munebox | Call me Out

"But she led me here, anyway. I would have rotted in that cell if not for you. And she..."

Whenever I do get family, they turn on me in the end. The Brotherhood, Stannis, and now my sister. Would Arya have done the same?

"And she asked me to go to you."

Sansa supplied the end of his sentence with a sweetened ease. In a perverse way, she could feel her confidence growing. Was this how Queen Cersei felt at her own table, lording over all the news and conversation of the evening? She had demonstrated such control; Sansa had always been intimidated by it. Perhaps control came from the walls around you, and the Eyrie granted her some modicum of it.

That humbled him nearly instantly. His bitterness had grown think in the last few months, ever since his escape from Storm's End. Encouraged by the anger of the Brotherhood's own broken and hurt soldiers, he had fostered a resentment for the outside world. He'd grown to hate Lords and Ladies, despise kin that turned against their own. His own uncle had been named a kinslayer by some, by those who believe he murdered his own brother. The previous king and his hand were killed by the same man, now a kinslayer on the run. And for half a moment, he thought Mya might have been the same, even if only by choosing to turn an eye away from his plight.

He recalled that stupid boy he'd been back on the Street of Steel. He'd made himself a horned helmet, fancying that he'd one day wear it and earn some sort of acclaim beyond a smith's life. But now he was nothing more than a bitter fugitive, whom half the country wanted dead simply because his drunken father was a faithless womanizer who stuck himself into his whore of a mother.

Gendry saw predators everywhere and even now with Alayne, he found himself constantly watching her for her true intentions. Nobody was this nice. Nobody was this generous. And we bastards are the most treacherous of all.

"My apologies, m'lady. I didn't realize."

"I am not the one who deserves your apology."

Her words grew thick. Obscure. She had herself dismissed Mya a little too harshly upon first arriving in the Vale. Old habits died hard, and she was having trouble associating with anyone's bastard child, despite purporting to be one. Without Mya, she doubted she would have ever had the courage of conviction to seek out Gendry.

"Not that she would want it. An apology. She lives...rather rough. Apologies seem to be the least of her worries." But this was not the point she wanted to make by introducing Mya into the conversation. "My Lord Father tells me King Robert once hoped to bring her to King's Landing."

He knew about her; he loved her, in his own way. He could have loved you.

She seemed more like his family already. More so than his siblings in gold or his cold, distant uncle. This thought pleased him far more than Alayne's talk of winning a throne. Perhaps he'd be permitted to stay here. He could work their forge, making weapons as good as his master did. His sister would lead guests up the windy way and they'd be able to talk and share their stories together. One day they might have children who would be cousins together.

That could be a good life. One he imagined having with a sister he had only spied from the back of a mule.

But he could find no love in his heart for his father. "But she's still here. It's clear he never did."

It was easy to say your intentions and another to go through with them.

Sansa was never told the truth of why Mya Stone was still in the Vale. Petyr had told her much, but never this much. But there were a few things she could intuit directly, having lived under one woman's tyranny for so long: "The Queen would never stand for it."

Gendry had started to put his clues together. He had been visited by two Hands of the King. Both had inquired about his mother. They'd both taken considerable care in taking in his appearance. And both showed him some measure of kindness which, knowing what he did now, was because he was the son of their close friend.

And they both died shortly after.

"... Lord Stark. He denied King Joffrey. That was why he was executed. He renounced it before he died. But for some reason, he didn't think Joffrey should be king. That's how I've heard it. Is that true?"

Edited 2013-12-10 15:21 (UTC)

Sansa did not want to look Gendry in the eye. She wanted to take refuge in her plate, still half-full. But she had to be strong. I am not a little bird; I am a wolf. And wolves were brave, they faced reality with calm faces. So she nodded, not looking away from the bastard across the table.

"Every word of it. He cast doubt on King Joffrey's legitimacy, but it seems that legitimacy comes not from the blood inside you but from how much of your enemies' blood you can spill. The king had Lord Stark's head mounted on the walls."

He promised mercy...

"Because of me. He came to my master's shop. He came to look at me. He asked about my mother and looked hard at me. I didn't know why at the time. Lord Arynn, the Hand before him, had done the same thing. Lord Stannis had been with him at the time. They knew, didn't they? I was their proof. I looked like the King. All three of them saw it. Even the Lady of Tarth could see it. If they wanted to, all they had to do was show everyone me. Or Mya. Or whatever other siblings I have out there. That's why the Goldcloaks came after me. It's why Yoren and all the other men and the boys heading to the Watch had to die." It's why Arya never made it to Winterfell.

