For Want of a Better King

A Very Bad Idea

Why was she doing this? She knew it was wrong. She would regret this. And yet, that night, she had put on the ethereally beautiful Veronica's face. It had been easy to snatch a serving girl's skirts, blouse, and laced vest that accentuated her bosom and waist. She hadn't done much in the way of painting her face, a smudge of pink on her cheeks and lips. Even in life, Veronica hadn't done much to emphasize her beauty, her soft features, strawberry gold hair, long lashes, and full lips.

The room was lively in the Northern way, which meant semi somber music, a thick smoke from the ever-pleasant chimneys, fur-lined collars, and heavy drinking. Everyone was very much aware of their impending deaths, but they were determined to drink until it was pushed to the back of their minds. As if on cue, every gaze turns toward her, man and woman alike. Men were drawn in like flies and any woman would envy such a visage, she couldn't hide with a face like this. It unnerves her, she preferred going unnoticed. She calmed herself remembering her face was not her own, they were drawn to another woman's beauty, it didn't matter who wore it.

She grabbed an ale from a passing tray and drank it down. Against her own will, her toe tapped to the beat. She found Gendry easily, moodily downing his ale in that same corner by his lonesome. He looked miserable, focused on only his cup, drinking steadily, and ignoring the buzz around him. He hadn't cared for drinking when she'd known him, now it seemed the only thing to catch his interest. He had grown some, if it was possible. He had something of a beard, not too long, black and somewhat unkempt.

He was a mess. And yet she was as mesmerized by him as she ever was. She made herself look busy, she was well-practiced at appearing to fit in. She kept her eyes on him all the while. She was fairly certain she couldn't look away if she tried.

Whether he felt her stare or simply became aware of such a face in this crowd she couldn't be sure. But he did look up, his eyes following her across the room. She felt a man grab her ass as she passed. A quick twist of his wrist and he released her painfully. She was careful not to injure him permanently, he would need both arms to fight the white walkers. As an added bonus, he might think twice before grabbing another woman without her consent. She manages this without slowing her stride, and all too soon, she's standing before Gendry. He gets unsteadily to his feet, he's too bewildered to say anything, but yet could not ignore her presence. She has no idea what to say either, in all the time it took her to work up the courage to come tonight and slowly saunter over to him, she hadn't come up with anything to say.

She was as a stranger to him. He swallows thickly. He wanted her though, whoever he thought she was. Her rapidly beating heart confirms what she already knows, she wants him too. After all this time of hollowness, the feelings came flooding back. She puts her palm out and he takes it with his free hand. She pulls him along to the dance floor. He doesn't recognize her, but he's all too familiar to her. Her body remembers this, remembers him.

The illusion of the faces was strange, it made others see the fantasy- body, face, hair, voice. But there were some who could see through, if they knew how to look. Would he feel the difference? Might his fingertips remember her curves? His fingers linger on her hair and her waist, he breathes in the skin of her neck and swallows thickly. They sway to the beat for a song, as long as she can stand, then she leads him along to his quarters. Without thinking she had brought them above the forge. He's surprised they ended up there, but not enough to question it, for her part it was a tiny intuitive leap.

His hesitance makes her unsure. This was wrong. She knew it. She should turn and go. She should count this as a stolen dream and leave him be.

But she couldn't leave him, even as he stumbled over his few belongings on the floor and rustled around in his drawers. The smell of him was thick in the air, along with steel and flame like always. He looks down as he returns, sweaty fist clenched. He hands her a few coins nervously, gold at least.

"I haven't much, but..." He thought she was a whore.

The haze was broken. She can only stare for long moments, he's frozen as he waits, blinking in bewilderment, not sure how this was happening .

She throws the gold at his face with all her strength, one coin bouncing painfully off his cheek. He's incredulous at the turn.

"How dare you. How dare you. You can keep your money and go fuck yourself!" She shouts angrily, hurt. His mouth flops open.

"Gods, what happened to you?" She asks herself more than him. He was not the sweet boy she remembered. This was no lovely dream. She turns to go but he blocks her, pressing his hand firmly on the door.

"I'm sorry." He whispers huskily, sincerely. "I, I'm not good with women. I thought..." His shoulders hunch in defeat. "I'm sorry." She believes him.

He moves his hand from the exit, turning his back to let her go, defeated.

Gods, he was broken. And she'd done it to him. Whatever he was now, she'd had a hand in it.

She can't help herself.

She grabs his shoulders roughly and spins him back around, pinning him to the door. She presses her lips to his, latches on to him, afraid to let go, to lose this feeling once more. He lets her, his movement still a little hazy from the drink, but strong and full of warmth.

Her body sings with the feel of him, her skin remembers. This was familiar, this was who she once was, this was where she wanted to be.

He gains confidence and dexterity as he goes, prompted further by her moans and the way she melts into him. She helps him unlace her blouse and deftly removes his tunic. He turns them around and takes her against the door, then later she takes him on the bed. She couldn't stop herself if she wanted to, her body clinging to him. She hadn't felt touch like this in so long. She was used to blows, cuts, bruises, and scrapes. The fiery strokes of his palms and the burning path of his kisses were wholly new again, and she craved it. With every movement she strived to get closer, to grasp tighter, to open further, to let herself go deeper. Gasping with sparks of light beneath her closed eyelids and tiny tremors dancing along her skin she falls on top of him, sated. Her muscles are thrumming and she can barely move off him let alone form a coherent thought. He brushes a sweaty strand of hair from her cheek, a hazy expression plastered on his face. The look of closeness in his eyes as he stares up at her is so profound she can't swallow. He falls asleep clutching her shoulder, and she has to twist to free herself. Catching her breath she struggles to steady her mind.

She hadn't stopped, hadn't turned back when she was supposed to. She knew him once, but he was different now. The Gendry she'd known never would have fucked her like that, he'd always been afraid he'd break her, or get something chopped off for daring to touch her. He wasn't too gentle now. She inspects him further. She finds scars along his chest and forearms, burns and raised flesh. He's older, weathered, more cynical, and a sloppy drunk. Her heart hurt to think of what had been and what could have. What this was, she couldn't let herself dwell. Wrong didn't begin to cover it. Though it was all a lie, it felt truer than all those many months as Cat. She could almost forget the face she wore was not her own. But Veronica was what he had seen, the face he'd desired. That was what drew him in. It was selfishness that brought her here, weakness that made her stay, and guilt that caused her to flee.

She slips out easily, loosely stepping into her skirts and blouse, boots tied around her shoulder in haste. Fleet-footed she climbs silently up to the roof. She makes sure to jump three over before crawling to the shadows and changing her face.

No more. She would not don this dangerous face again. It was an itch left over from who she used to be, nothing more. Sated she could focus on her promise. She would be the soldier only from now on. She would fight and die as she'd promised. She would leave Gendry alone to drink himself into a stupor as he liked. With any luck he'd be too hungover to remember her clearly. Perhaps he'd find a proper whore to bring him solace.

She needed to bathe and train, that was all there was for it. She would push this memory deep down with all the others.

So why was her skin still burning? Why did her nerves still tingle like a harp being strummed? Why did her pulse pick back up at the prospect of a next time?

Some lines couldn't be uncrossed.