Chapter Text
With his hunched back and dark eye circles, Mott stood as a grim omen in the threshold of Gendry’s office.
“Gendry,” Mott said, his frayed nerves manifesting as wrinkles above his brow as he circled to Gendry’s side of the desk. “Do you have a copy of the budget you submitted with the last loan?”
“Of course,” he enunciated, set on edge. The Lannisters had gotten back to Mott, and for whatever it was, Gendry was at fault. Wanting to delay, but knowing it would be inappropriate to do so, Gendry brought out the budget that he had sent with the loan application in the previous quarter.
Mott spent not even a minute reading it over before he pressed his eyes shut, one hand rubbing his temple.
“You requested funds to help construct the ventilator prototype.”
“Yes,” he said. And although he hadn’t felt as chastened since outgrowing his mother’s reproachful looks, he kept a straight face.
“The Lannisters aren’t just bankers, Gendry. They’ve have built their fortune off the gold and coal mines in the west. Do you think they would provide funding that would impact their own business?”
“What?” He protested, “But it would benefit them! Make it safer for their workers, prevent strikes or paying out widows—”
“But how much would it cost them? The installation alone, then the cost to power it at all hours.” Mott sighed again. “That’s the conflict of interest.”
Anger brewed thick and bitter in his gut.
“Those greedy sons of bitches,” Gendry said, almost glad that they weren’t working with them anymore. Mott just sighed.
“Listen lad, put that project of yours on the back-burner, focus on getting our funding back, aye? I don’t blame you for all this, but be more shrewd in the future. Only way to survive among the liars and cheats.”
Gendry was not someone who needed to be reminded of rich men’s cruelty, but perhaps he had been spoiled by Arya’s appreciation and support. She had accused the Lannisters of malpractice in their own home. The memory of her tenacity gave spark to a new question as his boss made to leave.
“Mott, would you ever hire a woman to work in the shop?”
Mott paused, bracing himself against the back of a chair.
“Eh, she’d just distract the boys, they’re all flea-brained enough as it is.”
Gendry offered a conciliatory chuckle, but was not so ready to dismiss the idea as his employer.
“But if she had good ideas, or was better with numbers than the rest of them…”
“Heh. A rare one that would be. What’s got you on this? It’s all besides the point, never had a woman apply.”
“Just thinking,” he said. Mott left, and the light continued to fade from Gendry’s office.
The week dragged on. Gendry spent the time he wasn’t dodging the complaints of his employees writing to other banks and possible investors, fretting over his handwriting and word choice. There was no time left for him to develop his personal projects, at this rate the pressure calculations for the vent would never be done, which just added frustration to his anxiety.
By the time he arrived home in the evenings, later than he usually would, he was exhausted.
Arya was in a matching bad mood, though she seemed determined to disguise it. He couldn’t understand why, if he’d been laid off in the manner she had been, he’d be far more bitter. Instead she cut aggressively into her chicken at dinner, and went on about the garden. He let her vent, nodding when appropriate, but refraining from commenting. She needed a sympathetic ear more than a conversation partner at the moment, even if she was directing her irritations in a round-about way.
After dinner, they made motions to sit down together and read before bed, but Arya flipped through only a few pages before claiming exhaustion. Gendry watched her go with some regret, feeling the inept husband. Not long after Gendry prepared for bed as well, only to find sleep far away. Determined to distract himself, he migrated to the study, lighting the oil lamp as he reviewed sketches of mine shafts and his ventilator system. He was trying to determine ways to break it down into the most basic parts that would allow it to be reconstructed for multiple different spaces, difficult but rewarding work.
He was interrupted a half hour into his calculations by the door creaking open, Arya in the threshold holding a single candle in hand. She was in her nightclothes, her hair loose, and her feet bare. For a moment, Gendry imagined her dressed like that in his bed, tucked into his side. His own imagination playing with his feelings.
“I thought you retired?” He managed to ask.
She sat at her desk, knee almost knocking his, and set down the candle.
“Guess I wasn’t as tired as I thought.”