It all fit together at last. All of the strange occurrences were like pieces of a sword that all fit together after the fire had died and the steel had cooled. But the steel inside him was still raging hot. To know he had been some witless pawn in all of this angered him. He didn't know whether to be angry with the Hands of the King for bringing this all down on him, or whether he should be angry at his father for being so blind. Or perhaps he should blame it all on himself. Surely if Ned Stark had never met him, he would have simple let Joffrey rule in peace. Arya would have never lost her father, her brother would have never gone to war, and Yoren would have got to the Night's Watch with a batch of fresh recruits.

The sorceress had it wrong. I had no special purpose. Not even as a sacrifice. I was only born so I could bring hell upon the country.

How strange it was, to see an almost-stranger take the responsibility for her father's execution. In one first white hot moment, she wanted to be swept along with his blame. She wanted to blame him, too. Because blaming him would be easier than trying to find ways to blame herself. She had even written to Robb, begging that he bend the knee. But all along, even she had known: I will be his queen, and give him beautiful blonde-haired children; he will be a great king and a golden lion.

Joffrey was lion through and through, with not a drop of stag in him. Not like this creature across the table. Sansa tried to imagine what her father felt when he recognized his friend in Gendry's features. Was it anywhere near the double-edged hope that she felt?

She unknowingly played into the thoughts Gendry was already thinking: "They treat it like a game; Lord Stark became a piece, and you are not to blame for that."

Petyr had explained as much -- so tentatively that she managed to question how involved he'd been in the whole ordeal. But he was her one and only friend, so she could not afford to distrust him now.

Gendry had no words for the comfort she tried to provide. If he was not in the presence of a Lady, he'd find some way to channel his anger. Perhaps toss the table over. If he had a hammer and steel, he would let his fury go there. He longed to hear the steel sing and to feel his muscles ache with heavy blow. That was the only time he ever felt in control. But here, at this table, with fine foods and an even finer lady, he felt even more lost than he did on that boat that the old smuggler had set him upon.

Finally, he found some words that did need saying. They were low and mumbled.

"... if it pleases, m'lady. Might I be excused?"

"Go."

She lifted a dark-coloured cloth to her mouth and tried to bury her disappointment. Sansa had said too much too soon, and she had lost him. Perhaps this was why she was meant to remain a piece in the game of thrones, and never be a player.

"Mennow will see you to your rooms." She summoned the servant who had been outside the entire time. Listening, no doubt, so he could report to Petyr. She did not care. Better to be brazen under his nose than try to be stealthy.

He turned to leave, turning quickly so he could disguise the quiet rage brewing inside him. He found himself reminded of Arya's strange routine. Her silent prayer each night.

King Tommen. Queen Cersei. Roose Bolton. Walder Frey. The Red Woman. King Stannis. And Beric Dondarrion.

Perhaps that's where her comfort came from. He stopped at the door, because whispering names would never bring him any good. He had no Braavosi killer who he only had to whisper names to.

"Does your castle have a forge?"

Edited 2013-12-10 16:02 (UTC)

Sansa had already stood from the table. She'd moved to the fireside, considering the merits of picking up this or that piece of embroidery. The busywork would see her through the night, as she doubted she would sleep. Perhaps she thought he'd already left by the time his question was asked.

When she looked at him, her eyes were wet. They hadn't yet dared to drop a tear. That would be for later, when the seriousness of her misstep haunted her most. When she was alone, again.

"Y-yes. Of course. Off the courtyard, but...it hasn't been used, I don't think, since Jon Arryn was in residence."

"Thank you, m'lady."

That night, he made the steel sing. The keep echoed with the blows of his hammer. Perhaps the Lord Baelish accept the noise with a small of resigned annoyance. But young Robin Arynn could not bear it. And so after two hours of work, one of the guards put a stop to it. When Gendry refused to stop, his nose was bloodied and he was escorted to his chambers to contemplate his mistake. Because of the incident, he was not permitted to leave his chambers. He had gone from one prison to another, though this new one was far more comfortable.

He did not get food as fine as his previous dinner, but he was allowed to break his fast on bits of sausage and rolls. He was prepared to eat it alone, even as he stared out his window into the open sky. Just as it had in the cell, it began to tempt him once again.

Come. Fly away and forget the games played by the highborns.

