munebox | Call me Out

Call me Out

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"I grew up drinking a bowl of brown a day." Or none at all, on some days. "I'll eat anything I'm allowed to."

"There must be something," she prompted -- but then thought better of it. Perhaps it was even worse to tease the man about his meals, because she had seen the riots in King's Landing. Idly, she wondered if he had still been in town for the worst of it.

"Never you mind. We'll find favourites for you at the feast." And with that, she offered him only a slight (albeit friendly) bob of her head for a farewell.

He returned the nod, mumbled a thank you, and turned around. When she was gone, he released a breath. He collected his coat and draped it over his arms and gave a lingering look to the fire. In the cells, she'd been kind and understanding. Generous and friendly. A welcome voice in a lonely world with only an empty sky to look out upon. But now, things were different. he was being drawn to her, but whenever he looked into her eyes, there were moments when her eyes didn't say the same thing her lips were.

She and her father were up to something and he knew better than to think it was to groom him into kingship.

This prison is more dangerous than the one with the sky in front of me. If I stay here too long, they'll grow bored of me. After that...

If he was to survive to old age, he wouldn't be doing it here. He needed out. He needed the brotherhood. The cold lady never told lies or deceived. She only wanted the same thing they all did. Revenge.

Sansa was starting to dread the constant act. Certainly, it had been easy to lie to knights and to Robin and to whoever had first come to visit the Eyrie in those early days. It was even still easy to lie to Mya, because she had a broad grin and the good sense not to pressure Alayne about what had been inconsistencies in her fledgling lies. Mya Stone could spot a ruse, but she was too decent to reveal it.

But Sansa truly did regret deceiving Gendry. Mostly because she found she wanted him to know her, on the chance that he might like her. As it was, he only knew Alayne.

But Arya had been courageous enough to tell him who she was, Sansa chided herself. You? You are a coward in comparison.

That night, at dinner, she was the first to take her place in the High Hall. The head table was the only one set for a meal, the other benches and tables were left pushed in a pile against the wall. It was a house half-existing, half-packed-up. But at least the roast auroch dripped with fat and juices, and the candles burned bright. So too did a fire in the great stone hearth, because the snow was falling all the more thickly.

A storm was coming.

Gendry received more assistance than he would have liked in the washing up. A serving girl scrubbed his back for him, clipped his hair, and even gave him a long overdue shave. It was a rare thing for him to feel his chin so smooth. Since he'd starting to grow a beard, he'd only rarely had time to take a knife and keep it trimmed. After that, he was shown one of Lord Jon Arryn's suits to wear. He'd though to ask if his father had left any from his time being fostered here, but he realized that was so long ago that the clothes might have long rotted away.

He was offered silk, but he instead chose Jon's more knightly attire. It was meant for traveling on the road and not for sitting in halls to eat. The garb was not the most appropriate, but it was thicker and more coarse than the softer clothes he'd been offered instead. Gendry felt a bit more comfortable that way, even if only a little. But the bright colors made him feel as though he was a walking target.

When he arrived at the High Hall, there was only Alayne sitting. Food was still being set out, but the feast had largely been assembled. Only the boy lord and his maester had yet to be in attendance. Warily, Gendry approached the table and rested a hand on the back of a chair.

"M'lady," he said in greeting. "Am I late?"

"No. Rather, I suspect I'm early."

This time, she stood. Not out of deference, but so that she could welcome him -- as a lady of the house ought to welcome her guests. Sansa marvelled at the difference made by fresh clothing and a close trim, although she found she already missed the scruff of his chin. At one point, she thought that all gallant men ought to be cleanly shaven. But lately, she longed for the rougher aesthetic of the north.

Even so, Robert's bastard was handsome. More so when he smiles, she thought.

"Better to be early. Where do I sit?"

He could easily tell which seat was Robin's. It was the head of the table, large and important. But Alayne had one seat beside that chair. He suspected the maester would sit in the other. The question was whether the vacant seat next to Alayne was his or the one beside the maester. It would be presumptuous to take a seat next to her.

This problem became immediately apparent to her, too. Custom might require Gendry to sit as far away from her as possible, but custom also decreed that she was the acting head of this household in Lord Baelish's absence. Maester Colemon was an old curmudgeon, but he wouldn't kick up much of a fuss if she commanded the smith to sit at her side; at mealtimes, he was far too preoccupied with the arduous task of getting Robin to finish his plate.

A glint of mischief appeared in Sansa's expression. "Here," she touched the ornate wooden bauble topping the back of the chair next to her own. "It's nearer the fire. I assume, naturally, that being near it is your preference."

He had looked so at home between the flying sparks and the forge's glow.

The heat of the fire was welcome in the cold hall. In other places, the halls were cold enough he shivered. Here at least the distant glow of the fire promised warmth. Not nearly as much as the forge, though. My forge. For a few days more.

"If it pleases, m'lady."

He rounded the table and stood behind the seat, but felt keenly aware of how close this would be putting her near her. He just had to eat and pay that no mind. She was a lady and they'd have others watching besides.

