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nrgburstCharacters: Arya Stark/Gendry Baratheon
Rating/Warnings: T, blood trigger warning, language
Word Count: 5423
Summary: Because she can decide what she wants to be.
Read on AO3 here or on FFN here if you prefer.
Gendry’s never been grateful to his former master for much, but he has to believe it was fate that he’d apprenticed with the only smith in Westeros who could rework Valyrian steel.
Sure, Mott had trusted nobody but himself to do the actual forging, but the one given the thankless task of keeping the forge at the right temperature overnight?
The bastard apprentice, naturally.
It was only the once, but Gendry still remembers how excited he’d been- nobles kept Valyrian steel weapons locked in their castles as they were relics from a lost civilization, rarer and more precious than chests of gemstones. However, in times of war even nobles had occasionally become desperate, and one had hired Mott to reforge a longsword into two short swords so he could use one to pay off some great debt.
Gendry remembers how carefully they’d had to wrap and pack that beautiful blade in clay so that the metal would melt but not breathe. Remembers the color the flames needed to be, how carefully he’d stoked the forge, how he’d staggered with exhaustion in the morning, but had still breathlessly waited to fall onto his cot until after he watched Mott crack it and pour the molds.
That had given him a point of reference for smelting the rest of the ore sand Arya had brought him, but what was interesting was that cracking the slag after it cooled had revealed a steel bloom with three distinct layers.
He can remember his amazement when the new blades Mott poured had emerged from the molds with the same marbled appearance of the original. It should have been impossible, but Mott had chalked it up to magic in the steel’s original forging, and in retrospect, Gendry supposes he must have been right. And he’s thought about the process almost constantly since the small council meeting.
If Azor Ahai had really needed to temper the steel for up to a hundred days, he was either starting with poor quality ore like an idiot --or he was folding and forge-welding different types of steel together multiple times. Valyrian steel surely looked like the latter, but even the best folded steel never held the forever-keen edge or the light heft of Valyrian steel, so speculation has always been rampant about how to take it that final step: magic spells and dragonfire were the usual guesses.
Since King Bran’s as much as said this is the correct ore, Gendry figures he's got to fold the three types together. But hammering steel pure and thin, folding and forge-welding it repeatedly is careful, meticulous work. So he's put it off until he knows he can spend at least a few focused hours a day in the forge, endlessly turning over the method and blade design in his head in the meantime. And now that spring is finally over, he has weeks of just the usual Lord duties until the weather gets hot and calm enough for salt making.
He’s intimidated for sure: to keep his name off registered lists, he’d never gotten anything official past Journeyman Smith status, even if he’s been told he should go for Master. And he’s not got any guidance beyond what the King said and a legend that sounds half dramatic bullshit. If he screws up, he's going to have a hard time forgiving himself, but if he’s somehow managed to recover from a drunken proposal and horrifying his bannermen, reforging overwrought steel ought to be small potatoes.
He hopes, anyway. Wouldn’t be the first time learning from fucking up either.
He’s prepared in the interim so he has the best chance at getting it right anyway: stockpiling charcoal and clay, choosing well cured wood and getting reliable tools. He knows how far this steel has traveled, how rare it is, and he handles the bloom reverently with gloved hands before he positions the chisel.
Funny how he’s terrified and giddily excited all at once.
This isn’t like the horrible certainty of Winterfell, hammer held ready in the midst of chaos, smoke and snow as death climbed the walls.
This he’s been preparing for his whole life; this he knows.
And if the King’s right, it's as if he was born for it.
So he’s sure when he brings his hammer down.
Arya’s eyes are always bright with amusement and curiosity when Gendry stops by the forge first thing every morning before joining her for breakfast. “You’re still working on… whatever it is? It’s been two months; it must be huge,” she comments, perplexed.
He grins because he can’t help it but he shakes his head as he takes the seat beside hers. “No sneaking down and peeking. If I screw it up, I don’t need you giving me shit about it too.”