Perhaps it was the darkness, or the late hour, but both their voices were softer than they had been all week.
“What are you working on?” Arya asked, seemingly forgetting her own motivations for coming into the study. He shuffled the papers around so she might read them too, and began explaining the project. Even after he finished speaking Arya continued reading through his sketches and calculations.
“This is ingenious, Gendry. Really.”
He was horrible at receiving praise, only able to mumble his thanks.
“This was a project the Lannisters threw a fit over?” He nodded. “Makes sense why you’re staying up so late to finish it then.”
“Doesn’t really matter if I can finish it on paper. I’d need to test on an actual prototype, but there’s no money for that now. Don’t know why I’m losing sleep over this.” He leaned back in his chair, only to irritate a crick in his neck. Discomfort was a constant companion this week.
Though it felt swept away when Arya rested a hand on his shoulder. “It’s because you’re dedicated. And that’s not something to punish yourself for.”
He let his own hand cover hers where it rested on his shoulder as he sat tall again, enjoying the brief comfort while it lasted. If only he could make some small gesture to address her own ills.
“I’m afraid I’m not so good at the business end of things.” Well, balancing a budget he didn’t struggle with, but there were so many courtesies and expectations he had never learned. He found himself fumbling and frowning his way through. And the more money that was involved meant the more cutthroat and devious the dealings became. He wasn’t built for it, and was now too embarrassed to admit it to his wife.
But if there was anything as complicated and backhanded as the business world, it was the aristocracy.
“Why don’t you come with me to the office tomorrow? You’re good at maths and dealing with all these affluent people, you’d be a boon. And then you wouldn’t be stuck at home.”
Though she was clearly thinking hard, Arya’s face was unreadable.
“You were curious about the workshop the last time you were there,” he reminded, hoping to encourage her.
“Yes. Yes,” she agreed nodding slowly. “You’ve just already done so much for me.”
“It’s not charity,” he clarified. “Our marriage—none of this has been. And you’d be the one doing me a favor by coming in. I’d really appreciate it.”
“I know,” Arya said, “I never thought of it—of your offer—that way. I just…I'm very grateful.” She smiled and his heart clenched. “I will come with you tomorrow.”
She kissed his cheek before she departed, leaving him warm and anticipating the next day.
Arya’s appearance that Friday at the workshop caused eyebrows to raise, but she had no difficulty becoming reacquainted with his colleagues, laughing along to the jabs made at his expense and unphased by the slang that grew out of Flea Bottom and the Black Water District.
He set her up in his office, clearing up space on his desk and pulling up another chair for her to be comfortable. Side-by-side it was almost like their study back at home. He collected the necessary papers and notes to show her as he explained the ways in which he was struggling to acquire new funding.
“We were able to pay everyone this week because Mott took out some money from his personal savings, but we won’t be able to do that for much longer.”
Arya nodded, a concentrated and attentive listener. After skimming through his notes she asked,
“Have you inquired with the Iron Bank?”
“Who?”
“The Iron Bank in Braavos. They’re very sound investors, though their interest rates can be quite high. But there wouldn’t be any of the conflicts presented by the Lannisters, and they wouldn’t hold it against you for losing that loan, unlike other Westerosi banks.”
“Well, I definitely didn’t. Hardly knew you could get an international loan.” He scratched his head, embarrassed, although Arya clearly was not judging him. “But, I don’t speak Braavosi. Don’t think Mott does either.”
“Well luckily I do,” Arya said. “Let me handle this.”
That was why he brought her in after all. He nodded in encouragement then went back out into the workshop, giving the men tasks to complete that wouldn’t impact their tight budget. The place really did need a good sweeping.
Arya worked efficiently, sometimes asking how about the necessary limits on the loan, but otherwise functioning under her own self direction. When the postman arrived just after lunch she had letters of interest prepared and ready to ship.
Having completed her task, and with Gendry unable to think up any further instruction, Arya sat and watched in the workshop as the cleaning continued. Ladders were erected so that the windows might be washed down. Pollen and ash had stained them from both within and without, at certain spots impeding the natural light. He and Devan set to cleaning them from the inside as Tom, Lommy, and Anguy venture outdoors.
