Edit 5/8/2013: proofread version, no major changes here :)

So it's AryaxGendry week down in Tumblrland, and I couldn't resist. Unfortunately I only found out about it a couple of days ago, so entries will be a little rushed :(

Also, this is my first foray into smut, so sorry if it's horrible (Of course my first attempt would be angsty and underage). It should be noted that this chapter is probably the only one with actual explicitness going on. The rest will be a bit tamer (I think. I haven't planned anything at any rate.), so if you like you can just wait until tomorrow for the next one. That said, this is a Game of Thrones fic, soooo...

~Frenzy~

This isn't love, this feeling that rises up inside his chest and burns every time she looks at him. Not love. Not yet. It is too soon and she is too young, however easy it may be to forget. When he looks into her weary grey eyes, sees the edges that hard living and hunger have carved into the baby fat of youth, it is so easy to forget that she is just a child not yet bled. He forgets and craves, and it's only when she sulks or cocks her head, totally innocent to the dirty japes he tries to tell her, that the realisation hits him full force.

Awake, he despises the thought of it; every shiver at her touch, every lingering gaze as she stretches or bathes fought with utter revulsion. He is no monster, he tells himself, no cunt-starved wretch like the man that sired him. There is no beast in this blacksmith, and she is barely three and ten and a high born besides.

But asleep... asleep he has no leash, no fences to bind him. He can never remember the details, but he wakes at night with her name on his lips and his hand halfway down his trousers. The shame always follows moments after, crippling him with nausea. He'll choke back bile and swear to any gods that will listen that he is not his father's son.

So far his will has been iron, but tonight there is something different about her – the careless toss of her head, the way the firelight glitters in her eyes. Something is driving him to the edge and it makes him jittery and angry. Hot Pie has gone to piss (though it's clearly more unwillingness to sit through yet another fight between them than his bladder), and their tempers are flaring high and unchecked. She snarls like a wolf, crouching low to the ground, and experience has taught him that one wrong word will set her howling at him. Were it any other day, any other time, he would throw up his hands and laugh it off, but he is feeling reckless. So he shouts insults at her, at her mother and father, at her sister and brothers and stupid castles and servants and things he has never known and never will. Her eyes are cold as frost but she does not move, and this only drives him on. There is one thing he knows will snap her, one thing he has always been careful to avoid. It fills him with twisted glee to use it even with the self hatred that threatens to swallow him whole. Looking her dead in the eye, he spits on the bastard Snow and all he has dared accomplish, the venom in his voice only made stronger by the knowledge that mere Waters will never be enough for this girl with winter in her blood.

There is silence. Too late he fears he has gone too far. She'll leave him, throw him away like filth, and he deserves nothing less, gods what has he -

The wind is knocked from his chest, and immediately a tiny fist slams into his face, followed by another and another until the corners of his vision go blurry and dark. He can barely breathe through the pain. For one wild instant he thinks she might just kill him instead; it's only after he tastes blood that he thinks to fight back, trying to throw her off. She is small and fast and slippery as a fish, but his strength gives him the upper hand. Finally he gets a grip on the scruff of her neck, wrenching her away from him long enough for his head to clear. The fighting does not cease however, so he crushes her to the ground with his bulk instead, pinning her hands above her head.

Her eyes burn into him with a fury that he has only seen when whispering promises of death, and once again he thinks he has gone too far. He's about to let her up, but then she writhes beneath him, face flushed and hair dishevelled, and the monster within roars into life. It is all too easy to imagine her naked and begging for release, plump little mouth open just for him. He leans forward, breathless.

Lost in his thoughts, his guard drops and suddenly her teeth are at his throat. There is a pause - barely a heartbeat where the skin is stretched tight in resistance - before it gives way all at once. Blood starts to run. His hand flies to his neck, and now free she rakes her nails down his shirt and shoves him away. Her eyes are wild, and she stumbles away from the camp and straight into Hot Pie. He seems just as stunned as she is, but all the blacksmith can think of is the little smear of blood at the corner of her lips. His mouth is dry.

Much, much later, when the fire is just a smouldering pile of ashes, she returns. She walks straight past him and drags her furs as far away from him as possible. When he tries to help her, she dos not meet his eye and flinches away from his touch. The air is heavy with unspoken words. Poor Hot Pie mumbles a goodnight to no one and rolls over. Night settles.

When he is sure the others are asleep, he slips away into the forest, going as far as he dares. No matter his anxiety, no matter the shreds of decency screaming for him to stop, he cannot shake the feel of her beneath him, breath hot on his neck. Trembling, he undoes the laces of his trousers and takes himself in hand for the first time in what feels like an age. His head tips back with a sigh. Eyes closed, he can see her furious eyes on him, her body writhing in his grasp. She had smelt of snow and sweat and the wilderness of the forest. He imagines her pink and wet, a core of molten heat between her legs, mouth parted in exertion, and oh gods above...

He muffles a moan in the crook of his elbow, backing against a tree for support.

She would not be gentle though, this wolf of the North. She would fight against him every step of the way, overpowering him with sheer ferocity. He'd try to encourage her to be slow, but she would be impatient and needy, slamming herself down on top of him without ceremony. Between them his hands would be busy teasing and coaxing her to her peak, movement surer with every whimper torn from her throat. He digs his fingers into the wound at his neck and thinks of her biting him savagely in her passion. Instantly a jolt of pleasure shoots down his spine. His knees buckle, and as he falls he scrapes his back against the rough bark of the tree. Her nails would claw down his back as she rode him wildly, faster and faster and faster and-

A strangled gasp.

For one blissful moment there is nothing but pleasure thrumming through his veins. It does not last. All too soon the guilt overtakes him, increasing with every pained throb of his neck and the cooling seed on his hand. Just another monster after all. He has not cried since his mother died, but he is sobbing now, a broken bastard blacksmith with nothing but his own loathing to keep him company.

When he finally returns to the camp, Arya does not stir. There is some blessing in that, at least.