Title: Five Times Arya Stark Shared a Bed With Gendry Waters
Pairings: Arya/Gendry, Gendry/OFC
Spoilers: Mostly through “A Storm of Swords” but does reference Arya's storyline in future books before going AU
Word Count: 12,162
Disclaimer: The characters belong to George RR Martin; I'm just playing
Summary: She is Arya Stark of Winterfell, a girl with four brothers who has always felt more comfortable in the company of men, but Gendry...Well, he's just confusing
“People are saying things about you.”
Arya looked up from polishing her sword to see Sansa standing over her, her face pinched into the same judgmental expression Arya remembered her always wearing when she was about to chastise. She had harbored a hope Sansa would have become less stringent in her courtesies over the past five years, less willing to fling accusations of unladylike behavior, but it seemed to Arya as if Sansa was clinging to propriety even harder as war approached.
“What do I care what people say?”
Sansa huffed in irritation before taking a seat beside her. “You should care because you are a princess now, and what you do reflects upon Jon as the king. Have you learned nothing?”
“I learned how to kill a man without leaving a trace. Bit handier in a war than curtsying.”
Ignoring her words, Sansa stated, “People are saying you and the blacksmith are being inappropriate.”
Arya wagered everything she did was considered inappropriate by someone. “Gendry is my best friend.”
“He does not look at you like a friend.”
There was an innuendo in Sansa's voice which made Arya stop polishing and finally look at her sister. “What do you mean? How does he look at me?”
Sansa laughed, shaking her head. “Sometimes you are so blind. Every time you're out practicing swordplay with the men, your blacksmith can barely tear his gaze away from your chest. Even Rickon knows he's in love with you, and that boy can barely put his boots on without assistance.”
Arya thought of the whore at the Peach all those years ago, of her curves and perfectly curled hair; Gendry's eyes had followed that girl back then, and there were plenty of pretty girls around Winterfell, girls who batted their eyes at the handsome blacksmith who rode against their enemies with a hammer in his hand.
“You're wrong,” she finally stated.
“I'm not,” Sansa argued calmly, “but that is beside the point. He is good at his trade and a loyal knight to Jon, but he is still baseborn and bears a bastard's name.”
Arya looked at her in confusion. “And Jon used to be a Snow but because of something Robb wrote, now he's a Stark. If birth was really that important, why would some words on a paper be able to undo it?”
The pinched expression on Sansa's face told Arya she clearly had not said the right thing in her sister's mind. “Since our father died, you have been on your own, and I am sorry for that. I cannot imagine having had to do the things you have done in the same way you could not imagine doing what I have done. But you are not in Braavos anymore, Arya, and our brother in the King of the North. Whether or not you are being dishonored by one of his knights matters.”
“Gendry would never dishonor me. That's not the type of man he is.”
“You do not understand men.”
Bristling, Arya snapped, “I understand them better than you!”
“You understand knights, murderers, and thieves. You do not understand the games men play and the tricks they use to talk a lady out of her gown.”
Getting to her feet, tucking her sword into her belt loop, Arya retorted, “I do not wear gowns,” before leaving Sansa and her unwanted advice.
But, even as she went through the motions of the day, Arya could not forget Sansa's words. She knew she was not a child any longer; she was a woman grown, flowered since she was twelve. If she had stayed in Westeros, if her parents had survived, there would have been talk of marriage; while her father and King Robert wanted Sansa to be a queen, they would have made a good match for Arya as well. Arya understood the way the world worked when it came to girls, especially the daughters of highborn lords; they were traded and promised like gifts, interchangeable amongst men. After all, if the Mad King had not killed him, Arya could have been the daughter of Catelyn Tully and Brandon Stark.
After Ilyn Payne took her father's head, Arya stopped thinking and dreading the day when she would be forced to marry someone she did not know. Survival became her sole focus, and there was never a chance to indulge in any of the girlish pursuits Sansa preferred when they were young. For years, all Arya knew of men was they were quick to betray anyone for a few dragons and most felt no shame in raping girls they came upon on the kingsroad.
She had not truly understood what rape was when Yoren warned her to protect her true gender. Arya heard whispers of it in King's Landing, and she grasped it was something men did to women, something which was violent and painful. At nine, her grasp of what men and women did together was only what she had seen the animals do, which also looked violent and painful; in her mind, they were the same thing, and Arya never wanted any man to touch her.
