munebox | Call me Out

Call me Out

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The metal needed time to cool before his hammer could do its work. So again his attention turned back to her. The fire would deplete soon and the chill would seep into the forge. But not yet. There was only fire now.

"I made a helmet for myself, once. Shaped like a bull, with horns and a face in it. Some knight took it. I never managed to get it back. But it was good. My best work I'd ever made. A few lords wanted to buy it, but I'd never let them."

She regretted her fur-fringed dress. It was one of her warmer ones, and the forge was still so hot. She had no notion of it cooling soon, and so she fanned her face with a flattened hand. The heat wasn't like summer days in King's Landing; it was more like how the stones drank in the heat provided subterranean hot springs piped through Winterfell. Therefore, the heat felt familiar. Comfortable. And even more comforting was the fact that Gendry had diverted his attention from the matter of her once-almost-husband. Such a diversion allowed her to look at him again, and to note the light sheen of exertion on his skin. How rewarding it must feel...

"Why wouldn't you?" She asked, bewildered by a smith who wasn't looking for a profit.

"I made it for me." It was the same thing he'd told Ned Stark. And Jon Arryn.

"Though I might have a use for it someday. Don't really know why. I'd not chance of being a knight. I could be a soldier, wearing armor I made for myself. But I'd not even be able to fight in tourneys. Still. It was mine. The only thing I owned that had any kind of worth to it. When I was sold to the Watch, my master even let me take it with me."

"Is it fulfilling?" She pushed a piece hair out of her face -- it was dyed darker than it ought to have been, and the hot damp of the forge made it darker. "To make things with your hands."

"It's easy to destroy something. People are doing it every day, out there. They pay no mind to how hard we work to make things. A farmer can work a field for a year, but one knight can burn it down in a day. They don't know the work that goes into it. Or the work that goes into the sword they have in their hand."

He watched her, waiting to see if she would object. His time in the Brotherhood had bred a defiance into him and it was being nurtured again in this forge. She was high born, yes. But she seemed to see the world for what it is, even if she was careful in how she said it. But he was careful not to linger. He'd catch her eyes or the way her lips would move and he'd be taunted with forbidden temptations. She was not his to have.

"It used to be fulfilling."

She did not argue, because she had witnessed the madness at the top. She had seen the casual way in which kings and regents could dispense with whole lives. Lords who delegated their justice; princes who delegated their pain. But then, there had been her father. Her true father. Passing sentence and swinging the sword, confronting his choice, and ever-respecting Ice.

She set aside his political ideology for a moment, because she needed the time to digest it and consider her response. In the meantime, she asked a question that fulfilled a very private curiousity but also served to keep him occupied. Keep him in her sight.

"Did you ever work on Valyrian steel?" She did not know if Flea Bottom smiths were ever allowed to.

There was an odd question to be asked. He gave her a curious look before answering.

"Not many smiths can. But my master? He's one of the few who can. He knew the spells and workings for it. Never had many chances to do it. But there was a lord, once. He had a knife he'd taken when he killed his foe, but didn't like the idea of having to give back. So he had my master melt and remake it into a new blade, fit with dragonbone for the hilt. I didn't work the steel myself, but I was there for each bit of it. Don't know that I could do it myself, though. I saw the technique he did, but there's more to it than that with Valyrian steel."

"Regular steel will have to do, I suppose. It isn't as though we have any of the other stuff lying about, anyway"

A thin smile. She did not like his tale of one blade being melted down for another. It seemed a crime -- or else something unnatural.

"If you did, your Lord Father would be ruling the seven kingdoms, now. An entire army with Valyrian steel would be near unstoppable."

Petyr taught her that steel -- even the finest in the land -- could only get you so far. It was wits that mattered, for they so often determined the sword's direction.

"Truly?" Even so, it made her think. "I suppose the commander of such a force would not have to fight; his enemies would already be cowed into bending the knee."

The thought of that did make him smirk. "We'd be better off if more wars ended that way."

The steel was ready now. "I'll need time to work this before we start. Otherwise the fire will have been wasted."

