Chapter Text
Sansa was betrothed to a Lord with golden hair and a velvet cape. She was rosy cheeked and gushing the last Arya had seen of her, talking of how their love would inspire songs and their children would have his hair and her eyes. Jeyne Poole had only encouraged her, begging more details at the celebratory feast as Arya’s appetite waned. With Robb married and his first child expected in but a few moons, Sansa betrothed, and Jon headed for the wall, Arya’s future was rapidly approaching. A future that, if her parents had anything to do with it, wouldn’t include the blue-eyed ward staring her down from across the hall. Gendry Waters had been unexpected, an acknowledged bastard of the King sent to ward for her father when they were only children.
All those years ago he’d been nothing but a tall, bumbling annoyance who’d watched her spar with Jon, Robb and Theon and teased her. For her height, for her temper, Gendry always found something to rouse her anger. While Arya Underfoot had been her nickname for longer than she’d have liked, Gendry had retorted that Stampfoot seemed more fitting. But that was so long ago now. Before they’d fallen into a routine of sorts, while he forged and she sat atop his bench, criticising and poking fun right back.
It was then, amongst forge fire and his stoicism, that Arya came to call Gendry a friend. When alone, Gendry seemed a different person. He didn’t scowl so much, something Arya came to realise made him seem younger, and she felt a lightness whenever he directed a smile her way. There still wasn’t flowing conversation, but she came to realise that was his way. He didn’t speak if he didn’t feel the need and for that, he was different.
Friends were one thing though. The morning Arya fell in love was another. It was cold as any other day in Winterfell, but the snow had fallen heavier overnight, and she’d stood before the forge entrance. Dragging the toe of her boot through the snow, she’d watched as Nymeria chased Shaggydog about, growling playfully.
“Mornin’.”
Gendry’s hair had been cut the shortest Arya had ever seen it, despite winter’s arrival, and at first, she hadn’t understood why. She didn’t like it, plain as that. His shaggy hair had hung just so, contrasting with the blue of his eyes. She certainly hadn’t said as much, just called him stupid for doing it and moved on.
Then, one night when the pair had snuck away from a feast to spar, he’d looked her in the eyes suddenly and paused.
“I don’t want to be like him.”
For anyone else, it wouldn’t have made sense. But, to Arya it did immediately. They’d talked about it before, his hatred of the resemblance so many spoke about upon seeing Gendry for the first time. In some cases, the resemblance was brought up at feasts when Lords and Ladies were deep in their cups and reminiscing. There was no love lost between a bastard boy and his drunken, adulterous father.
“You aren’t.” Arya had hit his knee with her wooden sword, “Now, up.”
At first, she’d hated the way King Robert dictated the way Gendry presented himself. He shaved to the skin of his jaw, not daring to grow a beard, and he hadn’t let his hair grow long since the King’s last visit. Now, however, with flushed cheeks and nose, Arya could see the appeal.
“Morning.” she sounded breathier than she cared for and her smile widened, “Work?”
“Nah.” Gendry shrugged, tilting his chin to where Nymeria had cornered Shaggydog, “Could hear them, thought you’d be with them.”
Arya shook her head, “Was just coming to tell you I’ve been called upon. Lessons.” She rolled her eyes and nudged him gently, “See you at lunch?”
“Of course, m’lady.” Gendry bowed and Arya’s face fell, all as his transformed into a grin.
It was their way, her shoving hard and storming off as he cackled loudly. It wasn’t that which had her feeling feint and wishing that she was anything but the lady he thought her to be.
She’d made it upstairs, skirts gathered in her hands as she grumbled to herself about stupid boys and their stupid words, when she heard laughter. But it wasn’t that of her brothers, nor Sansa and Jeyne’s incessant giggling that echoed up to where she stood looking down at the yard.
Nymeria and Shaggydog had found a new wrestling partner in a darkhaired boy, his furs covered in snow as he rolled and tumbled with them. His hair, short but as dark as anything against the thick white covering the ground, gave him away. Her heart lurched as Gendry laughed some more, pulling up from Nymeria, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. As if he’d known she was watching.
Then, Arya swallowed, looking away as the first thought to come to her mind was – that’s what it feels like.
Six moons had passed, and Arya hadn’t felt any surer of what to do with her feelings. Not until Sansa’s betrothal had been announced and she’d known that she was surely next. With Gendry’s gaze upon her for the entire night, she’d grown more restless. Until finally, came the words that spurred her on. She’d excused herself from dinner, citing tiredness from the day’s lessons, and was loitering in the hallway when Gendry appeared. He’d followed her, as he always did, as Arya always expected.
But this was different.
His hair had grown back in and he’d cut it again since the day in the yard, though she was thankful it was not nearly as short. For all they said of resemblances between him and the King, Arya thought Gendry was far handsomer. His eyes were kinder, his brows more stubborn and the soot never quite left his skin. Even now, dressed in his finest, she could see a line of it across his jaw.
The soot she wanted to mark her own hands and face, so desperately at times that her mouth felt dry. His eyes she wanted on hers always and his mouth just the same. She felt her cheeks warm, all before the seriousness of her desire crashed over her.
It must’ve showed for Gendry raised an eyebrow, “Tired of celebrating, m’lady?”
“Shut it.” She snapped weakly, her gaze falling to her feet.
She heard him shuffle closer, until his furs came into view and she looked up tentatively. He’d always towered above her, frustratingly tall from the moment she’d met him. Only now, it wasn’t nearly as frustrating as it was distracting.
“What’s wrong?”
Arya swallowed and leaned back against the wall, “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He frowned, “You seem awfully sad for just nothing, Arry.”
Arry.
No one but him called her that.
No one but him teased and comforted her in equal parts, sparred with her and wrestled with Nymeria without hesitation.
In turn, there was no one she’d loved in this way but him.
It was with all that in mind that Arya met his eyes, her own watery as she found the words.
“I don’t want to be like Sansa.”
Words so like his that night he’d fisted his hair and cried himself hoarse, worrying over his future, fearing that it might hold the drunken whoring that his father’s life had reduced to. Where he had more bastards than he knew what to do with, wards for Lords to brothers of the Night’s Watch.
His frown deepened, “Sansa?”
“I don’t want to be married off to a Lord whose love for me relies only on what my family can do for his.” Arya said, wringing her hands.
“Lord Tyrell seems taken with Sansa.” Gendry replied slowly, “Maybe… You’ll be paired with a Lord who is just the same.”
Arya looked up sharply at that and shook her head, “I don’t want that! I don’t want them, Gendry.”
He stood straighter at that, brows drawn low as he took his time asking his next question.
“What do you want, Arya?”
It was unspoken but she heard it all the same.
Who do you want?
She didn’t take the time to say what she meant, not this time. Instead long fingers buried in his furs and she pulled him forwards, pushing up onto her tiptoes simultaneously. Their lips met and Arya melted into him, one hand moving up to cup the back of his head. He tasted of ale and stew, his lips dry against hers, and she only wanted more.
They might’ve been kissing for hours or longer and she wouldn’t have known, for when he finally pulled away, she made to follow him. She’d dreamt of kissing him for the six moons since she’d known of her feelings, if not longer. Kissing him in the snow when they were flushed, after feasts in darkened corners like now, holding his hand for all to see.
He was all she wanted.
“Arya.” His hands gripped her shoulders and she opened her eyes, tongue wetting her lips as she looked up to him again.
“Gendry.” She murmured, “Don’t let me marry a Lord. I don’t want to be anyone’s lady but yours.”