Chapter 2 - Storm's End
Gendry
"Might we break for lunch soon, my lord?" A heavyset man with curls the color of flame looked to Gendry hopefully, a long scroll cascading from his small hands onto the floor below them.
"A few more first." The Lord of Storm's End was hours into hearing petition for the first time in three weeks. If the annual council meeting in King's Landing hadn't wasted enough of his time, the week of travel on either end had kept him from much of his duties. He'd need to work twice as hard for the next few weeks to make up for it. "Who's next?"
"Yomen Lonmouth, his nephew manages two of our larger granaries." Gendry nodded and beckoned the man forward.
"My lord -"
"Lord Lonmouth, we have dined together many times. Please, there is no need for titles." Titles still made him uncomfortable - they existed only to remind one where they stood on the social spectrum, to be used either amongst the nobility in self-congratulation or to be stammered by those reminding themselves of their inferiority.
Yomen nodded and continued, "I am fortunate to claim responsibility of the largest granaries in the region, both located on my lands in Summerhall. As you know, this Winter has been a mild one, but sometimes mild winters can be worse for the land than harsh ones. The ground has frozen and thawed too often, and my serfs tell me the winter crop may not take. Although our granaries still flow with the barley and wheat of our Autumn harvest, I worry that we shall not have much to reap come Spring."
Gendry nodded and tried not to appear nervous. He had felt the claws of hunger throughout his early years, he would do whatever it took to stop them from digging into his people.
"Have your men weigh and measure what is in your granary so that we might determine a ration should we need it. I will write to the the Reach to plan to import from them when we reach the final half of your stores." Yomen looked to him in agreement. "Please return or write in two moonturns' time to tell me how we are progressing. Thank you, Lord Yomen."
The man thanked him in return and left the hall. To Gendry's left, the red-haired man scribed something upon his flowing parchment.
"Next?"
"A woman from a lower house who requires your input on her daughter's marriage." Gendry furrowed his brow; he was not a matchmaker. He called the woman forward, surprised to see she had brought three children with her. One was likely the girl the woman wanted to speak of, an unruly looking thing who looked to be around six and ten - the hem of her faded maroon dress was smeared with mud and her thin, straw-colored hair was plaited messily. The second was a boy still too young to properly swing a sword; Gendry noticed that his boots were clean, despite his sister's filthy gown. A second daughter stood behind the eldest. Her golden curls were all that were visible until she peeked out from behind her sister with wide, nervous eyes the color of the sea.
"Thank you, my lord," the woman began. Gendry knew from his own experience that telling her to call him by his given name would only confuse her on their barriers. "I am sorry to trouble you with such things. My daughter, Marla, will not hear reason. Her father fell fighting for Lord Stannis and is not here to make her see sense. Marla is betrothed to Tarlyn Whitehead - it is a good match for us. His house is kind and comfortable, and their fisheries produce well. I have spent years saving up for Marla's dowry to Lord Tarlyn, and we are nearly able to finalize a decent offer. But Marla threatens to throw this all away." Gendry leaned forward in interest. "She has fallen for a boy in our village and says she will not marry Tarlyn." He watched the girl scrunch her brow and blow a wisp of hair from her narrowed eyes. "I know I do not need to explain to you, Lord Baratheon, but this would devastate our house. The Whiteheads would surely be offended by the breaking of their betrothal, and Marla would disgrace us by lying with a ewerer."
"Marla, please step forward." The girl did so, curtsying clumsily as she avoided his gaze. "What can you tell me of this ewerer?"
She looked at her mother, then at Gendry, finally settling to stare at her feet as she spoke.
"He is a kind man, m'lord. His name is Prennick. We have been friends for many years. He takes whatever work he can get and treats me kindly. When there is trouble in the village, Prennick always finds me to be sure I'm safe; he gives his extra bread to children and sometimes does work without pay just so those who need it will have the labor." Marla's face lit from within as she spoke of the boy.
"Thank you," he directed himself towards the mother, "Does House Whitehead have any other children?"
"A daughter of four and ten."
"And your son, how many years does he have?"
"Two and ten." She eyed him suspiciously. Gendry knew it was considered abnormal to wed the only daughter of a house to a lower one, but he saw no issue. Their age difference mattered not, despite the face it was unorthodox - plenty of grown men married girls half their age, a woman two years senior of her husband should not stop a betrothal.
"Mayhap the little lady Whitehead should befriend your boy. If the match is good, they may wed in the place of your eldest." Marla grinned but her mother looked as if she had been slapped.
"It is clear that your daughter loves this man. I will cover the costs of a wedding."
