#KL is humid too i think but SE would be gross humid imo

[softeddiek]

anywhere i go there you are (pt. 3)

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Read on ao3

Warning: smut near the end of the chapter 

Gendry’s just come back from a morning ride with Elwood when Maester Jurne finds him in the stables.

Arya had been right that the seneschal would try to befriend him. Upon finding out that Gendry had little riding experience, he had suggested they start taking short rides each morning for him to get some practice. While the man wasn’t exactly who he would have chosen for company each day, Gendry had agreed, if only to get out of the tower.

Before Arya had left for Dorne, she would come along, but she was far more experienced on horse than either of them and she couldn’t stop herself from riding ahead at breakneck speed. When they’d finally catch up to her, she’d be sitting on a rock with her feet swinging lazily in a stream, or with her back propped up against the trunk of a tree.

“My lord,” Jurne begins, as Gendry leads his horse into its stall, “you’ve had a raven, bearing the royal seal.”

That gets Gendry’s attention. In the eight moon turns he’s been at Storm’s End, he’s not received any letters directly from the King or his Hand. Ser Davos had left after two moon turns, heading first towards Cape Wrath, to see his wife, and then back to King’s Landing. Any news Gendry’s received from the Capital had come directly from him.

Gendry sends a nod his way, as he heads back to the drum tower and towards his chambers, knowing that the maester will follow.

When he has taken a seat at his desk, he motions for Jurne to continue. His reading and writing have greatly improved since his lessons began and he could read the letter himself easily enough, but his stomach is in a knot thinking about what the King could be writing him about.

The maester breaks the seal, eyes skimming over it for a minute before looking up, a wary expression marring his face. Please don’t be about Arya, he thinks.

“Lord Bronn of Highgarden has been killed,” he states.

That he was not expecting. “Wasn’t he a friend of the Hand? And on the King’s council?” he asks, confusion washing over him. Gendry knew the man had been a sellsword and fought for the Lannisters, but not much else. Had the lords of the Reach really turned on him that quickly?

“It would seem that when Lord Bronn was returning to King’s Landing from Highgarden, he was set upon by outlaws on the Roseroad. Cousins of the late Queen Margaery have since taken up residence in the castle, with houses Redwyne and Fossoway, along with lesser houses of the Reach, supporting them.”

“Alright,” Gendry intones slowly. “Will the Tyrells be likely to trade with us then?” Despite the many mountainous areas in the Stormlands, Gendry had been told that there was plenty of fertile land. Relatively untouched by the War of the Five Kings and not victim to the cold weather that had traveled as far south as the Crownlands, crops had been plentiful in the region. Gendry had been advised by both Maester Jurne and Davos to supply the Reach with food since most of theirs had been taken by the Lannister army after the sack of Highgarden and then burned by Queen Daenerys during the Battle of the Goldroad. He had been hesitant at first, having seen firsthand in the Riverlands and the streets of King’s Landing what starvation looked like, and not wanting his people to suffer it. He had been told that they could sell food to the Reach and would not be left for wanting but he had also seen what it was like for the smallfolk when their lords came calling, demanding to be paid their due. He wanted his people fairly compensated for what they would be giving up.

He had said as much to the lords that had continued to plague him since he’d stepped foot in Storm’s End. Some had nodded along, agreeing that it was only fair, while others had thrown fits, believing any gold should go to them since the crops were grown on their lands. Those lords tended to depart from Storm’s End soon after, looks of acquiescence on their faces, adding to the rumors about Gendry’s Baratheon temper.

“The Tyrells are an ambitious house and, should relations between the Stormlands and the Reach continue after they begin to yield crops again, they will likely try to use that relationship to their advantage. For now, however, the region needs food and they are not likely to get it from anywhere else. While much of their gold was taken by the Lannisters during the sack of Highgarden, between the strongest houses of the Reach there will be plenty left for them to buy from the Stormlands. I do not see why they would refuse.”

“Good. Draft a letter to them at once with our terms. Any other news?”

