Chapter Text
At first, she assumed the fluttering in her stomach was due to the lurching of the ship. It didn’t exactly feel like seasickness though, and she’d had plenty of that when they’d first set sail.
Passing by the Stormlands had been particularly rough, but she wasn’t the only one on board who had issues with those choppy seas. She was glad for the others heaving over the side of the ship. It let her convince herself that the clenching of her stomach had nothing to do with the newly appointed lord whose land they were passing or the looks he’d given her at the Dragon Pit.
But her nausea had persisted long after the Nymeria had rounded Sunspear, and even once they’d docked in Oldtown for several days, she still had a few mornings where she’d had to run to the privy to empty her stomach. Her legs had been wobbly on land after two weeks at sea, and she’d been relieved when she awoke one morning feeling ravenous, grateful that her body had seemed to finally adjust to its new circumstances.
So when she’d felt a faint quivering in her gut during a light storm after almost three weeks at sea, Arya put it down to the rolling of the ship over the waves. But then it happened again the next day when there were practically no waves at all. And again while she was lying still in her cabin. And again after they’d made land on one of the three small islands in the Summer Sea discovered by Elissa Farman centuries before.
But after being on solid ground for three straight days, the strange feeling only increased in frequency, and Arya could no longer pass it off as an effect of the sea, though she didn’t know what it was. If she was ill, she didn’t want to confine herself on a ship, potentially passing sickness off to the rest of her crew.
***
“Maester Jarrad, can I speak with you please?” Her foot was tapping restlessly on the sand as she waited for the maester to extricate himself from a conversation. Their plan was to depart the next morning, but before they could do that, Arya had to know if she was a danger to anyone else on board.
The gray haired maester joined her on the sand as she stared out at the waves. “What can I do for you, captain?”
“What do you know of butterfly fever, Jarrad?”
He started a bit, clearly surprised by her question. He looked at her, furrowing his brows in thought. “Originates from Naath. Essentially always fatal. Nasty way to go.”
At that precise moment, her stomach fluttered again, and her heart sank. “Oh.”
“Why do you ask, captain?”
“How can you tell if someone has it?” She tried to control the fear in her voice, but the look on Jarrad’s face told her she was entirely unsuccessful.
“There’s no possible way you have butterfly fever, captain,” he said in a reassuring manner. “You’d be shaking on the ground and sweating blood.”
Arya felt a wave of relief wash over her, but the feeling in her gut immediately pushed it away. There was something wrong with her.
Maester Jarrad looked at her curiously, eyes searching her face. “Why would you think you have butterfly fever?”
“Because that’s what it feels like. It feels like butterflies.”
“Butterflies?”
She nodded at him and placed a hand on her abdomen. “In here, it’s like butterflies. I can feel...wings fluttering. I thought it was the sea, but it hasn’t stopped. It’s only gotten stronger, and I don’t want to make anyone else sick.”
Jarrad’s face went very still, and his eyes flicked from her face to her stomach and back up again. “You were sick before, I think,” he said slowly. “For several weeks when we first set sail.”
Arya nodded. “Just seasickness, though. Hadn’t sailed in a long time. I suppose my body needed to get used to it again.”
He peered at her intently. “Had you been sick before we left King’s Landing?”
She started to shake her head, but then stopped, thinking back. She’d been sick off and on before they left. Right after King’s Landing had burnt, she’d found herself vomiting up gray and black bile for days. Breathing in all that ash and smoke had done her no favors.
And then Jon had killed Daenerys and she’d been under so much stress, worrying over his fate that she was in a near constant state of nausea for almost two weeks as they waited on the lords and ladies of Westeros to assemble. Then Jon’s banishment happened, and Bran was crowned king, and she decided to leave, wanting nothing to do with any of it. Sansa had agreed to let her take the Stark ship that she and Bran had sailed down on from White Harbor, and she’d spent the next two weeks hiring a crew and gathering supplies. But she was still so anxious over whether she was making the right decision or not, that her stomach’s constant rebellion didn’t seem that strange at the time.
But now...
She looked back at Jarrad cautiously. “A bit,” she admitted.
“For how long?”
“Four or five weeks, I guess. It started in King’s Landing. After...the dragon.”
Jarrad pursed his lips and stared at her for a long moment. “I think I might know what’s causing it,” he said. “If I’m right, you won’t need to worry about passing it on to anyone else.”
Arya relaxed slightly. “What is it? What’s wrong with me?”
The maester’s face was unreadable. “Captain,” he said slowly. “When did you last bleed?”
“I- What?”
“Your moon blood. When did you last have it?”
His question startled her. She’d never bled that regularly, and she had to think to when she’d last had to deal with it. It’d been in Winterfell. Right before Jon had returned. With so much happening, the fact that it’d been...almost five moons since she’d bled had completely escaped her notice.
She stared at him, a suspicion starting to form in the back of her mind. “Before the battle at Winterfell,” she said. “About four and a half moons ago.”
He nodded, as if she’d just confirmed something. He reached his hand out to hover over her belly. “May I?”
Arya nodded wordlessly, flinching slightly as his hand pressed hard into her abdomen, fingers moving around as he searched for something.
“Has your appetite changed recently? Any strange cravings or aversions?” Jarrad was on his knees in front of her now, pulling up her tunic to examine her stomach more closely.