"But my lord, he holds no lands. He hasn't even a family name."
"Neither did I, before the Dragon Queen legitimized my status as a Baratheon. Life may be equally as kind to this ewerer; even if he remains such throughout his years, surely love will be a fitting reward for him and his wife." The woman gaped at him, then glared at her daughter. Marla looked into Gendry's eyes with gratitude and he smiled softly in return.
"Thank you, m'lord!" She said loudly as her mother mumbled false courtesies and walked over to a chancellor who would take their information so that the castle could find them later to pay for the wedding.
Gendry looked to the man furiously writing every detail in his records. When the quill had finished its hurricane of ink, he inquired as to how many more were waiting.
"Twenty three, my lord."
"Anything interesting?"
"Hmm," the man stroked his red beard as he thought aloud, "a man who claims his neighbor's cattle are grazing on his lands -"
"Is that interesting these days?" They both chuckled.
"Some foreigners bring gifts from across the sea." Gendry shook his head. He wasn't going to waste petition to be given some silks from Essos - if they really wanted to gift him something they would come back another day. Besides, gifts were almost always a ploy to get something in return.
"A woman needs resolution for having missed a week's work." He nodded. That might be something there he could have actual impact on.
The woman was brought before him, her shoulders slumped forward and her eyes red and puffed as though she had been crying.
"Th- thank you for hearing from me, m'lord. I have never come for petition before, I hope I am not out of line."
"A lord's job is to keep his people well, you are always welcome to air your grievances and tell me how I can better serve." Gendry knew this wasn't entirely true; plenty of lords would say their job was to "represent" their lands by drinking Dornish wine and wearing fine clothes.
The woman swallowed and continued, "I work in the kitchen of an inn. The innkeep is a kind man who allows me and my son to stay in our own bed for part of my pay. Last week my son fell ill with fever. He was shaking and could not keep down even water," she was crying again, her tears spilling upon her grease-stained linen shift. "I was so afraid to leave him. I did not leave our room but to fetch water and change his chamber pot. Now the innkeep says I owe him for the time we stayed in the room, but I do not know how we can pay."
"Where is your son now?" Gendry's voice came out soft with concern.
"He is back at the inn. It is but a few minutes from your gates, and he is well enough again to be left for an hour or two." He nodded and felt his eyes move around as he thought.
"Might the innkeep allow you to add on to your current role for a few weeks? Mayhap you could assist in the readying of rooms or take on the jobs of the scullions?" The woman nodded half-heartedly. Gendry knew this was not a real solution - those scullions would need work if the woman did their job. "I will inquire, but I do not think Storm's End is so full that we could not benefit from another set of hands in the kitchen. If you are open to the idea, I would be pleased to speak with my castellan to see if we might find you work and a room."
The woman looked up at him hopefully.
"In the meantime, tell your innkeep that his lord commands he find extra jobs for you to do until you pay off your debt." His lord commands - the words felt pretentious falling from his lips.
"Thank you, m'lord." She shuffled out with dry eyes and a high head.
"Pylon," Gendry called to the plump man writing beside him, "I think we'll need to return to this tomorrow. I'll take my lunch in the smithy and will see you all at dinner tonight." The man nodded and went to tell those gathered that they would continue hearing petition the next day.
Gendry rose from his stiff wooden chair and breathed deeply. His legs were still sore from the ride from King's Landing, and he longed to lie down and sleep for a few hours. Instead, he walked through the large metal doors to the muddy outskirts of the castle grounds, where a forge laid dormant waiting for him.
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Arya
Storm's End was as impressive as it was told to be in the stories. Although she had not been able to sail directly to it, she had seen the castle from the deck of her ship. It stood high and proud above the oceanside cliffs, its simple rounded walls bafflingly thick to protect from storm and siege alike. Arya had always enjoyed the legends of the Stormlands, tales of Storm Kings and sea gods. Though their women were rarely mentioned, those that were named were fierce and steadfast. She had long admired Argella Durrandon, the ferocious Storm Queen who refused to bend the knee even when dragons roared overhead.
Shipbreaker Bay was too tempestuous for their ship to dock, so the crew of four had ridden north for two days from a small port just south of Mistwood. Palomai, Niiotha, and Yuisaraq entertained themselves at the inn while Arya stuck to the shadows to find the Lord of Storm's End.
