Chapter 14

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell

Hello again. Thank you all for hanging on in there and coming back for more, despite the loooooong delay. I haven't been slacking, honest. I just found this chapter really, really hard to write. But after hours and hours (and hours) of work, here it is . . .

Arya saw daylight through half closed eyes, heard men's voices shouting in the distance and later, trumpets sounding. She shut her eyes and her ears to it all.

On any other day she would have leapt out of bed, seven hells, she wouldn't even have been in bed at this time, but today was different. She was different.

She could tell herself it was just sex, try to convince herself that the walls she'd built to keep her secrets and her ugly soul hidden hadn't been breached last night. But since she'd returned to Winterfell, lying to herself didn't seem to work as well as it used to.

She'd suspected Gendry was the one man capable of breaking through her defences when he'd kissed her on the stair. She'd been scared by the strength of the memories and the longing that he'd awoken then; no doubt that was why she'd tried to end things there, before he got too close.

By the time he'd held her and pushed inside her, it was too late. By then it seemed as if she'd been empty for so long, hollow, waiting for him to come along and fill her body and soul. Yes, she could tell herself it was just sex, but every time she tried to do so, a four letter word crept into her head. No matter how she tried to ignore it or shut it out, it was still there. Love. As if she had any idea of what that meant.

Although he was the last person she should have been thinking about, when she was trying not to think of Gendry, her mind kept wandering back to Jaqen and her last night in Braavos. He was the reason she'd returned to Winterfell; after one innocent's death too many, Jaqen had listened to her, consoled her and she'd misread everything.

"I'm not what you're looking for Arya," he'd said as he gently, but firmly, pushed her away.

In all the years she'd known him, it was the only time Jaqen had used her name. He'd even referred to himself as "I" and it was only to reject her; a hurt and humiliation that had sent her fleeing the Guild and Braavos for Winterfell, not knowing what she would find there, or even if she would be welcome. But Winterfell had needed her as much as she'd need Winterfell. Her invisible wounds had healed as she struggled to survive the winter and all the while she tried to forget every single thing that had happened since she'd left her home so long ago. Until Gendry's arrival, Arya had even started to believe she'd succeeded; Winterfell's very survival had been so precarious she'd had hardly any time to think about herself since the first day she'd walked back through Winterfell's gates.

But now, lying in bed with Gendry's scent still on the sheets and his seed sticky between her thighs, she realised Jaqen had been right. She'd been looking for something she was never going to find in the House of Black and White. She hadn't even known what it was she was looking for until she'd found it last night in Gendry's arms?

If only she could stay in this room, this bed, with Gendry forever. As long as she stayed here, she could pretend everything was perfect. In this bed she could be someone else; someone who laughed and loved, someone who deserved to be happy.

Gendry made her forget all the sorrow and the loss, the weight on her shoulders and the blood on her hands. Perhaps the someone else she felt when she was with him was the Arya Stark she'd lost sight of long ago; the way she might have been if there hadn't been a war, if she hadn't lost her family, if there hadn't been years wasted in Braavos. Perhaps then she would have deserved Gendry's love.

Arya rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. No amount of wanting could change the things that she'd done. No matter how much she wanted to be, she wasn't that Arya Stark anymore. She wasn't the girl Gendry though he had fallen in love with.

Her hand stroked across her stomach and for a moment Arya let herself imagine her belly swollen and round with a babe. Gendry's babe.

Daring to dream about what she would never have hurt too much. Before the tears of self pity started flowing, Arya let her hand drop back onto the sheet. There would never be a babe. The Gods knew she didn't deserve one. Every day since she had returned home, she had gone to the Godswood and prayed; for food, for spring, for peace, for forgiveness and every single day she had been met with silence. Yet the leaves had spoken to Gendry the moment he had stepped in front of the Heart Tree. He obviously deserved the Gods' favour, while they turned away from her. For everything she had done, she didn't deserve anything as beautiful and pure as a babe. She didn't deserve Gendry either.

Oh Gendry claimed he wanted her, but what he really wanted was a girl who didn't exist any more and the woman he wanted had only ever existed in his imagination. Perhaps that was why he called her Nymeria in the heat of their passion? Perhaps he knew that 'Lady Arya Stark' was just another mask she hid behind. How long would it be before Gendry saw behind that mask? How long before he realised all that was left of Arya Stark were broken pieces floating on a sea of blood?

Arya wanted to cling onto last night for as long as she could. So she closed her eyes, buried her head under the covers and let the darkness take her to somewhere safe, some imaginary place with Gendry, where her past couldn't return to haunt her. Somewhere they had a future together.

-o-

Gendry stood outside the door with the breakfast plate in his hand. Had it really only been last night he'd stood here for the first time and found the door barred against him?

He hadn't tried it yet, but hoped it wouldn't be barred today. Should he knock? Or should he walk straight in? He'd never shared a room with a woman before, much less his wife. Seven buggering hells, he'd never even stayed the night with a woman; he'd always left before dawn, wracked with guilt and shame that he was just like his father.

Waiting to see his wife, Gendry realised he had no idea what came next. So he stood there like an idiot, holding the plate, his heart thumping as if he was about to ride into battle.