“Yes. As you know, there has always been unrest in the Dornish Marches.” Gendry vaguely recalls the bloody history between the Marcher lords and the Dornish from a history book on the Stormlands that he had read, and what little Anguy had spoken of his home when he’d been on the road with the Brotherhood. “The King suggests that you travel to meet with the Marcher lords soon to quell tensions as best as you can. His sister, the Princess Arya, returns from Dorne. He believes her visit to Sunspear will positively impact Dornish relations with the crown and when the Princess arrives in Storm’s End, he would like her to advise you on how to establish relations with the Prince of Dorne without upsetting those in the Marches.”

“Arya’s coming back?” is the first thing out of his mouth when Maester Jurne is finished speaking.

The maester’s mouth forms a straight line, a look of irritation on his face as he realizes that the news of Dorne isn’t half as interesting to Gendry as the news of the King’s sister. “His Grace writes that Princess Arya makes for Storm’s End. He says to expect her return within three weeks.”

Gendry knows that Jurne had grown fond of Arya during her time at Storm’s End. She’d spent the months begging after him for old maps of Westeros and books that he kept in his cell, in addition to quizzing him on his knowledge of healing and shuffling through his stores. She’d even gotten him to stop using her title, though it seemed that he slipped back into using it the moment she was gone. But despite everyone in the castle growing used to her presence as she wandered around the tower and spent time with their lord in the forge, riding around the Stormlands, and even, they whispered, in his chambers, he knew they all worried what the King thought about the familiarity and closeness between Gendry and Arya. Not that that was like to stop them.

“Is that everything the King had to say?” he asks, a smile still on his face at the thought of Arya’s return. She’d gone south four moons past, and he’d missed her, though he would admit that it might have made his lordly lessons easier without her to serve as a distraction. He’d become more comfortable interacting with the other lords of the Stormlands and even grown more confident in his reading and writing.

Regardless, in the time that they had been reunited he’d grown accustomed to her presence. When he wasn’t listening to petitions or being tutored, they were out exploring the Stormlands together, sharing meals in the forge, and warming each other’s beds.

“Yes, my Lord,” Jurne responds. “Before I leave you,” he starts, able to tell that Gendry is ready to continue on with his day, “have you given thought on the letter you received from Lord Grandison?”

Gendry scratched at his chin for a moment. “Sorry, which one is Grandison again? Is he the old one or the fat one?”

Maester Jurne sighed. “Lord Grandison is quite old. He is also adamant that House Swann be punished in some way for Ser Balon Swann’s role in the Lannister reign.”

“Wasn’t he a member of the Kingsguard? He’s dead now, what would I punish his family for?” he asks.

“Yes, my Lord, he was appointed to the Kingsguard by King Joffrey. His brother, Ser Donnel, supported both of your uncles during the War of the Five Kings, before kneeling before king Joffrey after the Battle of the Blackwater. As you asked, why might Lord Grandison be intent on seeing House Swann punished?”

Maester Jurne liked to ask him questions such as these to test him; to see how much he was learning about the other stormlords and the games they played. He hated it, truly, preferring the maester to speak plainly, but he knew that he needed to be somewhat adept at it if he wanted to retain control over Storm’s End.

Gendry takes a look over at the map of the Stormlands spread out on his desk, finding Grandview and Stonehelm.

“Lord Grandison rules from Grandview. Grandview is just north of this river here,” he says, pointing. “The Slayne.” Davos had spoken of the journey he would have to Cape Wrath, and Gendry recalled a brief mention of the river. “The Slayne is a major river route in the Stormlands…” he trails off, following the river along the map. “And House Swann rules from Stonehelm, right at the mouth of the river. Lord Grandison might be hoping that I’ll punish House Swann by stripping them of their lands and…granting them to House Grandison?”

The maester sends him a small smile, and Gendry knows that he’s said what the maester had been thinking. “And, should this be the reasoning behind Lord Grandison’s letter, how might you respond to his request?” he asks.

“By telling him to fuck off,” Gendry scoffs. He laughs at the look of shock on Maester Jurne’s face as he continues, “I hardly think the Swann’s should have their home taken from them for that and I certainly don’t know Lord Grandison well enough to just hand it over to him. Is that all you wanted to speak about? I planned on spending the afternoon in front of the forge,” he finishes, rising from his seat.

