A/N: Though I don't want to give too much away, please be aware that this chapter is M-rated.

"Rain's coming," Gendry said, unnecessarily; from the massing clouds that had been gathering since the beginning of the day it was apparent that they were riding in the direction of foul weather. A coppery smell permeated the air and the skies were saturated with dark color. "We ought to stop."

It was only late afternoon, but Arya had to agree with him. The wind was gathering speed and the horses were shying more often as debris scattered across their path or small branches blew unexpectedly in their direction. Yet there wasn't much about in the way of obvious shelter. The ground was flat here, with the river roaring nearby. They urged their horses on, searching for a more protected spot, but by the time the rain was beginning to spatter, nothing ideal had presented itself, and they were obliged to stop and simply tie their mounts near to the base of a large tree, then scuttle under and stay by its roots. Arya peered past the blowing leaves. The horses were stamping and whooshing nervously, but they were all protected enough, though not hidden from view should anyone else happen by in the storm.

She hugged herself. She was damp, and there would be no fire tonight, not even Gendry could construct one in this sodden environment. He was unpacking their bedrolls and handing her a blanket. She wrapped it around her shoulders and leaned back against the tree. Even with the protection of leaves and branches above, the wind was whipping the rain so it fell in steady rivulets down the wooden channels of bark.

Gendry was murmuring to the horses, trying to quieten them, without much avail; they were made nervous by the hissing of the wind, and as soon as one settled, the other alarmed it again. Finally he left them and came and hunkered down beside Arya. They sat in quiet and watched the rain for a while, listening to the rolls of the thunder.

Arya began to twist her damp hair back into the braid from which it was constantly trying to escape. Gendry reached past her and produced a curled leaf that had been trapped in the tangles. It was a simple enough gesture, instinctive more than purposeful perhaps, but his hand lingered by her cheek, and his own face suddenly seemed very intent.

Not at all pitying. She wondered a little nervously if she shouldn't bring up last night's conversation again. She didn't especially want to talk about any of it, but she also didn't want him laboring under any misapprehensions, either.

One of the horses neighed, startling both of them. Gendry dropped his hand and looked away, out at the rain. "Want to eat something?"

She mumbled her accord. Bread and dried meat were prosaic, but filling. A headache was lurking in her temples, no doubt brought on by the shift in weather, and she would have given much to be able to wash down the food with some ale or wine. Of course there was only water. Everything was water. It was pooling near her feet, running down her back. She shifted and burrowed deeper into the blanket.

"Cold?" he asked.

"No, just wet. I'm all right."

"I don't want you to get sick."

"I'm stronger than you think." Arya spoke sturdily.

"To me you look like you want looking after."

"I do not want looking after."

"I mean you look like you need it. Like you're tired. You've been doing nothing but ride from one end of this country and back again."

"I was at Winterfell for a month," she argued without heat. "And more than likely I will stay at Riverrun that long."

"And after that?"

"I'm trying not to think that far ahead," she admitted.

"That's the trouble with you."

"Well, I'm sorry if you don't approve of my decisions, but since I'm the one who has to abide by them, I'll thank you to let me live a month at a time. A day at a time, if I have to."

"You do what you want," he said. "Don't have to check with me first."

This withdrawal was both unexpected and irritating. For a moment she didn't know how to react. Every time she was close to feeling like they might be honestly communicating again, it was somehow as if they were speaking different languages.

It defeated her. The pressure in her skull was building. The damp blanket was suddenly rather suffocating. She peeled it off and stood up.

"I need some air," she said, faintly, aware of how nonsensical it sounded, and moved out from under the tree into the driving rain, ignoring his exasperated exclamation.

The road stretched flat and muddy into the west, as far ahead as she could see through the wet gray. She took deep breaths of the moisture, closed her eyes for a moment and let the rain fall off her lids.

"Seven hells."

He was behind her, the rain plastering his own hair in dark lines across his forehead, delineating the muscles in his arms and chest, making him look like some kind of angry drowned fire-god.

"All men are made of water," she quoted. "Do you know this? If you pierce them, the water leaks out, and they die."

"Stop talking nonsense. All men are made of blood. Get out of the rain."

