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It’s been four years since The Last War, since Jon Snow killed Daenerys Targaryen, since Brandon Stark became King.
Gendry Baratheon often finds himself sweating away in the forge, the place that gives him the most comfort even now. Hammering away on an anvil was the only thing that kept him sane when he lived in secrecy in King’s Landing years ago, after Ser Davos had saved him from death at the hands of the Red Woman. He has come to depend on the time he spends in the forge to escape from everything else.
Being the Lord of Storm’s End has done nothing to quell his desire for the steadiness that forging gives him. The first time he stepped into the forge after reaching Storm’s End, there were a lot of strange looks from men who wondered why a man lucky enough to have risen from a lowly bastard of Flea Bottom to Lord of Storm’s End would want to get his hands covered in soot again.
But soon enough, he was welcomed amongst their midst and his time there made the people more endeared to him with his desire to work and distaste for the traditional ways of a Lord. He was never meant for Lordship, or so he thought. It suited him far better than he thought it would.
A year into his lordship, the offers started coming in from different parts of the land. Fathers presented their daughters who hoped to become the Lady of Storm’s End. Every time they come and speak lengths to how they would serve dutifully, bear heirs, manage the domestic affairs well for him, he can’t help but imagine how unimpressed Arya would be to hear all of it. He can picture that look on her face so easily it pains him sometimes. The very one she gave him when he responded to her queries about the white walkers with “really bad”. It seemed like only yesterday that she had looked at him that way.
He couldn’t bear to say yes to any of their proposals. Each woman that stood before him was lovely in her own way but he knew it would be wrong to them if he agreed to their proposals. He couldn’t stop himself but all he could think about was Arya’s smile, her sweat glistened forehead that he had kissed the night the dead came to their doorstep, the feel of her hands in his and her lips on his. All these women deserved better than a husband who was languishing in love with another. He would not be his father.
“Come on lad, you’ve got to say yes one of these days,” Davos pleads after his fifth rejection.
He tries to put her out of his head, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Davos looks at him and Gendry knows he understands exactly why he couldn’t take any of these women to be his wife.
“I know you love her. I don’t know her well but I’ve heard enough. She’s a fighter. Hell, I saw her during the Battle of Winterfell. Never seen anything like her-”
Gendry smiles at that. Yes, a fighter indeed.
“-but you need to let go. She’s chosen her path and maybe she’ll come back. Maybe she won’t. Either ways, you have to do your duty. And maybe marrying won’t be so bad. You can fall in love more than once you kno-”
“Stop,” He doesn’t recognise his own voice. It sounds sterner than it ever has been. “I love her and I won’t ever stop loving her. I’d just got her back and now I’ve lost her again. It doesn’t matter that she’s not here now. That feeling I get when I think of her won’t go away.”
Davos opens his mouth but thinks better of it and just shakes his head at him.
He is brought out of his thoughts by the voice of one of his bannermen, “M’lord, there’s someone at the gates. She claims to be Arya Stark. Should I send her away?”
He nearly drops the sword he was working on. “Arya Stark?”
“Yes M’lord. She’s quite insistent that we let her in. Said ‘I’m getting into this castle one way or another’”
“Of course she did,” he responds, smiling at the image of her threatening the guards. “No need to send her away. I’ll meet her there now.”
As he climbs the steps out of the forge, he feels nervous. Four years had passed since he saw her last. She had hugged him after the council meeting before walking away. And that was the last he saw of her.
Until today, that is.
As he walks across the courtyard, he wonders why she would come here and not Winterfell, where her sister now ruled. He hopes but wills himself not to consider that possibility.
And there she is. Standing in the middle of the courtyard at Storm’s End, is Arya Stark. She looks different which isn’t really surprising. It had been four years, after all.
She no longer has her half-up half-down look. Her hair is open, framing her face. It has grown well past her shoulders now. She’s wearing a long skirt with pants underneath, a white tunic and a colourful short coat over it. The last he had seen her, she was garbed in a leather top, brown pants with a paneled dark skirt and a fur overlay.
She smiles at him, “Lord Baratheon.”
“Don’t call me th-” He stops himself because he sounds so much like her in that moment.
She lets out a laugh at that and he finds himself smiling involuntarily. This woman has far too much power over him, he laments.
“You look good,” he manages finally.
“And so do you,” she says with a smile still playing on her lips.
This whole encounter reminds him painfully of their reunion at Winterfell four years ago.
“I hear you still work in the forge. Don’t you have men to do that for you now, M’lord?”
He looks down, “I do. But I like my work. It’s what I do best. Being a Lord, well…I try.”
She walks over to him, “I say you’ve done a fair bit more than try. It seems to be going really well here.”
Before he can respond, she has wrapped her arms around him and pulls him in for a hug.
“It’s good to see you again,” she murmurs into his shoulder. “I missed you.”
He smiles at that, “I missed you too.”
He wants to add “so much” but stops himself because it sounds like too much. He wishes it weren’t so but he is scared of being too much. He’s worried that he’ll say something and she’ll be gone before he can take it back. He won’t make that mistake again. He has spent four long years away from her. He’ll be damned if he scares her away the moment she comes back.
She pulls back and gazes at him, neither of them saying anything. It feels as if they were the only ones there. Nothing else exists but them. Nothing else matters but them.
But there is a telltale cough from Ser Davos to remind them that they are not the only ones there in that courtyard.
Arya drops her hands from him, before turning to look behind them.
“Ser Davos,” she greets.
“Lady Arya,” he responds, smiling slightly at her. Gendry knows Davos likes her plenty but has also grown fiercely protective of him. He knows that Davos is worried about Arya hurting him.
