And the rain beat down on the rooftops

But there was no sound, there was no sound

And all my friends and family carried me

They carried me home, they carried me home

;

The rhythmic hammering of his hammer against the steel matches the pounding in his head.

There was no moon that night, pitch-black darkness seeping into the forge, and the steaming fire was the only source light illuminating him and his work.

He should just go to bed, a smart man would have, a practical man, the boy he had been would have been snoring and shivering under his furs at this time, but he had lost all traces of his sensibility a long time ago.

He should just go to bed.

But the stable boy had informed him about the return of the queen from her trip to the North in the early hours of the morning, and he found himself waiting.

It seemed he was always waiting, waiting for her.

A cramp was forming in his arm, sweat was pouring down his brow and his bare chest, and he was still hammering fiercely when he heard a chuckle from behind him.

'Tell me, Ser, has that breastplate wronged you in any way?' she asks him, her voice full of mockery and ridicule.

He had almost struck his hand with a heavy blow when she had spoken. She had a tendency to sneak up on him, as quiet as a shadow and as quick as a snake, and after all this time, he still hadn't managed to get used to it.

He lowers his hammer and turns around then, catchingt sight of her in the corner of the room, half hidden among the shadows, the reflection of the fire dancing upon her face, with her mouth twisted in a cruel smirk, and dressed in a blue gown.

'Tell me, your grace, how many times did you try to get yourself off before you finally decided to come to me?' he replies to her, his voice scathing and as mocking as hers had been, his hands moving down to the laces of his breeches.

Her smirk doesn't disappear, but her eyes harden as she crosses her arms across her breasts, and she watches him pull his breeches, along with his smallclothes, down his calves and throw them across the forge.

'You seem quite eager. Missed me?' she drawls in an awful voice as he stalks towards her.

He was already furious as it was, he wasn't in the mood for her jeers or her cruelty, and he was even more angry at her complete lack of progress with undressing herself, so he grabs her forearms, and roughly spins her around while hissing, 'you're the one that came to me, m'lady.'

She stiffens at his old title for her, and he can't help but laugh at that as his hands unfasten the tiny loops of her gown. There is no fumbling or any struggling, he has experience when it comes to undressing women clad in tight gowns. He has experience when it comes to undressing her. He still remembers undressing her from her soiled tunic and breeches, it seems like a lifetime ago, and with a pang, he is reminded of how happy he had been back then. How happy they had been.

Now they take pleasure in verbally hurting each other, and the insults cut as deep as a jagged knife, as they both understood each other's weakness more than the other, and well really, who else could play this game as well as them?

He pulls her gown down, smirks at her lack of smallclothes, spins her around and pushes her towards the anvil.

'And where is your loving husband this fine evening?' he snaps as he sweeps off the hammer and sword resting on the anvil, watching them fall on the ground with a heavy thud.

His mouth comes down on her, hard and rough, not giving her time to answer. She sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, her anger at his choice of words obvious in her bruising kiss, and he has to coax her into a more gentle kiss, before she allows his tongue to sweep into her mouth, hot and wet and thirsty for her.

He raises one hand to her bare breast, palming her nipple, until it puckered to a hard and painful point against his calloused hand, and raises another hand to her hair, grabbing a fistful of her braid and twisting it around his fingers. He slowly brings his knee up to the apex of her thighs, and the feel of her, wet and ready, makes him want to pound into her right then and there.

But no, he would be patient. This was all he would ever have of her, all he could ever have, and he would milk it for all it was worth.

'Are you going to beg me to fuck you like you did last time?' he whispers against her lips, a harsh smile on his lips, and a furious glint in his eyes.

She doesn't take kindly to that, angrily shoving him away, slapping him hard enough to split his lip open, before grabbing his shoulders and pulling him back into another fierce kiss. He laughs into her mouth, her blatant desire for him giving him an ugly feeling of pride. He'd bet his hammering hand that she never craved her husband like this.

His hand moves down to her hips, gripping them angrily as he walks her backwards until her back is digging into the edge of the anvil.

She tears her mouth away from him to whisper, 'careful, he might see the bruises.'

He knows that already, she had told him that countless times already, of course he knows, Aegon might come to her chambers and she wouldn't have any plausible explanation for finger shaped bruises across her hips.

But he really doesn't like being reminded of her fucking another man when his erection is pressing against her stomach and her wetness is coating his skin where she was pressed up against him.

He wants to mark her as his, as she always does, but he can't, he never could, and with a growl he spins her around, bending her over the anvil, before she could see what he was feeling in his eyes.

She gasps against the cold steel pressed up against her front before grasping his hand and placing it upon her breast. His lightly cups her breast before taking her thrusting nipple in his fingers and squeezing painfully until she finally hissed in pain.

