munebox | Call me Out

What honesty! If he'd merely hoped to curry favour, he might have played up his role as protector. But his actual words brought a tense smile to her mouth. They sounded spot on -- blow for blow Arya Stark.

"It's late." She peered back over her shoulder. "And I fear Mord is growing less and less complacent with my visits -- I know he knows about them. He snores louder when I come up the stairs. But I will be back. Hopefully with your key."

She may not have been the one whose room opened up to the sky, but Sansa was suffering from vertigo i this very moment. These words were some of the most bold and decisive she'd ever spoken. She was a conspirator, now. She was no longer a pawn.

Or so she believed.

"I hope so."

But he didn't really believe it. He smiled one last time, then turned around to sit against the wall. He stared at the empty night sky, but that night he never thought about walking off the edge. He was warm and wanted. He hadn't quite felt like that in some time.

That night he dreamed he was a king. He had a queen with fiery red hair, which made no sense to him at all. The only woman he knew like that was the sorceress.

Petyr did not seem over-eager to grant this particular prisoner any slice of freedom. Or was it Petyr she spoke to, when she pleaded Gendry's case? In the quietude of the library, she could no longer be certain. He switched between Petyr and Littlefinger so often, these days. Petyr wanted to give her the world; Littlefinger wanted to crack the world open with her as his leverage. Even had she been a cleverer girl, it would have been nigh impossible to tell that the Lord Protector of the Vale was proud of his false daughter. Mostly, she felt chagrined. And she felt defeated.

For she was ignorant of the fact that -- forty-eight hours later -- Lord Baelish himself unlocked the bastard's cell and stood free of its doorway in order to invite Gendry out from the cold.

"You have a champion," he announced in voice as soft as a hiss. "Pray you show her gratitude, for I have not seen someone fight so hard in a long long time."

It was a chilly greeting, and the once Master of Coin made no attempt to make it any warmer.

In King's Landing, Gendry had heard of Littlefinger many times. His master, Tohbo Mott, often had many purchases from the master of coin. Gendry had never met the man himself, but he'd seen the two of then speak whilst he was in the back, pounding away at the steel.

It was hard to believe that this man was Lord Protector of the Vale. Hadn't he heard stories of this man? He had started low as well. Not as low as Fleabottom. But this was a man who had raised himself high. Gendry could see a shrewdness in the man. Something that exceeded even that of Tywin Lannister. Until now, Gendry had never seen a man who seemed more in control of everything. It was hard to believe so frigid a man could have fathered so kind a woman.

"I shall, m'lord. Thank you." Hesitantly he had stepped out of the cell, expecting some sort of trap or trick. But just as it had been with Davos, there was no trick here. In his arms, he had the bundled up blanket that was given to him. It was the only thing of worth he owned in the entire world. "Where shall I go?"

Because even with his freedom, he could not quite imagine being allowed to stay here.

Petyr was a pillar. He wasn't a grand man. He wasn't a strong man. But he was solid, and he stood solidly on this ancient stone no matter how new he was to it. He acted as though he belonged here, and as though Gendry did not. There is no harm in making the lad feel a little unwelcome; with any luck, he will cling to her all the more fiercely for it.

"Winter is coming," he said with a slight sneer. "Most of our household has left for lower altitudes. I find we have rooms available and work needing to be done before my daughter and I join them at Lord Nestor Royce's table."

He watched Gendry as he walked side-by-side from the Eyrie's dungeons. The trek was not a long one, but it was a good chunk of distance to reach the more noble elements of the castle. The blanket surprised him; he'd known Sansa was visiting the prisoner, but he had not detected the loss of the blanket. Clever girl.

"Alayne is in the library. See to it that she knows you're out."

Gendry had never stayed in a castle before. Oh, certainly, he had all of one night in Storm's Keep. He'd been visited by the red woman and she'd strapped him down to a bed and...

This was not the time to dwell on that. Ever humble around so influential a man, Gendry simply nodded. "Yes m'lord."

On the whole, it seemed Lord Baelish had nothing more he wanted to do with him. No surprise, Gendry thought. Without the constant breeze of my cell, I likely smell awful. Once his nose stopped being stopped up from the cold, he'd know that was true for himself. Lady Alayne would likely put her nose up at him once he arrived at the library. But there was not much he could do about that.

When he was left alone, he realized he should have asked where the library was. He had not dared to say any more than he had to, though. So instead, he kept straight along the corridor until he found a serving lady. She was alarmed to see him at first, but when he asked where the library was, she quickly understood who he was supposed to be. Minutes later, he walked into a room surrounded by books. It left him in awe. He'd never seen anything like it. His attention was fixed entirely on the books as he walked into the room, not yet looking for his champion that was waiting for him.

Sansa hadn't had cause to write since her lessons back in Winterfell. But she sat by a narrow window and allowed the morning light to illuminate a piece of parchment. She would write to this Arya Stark in Winterfell, she would give her the Bull's message, and she would wait and determine by virtue of her response whether it was truly Arya or not. But since dawn had broken, she'd gotten no further than a plain greeting and an inquiry about the weather.

