The forge echoed with a high riiiiiing each time Gendry slammed his hammer into the sword he was crafting. It was just as it had been before.
Ha! Gendry scoffed. Before? I can hardly remember before.
Gendry hammered the steel sword again, relishing in the sound of it, the feel of the hammer in his hand, the vibrations that metal-on-metal sent shivering up his forearm. He was covered in sweat and soot and stretched his mind back to his time in King' Landing, on the Street of Steel, before two Queens fought over seven kingdoms only to burn themselves out. Times were simpler than. Girl's would slip by the shop to watch him work, and boys were too scared of his strength to pick any fights.
When I hit that steel, it sings. You gonna sing when I hit you?
Gendry slammed his hammer down harder as if to smash the words right from his head. Thoughts of her would often intrude his thoughts—quick and sly as a fox—and he'd bang the steel harder and harder until the vibrations of it ran up his arm and made his muscles ache. He hated thinking of her. The way she looked and smelled and tasted. Like ice so cold it burned.
Riiiiiing. Huff. Riiiiiing.
"My Lord."
Huff. Riiiiiing. Huff.
"My Lord, a message came for you in the Keep."
Riiiiiing. Huff. Riiiiiing.
"My Lord, it's from Winterfell."
Gendry stood straight. Handing his hammer to his armourer, Tymon, Gendry said, "Make sure that gets done today. I want it sharp and shined for when Ser Brienne arrives."
"Yes m'Lord," Tymon said, bowing. Gendry bit back a retort. No matter how many times he told the man not to call him 'lord', he wouldn't budge. Eventually, Gendry just stopped asking.
Turning to the messenger from the Keep, Gendry asked, "What is it? This message?" He moved outside the forge and dipped his hand in the basin and washed the soot and grime off his arms, neck and face. Gendry learned early on that the nobles at Storm's End took offence to their Lord entering the Keep looking dirty and common. As if his newly established station made him any less a bastard.
That's not me.
Gendry splashed his face once more, drowning that echo of a memory. He turned to the messenger. "Well?" he asked.
The messenger stammered. "I… I think you'd better come and see for yourself, my Lord."
With an annoyed grunt, Gendry tore off his smithing apron and threw on the unsoiled tunic he'd worn earlier that day. Without sparing the messenger another glance, he stormed off to the Keep. His Keep. It was still bizarre to think that. He, who was still learning to read and count past ten, was the lord of a castle. He had his own Keep, his own men, his own lands. The only thing that had remained the same this past year was Davos' watchful eye and sound counsel.
Gendry took the stairs two at a time, his guards rushing to open the door him as he approached the front of the castle. Gendry turned right and walked down the long, wide corridor that took him to the Keep. His strides were long and steady. He heard the beat of armoured feet against cobble as his guard rushed to keep up with him.
They're more subtle when I go to the forge, Gendry thought. He never heard them when he was there. It was as if they thought the inside of his castle was more dangerous than the outside. Maybe it was. Or maybe their armour echoed off the stone walls more than it did in the open streets of Storms End. Or maybe you're always too busy thinking about her to notice them.
Gendry forced the doors of the Keep open harsher than he meant to. Davos stood at the end of the chamber, by the throne in which the old Stormland king's once sat, holding a basket. "Did Lady Stark send down some winter apples again?" Gendry asked.
"This isn't from Lady Sansa," Davos said.
"The messenger you sent said something came from Winterfell," said Gendry, looking confused.
"Aye," Davos said, holding up a letter. "This came, marked with the Stark sigil. But it's not from Lady Sansa, I'm afraid."
Than who? Gendry thought. It wasn't her. She hadn't spoken to him since she turned down his proposal.
None of it will ever be worth anything if you're not with me.
T hat's not me.
He hated remembering that night. He hated remembering her. He hated that she was right. He hated her. "Who then," he asked, coming to stop in front of Davos. "Not Bran, surely, I thought he'd gone further North to his raven tree or whatever?"
A cry broke out and Gendry looked down at the basket that Davos held. A squirming baby lay amongst a warm wolf's pelt. The child let out another cry and seemed as if it was sucking on air. "What child is that?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"Read the letter," Davos urged him. "You might make more sense of it than I."
Gendry, still staring the child, ripped the letter from Davos' hand. Drawing his eyes from the babe, he read his name in the first line. It was the clearest word in the piece. He'd written in down a hundred times when signing important documents and practice-writing his name and her name together in the leather-bound book he kept by his bedside.
Gendry's lips silently mouthed each word slowly, a technique Davos had taught him in his reading lessons. He read the letter again for good measure, to make sure he understood it fully. Then again. Again. Soon the words blurred as his eyes began to water. He swallowed down the tightness in his throat.
Gendry,
I cannot give you my hand, but I can give you an heir.
His name is Ned.
Gendry folded the letter and placed it in his breast pocket. Looking down at the child again, Gendry saw all the proof he needed that the letter was true. Thick black hair covered his head and his eyes were a stormy grey. Like his mother's.
"I assume he has a wet nurse?" Gendry asked.
Davos gestured to a woman who stood behind him. She had the look of the North about her: long, knotted brown hair, pale skin and a hard demeanour. Her eyes, however, were kind. Gendry noticed the way she angled her body toward the babe, as if to reach out and protect him if the occasion arose.
"Good," Gendry said, speaking to the woman. "I will give you a weekly pay and a good bed here in the castle if you wish to stay. Trent," Gendry called on one of his household staff. "I want you to make sure both she and the babe are close to my chambers. Provide them both with whatever comforts they desire."
Trent bowed low to his Lord and gestured to the woman to follow him. Gendry looked to Davos. To the outside world, his expression showed nothing. His eyes, however—his eyes looked upon Gendry with pride.
"Anything else, my Lord?" Davos asked.
Gendry, tentatively and unsure, reached into the basket and scooped the child out. Davos, ever the father, helped Gendry hold the babe correctly. For a boy whose grip could crush a grown man's skull, Davos noticed how delicately Gendry held the child in his arms.
You're beautiful and I love you.
"Call on the nobles in the Stormlands," Gendry said, feeling the weight of the child in his arm, a weight heavier than any hammer Gendry had ever wielded. "Tell them to come to Storm's End for a feast. It will be held a week from today."
"And who should I say the feast in name of, my Lord?"
"Eddard Baratheon, heir to Storm's End," Gendry said, loud enough for the guards and servants in the Keep to hear. "My son."