She should have known he'd be in the forge. Despite all of Bran and Ser Brienne's insistence that he was excelling as a lord, Gendry would always remain a smith at heart. Perhaps that was truly what made him such a good lord, Arya considered. The blow of fire and a rhythmic pounding of metal carried through the air - she was getting closer. The mud below her feet was slick, but she remained surefooted as she rounded a corner and saw the smithy. It had two parts, a large indoor area she imagined was of particular use during the weather that gave the region its name, and an outdoor forge behind a massive granite counter shaped like an "L."
She paused as she saw him now, stifling the dread that was beginning to rise up like indigestion. Gendry looked good, even better than he had when she'd left; lordship suited him. His black hair was longer than she had ever seen it, brushed back to hang just past his ears. His facial hair was well-kept, not a full beard, but dark and soft-looking as it framed his mouth and jaw. Although fully clothed, the mixture of sweat and drizzling rain had caused his thin shirt to become sheer and stick to his musculature as he worked, revealing strength that had not gone to waste despite his new title.
He was smithing something too early in its life to have a recognizable structure.
Arya breathed and reminded herself this was harmless. He had saved Bran's life, she owed him a greeting, at the very least. If he didn't want to speak with her, she would leave the two chests of gifts with castellan. She would say hello, they might embrace, and he would tell her of his life - there was nothing to be concerned about. No matter what happened, she would head to the North in a day or two. Still, a feeling that this was a bad, bad decision crept up and choked at her like ivy retaking an unwelcome tree.
"Some things never change." She stepped from the muddy shadows and stood two yards before him.
Gendry stopped smithing and gripped his hammer tight in his hands, as if it might fly from him and never return. His eyes shut forcefully as he pressed his lips together and inhaled deeply. Arya had imagined seemingly infinite ways he might react to her return, this was not among them. She wondered if she ought to just run back to the inn now and immediately head to Winterfell; if she ran fast enough, she might get behind a wall or tree before he opened his eyes again.
His lids rose and he slowly raised his face to reveal skeptical blue eyes, the very blue eyes she had dreamt of just a few nights earlier.
"Is this… real?" The question broke her. Arya had expected him to be happy or surprised to see her, maybe angry, certainly not whatever this was. She should never have come.
She nodded and met his gaze, trying her best to smile reassuringly despite the fact her mouth would not move.
Suddenly the strange spell broke - the heavy air between them cleared and she felt as though she had control over her body again. Gendry exhaled sharply and set down his hammer to look her over. She felt strangely overheated as he took her in, as though she were the one an arm's length from a fiery forge.
Arya waited for him to make some sort of a quip, to joke about the fact that she still wore Needle upon her hip, or maybe a reference to her changed hair. He said nothing.
"Storm's End seems to be benefitting from its lord," she said awkwardly when she could no longer bear the silence. What had happened to her? This was a far cry from the banter they had once shared in the smithy of her home.
"Some might say it's benefitting from its King," he responded, deflecting the praise. Arya wondered if he understood how that response might be interpreted amidst whispers of rebellion and Baratheon bloodright.
"And yet the King said he benefitted from you." Building off of his words helped her feel like she was in control again. Gendry shrugged.
"You look well. Are you enjoying the Stormlands?" He sighed and took his hammer in his large hands. That was a stupid question, Arya realized. What did it matter if he was enjoying them or not - they were his responsibility.
"They're pleasant. The weather isn't half as bad as Davos made it seem." Were they really just exchanging pleasantries like strangers? She wondered what had happened to the friendship that had always come easily to the two of them.
"How is Ser Davos?" She had enjoyed the time she spent with the older man - he had served Jon well and was almost certainly an asset for Gendry.
"He's well. He is home with his wife for the next week before returning to the capital." Why would - "He serves your brother as master of ships," he explained when Arya felt her brow raise in confusion. She hadn't had time to finish the question in her mind.
"And Lady Baratheon? Is she enjoying the Stormlands as well?"
Gendry's face fell. "Arya," he started softly.
"It's alright. I expected it. Besides, I did threaten to kill you myself if you waited." Humor helped; Gendry chuckled at the memory.
"That you did." His eyes caught sight of the weapon strapped to her left leg. "What is that?"
Arya grinned as she unsheathed the blade. "They call it a patalpeq," she said as she passed it to him. It was just longer than her forearm and curved slightly less than a Dothraki arakh, The center of the blade dipped down to make a channel for any blood, and the handle was made of bone and copper. Her favorite thing about the patalpeq was its color - it was made of a peculiar metal the likes of which Arya had never seen before journeying west, softer than gold but sharper than steel and a beautiful deep red color that turned nearly purple when heated. The bevel of this particular blade was coated in copper that glowed like embers whenever she sharpened it
"Is this painted?" He likely already knew it wasn't. She shook her head to confirm that it was untouched.
