Thank you for the kind reviews. No smut warning for this one, but there's still some sexual content, so be warned if you wish to avoid it.
Rhaegar stares down his youngest child, his son who is now a man grown. A man grown, wedded and bedded. He doesn't know when Jon had become a man. He didn't get to see much of his childhood. His scraped knees, his first time fighting with live steel, his first anything's. Yes, he saw his first steps and heard his firsts words and for seven years Jon was his.
Jon is no longer his. No. He's the result of an upbringing courtesy of Lord and Lady Stark. The winter may have quelled the fire and blood in his son. He even carries himself like Ned. He's always quiet and serious. Rhaegar sometimes forgets how solemn he himself was until he met Lyanna.
Jon does not flinch under his father's gaze. They are in the king's solar, well after breakfast. Rhaegar had asked Jon to speak to him, and Sansa had looked up from her nearly empty breakfast plate in concern. She almost trailed after them to the solar in order to be there for her husband.
"What possessed you to do this?" Rhaegar asks.
"Love," Jon answers simply.
Rhaegar tries not to rub his eyes.
"I've loved Sansa since I was a child. Do not begrudge us this happiness," Jon says, his voice firm and soft all the same.
"You knew your brother cared for her," Rhaegar starts.
"He barely knows her. And she doesn't even like him," Jon grits his teeth.
Rhaegar wonders if Aegon and Jon would be closer now had Jon remained in the Red Keep. Surely Sansa Stark, no, Sansa Targaryen, would not even be here had Lyanna not gotten her way. Lyanna always gets her way.
"That may be so, but you didn't have to go about in such a manner."
Jon is on the verge of telling Rhaegar exactly what his precious heir has done to Sansa, but he keeps quiet. He knows Rhaegar favours his children with Elia Martell over him. He knows that is why he was sent away to Winterfell. He is grateful, to have grown up under his aunt and uncle's care, and to have met Sansa.
"Arya doesn't like him, either," Jon says.
"I don't see her complaining," Rhaegar's eyes narrow.
"You see nothing, then," Jon says, "may I take my leave, your grace?"
That is a blow to Rhaegar. His children only ever call him your grace when in the company of other courtiers. He's always been father. Rhaegar frowns. Jon probably thinks of Ned Stark as his father. Why shouldn't he? Looking at Jon is like looking at Ned from twenty years ago. And Sansa is the spitting image of her mother. Northerners. His son is a Northerner.
Rhaegar nods and Jon leaves, and even his gait is identical to Ned's. He frowns when the door shuts behind Jon. The North has stolen his son, and he in turn has stolen a daughter of the North.
Arya tries to embroider a grey cloth napkin for Sansa and Jon, a white wolf on it. Lyanna, too, is sewing, and even after years of practice her stitches aren't even.
"Did you know?" Lyanna asks her younger niece.
"I was the witness," Arya admits, tongue between her teeth in concentration.
Lyanna takes in the information and hesitates to ask her the next question.
"Do you like Aegon?"
Arya looks up from her needlework, her eyes iced over, "I'd rather be sent to the Silent Sisters than marry Aegon. You can't make me. None of you can make me."
"He's not so bad," Lyanna tries, "and you'll get to be queen."
"I don't want to be queen," Arya looks down at her lap, tears springing to her eyes, "I don't even want to be a lady. Everything would be so much easier if I were some tavern wench's bastard."
Lyanna's brow furrows and Arya wipes at her face, embarrassed, and horrified that she'll let something slip.
Lyanna tries again, "But you must admit he's handsome."
Arya gives a noncommittal shrug.
"He's not what I imagined a prince would be," she says carefully.
"What did you imagine a prince would be like?"
Gendry, Arya wants to say. It's not what she expected but it's what she would've preferred. So she just says, "Someone more like Jon. Or even Father."
"You miss them," Lyanna says knowingly.
Arya looks at her aunt with the same grey eyes she has, that Ned has, "I didn't even say goodbye to them, not truly. I was so angry. I'm still angry."
Lyanna's eyes soften as she looks at this wild girl, who is so much like her when she was that age. She fears Arya will do something brash like run away, but Arya doesn't even like boys, and she doesn't know anyone outside of her family and the courtiers in the Red Keep. She barely interacts with the other lords and ladies.
"I know you don't want to be a lady—"
"How can you know how I feel? You're a queen. You didn't want to marry Robert Baratheon so you ran away," Arya says bitterly. If Lyanna had married Robert, Aegon would never have met her. Would never even know she existed.
"Running away isn't the answer," Lyanna starts.
"It sure worked out for you, didn't it?" she bites, venom in her voice, "what's one dead brother and a dead father if you get to be queen?"
Lyanna's gaze turns cold. Arya stands.