Taking a deep breath, he decided to knock and enter. To his relief, the door wasn't barred. The room was light and he didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't the peaceful normality he saw; a wedding dress hung over the back of a chair, their two war chests side by side against the wall and the ashes of last night's fire in the grate. Releasing the breath he hadn't even realised he'd been holding, Gendry relaxed a little. Perhaps he was worrying too much, after all, he had no doubt Arya enjoyed last night as much as he had.

His eyes trailed to the discarded wedding shift on the floor and then to the bed where long, dark hair fanned out across the pillow. She was still asleep? He stood still in the middle of the room, wondering what to do. Mercifully Arya made things easier when she stirred with a soft, whimper-like moan.

Gendry moved closer, waiving the plate towards her, hoping the aroma of Hot Pie's pancakes wafting over the bed would wake her. It seemed to work, as Arya rolled over onto her back, blinking.

He murmured an awkward, "Good morning."

Arya sat up slowly and stretched like a cat. Then two things happened at once; the bedcovers slipped from her shoulders and she gasped with what was clearly discomfort bordering on pain.

Gendry was struck dumb as his eyes followed the covers down to her exposed breasts that thrust towards him as she stretched, her teats red, swollen and tender from his ravenous attention last night. Mouth shaped bruises on creamy skin told him he must have sucked too hard. He didn't remember doing it and was torn between alarm that he'd hurt her and a fierce, animal pride that he'd marked her as his own.

Realising she was naked, Arya snatched up the cover to hug it against her breasts. The peaks of her hard teats strained against fine linen.

"You're staring," she said sharply, although the accusation was accompanied by a tentative smile from under long, sleepy lashes.

He shrugged, his lips tugging up into a grin, "I like what I see."

Arya chewed the corner of her mouth in a way that told him she was nervous, as uncertain as he was of what happened next. He wanted to get under those covers with her and prove to her just how much all of him liked what he saw, but he couldn't. Not yet. He had to attend to the business with the sheet first.

"I'm surprised you weren't woken by the noise from the courtyard."

He wasn't sure if it would have been better if she'd heard him disciplining Steerpike or not. Gendry stole a look towards the balcony. Another, larger crowd would be gathering out there right now, but with the windows closed and the curtains half drawn, he could hear nothing. He felt awkward, excited by the mere sight of his wife, but not sure how best to broach the matter of the sheet.

"I can't believe I slept so deeply," Arya said huskily, drawing his attention back to the bed. Her long, wild hair swung free and her teats pressed enticingly against the linen as she rolled her shoulders and arched her back. "I don't know what's wrong with me. Usually I can't sleep at all."

He wanted to tell her there was nothing wrong, that everything had never been so right, but that would be denying the trouble he was in with widow Cassel, Peake and his own damn men. He needed to talk to her about that. The courtyard would be full soon, Peake would have seen to that; full of Daenerys' army and Winterfell's women, all expecting to see Arya's blood on a sheet.

Dragging his eyes from her breasts to her face, Gendry watched, transfixed, as Arya blinked and pouted and groaned again. Her lips, like her teats, were red and swollen from his enthusiastic attentions last night.

Gendry dragged his free hand over his mouth and chin, feeling the morning scruff rasp his palm and wondering if he'd inadvertently left the inside of her thighs as chaffed and tender as her teats and lips. As if in confirmation, Arya wriggled her hips and gave the most delicious, breathy moan; part discomfort and part needy whimper. It reminded him of everything they had done last night and sent blood pumping straight to his cock.

"I hope I didn't hurt you?" Gendry managed to ask, through the haze of his desire.

"Hmmm, let's just say I'll be thinking about you every time I sit down," she said and then giggled. It was a wonderful, most un-Arya like sound and he loved it.

With her eyes wide and blinking, her hair an unruly mess, her bee-stung lips and her breasts bearing his mark, Arya looked like every fantasy he'd ever had, come to life. He was the luckiest bastard in the whole of Westeros. This is how he wanted to remember Arya. If he fucked things up, if he lost her somehow, this moment would stay with him until the day he died, this memory of how she looked and of how much he loved her.

"You brought me breakfast?"

Gendry looked down at the plate in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He'd forgotten all about it. The way she licked her lips threatened to make him forget everything else too.

Sitting down beside her on the bed, he offered her the plate. Arya seized it with both hands. The bed covers fell, her attempts to hide her nakedness forgotten.

"How did you know I was hungry?"

"Just a wild guess."

Arya squealed with delight when she peered inside the jug Hot Pie had sat on the plate. "I haven't tasted this since I was a girl!"

Gendry grinned as he watched her dribble sweet maple syrup over the stack of pancakes, concentration etched on her beautiful face.

She mumbled something unintelligible through her first mouthful, closing her eyes and rolling her head back, groaning with delight as she savoured the sweet taste and sticky texture. The noises she made were almost as enthusiastic as the ones he'd drawn from her last night. Hearing her so damn happy made him happy too. Her pleasure was his pleasure and a rush of contentment like he'd never known surged in his chest. He forced it down, he had to. The sheet. He had to get the damn sheet out on that balcony and then he intended to make her moan and scream his name so many times she'd think she'd worn it out. And then he intended to make her scream some more.

While Arya was busy devouring her breakfast, Gendry sneaked a look behind her at the exposed sheet. To his relief, there it was – the butterfly stain of her maiden's blood.

"What are you doing?" Arya demanded through another mouthful. Damn, but she missed nothing.

"Are you not going to share?" he asked, lifting the little jug, intent on distracting her until she'd finished eating and he'd decided how best to bring up the subject of the sheet.

