“you’ll marry me, won’t you?”
she asks it while they’re curled up next to one another, her face nuzzled against his side and when he glances down at her, he sees her grey eyes peeking up at him. they aren’t nervous, they’re warm, they’re loving, and gendry takes a deep, shaky breath.
“that can’t…be a good idea,” he says slowly, and every word catches hold of his throat as though determined not to leave his lips.
“why not?” she asks, not sitting up. “and don’t you pull that you’re too lowborn nonsense with me. you’re knighted and lorded now. not that i cared about that before.” she rests her lips against the skin of his side–not quite a kiss.
he feels a rush of warmth. she had always cared, after all. that’s why…why everything, why he’d run after her through the dark, why he’d waited for her, why he was here now. she’d never faltered in that.
the words continue to claw. “it can’t be a proper match. you’re the king’s sister, and you’re his strong right arm. surely you should wed someone…someone with something to bring. some alliance or…” he doesn’t want to think of that. he imagines arya marrying some poncy southron lordling–who looks remarkably like edric dayne, though dayne’s already betrothed–and it’s only the fact that he can’t look away from her grey eyes that keeps his own open. “i don’t bring anything to you or your house that you don’t already have.”
“except your heart,” arya whispers.
“you already have that,” gendry chokes out.
“and your swords.”
“well…” arya says and everything about her face is serious except those grey eyes. those are dancing. “well, i’m a swordswoman you’ll recall. and i need swords. and you can make them. you can provide me with swords whenever i need them.”
gendry finds himself laughing. “you’re a stark. you could buy as many swords as you would like.”
“or i could just get one from you as i need. i know you make them still, even if you’re a knight and a lord. i want access to your stash.”
“of swords.” her hand begins to toy with the hair of his lower belly, and a wicked grin plays across her lips. “whenever i like. you’re very good at swordcraft after all.”
gendry smirks despite himself, and arya asks again, “you’ll marry me, won’t you?” and this time, the words don’t claw their way out of his throat when he says, “yes.”