Just a head's up: If you're an avid Gendry/Arya shipper, I'd recommend you skip to the end of this chapter...

Chapter 35

Of all the nights Jaime had spent in the Red Keep, this one had certainly been the best. He wasn't on guard outside the king's old chambers, positioned the same way every night as to hear his sister's muffled cries and Robert's boarish groans. He wasn't tangled in Cersei's crimson sheets, lying awake as dragon fire and screams flitted through their open window, as the golden queen sobbed into what would become one of their very last nights together. And he wasn't stationed outside the dragon queen's rooms, watching as the sellsword and the old knight crisscrossed the shadowed halls, none aware that the silver girl they so worshiped and loved had lain with another man just hours before.

This morning, however, Jaime has woken up sweaty, aching for glass of wine, and more content than he had ever been before.

"Good morning," Jaime whispered, hugging Arya closer. She responded to being woken up by jabbing him in the thigh with her foot.

"Get the fuck off me, Jaime," she whined halfheartedly, trying (and failing) to squirm away.

"Oh, are we playing this game again? The one where you pretend to hate me, little wolf? Because you know that I've had lots of practice with that one," Jaime teased. Before Arya could respond, he proceeded to pull her up onto his chest, the silky sheets slipping away from their nude forms, so that she lay on her stomach, trapped beneath his arms.

"No," she said crossly, but the glint in her eye gave her away. "You're sweating like a pig."

"I would expect nothing less after last night's…activities. Do you reckon your sister heard us all the way down the hall?" Jaime's smirk widened at her blush, and he let his good hand wander lower down her back to give her a playful squeeze. "All I want is you," he wrapped an arm around her waist, "beneath me," Jaime flipped her over with a laugh, caging her beneath his arms, "and your—"

"Seven hells."

Oh fuck.

Jaime snapped his head around. Someone was standing in the open doorway, their mouth hanging open. A young man—a boy, compared to himself—had seemingly dropped a small, parchment-wrapped parcel that they had been carrying. "Who the hell are you?" Jaime snapped, annoyed at the interruption. He felt Arya yank up the discarded sheets, but Jaime didn't move away.

"I—'scuse me, my lord—I was told that Lady Arya'd be here. Seeing as she's not…" The boy gestured to the open door.

Jaime smirked and rolled sideways. When he glanced over, he saw that Arya lay frozen with the sheets pulled up to her chin, a look of horror on her face. "She's a bit…preoccupied at the moment." The dark-haired boy took one look at the bed and quickly averted his eyes. Jaime couldn't help but notice the flash over anger that came over his reddened face.

"I'll be outside when m'lady is done being preoccupied," the boy snarled, spinning on his heel and slamming the door behind him with a loud CRACK.

Neither of them spoke for a good minute.

"Do you know that boy?"

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

"Nobody."

Jaime shifted so that he could look at her face. "Don't lie to me, Arya."

"Gendry," said Arya after a brief pause.

"Who is he?" Jaime repeated, less sharply this time.

"Like I said, nobody," Arya shot back, throwing away the sheets and standing up. Jaime couldn't help but let his breath catch at the sight. "He's someone from my past, Jaime. Don't ask about mine and I won't ask about yours." With a single, jarring, movement, Arya tugged a thin shift over her head and strode over to the door. It closed with the exact same CRACK as before.

"Just talk to me, Gendry." They stood just outside her chamber, but Arya didn't really care if Jaime heard. She didn't care about near anything, anymore.

"As you say, m'lady."

"Shut up, I'm being serious," Arya snapped, reaching out to grab his arm. Gendry flinched at her touch and yanked away.

"And I'm listening." He crossed his arms. "What do you want me to say, Arya? That all I could think about for months after you left was our kiss? That I didn't touch a single girl in hope that you'd be there the next morning? How I spent two fucking years pining over a girl who I didn't even know was alive?!"He was shouting now and ignored all of Arya's attempts to shush him.

"But you know what?" Gendry started, lowering his voice to an icy whisper, "You can go back to him. To fucking that washed-up old Lannister. Because I saw, Arya. I saw what you were doing with him." Gendry glanced her up and down before leaning forward to spit on the stone floor. "Just tell me something, Arya."

"W-what?" Arya whispered nervously, not daring to step closer or comfort him in any way.

"Did he force you?"

"Force me?"

"To let him call you Cersei while he fucked you every night?"

Arya blinked. She felt like she'd been slapped. "I don't know what—"

"Save it, Arya," Gendry sneered. His hands dropped down, his fingers clenched so tightly into fists that his usually tan knuckled turned bright white. "The whole of Westeros knows what they did all those years. And now they'll know how Ned Stark's youngest daughter crept her way into the Kingslayer's bed."

"Please, Gendry, I can explain—"

"I don't care!" he bellowed, the painting behind him rattling as the sound reverberated off the stone. Then, quietly: "Don't ever try to speak to me again. M'lady." With one last look of utter disgust Gendry tore off down the hall.

"Shit," Arya muttered. After a look back at her chambers, Arya sprinted off after him. He has to know…he has to know that I let him go two years ago to save him. To save him from me, from what I'd become.

Faster and faster she ran, bare feet slapping the cold stone and hair whipping madly behind her. The blurred shapes of servants rushed past her, round the corner, up the steps, faster, faster. She didn't care what they thought, faster, faster. A girl screamed and leapt out of her way, faster, faster. She was closing in, Gendry was just up those stairs, faster, faster—

Arya slammed face-first into something cold and silvery.

White-hot pain erupted from her nose as she caught herself on the bannister with one hand, the other reaching up to clamp around her slickened nose. "Watch where you're going, you…" Arya's voice faltered when she glanced up.

"You what?" It was Ser Jorah, and a smudge of crimson now adorned his steel breastplate. His mouth was set in a hard line.

"Nothing, never mind," said Arya quickly, using the rail to pull herself into a standing position. Ser Jorah's eyes took in her disheveled state and her thin shift. Arya couldn't help but shiver under the knight's piercing stare.

He had to be at least ten, maybe fifteen years older than Jaime, yet she (along with the rest of Westeros) had heard of his lust for the young queen. Arya was only a few years younger than Daenerys, but even then she couldn't imagine allowing such a man into her bed. He was handsome for his age, yes, and still quite fit like Jaime…but there was something off with the old knight. Jorah and the queen reminder her of Gerion and the child he lusted after, Saerela. They even looked similar, as the girl had likely been of bastard Targaryen blood.

"Can I help you," he said in a gruff voice, one bushy eyebrow raised in question.

Arya realized that she had been staring. "I—sorry. I was just…searching for someone." She hoped that the man hasn't caught on to her ragged breathing.

Ser Jorah gave a curt nod and shifted his armor slightly. "This area of the keep is off-limits, Lady Arya. You'd best return your…search elsewhere." Arya's protest faltered at his grim face. Even I know how to pick my battles.

Arya took one last glance at her surrounding—she had ended up in the stairs outside the throne room, but the heavy oak doors were sealed shut. Spinning on her heel, Arya started her descent before halting on the last step. Without turning around, she said: "If I were you, I'd keep a careful watch on that sellsword. If what we saw last night is true, then Her Grace is surely in no state to have both of you fighting for her bed."

She didn't bother to catch his expression—any man or woman in Westeros could predict the look of jealous rage that surely took over his weathered features.

I've been so busy, but I finally had time to write for you guys. Thank you so much for sticking with this story, and please let me know what your favorite part has been so far. Thanks!