip by, and although the wind bit and nipped at his skin when he stayed out too long or too late, he didn't mind.

He sat down heavily on the wooden floor, dropping the skins before him. He put his back against the wall, flattened his soles on the floor so that his legs were folded up in front of him where he rested one arm on his knee while he blindly groped for the skin with his other hand. He removed the cork with one flip of his thumb, placed the opening in his lips and threw his head back upon drinking, squeezing his eyes shut and gulping loudly as he did. When the was through, he exhaled loudly, feeling the liquid dribbling from the corners of his mouth before proceeding to wipe them away brashly with the back of his hand.

Gendry stopped and his hand stopped dead on its tracks. He held his breath for a few moments, feeling the warmth of his hand on his face. He turned his hand over slowly, running his thumb lightly over his lips in idle circles. His face twitched in a momentary expression of shame and horror before relaxing again. His fingers found his temples, he let a long and hard sigh escape his chest before his face slumped forward and Gendry let the walls he had painstakingly built around his consciousness fly away like sand against the wind.

I kissed Arya.

In his head it sounded dry and factual.

I kissed Arya.

He said it again and he found himself sighing again. He slapped his hand to his forehead before putting them both over his eyes. He dragged his palms over his face in frustration.

Stop, stop, stop, stop.

Gendry knew he needed to face the problem.

He played the moment in his head again and again and no matter how many times he did he could never quite understand why he did it—or how he felt about doing it. He recalled how they'd both just stood up, how he'd taken her by the waist—unconsciously taking care to do it gently but firmly—and he'd let his instincts take its course. He remembered feeling how the curve of her waist seemed to fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. He took in one long breath and he closed his eyes—it was amazing how quickly his own lips had found hers, and although Gendry had never kissed a woman (or man) in his life, seeing the deed done enough times and letting his body do work, he felt like he was doing it right. He recalled vividly the soft, smooth feel of her lips, the moisture, the sharp, fresh taste of drink as he kissed her and—

—as she kissed him back.

He'd missed that detail the first few times, but now he was sure of it. She did. He felt her hands on his shoulders, they barely brushing the skin and he could feel the slight hesitation in them, but enough to unconsciously cause him to pull in closer, surer of his kisses than moments before. Then he stopped.

What made him stop?

He pulled his away from her, feeling the slight cohesion as he unwounded his lips from Arya's. His mouth gaping wide open, he looked down on her eyes. He could feel his head throb and his vision going in and out of focus; all the while he kept his arm around her waist. He'd pinched himself on the leg trying to force himself not to pull her in again for another one after seeing the confusion in her eyes and realizing the difficulty of the situation in a moment of clarity. His mind went ablaze trying to look for a way out of his predicament, and it came easily and quickly enough:

The ale, of course. Always blame it on the ale.

And so he did, and Arya was clever enough to have come up with the same answer and they both decided, politely, to go along with the flow. Gendry could feel the familiar acidic sensations in his stomach, the dull thrumming in his head and the overall feeling of slowness—it seemed he was drunk, after all. People pulled all sorts of dumb stunts when they were intoxicated and Gendry knew himself to be liable to do something similar. Then again it was Arya—Arya the untouchable, his best friend, the king's sister nonetheless. It took a lot to get Gendry drunk given all the experience he'd built for himself. How drunk was he? They would both be too embarrassed to talk about one, awkward drunken night ever again and carry on as they usually did the next morning—he knew it, he felt it in his gut and the long years of friendship he'd had with her. Most of all why did the thought bother him so much?

Did he like her?

Without meaning to a laugh escaped his lips.

Along with something else in the deep, dark pits of his stomach.

Gendry stood up and ran to the railings, retching his dinner and all the barrels of ale he'd had that night. It was early in the morning by then. He let it all go out and by the time he was don he was panting and he could feel a sharp stabbing pain in his temples and the back of his skull. He let out a low grunt and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He crawled on all fours drunkenly, reaching for the nearest object for support in order to prop himself up on his two feet. He staggered towards his sleeping quarters where he let his body fall carelessly onto the mattress, his face slumped onto the pillow, his head too painful to hold anymore thoughts for that day.

In no more than a few minutes Gendry was snoring loudly, dreaming the same things he had been thinking of even when he was awake.