For Want of a Better King

Complications Arise

Gendry

He was equal parts relieved and nervous at separating from the Starks. On the one hand, The Northern King and Arya's mother made him incredibly nervous. On the other, he was meant to face his uncle with a small contingency and no clue what to say. Why on fucking Earth Lady Stark would trust him with a mission like this, he had no idea. She was desperate, to be sure. But still...

He had no knowledge of these things. Arya said fancy words and got shit done. He wasn't like that. He always tripped over himself. Either saying the wrong thing or staying too silent altogether. He usually didn't make decisions, everything was always decided for him. Arya was the first real choice he had ever made, and he would continue to make it.

But what was he meant to say?

Lady Stark had said he needn't be fancy. Show respect, remember basic courtesies, and tell the truth. She'd said a stern man like Stannis would respect that. That had been her brilliant advice. She'd given him bargaining stakes and had told him when to offer what.

An idiot could do this.

And yet...

But how would Lord Stannis, a self-proclaimed King, receive him? Blood or no.

Again, he hadn't much to go from. All he'd heard of Stannis was that he was severe, humorless, and the rightful heir to the throne. Gendry was happy to assure him that he had no designs on the crown for himself. He did not. It sounded fucking terrible to him, not sure why Stannis would want it in the first place. Or his father for that matter. Though the tales suggested that hadn't been his aim either, it had come down to a Stark.

With a sigh, he resigned to stop agonizing over the choice he'd made- he'd made it. He was doing this for a Stark as well, a bloody curse most like. Though one he was in no hurry to be rid of.

He'd pledge to his uncle, but only if it served the Starks, one Stark above all else. He was also very aware that she was still beyond him, a legitimized bastard could not compare to a princess. There was a good chance he could never hope for more than last night.

At the memory of how Arya had seen him off, a smile spreads across his face. It's some time before he realizes that his horse has stopped to chew a tuft of grass, completely unmindful of the path. With a half-hearted curse he rallies the horse onward.

Of course he had been nervous as hell, not sure where to put his hands, what was respectful, what would be too far. But he needn't have worried, she made it clear what she wanted and how it would go. He didn't mind one bit. If he hadn't been such an idiot, they could have been touching each other properly at night since Harrenhal.

He still couldn't believe it, her skin had been softer than he'd imagined, if that was possible. And though she had sworn she was cold through and through like her Northern upbringing, she'd felt warm to the touch.

He hadn't lied to the others on the King's Road, he had been with a woman, only now it didn't even seem to count. He'd been so drunk, and young, not even sure what she'd wanted. It had felt good, but it was over so soon, and the details were hazy in the morning. It hadn't felt something to brag about, more like something that just happened.

This was different. Not that he could tell anyone.

He remembered every detail, every shudder, the way she smelled, the delicate fabric of the sheets, the way it hadn't felt strange to look her in the eyes. She lead their movements, and he happily went along. He imagined spending the rest of his life taking orders from her, and chuckled out loud, startling his companions.