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The Stranger and the Smith
Characters/Pairing: Arya Stark/Gendry Baratheon
Rating/Warnings: T, none
Word Count: 1073
Summary: Because he's always seen the steel beneath. (Post 8x04 fix-it. Guessing the ending based on actor outfits in the Game revealed interviews and current canon, so this will probably be wildly off by like, Sunday, BUT I WROTE IT ANYWAY.)
It's on Ao3 here too if you'd prefer to read it there.
Some things changed with the fiery end to the Lannister Queen’s rule. Most things stayed exactly the same.
The oily smell of wildfire had lingered for weeks after the Queen blew up the Sept too, and Gendry knows that he’ll eventually get used to it. He navigates past the bloodstains and rubble automatically, although he heads past the Street of Flour now instead of deeper into Flea Bottom to find a bite to eat.
He was probably a fool for believing that his life had some better end. But he’d actually done some of his best work arming the North and then fighting through that desperate, terrible battle. He’d even gotten a Castle and a title after, a truly unthinkable reward for simply doing his fair share towards some Greater Purpose-- before having the queen who’d granted it fall before she even ascended the throne.
It all feels hollow somehow. Nobody here even knows about how horrible the army of the dead was, nonetheless cares about how it could have swallowed Westeros whole. No, they only know how they’ve suffered yet again while the powerful squabbled and the smallfolk of King's Landing got trampled between their armies.
A broken heart should be small potatoes compared to all that, he knows, but it pains him more than the physical scars he took away. He can’t stop cursing himself for being such a fool; can’t stop thinking of the tender way she had kissed him before she turned coldly away.
And the next day she was gone.
At least he’s got more silver than he's ever had and a new set of fine leather clothing, thanks to Tyrion Lannister, when he was still hand of the Queen.
But he’s right back where he started, all the same. And this time, he feels totally aimless.
He stops at the place he’s been eating at, with the straw and egg on the wooden sign, and heads for a table wedged in the back. They price their stew higher than he’s used to, but he can tell it's actually chicken, and the loaf that comes with is decent bread like they had in Winterfell. His stash of coins has got to last him until he finds work, but he doesn't need to make do with bowls of brown just yet. He’s a decent smith now, and he can probably even rival Old Mott if he can get good materials to work with. He just can't seem to bring himself to walk up the Street of Steel yet, go right back to what he was as if nothing had changed.
Because this might all be the same, but he’s not.
He finds a seat and waits until a serving wench approaches. “Yeah, I’ll take a bowl and a loaf.”
She eyes him up and down and smiles flirtatiously before she curtsies. “Of course, my lord. Would you like some ale as well?”
He shakes his head dismissively before he turns back to the table. "Not a lord. And just the food, thanks." The new leather acts like a beacon for those hoping he has the coin for extra “services" but he knows how to show his disinterest in that well enough.
Or so he thought. She’s back in a minute with a generous serving of stew and the accompanying loaf, and she rubs her breasts on his arm as she places it on the table for him.
“Anything else I can help you with?” she breathes eagerly, and he smiles politely and shakes his head. She’s pretty enough, but he can’t even imagine being with another girl right now.
“Not for me.”
“You sure? You seem to be wantin’ a bit o' comfort."
He startles when she seats herself in his lap--the wenches aren't usually so forward with him, but he supposes he's not usually dressed so fine and that there isn’t much custom at this time of day. Still, he smiles as kindly as he can before shaking his head. His mother was a tavern wench too, and she’s just trying to earn a bit of extra coin. "Just looking to eat, thanks,” he says firmly. He tries gently pushing her off, but she's slid her arms around him and she's a lot stronger than she looks.
“I could help you forget her for a few minutes,” she offers.
That cuts to the quick, and he huffs a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I doubt that. Sorry, miss-”
He’s shocked all over again when she kisses him and she tastes so much like Arya that for a long blissful moment he just responds before he pulls away, stunned.
He swallows and pants, at a loss for words. The way she’s eyeing him now is oddly expectant. Predatory, even.
It’s a look he's seen before, and the hairs on the back of his neck rise when her left eyebrow raises just a bit.
Surely he’s just so heartsore that he’s imagining things, but he could swear...
“…Arya?”
The wench smiles, and tears glimmer in her eyes before she reaches up and pulls something off her face and it's suddenly Arya, here, on his lap.
“…That’s me," she says quietly.
He stares and gapes with sheer, blank astonishment for a couple seconds before he sputters. “H-how did you…?! Is that how you got the Night King?”
She tilts her head derisively and the memory of her rejection comes rushing back and he stiffens and brusquely sets her beside him on the bench before shifting and looking deliberately away from her. “What do you want then?”
“You turned down Storm’s End."
How does she always get him so flustered? “Yeah, so? Not a lord, really, am I? How was I supposed to know what to do with a castle and lands-- lands! I never even been to? I never wanted a castle. I just-”
He breaks off and looks away. “Doesn’t matter. What’s important is Jon let me keep the name.”
“You really meant it. All of it.”
Gods, it hurts just to look at her and still feel everything knowing she doesn’t want him back. "Yeah, well. Won’t call you a lady ever again, you happy?”
She nods and cups his face, eyes full of emotion. “Good. Ladies can’t be with blacksmiths. And all I want is you."
That renders him speechless all over again. But this time when she kisses him, he knows somehow he got it right in the end.