i.

Arya watches the great hall from her perch at the head table, seated at Sansa's left-hand side. The feast has been going on for hours, the guests eating and drinking themselves silly. Wedding feasts tended to have that effect on Northerners.

She scans the room and spots Sansa's red hair, whirling around as her older sister dances with her new husband. Edmund Blackwood grins as he twirls her around, his eyes crinkling up in glee. Even Sansa's usually stoic expression is split into a wide smile. It makes Arya happy to see Sansa so happy, especially after everything she'd been through.

The door to the great hall swings open and Arya cuts her gaze over. Gendry stumbles through the door, swaying on his feet, goblet of ale clutched in his hand. He practically trips over his own feet, and Arya hides a smile behind her hand. Her husband is a huge man, but he so rarely drinks. When he does, the ale goes straight to his head and makes him a fool. A loveable fool, but a fool nonetheless. Arya's gaze tracks him now, as he weaves his way around the tables and guests.

He spots her up at the head table and his eyes light up. Arya bites her lip against the rush of desire she feels for him. His whole face is brightened by a broad smile and he hurries faster to be at her side, bumping her Uncle Edmure in his haste.

"You're so beautiful," Gendry says - shouts, really, as he's entirely too loud when he's drunk - practically falling over himself. He drapes his upper body over the table, reaching a hand out to grab one of Arya's.

"Oh?" she raises an eyebrow, "I think you've had too much to drink."

"Not at all," Gendry returns, leaning further forward and pressing a sloppy kiss to her lips. Arya cups his cheek with one hand, stroking his cheekbone. "You're always beautiful," he says when they break apart.

"Thank you," Arya replies, amused. "Come have some water."

Gendry takes a sloppy pull of his ale, shaking his head as he drinks. The pale ale dribbles down his chin and Arya swipes a hand out to wipe his face. She imagines that drunk Gendry is like caring for a small child. Her eyes soften as he looks at her with blown out pupils.

"Arya," he says her name with such reverence, "marry me?"

She covers a laugh with her hand, expecting this and surprised it took him so long. His drunken habit was to propose marriage, even though they'd already been wed for more than a year.

"Gendry, love," she murmurs, cupping his chin, "we're already wed."

"Are we?" Gendry perks up, a confused grin spreading across his face.

Arya nods in confirmation, her face serious. "Against my better judgement, sometimes, but yes."

"Huh," he smiles a little, turning this new information over in his drunken mind. A slow, sly smirk finds its way across his face, "Don't suppose we could have married sex instead of engagement sex then?"

"Was that your only reason for proposing?" Arya raises a cool eyebrow, almost unable to keep a straight face for her amusement.

"Nah," Gendry kisses the corner of her mouth. "Like I said, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

The compliment makes her warm inside, just as it had the first time he said it in conjunction with a drunken proposal. His declarations of love come so frequently, she has no trouble believing them now. Standing from her seat, she takes his hand and nods towards the entrance to the corridor that's behind the main table.

"Come on then," she grins, "I think there's a few alcoves in Winterfell we haven't christened yet."

Plunking the empty goblet on the table, Gendry nods and follows her like a newborn puppy, tripping over his feet as he wraps his arms around her from behind.

"So glad you married me," he mumbles into her ear, his breath hot on her skin.

Arya shivers. "Me too, you great stupid bull," she kisses the inside of his forearm where it's wrapped loosely around her neck and shoulders, before giving the same spot a sharp little nip with her teeth.

The immediate hard pressure of his cock against her ass has Arya grinning wolfishly.

ii.

Gendry clambers into their bed, movements somehow both jerky and languid. Arya's jostled as his bulk dips the mattress.

"Love", he mumbles, pressing a sloppy kiss to the hinge of her jaw. She brings a hand up and scratches at his beard.

"It's late," she yawns.

"Not tired", his hand dips to caress her breasts.

Arya hums in pleasure as his fingers work over her nipples. Her pregnancy has made her body extremely sensitive and receptive to Gendry's touch. She leans into his hands, arching her back off the bed.

"Missed you," he grunts, kissing her jawline. His breath smells of ale, but Arya can't find it in herself to mind too much. She knows he was at the reception for Lord Connington's son's wedding - had made an appearance for both of them since her pregnancy also made her fatigue faster than normal.

"You haven't been gone very long," she whispers, catching a moan in the back of her throat when his other hand finds its way under the overlarge tunic she wears to sleep. "Gendry!" she gasps his name, heels kicking at the sheets.

"You're lovely," he mumbles against her stomach. "I always miss you."

"Sap," she accuses, closing her eyes against the rush of desire that accompanies his ministrations.

