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She’s not certain if it’s the years that have infringed on her memories, or if there’s something deeper at play.
Perched atop one of her favorite cliffs overlooking Shipbreaker Bay, Arya can’t help but think that she’s never seen a view quite so breathtaking.
She’s been to dry sun swept deserts, crystal blue shores, beaches full of such delicate sand it felt like powder slipping through your fingers.
She’s ogled mountains with snowy peaks that disappeared into the foggy sky and made you feel inconsequential in the universe.
She’s walked through markets filled with exotic foods and even rarer fabrics; met people who spoke in beautiful tongues and sang in sweeter tones; worn jewelry that shimmered and sparkled both in the brightness of the sun and in the glow of the moon.
And yet, it’s these tranquil but treacherous waters against the backdrop of a stormy sky that evoke feelings of peace and calm and genuine beauty; the likes of which her travels cannot compete with.
Perhaps it is her age that’s spurred the revelation that she’d much prefer the calm and steadiness of being in one place over the constant movement and discovery of new places, but even at eight and twenty, and with all the things she has seen and done, Arya has never felt more alive, more unburdened.
She knows it’s not the climate or vegetation of Storm’s End she has to thank for that, but the people.
It’s why the weight on her heart, tugging her down as swiftly as the day pulls the sun over the horizon, doesn’t surprise her as she thinks about what she’d witnessed today.
She’s never given marriage serious thought.
Not when she was at sea for five years and not in the years since she’s lived in Storm’s End.
Love, love is another mystery altogether. One that had woven its way into her veins long before Arya knew what it was.
Love had been cold nights and hungry days. Love had been smoke and steel, and angry blue eyes beneath a mop of rich black hair book-ended with a scowl.
Love had meant separation and anger and tears at the unfairness of it all.
But love had also been the single exhale of relief upon reunion; the light quips and familiar smiles exchanged in the heat of the Winterfell forge.
Love had been the impromptu decision to carve out time and experience for herself. The new press of skin and sensations that made her mouth fall slack and her hands tremble as they found purchase against taut muscle and warm skin.
Love had been the silent reveal of the consequences of her training. It has been the quick exchange of glances after her cousin’s fate had been determined in the pit of a ruined city.
But most importantly, love had been the quiet unabashed acceptance in the Great Hall as she stood on steady ground for the first time in months offering gifts and so much more to the Lord of Storm’s End.
Love had seeped into her bones and settled there in a way that Arya hadn’t even noticed. It slipped past all her defenses and careful masks, cutting down all her fears and insecurities, and pushing its stubborn way through.
Almost like a bull charging into battle.
She’d been powerless to stop it. To stop the yearning that had followed her to sea. To every port, and through every storm, and every moment of potential danger.
Love kept her alive long enough for her to return, to raise her white flag and surrender to the only person that had ever made her feel like herself, who almost demanded that she be only that which made sense to her.
A man who has spent the years since proving to her that she need not be anything other than what she’d been at two and ten, and at eight and ten, and now at nearly nine and twenty, unwed and childless of her own volition, but loved fiercely just the same.
After just one failed attempt, her handsome, stubborn bull – for he could never truly be a stag to her – never again pushed her to make her vows, never again asked of her to be a lady or partake in any customs that would accompany the sharing of his chambers.
In that regard, she has been fortunate. For in her absence, Westeros had slowly begun to change. The tide had turned at least a few degrees. Just enough so that an unwed lord need not be married to run a strong holdfast.
Yet from time to time, Arya could see the longing in his eyes.
Not always and not so obvious that a passersby could spot it but she could see it all too well. At first, she'd waited for him to bring it up. To ask her while they laid side by side in their featherbed or when they'd go riding, or even during one of the many feasts and celebrations he would begrudgingly agree to host. But he never did.
So she remained as she was, as she is now.
Sometimes as Princess Arya. More often than not, as Lady Stark. When the ale flows freely and the dancing has commenced, as the Bringer of the Dawn, or the Night Slayer.
But never Lady Baratheon, nor Lady of Storm’s End.
When her eyes would find his through the throng, through the crowds of people who are merry and jovial and grateful that the dead are truly dead and gone, Gendry would always look so proud, so fond, so utterly contented that Arya has never once worried that he is in want of anything more.
Perhaps that’s why what she had witnessed today has rattled her so.
She’s seen men burn to death, skewered. With limbs torn off and blood pouring out like they were sacks of meat that had been left to dry and sink into the earth.
She’s seen her share of grief and pain and sorrow – those memories have not abated in the slightest.
They have not been relegated to the periphery of her mind or faded away with the years. Thus, it’s taken her some time, some hours to understand why it is that she is shaken so by the events of this morning.