"I brought some for you to experiment with. We tried to gift it earlier, but there were too many people before us waiting to speak with you."
"Foreigners bringing gifts from across the sea," he muttered to himself, "I thought he meant the Narrow Sea."
"To be fair, we didn't tell him which."
Gendry looked the blade over once more and handed it back to her.
"It's good to see you again," he said with a genuine smile. Arya returned it. "You said 'we.' How many are with you?"
"Three of my crew remain. We have rooms in town." Gendry shook his head.
"I'll have my castellan arrange rooms for you. We'll host a feast to welcome you and hear about your journey west, just give me a day to sort out the preparation." Arya eyed him in amusement.
"Sounding like a proper lord."
"That may be the biggest surprise of all." They laughed and Arya felt the last of the dread release her throat and retreat. She stayed down there for another hour, watching as he hammered out what he explained would become a special shield for a knight from the Crownlands. Eventually she peeled herself away from his work and returned to the inn, where Niiotha and Palomai waited for her.
Niiotha waved a large mug of mead towards Arya when she saw her. "So?!" She yelled excitedly. She was in her cups, Arya was sure of it.
"We'll be staying at the castle; they're arranging rooms for us now. And tomorrow there will be a feast we need to attend."
Palomai eyed her skeptically. "Will the food be better than that shit we had yesterday?" His broad nose scrunched at the memory of overcooked root vegetables that had turned to a gluey paste within their stew.
Arya had no idea; she enjoyed sitting back and watching as the two friends bickered about what it would mean to be a good guest. Things were beginning to feel right.
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Gendry
Castle staff spread like sand through an open hand as they finalized their preparations for a dinner feast. Gendry watched, wishing he had enough knowledge of these things to help. They were nearly finished setting up now - the main hall had been transformed into the feast structure they always managed whenever Storm's End hosted lords and ladies, with one long table set just above the others and a series of small circular tables filling the rest of the hall. His advisors had counseled him to invite the high houses of the Stormlands and representatives from Houses Estermont, Penrose, Grandison, and Wylde had already arrived; they took up space in the hall despite the serving staff still setting tables and lighting candles.
"This is certainly an unexpected pleasure." Davos stood beside him wearing a clean velvet tunic the color of a winter forest. He looked Gendry over with tired blue eyes. "I trust you're doing this because you're alright with it." He didn't need to say more, they both understood his meaning. Gendry nodded. The Onion Knight patted him on the shoulder awkwardly. "You're a good lad. Don't do anything stupid."
He walked away and Gendry considered his words - did Davos really think he would have gone through the trouble of hosting an elaborate feast if he was going to do something rash?
A group of ladies from various houses entered at once. They each looked remarkably similar, as if they had intentionally styled themselves upon the others. Each wore the bottom half of their long hair down, with the top twisted into a series of intricate buns that framed the back of their heads like a crown. Their gowns were all similar cuts as well - a deep, wide v cut over gauzy fabric the color of honeyed cream that stretched down to a point in the center of the smallest part of their waist. Some women wore dresses the color of a stormy sea or a summer meadow, but most wore floral shades of pink and purple; all of their skirt hems flared out from their ribs to lightly sweep along the floor beneath them.
The ladies whispered to one another and walked to Gendry, each curtsying with varied levels of eye contact and smiles. He nodded politely to each of them. Lordship was filled with strange expectations like these - if he maintained eye contact for too long, or if he didn't make eye contact long enough, rumours would spin that he was sneaking off with the lady in the dark of night. It was exhausting.
Soon the hall buzzed with low voices, laughter, and the songs of the musicians strumming at their lutes and beating their small hand drums. Gendry wandered the floor, struggling with small talk as though he were in his first days of lordship again. His hands felt strangely restless and he decided they would be best put to use around a glass of wine.
Davos met him as he filled his goblet. "I certainly don't envy you tonight," he said gruffly. Gendry felt his brow furrow in confusion until he followed Davos' line of sight. Arya stood laughing, surrounded by three people he was certain must be from west of the Sunset Sea. At the very least, they were not from this continent.
To her left stood a woman a few inches taller than she, with thick black hair plaited in tight rows against her scalp and closed off with some sort of string to fall openly and brush her shoulder any time she moved her head. The bottom of her strands were dyed the color of fresh blood, and glints of metal and sea shells jutted out from random braids. Her garb was simple, a tight vest of some sort of glossy fabric that reminded him of armour worn by the Dothraki, form-fitting linen pants, and simple black boots. She wore a series of small, tight black bracelets of intricate shapes upon her right arm and a black choker that glinted red around her neck. Her skin was darker than that of the other two, and all three were darker than Arya, although she was significantly more tanned than he had ever seen her before.