"Yours," he counters, ducking his head under the sheets and scraping his beard against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

His mouth is on her then and Arya sees stars. Between his deft tongue, rough fingers, and her heightened sensitivity, Gendry's bringing her to a peak in minutes. She keens, crying out his name and clenching her thighs around his head. Once he's satisfied that she's been satisfied, Gendry pulls his head out from under her tunic and wipes his chin on the back of his hand.

He rests his chin on her hipbone, eyes still glassy from the ale. One hand rests on the small swell of her stomach.

"You're a vision like this," he says, better with words and compliments as they've aged.

"What?" Arya gasps, trying to catch her breath. "Sweaty? Exhausted?"

"Well-fucked," he grins impishly.

Arya swats at his head with the hand nearest to him, but she smiles. "I suppose that mouth of yours is good for something."

"Marry me," he mumbles against her hip, kissing a birthmark that marks the skin, scraping his teeth over her heated flesh.

"I did," she replies, "Nearly four years ago now. Have you had so much ale that you've forgotten?"

She knows he hasn't forgotten, not really. But when he drinks, he gets affectionate and apparently for Gendry, his affection spills over into drunken proposals of marriage. It happens once a year, at least, and by now, Arya's just amused by it. She rakes her fingers through his messy black hair and Gendry leans into her touch.

"Not forgotten," he says sleepily. "Just love you so much."

"I love you too, you great bull," she whispers, but Gendry lets out a snore and she's not quite sure he heard her. She rolls her eyes affectionately and pushes the sheets away from her lower body so he doesn't suffocate in his sleep.

iii.

The music is loud, the drinks are flowing, and the conversation is light. Arya, ever watchful, looks around the great hall, making note of where each of her children are. She spots them each in turn, drinking, dancing, and teasing their eldest brother for his stunned look when his bride had walked into the sept.

She sips at her ale, smothering a laugh when she catches Ed's exaggerated mimicry of Durran's face. The new groom cuffs his brother about the ears, starting a little squabble. A miracle that one thinks he's ready for marriage, Arya sighs.

Gendry's hand appears out of nowhere and grasps her wrist, tugging her to her feet.

"Don't be a brute," she laughs, stumbling into his embrace. She plants a hand against his broad chest, steadying herself.

"Dance with me, love," he demands.

"Oh, if I must," Arya huffs, long-suffering. She smiles though, as he wraps his hands around her waist and sways with her. They're both drunk enough to trip over the other's feet, stumbling ungracefully around the floor.

Gendry holds her close and Arya presses her nose to his chest, inhaling the mix of soot, sea, and musk that makes up his unique scent. She fists her hands in his formal tunic and leathers, holding tight so she doesn't fall. Maybe she's drunker than she thought.

"Well, that's one down," she japes, hating how her voice catches. Where drink makes Gendry foolish and affectionate, it makes her melancholy and tired.

Her husband hums a response, but Arya can't quite hear him over the music.

"We should have another wedding," he says, loud enough this time so Arya can hear him.

She pokes him in the chest, hard. "Don't you dare send Nourah away before I'm - she's ready!"

Gendry snorts drunkenly. "Not Nourah! I don't want her to leave Storm's End, ever. Meant us. We should get married."

"We are married," Arya huffs, amused. "Or did you think we had a pack of bastards?"

"Not funny," he grumbles, still in control of his facilities enough to get mad at her. She smooths a hand over his cheek, apologising with her eyes. He ducks his head and captures her lips with his - apology accepted.

"Still wanna marry you," he mutters, "even though you're horrible to me."

"Too late," she grins back, "you're already stuck with me. In front of the New and Old Gods, I pledged my love and loyalty, my honesty and my care, my faithfulness and my cunt."

Gendry startles. He narrows his eyes, "That last bit wasn't in the vows."

"No," Arya shakes her head, eyes twinkling, "but it's yours anyway. Only yours."

His hand slips low and squeezes her ass. Arya gasps and leans into him. Gendry kisses a spot behind her ear.

"Think I'm sober enough to pleasure you?" he whispers lowly, beard scratching her neck.

"Oh, I'd like to see your best attempts," Arya breathes, kissing the underside of his jaw and tugging at his hand.

iv.

"Seven bloody hells, I'm freezing my balls off," Gendry grumbles. He tilts a little sideways, drunker than he thought.

Tormund laughs loudly, "The little she-wolf won't like that! What'll she lead you around by?"

Jon groans and buries his head in his hands. "Stop that. I don't want to think about Arya like that."

"How d'ya think they got all those little wolf pups?" Tormund cackles, increasingly drunk as he gulps back whatever swill he and Jon brought from North of the Wall. "Lord Blacksmith over here's fuckin' your sister!"

