Joined Houses
Winter had come, and he had no fury. Only morose acceptance of the way of the world.
It was a warping of the words of Houses Stark and Baratheon. Had he said them out loud, he was certain he'd get some polite chuckles, but only because the people in Storm's End deferred to him. Deference could come without respect, he'd understood that for as long as he could remember. He, Gendry, bastard son of Robert, was the head of House Baratheon now. The houses of the Stormlands had accepted that, but not through actual respect. He was there because they needed him to be there. He was there because the houses of the Stormlands had accepted that it was better to have a Baratheon ruling over them (one they could sway, given his youth and inexperience) rather than fighting among themselves. Had Westeros still known the touch of summer, he was fairly certain that there'd be more resistance, but the land had known war for eight years. He was under no delusion as to mankind's penchant for violence, but it appeared that violence could only go on for so long when everyone had hungry bellies. A sword couldn't fight the snow, no matter how much anger one might have had while wielding it. So in that spirit, the houses of the Stormlands had conceded. It was why, as he walked through the ancestral hall of House Baratheon, they gave him the title of lord, regardless of what they thought of him.
And what the smallfolk thought? He had no idea. He suspected he was one of the few who gave a damn what the people of the Stormlands thought of the bastard son of King Robert coming to rule them. Only thing he was sure of was that he wouldn't have to worry about rebellion until the coming of summer. Sons and husbands had fought under the banners of Renly and Stannis Baratheon. Those who'd followed the former had come to follow the latter. Those who'd followed the latter had perished, be it at King's Landing, or in the frigid wastes of the North. Sons and daughters might weep, wives and mothers would wail, but it would come to nothing. And much as he wanted to know them, to be among those he was closer to than anyone in this damn hall…he hated it. He hated being aware enough to understand that the people under his rule were that powerless, and that the only thing he could do was to keep the Stormlands together until summer came, at which point…well, history would judge Gendry Baratheon, first of his name, bastard son of King Robert. Come summer, the people would judge him as well.
Wait out the storm. He scowled, took a sip of wine (he hated it, but it was what lords drank) and forced a smile at Lord and Lady Musgood. "Wait out the storm." A saying not unique to the Stormlands, but one that took on special meaning here. Especially at Storm's End of all places. He understood the history of this place, as well as the myth of Durran and Elenei. So far, as always, the ancestral home of his bloodline was holding against the storm that buffeted it from outside.
"How you holding up lad?"
He smiled – smaller than the one he'd given Lord and Lady Musgood, but more genuine.
"Best as I'm able."
"So I can see. Better than your uncle at least, and your father as I understand."
Davos, Lord of House Seaworth, smiled. Gendry sipped some wine and began walking through the hall, with Davos following.
"My father really that bad then?" he asked.
"What I know of Robert came mainly from his brother, but from what I understand, your father had little patience for these sorts of things."
Guess we have that in common.
"Give him a tourney, and he'd be there. Give him a spear, and he'd go hunting. Give him coin, he'd spend it. Give him anything else, and he'd turn away."
Gendry took another sip of the wine, the bitterness touching not only his tongue, but his soul as well. "Sounds about right."
"Your uncle could hardly claim to be that different though," Davos said. "I speak no ill of the man, but what the spear and hammer was to Robert, the sword was to Stannis."
"And what of my other uncle?" Gendry asked. "Renly Baratheon. The one who'd have masquerades and balls in this place as regularly as the sun?"
"That, I can't say," Davos said.
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Excuse me your grace, I believe I see an oyster calling to me." He gave a nod and headed over to one of the tables.
"Sure," Gendry murmured. "You do that." He sipped some more wine.
Gods this tastes terrible.