"If I may be excused, your grace," she says sourly, not even waiting for a response.
Something is going on with that girl. She'd been so happy mere days ago, but talk of Aegon makes her angry. Lyanna suspects Sansa may know. The sisters are closer than anyone gives them credit for.
Arya nuzzles her head into the crook of Gendry's shoulder. She doesn't know what's possessed her to seek him out in the middle of the day, but she was so angry with the queen she needed to let out her frustration. She tried hacking away at a dummy in the training yard, but she only grew angrier. She imagined the dummy was Aegon.
After inflicting deep cuts on the dummy, she washed her face and changed her clothes before sneaking into the streets of King's Landing.
She finds Gendry working on a plate of armor, and upon seeing her he drops everything he's doing.
There, in the forge, they kiss quickly, roughly. Gendry is always so gentle that Arya needs to be rough, just this once. Gendry doesn't ask what's got her so riled up. She'll tell him in her own time. Her teeth rake across his neck and he grips her hips tightly. Gods, she's going to be the death of him.
They hear someone enter the smithy and jump apart. He fixes his shirt and tries to make himself look presentable.
"Stay here," he says softly, moving towards the front of the shop.
It's some lord. He's fat and finely dressed, a hat upon his head. He looks about the work on display, eye catching on the bull's helm.
"May I help you, m'lord?" Gendry asks.
"I'm interested in a dagger," he says with a voice higher than Gendry had been expecting.
"What kind?" he asks.
"Small. Dainty, almost. It's for a lady," he clarifies with a small smile, as if he's in on a secret.
"Jewel encrusted?" Gendry asks. Tobho usually deals with requests like this.
"Hmm, yes. Rubies, perhaps," the lord says.
His eyes take in Gendry's appearance with great interest and Gendry shifts uncomfortably.
"How old are you?" the lord asks, "you seem young to be a smith."
"I'm nearly twenty, and an apprentice still," Gendry answers.
"Your parents must be very proud of your work," he says lightly.
Gendry grits his teeth, "My parents are dead."
The lord's brows rise.
"Well, the dagger. Can you do it?" he asks.
Gendry nods.
"I mean for it to be a name day gift for my niece. In three weeks," he says, and Gendry nods once more.
Once he is gone Gendry returns to the back room to find Arya waiting for him.
"He talked a lot," she quips before smashing her mouth onto his.
A letter sealed with the Baratheon sigil arrives days later. Varys opens it with barely contained glee. Oh, Lord Renly is a good man. Kind and just, not to mention charming. The young Storm Lord has no bride and no heirs, and with him being the last remaining Baratheon, he is trying to find his eldest brother's bastards. So far, a Mya Stone is in his care at the moment, and he is trying to locate more children. Mya is near two and twenty, and Renly now wishes to find his remaining nieces and nephews.
Varys has written to Renly about the smith, and now Renly himself wishes to come see the boy. The Prince's name day tourney would be the most opportune time to set up a meeting, would it not? Renly would arrive to renew his pledge of allegiance to the Iron Throne, to atone for his brother's folly, and in between festivities he can meet Gendry.
The Master of Whispers has other plans, though. Plans involving him meeting a certain princess. While he's heard of Renly's preferences, the Targaryens are so beautiful he may just seek the hand of Rhaegar's little sister.
Jon's sitting in a tub of water after training, covered in dirt and sweat and a bit of blood. The boys he trains with are eager, but they're summer knights, playing at war. Winter is coming, and they need to be ready. He can feel it in his bones.
His wife (he still can't believe she's his wife, every day is like a beautiful dream), sits in a chair behind him, and washes his hair with gentle fingers.
He lets out a moan and Sansa giggles.
"You should be in this tub with me," he closes his eyes and leans his head back.
"Do you think it'll be more efficient, husband?" she asks with a playful grin.
"I think so, wife," Jon smiles, eyes still closed.
He hears the soft rustling of skirts and the sound of water swishing back and forth. Sansa eases herself into the tub, cramped as it might be, and Jon opens his eyes. She's holding a washcloth and moves towards him to wipe at his chest, the cloth catching on coarse black hairs.
"You've got a cut," she brings her fingers to a slash on his shoulder.
"Just a nick. Loras Tyrell got a bit too excited," Jon says with a small smile.
"You tell Loras Tyrell that if he cuts you again, I'll cut him. With Ice," she says darkly, referring to her father's great sword.
Jon snorts, imagining Sansa running after the boy with Ice. She's fiercely protective, his Sansa.
"You don't think I can?" Sansa asks indignantly. She knows she's not tough like Arya, nor does she have the physical strength, but she could with proper training.
"I think you can do anything," Jon says, leaning forward to brush his nose on hers.