She shook her head and licked her lips, savouring every last morsel.

Gendry poked his index finger into the jug and swept it around the bowl until the tip was coated in golden syrup. He hadn't even managed to get it half way to his mouth when strong, slim fingers caught his wrist.

"Oh no you don't. That's mine."

Before he could protest, Arya had tugged his hand forwards and sucked his index finger into her mouth. Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she wrapped her tongue around the whole length of his finger, hollowed her cheeks and sucked. They both moaned at the same time.

As he watched her lavish attention on his finger, the sheet was forgotten. Watching her was so damn erotic that all Gendry could think of was another part of him sliding in and out between those plump, red lips. They'd stopped before he'd spilled his seed in her mouth last night. Twice. This morning she was obviously sore down there but, providing she'd let him, he had no intention of stopping a third time. He'd return the favour of course. With interest. But not yet, although he was having trouble remembering why not.

Maybe she read his mind as, through the haze of desire, he was suddenly aware of her other hand stroking the laces of his britches where his cock strained for release.

Gendry had to grit his teeth to stop himself from ripping the laces open himself, tangling his fingers in her wild hair and encouraging her mouth down to where he really wanted it.

Instead he settled for a gasped, "That feels so good."

She grinned around his finger and rubbed her hand more firmly over his laces, drawing a lusty, rasped groan from him.

Fuck, but she was so good at this. Would it be selfish to let her suck him off and then tell her why he was here? Fuck, he was a selfish bastard for even thinking about it, but by the Gods, it wouldn't take long. Not long at all.

But to his frustration, Arya releasing his finger with a loud, wet 'pop', before whispering huskily, "No one takes what's mine and this sweet finger is . . ." she flicked her tongue over the tip, ". . . mine."

Gripping his wrist tighter, holding his hand to her mouth, she bobbed her head forwards and back, sucking, licking, teasing, all the while holding his gaze with heavily lidded eyes.

If he didn't stop her now, he wouldn't be able to stop. And he had to stop. Gendry thought of Peake waiting for him out there in the courtyard and his desire was doused as effectively as if Peake had dumped a bucket of ice water down his britches.

"Arya," he rasped, extracting his finger from her mouth with another loud 'pop', "Stop. There's something we need to discuss."

Again? Arya looked up at him, thwarted, frustrated and more than a little annoyed. Why did he keep stopping her? Wasn't she good enough at this? Every time she anticipated him coming in her mouth he told her to stop. She wanted to taste him, to show him how special he was, how much more he meant to her than all the others.

Giving him a wicked pout that she knew from experience men liked, she asked, "Why wait?"

Gendry extracted his wrist from her hand, steeling himself for their discussion; at least he hoped it was going to be a discussion and not a fight. "Because I need to talk to you about the sheet."

With dismay, Arya realised that, while she was still clinging onto the dream of last night, Gendry had already moved on. He was planning the next move in his claiming of Winterfell and it involved displaying the sheet they were both sitting on. He was making it perfectly clear that the sheet was more important than she was. She gripped her fork so tightly her knuckles turned white and it was all she could do to stop herself stabbing his big, stupid thigh with it.

Surely she couldn't have been so wrong? Surely last night hadn't been just another part of his plan? Claim her. Claim Winterfell. Was that really all she was to him? Part of his plan? Did all the loving words he'd whispered in the dark mean nothing to him? He stomach dropped like a stone in a pool. Suddenly she wasn't hungry anymore.

Keep her voice steady took a great deal of effort, but she did it and asked, "Is that what you were looking at earlier?" Although she already knew the answer.

Gendry nodded guiltily and turned to look behind her, at the stain in the centre of the sheet.

She frowned. Did he really think she was so blinded by love or lust that she hadn't noticed the self-satisfied expression that flickered across his face when he'd first seen her maiden's blood? So he wanted the sheet, but she had no intention of making this easy for him. She followed his gaze, turning to look at the bloody stain too. "Don't worry. If it won't wash out, I'll burn it," she murmured apologetically.

Gendry almost laughed. Arya might have been a Faceless Assassin, but in some ways, she was still so naive. As if he would let her wash or burn their wedding sheet. Adopting a soothing tone he began, "I know you didn't want to go through with the bedding last night . . ."

"It's degrading," she interrupted vehemently and she meant it. That wasn't part of any act. Her distain for the ritual was just as strong this morning as it had been last night; stronger even, now she knew Gendry was more interested in the sheet than in her. "I'm not some object to be stripped and displayed." Like that sheet - she might have added, but she didn't.

For all Gendry that shared her revulsion at the bedding ritual, it was a tradition; one that reached as far back as the First Men and trying to break with tradition caused seven hells of a lot of problems – as he was finding out. He ran his hands through his hair, taking his time to try and find the right words for this, words that would get him what he wanted; what he needed. "I'm glad I was able to save you from that."

She cocked one sceptical eyebrow at him, as if she disagreed with his assessment of the situation, as if she could have saved herself.

A little wave of annoyance rippled through him. Didn't Arya realise that, if he hadn't given the order there was to be no bedding, even a Faceless Assassin couldn't have stopped it? There was an army of men in the hall last night, all wanting to see a beautiful maiden stripped naked, all wanting to leer and grab, every one of them imagining what it would be like to bed her first. But she was his.