Why it has moved her enough that instead of slipping back into the castle to break bread with her beloved, she’d snuck away to the highest peak in all of Storm’s End to gaze upon the slowly teeming waters and await what would surely be a heavy storm tonight.
Her mind is in equal disarray, thoughts brewing as quickly as the sea beneath the cliff, occupying her senses and dulling her instincts.
It’s perhaps why she does not hear the sound of steps right away or why she does not notice that she’s no longer alone until she feels a shadow looming overhead.
Her body tenses ever so slightly, hand dropping instinctively to her hip, where Needle is safely secured, but she needn’t worry. There’s only one person in all of the Stormlands who would know where to look for her.
“Thought I might find you here.”
She has to tilt her head all the way back to look at him but it is worth it.
The Lord of Storm’s End towers over her. Even though the sun has nearly fallen past the horizon, there is still enough light for her to see his ruddy cheeks and shining cerulean eyes as he gazes down at her.
His mouth is stretched into an easy smile but Arya can tell beneath it all that he is vexed. She cannot help but treat him with an easy smile of her own as she pats the empty space beside her.
“I’m sorry if I worried you, but I needed a bit of time after returning from the village.”
“It’s no bother, truly.” Gendry replies as he takes her invitation to sit down, “you’re welcome to come and go as you please, you know that.”
His body invokes warmth and comfort but his words feel like a vice gripping her throat and her heart. For how could he possibly know that the very freedom he references is what’s causing her so much chagrin.
Arya says nothing but she leans into him, whether on instinct or out of desire or both, she does not question it. When Gendry reaches an arm back to loop around her waist and pull her closer, she lets him in. Much like she has all these years.
They sit in silence, huddled against the rising winds until the first star blooms in the sky and the waters start to beat more forcibly against the shores.
It’s then, with his breath steady at her back and his chin now dropped to her shoulder that her oldest friend in the world breaks the quiet between them.
“I heard about what happened to those farmers. I sent guards down to that bit of King’s Road to make certain this does not happen again.”
She shivers at his words, and Gendry must mistake it for the cold, because he brings her into the circle of his arms. Arya doesn’t have the heart to object. She doesn’t even want to. Not when he feels so good and reassuring, quelling some of the fears and insecurities that have slipped back into her psyche.
“That’s good of you, and very wise. I would be elated to join the watch one of these evenings. Send a message to any bandits who are foolish enough to think they can rob and murder hardworking Stormlanders.”
There’s a dangerous tilt in her voice, she knows as much. It should not thrill her so when Gendry lets out a chuckle; never one to fear her predilection for a swift albeit bloody resolution to any manner of injustice.
If anything, she wonders if it ignites some hidden part of his. The instinct they have in common from days of hiding, running and surviving.
However deep his amusement runs, his voice is serious as he presses a kiss to her temple.
“Aye, I’m certain my guards would appreciate your company on that front. I will delegate tomorrow’s petitions to go with you. I’ve also instructed supplies to be delivered to the afflicted families to make up for the lost crops.”
His pledge lessens some of the weight that still threatens to crush her. It's no surprise that he would make arrangements already. That nobody, not even her, needs to inform him of what to do in instances like this.
He's seen first-hand how in times of unexpected crisis, the common folk are the ones who suffer the most. If there were one quality Arya could point to that has made Gendry the Lord that he is, it’s that empathy, that awareness that nobody, not even her sister Queen, can understand.
The people needed someone like him, and it is testament to how much the Stormlands have flourished in the decade he’s occupied Storm’s End, that this one awful incident in the village bordering the King’s Road has caused such an upheaval.
Perhaps she could attribute her unease to the unexpected flair up of crime, but she knows that's not what makes her feel so heavy. It's not what weighs on her mind with a thousand stones that not even the love for the man beside her can alleviate.
It makes her turn to him nevertheless and cradle her hand along his cheek, thumb brushing through the wisps of hair along his jaw until she can pull his face towards hers and capture his mouth in a tender kiss.
He goes willingly, as he always does, opening up for her and moving with her as she takes her fill. When she pulls apart to see his eyes still slightly closed, she cannot help but go back in once more, pressing her lips against the dimple that blooms on his cheek whenever he graces her with a smile.
“What was that for?” Gendry whispers once her lips separate from his skin.
Her hand stays on the back of his neck though, thumbing at the hairs there. A habit of hers she doesn’t care to break.
“For being a good man. For doing right by your people even when you can’t be there yourself. For being patient and kind and caring. Pick whichever reason suits you, milord.”
He frowns slightly and Arya cannot help but smile, because she knows which part of her explanation irks him.
“You know I hate when you call me that,” and yet he drops a kiss to her forehead anyway, “but thank you for the kind words, I wish I could do more.”