Even in his drunken stupor, Gendry's ears go red and he avoids looking at Jon. He takes another deep pull from the skien that Tormund had given him an hour or so ago and looks into the fire. Jon kicks snow at the red headed man and scows deeply.

"That's not why we've gathered," he grumbles. "Y'know that this is s'posed to be a serious remembrance of our lost brothers."

Gendry raises an eyebrow. "That maybe was the intent at the start, but you know that we just get drunk and freeze our bollocks off out here."

Despite Jon's exile to north of the wall, with Grey Worm and the rest of the horrible Unsullied gone from Westeros, Sansa had pardoned him, meaning Jon was free to visit and did so with fair regularity. Arya was the one to force Jon and Gendry into these excursions. She'd been tired of their male brooding when they all gathered at Winterfell for the anniversary. Gendry was generally glad for it - he liked Jon, liked hearing stories about Arya as a child.

But the fucking cold was miserable and Tormund's Free Folk alcohol only helped so much.

"Delicate Southrons," Jon teases his good brother, toasting him mockingly with his skien of ale.

"Bloody Northerners," Gendry kicks snow at him and Jon laughs, ducking. The movement is too much for his drunken state and he ends up falling over into the snow. Tormund and Gendry crack up at his expense. They continue to drink and poke fun at each other, the alcohol numbing the pain of cold and memories.

At some point, Jon realizes that the world is looking a little sideways and the frost is overtaking his beard. Tormund and Gendry are having some kind of contest - fighting to see who can push the other's arm down first. He gets up and heads for Winterfell, intending to warm up and get more food before rejoining the others. He stumbles into Arya on his way.

"Oh!" she mumbles sleepily, holding out her palms to steady Jon. He sways drunkenly, blinking to try and focus his vision. Arya smirks at him, "Couldn't handle the cold?"

"I'll have you know," Jon points at her, "that I live North of the Wall, or not the Wall anymore? The Not Wall? I live Norther than you, southron sister!"

Arya snorts at Jon's drunken behaviour. "I guess you lot finished the ale you brought south."

Ignoring Arya's question, Jon squints at her. "Why are you awake?"

"Not that it's your business," Arya rolls her eyes, "but the twins needed to be fed."

Jon nods in comprehension. "D'you want to drink with us? Feel like being a mother to four kids entitles you to at least one drink."

"No," Arya wrinkles her nose, "that ale Tormund likes tastes like piss. I may come bring Gendry another fur though, he's not used to the cold."

"He did complain about his freezing balls," Jon mutters under his breath. Arya grins and bites back a comment about how she'd rather they didn't freeze off, instead choosing to skip off to grab shoes and a fur.

She finds them outside a few moments later, drunkenly singing...something. She can't quite make out the words or the tune, so the actual song they're intending to sing is a mystery.

Gendry sees her first - entirely attuned to her presence. He grins widely and lurches to his feet. "Arya!" He sounds so pleased to see her, as if they hadn't enjoyed each other's company just a few hours earlier.

The fire dances in his eyes and Arya feels a rush of affection for her great stupid husband. "Hello," she laughs, "how're you lot getting on out here?"

Gendry bounds forward and wraps her in his arms. She can feel the slight tremble of his limbs from the cold and loops her arms around his back. "Tormund's ale tastes like piss," he grumbles into her hair.

"Hasn't stopped you from drinking like a babe at a giant's teat!" Tormund shouts, jeering at Gendry.

Arya and Jon both scrunch their faces up - not wanting to question Tormund too much.

"I brought you another fur," Arya says, changing the subject. She doesn't mind Gendry's drinking since it happens so rarely - she's not going to chastise him.

"Marry me," Gendry says gratefully, taking the cloak and draping it further over his shoulders. Arya rolls her eyes.

"Ask me again when you're sober," she teases.

v.

"Don't speak to me," Arya snaps icily, stalking off down the corridor.

"Arry!" Gendry calls after her, "Stop!"

"You don't control me, Lord Baratheon," she's scarily calm, throwing his title at him like a weapon. His blue eyes narrow angrily.

"You need to learn to let me in, Lady Baratheon," he retorts flippantly. "Trust me, mayhaps?"

The look of cold fury on her face stuns Gendry even in his drunken state, sending him back a step or two. Her eyes are stormy, the grey flashing dangerously. Gendry is suddenly very aware of the fact that Arya could very easily kill him in this moment, if she wanted to.

"I did trust you," she scowls, "I trusted you to let me be me! I only agreed to marry you because you said nothing would change!"

Gendry flings out an arm, gesturing around them, "Nothing's changed, Arya! I've asked nothing of you."

"You have! Did you not just tell me I couldn't take a boat and sail off for a few moons?" she says quietly, a stark contrast to Gendry's enraged shouts. "I've seen the stupid dresses being made, you won't say it, but you're tired of me. You want a proper lady."

