Chapter 1: Gendry

Gendry had known that nothing would be the same. He had expected it. He knew her too well to think any differently, but he had hoped it wouldn't be this painful.

He probably should have waited to tell her he was joining the Brotherhood. Given himself time to think of a better way to break the news, because despite the hard and vicious exterior she projected, Gendry knew Arya was little more than a sad and lonely, little girl hidden in wolf's fur. She was terrified of being left alone, and that was just how she would take his being knighted. As a betrayal. An abandonment.

She would hate him for it.

Gendry had expected all of that. He should have planned for it better, but he wasn't unprepared. What he hadn't been expecting was his own reaction to their subsequent falling out.

There was no point denying he had feelings for her. Arya was the best friend he had ever had, including Hot Pie and all the other armorer's apprentices back in King's Landing. Gendry had suspected he would be sad when they parted ways and unhappy with her unhappiness, but he had grossly underestimated the depths of his own pain.

She refused to speak to him. Arya had used that tactic in the past whenever he annoyed her, but he had always found it amusing before. She had never been able to last very long, particularly when he baited her into speaking by purposefully saying and doing things he knew she would find stupid. First, she would purse her lips, as if to force her reprimanding words to stay in her mouth. Then, her face would turn red with the effort of not yelling at him. Before long, she would be so busy ranting about how he was so "stupid" and "bull-headed" and correcting his mistakes that she'd forget she was mad at him in the first place.

It didn't work this time.

Arya quickly developed an incurable deafness whenever he opened his mouth. She could hear everyone else fine and would send glares and spit angry words in their direction, but Gendry received neither glares nor words.

He never thought he would miss being called a stupid bull, but he did, and every time she ignored him felt worse than when he accidentally touched the steel he was shaping (something that had been happening more frequently ever since she had found out about his new family). It was worse than losing the mother he barely remembered; worse than never having a father.

Arya Stark had been slowly driving him mad, and he had seen no way out of it.

Then, she had disappeared; captured by the thrice damned Hound and carried off to gods only knows where; and the pain and desperation increased tenfold. Again, there was nothing he could do, and it maddened him further.

It was ten years later and it was still driving him mad. Here he was, sitting on an iron chair he never wanted, and she was all he could think of.

Most days he was too busy to spare any time to think of her and feel that unexpected pain anew, but it snuck up on him from time to time, and now was no less painful than the first time. In fact, it might have been amplified by the sight of the tall, wild boy with messy red curls and a horse-sized black wolf standing before him, bearing her colors and her name.

"I'm sorry, Lord Stark, could you repeat that, please? I was distracted by the growling of your wolf," Gendry heard himself lie smoothly. The wolf did not scare him. He had seen dragons, after all, but he could not have Rickon Stark know the true direction of his thoughts.

Placing a restraining hand on Shaggydog (or that's what Gendry had heard the beast was named), Rickon spoke harshly and with an almost violent authority, "I am no 'Lord,'" his answer reminding Gendry even more forcefully of his sister, "Bran is 'Lord Stark,' so spare me your courtesies, for I shall give you none in return until you have proven you deserve them."

Gendry smiled wryly to himself. He had thought killing the fierce, black dragon the Targaryen woman had called Drogon was proof enough, for it had won him his throne; but, apparently Rickon Stark was not one to be impressed with dragon slaying. The rest of the realm, however, seemed to be obsessed with it.

He could not count how many times he had heard the same recounting of his own deeds: "I'll never forget the way you stood your ground as that winged beast dove at you. Like bleeding night it was, what with its scales darker than the emptiness of winter and its scarlet eyes. Even the bravest of men's bowels had turned to water at this point, but not you, Your Grace. No, you stood there, waiting for it. I thought for sure it would eat you; just open its great maw and devour you whole; but you fought like a man possessed. Deadly war hammer in each fist, you pounded on that animal's skull with unrelenting fury, cracking scales with every blow. I suppose all that strength comes from your blacksmith background, Your Grace. Despite your best efforts, nothing would crush its skull, and each blow was making it more agitated. Fighters were going up in flames all around you, but did you give up? No. You kept at it, finally ending its terrible rampage by burying your hammer and arm, up to the elbow, in the thing's eye. It was spectacular. In fact, if your helm had antlers instead of bull's horns, I could have sworn I was watching the ghost of Robert Baratheon killing Raegar Tragaryen in his bejeweled black steel all over again."

Gendry didn't remember it that way at all. There were several major flaws in that story.

It was true that he had never been afraid of fire. Working in a forge had hammered that out of him, but even the hottest forging flames were simple, smoldering coals compared to dragonfire.

He had been roasting in his heavy armor, sweating from both the heat of the fire and nerves. It was difficult to tell which reason was causing more perspiration. Gendry remembered standing his ground, but not out of any bravery. His feet had been frozen to the ground in fear. It was like his body had forgotten how to work. It hadn't been bravery and strength that had allowed him to jump into action and start cracking scales; it had been desperation. Desperation to live.