The second woman stood much taller than the other two. She wore a far more revealing outfit than theirs: a greyish leather top with intricate slashes and burns that looked too tight for her to actually breathe, including a particularly deep slash revealing cleavage; some thin black fabric covered her arms; and a skirt of the same material as her jerkin was slit scandalously high on both sides. Gendry thought he could see the holster and glint of a knife on her thigh when she stepped back to dramatically wave her arms around at something the first woman said. Her feet were clad in some strange, soft suede shoe lined with fur and decorated with swirls of something shiny. She wore her dark hair in a long, thick braid that began tightly at the top of her head and fell to graze her lower back; tiled jewels that looked almost like whitened oil on water clasped the start and end of the plait. Like the other woman, her eyes were lined with charcoal, making their whites stand out like bone against cinders and sand. Heavy white earrings of a material Gendry couldn't recognize fell from her ears to the bottom of her long neck.
The third person was a man. Gendry was alarmed to see he hadn't worn a shirt at all, but instead left his defined torso exposed to the elements. It looked as though he had been painted, or perhaps tattooed, with a series of black and red lines that followed below his collarbone and concaved along his sternum. The hair in the center of his head was much longer than that on either side and was glossed with red, yellow, and brown to stick out almost like drooping feathers. What little clothing he did wear was very strange - brain-tanned soft leathers that hung open at his front and back, presumably with some sort of fabric between them to contain his most private areas, and then separate tubes of the same leather laced up his legs. His shoes were like a simpler and thicker version of those worn by the second woman and he wore many earrings through multiple places on both ears.
None of them caught his gaze the way Arya did. Davos' comments on not envying him suddenly made sense - she looked stunning and yet still so much like herself. Arya wore an outfit the color of day old blood; it was not entirely unlike that she had worn in Winterfell, though significantly tighter and cut in a way that embraced her physique rather than hid it. Her trousers were so tight he wan't entirely sure how she could move in them, though knowing Arya she must not only be able to walk, but to fight comfortably. He had noticed her hair when he saw her the day before, and still found it strange but appealing. Although most of it remained the same brown color he had always known, the very center had been dyed an orangey red, starting perhaps half a hand's length from her forehead. It was much longer than it had been when she stepped upon her ship four years prior, and now reached the back of her shoulder blades even when plaited. The sides were each woven into three tight braids against her scalp to meet up with the rest of her hair in one solid braid that reminded him a little of a soft chain. Unlike the others, she wore no jewelry, only her many blades.
Arya looked up at him and smiled softly. Gendry couldn't tell if he returned the smile, or if his face was already like that when she met his eye. Beside him, Davos toasted his cup and dryly wished him good luck with a slight tilt of the head. Her companions were eying him then and he knew he had to do something - anything other than just standing there like a fool in his own hall.
Gendry approached them and hoped he looked less out of place than he felt. Arya greeted him with a wide smile, then introduced him to her crew.
"This is Gendry, the lord of this castle and land," she said while facing them; her small hand nearly touched his tunic as she gestured towards him. All three of them measured him with their dark eyes.
"Niiotha." The tall woman introduced herself first with a cheerful grin, slamming her hand into her chest with surprising force as she tried to make sure he knew she was showing that she was the person with the name she had just said. He repeated it to her and her eyes laughed, though her mouth mercifully stayed still. "Nee-yoh-tah" she sounded out slowly. He tried it again and looked to the woman beside her.
"Yuisaraq," Her voice was gentle. Gendry knew he would pronounce her name wrong, too, and settled on just nodding politely before turning his attention to the third person.
The man eyed him up and down with distrust before speaking. "Palomai," he said. That was easier. Gendry repeated it back to him and he nodded.
"Well, they think I'm an absolute imbecile." He looked to Arya while rubbing a part of his neck that had been stiff since leaving King's Landing.
"We can understand you," the man, Palomai, informed him in disinterest. Arya tried not to laugh as Gendry felt his eyes round and widen in embarrassment. Niiotha scoffed, then instructed the other two to join her in getting more wine, pulling their arms while walking towards the large oak casks that lined the wall.
"Are they -" he didn't know what he was really asking. 'Going to forever think I'm an idiot?' was what he really wanted to know, but he wasn't about to ask Arya that. 'Likely to kill me and my men when we offend them?' was another.
"From the West? Yes." Arya seemed more cheerful than he could ever remember her being. He began to walk towards the large, open stairs that led to a series of small balconies. Maybe fresh air would help him stop feeling a complete fool.