He supposed he couldn't bemoan Davos wanting oysters. The Stormlands drew most of its food from the sea, and the creatures of the sea, be they fish, oysters, or squid, didn't care about snow. So yes, they had fish, alongside potatoes, and wine that tasted terrible (to him at least, everyone else seemed to like it). And he was left wondering about not only the legacy of his father, but the legacy of his uncles. He doubted that the Stormlands had much love for Stannis Baratheon, but he'd detected no special love for Renly either, even if he'd managed to light up Storm's End in better days. Renly Baratheon, the man who'd called himself king, and was dead before he could even lead his army into battle. Renly Baratheon, whose sword was only plunged into the buttocks of other men. Not that Gendry had a problem with that (he'd seen worse in Flea Bottom), but it was considered degeneracy here, and all he could do was keep silent and let the insults slide.
Did that make him a coward? He didn't know. He didn't consider himself a hero. He'd survived the White Walkers, but people tended to remember the soldier, not the forger, and he'd done far more work in the latter area. He went to drink the rest of his wine...
Fuck this.
…and went to put it down on a table somewhere. He was using what was left in the coffers of House Baratheon to pay the servants, they might as well earn their keep. Or he could just dismiss them and work on paying his uncle's debts to the Iron Bank. Another legacy of Stannis Baratheon, great military commander, who'd had defeat served to him when it mattered the most.
"Lord Baratheon?"
He closed his eyes, stifled a sigh, and turned to the source of the voice, forcing a smile. "Yes. That's me."
The man extended a hand. "Lord Alarton, head of House-"
"Longrush."
Alarton looked surprised. "You know my house?"
"Well, you bear the sigil of the green reed on your shirt, so, yes."
Alarton smiled. "I'm impressed. Didn't think such a small house would warrant your attention."
"Books have been good to me."
"Indeed? Well, we are full of surprises aren't we?"
Go on, say it, Gendry thought, still forcing the smile. Say you're surprised that a bastard could learn to read, or that he'd take the time to learn about your stinking house like all the rest of them.
"I must say," Alarton said, as he began walking, gesturing Gendry to follow him. "I'm quite impressed with the event you've put on here."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Not as grand as the ones of Renly, gods rest his soul." Alarton took a sip of his own wine, and far as Gendry could tell, he was enjoying it (somehow). "Still, the years have been hard on us all."
"And how were they tough on you Lord Alarton?"
Alarton looked at him. "What?"
"How were they hard on you?" he asked. "I mean, I understand that House Longrush declared for no king or lord in the War of the Five Kings. That neither Stannis nor Renly saw your banners any more than the defenders of King's Landing did, let alone the wildlings and forces of House Bolton."
Alarton's face turned as red as the wine he was drinking.
"I mean, I understand," Gendry said. "It's hard to make choices. I wouldn't know, since I haven't been able to decide much for myself in my life, what with being a bastard, and a potential man of the Night's Watch, and being sold into slavery, and being pressed into forging weapons to fight the walking dead. The ability to make a choice? Why, that's a burden I could scarce imagine."
"I imagine…" Alarton looked like he was struggling for words. "I imagine you'll make a few choices in the years ahead." He took another sip of his wine.
"Good choices I hope," Gendry said.
"Good indeed." He put the wine on the tray of a passing servant. "If I may ask though, Lord Baratheon, where is your wife?"
Gendry frowned. "Pardon?"
"My eyes see her not, and my ears tell me that Lady Baratheon is scarcely seen within Storm's End. Why, some say that there is no Lady Baratheon, and that the ba…son, of King Robert, has wed a banshee."
"Do they now," Gendry murmured. "Odd. Haven't heard anyone say that."
Alarton patted him on the shoulder. "Keep your ears open lad. Don't use them, you may find yourself without…"
"A head?" Gendry asked.
"I was going to say without them, but as someone who's been in the game longer than you have, I-"
"I've been in the bloody game since the moment Robert Baratheon fucked my mother. You don't need to tell me about the game."
Alarton, still red, gave him a small nod. "I take my leave."
Gendry remained standing still as Alarton did just that. Not his leave of Storm's End, but rather mingling back into the sea of lords and ladies that surrounded the desert island that was Gendry Baratheon. No doubt Alarton felt more at home with those born not out of wedlock, with people who knew what it actually meant to run a kingdom.
He hated him. And yet he envied him.
"You alright lad?"
Gendry looked at Davos, who was approaching him with a plate of oysters. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me."