He had been lucky with the eye. Gendry had climbed on top of the dragon's head (and had no idea how he had gotten there in the first place) and had been preparing to drive both hammers onto the exact center of the thing's skull. He had, however, miscalculated his energy level. Halfway through his back swing, his arms gave out. The heavy hammers came down faster than Gendry could direct them, but with luck, fate, or the guidance of the Seven, they fell dead center of Drogon's left eye, leaving an exhausted Gendry immersed in eyeball muck.

But no one knew his version of events, and Davos, as King's Hand, had forbid him from telling it to anyone. While Gendry understood the wisdom of his guidance (it wouldn't do for the King to look like a fool), he sometimes wished to share it with his Lords just to see their reactions. Gendry had a feeling Rickon Stark would appreciate his tale, even if the other Lords would not.

"What is it I can do for you, Stark?" Gendry asked, disposing of the formalities as requested.

"My Lord Brother has sent me here to plead for your assistance. I, however, do not plead," he replied bluntly, "Winterfell has been in need of a Maester ever since Maester Leuwin died when Winterfell was taken." Rickon paused for a moment, and Gendry almost suspected the lad was mourning the loss of the Maester, though it had been years ago. The reflective moment was gone almost as it started, replaced once more with the demanding and defiant youth, "Our glass gardens were also destroyed during the winter, so we are in need of seeds to renew our food supplies. Here's the part where I'm supposed to say something complimentary to speed you along in your decision, but, like I said, I do not plead. I've told you of our troubles in the North, and now you must make your decision."

It was rare that someone spoke to him this way. Most would call it insolence, but Gendry did not find it so. If Stark did not want to mince words, Gendry was all the more pleased. "You shall have what you need, Stark. No one under my protection shall go hungry and without the knowledge of a Maester if there is anything I can do about it. I will write to the Citadel on the morrow and tell them of your request. I will also speak to the Seed Treasury. I am sure you can work something out with the Master of Flora."

With a curt bow that Gendry suspected he only received because he had been so accommodating, Rickon Stark took his leave, a "Many thanks, Baratheon," drifting over his shoulder. His wolf fixed a penetrating stare at the King before following its master from the hall.

Gendry envied Stark his freedom to leave the Throne Room for a moment before he remembered one very important thing: he's the King. He can do whatever he pleases.

Standing decisively from the hated metal seat, Gendry held his head high and put on his best commanding voice, "I will hear no more petitions for the day. I will hold court again tomorrow morn."

Inclining his head to either side of the room in farewell, Gendry strode purposefully down the stairs and out the door, hoping he did not appear too eager to escape. He had learned that a King had to be skilled in masking his true feelings.

Only when he was several hallways away from the Throne Room and near halfway to his own chambers did Gendry slow his pace. He let his shoulders relax into a more comfortable, though considerably less regal position, and tugged at the clasp of the heavy cloak draped over his shoulders. Even after so many years of dressing in fine clothes, Gendry more often than not felt like he was being choked to death by the fabric. What he wouldn't give to be wearing the dirty rags of his youth. At least those didn't try to kill him.

Fed up with the constriction, Gendry tore the offending cloak off himself, flinging it haphazardly over his shoulder, narrowly missing hitting his Hand who had followed him from the Throne Room. "I know what you're going to say," Gendry told Lord Seaworth petulantly, adjusting his voice to a rough impression of the man, "'You should have stayed to hear more petitions. A good King puts the needs of his subjects before his own.'" Gendry's voice returned to normal, "Is six hours not enough?"

Unoffended by Gendry's rudeness, Lord Davos Seaworth answered with the calmness Gendry had come to rely on, "It seems I have become predictable. That sounds very much like something I would say; however, I was merely going to point out that putting off the rest will just leave you with more work for tomorrow."

"When does it end?" Gendry groaned.

"It does not, My King."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Gendry mumbled, eyebrows furrowed in frustration as he arrived at his chamber. Pausing with his hand on the door knob, Gendry sighed apologetically, "I'm sorry, Lord Davos, for my childishness. I am grateful, really, for your counsel. I don't know what I'd do without you. Now, you better hurry off to your own tower. I'm sure your lovely wife is at her wits end trying to stop your sons from spoiling dear, little Stanna beyond repair. She's sure to need your help."

Davos smiled, full of a father's pride at the thought of his new baby daughter, and bowed his goodbye.

Dismissing the guard at his door to go stand at the bottom of the stairs, Gendry finally entered his chambers. Throwing his cloak onto his bed (one that could have held every boy that ever apprenticed in Tobho Mott's Armory quite comfortably), Gendry wasted no time in ridding himself of his doublet and crown. Rubbing the indents the golden circlet had left in his forehead, he moved to pour himself a glass of strong Dornish wine, starting slightly when a soft, musical voice drifted from his solar, "Gendry? Is that you?"

Smiling as he recognized the speaker, Gendry began to fill a second glass. "And who else would it be?" he asked teasingly, walking into the solar and holding out the wine to her, "Are there many people permitted in the King's Chambers?"

Shireen Baratheon accepted the offered glass from her cousin with the same grace she did everything, "I don't know. I thought, mayhaps, you had acquired a lover I did not know about."

Gendry had chosen the wrong time to take a drink of his wine. He choked as he took his place next to her on the bench, "What?"