And there it is. There is reason why it’s seems so simple that she would be thinking of this, of him, amidst the tragedy she had a glimpse of today.
He always strives to be better, always wants more, to make amends and make the world better than how he found it.
While she cannot attest to the character of the men who were lost, she’d seen the pain on their wives' faces, hugged the children as they wept. She knows without a shadow of doubt that if the Gods ever do take Gendry from her, she will weep and howl and grieve just as hard, if not more for her loss. For the world’s loss really.
The night has fallen on them like a blanket, bringing with it more wind, more sound, and the promise of rain, and lightening, and thunder. Yet, she feels completely safe and at ease in Gendry’s arms. For the first time today, there is a clarity that drives her like no other force ever can.
Love, she thinks it must be, that makes her sit on her haunches, just so they are at eye level, and address him so firmly.
“Why have you not asked me again?”
“Asked what?”
On any other day, his handsome face contorted so would incite her tease, but not today. Today, there’s something of greater importance at stake.
“To marry,” she says as a particularly strong gust of wind passes between them. She repeats herself just so there’s no mistake.
“Why have you not asked me again to wed?”
Confusion lifts from Gendry’s face instantly, replaced by an emotion she can’t quite ascertain but one that sends a thrill through her in the most unexpected way. His eyes soften, his touch is featherlike as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Isn’t it obvious, my darling?”
“No, it's not,” she shakes her head impatiently, “not to me at least.”
He looks at her then with adoration that would be difficult to miss even across a room full of people, let alone in this intimate proximity.
“We’re wed in every way that matters to me.”
“But not in title, we are not.”
It’s times like these that Arya wishes he were less patient with her, less willing to compromise, because he deserves it all.
While the years have lessened her fear that he’s giving up too much to be with her, watching the aftermath of tragedy has reignited that concern, and she simply cannot put it away.
“No, we are not but what makes you think that titles matter to me? I believe I’ve proven over that titles, labels, names are of little importance. If I could, I would eschew my own title and give up this castle and all its trimmings, and run away with you as deep into the forest as you like. Or better yet, sail away on one of those ships back to the lands you’ve always told me about.”
He gestures towards the open water behind her, but Arya doesn’t look away from his face.
The earnestness there draws her in, as stark as the clear blue of his iris and the firmness of his words. Though they haven’t spoken about this in many moons, she knows his words to be true.
“But you’d never do that, would you?”
Gendry shakes his head no, but says nothing else, and really he doesn’t have to, because she knows.
“You’d never walk away from the people here, not after all these years and all the good you’ve done.”
“Aye,” he agrees, but he also smirks, self-deprecation marring his face in a way that unnerves her.
“Not certain I have done more or less good than someone else would in my position, but you are right, love. I could not leave the Stormlands now. Not after everything, not after all they’ve given me and I in return.”
His expression turns suddenly glum as he looks upon her for the first time with true fear, a crease between his brows that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“Why are you asking about this, Arya? Are you unhappy here?”
It's her turn to shake her head no, a desire to assuage his fear as natural to her as breathing, especially when he looks this crestfallen, this uncertain.
“I am not unhappy, I can assure you of that, but I do wonder.”
Her voice trails off then; the words lodging in her suddenly dry throat, as though she’s sapped up all their energy.
“What is it, love? What’s troubling you?”
The tender way he pulls her knuckles to his lips, kissing each one with reverence and longing makes her brave enough to be honest.
“I spent some time with the families of those men today. I saw the way their wives grieved for them and how their babes wailed for their fathers, and how the rest of the village had come together to help in any way they could. And all I could think about is how if you or I died, what would the other be left with? There would be memories, and loss, and all manner of tangible things, but there would be no legacy, no trace of our love except where it exists between us now.”
Arya shuts her eyes against the sudden swell of emotion that suddenly bubbles up. And though, she’s not sure what to expect when she pries them open again, the flicker of amusement in Gendry’s face is not that.
“So, you would like to marry me in case one of us dies unexpectedly?”
His voice cracks in the end, a snicker forcing its way through. She should be angry with him, frustrated for making light of her confession, but all Arya can do is laugh herself and shove at his sturdy chest in mock annoyance.
All too quickly, their laughter trickles out and their smiles drop in unison the longer they stare at each other. Then, Gendry is drawing her even closer, until she’s fully seated against him.
A spark of heat ignites deep within her core as she remembers how the night before, she’d taken him just like this, their sweat soaked bodies moving in perfect harmony, striving towards a sense of completion and love that they have always managed to find together.
It’s perhaps this very remembrance that roots Arya in the present again, and she loops her arms confidently around Gendry's broad shoulders as she attempts to explain herself.
“You once told me that they would write books about me. About me killing the Night King, about my travels, about the Stark lineage altogether.”