She watched him work until the sun sank behind the mountains, and she went from standing in his doorway to brushing dust and soot off a bench and sitting right there. In the forge. A novel experience, certainly. But not half so novel as the experience of huddling around scraps of parchment and scrawling numbers. Working sums. She'd even labelled a few boxes for him -- nailing paper to wood, and marking in plain letters the contents of each. Sansa promised to test him on their meanings another day.

At one point, she had calmly put herself to work sorting tong pairs. Broken and unbroken; little and big; dirty and clean. Her palms had gone black with iron debris and soot from the forge's fire, picked up off all the little implements she didn't know how to name. And when she'd asked Gendry for something to wipe it all away, she'd had to touch his fingers just to take an offered rag.

Not long after that, she dutifully excused herself from his company. The hour grew late. The skeleton guard in the courtyard wanted to retire, too. As usual, she slept little. But unlike usual, she hadn't been able to focus on her needlework. Too often, she sat back and replayed the afternoon in her mind. And that brief touch.

He felt warm.

The helmet starting piece had started out nicely. It would need more work, certainly. He'd had to be careful to make it for a smaller head, which wasn't work he'd done before. But he felt it would be good to have it ready. Short Lord Robin come calling on him tomorrow, he wanted something to show for all his work. But all the time, he'd had an audience. This was a new experience for him, really. Certainly he'd had to put up with Arya giving him unwanted attention as he worked the blades in Harenhal. At the inn, sometimes he'd turn around and there'd be a collection of little girls watching him with wide eyes.

But now he was watched by a lady. He was grateful for the fire, because he was worried that he might show how flushed it made him feel to turn around and find her watching so attentively. When it came time to sort things and organize the forge, he would sometimes stop what he was doing and watch her at her work. Only when she turned did he begin to busy himself. And he did his best to remember the letters, though he felt like a child for knowing so little. He wondered if she'd lost her patience with him when he needed to be corrected a third time. He'd tried to insist they just put pictures on the paper, but she insisted this was better.

That moment when he'd returned her kerchief to him, her hands had brushed his. It was a strange thing that. Her fingers were cold. But so very soft.

He stayed in the forge longer than she did, but soon he had to find his way back to his bed. A serving girl was kind enough to lead him back there, as he'd already lost his way and was told sourly by a guard that he wasn't to disturb Lord Baelish. Gendry ate what food was left out for him, then collapsed into his bed into an easy sleep.

He dreamed of Arya and Hot Pie and even old Yoren. They were in the Watch, but Arya wasn't a girl, she was Arry. He worked the forge there, but there was a girl. A fiery red headed girl that tried to call him away from the flames. But he never dared to go. The steel was singing.

Sansa Stark did not trust this emotion fluttering in her chest. She felt young, again. Certainly, she was only recently a woman. But even before she had leapt the traumatic chasm between girlhood and womanhood, she had started feeling old. Wrung dry. Used up. Stone-like. The smith, with his borrowed forge, had undid a little of that wear and tear after just one day. Not too much -- she was still Alayne Stone stretched thin over the Stark at heart. But he moved her just enough to remember what she had been like before the King's retinue had come to Winterfell.

She broke her fast with Petyr, as she was wont to do every three or four days. Even Gendry's release into the main household could not alter that tradition. He never inquired after their guest, but he knew just what to say to encourage Sansa to discuss him all on her own. She tried not to; she tried to be reticent, but Petyr always won. One day, she decided, he won't.

Because she feared the flutter she felt, Sansa did not come to him the next day. She locked herself in the library, and she finished the letter for Ramsay Bolton's wife. She sealed it, but she did not yet send it. At breakfast, Petyr had announced that he had business at the mountain's foot, and would be gone for a mere handful of days; she would send it then. In fact, she was nearly giddy in the clutches of girlish affection and the scent of freedom offered by Lord Baelish's absence. He was leaving the next morning, and it wasn't until then -- more than a day since she'd last seen Gendry -- that Sansa was visible in the courtyard. Because she was a tall creature, she did not have to lean far to give her father's cheek a farewell kiss. It was an act he suggested he make because Robert's bastard is watching, and you would do well not to raise his suspicions.

When Gendry asked where the lady was, he was told bluntly that she had better things to do than bother with a smith. That curbed his desire to ask any more. Even though she said she would speak to the guards, he did not dare push his luck with them. Better to keep busy. Which is what he did.