She had said that once to Hot Pie and Gendry when they were on the road from Harrenhal after Gendry told her to dirty herself up some more to hide she was a girl, to make her a less likely target for rapers. Arya didn't remember what she said, but Hot Pie looked at her as if she was crazy and said, “Rapers and laying together ain't the same thing. Didn't your mother teach you anything?”
Gendry cuffed him in the back of the head before Arya could. Later, when Hot Pie was asleep, Gendry explained the difference to her, bright red and mumbling, but emphasizing that laying together was something ladies wanted.
“Why do they want it?”
He nearly turned purple as he snapped, “Because they do! Now go to sleep and stop being stupid.”
In Braavos, she became so many different people, none of whom were real because she wasn't real, not when she was with the Faceless Men. When she looked at men, she was trained to evaluate strengths and weaknesses, to find the quickest and cleanest way to kill them; she had never looked at a man as anything other than a target.
She knew Gendry was attractive; all the girls in Winterfell swooned after him. The other men were always teasing Gendry about one girl in particular, the daughter of the innkeeper who brought him dinner every few days. Arya saw her a few days ago; the girl was plain faced but her curves were plentiful, and Arya knew Gendry liked her because, when Arya asked after her, he quickly told her it was none of her business.
So Sansa is wrong. Gendry wants the innkeeper's daughter, and I do not want to marry anyway. I am going to be a knight of Jon's kingsguard, and everyone knows they cannot wed.
And yet, a few days later, when Arya saw the innkeeper's daughter leaving the forge, an unfamiliar feeling roared so sharply inside her chest, it made her want to scream.
She didn't know why she did it, but suddenly Arya was walking towards the forge. Arya did not know what she was expecting to find; Gendry was near the fires as always, a sheen of sweat covering his skin, the muscles in his arms prominent as he brought his hammer down to shape the metal. The heat inside was stifling, the distinctive hiss of red-hot steel being slid into water echoing from the walls; when Gendry saw her, he continued to pound out what looked to be a breastplate, and Arya knew he would not stop until he was done. Multiple times he told her how much he hated interruptions, that it took a certain rhythm to make good steel; and, while Arya was never a patient person, she liked to watch him work. Gendry's devotion to his metal was almost as complete as her devotion to her sword.
As he finished, Arya remarked, “That plate is big enough for a giant.”
Gendry grinned. “It's for Brienne, so close enough.”
“Jon showed me the new armor you made for him. It's wonderful.”
“For as long as it took me, it should be. I still have mail to mend, more armor to make, new helms...As long as this war continues, I'll always have work. I'm so busy - “
“Are you going to marry the innkeeper's daughter?” Arya blurted out, startling Gendry into silence.
After a moment, Gendry managed, “What?”
“Are you going to marry the innkeeper's daughter?” she repeated. When he said nothing, she rushed on, “Everyone sees her come every other day with food for you, and you never send her away. And Lem says you're well past the age to wed so I was wondering if you are.”
“I do not send her away because she is a good cook and not all of us eat as finely as you do, m'lady.” Scowling, he snapped, “And I thought I told you whatever is between she and I is not your business.”
“I am the princess of Winterfell,” Arya countered, “so everything that happens here is my business.”
“Oh really? So I suppose next you'll be asking Anguy whose bells he's ringing because it's important to the North?”
Folding her arms over her chest, Arya tried to take a deep breath and calm herself, but her emotions were churning too passionately in her body. Pushing off the table she was leaning against, she spat, “Ring all the bells you bloody well please. I don't care.”
She saw Gendry's eyes widen before turning to leave, prepared to march back into the castle and forget her stupid bastard boy, when Arya was suddenly being held back by a strong hand around her wrist. Her immediate instinct was to fight, to pull away, to shout at him he was too close, but all Gendry was doing was keeping her there, refusing to let her flee.
Finally, after a moment's pause, Gendry released her wrist and said, “I don't want her.”
Arya swallowed hard, waiting for him to finish; but when he said nothing else, all she could think of was Sansa's words earlier: ”He is good at his trade and a loyal knight to Jon, but he is still baseborn and bears a bastard's name.”
It was instinct more than anything which made Arya lift her hands to cup Gendry's face; she was not sure what she was supposed to do next, but, when she was a child, whenever her parents were having a tender moment, Catelyn would touch Ned's face. Now, though, with her skin against his, the rough bristle of stubble against her palms, Arya wondered what came afterward.