“Yes,” she replied, “but I’ve never eaten this much fish in my life, so I’m not surprised I’ve gotten sick of it.”
“Hmm.” He leaned in to look at the waistband of her breeches. “These seem tight, captain. They’re digging into your skin here.” He gently tapped his fingers on her hips.
“I’ve been eating a lot of potatoes lately,” she said defensively, internally dismissing any other reason her breeches might not fit.
Jarrad stood and stared at her for a long moment, his expression blank. “Captain, have you ever lain with a man?”
She flushed scarlet, her body going hot at the memory of Gendry’s hands on her, and she knew. “Once,” she admitted reluctantly. Technically twice, the thought sprang unbidden to her mind.
“Once is all it takes,” he said gently. “Would I be correct in assuming this was about four moons ago?”
She blinked at him, her mind whirling with the revelation. Then she nodded.
He crossed his arms in front of him and studied her. “There are...options, but at this point they are dangerous.”
It took a moment for his meaning to sink in. “No!” she yelled, horrified. “No,” she repeated, softer, but firmly. “I don’t want that.”
Jarrad took a step towards her and stretched out his hand to rest on her shoulder as he looked her in the eyes. “Then I suggest you decide what you do want, captain. The unknown sea is no place for a babe.”
Arya stared at him. What did she want? She thought she had known, but now... This changed everything.
“I need to think on it,” she said after a long moment. “Tomorrow. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
The maester gave her a long searching look, then nodded and turned away, leaving her alone on the beach.
She plopped down on the sand, pulling her knees to her chest and feeling as if her breath had been stolen away. She was with child. Gendry’s child. Gendry, who told her he loved her, who called her beautiful, who asked her to be with him, to be his wife. Who was thousands of miles away at Storm’s End, probably learning to use a fork properly and...what? Was he thinking of her? Did he miss her or had he put her out of his mind the moment she’d turned away from him at the Dragon Pit and found a proper lady to wed?
Arya had wanted to speak to him so badly, but she hadn’t. She’d watched him covertly eyeing her, following her lead as everyone had sat down, Gendry just a beat behind the rest. She’d noticed the way his head jerked towards her when she threatened Yara. She’d seen the longing in his eyes, the hope, and then the heartbreak as she moved away, turning her back on the man who had once been her only friend in the world.
She’d hated herself for doing it. Hated the way his shoulders slumped and his head bowed when she glanced back to watch him leave. Hated the heavy weight that had settled in her chest, only lessening slightly when Oldtown was behind them. She’d thought that meant she’d made the right decision, that leaving Westeros would let her breathe again, but most days it just sat there, on the edge of her consciousness, rearing up whenever she let her thoughts drift away from the ship. On busy days, she could almost ignore the way her heart would clench when her eyes met those of the ship’s cook, eyes that were a nearly perfect shade of blue.
But she’d had to do it, she told herself. He couldn’t love her. She was death, and she couldn’t let him love her. So she left, convincing herself that she’d always had a burning desire to know what was west of Westeros and that Gendry would move on. Find a proper lady who enjoyed dresses and sewing, who would bat her lashes at him and dutifully bear his heirs.
Except. His heir was currently inside her.
Oh gods.
What was she going to do?
She sat, staring out at the sea, trying to consider the situation dispassionately, but all she could see was him. Gazing up at her in awe as she settled on top of him. Shackled and thrown in the back of a cart. Riding past her on that white horse. Meeting her eyes across Harrenhal. Kneeling in front of her, heart in his hand. Standing up for a ragged orphan boy. “You wouldn’t be my family, you’d be m’lady.” “None of it means anything if you’re not with me. So be with me.”
Gods, she was an idiot.
Sandor had tried to tell her, in his own crude way. Told her when they left Winterfell how “that lovesick twat” had been looking for her before he’d been legitimized, but she’d scoffed, already telling herself that he was just drunk. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it.
But she knew him. He did mean it, and she’d known what he meant when he’d asked her to be the lady of Storm’s End, deep down, she’d known. And she was an idiot because if there was one man in the world who would ever love her just as she was, who would never try to change her, it was Gendry. He’d never expect her to defer to him or to lay down her sword. Hells, he’d probably make her as many swords as she asked of him.
And she turned him down. Because of what? Some stupid death wish? Then when she’d had the chance to take it back, all she could do was run, like some coward because she couldn’t face the fact that he might actually love her, scars and all. And now, in an absolutely hilarious twist of fate, he’d gotten her pregnant her very first or possibly second time, and the night she destroyed death, they’d actually created life.
Arya started laughing. Just a small bewildered chuckle at first. Then several high pitched giggles escaped her mouth as the irony of the situation hit her again, and then she was cackling. Head thrown back, tears streaming down her face, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
When her laughter had finally subsided and she wiped the tears from her eyes, she found Maester Jarrad, her first mate Jack, and several of the crew members watching her warily.
“Captain?” Jack stepped forward. “Is everything all right?”
Her hands dropped down to rest against her belly, and she felt it again. That soft fluttering that was Gendry’s child. Hers and his. Theirs. And she knew exactly what she wanted. She stood, brushing the sand from her breeches and turned to him. “How quickly can you get me to Storm’s End?”