The same possessiveness that gripped him last night consumed him again. He hadn't done it only for her. He was a selfish bastard; she was his and he wanted every other fucker to know that Lady Arya Stark in all her naked glory was for his eyes only. He wanted Peake and every other cunt in Winterfell to see that damn sheet and know she was his. Gods help him; he'd kill any man who said otherwise.

Gendry gritted his teeth and drew in a deep breath. Now came the hard part and he wasn't meaning his cock. That had been hard since he'd walked into the room and found her still in bed. Now came the conversation he had been dreading all morning.

"While you were sleeping, I ran into some . . . problems."

"Really?" she said warily, jabbing her fork into what was left of Hot Pie's pancakes.

"Do you remember Ser Peake?"

Arya's lip curled disdainfully, "The old man who criticized my defences? My guards? The shit who criticized me?"

The very one. Gendry shifted uncomfortably, "He's Daenerys' man."

Arya's jaw twitched as she put her fork back down on the plate, concentrating intently on it. "So you said."

"Peake . . . ah . . . pointed out to me that unless I can prove the marriage has been consummated, it could be annulled." Gendry said quickly, thinking of Tyrion's humiliation and how much he wanted to avoid that himself.

Arya decided then and there Ser Peake was overdue to meet his Gods – whichever ones he preferred. She'd happily solve Gendry's problem tonight and no one would ever know, most importantly Gendry. It would be a tragic accident. Perhaps Peake would be crushed by some crumbling Winterfell stone. Arya liked that idea; it had a poetic justice to it. Ser Peake didn't realise who he was dealing with and, mercifully neither did Gendry. Arya intended to keep it that way for as long as possible; forever if she could.

Now he'd said it, Gendry waited anxiously for Arya's reaction. He had expected her to rant or swear or something. Instead all he got was a disinterested shrug.

Ser Peake wouldn't live to see another sun rise, but Gendry didn't know that. Feigning indifference, Arya said, "Surely Peake isn't fool enough to suggest a Stark would break an oath sworn before the Heart Tree?"

Gendry didn't want to have to answer that. He knew Peake would do anything to see him land on his bastard arse over this, including calling Arya a liar – perhaps not to her face, but certainly behind her back. But if Gendry admitted that, what would Arya do?

He couldn't help but remember the men who had crossed Arya in Harrenhal and their strange, unexplained deaths. He didn't like Peake, but Arya killing him in cold blood didn't sit well with him. That wasn't the Brotherhood's way. Even though Beric was long dead and the Brotherhood scattered, Gendry still lived by the oath he'd sworn long ago. Apart from his honour, what if Daenerys found out? Now that didn't bear thinking about.

He leaned forwards on his thighs and continued in a less confrontational tone, "It's not only Peake who is questioning my authority here. I've had words with that old crone Cassel and I've had to whip one of my own fucking men for disobeying me."

Tilting his head sideways, Gendry looked up at her, but she was keeping her eyes averted. So he tried harder to explain, "I need to prove my right to be here is unassailable."

"I don't feel the need to prove anything and neither should . . ."

"This isn't about you Arya!"

She tightened her grip on the fork, needing the comfort of a weapon in her hand. How dare Gendry say this wasn't about her! It was her blood on that sheet, not his. Stupid bull headed bastard.

His tone had been angrier, more aggressive than he'd intended but by the Gods, she wasn't making this easy for him. "I'm the one with the problem here. I was a bastard until yesterday and that's the way some people want me to remain."

"So? My brother Jon is a bastard and he doesn't have a problem controlling his men."

Gendry stood up sharply as his anger flared. He couldn't help it. He couldn't just sit and listen to this. He was damn sure he knew more about the challenges Jon Snow faced being a bastard and commander than Arya did. Trying not to yell at her left his jaw clenched so tight he was surprised his teeth hadn't broken. Reigning in his anger, he gritted out, "This isn't about your brother either. But I'd forgotten that nothing ever mattered to you except yourself and your family. Not the Brotherhood, not the smallfolk, not me."

Arya was incredulous and furious. Gendry commanded the biggest army in Westeros, had taken the Twins, yet the first challenge from some no-one like Peake and Gendry was prepared to humiliate her?Even if it there had been some truth in what he'd claimed – that only her family mattered to her - which there wasn't, didn't Gendry understand he was her family now?But instead of embracing it and acting like the Lord he claimed he wanted to be, he was wallowing in self pity.

When she finally replied, there was cold steel in her voice and in those grey, northern eyes. "Neither of us have anything to prove to Peake or anyone else. My answer is still no. If you ever hope to be worthy of the name Stark, you'd better learn how to act like one. My father wouldn't have pandered to an old woman or a man sent to spy on us. If you want to be Lord of Winterfell, neither should you."

She was holding her father up as an example? Perhaps if Eddard Stark had paid more attention to the people who spied on him, he wouldn't have lost his head.

"You go too far Arya!" Gendry yelled, his pride smarting from the insults she'd hurled.

The intensity of his reaction and the hurt in his eyes made her wince, but she reminded herself it was Gendry who had started this. If he'd just have come back to bed or dealt with Peake properly in the first place, the damn sheet would never have been an issue.

Gendry might have started this but she was determined to finish it. "If you can't take care of Peake, I will. Forget him. He's no one and he won't bother you again."