The look on the maester’s face is one of pure resignation. “Yes, my Lord. Perhaps we will compose your reply to Lord Grandison together on the morrow.”

“Sure thing,” he replies, clapping the maester once on the shoulder as he strides out of the room.

As he passes through the yard, he’s greeted by members of his household with small smiles and waves. He sees a member of his guard, Tom, engaged in conversation with Arya’s friend from the kitchens, Ellyn.

When he enters the smithy the grizzled old smith, Ormund, greets him with a nod as he hammers away at a piece of steel.

Ormund had been one of the first men Gendry had actually let himself be comfortable around in Storm’s End. He was used to men like Ormund; ones who had spent their years in a hot smithy, who knew nothing but their work. He had learned that the man had been smithing in Storm’s End since the end of his father’s rebellion, taking over when the previous smith lost an arm during the siege. In return, Gendry had told him of his time in King’s Landing, working under Tobho Mott. They spoke of little else but their work, and Ormund hadn’t addressed him as Lord Baratheon since their first meeting. Gendry knew that if he wasn’t lord of the castle, Ormund likely wouldn’t let him near his forge but he was glad to have a refuge within Storm’s End all the same.

He heads over to the work bench Ormund has left clear for him and unwraps the piece of cloth sitting on it. He had hoped to have the dagger finished before Arya left for Dorne, but she often popped up in the forge when he was working, and he didn’t want her to see the piece before it was finished.

Gendry knows this is nothing compared to the Valyrian steel dagger she has--he didn’t use any magic spells, and the blade will certainly need sharpening—but he’s proud of the hilt he’d been working on.

After the day he’d found Arya in the godswood, he’d sketched an image of what he wanted it to look like. He’d seen some wildlings carrying bows and staffs made of weirwood when he’d been in Winterfell and figured the material would be durable enough. He’d asked Maester Jurne all he knew of weirwood, but that had been very little, so he’d gone back to the godswood to study what was left of Storm’s End’s heart tree, making sure to bring an axe with him.

When he entered, however, he was shocked to see that what had been only a stump a few moons ago was now multiple sprouts coming up to his waist. He walked toward them and knelt for a minute, picking one out, before lifting his axe and thinking, Old gods, if you’re listening, please forgive me.

Carving the thick wood was difficult, and he’d wanted to add more ornamentation to it, but he figured that was beyond his skill level, so he’d settled for a plain weirwood hilt. Three weeks should give me plenty of time, he thinks.

--

The day Arya arrives in Storm’s End, Gendry experiences his first major storm. He’d experienced summer storms in King’s Landing before, but they were nothing like this. Maester Jurne says it’s odd, considering the Maesters of the Citadel haven’t yet announced the end of Winter, leaving them a few months at the very least before the first large storms hit. With most everyone confined to working inside the tower, he’d tried to spend time in his chambers reading, but all he can focus on is the choking humidity that’s found its way inside.

When it gets to be too much, he decides to make his way to the smithy. He knows he’ll have to make a mad dash from the tower to the door, but the rain might cool him off.

When he gets inside, he slams the door shut. He’d gotten just as soaked as he’d expected, but at least the cold sweat he had had been washed away. Looking around, he sees a few candles lit, but the smithy is relatively dark, Ormund nowhere to be found. He can hear the waves of Shipbreaker Bay slamming loudly against the curtain wall outside. Thank the gods for that, he muses, else there’d be no castle standing.

“They say it’s magic that protects the castle,” he hears a voice say to his left, as if in response to his thoughts. He turns, feet quickly positioning themselves into a defensive stance, until he’s sees it’s her. Arya.

“When the first Storm King married Elenei, the gods raged, and sent storms to destroy each keep he built,” she continues. “It wasn’t until he met Bran the Builder that he was finally able to build a castle strong enough to withstand the sea and wind. Storm’s End. Or so they say,” she finishes, a disbelieving smile tugging at her lips.

“I’ve heard the story,” is all he manages to choke out. He knew to expect her soon, but he hadn’t expected to find her right this moment, lurking in the shadows near the forge.

In an instant she’s crossing the distance of the smithy, his arms enveloping her when she reaches him.