"We're already wet."

"And it's getting dark."

"I don't want you to be sorry for me."

"What?" He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I don't want you to feel sorry because of anything that happened!" she shouted into the rain.

"All right, I don't. I don't, I swear. Come back under the tree with me." He reached out and took her wrist, his fingers closing around the bracelet. They both looked down at it as the rain beat down on their arms, stinging Arya's flesh almost pleasantly.

"What does it mean?" She didn't quite say the words, only mouthed them, barely audibly.

"I thought it was goodbye. I never thought I would see you again to give it to you."

"You never thought you would see me again?" she repeated wonderingly. "I always knew I would come back."

"Then you knew more than I did. Damn you, Arya Stark!" His eyelashes were spiky anyway, there could have been tears or not, impossible to know in the rain. Her head ached and now her stomach ached too in the way it did when you suddenly really knew how you had hurt someone, you felt it turning back on yourself, the hurt that hurt twice, like a sword, once in the giving, once in the taking.

If there was a way to apologize for that, Arya didn't know what it was. Perhaps it didn't involve words.

She didn't know, either, if this was right or not, but she inched closer to him then, put her hands on his shoulders and tilted her face towards his.

It was only them, in the rain, there was no one else in the world. With her eyes and her mouth she asked him for a kiss.

He closed his eyes for an instant, looking up, away from her, as if in silent invocation, then he took her wet face in his wet hands and kissed her. Soft, hungry, upset all at once. But perfectly fulfilling. She wrapped her arms tighter around him, trying to get closer, deeper. Because it was right. Yet he was suddenly peeling her arms away, denying her. "No."

She let out an angry sound of wordless argument.

"Gods, Arya, d'you think I don't want to?" he almost pleaded, keeping her at arms' length, though this was only encouraging to her.

"Then—"

He grabbed her hand again and tugged her back towards the shelter of the tree.

Underneath its branches again she decided to compromise. "Just kiss me."

"Just kiss you? Am I a septon?"

They were both on their knees.

"If you don't want all of me," she said, trying to catch her breath.

He groaned. "I can't have any of you."

"I'm my own to give," she said, lying down on her bedroll, half aware of the way her hip curved persuasively upwards, the way her soaked clothing outlined the rest of her. She reached out and pulled him down beside her, placing his hand on her leg. His self-control seemed to weaken then. She was shivering with need and cold at the same time, but he was so warm, once he stripped off his clothes, she couldn't get enough of the feel of him against her, like iron fire. She wriggled out of her own clothing, kicking it aside, but whether she was shy or chilled she couldn't let him look at her just then, pulling him close, guiding his hands over her body where she wanted them. His hands were rough, work-hard, but they felt so good on her skin while they kissed long, avidly, savoring each other's mouth.

She whispered, breaking away for a second, "I need you inside me to be warm again," and it felt brazen, salacious to say, but she also meant it in a metaphysical way, though he was likely to be far too distracted to understand or appreciate the subtleties of the comment. He responded by rising over her on his elbows so their bodies were aligned, and he was ready, she could feel him against her, but even then he hesitated, his eyes so blue searching hers in the dusky evening rain air. The pit of her stomach where her hipbones converged ached with an anticipatory moment of delicious deprivation.

He touched his forehead against hers, and then joined with her completely, and the intimacy was overwhelming but she didn't have the least bit of uncertainty about it, it was precious and only awkward for her body, a little, not for her feelings at all. She dug her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders as they moved, as he moved in her. She thought of nothing but them, of how alive she felt, how warm, isolated together by the thunder and rain and leaves, his lips on her neck, on her ear.

At the moment of his desperate release she felt an exhilarating jolt of power, and when he relaxed on her in silent temporary enervation, she still clutched him against her, not wanting him to move away.

His jaw was scratchy against her neck. She wiggled, and he shifted, lifting his head to look at her. "Arya..." he said, dragging her name out as if in some kind of disbelief.

"Didn't you like it?"

"Couldn't you tell how much I liked it?"

She smiled, made shy by that despite her boldness.

"I still shouldn't've—"

"We."