Sansa smiles, "Will you teach me to swordfight?"
Jon looks startled, and Sansa continues.
"The ladies of Bear Island fight to protect themselves. Aunt Lya can fight, Arya can fight. Even Theon's sister can fight, and she captains ships," she reasons out, "I should be able to fight, to. To protect myself."
"I'll protect you," Jon says in confusion. Sansa's hand caresses his cheek and she shakes her head.
"I know you'll protect me whenever and however you can, but you can't constantly be by my side," she reasons.
"I'll teach you," Jon promises, "first thing in the morning."
"First thing?" she raises a brow, running her hand don his cheek, to his chest.
"Second thing," he corrects, earning a giggle and a splash of water in his direction.
Sansa and Jon are sickeningly cute. Dany can't help but smile when she sees them together. It's like something out of a song, childhood sweethearts, one a perfect lady the other a princely knight.
Everyone, save Aegon, seems to be in a good mood. Rhaenys has come out of her shell, with the aid of Sansa's friendship, and she's not as reliant on her older brother anymore. Arya Stark is a blessing to Rhaenys, as well. She warmed up to her future good-sister quickly, and despite Arya's blatant dislike of Aegon, she's a spirited girl and unfailingly kind to Rhaenys, much like Sansa is.
Sometimes Daenerys wonders how her oldest brother can be so blind. How he does not see what is right in front of his nose. Lyanna is better, more observant. Rhaegar does not see the hostility in Aegon, especially where Jon and Lyanna are concerned.
While Jon was being born in the Tower of Joy, surrounded by the Kingsguard, Elia Martell was being murdered by Lannister men. And now Prince Oberyn Martell is married to Tywin Lannister's daughter. And now Quentyn Martell, Doran's eldest son, writes letters to Daenerys about joining their Houses once again. Each time Dany receives a letter with the sun and spear sigil, she rolls her eyes. A Targaryen and Martell marriage worked out so well the first time, she thinks sarcastically. Elia and Rhaegar respected each other and were friends, but they were not in love. Daenerys will settle for nothing less than true love, should she ever marry. Quentyn's letters are tedious, but at least she is spared from the golden-haired Joffrey Martell, who barely looks like a Martell. The gods surely must laugh at them all, what with their alliances and politicking.
She tries to find a time alone with Rhaenys, to speak about if she'd like to join her in the Free Cities after Aegon and Arya's wedding, but Rhaenys seems terrified at the thought. She's never been much of an adventurer, but then again she was old enough during the sack of King's Landing to remember what had happened. She had seen her own mother murdered, and she surely would have been next had Rhaegar not ridden back into the city after killing the Baratheon man at the Trident. Despite being the younger of the two, Daenerys would find herself comforting her niece. Rhaenys still suffers from nightmares, though she doesn't like to talk about them. All Dany could do was brush her brown hair gently and scoot over in her bed so Rhaenys could sleep. Dany promises Rhaenys she'll be by her side, always, if she comes with her across the Narrow Sea, but the princess simply refuses.
Daenerys holds a wooden sword in her hand, as does Sansa. She's borrowed breeches from Arya, but they are shorter on her than she would've liked. Daenerys is dressed in silk pants from Lys and a fitted top that allows her to move swiftly. Sansa looks uncomfortable in the baggy tunic, one of Jon's thinner belts wrapped around her waist to give her some shape.
Arya bites back a laugh as Jon holds Sansa's hand, leading her through the motions. Rhaenys and Arya sit on the wooden fence surrounding the training grounds, mirth obvious.
"What's possessed her to learn to fight?" Rhaenys wonders aloud.
Arya shrugs, wondering if Gendry can make Sansa a sword.
Jon shows Sansa the motions she must go through. Step forward slightly, elbow back, bring the sword down on the target. Sansa repeats his motions, and likens it to dancing. If she can dance, surely she can sword fight. Even Arya calls her lessons with Syrio Forel water dancing.
Sansa is certainly graceful, and her movements are fluid enough. She holds the pommel of the sword awkwardly and Jon gently fixes her grip. He backs away and she steps forward again, slicing the wooden sword through the air.
Jon gives a nod, and now Sansa watches as he and Dany practice. They swing the swords up and down, side to side, hitting each other and moving slowly so that Sansa could learn.
Sansa mimics the motions, and Rhaenys turns to Arya.
"She's quick," she says kindly.
"Of course she is, she's a Northerner," Arya says proudly, earning a laugh from her future good-sister.
Now Daenerys steps off to the side, and Jon and Sansa face each other. Jon looks uneasy at the prospect of fighting with his wife.
"Kick his ass, Sansa," Arya calls. Rhaeyns's eyes widen at her vulgarity and Arya shrugs.