"It all smells good."

She breathed in through her nose. Yes, she supposed it did smell lovely. But it smelled the same as almost any meal she'd had in the Eyrie -- meat. Meat meat and more meat, covered in herbs and wines. The only thing she missed about King's Landing was the delicate taste of some fish dishes and the craftsmanship displayed in their pastries.

Sansa returned to her seat, thereby freeing him of his duty to remain standing.

Gendry slumped into his seat beside her. He leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, and peered into the fire.

"What are they like? The Royces?"

"Traditionally, their house is seated at Runestone. But Nestor Royce--"

There was no delicate way to explain how Petyr had bought Nestor's support by raising him to lordship with a cadet branch: House Royce of the Gates of the Moon. "Lord Nestor supports my father's cause; the rest of his family -- Lord Yohn back in Runestone? Decidedly does not."

He wasn't sure what to make of that, other than it means lords squabbling with one another. He didn't care much for her father, but he knew well enough that he belonged to him now. And if this Lord Yohn decided to do something about it...

"Will it come to battle?"

"No." She sounded so sure of herself. Or else, sure of Lord Baelish. "The Lords Declarant attempted to place the Eyrie under siege, not long ago. They have since abandoned the effort."

"Good for them. The rest of the bloody country is at war. The Vale seems the only place not tearing itself apart."

It's why going here was so stupid. They ought to have left well enough alone. But the Lady...

The Lady's rage had only grown when she learned of her sister's death.

"My father is a man of peace. He wants little more than to see the Seven Kingdoms happy once again."

This, she knew, was a lie. She thought many fine things of Petyr Baelish, but she knew he wasn't a proponent of peace. He liked the advantages gained by playing peaceful, and he knew how to make it appear as though he took a higher road. But he had arranged regicide with such cold ease. And he lied like he was born to it.

"I suppose a blacksmith would not welcome peace."

Gendry looked at her and frowned. That she would imply that was insulting. And wrong, besides.

"My master made a good living before the war broke out. I'd rather keep my skin than earn a few gold pieces in my pocket."

Your master worked in a city; cities, even in times of peace, need a tremendous amount of steel. She held her tongue. There was once a time when she thought things of such little consequence that she never feared to share them. But lately, her thoughts were complex and often treasonous. Sansa had to keep her own counsel on many a subject.

"Certainly; I apologize. If I disparaged your master or you, it was not my intention." Men have risked skins for gold pieces for centuries. Her true thoughts slipped between the cracks of the stilted courtesy she wielded like a shield. "I have nothing but tremendous respect for the craftsmen of all Seven Kingdoms."

I wonder if your master made metal sing for Lannister soldiers; for Kingsguard; for the King's Justice.

Edited 2013-12-13 04:29 (UTC)

"Most Lords don't think like that," he answered. "But I'm not disparaged any." He repeated the word hesitantly. He didn't know the meaning.

"But I didn't want any war. I've been in the middle of it ever since they chopped off the Hand's head. From the Watch to Harenhal to the Brotherhood all the way to Storm's End. I'll be glad to see the end of it."

"Me, too."

At least this was not a lie. Sansa wanted the war over; her stakes in its outcome had dwindled to such narrow hopes. Could it truly be that she had once dared to imagine her brother pressing his claim straight to King's Landing, and taking Joffrey's head?

Here they sat: two refugees of wars amongst men they could not hope to control. Him, buffeted from place to place. And her, handed from husband to husband. Would he hate her, she wondered, if he learned that she was still married?

If he knew, would he still steal glances from across the force? Sansa swallowed hard and reached for her cup.

"...What did Arya Stark have to say about the war?"

"Arya?" He was surprised that the young Stark girl was brought up so suddenly. Even now, he was wondering how these two knew each other. Arya had never told him much about friends, but they'd never really had time to talk. It had always been about destinations. Winterfell, with Bran and the other one. Or finding Robb Stark. Her mother, Catelyn. She had a bastard brother on the Wall, as well. When they were still with Yoren, she had even suggested he go find Jon Snow and give him news.

"Don't really know. She went through a lot, getting to where she was. She used to do this thing... at night. She'd whisper these names. She didn't think I heard her, but I did. They were all the names of people she hated. The longer we traveled, the list got longer. Sometimes shorter... but usually just longer. I think if she had the chance, she would have tried to fight them all herself. Especially with that little sword of hers she had."

"...Who was on her list?"

She was ashamed to feel a sort of self-preserving dread, fearing she may find her own name amidst the rest.

"The King, the Queen. Others like the Hound, the Mountain. The people that killed Yoren. Can't say I recall all the names. They were all Lannisters, though."

I am a Lannister, now. Tenuously so. Did that give Arya the right to curse her? No. But a dozen other things did.

"I wrote that letter we spoke of, days ago. I have not sent it yet. I thought I might pass some small pieces of news, but perhaps she already knows of what happened to her sister...?"

Gently, she fished.

Gendry simply looked lost.

"Her sister...?"

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