Gendry's fury was cold and hard. She'd claimed he couldn't control his own men, that her brother was a better commander, that her father was a better man and that he wasn't worthy of her name. The final straw was her claiming she could deal with Peake when he couldn't. She was taunting him; she thought he didn't know about the Faceless Men. Well now was the perfect time to discuss what she'd really been doing in Braavos.

He turned on her, placing a fist on the bed on either side of her, so their faces were only inches apart. Unleashing all his frustrations and insecurities he demanded, "Tell me how you plan to take care of Peake for me?"

She tilted her chin up defiantly, her gaze never wavering from his, "The less you know about it the better. Just trust me."

"Trust you?" he snarled. "Why should I trust you when all you've done is lie to me?"

"I haven't . . ."

"You're lying to me again! Fuck this Arya. Tell me the truth about Braavos."

Gendry saw surprise flicker briefly behind Arya's eyes, only for it to be swiftly replaced by her usual steely determination.

"I've already told you . . ."

"Fuck your lies about Mummers Troupes!" he spat, "I want the truth this time. I want you to tell me about the Faceless Men."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said flatly, her face a stony mask and how damn appropriate was that? If Arya wanted to play games, she'd soon learn that she was playing with the King of Determination.

"Alright," he said, giving her a triumphant smirk, "If you don't want to talk about the Faceless Men, tell me about Jaqen H'ghar."

Gendry watched with satisfaction as Arya froze, her eyes wide with shock. Finally a reaction. She looked panicked and that only proved to Gendry that sly, Lorathi fuck meant something to her. A selfish, green-eyed dragon uncoiled low in his belly, spitting the words 'Braavos' , 'Faceless Men' and, worst of all, 'Jaqen H'ghar'.

"And don't pretend you know nothing about him. He killed those men in Harrenhal for you. Didn't he?"

Arya dropped her eyes to the plate in her lap, her heart racing, her mind desperately trying to find an explanation Gendry might believe. She felt like a wolf caught in hunter's trap. She wanted to howl with frustration and loss.

Calm as still water, she told herself, but her mind refused to obey. How did Gendry know? How? And what did she do now? What could she say? She couldn't tell him. Not now. Not ever.

Gendry watched her withdraw deeper into herself and further away from him. Why couldn't she just tell him the damn truth? He took her chin between his fingers and pulled her face back up sharply so she had to look at him.

"Was he the reason you went to Braavos? No doubt you know he's in King's Landing whispering in Daenerys' ear right now."

Arya's face was pale, her expression haunted and her hands fisted in the sheets at her side. Still she said nothing, which only fanned the flames of his jealousy. Fuck Jaqen H'ghar. Arya was his. Overcome with the need to remind her of it, Gendry leaned down and pressed his mouth hard against hers, but her lips were tight and unyielding.

Arya was frozen with panic, even Gendry's kiss, dark and intense as it was, couldn't distract her. Jaqen was in the Red Keep? How long had he been there? Had he been whispering in Daenerys' ear when she had sent Gendry north?

Even as she asked herself that question, Arya knew the answer was yes. Jaqen had convinced Daenerys to send Gendry to Winterfell for a reason. But why? Was this Jaqen's twisted revenge for her leaving the Guild? What did Jaqen think he could make her do? To Gendry? Arya thought she might be sick. She had to get out of here, had to think, had to plan.

She blindly shoved at Gendry's chest, pushing him away.

Gods but she was strong and he was forced back. Rejected. The green dragon in his gut took a deep breath and roared, spitting jealous, green fire that spewed like bile out of Gendry's mouth.

"Was his cock the one you got all that practice on?"

Her fist connected with his face faster than he would have thought possible and it hurt. By the Gods it hurt. He'd been slapped by women before, but that had been nothing compared to this. His head rang like a bell. Through his furious, jealous rage a small, rational part of him was proud of his wife. Fuck, but she had a punch like a mule's kick.

"You know nothing about what I did. What I had to do," Arya hissed, her anger ice cold, compared to his now white hot rage.

He grabbed her arms, pinning them to her sides and looming over her so his face was only inches from hers.

"So tell me Arya. Tell me what you had to do."

No reply. He tightened his grip, holding her so tight he knew he'd leave bruises, not that she flinched.

"You tell me what you had to do and I'll tell you again why I have to show that sheet."

Her teeth were gritted, her tone icy as she spat back, "Do it then. You do what you have to do and I'll do what I have to do."

Gendry searched her face for something more; surely she wasn't going to leave it like that? Surely she was going to explain herself now? But the shutters had come down and her face was expressionless; her eyes blank and cold.

He was shaking with anger, his heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to shake her. Instead he cursed her and himself as he stepped back and let her go.

As soon as she was free, Arya slipped passed him and stalked away. Gendry watched her go; her hair swinging down her back, almost touching her beautiful arse, her hips swaying as she left him standing alone by their bed. How in seven buggering hells had it come to this?

As she slammed the door to the dressing room, he turned back towards the bed and the bloodied sheet. She might have shredded his pride and almost broken his jaw, but at least he had the fucking sheet. Tugging it off the bed, he threw it over his shoulder and walked towards the balcony, only to stop dead as he caught sight of the crowd through the glass.

People were crammed into every free inch of space; men lined the battlements, children sat high on shoulders and clung to railings at precarious angles, all waiting patiently for him to prove his right to be here, his right to be Lord of Winterfell. Any doubts Arya had put into his head where instantly dispelled. There was no other way. He had to do this.