It wasn’t the most coordinated effort, the ladders only allowed him to climb so high or reach so far without the threat of falling, which meant going through the process of repeatedly moving them a couple yards at a time. Balancing a suds bucket was no easy feat either and by the time Gendry had cleaned his first window, his shirt sleeves were totally soaked. The cotton clung awkwardly to his abdomen from when he had reached over the bucket carelessly and allowed his shirt to fall into the suds. No wonder they had never gone through the trouble of cleaning the windows before.
But the building looked close to new with the task complete, and it was nice to feel as if he had accomplished something after a week of wandering in the dark. While the rest of the men put away the ladders, Gendry turned to Arya, surprised to find her eyes already on him rather than the windows.
“Much better than?” He called out.
She blinked several times, flushed, as if she had been the one scaling up and down ladders for the past few hours.
“Yes,” she agreed, tilting her head back to take in the western sunshine. “Well done.”
Gendry found a rag that was only slightly soiled and dried off his pruned hands.
“There’s not much more to be done, we might as well head home and prepare for our company tonight?”
Arya agreed, and following short farewells to the boys, they began the walk home. Feeling boldened by the successful events of the morning, Gendry offered his arm and Arya returned a slight smile before tucking her hand above the crease of his elbow. He supposed, as they walked the mile and a half home making slight conversation about their plans for the evening, that they would look the part of a properly married couple to any passersby.
Following the week of troughs and peaks, Gendry was glad to cap it on a high note with the dinner party. Unlike the dinner that had led to his proposal, this one would be populated by company he actually enjoyed, in the comfort of his own home.
Most of the guests would constitute his friends and associates, Mott, Mr. Seaworth, along with his wife Marya, and the boys from the shop.
The only one of Arya’s old colleagues to be attending was Miss Wylla Manderly. Gendry did not know if all the other invitations had been denied or if Arya had deigned not to send them, it was not a boat he felt safe rocking, so he withheld from asking. Instead he inquired, in a roundabout way, if she felt alright that her acquaintances would be so underrepresented at the party, but Arya insisted that it had only been her family at the wedding, so it was only fair that the party consisted of his odd jumble of relations.
Their company was rounded out by the presence of his cousin Shireen who he had met through Arya. Though he had no interest in meeting anyone else from his father’s family, he was glad to know her, so thoughtful and kind. She was the first to arrive, kissing cheeks and presenting a gift. Not expecting to be gifted anything, Gendry flushed and forgot himself, though Arya received the new kettle with grace. Gendry was glad for the practicality of it, a lavish gift would have only made him feel guilty.
“You are too thoughtful,” he said as Arya whisked it away to the kitchen.
“Oh, nonsense. I was made so glad by the news of your marriage it was only appropriate to pay it forward.” His heart felt unsteady for a moment, thinking over the dour foundation upon which his marriage with Arya had been built, but luckily Arya returned then with a bottle of wine and a tray of glasses before his sullenness could show.
The rest of their guests arrived more or less in tandem over the course of the next quarter hour, filling his drawing room with loud laughs and the ringing of glasses tapped together. Arya flited from one person to the next, less a hostess, and more an eager participant, insisting everyone help themselves to a drink. Leaving Mrs. Seaworth to pat his cheeks and insist upon what a good man he had made of himself.
Everyone seemed insistent on congratulating him, most of the men shaking his hand multiple times. And he didn’t doubt a few of them were writing toasts in their minds. Gendry tried to prevent his marriage from dominating the conversation, but with work so sensitive a subject, and himself not a man of religion or politics, there was little to entertain except petty gossip and the weather.
He was grateful when Mrs. Heddle tapped him on the shoulder and told him the table was set; she had made herself known to the guests, exchanging introductions in between venturing to the kitchen to check on the meal.
And what a job she and Havish had done.
His nice dishes circled the table, nestled in among more forks than Gendry really thought necessary. A pheasant cooked with green apples took the place of prominence in the center of the table to be served with boiled potatoes and roasted asparagus.
