There are moments when Gendry thinks he's going to wake up and find all of this has been a dream. That every morning he'll rise to find he's still working as an apprentice in Tobho Mott's shop, that he won't be a knight, or that he'll have never actually known just how smooth Sansa Stark's skin was or how much Mya's eyes mirror his own.
It had surprised him at first, the way Mya had told him how sweet Sansa's mouth was, and how Sansa told Mya how much she wanted him to kiss her. They had been drinking Arbor wine, the three of them, and Gendry's mouth had gone dry when Mya had leaned in to tell him. Sansa had blushed at Mya's words, but she kissed him back just as sweetly as Mya said she would.
Gendry knows now that this began between them long ago, that Sansa has been Mya's since she was pretending to be a bastard in the Vale. Yet when Sansa smiles at him from across the yard, or when Mya runs a hand over the back of his neck as she passes by, Gendry has never understood why Mya was more than willing to share her sweet Northern rose with him, but he's grateful for it all the same.
It is more than Gendry ever thought possible for himself, it is even more than he ever thought he deserved, for what did life owe to one bastard of dead king? He lies on his side now, with Sansa tucked against his chest, one arm slipped over her waist; his other extended above them, his hand buried into Mya's dark curls, cupping the back of her head.
In these moment, Gendry has never felt more lucky.
There are moments when Gendry thinks he's going to wake up and find all of this has been a dream. That every morning he'll rise to find he's still working as an apprentice in Tobho Mott's shop, that he won't be a knight, or that he'll have never actually known just how smooth Sansa Stark's skin was or how much Mya's eyes mirror his own.
It had surprised him at first, the way Mya had told him how sweet Sansa's mouth was, and how Sansa told Mya how much she wanted him to kiss her. They had been drinking Arbor wine, the three of them, and Gendry's mouth had gone dry when Mya had leaned in to tell him. Sansa had blushed at Mya's words, but she kissed him back just as sweetly as Mya said she would.
Gendry knows now that this began between them long ago, that Sansa has been Mya's since she was pretending to be a bastard in the Vale. Yet when Sansa smiles at him from across the yard, or when Mya runs a hand over the back of his neck as she passes by, Gendry has never understood why Mya was more than willing to share her sweet Northern rose with him, but he's grateful for it all the same.
It is more than Gendry ever thought possible for himself, it is even more than he ever thought he deserved, for what did life owe to one bastard of dead king? He lies on his side now, with Sansa tucked against his chest, one arm slipped over her waist; his other extended above them, his hand buried into Mya's dark curls, cupping the back of her head.
In these moment, Gendry has never felt more lucky.
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