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They’re lying in bed one night, shielded from the coolness of the stormy night only by a thin white sheet that rests over their bare bodies. Her legs are tangled with his and her fingertips dance along the planes of his chest, tracing patterns as they go. Her ministrations lull him into a state of complete calm.
It’s nights like this when he has to marvel at how they got here. They met all those years ago when he was just a young blacksmith, the son of a man he never met who had ruled the Seven Kingdoms. And her, a scrappy young girl pretending to be a boy after her father had been executed by the son of that very man.
If someone had told him then that they would end up where they are now, he would have laughed in their face. Never in his wildest imagination, could he have envisaged a future like this for them. A future where they were safe. By the will of the gods, married. And ruling Storm’s End together, because they had always been equals; even before him, a lowly bastard blacksmith, thought that could ever be true.
He thinks of his childhood then. Growing up in Flea Bottom had not been kind to him. He remembers the days he lived purely on that unsightly brown stew that made him feel more ill than full but it was all that he had so he drank it. Feeling ill is still better than starving, he remembers telling himself over and over as he pinched his nose to drink it.
Even after all these years away from it, the thing he remembers most of all about the place is the stench. It clung to every person who lived there. An unshakable odour. As if to remind you everywhere you went, where you truly belonged. He remembers making his way through the narrow, winding streets of Flea Bottom and alleys where bad men lurked in the dark.
He thinks of the days he spent at Mott’s shop. It was the first time in his life he had felt as if his days had a purpose to them. It was no longer a game of waking up, trying not to starve and dodging the fists of the brutish men who lingered at the alehouse he visited.
He closes his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. He lets himself feel everything all at once. The pain of his childhood, the sting of loneliness, the adrenalin rush of their escape from King’s Landing and the Gold Cloaks and everything else that followed. His heart must have been racing because Arya lifts her head from his chest and looks at him, the concern evident in her stormy grey eyes.
He just shakes his head at her and she nods slowly before settling back into his chest. It fills him with warmth the way they can communicate without words, how she understands him better than anyone ever has and anyone ever could.
He tries to think of all of it again, the pain, but he can’t. Not when his thoughts keep finding their way back to the woman wrapped around him in their bed and when he looks down at her, the bad memories blur in the background and fade away. It feels almost like they never existed in the first place. It’s not lost on him that before her, he’d never loved or felt love from anyone. His mother had died too early for him to even remember her face, let alone to remember the feeling of her love.
He cups her chin lightly and pulls her in for a kiss. She smiles against his lips and doesn’t pull away. Her hands find their way into his hair and they just remain that way until she finally pulls back, their foreheads still touching.
“Are you alright?’’ she asks cautiously.
“I am. I’m just thinking about my childhood,” he confesses.
She nods at his words, “What about it?”
“Just everything really. The pain. All the loneliness. The stench of Flea Bottom. All of it.” The words come out in a rush.
She wraps her arms around him and pulls him in closer into an embrace.
“I love you,” she breathes into his shoulder.
“I was thinking about that too,” he murmurs into her hair.
“What?”
“I was thinking about how I’d never loved anyone or been loved by anyone before I met you.”
She’s silent for a moment and he can’t see her face but he has a feeling that she’s flushing, which makes him smile.
“Surely that’s not true,” she argues, pulling away so she can see his face.
He grins at her, “It is. You’re the best thing that ever happened to a sorry bastard like me.”
That earns him more redness blooming on her lovely pale cheeks and a quick slap on the shoulder, “Don’t call yourself that. How many times do I need to tell you?”
“Aye, a thousand or so times by now, I’d say.”
“Well, stop being a stubborn bull and listen to me then,” she fires back immediately, making him chuckle.
“As my Lady commands.”
That earns him another slap on the shoulder. To be fair, he deserved that. It doesn’t stop him from grabbing her sides and flipping them over so she’s on her back and he’s hovering over her.
“Lord Baratheon, pray tell, what are you doing?” she teases from underneath him. He doesn’t reply and just presses his lips to hers, then trails kisses down to her pulse point which makes her shiver. He smiles against her skin before pulling away and laying back down next her, grinning like a fool.
She turns to him and gives him a faux annoyed look. “You tease,” she admonishes, making him laugh.
He turns to her and takes her hands in his, rubbing circles on the smooth skin of her palm. He looks back up to find her watching him with poorly masked amusement.
“What?” he asks.
“When Sansa and I were younger, Septa Mordane would make us do needlework.” She wrinkles her nose at the mere memory of it, prompting a grin from him. “And when my mother asked about Sansa’s needlework, Septa Mordane had nothing else but praise, of course. Said Sansa’s work was as pretty as she was.”
Her gaze slips down to her hands, clasped in his. “And when my mother asked about mine, she said- and you’ll love this...that I had the hands of a blacksmith.”
He gazes at her for a moment before he starts laughing and she laughs with him. “She did not,” he breathes between laughs.
“She did. She most definitely did,” she responds, pulling him closer until their legs are tangled again and her head is resting on his chest.
“That seals it then,” he says.