He felt awkward sitting at the head of the table with men his elder present, but Arya took the seat opposite him, giving him a refreshing view of her smile and he couldn’t help but observe her as the dishes were passed around.
Conversation dwindled some as the food filled their mouths and warmed their bellies. But Anguy still flirted shamelessly with Miss Manderly while Shireen detailed her philanthropy to Arya and Mott. When silverware began to clatter against empty plates Gendry stood, cleared his throat, and raised his glass.
“I must thank Mrs. Heddle for such a delicious meal, and the work she did to entertain us today.” Glasses were raised and thanks shouted out, Gendry waited for them to quiet down before he continued. “And to you my friends, for being here to celebrate with us today, my thanks. I’m grateful to know each of you.” Though the words were true they felt awkward in his mouth, turned stiff from all the eyes on him. He turned his gaze ahead, so he might look at Arya, and felt himself settle as she nodded in encouragement. “And to Arya—” He searched for genuineness and found himself speaking from the heart, even as he was mindful of his audience. “—my wife. I’m so glad to know you, and so grateful that you agreed to marry me. Cheers, let’s have cake.”
“Cheers!”
Plates were shuffled and carried away as a modest brown loaf were set on the table. The pound cake was enjoyed by all, alongside the sherry Gendry had bought upon Davos’ insistence when he moved.
Assisted by the drink, tongues became looser in the late hour. The inquiries of his friends—held back by sobriety earlier in the day—were now insistent.
“Come on now,” Tom goaded on his left, “Tell us how you fell for Miss Arya, spin us a yarn.”
Despite the fact that the party was being held in celebration of their marriage, Gendry had not really thought that conversation would center so wholly on them. He stagnated for a moment, he was not one to carry on. Expecting Arya to launch into a tale as the more accomplished storyteller he looked to her, only to see her eyes were wide in silent desperation.
The task would fall to him.
He could not tell the truth of course. Even among friends it would be inappropriate and out of place to discuss the Stark’s financial shortcomings. So the nearest thing to the truth. Gendry cleared his throat.
“Well,” he began. “We met just over a year ago when she came to the shop on an errand and had a lot of questions.”
“I remember that,” Lommy interrupted before being shushed.
“Yes, well, honestly I found her annoying at first.” That got a few laughs. “But they were good questions, and she was curious and attentive and easy to talk to, and by the end of our conversation I found I rather wanted to be her friend.
“And we’ve be good friends. Yet as we spent more and more time together, I couldn’t escape the-the fire of her spirit, how she could make me laugh. Every time we met for meals her beauty always took me aback.” Arya’s cheeks were flushed now, eyes still wide, but almost shy, if Arya was acquainted with such an emotion. He took a deep breath. It was impossible to look away from her now.
“And so two weeks ago I realized—None of it would mean anything without her. Perhaps it would have been better to ask her to court me first, but when I asked her to marry me, she said yes.”
Miss Manderly clapped, and wine glasses clinked all around the table. Arya held her glass to her lips across from him, but didn’t drink. Her eyes were wide and trembling as they locked with his.
Gendry opened his own mouth, wanting to ask after her, but their guests were raucous around them. A small substantial distance hummed between them.
“It was a good party, don’t you think?” Gendry asked Arya as they watched from the front window as Tom and Anguy supported each other down the street. The silence before Arya’s answer seemed louder after an evening filled with talk and laughter. Outside, night had fallen like a thick cloak, the moon absent.
“Yes.” She crossed her arms, though Gendry didn’t think there was much of a chill. “I liked your toast. I didn’t know—I didn’t think you were such a wordsmith.” The compliment filled his lungs with fresh breath.
“Just…telling the truth.”
“I know.” Arya smiled, tired and wistful. “It’s getting late.”
Arya walked in front of him as they ascended the stairs, unlacing her plait as she went. In his tired state he did not stop himself from admiring her nimble fingers nor repress his wish to kiss along the curve of her neck.
“Gendry.”
He blinked, Arya had turned and her gaze was sharp. The stairs were too few.