A pile of books teetered on the desk's edge. One slim volume professed to tell the true tale of Ser Duncan the Tall. She had handpicked it for Gendry, even though her attention had been waylaid these past few nights. Perhaps tonight, she thought. Because this book didn't have any many words as the others and boasted beautiful illustrations. It belonged to Robin, but she didn't think the boy would miss it much.

I'll tell him I did all I could. Petyr would not budge. But her concession speech was interrupted by a foot on the landing and a step beyond the stacks. Sansa twisted in her chair, agitated: "Father...?"

She had to ask after him in this fashion, lest it actually be a member of the house staff and they were made to wonder why Alayne Stone called her father anything but.

In the open light of the library, Gendry could truly see her for what she was. This was a true lady. Beautiful and elegant, radiating in the open light from the far off windows. He'd tried to convince himself that as a fellow noble bastard, they were mostly the same. But when he looked at her now...

And all I have is this blanket that smells of sweat.

"No," he answered. "It's me."

Sansa did not rise from her seat. She may have been excited to recognize him, but she still understood her position. And his. In spite of unspoken causes, he was still as yet almost a nobody under this roof. By contrast, she could control his fate should she care to. At least, up until the point where Petyr would step in and curtail it.

But her excitement manifested in other ways. A trembling hand which could no longer hold the quill. A brightness in the eyes. "He released you!" Sansa almost smiled. "I thought for certain he wouldn't. We quarrelled over it."

It was a terribly personal thing to tell anyone, but she had spent nights conversing with him through his bars. She felt as though he was more than a stranger, if not quite yet a friend.

Gendry smiled despite himself. She may have had the good sense to be reserved, but this was hisfirst freedom in weeks. And he had it all thanks to her. At that moment he would have done anything for her.

"He said you were my champion, m'lady. And that I should show my thanks. "

So he took a knee and noted his head. "I'm yours, m'l lady. I have no sword to offer, but you'll have my service, if it please you. "

She was stunned by his fealty. Men had knelt before, but they were paying obeisance to a title. They were saluting one potential future that was now impossible, for Sansa would not be queen. Not any longer. Certainly not so long as she wore a bastard's name, and only now was she beginning to feel guilty for her continued lie. But although she liked Gendry, she could not yet trust him.

"Rise," she commanded in a voice barely above a whisper. "I will have no vows from you." Vows are so easily broken. Only this was a little like receiving a taste of what life would be like with bannermen of her own. Bodies she could count on. Reliable support. No wonder her father had always walked so proudly, knowing the strength at his back. She'd learned only too late what it meant to support him fully.

"All I want are simple assurances that you will stay with us a while."

Arya would not have suffered him to now at all. He would only have done it as a jest. Even more it was hard to think if her as a lady, much less a married one. Alayne was different, but he felt a certain gratitude that she did not make him kneel. Perhaps she was only who she was because of birth. Maybe nobody choose her. But...

I've chosen her, haven't I?

He rose to his feet. "I've nowhere else to go, m'lady. I'll stay as long as you'll have me." He probably should have kept quiet, but he felt compelled to ask one more question. "Why? Why did you help me?"

Edited 2013-12-10 00:46 (UTC)

There were so many answers -- and so many of them were true. Because she owed Arya, or because he protected her, or because she was lonely. Or because she hated Joffrey. Sansa tilted her head back so she could watch his face. In the light, he looked even more like Renly. More of a Baratheon than Cersei's children, that's for certain.

She had to tell him something. But all the little truths revealed too much. What was safe to say? "You were a friend to the Stark girl." Her voice clattered upon the name with such passion. "And the North remembers."

The Eyrie was not North, per se. But it was more north than many a place. And the Fingers, where her fake-father was from, was more north still.

It was a strange thing, talking to her like this. The red woman had spoken evenly with him, treating him as though he were an equal. But throughout all of it, he always instinctively felt as though he was being lured. Tricked. At best, he was being made a mockery of. With Alayne, he didn't know what to think. But the more he watched her, the more he felt he could believe her.

She'd never lie to him. Not like everyone else had.

"I was. But... you really believe all that? If I had told anyone else, they'd think the whole thing was mad. Sometimes I think back on it and think myself mad." And Lords only believe what they want to believe.

"It wasn't a lie. It's just... I've met no highborn who's ever taken me at my word."

"Arya must have." But Sansa had so long disapproved of her sister's choice in associates. Could it be that the younger girl got it right with this one? "And aside from her, how many highborn lords and ladies have you met?"

"A few. Though... no ladies. Besides you and Arya. I suppose the only decent-- I mean, the kindest I've met were Starks. Until you, anyway."

He almost thought to say, You'd make a fine Stark. But they were traitors now. Enemies of the Crown. To say that would be an insult.

Edited 2013-12-10 02:01 (UTC)

She was grateful for her chair because his words again, like on the night he'd spoken Arya's name, made her dizzy. Her captivity in King's Landing had chipped away at her identity. Everywhere she turned, there were barrages of reminders: the Starks are traitors. The Hound had been right. She had stopped using her own words and she'd begun to trill and echo theirs. She would curse her own blood if it staved off a beating. It wasn't until the Vale, months free of that fear, that she was starting to feel proud again. Proud, but unable to show it.

