Chapter Text
He finds her curled atop the Storm Throne, draped sideways on the ancient stone seat that sits like a giant’s fist, fat and squat, upon the raised dais in the center of the Round Hall; someone had already come and lit the dozen hearths that lined the hall’s long walls, and the merry light brightens the room with golden rays, illuminating his wife’s tiny form where she lays, legs tossed carelessly over one arm of the seat, her back against the other arm, a book in her lap.
She doesn’t look up at him, but Gendry knows that she knows he’s there, and he can see the way her mouth quirks up into a smile as he climbs up the stairs and onto the dais, crossing over and perching on the throne’s arm besides her feet. He reaches down and plucks the book from her hands. “Don’t you think one day of marriage is a little soon to be usurping me, Lady Baratheon?”
Arya tilts her head back lazily, smirking up at him. “Sansa did say I was bound to rule whatever man I decided to wed," she says, teasing. As if she would have chosen anyone else; even when the kingdoms of Westeros split into Seven seperate regions once more, even after Arya became one of the most desirable matches in Westeros as heir apparent to the North until Queen Sansa is delivered of her first child, even after Arya swore up and down and sideways that she would never marry a man of nobility, there had never been a question in her mind that it would be Gendry waiting for her beneath the heart tree on her wedding day. She’d grumbled a bit, when he’d been named Storm King, but even then, it had only been a momentary set-back: she’d followed him to the stormy coast readily, wedding him beneath a canopy of blood-red leaves in Storm End’s tiny godswood, with a crown of gold wrought in the shape of leaves that he’d made himself braided into her long, dark hair; a Stark cloak over her shoulders to keep her warm from the seaspray that lingered in the air; direwolves snarling upon the long train of her wedding dress, stitched in Sansa’s steady hand. Now, only hours later, Arya tilts her hair back even further, and her hair - unbound, unwashed since the morning before and still mussed from his hands and their lovemaking - trails so long over the side of the throne that the ends nearly swept the stone dais. It makes Gendry ache to wind his fingers through those lovely strands again, to tug her up into a kiss, to feel her laughter against his mouth.
He grasps her by the leg instead, able to wrap the whole of his hand around her slim ankle and trailing his fingers lightly up her stocking-clad calf, bunching the skirt of her brown, fur-lined dress up to her knees; she musn’t be able to feel much beneath her thick wool stockings, but Gendry watches with fascinated delight as her eyes darken at his touch anyways. “Mayhaps I should have Ser Davos here to protect me,” he tells her, mock serious.
Arya touches two fingers to her lips and gives him a smile he recognizes very, very well, her grey eyes bright and mysterious. “And ruin my plans?”
Gendry feels a stirring of heat crackle in his belly, like dry leaves catching flame. His fingers climb higher, rubbing at the tops of her stockings along her inner thigh, smoothing his thumb along the firm muscle and little bits of scar-tissue there. “Oh?” he says. “M’lady has plans for me, does she?”
Arya spreads her legs wider, inviting him to slip his hand between her thighs proper. Her cheeks are already flushed, her breathing hitched. “Why do you think I asked everyone to stay out of here?"
Gendry had guessed as much, when he’d wandered into the Round Hall looking for her - having been dismayed to wake up alone on the morning after his wedding night - and found the place deserted. It makes the fire in his belly burn hotter, thinking of Arya, his Arya, devising a proper battle strategy of seduction, no doubt thrilling herself as she plotted for him to find her, equally tortured and excited from making herself wait. And it only seems right, Gendry thinks, that the first glimpse he had of her on the day their married life truly begins was that of her on his throne. He’d not have it if it weren’t for her, after all the times she’d saved his life.
Gendry trails his fingers further, dipping between her sturdy thighs and finding her already bare, her sex hot and slick beneath the thick curls that cover it. “And what did m’lady imagine?” he asks, stroking over her, not parting her folds to touch her properly but only skimming across her damp flesh, teasing. Arya’s brow furrows, her back arching as she chases his fingers, mouth pursing in frustration as he pulls back a little. “Did she imagine me using my hand on her? Curling my fingers inside of her, making her listen to how wet and eager her sweet cunny is while I fuck her like that?” He touches her again, more firmly, rewarded by her gasp as his thumb slips between her swollen folds to graze her where she’s aching, so close but still not quite enough. “Did she imagine me kneeling before her, pulling her in by her legs and putting my mouth on her cunt until she squeals?” He presses his thumb to her entrance, and Arya cries out, her eyes huge and dark, her lips spread apart and her pink tongue caught between her teeth as she pants. “Or did she imagine me taking her here all nice and proper? Maybe sit with her in my lap, turned around, so she can look out across our hall as I bounce her on my cock? Or facing me, mayhaps, so she could ride me as fast and hard as I know she wants it?”