“Good night,” he said, embarrassed to have been caught admiring her, then bitter that he should feel ashamed to regard his wife. He escaped to his own room, waiting to hear Arya’s own door close several breaths later before readying for bed, determined that this would be the night he slept well.
But there was a knock on his door, just after he climbed under the covers. Gendry opened the latch, unsure what the disturbance might have been about, but expecting Masha to deliver a telegram or some other news from the workshop, or perhaps from Sir Davos. Certainly, he hadn’t expected his wife in her nightgown.
“Is something wrong?” He asked. She looked cold, her feet bare, and her hands quivering where they hung at her sides.
Arya gave her head the barest of shakes, then fixed her loose hair behind her ear. He so rarely saw it down, and so he gave himself a moment to enjoy the softness it gave her face in the lantern light coming from his bedside.
“Well, then what—” He began, before the question was lost to his mind as Arya braced her hands on his shoulders and kissed him, closed-mouthed, sharp, and sweet.
He kissed her back, eager for the feel of her lips on his skin. For the moment it did not matter what had caused her to seek him out, only that she stepped into the circle of his arms and then into the threshold of his room, kissing him all the while.
Gendry found himself suddenly unsteady on his feet, his mind cloudy with passion. How fast a heart could beat, he had never known. He clung to her, his arms around her back, the fabric of her shift smooth and shifting beneath her palms.
Arya broke away, breathing harshly in a way that made his blood spike. Feeling that his passion had in some way overwhelmed her, he took half a step back, holding her loosely by the shoulders instead, and waited for her to speak.
Except that no words graced her lips. Arya stepped forward, to close the distance he had created between them so that her bare feet were nestled between his. With a deep breath meant to calm his nerves and any quivering that might erupt in his hands, he reached up to cup her cheek. She was flushed, he hoped due to their closeness rather than any embarrassment.
He kissed her again, slower this time, and angled her chin so that her mouth might open to his. A soft, invigorating sound escaped Arya as they kissed more deeply. Her lips were sweet, her tongue slick, and she did not seem at all self-conscious about the deep probing way their mouths moved.
As he let himself become awash in pleasure, he began to touch her more purposefully once more. Her hair was luxurious in his grip, the jut of her shoulder blades strong and enticing. He traversed her waist with his hands over and over, preoccupied with the nearness of all her bare skin. His heart and stomach clenched in time as he moaned into her mouth.
Arya’s hands twisted in the fabric of his night-shirt and in his mind’s eye he saw her pale, long-fingered hands running over the expanse of his own skin, gripping his shoulders, teasing his cock. The desire-ridden thoughts made his grip tighten on her too, and Arya kissed him all the harder for it.
She nudged him back towards his bed, and he went gladly, almost unwilling to question this sudden change in his wife’s affections. Almost.
“What’s changed?” He asked as he sat on the edge of his bed, her hips under his palms as he looked up at her. She swayed on the balls of her feet, dizzyingly close one moment and sinking away the next. Under her shift he could see her nipples, tight and aroused. He imagined them bare and heaving under the press of his tongue.
“I don’t want to talk,” she murmured and stepped closer still, straddling his lap. “Just…just.” Her mouth sunk onto his once again and he was swept away from all other concerns than doing what they both clearly wanted.
Her skin was so warm, and when he moved to kiss and then suck along the lines of her neck, she made the most precious sounds, high and soft. One hand curled in his hair, another reaching to clutch at his shoulders. Arya’s breasts were pressed against his chest. All of her surrounding him like a dream.
“Slow down, slow down,” he urged, making his touch delicate against her back, and thighs, and jaw. She did after a moment, her kisses and breaths slower and deep instead of gasping and frantic. Her grip only grew stronger though. Hard against his shoulder and the back of his neck. He loved it. The way she anchored herself to him.
He wrapped his forearms around her back, the material of her shift connecting with the hair on his arms and creating lines of static that ran across his skin and into his heart. He pulled her down so their hips were flush, her knees pressed against the side of his thighs, toes curling into his calves.
“Gendry,” she said against his skin, “I want…” Her eyes were still shut tight, a tremble knocked her knee into him.