But just to hear someone saying something decent about a Stark? Fantastical.

"I'm afraid a great number of us prove to be unkind." Nobility. She'd gone to court expecting that all lords behaved like chivalrous knights and that princes were paragons. Now she knew that in reality, the heroes rarely won. The victories went to monsters. It was how she knew this fledgling plan was doomed already. "But we have our exceptions." A wary beat. "Not that I dare to include myself amidst their shiniest ranks."

Sansa would not speak the word. Bastard. Nor would she even dare its gentler euphemisms. But she alluded to it, feeling a fissure in her heart for lying to him. If a little lie felt this bad, how would she cope with the bigger ones?

He understood what she meant well enough. He stepped forward and looked down at the table and at the books that were set out. Most just had words. One had a picture of a knight and he thought that interesting enough. He rarely had a chance to see art.

"I've wondered what it would be like, if I had been a Waters instead of a smith. My father... Robert Baratheon. I saw him once, in the streets. He near ran over me. I recognized him, but he didn't so much as look as me. He was drunk as could be at the time." A drunken fool is what he had thought. But he wouldn't dare say something so treasonous to her.

"But if I'd have been a Waters, maybe he would have kept me in the palace. I wouldn't have been a prince, I know that. But he might have taught me the sword. The sort of things I ought to know to be a man." He touched the picture of the knight. "And my letters, I suppose."

He looked back up at her. "You knew him, right? I'm wrong, aren't I? I know it wouldn't be that way. Your father is kind, to take you in. But mine..."

Don't speak treason.

"Probably better this way. Had I been in the palace, the Goldcloaks would have been able to put a sword in me a lot sooner."

Edited 2013-12-10 02:20 (UTC)

"Yours was Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. He slew Rhaegar at the Trident. And he grew up in this very stronghold."

She was not a child. Not any longer. She knew Gendry to possess more than enough wit to know exactly who his father was, titles and all. But she had scented the treason on the air and she saw fit to stem it with a stern reminder of all King Robert stood for in the eyes of those families who loved and supported him. She had no head for the gritty details of politics, but she knew her father adored King Robert. She knew the Mad King had murdered her grandfather and her uncle. She'd been taught to claim the rebellion as a just thing. Inevitable, really.

"And he would be proud of you, Gendry Waters." Would he? She did not know. The King had frightened her, usually, with his boisterous voice and sharp-tongued ennui. And once they'd reached King's Landing he had not lasted long. But he'd noticed her just enough to want to join the houses of Baratheon and Stark together via a marriage to her, and she did not think he expected it to go so cruelly as it had. "You look more like him than his true born children do."

As for her 'father'? Kind was a generous word, and she chose not to debate it.

He was cowed when she spoke of his father's full title and he ducked his head in shame. He had spoken too frankly. More than he had any right to. Arya wouldn't have cared.

But it surprised him to know his father had grown up in this keep.

"I've never seen them. Though... I suppose they'd be my siblings. Half siblings." But not according to his uncle. They're as much bastards as me. "But I'm no Waters. Not truly. I was never acknowledged. Not even by my uncle, Stannis."

"The difference is...it's like the day and the night."

She wanted to tell him she believed the treasonous rumours. She wanted to name Joffrey a bastard. The younger 'Baratheon' children were sweeter, but still the final result of a grotesque merger. They are in no part your siblings -- but that was a believe best held silent until felt herself capable of revealing her own parentage.

She nudged the conversation onto safer topics: "They do tend to bathe more, but I hope that is the result of the sky cell and not your own habits."

At that, Gendry stiffened and looked down at his own hands. That cell might not have been disgusting as when he stood in a pen with a dozens others at Harenhal. But he'd been there awhile with too little water to waste on cleanliness. Had anyone else seen him touch that book with his hands, he'd be punished for covering it in filth.

He shifted away.

"I was told to present myself to your right away, m'lady. I had no time to..." He trailed off. "If you tell me where a well or stream is, I'll clean myself up."

"A stream?" She stifled a girlish chuckle. Not because she was embarrassed by it, but because stifling her honest emotions was like second nature. "I haven't ventured beyond her towers, but the Eyrie has no streams nearby. Father tells me the castle taps into an old mountain spring and the water is diverted into some cistern or another -- I do not know where that is."

Sansa woke and water appeared. Occasionally, when the small household was to occupied with other things, she had to find someone to bring water to her. "I'll have someone prepare a bath."

She once thought the Eyrie would be a cold stone prison of its own, especially in Winter. That prospect was beginning to change.

It wouldn't be the first time a bath had been prepared for him. The same had been done before when he was taken by the sorceress. He had enjoyed that. And now, he wouldn't complain about it here. It would be good to be clean again. Perhaps to even have fresh clothes again, if she was to continue being generous.

"As m'lady commands," he answered.

"It wasn't a command."

Sansa stood. Her letter was forgotten, but she would return to it eventually. She could not wholly abandon the project to confirm the identity of Ramsay Bolton's bride, but it could be set aside for now in favour of tugging on a thick-carpet tassel attached to a bell in the castle's depths.

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