“How have you been?” Arya questions.
“Well enough. Been taking care of this one here.” Davos replies, nodding towards him. “Heard you’ve been off on some grand adventures. I’d love to hear about them. If you are staying a while that is.”
Gendry’s eyes widen at that and he gives Davos a pointed look. Stop being so bloody obvious, he wants to say.
Arya’s not stupid and she picks up on his tone, “I am. I’ve wanted to come home for a while.”
He knows that it’s pathetic and if Sandor Clegane were here, he’d punch him in the balls for it but he smiles at Arya calling this home.
“Well then, M’lady, we will get you a nice room to put down your things and freshen up.”
Gendry watches as Davos leads her away to one of the guest rooms on the other side of the courtyard. He knows he’s opening himself up to being hurt again but he doesn’t care. Arya was home. Home with him.
She sits next to him at dinner, laughing with the people around them. Everyone is a bit in awe to be dining with the Night Kingslayer. They are all so eager to meet her and talk to her. The girl he had known was impatient to a fault, but not tonight. She humours all of their questions patiently which makes him feel things he wishes it wouldn’t.
Finally, after all the fanfare has died down, she finds him watching her.
“What?” She sounds defensive, which amuses him.
“Nothing,” He breathes a laugh. “You’re just different, is all.”
She quirks an eyebrow at him, “Different? Different, how?”
“You seem lighter. Happier. It’s nice.” He squeezes her hand lightly.
She looks down at their hands; her voice is tight with emotion, which comes as a surprise to him, “Yeah, it’s nice.”
She looks up at him again, “I thought you’d be married by now. Thought I’d see you with a few babes in your arms.”
His expression turns grim, “I thought so too.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you marry and have children? Like you wanted.”
“Didn’t find anyone,” he responds, tensing at where this is going.
“I heard that there were many willing to be your wife.”
That surprises him, “Oh yeah? And where did you hear that?”
She smiles slightly, “I have my sources.”
The blade is sharp against his skin and he watches himself carefully as he cuts.
Suddenly, he sees her in the reflection of his mirror and turns sharply to see Arya Stark wearing scandalously little, standing in his private chambers. The tunic she has on barely goes past her thighs and she wears just that. He can’t help but take in a deep breath at the sight before him. She’s beautiful, he’d told her that four years ago during that ill-timed and ill-fated proposal.
“You’ve grown your hair out,” she remarks.
“I have,” he responds, unsure of where she’s going with this.
“I don’t regret going away. Going off travelling-”
He nods, “Okay…”
“-I discovered lands beyond Westeros. Wonderful, dangerous places. It was amazing. I’ve seen so much, it’s beyond anything I ever imagined. It’s what I’ve wanted to do since I was a little girl and I’m glad I did it.”
He nods, “That’s good to hear-”
She moves closer to him and puts a hand on his chest as if to stop him, “But I felt incomplete. I kept thinking that this was all I ever dreamed of and I should be so happy now. But something always felt off. I tried ignoring the feeling but it kept growing. I missed you and the ache of leaving you got worse and worse.”
“I realised that none of it was worth anything if you weren’t with me, " she echoes the words he had said to her four years ago. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find my way back to you. As I rode here, I was terrified to find you married to someone else. It was all I could think about. It was wrong of me to wish for it but I wished desperately that there wasn’t someone else.”
He holds his breath, he can’t bring himself to say anything.
“I love you,” she says firmly. “I’ve loved you for too long to have not said anything. I’m asking, will you have me? I know I’ve hurt you and I’m so sorry I did. I’d understand if you don’t want anything to do with me. I mean I just left you and I-”
He stops the words coming out of her mouth by pressing his lips firmly against her, the blade in his hand, clattering as it hits the ground. He cups her face as they kiss, euphoria coursing through him.
He pulls back, “I love you.”
He sees the joy in her eyes and the warmth that it fills her with such that she’s pulling him back with her to where his bed his, peeling away at his clothing.
They’re tangled in his sheets, her arm thrown across his chest. Her eyes are closed as he traces patterns down the curve of her spine.
He nudges her face with his other hand and she looks up at him. The feelings in his chest are bursting when his deep blue eyes meet her stormy grey ones. He kisses her and he doesn’t know if he can stop. He doesn’t want to stop.
Eventually, they pull apart when the need for air becomes imperative.
When they pull apart, she gazes at him for a moment before suddenly sitting up. The sheet falls away and he can’t help but be such a man and his gaze drops. She laughs at that and cups his face, forcing him to look her in the eye.
“Ask me again,” she says. Her voice shakes slightly.
“Ask you what?”
She gives him a look, “You know what.”
She’s right about that. He does know. What he doesn’t know is if he’s ready to ask it. The last time he did, it didn’t go so well and that kind of experience makes a man wary. But he looks into her eyes and he sees a sureness and want there that compel him to say the next words,
“Arya Stark, will you marry me? And be the Lady of Storm’s End?”
She smiles, “I will.”
He pulls himself up so he can kiss her because wants to say so much but he can’t for the life of him, form the words to say it all. So, he hopes he can convey as much of it as possible in this kiss.
She pulls away, “I won’t be a traditional lady. I won’t knit by the fire. But I will be by your side. I won’t leave you again. With any luck, we won’t part again. At least not until we’re old and grey and you’ve grown tired of my company.”
“Impossible,” he firmly responds. “I could never grow tired of you.”
He wraps his arms around her and pulls her in for an embrace, “We’ll be a family.”
He feels her smile against his shoulder, “Like we were always meant to be.”