“I missed you,” she breathes into his neck.

“I missed you too,” he whispers, lips pressing softly to the top of her head. He can tell she’s drier than he is, having been out of the rain for longer, but neither seem to care that pressed together like this, his clothes are soaking through hers.

Arya pulls her head back, a smile on her face as he leans down toward her, lips meeting hers without hesitation. Gods I’ve missed this, he thinks, as he feels her teeth sink into his bottom lip, drawing a soft moan from him.

Her small hands begin ridding him of his wet tunic, her lips parting from his for only a second to lift it over his head before seeking them back out. His hands instinctively begin pulling at her jerkin, sliding it down each shoulder as he’s done dozens of times before while hers move to deftly undo the laces on both of their breeches.

As he moves to lift her up, she jumps, wrapping her legs around his waist and her fingers dig firmly into his shoulders. He sets her down on the worn wooden table in the center of the room, attaching his lips to her neck as she begins grinding into him where their bodies meet.

He pulls away a moment later, steadying her hips with his left hand before looking into her eyes. They’re as dark as the storm clouds outside the smithy, but no less alert than usual. She tugs his hand away with her own before hooking her fingers around the edge of her breeches and small clothes, shimmying them past her waist and legs, eyes locked on his. He takes that as a sign to tug down his own, and her right hand immediately reaches down between them to give him a few strokes.

“Arya,” he stutters out.

She sends him a playful smile, urging him closer, before lining him up with her cunt. He slides in slowly, feeling her warm heat around him and unable to hold back from uttering a solitary “Fuck.” Her laughter reaches his ears as he begins to move, quickly devolving into a series of soft, breathy moans.

He wraps his left arm around her right leg while he leans forward over the table that her back is now lying flat on, entering her at an angle he knows she likes.

She fists her left hand into his hair at the back of his head and pulls him flush against her in order to join their lips. He can feel that familiar tug in his lower stomach and moves his right hand between them, where their bodies are joined, trying to make sure she can enjoy this before it ends embarrassingly quick.

He slows his pace down, opting to go slow and deep until he feels her walls tightening around him. As he feels her muscles clenching, she lets out a long, drawn out “Gendry,” her hips still moving in small motions as he empties himself in her just a few quick pumps later.

Breathless and sore from bending over her on the table, he slowly pulls his quickly softening cock out of her and opts to lean against the table, next to where she still lays.

She lets out a loud, contented sigh before turning her head to the side to look at him.

A smile breaks out on his face as he wearily asks, “So, how was Dorne?”

Her returning smile is larger. “Hot,” she laughs out.

“Really?” he jokes, “I never would have guessed.”

“It was great Gendry,” she settles on, a sparkle in her eyes. “I paid orphans of the Greenblood to transport me some of the way down the river in their colorful poleboats. They live so freely there, out on the river, dancing and singing.” She hesitates for a minute before continuing. “I also met with the Prince of Dorne in Sunspear at Bran’s request. It was tense at first. I half suspected he was trying to kill me with the food, all of it is so hot and spicy. But by the end of the visit I think we had come to an understanding.”

“Your brother says you’re to give me advice on him,” he throws out, casually.

“Bran wrote to you?” she asks, surprised.

“Aye. He said you were on your way back and that what you had learned might help me in dealing with the Marcher lords.”

She appears to be thinking on what he’s said for a moment before propping herself up on an elbow. He knows she’s implicitly agreed to help when she changes the subject. “Do you want to see my new horse?”

“You have a new horse? Here?”

“Yes, in the stables. Where else would I put my new sand steed?” she asks around a smile. Had things gone so well with the Prince of Dorne that she’d talked him into giving her a horse? Before he can voice the thought, a crack of thunder pierces his ears, and he’s reminded of the storm that’s still raging around them.

“Perhaps when the storm is over.”

“Right, the storm,” she mutters softly. She takes a quick glance up and down his body, reminding him that he’s been very naked this whole conversation. She then looks down at herself, fisting her hands in the tunic that they hadn’t gotten around to taking off her earlier and lifts it up and over her head in one quick motion.

“I think we can keep busy until then,” she says with a feral grin.

He’s hoping his first storm will be a long one.