His Maiden of the Tree

He leaned farther out over the small stream with his steel pot in hand and when he pulled it back it was sloshing with water to be heated. He didn't mind the hot water this days since the nights were cold, as his friends would say, and full of terrors. He hadn't even wanted to be a member of the party originally, but he needed to get away from Lady Stoneheart, and they wanted another man to help hunt the Southron knights in the Brotherhood's territory. Her presence in camp always unnerved him and it was worse when she stayed at the inn. That aside, he had only just a fortnight past learned tell of her true name, and it made him sick to see her. Of course there had been whispers, but he never knew for sure. This time though, he had it from the Red Priest himself. It made Gendry cringe to think that such a hideous and terrifying thing could be the famed Catelyn Stark of Winterfell and the only mother left for his Lady Arya. He had taken to calling her that of late, his Lady. After all, Tom O'Sevens always told it that way. To Tom and his stories Arya was always Gendry's forest lass or Gendry's little peach or Gendry's runaway girl so why not Gendry's Lady? She never really acted like a lady-but Lady Stoneheart surely is a monster and people call her a lady whenever they address her even so.

"Gendry, bring us that water, lad!" shouted Lem, who was holding a skewer of rabbit over the fire as Anguy tried to hastily build a second spit. Lem's cloak, which had been less lemon then usual and had a new shoulder patch of rabbit hide, was dripping over the first spit because after Lem had insisted his cloak needed a wash in the river it had also needed somewhere to dry. He was not wrong. Now the cloak was back to bright but the braise of rabbits was far from done. Gendry brought the Grey Water over and set it on top of a rock near the base of the fire. That's what the townsfolk were calling it, Grey Water-because that's the color flesh'll turn when it rots in the river. Grey. Like Lady Stoneheart. They said if you drank it without boiling that you would rot from the inside. He shivered. It wasn't worth thinking about. All he wanted now was to go back and look after the inn. He didn't much like the children and only had a passing appreciation for the older tenants like Willow or Rodik, but it was warm and he had a forge to look after.

"What'll it be boys?" Tom O'Sevens asked as he sat beside Gendry at their large cook-fire. He had been the last to wash up, and looked chilled as he stretched his fingers toward the fire. The snow melt was as good a bath as you could expect when you went harrying. Lem shrugged and let out a grunt when his big shaggy beard brushed too close to the skewer he held and was singed.

"How about 'The Maiden of the Tree'," said Anguy with a sly smile aimed in Gendry's direction as he sat back from the finished and turning spit, "we haven't had that one in an age!" Gendry narrowed his eyes and took up the sword beside him and the rag he used to clean the blades. Tom only laughed.

"Well the little maiden's lad has scarce been with us of late, have ye Gendry?"

Tom tucked his wood harp into his chest, and as he prepared to sing Gendry cleared his throat.

"I wouldn't if I was you," he said quietly. His protest silenced the group; nothing could be heard but the sharp crack of a twig off to his right. "Not if you want to keep this sword in my lap and not in your belly." Tom sized him up for a moment, eyes narrowed and his large nostrils flared.

"What do you think Lem," he asked without taking his eyes from the smith's. Lem flicked his eye from Tom to Gendry and back to Tom before he decided.

"Boy's having you on," was all Lem had to say.

A winter maiden full and fair,

with eyes of beauty true.

O' er hair she wore red flowers,

and on her lips the dew.

Upon her came a noble youth,

in gleaming plate and mail.

He begged the maiden's heart of her,

and took her hands a pale.

Gendry sighed as the first verse began and continued to rub at the sword across his lap. They had tried to find Arya, they had hunted and searched and combed all the forest they could, but to no avail. She was lost and although they told him they regretted it, they didn't have the time or men to keep looking. He'd heard later that the Hound was dead. When he asked, no one had heard of a little girl found with him or near him. The men gave him a bit of a hard time of it after not too long. The only one who didn't seem to think it strange that Gendry cared more for a lost comrade than for the girls of the Peach was Ser Beric, but he was gone soon after. To be replaced by Lady Stoneheart.

