Chapter Text
The first time he speaks with the Lady of Winterfell she comes to him in his forge carrying to longswords in her arms.
"These were once my father’s Greatsword, and the sword of house Stark. Do you think you can repair it?" She holds out the two swords to him and he takes them carefully from her hands.
"Anything you wish my lady."
After nearly a moon's worth of labour, does he tell her that he had finished the work she gave him. She found herself oddly excited. When she sees a greatsword in front of her on the slab, she feels her heart flutter a bit.
"I tried to make it as much as you told me, milady. I hope it is to your liking"
The blade is as wide across as a man's hand and taller than Rickon. The pommel now has a snarling wolf's head of pale stone with sapphire eyes that make it shine like two bright blue stars. The blade no longer held its dark and smokey appearance, instead the black and red ripples through the steel remained. The two colors lapped over one another without ever touching, each ripple distinct, like waves of night and blood upon some steely shore. The new scabbard was made of dark grey metal and boiled leather, engraved all over with snarling direwolves
It is not the same as it was. But neither was she. Her skin has gone from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. Almost like ice. Ice isn't simply the name of a sword. Ice itself can be a weapon. Sharp and hard and cold and strong. But it is also beautiful; reflecting the light. It's made of water which gives us life. And when you melt it, it simply becomes water. It can't be destroyed. Only changed. As much as she has as well.
"It's perfect. Thank you, Gendry"
"Twasn't a problem, milady"
"Sansa. Please, Gendry. Call me Sansa"
"Alright then, Lady Sansa"
Sansa. She liked the way it sounded of his voice.
She finds herself spending much of her time in the forge and its smith. It started as a comfort, her trips to the forge. Winterfell was empty, hauntingly so. Her family was a memory to the walls just like the Starks of old, when she walked the halls she felt as much a ghost as the rest of them. She spent most of her days surrounded by others and tending to her little lordling brother, but yet she felt so alone.
He spoke of Arya, the girl he once knew, in the hall where she offered him wine and a meager ration of food. It was enough. When she looked at him she knew he was like her. He clearly had his ghosts as much as she did.
The visits were innocent at first, she liked the warmth of the hearth, and his quiet presence. She liked how easy he made the work look, lifting the heavy hammer and striking, shaping the metal into something true. Soon after she started to notice the way sweat rolled in beads down his back, the heat in his gaze when she stood close to admire his work.
Gendry never seemed to mind. Even if he misplaced or lost a blade or two. He never voiced or seemed disconcerted by her prescience. He was never surprised when she arrived, though he never turned from his work to greet her.
For the first time in moons, she thanks him for allowing her to simply stand by and watch. His face is not as serious as she had first seen and offers a friendly smile.
It almost happened out of nowhere; the kiss. He is hesitant to continue it; making the kiss between them stiff and chaste. It is not until his eyes stare back at her own; dazed and confused. But soon after she gives him a meaningful look, there is no longer a space between them. With a turn of her head she caught his mouth with hers, hot and needy, bruising in its attempt to close the distance between them. When he fell against the straw bed he pulled her with him, rucking her skirts to her waist and tugging her small clothes aside.
Sansa had kissed boys growing up, but this, this was far different; Gendry kissed her like a man grown. Sansa’s heart beat faster when his kiss grew heated and her mouth opened to welcome his tongue. She pressed her small frame against his, he held her tight to him with his other hand cradling the back of her head. The neckline of her dress was lower but that was because it was meant to never leave her chamber. The way he held her, she felt the warm air against her bodice, he dipped his head down and placed a kiss there. She let out a soft moan when she felt the sweep of his tongue that left a trail of where he had been. Her breathing was heavy now when he returned to look into her eyes. She pulled him in for another kiss and dropped her hands down to the edge of his leather vest, it was fit to him but there was an escape of his toned torso that she toyed with. Gendry let out a groan, the lower half of his body pressed against her.
Strong, calloused hands began touching her with the same hesitant delicacy one might show fine glass, caressing the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, sliding upward to tentatively cup her breasts. She purred appreciatively and pushed further into his touch. She reveled in the sweet, altruistic pleasure Gendry had offered, her body continuing its slow, sensuous rocking as she gently rode him. She straddles his lap, guiding him into her as he kisses her, his lips hot and salty with sweat, but surprisingly tender.
Her breath started to come in staccato gasps. She feels herself losing her power of speech entirely and can only clutch at his shoulders as he strokes over her, circling and teasing, stoking her like his forge and making her blood burn just as hot.
She never thought this would be her favorite part, but it was the closeness, the feeling of his neck against her cheek, the low heady groan he gave when she bit into the skin there to keep herself from crying out too loud. Maybe it was the feeling of his hands tugging the neckline of her dress so low, mouthing at her breasts in an achingly familiar way; the way he eased her hips into a slow drag over his own.
And gods be good, she never wanted to leave that moment; the knowledge that when he looked at her he saw Sansa, and only her. She never wanted to go back to a time where she felt so alone, and though she would never marry she would have him as long as he stayed. Afterward, they lie on his cot, her head tucked under his chin. Her body still hums pleasantly, and she knows she will never look at Gendry's hands again without feeling a flutter in her stomach. She then saw and felt inexplicable pricking of tears at his eyes as she kissed his brow in return, her hands coming up to cradle his head and stroke his hair.
When had they ever experienced something so sweet and slow, with gentleness to inspire tears? For the first time in a very long time, the heaviness in his heart, and the ghosts in hers, were eased. And she realizes that he has mended her heart as he had mended her family's blade.