"Not yet at least. But in the interest of avoiding actual battles in the Stormlands, I'd advise you to stay clear of men like Alarton."
"Why? Because they know more than me?"
"Alarton is a little man lording over a little house. Little men look at men greater than themselves and seek not to rise to their level, but drag them down to their own."
"In case you haven't noticed Davos, I am a little man."
"No. You're not. And don't ever say that again."
Gendry smirked. "Is that an order, or advice?"
"I'll spend the rest of my life giving you advice. And my advice is to take that advice as an order."
"So…it's an order then." He snatched one of the oysters and bit into it. "Hmm. Not bad actually."
"But if I may give you some other advice, it would be good for the Lady Baratheon to make an appearance."
Gendry stopped chewing. "What? The banshee?"
"I heard what Alarton said. And I've heard others. Loose lips sink ships, and as a former smuggler, I can attest to that being true. Even if it be but a moment, the Lady Baratheon's presence would put many minds at ease."
"But not hers," Gendry said.
"Not hers. But vows were given, and those vows took her here."
"Tell me Davos – when we make our vows to the gods, do you think they give a damn whether they'd followed?"
Davos didn't answer. He just bowed and took his leave, heading not to get oysters, but shrimp.
Didn't think so.
But mortals cared. And, albeit for different reasons, he cared as well. So on that note, he finished the oyster, put the shell on a passing plate, and headed for one of the hall's staircases.
"My lord, if I may-"
He put up the hand to Lord Whoever, Don't Care, and kept walking. He knew where the Lady Baratheon would be. It was the same place she always retreated to. So while it didn't take him long to climb the stairs, it took even less time to actually find her. To come to the eastward balcony that overlooked the churning sea. To see her, standing with her back to land, and her eyes to the ocean. Under cover, she was sheltered from the rain, but not from the wind, which buffeted her cloak, and made her hair akin to the waves – up and down, forever crashing against land.
"Arya," he said.
She said nothing. She gave no indication that she'd even heard him. Course he knew better – even if she lost her own ears, she'd hear him somehow.
"I…" He took a breath. "The people downstairs are asking where you are."
She stood there.
"I get that you're not one for these things, and gods damn it, I'm not either."
She stood there.
"But actually appearing there might help? Just a bit?"
She stood there.
"You know, I wouldn't mind the company, believe it or not."
She stood there.
"Anything to say?" he asked. A bitterness was on his tongue, and not from the wine. "We not talking now?"
She stood there.
"Right, well, it's been a terrific conversation, but I need to actually get downstairs before they start asking about me, because I don't have the luxury of-"
"I can't see Braavos from here," she whispered.
Gendry blinked. "What?"
"Braavos. It's across the sea. But I can't see it. I can never see it."
"Braavos?"
"If I could see it though, would it be with my face? With my eyes? Or should I lay sight upon the titan and the house beyond, would sight be lost to me again once more?"
"Arya…"
She turned and looked at him. "My father loses his head, I lose my eyes. Sight's regained, but not the head and…"
Gendry said nothing. He just waited, as he always did.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. She turned around, and Gendry saw her put a hand to her chin. He knew what was happening.
The people (and by the people, he meant "lords and ladies") had used many words to describe Arya Baratheon, née Stark. Some had been flattery – beautiful. Strong. Others had been more reserved – morose. Withdrawn. Gendry however, had never heard the word that would describe Arya Baratheon most accurately – "damaged." Because while she was all of those things, none of those words conveyed who Arya Stark was. Or rather, what she had become. It was why he knew when it was time to give her space, and when it was time to give her comfort. This time, it was the latter. He walked forward and put a hand on her shoulder, ready to-
"Don't touch me!"
…maybe it wasn't one of those times. Or maybe she was getting worse. Or maybe having a bulging belly did that to a person.