Most knew nothing of Arya Stark, but the men who'd known them together, like Anguy, Lem, Jack, or Tom told stories when in their cups about him and his princess of Winterfell. He hadn't even bothered to contradict them because it kept the girls away and he liked being reminded of her. Harwin would often commend his choice. He said whilst he and Gendry left the presence of Lady Stoneheart a sennight past, "Little Arya Underfoot'll grow up, if she can, to be just like Lyanna Stark and not her lady mother. Lyanna was crowned the queen of Love and Beauty by Rhaegar Targaryan himself. And you're a knight now, worthy as any, I suppose." He didn't want to admit it but that had been part of the reason he joined the Brotherhood in the first place, to be knighted. He wanted to be her equal.

My featherbed is deep and soft,

and there I'll lay you down,

I'll dress you all in yellow silk,

and on your head a crown.

For you shall be my lady love,

and I shall be your lord,

I'll always keep you warm and safe,

and guard you with my sword.

At first hearing this song had bothered him enough to make him up and quit their company some nights, especially when it was preceded with a dedication to "Gendry and his Lost Lady" or something of the like. He left many a half-eaten dinner to get away from it. One such night Tom followed him out and asked why he'd left and all Gendry could say was that he hated the song. It sounded stupid and childish even to him. Tom just took Gendry's shoulder and told him they'd find her. Said it did the men good to hear about a lady and her lover. Besides, he said, only he and Gendry knew it was about him and Arya Stark. They hadn't found her, but Tom wasn't wrong about the men's spirits and in time it comforted him as well.

And how she smiled and how she laughed,

the maiden of the tree.

She spun away and said to him,

no featherbed for me.

I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,

and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love,

and me your forest lass.

After that he didn't mind hearing it so much. He still made a protest every time someone suggested Tom play it, but never again left before it was done. It was always better than listening to "The Rains of Castamere" again, even though Tom only played it when it rained. After Tom finished "The Maiden of the Tree" he launched into a rousing rendition of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" and then the solemn "Song of the Seven."

Gendry wasn't tired while he ate his pathetic parcel of hare and sipped at his hot water but he decided once he finished he would open his bedroll either way. He had a long trek back to the inn tomorrow.

He downed the last of his water and licked his fingers before standing, "I'm to bed." He muttered as Anguy began complaining that Tom wouldn't let him sing. They called their farewells, and he walked toward his bedroll beside the small fire he'd been using to heat his drinking water earlier. He put a few more of the sticks he'd gathered and dried earlier on the diminished flames and stoked it to a small blaze. He could still hear the men, but it was dark enough and he was far enough away from the main fire that he couldn't see them. He lifted up the corner of his large pile of furs and removed his wet boots before settling into his night's bed.

A hand wrapping itself over his mouth and a dagger pressed against his throat stopped him from drifting to sleep.

"I thought you would never come abed, Ser." He felt a body against his back, warm and close. The attacker had buried himself in Gendry's furs long before he had come to sleep. "Do you like that song they sung for you, 'The Maiden of the Tree'?" He tried not to move. "I thought it was pretty stupid last time I heard it." He stiffened. What kind of highwayman was this? His voice had a familiar ring, but be it friend or foe Gendry couldn't decide. He had no friends he would expect to find in his furs, and if this were a foe, why was he making small talk and not killing him already?

"I only remember because I was at a hall near here, Acorn Hall. I was in this awful dress, it made me look like an acorn tree." His breath caught in his throat like so much smoke from a hot forge. "I got into a fight with a friend, a smith's 'prentice he was. He said I smelled nice then. How do I smell now, Ser?" He closed his eyes to better focus on the stranger's soft voice. He breathed deeply. The pressure of the dagger left his neck and the hand pressed against his lips slid away and rested gently on his shoulder. "Well?"

He wanted to laugh, to jump up and look down on her face, he wanted to hold her in his arms but instead he took another deep breath. "You smell of winter and fire and sweet fennel, m'lady." She gripped him tighter then and he allowed her to ease him onto his back and soon was face to face with the lost girl, his Lady Arya. The fire cast a red glow over her features, accenting her prominent cheek bones and lips more full than he remembered. She always wore the same look whenever she was about to convince him to do something dangerous. Her hair, which had been hacked and sheared short most of their friendship had grown out and was to her shoulders, tumbling around her collarbone. He couldn't be sure of the color but in the light of the fire it looked dark and glossy. He wanted her, desperately.