“Me too. I want you too.” He arched into her to feel her warmth. To prove it.
She made a quiet sound and brought their mouths back together. He wondered if she was restraining herself, if he could make her forget enough to be loud. But his lips were occupied with her lips, and when she dragged her callused fingertips over the hollow of his throat the question melted form his mind.
So consumed he was with her kisses, the sweep of her sweet tongue, that he didn’t notice at first when she hiked her shift up to just below her breasts, bare underneath. It took his hand in hers, guiding them between her legs, for him to catch on, his heart collapsing and rebuilding in half a second.
“Touch me here,” she said, but with the buzzing in his head he couldn’t read it as either question or demand. It mattered not, for there was nothing more he wanted than to feel her slick and hot against his fingers, against his cock.
“Oh. Arya, I—“ He said, stroking as gently as he could, wishing only for more light to see her with. She squirmed in his lap, wonderful and frustrating in all the same moment. Wonderful for how it made her belly brush up against him through his pants, and frustrating because he didn’t know if she did it to get closer to his touch or farther away.
“Tell me what feels good,” he urged, his free hand coming down to palm her arse and calm her movement, although he couldn’t stop himself from squeezing.
“Press harder,” she said. “and higher.” Her hips rocked forward ever so slightly so that his fingers might slip to where she wanted them. After a few strokes they did, a breathy ‘there’ released from her lips.
She couldn’t stop herself form moving against him now, though it wasn’t as if he wanted her to. He encouraged the movement, gripped her flesh, entranced by the smoothness of her skin.
Her breaths and murmurs and whimpers were still so quiet, almost wind to the untrained ear, but that didn’t matter when her body spoke so loudly; when her arm slipped behind his neck like it had before, her grip so strong.
She mouthed at his neck, inelegant, but it didn’t matter. They could learn together.
When he reached for his old waistband it slid easily form his hips. And Arya was reaching down to touch him. Not nervous at all, but curious and not afraid to add pressure. The dry friction of her hand was maddening, rocketing his heartbeat but only mounting his frustration.
It was impossible to forget where he might find something slick, with his fingers still pressed against her, and Arya accommodating herself by rocking her hips.
“Arya,” he said, picking up his head from where he’d had it thrown back, hoping to encourage the exploration of Arya’s mouth. “Might we be together now? Like husband and wife?”
The flat of her palm ran over the head of his cock, and he choked on nothing. He was aching for her. A weight somewhere deep in his belly that should have pulled down shot like a pain through his ribcage instead.
“Just don’t…inside me,” she said, her eyes flashing up to his for what felt like the first time in ages. They were so round in her face. Did he imagine the vulnerability there? He wanted her to be like that with him, trusting and open.
He nodded, moved his thumb to stroke her cheek, but she bent her head at the last moment to look between their bodies and it ran a careless line up her forehead instead.
She was holding the base of him, her other hand gripping his shoulder as she sat up, her shift falling back down to hide where they met.
“Go as slow as you like,” he said, feeling the warmth of her and reaching over his chest to hold her hand against his skin. Arya’s eyes were closed, and she bit her lip as she slid onto him, magnificent even with her face in profile.
He should have known Arya wouldn’t go slow, she probably couldn’t even if she was so inclined. She moved with surety, her confidence nearly as intoxicating as how she felt around him. He wanted to feel that all over, feel her close everywhere, and tugged on her waist so they might be flushed chest-to-chest. But Arya caught herself, her forearm braced just below his collar bone, the crown of her head resting on her wrist. Too far to kiss.
He sat up as much as he could with her still moving in his lap, kissing the top of her head, taking in the sea salt scent of her hair.
“I think you’re amazing,” he told her. “Everything, everything about you.” He groaned as her right hand held him tighter.
He thrust up to meet her, but despite his best efforts their tempo was always off, just out of touch with each other. Sweet words spoken into her ear didn’t seem to slow her, and he lacked the right leverage to match her pace. Watching her above him, her open mouth, the hair stuck to her brow, he could not care, overwhelmed with his love and desire for her.