The Faceless Men never trained her for this.
Arya rose on her toes, trying to draw Gendry down to her; she could read the hesitance in his eyes, twisted up with something she did not recognize, but he moved, inclining his head, whispering her name before their mouths met. Arya never considered what it would be like to kiss a man before, and, with the pressure of Gendry's lips against hers, she realized she was not sure how to kiss someone. And then, as if suddenly coming awake, Gendry's arms were sliding around her body, lips slanting over hers; she gasped as his mouth opened, his tongue pressing against hers, but Arya followed, caught the rhythm easily. When she felt Gendry's hand slip beneath the bottom of her tunic, his fingertips stroking the sensitive skin at the small of her back, Arya moaned, instantly understanding why it was people liked this so much.
The sound of the forge's door opening didn't reach Arya's ears until it was too late, too distracted by the press of Gendry's body against her own; but then there was the sound of heavy footfalls abruptly stopping and the sharp intakes of breath.
Arya whirled around to find Jon standing there, flanked by her uncle Edmure and Greatjon, and she felt Gendry bend the knee behind her automatically. She could read the surprise and anger on the men's faces, but it was Jon's neutral expression which worried Arya the most; there had never been a time she could not tell exactly what Jon Snow - Stark - was thinking. And Arya was not so naïve as to not know what happened to men who interfered with the sister of his king.
“Edmure,” Jon said after a beat, “please escort Arya back to the castle. I am sure Roslin requires assistance with the children.”
Arya's eyes bulged at the statement; in the months since her return to Winterfell, Jon never made her do anything which was traditional women's work; he respected that she was not Sansa, not Roslin or any of the other wives who stayed in the castle, and Arya knew he considered her to be one of his best soldiers. After all, it was her he sent to get Uncle Edmure back, to use her Facelessness to rescue their men.
“I do not need to go back to the castle,” Arya objected, refusing to be cowed by her brother.
“Yes, you do.”
When Edmure took a step forward, Arya instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, her hand falling to the pommel of her sword, and she saw everyone freeze, even Greatjon. Under different circumstances, she would have flushed with pride, knowing Jon's best men were afraid of what she was capable of; over the past five years, she had worked hard to become the type of person others did not want to cross. But all she could think of now was protecting Gendry, making sure he was not punished for her actions.
It was Jon who blinked first, the anger dissipating from his face, allowing Arya to glimpse the brother she loved so dearly. “I swear on our father, I will not hurt him nor will any man in Winterfell. But you need to leave now, Arya.”
She released her sword, nodding briefly. Her eyes dropped to Gendry, who was still on his knee, head bowed, and Arya wondered if this was truly the last time she was going to see him; Jon gave his word he would not be harmed, but it did not mean Jon would not send him away. And no matter how much she cared for Gendry, Arya could not leave her family again, could not leave the North before they avenged what had been done to their family.
This is all Sansa's fault, Arya thought as she allowed Edmure to march her back to the castle, depositing her in the nursery as if she was a wayward child.
It was hours before Jon came to find her; Arya was seated on her bed, Nymeria lying at her feet, and instantly Nymeria rose when Jon entered, briefly baring her teeth before Arya chastised her. When Jon opened the door wider, Arya dismissed her wolf, knowing her emotions were too heightened to risk a conversation with Jon in her presence, especially if Ghost was not nearby.
Jon sat beside her, the soft fur of his cloak rubbing against her arm, and Arya hated how much affection she still felt beneath her anger when he gently rested his hand atop hers.
“We weren't doing anything wrong.” When Jon said nothing, she rushed on, “It was just a kiss, and there isn't any harm in kissing. If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me, because Gendry didn't kiss me first; I kissed him, and I know what everyone has been saying but Gendry would never dishonor me. But even if I wasn't a maid, that is not your business because I am not some silly princess; after all I have done for this family and the realm, if I was your brother rather than your sister, you would have cheered me on, baseborn or not, so - “
“Arya!” Jon interrupted, laughter in his voice. “Take a breath before you turn purple.” As she followed his instruction, he asked, “Are you finished yelling at your king or should I wait for more?”
“I am not yelling at my king; I am yelling at my brother.” Folding her arms across her chest, she declared, “I'm bloody sick of kings.”