Resting his hand on the wooden baton that held the windows tightly shut, he took a deep breath and pushed.

-o-

Arya was shaking as she rested her head against the inside of the dressing room door. Jaqen was in Westeros and Gendry knew about Jaqen. That meant Gendry knew about the Faceless men too. How did he know? And how much did he know? Had he known when he'd first arrived? When he'd taken her maidenhead? More importantly, what was he going to do about it? She'd always known Gendry would hate her when he found out. But she hadn't expected it to happen so soon.

She had no idea how long she stood there, her thoughts in turmoil, her body shivering and sweating at the same time. When the roar came, it was so loud that it shook her out of her stupor and rattled the wooden door on its hinges. She stepped back, momentarily disoriented, trying to remember when she had last heard that sound. Her mind tumbled back in time, to events and places she had tried so hard to shut away. But it all came back to her in a terrifying rush, as the crowd began to chant "Stark! Stark!, Stark!".

The last time she had heard a roar like that had been in King's Landing when the mob had been baying for her father's blood. Her head swam with the memory of it; her father on his knees, King Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, the crowd screaming obscenities and hurling rocks and her being helpless to stop any of it. But she wasn't helpless now. She didn't need to listen to this.

Throwing open the door, Arya was horrified to find the din made by the mob was even louder, thunderous, deafening. Her hands flew to cover her ears but it was too late; the awful memory came crashing back in on her; she was a child again, in King's Landing, on a plinth, crouching between the feet of Baelor the Blessed. The noise and the memory hurled her back into the crowd on day her father died. Arya's legs almost gave way under the tidal wave of grief and regret that engulfed her. She'd buried it so deep and for so long, that it's returning now threatened to knock her to her knees.

This was all Gendry's fault. His arrival in Winterfell, his showing her a happiness that she didn't deserve and couldn't have, had ripped her carefully constructed defences apart and let these memories come flooding back in.

Until yesterday, everything about her life, including the walls around her heart, had been so hard, so cold, so inflexible. Until Gendry. He'd stirred up the past. He'd made her think about the future she might have had if Robert Baratheon hadn't come to Winterfell.

Gendry had given her a taste of heaven and having it ripped away was far worse than never having known it existed.

Blinking the threatening tears away, Arya reminded herself that she wasn't that helpless little girl any more. Tears had blinded her long ago, but she wouldn't let them now. She hurriedly scanned the room for something to cover her nakedness; not the damn wedding dress, certainly not the silk shift on the floor, the bed sheet was gone and Meera had taken all her clothes. In desperation, her gaze fell upon on Gendry's trunk – he would have britches and shirts in there.

Through the haze of unshed tears and the overwhelming noise, Arya made her way unsteadily over to the far side of the room. Covering her ears didn't help; the thunderous noise was too overwhelming to be ignored. At any moment she expected to hear the bells of Baelor's Sept toll as they had that summer day long ago or feel Yoren's hand around her arm like a wolf trap.

Arya dug around in Gendry's trunk, trying not to listen to the crowd and almost succeeding, until she heard her own name being chanted, over and over . . .

"Arya! Arya! Arya!"

Peake had Gendry's men calling for her. It was far too close to her memory of the mob jeering, "Traitor, Traitor, Traitor."

She didn't want to remember and she couldn't think here. She had to get away. She had to take care of Peake and she had to protect Gendry from whatever Jaqen and the Guild were planning. But first she needed clothes. Grabbing one of Gendry's white shirts, she pulled it over her head.

-o-

Gendry tied two corners of the sheet to the balcony's rusted iron railing. Amid all the uproar the thought foremost in his mind at that moment was how, someday, he would replace the railing with a better one. He'd ask Arya what style she wanted and then he'd make it for her in Winterfell's forge. Someday when they were at peace. Gods willing, it would be someday soon.

When the sheet unfurled so that Arya's maiden's blood was there for all to see, the chant had started,

"Stark! Stark! Stark!"

He'd looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Arya, hoping she had decided to join him, but the window was empty. So he'd stood there, awkward and alone, listening to thousands of people scream her name. Not his name. Not yet. After everything she'd said about her father and brother, he didn't feel he'd earned that honour yet. But he would. He'd make himself worthy of her name, even if it killed him – which it damn well might.

He'd never expected this rapturous greeting or to see ten thousand people crammed into every nook and cranny of Winterfell's main yard and the surrounding battlements. The volume and the enthusiasm of the initial cheer when he'd walked out onto the balcony had stunned him. He'd stood, dumbstruck, like a maiden squire at his first battle, while all around him; from near and far, from the courtyard below and the battlements above, his men and her women clapped and cheered and roared their approval.

As he scanned the scene, Gendry saw Winterfell's children raised high on his men's shoulders, couples with their arms wrapped around each other and everywhere he looked, even high on the battlements, his men stood shoulder to shoulder with Winterfell's women. If only Arya was beside him to see it.

This was what Winterfell needed; not just supplies and an army, but new life and after years of fighting all over Westeros, his men needed a home. The proof that they'd finally found it was all around him. This was what he'd fought for and would die for if he had to. He'd come North to find Arya but he'd found so much more. He could only hope that Arya would find whatever she was looking for in him.

When the cheering showed no sign of subsiding and not knowing what else to do, he lifted his hand, waived self consciously and turned around to walk away.

That was when he heard it; one voice above all the others yelling, "Where's your wife?!"