"Must be brave to come with you. Crossing the Sunset Sea is one thing, but following Arya Stark - they must have no sense of self-preservation." Arya eyed him strangely. Some part of him knew what she must see; the last time they were together he was still a barely-literate blacksmith, "self-preservation" was definitely not in his vocabulary in those days.
She followed him up the stairs to an open balcony. The weather was decent that day, the storms had stopped in the afternoon and left a clean, humid mist to rise up from the ground. Gendry breathed in the wet air and looked her over again.
Arya was leaning onto the smooth balcony rail, taking in the open view of the grounds. She looked healthy. A few new scars traced her hands, and he wondered if they were joined by sisters under her sleeves. The scar on her forehead that she had when he had last seen her was still there, though it was much less pronounced now - a strike of lightning in the lines of fresh-cut pine. He hadn't noticed the way her hips now curved out when she stood before him by his forge earlier. Mayhap that was for the best. Davos' words rang out in his head "Don't do anything stupid."
"Does everyone in the West dress like this?" He asked her when she noticed his gaze upon her again.
Arya smirked, then looked over her shoulder towards the hall and collected her face into a look of polite interest. "Only the warriors."
Gendry longed to tease her about the fact he couldn't imagine other warriors wearing anything so difficult to move in, but bit his tongue. It wouldn't be proper.
"Makes sense. You look…" he paused, unsure of what would be appropriate but accurate. Suddenly he was back in the smithy of Winterfell, tongue-tied after seeing Arya defend him from the Hound. "strong." It seemed fittingly complimentary without being suggestive.
"Thanks." She did not compliment him in return, and Gendry was glad for it. He joined her in leaning against the bannister, far enough away as to not touch, but still so close that he could feel when she turned to look at him.
"Your wife might not be pleased with me." Oh. It would always come back to that.
"Why's that?" It was a strange thing for her to say to him. He had assumed their history would remain unspoken, flashes of memories they'd ignore whenever they forced their way into their minds.
Arya exhaled sharply and pivoted the rest of her body towards him.
"There was one island in my travels where I wouldn't be taken seriously as an unwed woman," Gendry focused on her face as she spoke, unsure of where her words were leading. "I may have… implicated you in certain lies to ensure I was seen as a person and not a marriage prospect." He looked away from her face and found a small grove of birch trees in the courtyard to gather his thoughts.
It seemed almost cruel, given the way she had been so firm about not marrying him back when that was what he had wanted. Gendry worked to keep his hands unclenched and his jaw loose as he thought about it. A kind man might say it was understandable, that he was just glad she did what she needed to - perhaps Gendry was not kind after all.
"Should I be worrying about someone sailing east ready to fight for your hand?" He asked when the damp air rinsed the anger from his tongue. The words were meant as a joke, but his tone was icier than he had intended.
Arya chuckled darkly and shook her head. "No, no that won't be an issue."
"Then what should my wife care?" Suddenly Gendry longed to go back into the hall, to refresh his empty goblet and speak with anyone about anything else.
"My lord," Davos was behind them then and Gendry wondered how much he had heard. "We'll be beginning the feast soon. Many guests would like to thank you in person for the invitation." He nodded, grateful for the interruption, and headed back inside to descend down the stairs and make conversation with anyone he recognized. He did not think about the fact that Arya was still up on the balcony by herself, did not let himself remember finding her alone shooting arrows during another feast years prior.
The din of the many guests was comforting - a goblet clattered on the floor, followed by a roar of laughter by those who had watched the crime. The mood felt lighter than other feasts, as though the strange mixture of patrons and lack of purpose let them enjoy themselves without inhibition. A boy no older than ten and five came up to refill his wine and tell him the guests would be ushered to sit shortly.
"Thank you, Wendyll," Gendry said, "Save a few plates for yourself and your sister." The boy nodded, his amber curls bouncing around his head wildly with the movement before running back to the kitchens.
Gendry walked to the main table and took his seat. The concept of having his own designated place, the main seat at that, had taken a while to become normal; he no longer had to convince himself that he deserved it every time he sat. Davos and Marya Seaworth sat beside him, joined by their castellan, Pylon, and a few local lords.
Arya had returned to the main floor and was speaking to the tall woman again. They sat at a small table with the middle son of house Wylde, who seemed speechlessly smitten with them both. Gendry sent someone to fetch them and the other two Westerners and bring them to the main table.
"We were fine as we were," Arya said as she approached.
"This feast is to welcome your return, we can't have the guest of honor missing." Davos was cheerful.