One of her brows raises before she smirks. “As if anybody but me can give you shit about anything here now.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, well, the North remembers way too much, if you ask me. And Ser Farring would beg to differ.”
“He likes you better than your uncle Renly, anyway.”
That surprises him. “Why would you say that?”
Arya shrugs. “You’re not as spendthrift. And you don’t shirk duty. Basically he doesn’t have to work as hard now that you’re around.”
“Ah, that’d be true for any castellan. And he had to work plenty to keep the nobles happy when I first got here,” Gendry points out wryly.
“That must have been something to see,” she says, grinning gleefully.
He grins back, shaking his head. “Least they’re used to me now. Should be a lot of them coming to the salt haul.”
“As long as the weather holds, there should be a good haul this year. They let me do some raking yesterday at the flats, did I tell you?”
“You were raking salt with those weathered old grumps? In the heat?” She complains enough about it, but when has she ever let anything stop her?
“Well, they wanted to know about Nymeria, and it was fun to hear them cuss. Stormland summer is wretched but it turns seawater into something useful, anyway, I guess.”
“Heat’s easier to bear if you’ve something to do."
“And I'll sleep when it storms, milord," she drawls like a fishwife, and he chuckles before kissing her, easy and lighthearted.
Seeing her tame a wolf as big as a horse has made her infamous around these parts, but she takes it more in stride than being the Hero of Winterfell. She didn’t like the adulation that came with that- or maybe she’s just more comfortable telling direwolf stories. He was worried the heat would put her off after seeing what passes as warm for Northerners, but she's adapted to the Stormland way easily enough: out first thing to check on the Silphium she's planted in different plots around the castle, back with nets of seafood or game for the kitchens before the sun gets too high, then writing correspondence or napping through the worst of the heat, waiting until evening to practice in the cooling courtyard with sword or staff.
They sleep on a woven straw mat on his bedchamber floor now, to Old Min’s horror, but they both prefer the cool stone underneath to the stiflingly warm featherbed. Not as comfortable for sex, but he can still please her just fine, sometimes even multiple times now that he knows what she likes.
“All I need is you under me,” she’d assured him, laughing, and he’d almost proposed again right there.
He can't help but hope that she’s decided to stay. She’s not talked about her ship docked on the other side of Westeros for weeks, although she still gets ravens from her first mate on the regular.
Probably bullheaded not to ask, but he knows Arya and unflinching truths, and he doesn't want to put a chisel in it when things have been going smooth and easy.
The only problem with her possibly putting down roots is that maybe he should have made something else with the steel, but it’s far too late for that now. Besides, he still needs to see if he can actually manage to quench it.
He’s sure Arya will shout at him for being willing to bleed to try to make Valyrian steel, so he waits until she’s busy reading the messages the Maester delivers at breakfast before he speaks up.
“Maester Darren- can I speak to you in private later? Got a medical question.”
“Of course, my lord. I’ll be in my chambers for the rest of the morning, but I have lessons with the village children this afternoon.”
Gendry nods. “I’ll try to find you after petitions, then. Thanks.”
He just hopes there won’t be leeches this time.
He looks over to see if Arya’s noticed, but she hasn’t- whatever is in her message is making her expression look pained. He tilts his head, worried. “What’s wrong?”
She looks up in surprise, and the way she doesn’t try to hide the desperate regret in her eyes, the way she casts about, thinking hard about her words, has his heart lurching to a painful stop.
“…When we went over the Sunset Sea the first time, I timed it wrong. We were stuck in doldrums in the middle of the open ocean for about a week. Never heard about that sort of thing on the Narrow Sea so I wasn’t ready –none of the crew was-- and it could have killed us. The Maesters at Oldtown have finally collated wind records for the west coast. And it looks like there are trade winds that pick up-“
“You’re leaving then?" Gendry interrupts. His breathing isn’t right and his chest hurts.