Gendry would have recognised that fucking Dornish accent anywhere. A few more voices took up Peake's taunt, only to be quickly drowned out by the crowd. But to Gendry's dismay, the chanting began to change from triumphant cries of "Stark, Stark, Stark," to calls for "Arya, Arya, Arya."

Already halfway back into the room, Gendry wondered how in seven hells he was going to get himself out of this.

Should he keep walking and ignore the crowd's demand? That would play right into Peake's hands. Gendry could imagine the laughter behind his back and the sly taunts to his face; where's your wife Ser? Or even worse, bastard. The whispered doubts about whether it was Arya's blood on the sheet.

Peake would exploit any weakness relentlessly and endlessly until Arya eventually killed Peake and then what the fuck would Daenerys do? What would he do?

All of this; Winterfell, his Lordship, the adulation of the crowd - it all meant nothing without Arya. She was the reason he had fought and struggled for all these years, but the victory felt hollow without her by his side to share it.

Peake might have backed him into a corner, but there was a way to come out fighting. He kept walking, back into the room to find his wife. He was a fool to have let anything come between them, most of all his misplaced jealousy. Whatever she'd given H'ghar, she'd given him more and he'd almost let her slip away, when he should have been holding on so tight.

-o-

Gendry's shirt was huge, just like him. It hung almost to her knees and to well below her fingertips. But it would have to do. Pushing the sleeves up to her elbows, Arya dug deeper into his trunk looking for britches.

The combination of having her head in a trunk, tears in her eyes, the noise of the crowd and the furs on the floor to muffle his footsteps, meant that Arya never heard Gendry approach until he was almost directly behind her. She tensed, every nerve drawn taught, every muscle coiled tight as she waited for him to make his move. She waited with her heart hammering in her chest and blood thundering in her ears.

Was this it? He'd displayed the sheet to Peake. Gendry had got what he wanted. He'd proved he was Lord of Winterfell and no one could say otherwise, therefore she was of limited use to him now. He might think to use her as a brood mare, but after a few moons he'd find out she wasn't even useful for that and no man would choose to have an Assassin in their bed. She had to assume if Gendry knew about Jaqen and the Guild, then he also knew about all the terrible things she'd done. He'd already guessed correctly about Harrenhal.

Although she'd straightened up, Arya still had her back to him. She stood frozen to the spot, listening to him draw in a deep breath. She visualising him running his hands through his hair and the way it would keep falling back into his eyes. She remembered how it felt to run her fingers through it last night. The thought of losing that felt like having her insides ripped out.

When Gendry finally spoke, his voice was thick and low and sincere, "About H'ghar. I shouldn't have said that. I was jealous. I am jealous."

Gendry paused, giving Arya the opportunity to offer him an easy way out. Why drag this pain out any longer than she had to? With her eyes fixed on the ancient stone wall in front of her, she told the man she loved, "I'm not what you want and I'm not what you think you see. You'll find someone else. But I want you to know that Jaqen and I were never more than . . ."

What? What were they? Arya trailed off, unable to explain to Gendry what she and Jaqen had been. They'd cut a bloody swathe together through Essos. Together they'd been unstoppable. She'd once thought it had been more than killing, but one night with Gendry had shown her the difference between being lonely and being loved.

Gendry's arm snaked around her waist and hauled her back against what felt like one of Winterfell's warm stone walls. Although Gendry was hard as rock, there was a comfort to him that even her beloved Winterfell stone could never match. His warmth, his scent and his strength enveloped her. Arya closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax into his embrace, praying that it wasn't for the last time. But since when had the Gods listened to her prayers? He felt so good against her; it hurt to think about losing this, about losing him.

His silky hair brushed against her cheek and his breath was warm against her ear as he leaned towards her and murmured, "I know H'ghar was never the man for you because he's not me.You're meant to be mine Arya Stark. You were always meant to be mine."

Arya was thrilled and terrified by his declaration all at the same time; thrilled because Gendry knew what she was, yet he still wanted her and terrified because she'd never needed anyone before, but in that moment she realised she needed him. Through all the death and war and lies that had been her life, nothing had come close to breaking her, but she knew Gendry could.

Unable to speak, for the lump forming in her throat, she curved her arm around his head. Being careful to avoid his jaw where she'd just hit him, Arya pulled his face down to hers. His expression was so intense, so serious and so forgiving all at once that she felt as if he could see right inside her and that he knew everything about her. The wonder of it all was that he still wanted her.

Arya had to bite the corner of her mouth as her lips began to tremble and her eyes began to shine.

"You're the only person I've ever loved," Gendry whispered as he nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear. He loved her, but he loved her most of all like this – when she let him see the vulnerability beneath the thick layers of ice.

"I think that was the first time I've ever even said that word aloud," he said, forcing a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. He didn't want to see her cry. Not now. Not ever.

"You're the only person I've ever wanted to hear say it," Arya admitted softly. There was no use denying it and no point in trying to hide it as tears spilled down her cheeks.

Gendry kissed the trails of her tears before brushing his lips over hers; warm, wet and salty. As she kissed him back, he moaned into her mouth, bringing his hands up to tangle them in her hair, pulling her closer, stroking his tongue into her mouth in a slow, sensuous dance.

Arya was beginning to lose herself in the dream again when Gendry pulled away to murmur against her ear, "They're calling your name. Come outside with me."

"No I . . ."