“Arya,” he sighed, his own eyes slipping shut. Sensation tickled him everywhere, pleasure pulling tight and wonderful in his gut. “Oh, oh, I’m close.”
She rolled off him with a gasp, her head on his bicep as his own hand went to his cock, wet from her, and after a few strokes, wet from him as well.
Flush and warm and having regained his breath, he looked at Arya and found his heartrate accelerating once more.
She was touching herself franticly under her shift. Her eyes screwed shut, and head bent forward and slightly to the side. He wanted to move his hands, to help her along, but he was captivated by the pinch between her brows and bow of her lips. By the time he thought to caress her cheek, or the small of her back, her legs were twitching. She came, the quietest sound humming from her mouth, tension from her neck and shoulders and knuckles leaving her body in shudders.
He brought his hand to her chin once her body seemed steady, guiding their mouths together as the pads of her fingers soothed the places her nails had dug in. The kiss was only a whisper. A moth’s wing brushed against the back of a neck. Arya pulled herself away quickly.
“Shouldn’t we sleep now?” She wasn’t looking at him.
“I…” He was confused. “I just wanted to kiss you.”
The thought of not doing so almost hurt, after they had done something so special. Didn’t she know she had cracked open his heart and was free to climb in?
He could tell it wasn’t tiredness that stilled her actions.
“Arya,” he dared to ask, finding his throat to be sticky. “Why tonight?”
She curled tighter into herself, her forehead pressed to his outer arm.
“You love me, don’t you?” Her words were whisper soft, near afraid. He didn’t want her to be afraid, especially not of him. His body screamed to hold her closer, but he remained still, in case that’s what she feared.
“Yes, I love you.” He didn’t know if those were the words she wanted to hear, but without knowing the inner workings of her mind he had only the truth. “You’re my wife.”
Even if she was afraid, she wouldn’t be Arya if she didn’t have the courage to hold his gaze.
“I thought you might say that.”
His heart had been overflowing mere minutes ago; now it was a wasteland, dry and bereft.
“What do you mean?” The thickness in this throat was gone, his jaw tight and steady only through his efforts to keep it still.
“I’m so confused,” she whispered. “I thought if we laid together I’d know if I—if I loved you too.”
Her silence might as well have been a scream for how loudly it answered that question. He pulled his arm out from behind her head. Made sure no parts of their bodies were touching.
“And now I’ve hurt you,” she said. Why was she the one near tears? “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t—I’m sorry.”
He turned so he faced the ceiling, let his eyes slide shut. “So you know that was a cruel thing?”
“It wasn’t meant to be cruel.” She kept trying to dart into his line of sight, but she couldn’t manage it if he kept his eyes closed.
“But it was. Now here we are.”
He turned to his side, determined to sleep despite the erratic, embarrassed thump of his heart. A fool he was, a blinded fool. Arya, persistent as a gnat, demanded his attention; she sat up and shoved the covers off both of them. He bit down harder with his words, determined to scare her off.
“You don’t need to lie with someone to know if you love them or not.”
“But I like you! Gendry,” her fingertips grazed his shoulder before retracting quickly, “you’re a true friend and a good man, and you love me. And I thought if I could just love you too, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so torn up inside.”
He sat up. It was impossible to ignore her, not with the nervous, pleading hitch to her voice. His pride and aching heart could take another beating if it meant reassuring her. “What’s tearing you up, then?”
Her mouth was open, lips still swollen from kissing him. She said nothing for a long moment, and Gendry braced himself to accept another slight, but then she continued,
“I never wanted to marry. I wanted to be my own woman and make my own money, and not have to rely on my family, or a man. But I couldn’t.” She hiccoughed. “I couldn’t do any of it.”
A good husband would have comforted her. Would have dusted off his pride and set it away. Gendry laid back down and tugged the sheet up his body. He felt small. Smaller than he had been as an orphan in the poorhouse or a tool in the factory.
“You should go,” he said.
“Gendry, it’s not—”
“You should go.”
He laid still and wondered how it had all gone so wrong.