She swallows and hesitates. “Gendry, I…”
The way she’d broken his heart the last time had been cold, a bloodless shock. Her being sad and sorry now?
Makes him feel like he’s being torn apart.
He stands abruptly, signaling to the housekeeper.
“Min, can you ask Ser Farring to handle today’s petitions? I'll go over his decisions later," he manages, shoving away from the table.
“My lord? Yes, milord, of course,” she replies, bewildered, but he’s already walking out of the dining hall.
“Gendry!” Arya calls after him, but he ignores her.
He can’t hear any more reasons right now. Can’t think. Can't even bear to look at her.
Idiot. Fucking fool.
The muscles in his arms burn and his hands are starting to numb a little from the constant vibration, but he keeps that steel singing, pounding away the flaking ash, wishing that he could beat his own heart back into shape the same way. The familiarity, the repetition and gradual success in revealing purer metal has always soothed him, like channeling his temper into something solid and useful. Probably the only thing that kept him his job when he was a resentful teenager, and helpful again when trying to stay hidden under corrupt goldcloak noses.
But it’s not working this time. He’s still so furious at himself, at her, at the world, even, that his body will probably give out before his feelings do.
He’d known it. That's what burns the worst. He'd walked right into it willingly, eagerly, even. He’s always known that she's kept one eye fixed on a horizon he's never seen.
But gods, he’d been so fucking happy. He’s sure he made her happy too.
And it’s not enough. He’s seen the edgy restlessness, the drive to be doing something more even if being together felt so good.
And he knows it’s perverse, because he loves that blazing excitement and pride in her eyes when she talks about change, about the thrill of discovery; places she’s mapped.
Places he isn’t.
He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and he shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He’s still too upset. He needs to be so exhausted that he can just fall into a corner and pass out cold, and maybe then he can handle his feelings.
“I’ve asked you not to come down here,” he grits out, flat. Strike, strike, strike, turn
“…I know but we need to talk and you’ve-” Strike, strike “-been hiding down here for hours." Strike, turn "We can't ignore this any more." Strike, strike
“...I can’t yet.” Strike, turn
“Why not? It’s not like you’ve lost your voice!”
“Because I know I'm going to say something stupid, and you're going to throw it back in my face again!“ he bursts out. Fuck.
He pounds down on the steel, but he’s lost his rhythm and he exhales with frustration before lifting his hammer again.
“Oh, like you never throw stupid stuff I say back in my face? I don't care! I love you and we can’t-“ Strike, strike, turn “Would you stop that and just look at me?!”
He knows he’s being a dick on purpose now, but he’s not the one leaving, so. Strike, strike, turn “Can’t," he grunts.
“Why the hell not?!”
“Because it fucking hurts, okay?!” His cheeks are wet, and he grimaces. He hasn’t cried since his mum died. Arya fucking Stark ripping his heart out properly this time. “Gods, Arya! If I look at you, all I'll see is you walking away. Again. …Even when I think I’ve been making you happy, when you tell me I’m your mate or a good lord for Storm's End! I’m never actually good enough for you, am I, princess?!”
“That’s not true!” She sounds like she's crying now too. Great. Now they’re both raw and overwrought. “The problem is me! It’s always been me. It’s why I can’t stay here. With the stupid power games and my family on thrones and so much at stake all the time. You’re a Lord now instead of some nameless smith that might have gone ignored. But when I'm over the sea, nobody cares about Great Houses or that I’m as monstrous a killer as the dead queens. I can just be me."
That stops him short. “You saved Winterfell.”
When he turns abruptly to look at her, she looks so much like that scared, vulnerable girl he used to know that he sets down his hammer and shoves the half-finished saw back in the forge. “You’re a hero,” he insists.
She shakes her head miserably. “...Lord Beric finally died to save my life that night- did you know that? The Red Woman was there too, reminding me about my dark destiny before she died too. Everything lined up just so I could become No One enough to kill the Night King. I felt nothing after, Gendry. I wasn’t…right anymore. I’d spilled too much blood. And I knew it. I knew it right after we slept together.”