"Northerners," she says as if it explains her crassness.
Sansa sends Arya a reproachful look while Jon tries not to smile. Gods, they look like Mother and Father, Arya thinks. Father had always been more lenient with her, while Mother tried to groom her into a proper little lady. The look on Sansa's face now makes her look exactly like Lady Catelyn.
Jon moves towards Sansa slowly, and she looks scared. She brings the wooden sword down on Jon's shoulder lightly, as if giving him a tap.
"Oh, come on," Dany snorts, crossing her arms.
Jon gives Sansa an equally light tap on the leg. Arya starts laughing, unable to control herself. She doubles over, clutching her stomach, and soon Rhaneys and Dany are cackling in amusement as well.
Jon and Sansa stop. Jon glares, and Sansa pouts slightly.
"Sorry, sorry," Arya wheezes, "but I think someone else should teach Sansa how to fight. Y'know, someone better."
"Who?" Jon asks, "You?"
Arya nods and her cousin rolls his eyes. She leaps from the wooden posts, takes Sansa's practice sword, and falls into a sideface stance.
"Watch and learn, sweet sister," Arya says.
Sansa goes to sit next to Rhaeneys, and they watch as Arya attacks Jon. They parry and hit the swords against each other. She's quick and light on her feet, but then again, so is Jon. He doesn't appear to have so many qualms about sparring with his little cousin. Arya strikes a blow to Jon's shoulder and it looks like it hurt, even when using the wooden swords Arya refers to as sticks.
Jon strikes back, hitting her in the side. Sansa folds her hands in her lap, trying not to tell them stop being so barbaric. Arya lets out what sounds like a roar, and now Sansa is sure there's no method at all. She's just beating Jon silly, hitting him repeatedly on the back while he laughs.
"That's not proper form," Dany sniggers, arms still crossed.
"Enough," Sansa stands, glaring at her husband and her sister.
Arya stops mid-smack and looks up at Sansa with a fearful expression. Sansa schools her features into a look of being cross, and Jon steps back hesitantly. Arya nearly runs behind him, but wolves are never scared.
"If you're not going to be serious about this, there's no use," she says icily.
Arya lowers her gaze, as if Mother were chastising her. Sansa takes the wooden sword from Arya and advances on Jon. She hits him, trying not to laugh at his cowed expression.
By this point, Rhaenys and Dany can't subdue their laughter any longer, and even later at dinner, they burst into giggles upon glancing at Sansa and Jon.
Arya gasps, clutching the thin, rough sheet beneath her. Gendry has gotten very, very good at this. The awkward fumbling around, the slow and steady rhythm, has now given away to precise and heated motions and fast thrusts and pulls and tugs. Practice does make perfect, after all. Gendry never thought of his name in terms of whether or not he liked it. It's just a name, after all. Except now Arya's panting his name over and over again, with different inflections and tones for each little move he makes (Gendry, Gendry, GenDRY, GENDRY, GE-NDRY) and he thinks it's never sounded sweeter.
Gendry grunts, and Arya's legs tighten around him. She feels good, contented. Happy. Dare she find herself happy? The closer her wedding date gets, the more she finds herself in Gendry's shanty of a home. His lips are upon hers, and she welcomes his tongue into her mouth. She looks well-kissed and well-fucked every time she returns to the Red Keep, and she starts to suspect that people know. She's pretty sure Sansa knows, but her sister, may the gods old and new bless her, says nothing. She knows what it's like to have to sneak around.
He spends himself in her and holds himself above her, not letting himself fall. He's still afraid he'll crush her with his weight. She knows he won't ever hurt her, and despite her innate sceptical nature, she trusts him. He has an honest face. His blue eyes are guarded, but he looks at her like she's some sort of gift from the gods.
"I've never had a friend before," Gendry whispers against her shoulder, kissing it.
"Not one?" she asks quietly, relishing each tiny bit of information he gives her. She wants to know everything about him.
"No," he murmurs, not sharing any more. She doesn't mind. He'll tell her if he thinks it pertinent.
"Well I'm your friend," Arya says, pressing her head to his chest.
He chuckles, "I don't think friends usually fall into bed with their other friends."
She looks up at him with warm grey eyes, "Well, you were my friend first. Now you're mine."
"And you're mine," Gendry says, kissing the top of her head. He knows it's not true. He'll forever be Arya's, but she'll never be his. She's promised to the prince, bloody lords and ladies and their political alliances. He'd give her anything she wanted, he'd follow her if only she'd give the word.
For all her talk about running away, he doubts she'd bring the dishonour upon her family. Arya always has ways of surprising him, though.
Well, that was that. The Prince's tourney is coming up, so we're nearing the events of chapter one and the immediate fall-out.