“Aye, I did, and I believe that Samwell Tarly has been hard at work on that ever since.”
She bites back a smile at that, determined for it not to derail her.
“What if I told you I wanted to add another title to that?”
Even in the near darkness, she can see how his eyes grow wide at her suggestion.
“What are you saying, Arya?”
The wonder on his face - the sheer hope at the possibility - erase any trace of doubt she may have had about this unexpected decision.
“I’m asking you to marry me, you fool.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, unable to tear his eyes away from hers, still clearly processing her words. While Arya desperately wants to give him space, there’s also a fire lit beneath her now and she can’t help but goad him a little bit.
“I know I've kept you waiting for years, but I do hope you do not keep me waiting for as long simply out of spite.”
It’s meant to be a jab more than anything, for she knows he could never deny her this, would never deny her this.
It’s still a surprise though when Gendry suddenly moves beneath her, hand capturing the back of her head as he presses his mouth to hers.
She doesn't begrudge him this reaction, readily giving him what he’s asking for, what he’s demanding.
From the insistence of his lips, to the swipe of his tongue, to the firm press of his large palm against her back - she'll give him anything as long as he keeps her close like this, enough to make her wonder where she ends and he begins.
When they finally pull apart for her to find Gendry’s eyes glazed over in lust, and love, and adoration, and a dozen other emotions that threaten to unspool her before putting her right back together, she knows, she knows in her gut that this is the right thing to do.
This is the only thing to do. Because she loves, because they love. For better or worse, she wants that love immortalized, preserved, cherished…remembered.
She does not dwell on the realization that she's become a sentimental fool. It does not bother her as much as perhaps it would have at two and ten, or at eight and ten, or even at three and twenty when she laid eyes on the Lord of Storm’s End once again.
“Is that a yes then?” she asks, breathless and lightheaded, faces so close that she feels Gendry's smile before she sees it.
“It’s a thousand times yes. For I really would be an idiot to turn down a proposal from the Bringer of the Dawn, from a Princess twice over –“
His lips curve up more into a smirk and his eyes sparkle with mirth, clueing her into the fact that he’s teasing her. She shoves at him again.
“Stop it,”
But he keeps going.
“From the Night Slayer, the fiercest warrior Westeros has ever seen –“
He drops a kiss to both cheeks, leaving a flush in his wake from the warmth of his lips and his proclamations.
“From Arry, from Weasel.”
His voice drops an octave then as the wind picks up his words and sends them somewhere into the bay. His eyes remain steady on hers and his hands hold her as firmly as ever, and his breath is heavy on her skin as he presses his forehead against hers.
“From the only person who never cared what my name was, or my status, or how much gold I had. Or if I was a blacksmith, or an orphan, or a runaway, or a lord.”
Her heart stammers in her throat from the weight of his gaze. From the honesty and vulnerability in this confession, that’s for her and her alone.
“If this is what you want Arya, then yes. The answer is yes, I would be honored to marry you, but only if it’s what you want.”
“I do.” She says without hesitation, and it feels like the easiest two words she has uttered. She hopes to utter them again with just as much conviction and certainty and perhaps with other people present…or perhaps nobody present at all.
Marriage might be a centuries old custom - a vow that binds the fate of two souls together before the Gods - but in this ever changing world, they get to make their own rules, form their own traditions. As long as they make the pledge together, Arya cares little for anything else.
For this is a pact between her and Gendry and no one else. Perhaps, that’s what she’d never realized before, but she does now. As personal as grief is, a love like theirs, like what she’d seen reflected in the faces of the widows, it’s just as singular, and even stronger.
And she craves that strength more than ever before.
“Then it’s settled.” Gendry’s words pull her back to the moment, and she could not be gladder for it. She wants to be present for this.
To witness his happiness, his delight. To revel in his smile and lean all the way into the hand brushing along her cheek and into the arms that span her waist.
“But first,” his voice filters again through the silence, “we go to the village tomorrow and pay our respects. We need to give these men a proper burial and honor them as they should be honored. Their families will be well taken care of, I can promise you that.”
“I trust you,” she whispers in turn, and it’s true.
She does.
She trusts him more than she may even trust herself. Though her stubborn heart took a long time to get here, they’ve made it and she has no plans of being anywhere else.
As Gendry leans down and seals their shared promise with another sweet kiss, Arya knows with certainty that her best years are not behind her. She did not leave them on dry deserts, or sunny beaches, or exotic markets full of people speaking foreign tongues.
For they’d been waiting for her in the sharp gust of winds and the tumultuous waters and in the thunder and lightning and incessant rains of the Stormlands.
In the arms of a man who she has loved since she was two and ten, and who she is certain she will love until her last breath.
And that is a vow she does not mind making.
xxx