Her hands are fists at her sides, and she looks lost in memory. “In Braavos, the Faceless Men taught me about people’s bodies- where to cut to kill them fastest, which parts shut down with different poisons, how to aim a blade through a ribcage or a skull. They taught me to play the game of faces, to get used to fighting in the darkness; use all my senses to survive. And they finally taught me to change faces, become somebody else.”
“They shouldn’t have. I should have died every time I failed to prove I was truly No One. But the Red God needed me, needed me to know these things and get back to Winterfell. But it didn’t need me after. Sandor told me to live the last time I saw him… and after seeking death for so long I had no idea how.”
Tears spill down her cheeks again but she continues.
“Being Faceless was supposed to mean I could decide who I wanted to be, but everybody I loved still loved Arya. You proposed, Jon asked me to come North with him… and I didn’t know how to be her anymore. …So I dropped my faces into the ocean like they’d first told me to do with Arya Stark. And I started over. You know girls can be scholars on the other side? And shopowners and guildmasters? Nobody even blinked when I said I was Captain of my ship. It was so freeing. But everybody I loved was still in Westeros. So I raised anchor and sailed back to see if I still had a home here.”
Gendry cups his hand over hers automatically when she touches her hand to his chest. His mind is spinning, both their cheeks are wet and he’s sure he’s never been this emotionally churned up in his life.
But he knows she’s just told him everything. And that even though he just wants to comfort her, he has to be honest about everything back.
"…I don’t understand all of that- yet. I want to. But here's what I know, Arya. I know you’re not the only killer in this room, and I know you left the Frey children and women alive, which is more than I can say for Cersei and Daenerys, so you have to stop with that monster shit. And I know that you were at the Red Wedding, because the Hound told me when he was trying to get me to stay away from you in Winterfell. And what you saw? Would have fucked me up too. So I get why you went to Braavos to be like Jaqen H’ghar. And I know you’re more you now than you were when you were at Winterfell. So I’m glad you sailed off and figured out how to be you again- even if you had to break my heart to do it.”
She hiccups with relief and nods and he cups his hand under her chin, shaking his head and grimacing. “See, there’s more. And I don’t know if this is your Red God pushing us around, or your all-seeing brother or just some fucked up fate. But I know that I’ve got steel out of legend ready to quench right now and that I’m a smith with Baratheon blood. I know I love and trust you more than anybody no matter what you’ve done. And now... I know you know how to cut into people’s bodies.”
He takes a deep breath. “So can you cut me somehow so I can get enough blood to quench the steel, but still be able to work it after?”
It’s rare, surprising Arya, but she reels back in horrified betrayal, her voice so low he can barely hear what she says. “…You want me to let your blood?”
He scrapes a hand through his hair, frustrated. Then he swallows and just out and says it, pointing at the forge. “I’ve folded that steel you brought back for weeks. Given it the keenest edge I can. It’s the best work I've ever done, and I know it. But making it Valyrian steel requires blood magic in the quench-” Her eyes widen with shock, but he continues, “-and your brother said that the King’s blood in me will do the trick.”
She considers for a long, agonizing moment before she speaks.
“It’ll have to be a vein. And if you want use of your arms right after, the easiest one’s in your neck," she says reluctantly.
“Okay. I’m ready.” He walks over to the bench and straddles it, gesturing at the clean, wet rag, bowl, dagger and bandages and ointment set on the battered table next to it.
“You’ve done something like this before,” she says faintly.
Gendry shrugs. “Didn’t need as much in the dragonglass.”
Her eyes widen and she gives him a horrified look. “That’s how you made all those daggers at Winterfell? And the axes?”
He shrugs. “Just a few drops in the molds. Mostly nicked my arm or thumb.” He smiles grimly. “No leeches, anyway.”
“I can’t believe Jon let you do that.”