Her chest is growing tight - insecurity gripping her heart like a vise. She had truly thought that Gendry was different from the rest. But she had been stupid.

"You're real fucking stupid if you think I could ever get tired of you," Gendry shouts, angry and confused. "I don't even know what I've done?"

"I don't want to speak to you," she repeats. "I'm going sailing. I won't be stopped."

And the fight leaves her, shoulders sagging.

Gendry looks wounded. But his mouth tightens into a thin line and his eyes go blank. "Okay," he says, entirely defeated. "Okay, go. I'm not gonna stop you. I said I wasn't gonna force you to be someone you're not and I'm a man of my words."

He turns and stalks off, leaving Arya alone in the corridor, feeling like she's lost something. Tears prick at her eyes and she hates it. Squaring her shoulders, she heads for their chambers, intent on gathering her supplies for a short voyage.

Instead, she curls up on the mattress and cries into the pillow. Even though she won the fight, she may have lost Gendry and she wouldn't blame him. She's been a monster to him when he didn't deserve it. Eventually, she cries herself to sleep, body curled into a tiny ball in the middle of the giant bed.

She's woken hours later by a great crash. Startled, she bolts up and sees Gendry sprawled on the floor, evidently having tripped over his own feet. She says nothing - entirely too self-aware of her feelings and the fight too fresh in her memory.

"I fucked up," Gendry mutters, pushing himself to a sitting position on the floor. He's obviously drunk and Arya's heart leaps to her throat - he didn't, he wouldn't, he said he'd never be like Robert.

Her horror must show on her face, because Gendry's eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. "Not like that. Fucking hells, Arya! Never like that, I swear. Only meant, we've been married barely six moons and I already fucked it all up."

"You didn't," she replies quietly, pulling her legs to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "I don't know how to be a wife, Gendry."

"'Cause I know how to be a husband?" he retorts. Then he frowns. "Thought we would just be ourselves."

"I've only ever loved you as you were - are?" she sighs. "I never wanted pretense, Gendry."

"Seven hells," he mutters, head in his hands. "We're too stupid for this. Davos was right."

That gets a small laugh from Arya. "Speak for yourself," she teases. Her amused smile fades and she grows serious. "Me wanting to sail doesn't mean I want to leave you."

Gendry lifts his head and looks her in the eyes. "I know that, deep down anyway. Losing you is the worst thing I could think of, Arya."

Her heart cracks in half at the plain vulnerability in his tone. Love's really done a number on both of them. She can't say she hates it. She feels more like herself, her old self, than she has since that horrible day in King's Landing.

"I'm always going to come home to you," she vows.

He cocks his head at her and is quiet for a bit, clearly thinking. Despite the glassy look in his eyes, Gendry's voice is firm when he says, "Marry me."

Arya raises an eyebrow and lifts her left hand, the gold band around her ring finger glinting in the low candlelight. "Already did that. Thought that's what we were fighting about?"

"Yeah, but we did it in the sept here," Gendry points out. "We should've gone back to Winterfell, done it in the godswood like you deserve."

For a drunk man, he's very articulate.

"I was fine with -" Arya starts, because she had been. When she had come back from her original sea voyage, she'd missed Gendry so much and realized that being with him was what she wanted, they'd gotten married fairly quickly in the sept at Storm's End. She hadn't been like Sansa - dreaming of a ceremony in the godswood at Winterfell.

Gendry cuts her off, "I shouldn't have been. I'm not religious and you're not that much either, but the godswood is part of your home and I wasn't fair to you."

"Gendry," Arya sighs. "I just wanted to be with you, to be your family. Where the ceremony took place didn't matter, just that it did."

She crawls off the bed and sits next to him, grabbing his hand. She laces their fingers together and looks at them. "I love you, Gendry."

"I love you, too," he says, words slurring a bit now that he's getting more tired. "Marry me," he repeats, "Marry me in the godswood at Winterfell, in front of the old gods and the new, in front of the Northern lords and ladies, in front of all of the Six Kingdoms."

"You're good with words when you've had too much to drink," Arya teases him, resting her cheek against his bicep.

"That's not an answer," Gendry retorts, nudging her side.

She leans up to kiss him gently. "Yes, you big stupid," she whispers against his lips, "I'll remarry you in the godswood."

A/N: i hate about 75% of this, but i hope you guys like it! i think bar prep has ruined my ability to like my own writing, so that's probably why i can't look at this anymore.

this can kind of be considered a part of my series with the other gendrya fics, but also kind of not. either way, this was fun to think about! let me know what you think and drop me some prompts for more things to write about :)