His hand starts drifting lower and lower, gently tracing all the scars on her abdomen, before reaching the damp, triangular mound of dark hair, stroking and caressing her right above where she wanted him to touch.

She squirms against him in frantic earnest, her moans echoing in the small room, until he wedges his leg between her thighs and moves his fingers lower still, finally gaining access to the place he was seeking.

She is glistening, her wetness almost instantly coating his fingers as he thumbs her folds.

'Does he ever make you as wet as I do?' he says as he caresses her flesh, his middle finger sweeping up and down her cleft in a slow, tantalizing motion.

'Shut up,' she whines, and he can hear the desperation in her voice.

'Does he ever bend you over his desk and fuck you until your legs are weak and you collapse upon it?' he continues, pushing one finger inside her snug passage, her tightness still surprising him, especially after all the times he's had her.

'Does he ever cause you to scream his name out to the gods as you climax?' he moans as he slips another finger in her, his thumb pressing down against her small bud.

She's quivering now, and he can tell she's trying her hardest not to give in to him.

He refuses to accept that, and his movements quicken and he flicks at her until she gasps and her muscles contract against his fingers.

He finally releases her with an odd laugh, sucking on his fingers as he watches her try to calm her breathing, her cheek pressed against the anvil, and her fingers white against her hard grip on the edge of it.

It's not enough for him, nowhere near enough.

No, he wants her to beg.

And it may be cruel and despicable of him to want that, but he has watched another man place his cloak upon her shoulders while he could only offer her his tattered tunic, has watched another man cup her chin and kiss her when he was to constantly steal kisses away from her in the middle of the night, has watched another man impregnate her while he had to steal away moon tea from the kitchens to make sure his seed never took root, and the old gods and the new gods be damned, he would make her beg.

He grasps her hips, and raises himself over her, leisurely moving his cock against her, probing gently against her cunt and teasing at the place his fingers had been.

She arches her back, moaning against the steel, and jutting her hips against his. With a low chuckle, he eases into her, slowly thrusting himself inside her, fraction by fraction, never filling her fully, until she is writhing beneath him and calling him stupid and bullheaded and hardheaded.

She's attempting to push against him, but his hand is pushing her against the anvil, inhibiting her movements.

Finally, he drives into her with a force that pushes her up against the cold steel, and sends her scream vibrating against the forge, and not a second later, he pulls out.

'No,' she yells, her voice shrill.

He lowers his head until his lips are against her ears, and murmurs, 'you never answered any of my questions.'

He can feel the anger radiating off her when she hisses 'I hate you.'

His voice is as hard as steel when he says, 'does he love you as much I do?'

His hand runs down her hips when he whispers, 'do you love him like you love me?'

'Do you?' he repeats as circles his hips against her.

She struggles for a moment before finally sighing in defeat and choking, 'I love you, only you, its always been you. Always. Please Gendry, please.'

His control finally shatters, and with a moan of 'Arya' against her hair, he plunges himself inside her again, his movements as frantic as hers, fucking her as hard as he can while fighting down his own desire, impaling her against his throbbing cock, until he brings her to a shattering climax, her walls clamping against him and her spasms of pleasure causing him to finally release inside her.

He collapses on top of her, not caring about his weight, not caring about anything but her.

There's complete silence between them, no words are ever said afterwards, and they haven't been said for a long time.

He doesn't know what takes over him, but suddenly his throat tightens and his eyes start feeling scratchy.

'Wa- was there ever a chance for us?' he mutters into her hair.

She doesn't answer for a long time, and he thinks she's ignoring him, so he gets up and walks towards his scattered clothes.

Her voice makes him pause, ' I came to you. Before I accepted. I asked you for a reason, begged you for a reason. You didn't give me one.'

He gulps, the events of that day still fresh on his mind.

He doesn't want to remember, doesn't want to remember any of this.

He doesn't want any of this. He wants to pack up and leave, but he knows it's impossible.

There are many things he can bear, but he cannot bear to be away from her.

He was hers, completely and utterly hers.

But she wasn't his, she could never be. Not anymore.

Her voice sounds small and vulnerable when she speaks again. It's been far too long since he's heard her talk to him like that, and his legs feel like lead and he cannot seem to turn around to face her.

'I've fought my whole life. Fought against what was expected of me, fought to prove myself, fought to survive, fought to kill, fought to claim what was rightfully mine, fought to live. But for once I wanted someone to fight for me. I wanted you to fight for me.'

He has lived with self-hatred for as long as he can remember, but for the first time, it feels like it's about to consume him.

'Why couldn't you have fought for me?'

;

A/N: I saw a confession on tumblr about these two, an anvil, and finger fucking. As you can see, I was inspired. Although it seems I can't stick to straightforward smut. Angst just manages to take over. Anywaaaaay, casual reminder that I'm a review whore. Hint, hint.