She looks up at him with a confused expression, “What?”
“We were meant to be,” he proclaims, adding a flair to his words that elicits a wry smile from her just like he had hoped to do.
“Mhmm,” she humours him before pulling him in for another kiss. She lifts herself until she’s on top of him and he can’t think of anything anymore. Not when she’s like this. The storm rages on but here, in their chambers; it’s like the outside world doesn’t even exist anymore. He kisses her and lets her lead them through a familiar dance, and their bodies move like they were made for it. Made for each other.
He smiles as he watches her in the courtyard. His bannermen take turns to spar with the illustrious Lady Baratheon but none of them have gotten past her so far and he can sense their frustration from where he’s standing.
His eyes trace the lines of her lithe figure as she slashes and doges with alarming precision. Every time her opponent makes a move, she moves out of the way, striking swiftly but surely. The way she fights is unlike the Westerosi way, with hacking and hammering. It’s much more delicate but deadly nevertheless. He knows now that she learned how to fight in Braavos.
Watching her spar is his favourite thing to do. Her style of fighting is like an art and he can’t help but be enraptured by it. She catches him sometimes as he gazes at her from across the yard. In those moments, she smirks slightly at him before turning away, her hair swishing behind her as she raises her sword once more.
The sword in her hand these days is not Needle. Needle hangs on a wall in their chambers. They’ve talked more than once about giving it to their child if they chose to have one.
The sword she holds in her hands now is one he forged specially for her. It’s still a blade that is a lot sleeker than many others but it’s balance is more suited to the grown woman that she is now.
A few minutes later, she finally sheathes her sword and bids farewell to the men before making her way to him. His hands naturally find their way to the curve of her waist and he pulls her closer.
She leans into his embrace, “I’m exhausted, love,” she sighs into his shoulder.
“Of course you are. You’ve been sparring for ages,” he says reasonably.
“Take me to bed, please,” she breathes.
He grins before locking his arms underneath her knees and carrying her up the stairs to their chambers. She laughs into his shoulder, “I didn’t mean for you to actually carry me.”
“I know,” he says, smiling slightly before taking her to their chambers. They didn’t emerge from them until the next morning.
It’s the middle of the afternoon but it’s the first day in a while that they have no urgent duties to attend to so they find themselves in bed.
“Sansa wants to visit,” Arya says, her back turned away from him. He’s distracted for a moment as he was engrossed in mapping the freckles on her back but looks up at her words, “Really? When?”
“According to her letter, in about four months.”
He snorts, “Only your sister-or should I say the Queen in the North, would inform of her arrival four months in advance.”
He can see her back shake slightly and knows she’s laughing. “Only Sansa,” she agrees.
She turns to him and lifts her hand, tracing his chin lightly.
“I’ve stopped taking my moon tea,” she says and by the slight shake of her hands, he can tell she’s anxious for his reaction.
It takes him a moment to process her words. She’s stopped taking her moon tea? He wonders if it means what he hopes it does. On a rare occasion, he’s imagined what it would be like to have a child of his own but those were all fleeting ones of a young man. He didn’t actually ever think he’d have one as he would never curse another human being with the pain of having no name to pass on and the ridicule that came with it. He had grown up on shame and he’d be damned if he let anyone else go through what he did.
But that was before her and before he had a name to pass on. Now, things were quite different and he had so much more to give a child than just his companionship. He had a home, a wife and most importantly, a name.
Before they had married in the Godswood at Winterfell, they’d talked about children and he had admitted that there was a part of him that wanted them. Arya was less sure. She confessed her insecurity about becoming a mother and that she wasn’t ready yet. He’d told her he loved her and that she was more than enough.
“What?”
“I said that I’ve stopped taking my moon tea.”
“You-what? But why?” He can’t help but ask.
She reaches for him and he takes her hand in his, “Because...I’m ready now. I feel ready for this. I want a child. I want a child with my hair and your eyes. A child that I can teach how to fight be it a boy or girl. A child with your smile. I want that now. I really do.”
He curls his arms around her waist, resting their foreheads together, “And you’re sure?”
“Yes,” she says firmly.
He tries again, “I just don’t want to feel as if pressured you-”
She shakes her head in amusement, “Really Gendry, in all the years you’ve known me, when has anyone been able to pressure me into doing anything?”
“That’s true,” he considers. “You’re stubborn as hell.”
She hits him for that. “Is that the way you speak to the soon-to-be mother of your child?” she scolds, trying so very hard not to smile.
Gendry finds his wife standing near the edge, staring out at the seas that were for once, calm as can be. Before he can say anything, she’s turning around. She reaches her hand out and he clasps it in his gently.
He leans into her and when their lips meet, he feels like everything is right again. The familiar pressure of her lips against his make all the world’s troubles go away, albeit for a precious few moments. It surprises him sometimes still to see her here with him; she almost feels like a dream.
He savours their kiss and is reluctant for it to end. It’s Arya who finally pulls away and he groans as she does, making her laugh lightly and God help him, it’s his favourite sound in the world.
“It seems that Needle will not remain on the wall in our chambers forever,” she says.