This time Jon laughed freely as he confessed, “As am I.” Taking a breath, he confessed, “I never wanted to be a king any more than you wanted to be a princess. I was supposed to be the bastard on the Wall and you...Well, I don't think Father ever quite figured out what he was going to do with you. But whether we want to be or not, this is who we are now, and there are things which are expected, traditions which cannot be changed. And if our father had lived, if Lady Stoneheart had remained Catelyn, neither would have wanted to see you with a bastard blacksmith, even if that bastard is the son of Robert Baratheon.”
Arya looked up from the floor. “So it's true then? King Robert was really his father?”
Jon nodded knowledgeably. “There is still a heavy ransom on his head, for any of Robert's bastards. Cersei is afraid of any legitimate claim, almost as afraid as Stannis is; if one of Robert's bastard marches into King's Landing, the spitting image of Robert, it'll prove Tommen is not Robert's son. And it would push back Stannis in succession as well, which Melisandre will never allow.”
“But only if he is legitimized, the way Robb legitimized you,” Arya pointed out.
“Precisely.” Jon shook his head sadly. “I like Gendry, I do; when he first came here, I used to bother him endlessly to hear tales of your time together because I missed you so much. And he is useful here, both as a blacksmith and a soldier.”
“What are you not saying?”
“If you want to be his wife, I will legitimize him. I will declare him to be Gendry Baratheon, the legitimate son of Robert, which gives him ample claim to the Iron Throne, more right than anyone else in fact. But when I do that, when I do for him what Robb did for me, it will place a target upon his head we will not be able to erase.”
“Gendry does not want to be king though,” Arya objected. “All he wants is to work in the forge.”
“It will not matter to Cersei or Stannis or even the Dragon Queen. Baratheon is a powerful name and Westeros has a very long memory.”
Nervousness churning in her stomach, she asked, “Have you...Have you asked him what he'd like to have happen?”
Jon smiled sadly. “It is like you said: Gendry has no desire to ever wear a crown. I have made the offer to legitimize him before, and he has always said no, that he would rather live in relative peace as Gendry Waters. But that was before you came back, before he realized he would need a real name if he ever hoped to wed you.”
“Did everyone know he wanted to wed me but me?!” Arya exploded in frustration, sending Jon into peals of laughter.
“The question is not whether or not he wants to wed you. The question is: do you wish to wed him?”
Arya got to her feet, beginning to pace the floor of her room. “I never thought...I never wanted to get married! I wanted to be in Robb's Kingsguard or be a Faceless Man, anything but a stupid lady! And I did not think - “
“You did not think what?”
Shrugging, she finished, “I did not think anyone would ever want to marry me.”
Coming to stand before her, Jon softly laid his hands upon her shoulders. “Sometimes you are the oldest and youngest person I have ever known all at the same time.” Kissing her on the forehead, he said, “Gendry told me he will accept whatever you decide. If you want me to declare him a Baratheon, he is prepared to accept the consequences which come from it. But if you want to keep him safe with a bastard's name, he said he will accept that as well.” Smiling sadly, pain and nostalgia filling his eyes, Jon declared, “It is very rare you get to find someone who loves you no matter the circumstances, and rarer still to find someone who is willing to put aside their safety for that love. We all deserve a little happiness, Arya.”
She could not sleep after Jon left. Arya tossed and turned in her bed, trying to decide what she wanted, hating how both Gendry and Jon put this upon her while simultaneously yelling at herself for finally being given control of her life only to have it be control she didn't want. Irritated and feeling trapped, she sprung from her bed, putting on her boots and wrapping her heavy cloak around her shoulders.
It was surprisingly easy to sneak out of the castle, even in her nightclothes; the snow was falling rapidly now, several inches having accumulated in the past hours, but even in a blizzard, Arya would have been able to find the forge. As she slipped inside, shaking the snow from her long, loose hair, Arya exhaled gratefully at the ever present warmth of the room. Toeing off her boots, Arya moved towards the back of the forge, to the room she knew Gendry lived in, when suddenly Gendry was blocking her way, his heavy hammer in hand.
“Seven hells, Arya!” he gasped, setting the hammer down. “I thought you were a thief!”
“What kind of thief comes in the front door and takes off their boots?”
Shaking his head, Gendry said, “You shouldn't be here. You know what Greatjon is going to do to me if anyone finds you here in the middle of the night? I'd much prefer to not have to live the rest of my life as a eunuch.”