“Gendry,” Arya moans, and cries out even louder when he pushes a finger inside of her. As many times as he’s done this - and there have been many, for they’d not waited until marriage, though they’d been creative for the short while before she’d proquired moon tea after his adamant refusal on getting a bastard on her - as many times as he’s done this, Gendry doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough. He loves it: the feel of her, the taste of her, the sweat on her brow and the sharp cries on her lips, how utterly unashamed of her own pleasure she always is, always has been. Gendry presses his finger in deeper, curling it, hooking that spot that makes her squeal. “Gendry!”
Gendry fucks her like that, watching her shake and sweat and swear, flushed all the way down her pale throat. “Tell me what you want,” he says to her, ardant and inflamed with desire, overcome with the shaking, desperate need to make love to her in any way she’ll let him, in every way. From this day 'til their last. “I’m yours to command, m’lady.”
That name used to bother her. Now it entices her, makes her smile when he whispers it to her while buried inside of her, and she laughs as she bears her hips down, fucking herself onto his finger, swearing beautifully when he adds a second. Her legs are wide now, her heavy winter skirt bunched up around her thighs, and her beautiful, trembling hands reach down to pluck at it, pull it even higher until it’s around her hips, baring her to his eyes. “Your lady wants you on your knees, m’lord,” she says smartly, eyes gleaming and hungry, a sharp-toothed smile lighting up her face.
Gendry grins, pulling his fingers from her body’s tight grasp, and goes down onto both knees before her. How else do you worship a Queen? "As m'lady commands," he says, utterly enthralled.
Arya moves until she’s sitting upright in the throne, legs still parted, and Gendry wastes no time in gathering up her long legs and tugging her forward until her bottom is hanging off the edge, leaning forward to bury his tongue inside of her as far as it will go. Arya keens, fisting her strong, calloused hands into his hair, tugging him even closer and grinding down so her lovely pearl rubs against the hard point of his nose. “Fuck,” she says, low and hoarse, when he starts fucking her with his tongue. She tries to keep rubbing at him, but the angle is wrong with how he’s got his tongue in her, so instead she squirms a hand down between him and herself and circles her own pearl fast and needy, bucking into his hot mouth frantically as she gets closer to the edge.
He keeps at it like that, relishing in her salty-hot taste, relishing in the heat of her body, relishing in the noises she makes and the way her muscled thighs tighten around his head, but after a few minutes of listening to her whining cries grow louder and more desperate, he switches tracks; he nudges her hand out of the way, his face and chin dripping, and seals his lips around the swollen nub of her pearl to suck, and Arya screams, squeezing her knees so tight on either side of his head that he’s sure he can hear his own neck bones creaking as she finally peaks with a howl.
Gendry licks her a few more times, but after only a moment she has to push him away, always so sensitive in those first moments after her orgasm. Sometimes she likes it when she takes him right after, reveling in the edge of her pain-pleasure, but now is not time for pain: now is the first day of the rest of their lives, meant only for pleasure and goodness and love as pure and sweet as honeyed mead. “Gods,” she rasps, petting his hair with trembling fingers.
Gendry pulls down her left stocking so he can press a kiss to the little round mole on the inside of her knee. “Do I please m’lady?” he asks, joyful and content.
Arya snorts, inelegant, and swats him lightly on the head. “Shush. You always please me. And you can come up here and please me again as soon as I catch my breath.”
Gendry’s cock, hard and leaking something terrific against the ties of his trousers (these fancy silk trousers noblemen wear stain so easily), leaks even more at her words, and he presses his face to her thigh briefly, shoulders tight. “Arya…”
“Gendry,” she says, and he looks up at her, helpless, like a dog begging with its head in her lap. She smiles, benevolent and fierce and fond, and brushes her fingers along his chin, where her slick has soaked into his beard. “I liked your earlier suggestions.”
It takes Gendry a moment to process, but then he raises his eyebrows, amused. “Which ones in particular, m’lady?”
Arya presses her feet flat to the dais so she can lean down to kiss him, licking her own taste from his lips with a pleased, feral little growl. “The one where you said you’d turn me around and fuck me all proper.”
Gendry laughs and moans all at once, still never quite used to those words from little Arry’s dainty mouth, though his Arya’s never been dainty in her life. There was a time he never would have been comfortable enough in himself to even think those words to her, let alone say them aloud - bastard boys ought keep their mouth free of such filth, particularly around noble girls, unless they want their tongues cut out - but that time had long passed, his confidence in their relationship blossoming over the long years of war and winter that they’d spent sharing a bed, Arya unapologetically eager when she told him just how much she liked it when he whispered filth in her ear as they fucked.
Arya’s fingers pluck at his beard. Her grey eyes are wicked and sharp, her smile even more so. “Are you going to come up here and fuck me then, m’lord?”
Gendry kisses her sweet fingertips. “Aye, m’lady,” he purred out. “As you wish.”
She’s still laughing when he stands up and gathers her in his arms.