“Jon didn’t know. Really not a big deal- the dragonglass was shattering, and I’d seen the Red Woman use my blood for magic so I cut my finger over one of the molds just to see if anything changed. Baratheons are supposed to be strong. Descended from Gods even, if you believe the history.”
She swipes at her cheeks.
“I don't want to. …But you're asking.”
“…I am.”
She nods, eyes shadowed, and seats herself in front of him on the bench before she seems to steel herself.
It’s like Arya disappears into that blank face she used to wear so much: purposeful- merciless. Even her voice is cold. “Hold on to the bench," she commands.
Gendry sits carefully still while she tilts her head, studying the skin on his neck and probing carefully with her fingers. Then she takes the cloth and wipes down his neck and her own dagger.
There’s no warning and no hesitation: she spins her dagger from her left hand to her right and then pierces the blade into his neck in one smooth motion.
Fuck. He makes an involuntary sound and flinches even though part of him registers that it should probably hurt more than it does- there’s a really fine edge on her blade. Smart of her to tell him to grab hold of the bench too or he might have grabbed for his neck reflexively.
She gives him a stricken look, and he meets her eyes, grateful she looks like herself again.
"Idiot,” she whispers, and he can tell she’s close to crying again. But she brings the bowl up against his neck and he can smell and hear the dribble of his blood going in when she pulls out the dagger.
He pants, relieved and yet rather alarmed that it doesn’t hurt more. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head and glares. “You know some tribes in Asshai do this with cattle? They let blood from the neck and drink it- it’s supposed to be sacred. Never in my life did I think I would be doing the same thing to my own dumb, stubborn bull.”
“Stag,” he corrects, and she rolls her eyes and smiles a little, and he knows she’s going to be okay.
“Tell me if you’re getting light-headed. How much do you need?” she asks.
“No idea. As much as you can get safely. Nobody should have to die for a blade, even a Valyrian steel one. Azor Ahai was one crazy bastard.”
She gives him a questioning look before she quirks a brow and picks up the bandage. “Well, I’m going to stop now then, since this bowl’s almost full. Press this down on the wound while I dump this in the brine?”
Gendry looks at the bowl in her hands –-it almost looks like a bowl full of Dornish wine-- and nods, obeying.
Arya comes back immediately after, sitting between his legs so she can apply the herbal smelling ointment before carefully wrapping the bandage around his neck and applying pressure again.
It’s oddly intimate, and he pulls her close and she sighs raggedly and drops her head on his shoulder, one hand still pressed firmly to the bandage on his neck.
“Thank you. I know that was a lot to ask. I was going to ask Maester Darren. I think it was supposed to be you all along, though,” he admits.
He can feel her frown. “He might have cut a nerve or gone too deep. I wouldn’t have. But I still think the Red God is an asshole.”
He huffs a laugh, and he rests his head on hers. “You sound like the Hound.”
She sounds smug. “Thanks.”
He starts to shake with laughter. “That’s not a compliment!”
“That’s what you think,” she says, and he can feel her smile.
He doesn’t know how long they sit there, but he knows he feels better holding her quietly like this, as if they've just survived a storm.
Maybe they have.
“We all right then?” he ventures.
“You mean the bleeding or the fighting?”
He smiles wryly. “Both?”
She inspects the bandage. “Bleeding’s stopped but I think we still need to decide on the other.”
He can’t help it- his heart almost skips a beat at the thought of that blade waiting in the forge. “Can I try quenching the steel first? Should only take a minute.”
She scoffs and quirks a brow. “Well, I didn’t stab you for nothing.”
He’s careful to go slow and easy- he’s pushed himself harder today than he would have if he’d known he would get to try this. But he knows this forge, the tongs, even the angle of the brine bucket.
And this blade he’s worked on for so long.
There’s the expected hiss of steam when he dips it in the brine, but it catches on fire when he lifts it out, which surprises him so much he almost drops it.
“Is that supposed to happen?” Arya asks, fascinated.