Unfastening her cloak, making it clear she was not going anywhere, Arya took a step towards him. “Why didn't you tell me you wanted me?”
Gendry was quiet for a moment before sighing, “Because I didn't think you wanted me, not the way a woman wants a man. At least...not until this afternoon.”
Arya blushed, dropping her gaze for a moment before resolutely looking him in the eye. Forcing steel into her voice, she declared, “I will never be a proper lady. I will not wear gowns or call you 'my lord' or put down my sword. And I do not know if I want to have children or if I even want to remain in Westeros when the war is done, so if these aren't terms you can agree to - “
“If those were the traits I was looking for in a wife, I would want to marry Sansa.” Gendry smiled tenderly as he softly brushed a lock of hair from her face. “I know who you are, Arya.”
The tears filled her eyes so quickly, it made the world blur. Arry, Weasel, the Ghost of Harrenhal, Nan, She-wolf, Salty, Cat of the Canals, No one, Beth...She had been so many people in the past six years, shedding her skin like a snake, making sure no one ever knew who she was. To hear Gendry state so matter-of-factly he knew who she was, woke the piece of her heart she swore had hardened the day her father's head rolled down the steps of the Great Sept before a cheering crowd.
She shivered when Gendry kissed her this time, her hands resting against his broad chest before slipping into his dark hair; their mouths met hungrily, the heat of Gendry's hands scorching even through the thin material of her nightdress, and Arya idly wondered as she allowed him to walk her backwards towards his chamber if this was how girls became ruined: with sweet touches and heated kisses.
Nothing which feels this good can ruin you, Arya decided as she pulled at Gendry's shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his skin, her body alight with a sensation she could not identify but certainly did not want to end. Gendry moaned into her moan as she pushed his shirt up before pulling away, gasping.
“You have to go,” Gendry panted, holding up his hand when Arya attempted to move closer.
A pained expression crossing his face, he explained, “Because if you don't, Greatjon is going to geld me in the morning.”
Arya smiled as she pushed his hand out of the way, slipping her arms around his neck once again. “I'll protect you.”
It was strange, Arya mused as Gendry sat upon his bed, Arya straddling him upon his lap, how her body seemed to know what to do even when her brain did not. Somehow she knew to twist her hips against the hardness between her thighs, to push her breasts in Gendry's hands without consciously deciding to do so; it felt as if wildfire was alight in her blood, like her body was building towards something better and Arya was desperate to find out how to make that happen.
Gendry groaned as her hand began to fumble with his laces before begging, “Be sure, Arya. If you do not - “
She swallowed the rest of his words before murmuring against his lips, “Do you know how?”
Pushing up into her hand, still tugging at the laces, he managed, “Yes but...”
A brilliant blush filled his cheeks. “I've only ever...On my 18th name day, Tom and Lem...It was just the one time, and I'll never - “
“I know you won't.” Smirking as she slipped her hand into his breeches, under the edge of his smallclothes, she added, “Else it won't be Greatjon who gelds you.”
Arya trembled as Gendry pulled her nightdress over her head, leaving her only in her smallclothes, her long, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. As he laid her back against his pillow, Arya watched with wide eyes as he stripped down to his skin; she had seen men undressed before but never like this. When he hooked his fingers into the band of her smallclothes, Arya felt nervousness and fear flicker through her, and Gendry froze.
“Do you want to stop?”
Voice failing her, Arya shook her head, lifting her hips to help him along; when she was bare, Gendry paused, kneeling at the foot of his bed, his eyes drinking her in. Instantly she felt the urge to cover herself, more from self-consciousness than modesty; though Arya knew she was no longer Arya Horseface, that she was a pretty girl, she was nowhere near as beautiful as Sansa or as curvacious as the innkeeper's daughter. In the past, Arya's only concern for her body was practicality; she needed to be strong, lithe, and always ready in case of attack. When men saw her, they saw No One, just as she had been trained to let them see, and now, as Gendry's bright blue eyes trailed over her body with its lean muscle and handful of scars, Arya wondered if mayhaps she should have cared as much as Sansa did about appearances.
“I used to dream about this,” Gendry revealed as he slid his hands up her legs, over her knees, caressing the soft skin of her inner thighs. “Even when we were at Harrenhal, I used to have dreams of what this would be like. You were older and would come to the forge...”