Shireen let out a tinkling laugh, "Relax, Dear Cousin, I know you're too busy being King to have a lover. Besides, I hope you would tell me if you had a lover, so I wouldn't have to find out from Lord Varys."

King's Landing had done wonders for Shireen. No longer under the strict and cold rule of her mother and father, Shireen was allowed to do as she pleased and go where she would. With a bit of sunshine and affection, Shireen blossomed from the shy, despondent child Gendry had meet so many years ago into the strong, quietly confident young woman before him now.

And, in turn, Shireen had done wonders for Gendry.

He had never really had a family before, and Shireen had had a lonely childhood. The knowledge of their relation came as a sudden surprise, and neither really knew what to make of it. The first few words had been awkward and a bit forced, but as soon as Gendry realized she didn't care about his low-birth and Shireen realized he didn't shy away from her grayscale, their relationship had progressed swimmingly. Shireen became a comfort to him, always knowing what to say when he was lost in the unfamiliar territory of life at court (for it had been she who had taught him to read); Gendry returning the favor by showing Shireen the fun she had never had growing up. As far as Gendry was concerned, Shireen was the best thing about being King.

Deciding to turn the topic of conversation away from lovers, Gendry asked, "What can I do for you, Shireen?"

"What makes you think I want anything from you? Can't I just want to spend time with you?"

Gendry grinned sheepishly, "Sorry, it's just that everyone seems to want something from me. It's become a reflex."

She reached up and gently rubbed the creases between his eyes, "You've been thinking too hard."

He let out a bark of laughter, "I've been told my thinking face looks stupid. I can only imagine what the Lords of my small counsel think when they see me pondering the problems of the realm. They probably think a monkey could do the job better than I."

"Perhaps they are thinking so, but they would never say it to your face. Besides, a monkey wouldn't look near as fine on the Iron Throne," she told him, eyes sparking fondly at him. "Now, I did come here for a purpose," – she held up a hand to stop him before he could interject with an "I knew you wanted something from me," – "I came to ask you to dine with me this evening. It's been so long since we've spent any real time together, and I miss you."

Her sincerity could not be doubted, and Gendry loved her all the more for it. He pushed a rogue strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her ruined cheek gently, "I suppose I can make time for you, Dear Cousin. But it's your fault if the Merchant's Guild gets angry because I was suppose to meet with them instead. Don't be surprised if your next batch of silks is not as fine as before."

"'Supposed,' not 'suppose,'" she corrected him kindly as she rose to her feet, "And if my silks do not meet my expectations, I shall just make you buy me more." Shireen kissed the top of his head and swept to the door. "I expect you not to be late," she warned and closed the door behind her.

"Supposed," Gendry repeated, mulling the feel of it in his mouth and trying to burn it into his memory so he wouldn't make the mistake again. It would not do for the King to slip into the speech of a commoner, even if that's what he was. "Supposed," he said again, then downed his glass and walked over to the desk in the corner of the room.

It really was absurd how much space was afforded to one man, Gendry thought as he collapsed in the chair and propped his feet on the desk's surface. He had known families of 10 who lived in hovels that could have fit in his chambers twenty times over, and this was all just for him. It was hard to adjust to, especially when he was constantly reminded that the whole of the Red Keep was his property, not to mention the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. Absurd.

Closing his eyes and rubbing his crown indents again, he spoke tiredly to the room at large, "You can come out now. I know you're there."

When he opened his eyes, Rickon Stark was standing before him, having moved so silently that Gendry could not have identified his hiding spot. "Should I be worried about the strength of my security?" he asked the Stark dryly, "The King's room is not supposed to be easily breached." Gendry allowed himself a private second of triumph for using "supposed" correctly before giving his full attention to the man before him.

Stark ignored his question, "Who was that?" He nodded to the door Shireen had used to vacate the premises.

Gendry did not allow his surprise to show, "That was my cousin and heir, the Princess Shireen. Is she the reason you have broken into my private rooms? Or are you here for a more nefarious purpose?"

"I am here to speak with you about an urgent matter."

"Why did you not bring it up while we were in audience not 30 minutes ago?"

"Because it is a matter of great importance and delicacy. I could not bring it up with so many ears around," Rickon told him with a tone that said it should have been obvious, "Coming to you in court was simply an excuse for being in King's Landing. What I'm about to tell you now is the real purpose of my journey, and Shaggy will make sure we're not overheard."

"So… Winterfell isn't in need of seeds and a maester?" Gendry felt like he was quickly falling behind.

"Of course Winterfell needs those things," Rickon snapped, "Rebuilding after the war has not been as easy in the North as it is here in the South. Bran will be grateful for the assistance, but he'll have to do all that without me. Which brings me back to the real reason I'm here."

"Okay," Gendry said slowly, "And what reason it that?"

"It's my sister. Arya."

Gendry blinked.

"You… you've found her?" he stuttered.

Rickon Starked nodded expressionlessly.

King Gendry Baratheon was gone in an instant, replaced by the stubborn blacksmith apprentice on his way to the Wall who had never truly been buried, despite the best efforts of those trying to groom him into a King.

"Tell me what to do," he said.