Here's chapter 2 - please let me know what you think - I really appreciate it!
And though the sand may be washed by the sea
And the old will be lost in the new
Well four will not wait for three
For three never waited for two
And though you will not wait for me
I'll wait for you
- Passenger
He lifted his hammer and brought it down on the blade; sparks flew from the red-hot metal as it bent and formed to his will. Gendry pounded the steel ferociously, beating it into submission, shaping it into something that would do some real damage. He would have a sword, learn to wield it properly, fight. A sword of his own. He spent most all of his time in the forge these days. It was quiet out here, quieter than inside the inn, the only sounds the ringing of hammer on steel and the bellowing of the forge, as opposed to the noises of children and Willow's sharp voice and the crack of her spoon on little heads and arses. Out here, he could let his mind wander, and if it wandered far enough, he would see her sitting just there, to the side, watching him work.
You should stand sideface.
"Go away." He stuck the half-formed sword into the bucket of water at his feet. It hissed and sizzled, steam rising from the blade. He held it up in front of him, standing as she'd told him so long ago. Sideways. Smaller target.
He swung the sword through the air, slicing a large 'X' through the heavy, hot air of the forge. You're practicing for a fight. You should practice right. "Shut up, you." He tossed the blade back into the fire and stared at it, watching the steel grow red hot in the coals.
And don't you go talking to ghosts, you mad bastard.
I've never had a family.
No. Don't. You'll drive yourself mad. You can't change it. You'll go mad.
The all-too-familiar ache began to swell in his chest. Anger was the only thing that served to dampen it anymore; he retreated into it, used cold fury to block out the ache. He lifted his hammer and brought it down on the blade - too hard.
Check yourself, you damned fool. You'll ruin the blade and have to start over.
I can be your family.
She didn't have any family left, either. Her entire family was gone. Her father, beheaded on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, her younger brothers Brandon and Rickon dead, killed by the Greyjoy traitor, whose men had also burned her childhood home to the ground. Her sister Sansa spirited away after King Joffrey's death, accused of murder and not like to reappear anytime soon. Her mother and older brother slain by the traitor Walder Frey at the Twins.
The Twins, where she'd been headed, probably. The Hound would have wanted to ransom her, planned to take her to her brother and collect his price. Had they made it? Some said they had, just in time for the Red Wedding, that Arya Stark's corpse had probably floated down the Trident long ago, or rotted in the sun, with crows eating her flesh.
That didn't sound like Arya, though. It couldn't. Arya dead - it didn't bear thinking about. If Arya was gone, then he truly had no one.
He lifted his hammer and brought it down on the blade. She'd wanted him to stay, asked him to stay. Maybe even needed him. Asked him to be her family. The only family she would have had. She hadn't had anyone else. And what had he said?
You wouldn't be my family. You'd be m'lady.
No. Don't think about that. Think about something else.
Other word had come that she was to marry the bastard of the Dreadfort - but that almost seemed more unlikely than her lying dead somewhere. Arya would never let herself be traded off to some bastard, especially not one with his reputation. She would never let anyone unworthy have her - or Winterfell. He ought to remember that.
Rumors of her abounded; the most common one was that she'd died in King's Landing, that she'd never escaped. Well, he knew that to be false, so it stood to reason that the rest were, as well.
He lifted his hammer and brought it down on the blade.
She had to turn up eventually; she was a highborn lady, and a strong one at that. She might be a wolf, but she had a cat's knack for landing on her feet. And when she did turn up, he'd go to her. She'd offered to be his family, wanted to be his family. Maybe that couldn't ever happen, but he'd never had a right to be her family anyways; it would be alright if he could just be near her again, follow her, defend her if she needed it. He would call her m'lady for the rest of his days, if he had to. He'd been stupid to leave her; she was as close to family as he'd ever had. She would never have sold him, not for anything. She'd chosen him, gods knew why, to be her friend, protected him and helped him and let him protect and help her, and he'd left her.
He wouldn't make that mistake again. He'd made up his mind - or rather, that damned ache in his chest had made his mind up for him. The second she turned up again, as she had to, he would find her.
Until that happened, though, he'd wait. Wait for news, for a whisper of her name from the right channel. Anything that would lead him back to her. Gods knew how she would receive him, or if she would. She had every right to be angry with him; to hate him, but he had to try. Even if she didn't want him at first, he'd wait until she did. He'd follow her, as he had before, wait for her, wait forever if he had to.
Because she was herself. And he was himself. He would forever be grateful to have had her; he would never give up trying to get her back.
That would be his lot in life, and that would be enough for him.
In case you're wondering, the song is "Patient Love" by Passenger, and it's wonderful. Check it out, definitely. For sure. Passenger is the best.