She knew. She knew it all -- and she wondered how Petyr managed to know so much more of what went on in an entire kingdom, when knowing just what went on in a small castle overwhelmed her. But she knew that Gendry was taking refuge in the forge he'd asked about because Robin did what he always did when he could not sleep: he ran to Sansa's chambers in the Maiden's Tower and he crawled into her bed. She resented his company. He was so vulnerable. His need frightened her, because she wasn't sure she could play the matriarch against all his fears and desires.

But she petted his hair and sang to him. Hymns and tales, snatches of things she'd created in her own mind during her loneliest hours. Robin asked about the peasant who made noises in the night. Was he their new blacksmith? Would he make him a sword, so long as he didn't make it at night? Sansa always dismissed Robin's questions; she didn't know how to answer them. He wanted to meet Gendry, but Sansa wanted nothing more than to keep Robert's bastard to herself.

At long last, the boy's demands became too much to handle. "I'll ask him, Sweet Robin," she whispered one morning when the young lord woke up, having stolen all her blankets in the night. "But I make no promises. Wait in the High Hall."

With trepidation, Alayne Stone dressed herself -- she hadn't had a handmaid to do that for her since King's Landing -- and took the winding stairs down to the next spire's entrance. It was a long walk from her chambers to his. And rightfully so.

This time, she had a servant to knock for her.

Nobody has ever knocked at my door.

But he rose to answer it. The servant dutifully announced the lady's arrival and then took his place at the side, once again staying in earshot so all could be reported to his master. Gendry, however, returned sullenly to his table and sat. It was not proper for him to do so. But he'd decided he no longer cared for what was proper and right.

Besides, he thought. I've as much right to sit on the throne as the bastard who does now.

His lip was still caked with the blood from last night and he had taken no efforts to wash it away or disguise it. Nor did he look up to look at her when she entered.

"I've found myself a new cell to stay in," he informed her.

The blood did not surprise her. She knew how hard steel was when smashed across the face. And she had heard Robin Arryn petulantly tell his guards to whack the offender if they had to. At those words, she knew Gendry's fate had been sealed. Men in armour ever seemed to be monsters, aching for someone to hit.

Worse yet, she saw his bruises as an indication of her broken guest right. She had promised him something she could never, ever deliver on her own. She was the Lady of this castle, but only by default. Tradition and loyalty truly ruled the Eyrie, and Robin Arryn had them on his side.

"All that's changed is the view, and even then..." Not by much. A part of her was glad he knew what she knew. That a guestroom could be just as caged-in as a cell, in its own way.

"In King's Landing, our shop was far from the castle. Our neighbors might grumble if we worked our forge at night." They often did so, when their orders exceeded the time in the day they had to finish it. "They were too afraid of us to do much of it."

But that had been a time when he did matter. Smiths may not be lords, but among the common people, they were somebodies. They had a trade and whether in war or peace, their work was highly prized. But in the world of nobles, they were like horses. If it went bad, you simply got rid of it.

"I never minded the sound..."

The Eyrie's towers lifted high above its forge. Robin's rooms might have been invaded by the noise, but hers had barely been. However, back in Winterfell had been a different story. The whole castle seemed to clump around Mikken's workshop, betraying the North's value for strength and steel above many other things. In Winterfell, she'd heard the ringing of his work since she was a baby. She may never have wanted to wield a sword, but she was comforted by the sounds of one being made.

"But there who mind it rather a lot. In the moment, at least. In the light of morning, Robin Arryn wants nothing but to meet you."

The name Arynn reminded him that even though Lord Baelish controlled the Vale, it was not him who truly ruled it. And he realized that Robin Arynn would be the son of the first Hand of the King. Gendry was wary of meeting another Lord, but he realized if he was to work the forge again, he would need more than the permission of a bastard daughter.

"He does? Why?"

"He's young. He's lonely. He doesn't know how to make friends."

Sansa felt for a moment that she was speaking about herself. So she shook her head and ventured deeper into Gendry's room. "I imagine his mother never allowed him to meet a smith."

A lonely lord. The idea seemed almost like a joke to him. How could a lord be lonely when people were spilling over one another to ingratiate themselves to him?

"I'll talk to him." As though I have a choice in the matter. "What should I say to him?"

"What do boys ever say to other boys?" She asked, indicating she barely knew how to converse with Robin on a good day. "Whatever you say, be gentle about it. For your own sake."

"Gentle," he repeated warily. It was strange to think that with Ned Stark's daughter, they wrestled like brothers. But with Jon Arynn's boy, he would need to be gentle. "Aye. I can do that."

Says the smith. There's nothing gentle about me.

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