The Iron Throne looked smaller than Arya remembered.
Maybe it was because she had seen bigger horrors — the Army of the Dead marching across the snow, the Night King's cold blue eyes, the fire that swallowed King's Landing. Or maybe it was because she was sitting on it now, and everything felt different when you were the one in charge.
The great hall of the Red Keep was still half-ruined. Black scorch marks climbed the walls. Broken statues lay on the floor. A cold wind blew through the shattered windows. But the lords and what was left of the Small Council had gathered anyway. They stood in their torn cloaks and dented armor, staring up at her.
Arya Stark sat straight on the twisted blades. She wore simple black leather breeches and a dark tunic. Her hair was short and messy, like a boy's. Needle rested across her lap. She looked small on that huge throne, but her grey eyes were sharp and steady.
A fat lord from the Reach cleared his throat. "My lady… Your Grace… this is highly irregular. A woman cannot—"
"I am not a woman on the throne," Arya cut him off calmly. "I am King. Arya Stark, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm."
Silence fell. Someone coughed. A few men shifted their feet.
She continued, voice clear and quiet. "I killed the Night King. I ended the Long Night. I watched Daenerys burn this city. If any of you think you can do better, step forward and take the throne right now."
No one moved.
"Good," Arya said. "Then we understand each other."
She stood up slowly. The Iron Throne scraped against her boots as she stepped down. "The war is over. The dead are gone. Now we rebuild. Send ravens to every corner of the realm. Tell them the new king expects loyalty… and food for the people who are starving."
The meeting ended soon after that. The lords left whispering among themselves. Arya could feel their eyes on her back as she walked out.
---
Later that night, the Red Keep felt quieter.
Arya had taken the old royal chambers. They were too big for her, but she didn't care. A fire crackled in the hearth. She had bathed in hot water for the first time in weeks. Her skin smelled faintly of soap and lavender. She sat on the edge of the massive bed wearing only a thin white linen shirt that reached her thighs. The fabric was soft against her scars.
She was tired, but sleep wouldn't come.
A heavy knock sounded on the door.
"Come in," she said.
Gendry entered. He had washed too. His dark hair was still damp. He wore a simple tunic and breeches, but he looked huge in the doorway — broad shoulders, thick arms from years at the forge, a chest that rose and fell steadily. He closed the door behind him and stood there, unsure for a moment.
"You really did it," he said. "You're the king now."
Arya gave a small smile. "Seems that way."
He walked closer. The firelight made shadows dance across his face. "The lords are already talking. Some say it's unnatural. Others are scared of you."
"Let them talk." She looked up at him. "Are you scared of me?"
Gendry shook his head slowly. "Never been scared of you, Arya. Not even when you were pointing that needle at my throat."
He sat down on the bed beside her. The mattress dipped under his weight. For a while they just sat in silence, staring at the fire.
Then Gendry reached out and gently touched her hand. His palm was rough and warm. Arya turned her hand over and laced her fingers with his.
"You don't have to be alone tonight," he said quietly.
Arya looked at him. Something soft and hungry stirred in her chest. She had spent so many years running, hiding, killing. Tonight she wanted to feel something real.
She leaned in and kissed him.
It started slow. Just lips pressing together, warm and careful. Gendry was gentle at first, like he was afraid he might break her. But Arya deepened the kiss, tasting him, letting her tongue brush his. He made a low sound in his throat and pulled her closer.
She climbed into his lap, straddling his thick thighs. The linen shirt rode up her legs. Gendry's big hands settled on her waist, sliding under the fabric to touch bare skin. His fingers traced the scars on her ribs, gentle and slow.
Arya pulled back just enough to look at him. "I'm not made of glass, Gendry."
"I know," he whispered.
She took his hand and guided it higher, under the shirt, until his rough palm cupped her small breast. He squeezed lightly, thumb brushing over her nipple. It hardened instantly. Arya breathed out shakily.
They kissed again, deeper this time. She could feel him getting hard beneath her, the thick bulge pressing against her through his breeches. She rocked her hips slowly, grinding against him. Gendry groaned softly into her mouth.
Without rushing, Arya reached down and untied his breeches. She freed his cock — heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip. She wrapped her small hand around it and stroked slowly from base to head. Gendry's head fell back, eyes half-closed.
"Fuck… Arya…"
She smiled against his neck and kept stroking, slow and steady, feeling him grow even harder in her grip.
After a while she stood up, pulled the linen shirt over her head, and dropped it on the floor. She stood naked in front of him — small breasts, narrow waist, strong legs, the dark triangle of curls between her thighs still slightly damp from her bath.
Gendry looked at her like she was the only thing in the world. He stood too, quickly stripping off his own clothes. His body was powerful — wide chest, heavy muscles, strong thighs, and that thick cock standing proud.
He pulled her back onto the bed gently. This time he laid her down on her back. He kissed her neck, then moved lower. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking softly while his hand played with the other. Arya arched her back, fingers threading through his hair.
He took his time moving down her body. Kissing her stomach. Her hips. The inside of her thighs. When his mouth finally reached her pussy, he licked her slowly, tasting every inch. His tongue found her clit and circled it with steady pressure. Arya's hips lifted off the bed. She moaned quietly, holding his head in place.
He didn't rush her. He licked and sucked until her legs started trembling and her breathing turned into short gasps. When she came, it rolled through her like a slow wave — her thighs tightening around his head, a soft cry escaping her lips, wetness coating his tongue.
Only then did Gendry move back up. He settled between her legs, his heavy cock resting against her slick entrance.
"Look at me," he said softly.
Arya met his eyes.
He pushed in slowly — one long, careful inch at a time. She felt the stretch, the fullness. It was tight but good. When he was buried all the way inside her, he stayed still, letting her adjust. Then he started moving — long, deep thrusts that made the bed creak gently.
Their bodies rocked together in a slow rhythm. Skin against skin. Quiet moans and heavy breathing filled the chamber. Arya wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Gendry kissed her as he fucked her, steady and strong.
When she came again, clenching around him, Gendry followed soon after. He groaned her name and spilled deep inside her, hot and thick.
Afterward, they lay tangled together under the furs. Arya rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow down. Gendry stroked her short hair gently.
For the first time in years, the king felt safe.
But outside the chamber, in the dark corridors of the Red Keep, ravens were already flying. Whispers were spreading. And somewhere far away, a Faceless Man was sharpening his blade and practicing a new face.
The game had only just begun.