"How is Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill? Did he miss Arry?" She was smirking because, he was sure, she felt him stiffen beside her. It was impossible to hide in only his smallclothes. He didn't know where her things were but her clothes were not on her body and this was a body Gendry had scarce even given his mind the reign to imagine. It was a body of bare skin and soft curves and downy hair and he was sure he could make it sing for him the way he made a good sword sing if given half the chance. He leaned closer to her face and felt the heat of her breath wash over his mouth.

"No." She narrowed her eyes just a fraction and he smirked. "I once knew an Arya though, who I miss some. Never forgot the feel of her fingers." He barely had time to get the words out before she cuffed him on the jaw and enveloped him in her arms.

"Stupid," she mumbled as she pushed him down deeper into the soft fur but he was still twice her size and did some pushing of his own. He was forcibly reminded of holding her down on the floor of the smithy at Acorn Hall, like she'd mentioned earlier. He remembered how she had wriggled from his arms and how it had made him feel for days afterward. Holding her down with his weight as her body writhed beneath his. This time, he thought, he would not let her get away.

She stared up at him, flushed and breathing heavily. He wanted to ask her where she'd been, what she'd done, why'd it take so long to come back, and four years worth of other questions but he couldn't utter one. They didn't have to do that this night. This night was not about the time they spent apart. He only said, "Are you to stay m'lady?"

She took a time to think it over before finally saying, "I am, Ser." He smiled and let his hand drift across her shoulder and to the curve of her breast. He allowed his thumbnail to rasp gently over her erect nipple. The goosebumps that formed over her chest fascinated him and he stared for a moment before again looking at her face.

"With me, m'lady?"

This time she was quicker to respond but her voice cracked as he cupped her breast again. "What do you think, Ser Stupid?" He smiled and eased his head down carefully.

He tasted her lips before raising his head again, "Then be quiet." Her eyes widened again and he kissed the small, outraged line of her mouth. He slid his tongue past the lips he'd dreamt of and tasted her. He'd imagined over and over again what it would feel like and she was sweeter then he imagined. She tasted of cranberries and tangy Arbor Gold. His body betrayed his thrill and pressed into her softness. Her form was lithe and firm and altogether as it once was, except it had a yielding quality and a roundness of hip and bosom that he could never have imagined. He held her as gently as he could with his callused hands and used his tongue to explore what it could reach of her. She consented with a curse, a sigh and when he lowered his mouth to nibble on the flesh below her breast she gasped.

He slid one head behind her to lift her breasts up to him so he could more easily worry them with his lips and teeth. His other hand wandered between their bodies and found a telling wetness between her thighs. He knew enough to know how much she wanted him and although he hadn't often been with women in an intimate way except for a few drunken fumbles he knew ways to make her enjoy him. He slipped a long finger into her warm nest of curls and curved it carefully as she whimpered his name softly. Her hands wound into his hair and her body tightened around him. As it did so she hauled his head up by his hair savagely and captured his mouth with her own. He was so surprised he hadn't even realized how closely his breeches laces where to her maidenhead until he felt the heat through them.

Everything else was a blur as they worked together to tear the laces out and push his breeches off his hips and she wrapped her long legs around his body. He paused to look at her face as he pressed into her. Her mouth opened wordlessly, her eyes snapped shut, a flush crept up her neck to her face, she threw her head back into the fur and she released a quiet howl. She was beautiful, his Maiden of the Tree. This was how it was supposed to be, the two of them joined together beneath the branches on a bed of fur and leaves.

He pushed into her heat over and over again feeling her tightness wrap around him and pull him ever forward. It begged him further like hot, wet velvet knotting around his shaft. He began to grunt and whisper her name against his will as his lady's body arched beneath him. Her fingers clawed at his back, holding him to her. Her fingernails were the only thing reminding him he was not in a waking dream.

They were the same fingernails that had once eagerly brushed against his swollen head as he rubbed himself to completion. The very same that had been attached to the hand of the most eager, curious, headstrong girl he would ever know. It was the girl who was now beneath him, covered in sweat and thrashing as her body convulsed and wrung his seed from him.

His Arya, his Maiden of the Tree. She had come home and taken him as her forest love just as eagerly as she had taken his trust on the Kingsroad, his sword at Harrenhal and his heart on the floor of the smithy of Acorn Hall.