23, 26, 30, 47, 55, 58 Give me all of these!! (I’m just kidding...or am I? 😂) You know who I’m asking for!!!
Alright lady, better late than never, amirite? Now, as great as all these prompts are, I am afraid I’d put my muse into a coma if I attempted them all, so here’s the one you chose. I hope you like! 🤗
30. “Can I sit here? The other tables are full.”
She senses his presence as soon as he steps into the Great Hall.
The space is teeming with people; the hours for hard labor and discipline long since given way to tankards filled with ale, and conversations filled with ruckus and jest.
There hasn’t been a shortage of attention paid to her, a seemingly revolving flood of lords, ladies, visiting merchants and such approaching her table and entreating her in conversation.
But Arya only has eyes for him, and when he steps through the door, her breath catches and then releases all at once.
He is safe. He is whole. And he is here.
Once that reality takes shape, the rest falls into place as well - the need raw and all consuming settling in and taking root in her belly - in that part of her that only he can reach.
And if it weren’t for the propriety required of her - and the attention it would draw, she would be halfway in his arms by now.
But that is not her reality, not yet.
She lets him come to her, lets him weave through the crowds of people toasting and feasting and singing and laughing until he comes to stand at her side.
And she would have to crane her head regardless to look at him but being seated simply makes the action much more necessary to confirm for herself that he is in fact true, and real, and present.
“Can I sit here, milady? All the tables seem to be full.”
Her lip quirks up into a smile, matching the one she spies beneath his thick black beard and the ruddy cheeks she’s come to miss with such fervor.
As much as she would want nothing more than to have him sat by her side, when his eyes roam her face - pools of crystal blue forever searching for something she cannot identify, there seems to be only one wise choice in the matter.
“No, you may not,” his face unwinds from confusion as she rises, “but you can come with me.”
There is no hesitation as he follows her through the hall - taking the longer, slower path around to avoid curious eyes.
Arya commends herself for her measured gait, for her composure and stoicism which dissipate entirely and irrevocably as soon as they are alone.
She shoves him into the first secluded corner she sees, and then her lips are on his, fists clenched into the fabric covering his shoulders as she hungrily takes her fill.
His own do not stay still, banding around her waist, finding the tight knot in her hair and squeezing tightly; lips just as eager and firm as hers.
She does not know how long they remain this way, locked in an embrace that is but one spark away from igniting into something the shadows will not hide.
It matters little to her.
“No more,” she proclaims while peppering his face with kisses, and not caring how desperate she sounds.
“No more trips to Last Hearth to help the Umbers, or galavanting beyond the Wall with Jon, or going to the Riverlands to assist my uncle.”
His quiet chuckle does not deter her, especially not when it morphs into a low moan as she nips at his neck.
“My smithing expertise is needed in such places, milady.”
And though her weak commands had been in jest, as she leans back to see Gendry’s eyes shining and his smile soft on his swollen lips, the humor fades away, replaced by something wholly tender and meant only for him. For them.
“I need you too. Winterfell needs you.”
His gloved hand reaches up to caress her face and she feels the heat acutely, consuming her from head to toe.
“And I will return every time. Especially if this is what I’m greeted with.”
He doesn’t give her a moment to retort, leaning down to capture her mouth again, and she finds herself unable to argue.