"We shouldn't have—"

She stretched up to kiss him. His mouth was soft, reluctantly responding. "Yes we should," she said, feeling around for the blanket because there was rain still dripping on them through the trees and now that they were not moving it was noticeable. He slid sideways off her, and she pulled the blanket over both of them and snuggled back into his arms, tangling her legs familiarly between his. She supposed they would have to get dressed in their damp clothes again before night truly fell, but for now the sensation of having no barriers at all between them was still too new and intoxicating to give up right away.

Despite the physical fulfilment achieved and the accompanying languor in his limbs, all Gendry could think was how was he going to be able to leave her at Riverrun now. It was all well and good that they had enjoyed the coupling so much (at least he hoped she had as much as he) and of course there was no doubt they still had time to indulge in further such pleasurable diversions, but once they reached her mother's ancestral home, that recreation would necessarily come to an end. Ser Gendry of the brotherhood he might be this time, they wouldn't exactly banish him to the outer buildings, but he was still only Arya's escort and there was no reason for him to hang about once he'd done as Beric had asked.

Then, also, there was still the problem of the Frey engagement, presuming her fiancé was still alive, and even if he were not, there were plenty more to take his place.

It made his head ache, thinking of how much more complicated they'd just made things. It wasn't that he hadn't known, or hadn't cared; he wasn't so selfish as that. But there was only so much willpower a man could exert. When she'd had that look, a mixture of confident trust and hungry longing, on her face, at the same time she was showing him where she wanted his hands on her body—he couldn't imagine being able to refuse.

And now she was lying warm and smooth in his arms, on the verge of sleep, her breath soft and slow, wearing only that cursed bracelet he'd made, and he just didn't want this to be all that there was, he didn't want this to be all he could give her.

He was more than a little afraid that it was all he could give her. A few moments of stolen pleasure under a tree. What else was he good for? When you were considering the world of the high-born? She would be angry if he voiced such views, but it was how it was. Practicality forced him to entertain such notions, not self-pity.

Arya murmured something, her lips against his collarbone, the vibration sending tremors through him again. Her hair was damp and smoky, tickling his skin; he ran his fingers through it and told her to sleep. The rain was finally starting to slacken overhead. The thunderstorm must be passing.

Leaving their warm nest of bodies was hard in the morning, on such a sweet, right morning, but Arya got dressed, quietly enough so as not to wake Gendry or startle the horses, and slipped down to the water to wash. The river, muddy and racked with debris from yesterday's rains, was not as refreshing as she might have wished, and it was cold besides, so she hastily finished her ablutions and climbed back into her clothes. While sitting on the bank she wrung out her hair and contemplated the happenings of last night. She suspected Gendry would be regretting their love-making and was prepared for him to be brusque with her today as a result. She didn't care, it had been worth it to know that he didn't hate her any more, and she was fairly certain there hadn't been pity involved, either.

He's mine again...and I'm his, even if he still doesn't feel like he can have me.

Arya hastened back to the camp spot.

He was getting dressed as she approached. She smiled and lingered, admiring his bare chest and arms. "Good morning."

"Morning." He seemed self-conscious. But when she moved past him intending to gather up their blankets, he snagged her around the waist and pulled her into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Now she was the one faintly embarrassed since she'd been prepared for him to be distant. It was turning out to be somewhat perplexing, after all, with this new element added, to figure out how to relate to each other.

"Should have woken me up," he said.

"I took my sword with me," she answered, assuming he meant he didn't think it safe for her to be alone.

"Right," he said, letting her go. "Sometimes I forget you can probably look after yourself better than I can."

Now she felt guilty, even though he had tried to say it lightly. She cast about for some way to change the subject. "I'm hungry," she said, although she wasn't. "Let's eat."

His eyebrows were doubtful but he did not contradict. They had some bread, and fed and watered the horses before packing up. The sky had cleared overnight and though the ground would still be sodden, it looked to be a good day for riding.

They did manage to cover a lot of distance before that night, though it was tiring travel and the environment wasn't suited to any kind of intimate encounters by the time they did make camp. Arya curled up in Gendry's arms the way she had become accustomed to doing and fell asleep shortly after.