He didn't know. There were times when he wished he didn't have to know. Times when he'd wished that they'd never met, or at least, never reunited at Winterfell. Never been in a position where fucking in the event of the end of all things had consequences. Never been in a position to acknowledge that marrying would not only legitimize their child, but join the Houses of Stark and Baratheon together. It had actually been Sansa Stark's idea, and he'd expected Arya to object, but she hadn't. At the time, he'd dared believe it was because she wanted to be with him, and all things considered, he wouldn't have minded being with her. But now?
Now, he understood better. Arya Stark hadn't said no. She hadn't said that, because she barely had the will to say it. Because whatever had happened to her between parting ways in the Riverlands and reuniting at Winterfell…it had scarred her. It was why they no longer shared a bed. Why she carried a dagger with her, even now. Why she was here, on the balcony, looking out towards the sea.
"I could jump you know," she whispered. "I could try swimming."
"Arya…"
"In the darkness of the sea, I couldn't see." She let out a snort. "Sea. See. They rhyme. Do you see that they rhyme?"
"I do see, but…"
She drew out her dagger. "No more names on the list." She turned around to face Gendry. "Is there a new list? Shall I take their faces?"
"Arya-"
"Shall I take-"
"No!"
There was a flicker in her eyes – something of the old her. The one who'd pretended to be a boy, not the woman who went on about faces and dead men. For a moment, the old her resurfaced – long enough to sheathe the dagger and begin rubbing her eyes.
"I don't know…I don't…what I'm saying…" She stopped rubbing them, and Gendry could see she was on the verge of tears. "It's like I'm blind. Like…like I should have died at Winterfell."
"Arya-"
"How many others died?!" She took a step back, breathing heavily. "Mother died. Brothers died. That was only the wedding. Had the list, but it's gone now." She kept taking steps back. "Can't even kill the dead now. They kept coming, and coming, and coming, and-"
"Arya, stop!"
Stop, as in, stop talking. Stop, as in, stop walking backwards. She did both. Even if she needed help with the latter. She might have fallen if he didn't dash forward and pull her in.
Lighting flashed. Thunder rolled. The sea churned, and Arya continued to breathe like a banshee out of breath.
"Don't ever say that," he said.
"Say what?"
"That you should have died. That anyone should have died."
"You can't say what to say."
"I can, and I am." He kissed her forehead. "You said…that you could be my family once."
"A lie."
"Said that you'd only be my lady."
"A lie."
He didn't bother correcting her – sometimes, she'd get fixated with separating truths from lies, only to compound the two. "Arya…I'm not going to say anything. I've seen what despair does to people."
"Despair?" She broke free from the embrace, looking aghast. "You think this is despair?"
"No. I think it's worse. Which is why I'm going to ask for my sake, for your sake, for…" He took a breath. "For our child's sake…to come back inside."
"Why?"
"Because this isn't the House of the Dead. Because you're going to be a mother. And even with a hundred midwives, your…our, child, is going to look to you."
"You don't know that."
"I-"
"Don't know that."
"Sometimes I hear you calling for your mother."
"You're eavesdropping?"
"You're screaming."
"And that's it? I'm weak?"
"You're not weak, you're…you. And I also know that…" He took a breath. "Your sister once told me that your father talked with mine about joining our houses together."
"Sansa and Joffrey, yes. A lovely couple." Arya spat.
"Joffrey's dead. Our fathers are dead. The war's over. Least we can do is honour them."
"Why?" Arya whispered. "My father…my father, your father…one a liar, one a womanizer, both dead at the hands of lions."
"But we're not dead." He extended his hand. "I'd…like to keep it that way."
Arya said nothing. But slowly, ever so slowly, she extended her hand to take Gendry's. And just as slowly, she walked over to him. To take his place by his side as the lady of House Baratheon.
"A few minutes," she whispered.
"That's all."
"That's all," she repeated. She looked at him. "That's all?"
He kissed her on the forehead and led her away from the storm. "That's all."
A/N
So when Gendry and Arya have their, um, "moment" in season 8, was I the only one thinking "well Ned/Robert, looks like yo u got to join your houses after all"? Anyone?
Guess I'll know if this is basically AU in a few hours from the time of posting this (battle of Winterfell and all that), but, um, oneshot. Yay?