"Ser Davos! It is so good to see you." Gendry wondered why she had not said so when Davos had found them up on the balcony. "Is this your wife?"
"Marya, Pincess Arya. Easy to remember since they rhyme." The kind, plump woman wore her standard motherly smile. Gendry tried not to laugh at the title she bestowed upon Arya, and stifled it with a swallow of wine instead. He did not dare look at her to see if she noticed.
Arya sat two seats to Gendry's left, intentionally leaving the one beside him open. The pour of wine she bestowed upon her cup was heavy-handed and deliberate.
Soon the first of the three courses arrived. Ribs of venison stewed in sour wine, tomatoes, and garlic sprinkled with an herb Gendry couldn't quite identify. Small, roasted potatoes, pearl onions, and carrots soaked up the juices.
"Are we not waiting for Lady Baratheon?" Arya asked when she saw the others begin their meals. "Is she not well?"
Davos choked on the wine he was sipping and Gendry felt quite flushed.
"There is no Lady Baratheon," Marya explained softly, "At least not yet."
Davos quickly intervened. "What my lady wife means is that we are in the final stages of marriage negotiation with a Dornish house. We anticipate a wedding within the year."
Arya made a noise of understanding. Gendry could feel her eyes on him; he would not turn to see if they were congratulatory or distrusting.
"Which Dornish house?" She asked. Her voice sounded neutral in its inquiry.
"Lady Lucynda of House Dayne." He surprised himself with how proudly he answered. Arya found something interesting in her wine as he spoke, and Gendry was sure she was thinking of House Stark's tangled history with the Dornish family.
"Although I can't recall hearing of Lady Lucynda specifically, I know House Dayne to be noble and fair. It is said they have the blood of Queen Nymeria flowing through their veins."
"Aye," Davos answered when Gendry's lips did not move, "and Lady Lucynda uses that blood well. Her mind is as sharp as her face is beautiful, and she knows her way around a blade." He finally turned his gaze to Arya, who smiled at the last statement more than the rest.
"It sounds like a fitting match," she said approvingly as she turned her attention to her plate.
Conversation passed lightly with the first course; Arya answered every measure of questions thrown at her regarding her travels. Davos wanted to know about the geography and nautical specifics - how far had she sailed? Were the islands more than a few days apart from one another? Which stars had she used to navigate? His wife asked about the people, wondering everything from their languages to festivities to garb.
The second course interrupted an unnecessarily lengthy description of the plant life of the mainlands. Partridge simmered in a cream broth laden with cheese and Dornish peppers sat upon a bed of ribbon-like noodles; servers spooned the thick sauce upon the browned fowl. A light, crusty bread was served along with the meal to soak up any sauces.
"Your kitchen staff are most impressive," Arya stated dreamily before savoring another bite of the meal.
"You're just mad for cheese," Palomai chided while rolling his eyes. "But the food is quite good," he added when Niiotha jutted an elbow into his ribs.
"Does your king expect you to return to the West?" Pylon asked, leaning across the table to address the foreigners.
All three answered differently at once. "It matters not." "I do not have a king." "Didn't ask."
"You do not have a king?" Lord Penrose asked. Niiotha shook her head. "A queen then?"
"No."
"Who ensures peace in your lands? Who makes decisions?" Niiotha explained her people's political system - representatives from each clan, whatever that meant, were chosen by elder women and had to make decisions with their people in mind. Each meeting, which she insisted could last weeks, had to end in full consensus.
"And if a lord decides poorly, does he lose his title and lands?" Lord Estermont asked.
"We don't give them anything extra for serving - no title, no land. And he or she," she emphasized the fact that women could do the same, "would simply be replaced by another." Gendry found the system fascinating, though he was grateful not to be involved in it. If annual council meetings to vote on matters of tax rates seemed maddening, he couldn't imagine how awful it would be to need to come to a full consensus.
"Is that true for all of you?"
"I have king," Yuisaraq stated. She was less boisterous than Niiotha and less rude than Palomai; Gendry decided he liked her best. "I not think he expect my return."
"Will you stay here then, the three of you? In Westeros?"
Palomai shrugged. "It's possible." He seemed not to care.
Yuisaraq said nothing, turning her efforts to cutting the last of the partridge on her plate.
"I follow Arya," Niiotha said firmly. "If Arya stays in Westeros, so do I." Gendry was glad to hear her dedication; Arya deserved a friend so loyal.
"And will you stay in Westeros, Princess Arya?" Marya asked her warmly.