Gendry grins like a fool. “First time I've ever seen it. And I’ve forged a lot of steel.”
He dips it back into the brine, which extinguishes the flames, and he can’t stop the beaming smile when he lifts it back out and gives it an experimental swing.
"Would you look at that?”
Fine waves gleam like flowing water across the blade, and it’s light as a feather.
He almost can’t believe it.
“Oh, Gendry. It’s beautiful.”
“I really did it. Bran said I would but Gods, Arya, Valyrian steel,” he chokes.
“I'm so proud of you- it's truly amazing. ...Why a spear head though?”
He grins at her, heart still pounding with elation. He loves that she can tell what it is, even unfinished and unmounted. “Well, you told me what you wished once. And I’ve wanted to make you a better one ever since you came back. There’s lots of good, cured Stormland wood over in the corner for you to choose a staff from, and I’m going to do wolf detailing ‘round the anchor and have it twist apart like your first. Only had enough steel from that ore to make one blade though. So here’s the deal:”
He carefully sets the blade down before he reaches out to trace his thumb wistfully over the fine line of her cheekbone, thinking hard before he continues. “You have to go back to get more Silphium for Westeros. I know how important that is. And if your Nymeria comes back to her mate here in the Stormlands every year, I can wait the same way. I’ll be true, even if you sail all the way around Essos before you come back. Just come back. And if you bring me some more sand, I can make the other blade for your staff.”
Her eyes fill with tears and she smiles tremulously before she pulls him close for a kiss, and it's so loving and tender that Gendry thinks he can feel all the cracks in his heart seal up again. But she pulls away slowly and he hesitates when he sees the anxious look on her face again.
“Can I tell you what I really wish? Even though it's selfish,” she fists a hand in the dirty linen shirt he wears to smith before she hesitantly looks him in the eye again.
“The same trade winds that will make it easier to cross the Sunset Sea are the ones that create Storm season every autumn here. They blow all the way across both seas in the same direction. And I know you like to smith instead of sleeping when it storms-- but what if you sail with me instead? You can get the sand yourself then. I'm sure you know better what good ore sand is, and how much you’ll need. I just shoveled some in a sack once I found it.”
His mouth falls open, mind blank with astonishment, and her eyes widen and she desperately starts to talk faster. “I know it’s not fair to Ser Farring, but he held Storm’s End for years, and he won't have to do much in Storm season anyway. We should make much better time now that we know where to head and when. And I know that there's no guarantee we're coming back, and that you’re the only Baratheon left, but Ser Davos is sailing with us too, with three brand new vessels from the Crown's new fleet, so it's much more likely. And-”
He interrupts the torrent of words with a kiss, hard, certain.
“…I don’t know why you think I would ever say no,” he declares, cradling her head close. Gods, how he loves her. Loves the look of joyous relief on her face.
He laughs when she insults him in the next breath.
"Well, you’ve done it before, you idiot! And it’s not an easy passage. We’re going to fight when we’re stuck in a tiny cabin for weeks, with scummy water and the same dried meat and fish. The people here are lovely, and they adore you. You have good food and a featherbed and your own forge-”
Gendry shakes his head. “I love it here, too. These are good people; I'm grateful to have the Baratheon name. But it’s still not worth anything without you.”
She gives him a withering look, but she’s smiling. “You were drunk when you said that.”
“Still meant it.” He pauses, thinking. “Well, maybe not the lady bit.”
Arya nods seriously, smiling, her eyes bright and hopeful and sure. “Well then, Gendry Baratheon. I’m never going to promise to obey you. But if you promise to be my husband, I can promise my home will always be here.” She puts her hand over his heart, and brings his hand up to the center of her chest. “And that this will be yours, as long as I live.”
He smiles back. His cheeks are wet again, but he doesn't care. “I always wanted a family.”
Her laugh comes out more like a sob. But he's certain when he kisses her that they’ve managed to make things right at last.