He stares at her and can’t quite grasp what exactly she means. She takes his hand and places it on the barely noticeable curve of her belly and his eyes widen as he realises what she’s trying to tell him.
“Are you-are you certain?” he splutters.
“Yes. I suspected it and the maester confirmed it,” she replies, trying to gauge his reaction.
“But we just started trying-”
She laughs, “It seems the seed is strong after all.”
It all happens rather fast. One moment she’s sitting, listening to the men who have requested an audience with the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End and the next, she’s writhing in pain. He knows what’s happening and but that doesn’t stop the cold dread that overcomes him.
The men are sent out and there’s an influx of people to escort her to the birthing room. He follows closely behind and moves to enter the room when he is stopped firmly by her handmaiden, Alyce.
“My Lord, it is not custom for the father to be present in the birthing room. You will meet the babe soon enough after it is born and Lady Baratheon has been attended to,” she says evenly.
Gendry is about to reply when he sees her. Through the crack of the door, he sees her hand reach out.
“Gendry, please,” she lets out before her hand drops. That’s it. Fuck tradition, he thinks. He pushes past Alyce and rushes to her. He sits on the bed, pulling her close and maneuvers their position such that she’s comfortably lying between his legs, resting her back against his chest.
“My Lord,” he hears the women in the room say. “Please, it is not appropriate.”
Arya is too weak to say anything so he looks up at them, “She needs me and I will not leave her to birth our child by herself. And that is final.”
He hates using his ‘Lord’ voice but in that moment, he is filled with anger should anyone try take him away from her and it comes out naturally. It seems that it has worked because they stop trying to escort him out and continue preparing the room for the birth.
He can finally relax and holds her tightly, praying to all the gods, that she and the child will be safe.
He brushes away the tendrils of hair that have fallen on her face.
She gazes up at him and she looks so unbearably small in that moment, “Gendry, it hurts. It hurts so much.” Her words cut deep and the tears he’s been holding back threaten to fall. Seeing her in this much pain makes him sick to his stomach and it is difficult to see her like this. He feels helpless. He can’t take away her pain. He can’t do anything to lessen it. All he can do is to hold her and be with her.
He wipes the beads of perspiration that have formed on her forehead, “I know it does, love. But at the end of all of it, we’ll have a baby. Our baby.”
“I know,” she nods weakly before settling back into his chest as another wave of pain overcomes her.
Agonised at her suffering, he looks around at all the people in the room. “Can’t you do anything more for her?” he pleads. “Some milk of the poppy at least?”
The maester is apologetic, “I’m sorry, My Lord. It’s not safe for her. It seems that this last bit, Lady Baratheon will have to do by herself. There’s nothing more we can do for her. The time is coming soon for her to push.”
He looks at her again and sees how weak she is. He doesn’t know how she will be ready to push. He’s had months leading up to this moment and he has managed to learn more about birthing than he thought he would. He knows that the part ahead would be the most demanding and he’s scared. Scared that she won’t be able to handle it.
The thought of losing her makes his blood turn to ice. It’s his worst nightmare. The years he spent thinking she had been killed at the Twins with the rest of her family had been the worst for him. Finding her again, loving her, only to lose her like this would break him. It would shatter him into a million pieces that could never be put together ever again.
Her eyes are closed and her breathing is laboured. The panic he feels is swallowing him whole and he doesn’t know what to do but suddenly he remembers a song they heard so many years ago. Her smile as it was sung. That had been a good day. He suspects that it was day he had first started to fall in love with her, even if he didn’t know it then.
He rubs her back gently and takes in a deep breath.
“My featherbed is deep and soft and there I’ll lay you down,” he croons. “I'll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown. For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord.”
He’s never had the most melodic voice and he feels the stares on him but he presses on, “I'll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword. ”
His heartbeat quickens as her eyes slowly open and the faintest of smiles graces her features and he knows she remembers it too. A single tear falls from her eyes and she takes his hand in hers.
“And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree,” she sings, her voice so soft he’s sure no one else can hear her but him. That suits him just fine. Nothing exists but the three of them and he holds his family close as she continues, “She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me. I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass.”
There are tears that stream down both their faces as they sing the last bit together, “But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass.”
Blue.
The baby’s eyes are so blue. It’s the first thing he notices as he looks over Arya’s shoulder at their child. He knows that most newborns have eyes that are blue but he has the strongest feeling that they will look just like his in the years to come. The thought makes him smile. He’s overcome by the feeling that he’s managed to pass something of his to another human being.
“He’s perfect,” Arya breathes as she gazes down at their son.
Gendry, for that matter, hasn’t seen many babies in his time but he can’t help but feel like no other child could possibly be as beautiful as the one they made, currently resting in the arms of his mother. This child was created by their love and their love was beautiful. How could this child be anything but that?
“I know,” he says to her before wrapping his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.
“His name?” he asks, even though he has a feeling he knows which one she’s settled on.
When she looks up at him and his eyes meet hers, he is sure now.
“Eddard,” they say together. “Eddard Baratheon.”