“What happened next?” she asked, sharply inhaling through her nose as Gendry brushed his lips against the curve of her stomach, wetly pressing kisses up her torso, stopping to linger at her breasts.
His breath was hot against her face as he settled atop her, bracing his weight on his elbows, his lips curling into a secret smile. “I would wake up, and you'd be gone.”
Shifting her hips, moaning as he pressed against where she was neediest, Arya confessed, “I dreamed of you too.”
There was only a pinch of pain as Gendry slid inside of her, less than a sting of a practice sword, but it still drew a gasp from Arya's lips, more from the newness of the feeling; Gendry exhaled shakily against her shoulder between whispers of her name and words she could not make out. When he slowly withdrew to push forward again, there was no pain at all, only a warm rush of pleasure; she moved her hips to meet his as he repeated the motion, and, judging from the moan it wrenched from his chest, Arya assumed this was what she was supposed to do.
It's like sparring, she realized as she drew up her legs to frame Gendry's hips, trying to brace her feet to allow her to move more, needing to exert herself. Give and take. Push and pull. It's like water dancing.
That feeling for earlier was returning sharper, a pressure building in her stomach, and Arya began to move her hips in a quicker tempo, clutching Gendry's shoulders as she strove for the mystery just out of reach. As Gendry rushed to match her rhythm, Arya felt tears of frustration welling in her eyes, teetering on a precipice but unable to grasp what was just out of reach.
She gasped his name, lifting one leg to wrap around his body, and, at the plaintive sound to her voice, Gendry stilled his hips, shifting their bodies apart enough for him to fit his hand between them. Before she could ask why he was stopping, he pressed against the place where they were joined, his fingers rubbing a quick, circular pattern which made every muscle in Arya's body tighten before the sharpest pleasure she had ever known exploded throughout her body.
Gendry cried out as she pulsed around him, thrusting a few more times before groaning into her tangled hair, filling her with his seed. As they both struggled to catch their breath, sweat cooling on their bodies, Arya absently stroked Gendry's back, her body sporadically trembling with aftershocks of pleasure. Gendry kissed her neck, the hinge of her jaw, before finding her mouth, his lips soft and sweet against hers.
“I love you,” he swore.
“I love you,” she returned, feeling the strangest sense of loss as he slipped from her body, shifting his body to spare her his bulk.
They laid together twice more before Arya knew she had to return to the castle. She quickly gathered her clothing, trying to fix her hair so as not to hint to anyone what she had been doing if caught; Gendry watched her with hungry eyes, and she ordered him to stop if he didn't want Greatjon to carry through with his promise.
“I will tell the King that I want legitimacy when he wakes,” Gendry announced as Arya forced her feet into her boots. “We'll marry before we march on King's Landing.”
Arya nodded, not wanting to think of the upcoming battle when they were like this, when she was happy. “Then I shall see you after.”
The halls of the castle were quiet as Arya sneaked back to her chamber, silent as a ghost. As she shed her boots and cloak, she noticed there was someone asleep beneath her blankets; she was reaching for her dagger when the person shifted, the moonlight illuminating Sansa's auburn locks, and Arya temporarily breathed a sigh of relief before slipping into her bed.
Sansa's sleepy eyes met hers on the pillow. “Did you lay with him?” her sister whispered.
Arya considered lying, sparing herself a lecture, but she did not want to lie when her body was still flush with pleasure. “Yes.”
She expected Sansa to chastise her, to threaten to tell Jon or Bran, but instead Arya watched as her sister's face became unbearably curious, her voice dropping even lower as she asked, “What was it like?”
Arya never considered herself a lady, and she never had a need for her prim and proper sister, but her heart was so full in that moment, Arya found herself confessing everything: Jon's offer, their plans to wed, what it felt like to take Gendry into her body. Sansa listened eagerly, her eyes widening as Arya described the things she and Gendry had done, color rising on Sansa's fair cheeks even as she asked Arya questions, and, when they were both out of words, Arya felt exhaustion start to creep into her body.
As her eyes started to droop closed, Sansa murmured, “You are going to be Arya Baratheon.”
Forcing her eyes open, Arya shook her head. “No. No matter whose wife I am, I will always be Arya Stark.”
It had taken her six years to reclaim that name, and Arya was not going to give it away for anyone, not even Gendry.
Fics of Fancy
- Fic: 5 Times Arya Stark Shared a Bed With Gendry Waters (2/2)