He had her spun around before she could say, ". . . can't."

"You need to see this."

Determination radiated off him as he took her hand in his and pulled. Taken by surprise, Arya stumbled after him as he set off towards the window. It was like being pulled behind an aurochs. She tried to haul him back, first with her one hand, then with both, but she didn't even manage to slow his progress.

"Just wait until you see them, thousands of them. All wanting you."

That was supposed to encourage her? The thought of standing on that balcony terrified her. This wasn't a stage. She wasn't playing a part. She'd have to stand out there as Arya Stark. Wearing only Gendry's shirt.

The balcony was getting closer with every one of his long strides, each step taking her nearer to the window and the roaring crowd. She could feel the cold air against her bare legs as the chanting grew louder and louder and faster and faster with every step;

Arya! Arya! Arya!

Her heart hammered in time. She tried to twist out of Gendry's grip, but he held her tight.

"I don't want to go out there. Not dressed liked this!" she shouted at his broad back.

"You look beautiful and you deserve this."

She deserved what? To face an angry mob of Peake and his men? A few more strides and they'd be out on the balcony. She didn't have to do this and Gendry couldn't make her.

"Stop!" she yelled, ready to make him if he wouldn't. But her demand was drowned out as the chanting reached a crescendo. Her name surely couldn't have been shouted any louder or faster.

Arya! Arya! Arya!

Gendry stopped just short of the window and Arya sagged with relief, until he bent his head towards hers and she heard him say, "If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me."

Before she could refuse, he'd tugged her wrist and sent her past him, like a slingshot, through the open window and out onto the balcony, moving so fast she had to brace her arms against the railing to halt her progress.

The courtyard erupted in a tremendous, ear shattering cheer.

Arya had never heard a Dragon, but surely even one of those magical beasts couldn't have roared any louder. The glass shook in its frame and the noise reverberated around Winterfell until Arya thought pieces of the crumbling masonry must surely shake loose.

She had no idea how long she stood there, overawed by the reception, looking at the sea of upturned faces below. She had expected Peake and six thousand baying, sneering men, but instead she saw a sea of bright faces, of men, women and children all cheering and looking expectantly up at her.

She only became aware of Gendry beside her when he held one hand up – asking for quiet. The sudden, absolute silence was even more unsettling than the deafening clamour. It was as if every one of the ten thousand in the courtyard held their breath. Waiting.

What Gendry did next shocked her to her core. He roared out across the expectant crowd,

"You asked for her and here she is. The woman who held Winterfell for you through the winter. The woman I've loved from the moment I first laid eyes on her . . . my wife, Lady Arya Stark – the saviour of Winterfell!"

There was a final moment of silence as Arya tried to process all that Gendry had said, before the crowd erupted again.

The saviour of Winterfell? Surely he meant himself and not her? She looked up at him with questioning eyes, but he only grinned, linked his fingers through hers and held their joined hands aloft.

He'd said he'd loved her from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her. Amongst the thousands of people, only the Bull and 'Arry knew how long ago that had been. And Hot Pie of course, if he was here. Arya doubted he'd leave his beloved kitchen, even for this. But it didn't matter; nothing mattered except Gendry and this moment. He was beside her, his breathing coming fast and ragged, his warm, strong fingers entwined with hers as he claimed her, irrevocably before all of Winterfell.

The crowd's roar of approval filled her ears and everything around her but it no longer reminded her of the past. She had to face the future, had to look forwards, had to stop hiding behind masks and hiding from herself. Lady Arya Stark took a deep, steadying breath. This was something she had to do, after all Winterfell had been hers long before it was theirs.

Mirroring what Gendry had done, Arya held her open hand aloft, calling for silence. She could hear Gendry beside her, asking why, but he would find out soon enough.

As soon as the crowd fell silent, she used the voice lzembaro had taught her; the one that would carry to the furthest reaches of the theatre which, for this performance, was Winterfell. Despite her attire, she was solemn, regal and authoritative when she spoke,

"Lord Stark claims I am his."

She paused for dramatic effect, surveying her audience, holding the crowd rapt and in the palm of her hand. Izembaro would have been delighted. Gendry gave her fingers a tight squeeze of approval.

"What he didn't tell you was . . .

Again she paused and the crowd held its collective breath.

"What he didn't tell you was that . . . He . . . Is . . . Mine!"

Turning swiftly around, she grabbed the front of Gendry's tunic and pulled him forwards, crashing her lips against his. Their eyes met, locked in a connection deeper than anything she'd ever felt or had even imagined existed before. They were surrounded by thousands but nothing existed except the two of them, joined together in the eye of the storm.

The noise the crowd had made before was nothing compared to the eruption of whooping, clapping, stamping and cheering that shook Winterfell as its Lord and Lady bound their futures together and united their people under a new House Stark.

Somewhere out there, lost in the jubilant throng, Ser Peake turned away in disgust and began to push his way out of Winterfell.

Hope you enjoyed that.

Thanks to Brazilian Guy for his always astute advice and thanks to everyone else who keeps reading, keeps asking and keeps me going. I couldn't and wouldn't be doing it without you.

Got to be TyMeera next (and perhaps some news from The Wall) but it will be a while. I have something in the real world that requires my attention for the next month. However, I will be back and I will finish the Reluctant Bride too. No promises when though . . .

Thanks again to everyone for reading, commenting and being so damn patient.

L3j