In the afternoon, Lord Robin Arryn insisted on a visit and was accompanied by his maester to have a look at the smith and his work. Though he was excited to see the helmet, he was disappointed to see it was merely a round lump of metal so far. Gendry, in his own awkward manner, made promises it would improve. He was thankful the maester was able to win him over in the end. But the boy did insist staying for awhile to watch, but once Gendry began to beat his hammer into the steel, little Robin became more timid and was on his way again.

The day was uneventful after that. He ate and was surprised to have another bath offered to him. He passed, feeling it to be rather pointless when he'd only work up a day's sweat again on the morrow.

He was in his forge when he caught sight of Lord Baelish's departure. He felt a twinge of envy to see the kiss Alayne planted on her father's cheek. At first he didn't realize why, but he soon decided it was that bond of family that he felt he was missing out on. But he made no comment and quietly did his work. No doubt the Lady would soon return to the library and he'd have his peace again. As it should be.

A charming domestic scene played out in the yard. Robin tried to talk Alayne into making snow-dragons by dropping onto ground and pushing the condensed snow around until their arcing movements made great wide dragon wings. She agreed to make one, providing they aim to make snow-falcons instead.

And so when she finally found her way to Gendry's space -- for she already understood it to be his -- her skirts and her cloak had a fine dusting of snow clinging to their threads. Her pale cheeks were pink with the combined forces of exertion and winter.

"My Lord Father has business in the Vale," she explained, slightly breathless. The game had not approached the level of bliss she had associated with the summer snows in Winterfell, but it had conjured some slice of it. "But he has left orders for all of us to dine in the High Hall."

Edited 2013-12-12 03:28 (UTC)

It had made him smile, watching them at play. He'd never truly thought to play in the snow. For awhile, he wished he could go out and join them. Arya likely would have pulled him out there and made a game of trying to push him into the snow. She always liked the idea of trying to wrestle him down, because it would be a victory to take down someone so much bigger than her.

But he'd watched instead, accomplishing little in the interim. When she approached, he did his best to make himself look busy. But the fire had simmered down to a small warmth and the forge was chillier than usual.

"Dine? In the High Hall?" It had been one thing dining in her chambers. But this was another thing altogether. I should have taken that bloody bath. Idiot.

Doubtless, it was Petyr's attempt to control the household even from afar. Only Sansa found herself short on complaints. She at least had the decency to bury her anticipation under the busywork of nearing the flames and holding out her palms. Letting them warm.

"The High Hall," she repeated him repeating her. "Is there a problem?"

Gendry looked past her, as if he was expecting some knight to step out any moment and rebuke him for even daring to converse with her. As ever, no one came. He looked back at her.

"No. It's only... I've never eaten in any hall before. Not with high borns and the like. Wouldn't it be better if I ate elsewhere? The servants have a place to eat, don't they? Seems I ought to take my meals with them, instead."

"I would be sorely disappointed if you did."

She spoke without turning away from the fire.

Edited 2013-12-12 03:48 (UTC)

Well, there was no way out of it now. He rested his hand along a support beam and ran his other through his hair.

"I've not washed up."

...Sansa laughed. No, it wasn't quite a laugh. It was stifled chuckle, hidden behind a loosely shut fist. "You still may."

He was being laughed at now. That annoyed him and childishly, he was tempted to simply not go for that reason alone. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was dangerous to be so comfortable with the idea that he could pettily deny her his company because she was having fun at his expense.

She's a lady. You're still a lowborn, bastard name or no. You've no band of brothers here. Don't be stupid.

"I'll need your help," he finally admitted. "I don't want to look like an idiot."

"I trust you do not truly need my help with washing up," she answered quickly -- perhaps allowing herself to all too easily fall victim to a literal interpretation of his request. But one term had followed upon the other, and her better sense had yet to rally around the notion.

Truthfully, a thin wheedling vein of offence appeared in her demeanour. Soon to be stamped out by the shame of mistaking his meaning.

His eyes widened. "No! That's not-- I'm sorry, m'lady. I'll be there."

Only now he had resigned to figure it out all himself, seeing as he'd already bungled things entirely. Only now he really wished he could avoid going. Even the promise of food fit for lords seemed like enough.

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