Arya cringed at the title again. "I haven't yet decided. I will travel to Winterfell soon to see my sister, and then to the Citadel. I suppose I'll figure it out from there."
"If I may be so bold, my lady, might I ask why you came to Storm's End before going to Winterfell?" A damn good question, Gendry thought as Davos asked it.
"Geography." Her answer was simple, as if it was quite obvious to everyone else.
"But would it not have made more sense to dock in Seagard or Flint's Finger and then ride north?"
"That would have been most sensible had I not crew members to return to King's Landing and a brother to visit with."
"You were in King's Landing?" He wondered if they had nearly crossed paths. She faced him and looked almost defensive.
"Yes. I arrived late last week."
"Was that when you saw Lord Gendry? He did not mention it to us." Gendry felt Davos staring at him with accusation as Pylon asked the question innocently.
"I didn't see him in my time there. Were you there recently?" He turned back to her rather than face Davos' growing distrust.
"Bran held the annual grand council meeting. We left the capital ten days ago." Arya's grey eyes looked at him like he had asked her a riddle.
"My ship must have docked just as you left."
A pregnant pause took over the table as everyone created small stories in their minds. They were brought to by the third course - fish cakes made of fat, sweet chunks of trout and crab served along button mushrooms basted in butter and shallots.
The table broke into smaller sub-groups with the final course. The lords of the Stormlands, save for Gendry, spoke to one another about a massive import of mead that Lord Grandison had set to arrive in a few weeks. Davos and Marya asked the travelers of their homes. Yuisaraq told them she came from an island of white sand and turquoise seas; she regaled them with tales of jungles and serene sparkling ocean coves. Gendry noticed that the choker she wore had a center of the same type of metal that made up Arya's new weapon. Palomai spoke more than Gendry expected, explaining that he hailed from a rocky, coastal land of trees and swamps. Their climate was not dissimilar to the Stormlands, though snow was frequent during their cold seasons. Niiotha was from a place further inland, a village deep in a forest nestled between mountains, rivers, and lakes.
Soon many guests made their way out of the hall although desserts were only just being served. Gendry took a honeyed almond cake and allowed himself to glance at Arya again. Even with the empty chair between them, she seemed somehow both very far and entirely too close. She met his eyes with a small, insincere smile, then excused herself to get more wine. He did not bother telling her that the serving staff would return with another pitcher shortly.
He watched as she wandered over to the large barrels along the far wall and filled her goblet. The young Wylde lord approached her and spoke quite closely. Gendry blinked and shook his head to clear his mind.
"When do you return to the capital for small council?" He asked Davos. He already knew the answer was some time within the next week, but it was a welcome distraction.
"Five days' time." Davos responded.
Gendry glanced again at Arya - she was directly in his line of sight if he just tilted his head slightly to the left - and felt the discomfort grow at the sight of Lord Wylde reaching out to physically touch the curved blade Arya wore on her thigh.
Davos followed his gaze and cleared his throat. "Perhaps you ought to give our guests a tour of the castle." What Gendry would do without the man he'd never know.
Yuisaraq declined and explained that she was still quite tired; she would return to her chambers for the night. Palomai and Niiotha followed him, speaking to each other harshly in a language that was unlike any he had ever heard. The loud woman interrupted Arya's conversation and led her to them to be brought down the hall - it was impossible miss that she had disrespected Lord Wylde, but she clearly did not care. Maybe Gendry liked her best, after all.
Gendry fumbled through the beginnings of the tour, showing them up the largest tower first, where they silently viewed the ocean crashing against the stones below.
He took them then to a store room filled with Baratheon banners, where he could practically feel Palomai's boredom radiating from him like heat from coals. Arya kindly asked him what tales were woven into the tapestries and he detailed the only one he knew. This tour was a disaster.
As they rounded a corner to another wing of the castle, Niiotha interrupted them. "Do you have -" she didn't know the word for whatever it was she needed, and looked to Arya in a panic before saying something that was not in the Common Tongue. Arya considered it for a moment.
"A garderobe?" She asked him.
Gendry nodded and started walking them to the outer limits that held a large privy. He gestured to it awkwardly and she entered, then immediately poked her head out of the door again.
"I… The delicacies of the east are heavy on my stomach. Don't wait for me." Palomai burst into laughter and they continued their walk back to the East Wing.
They hadn't even arrived to the guest room they were walking towards when the other man stopped him. "I think I need to check on Yuisaraq," he said strangely before quickly turning around and leaving them.
"They can be odd," Arya admitted with a slight smile.
The two of them walked down the hall, an appropriate distance between them, until Gendry reached the room he had wanted to show their group when Davos first suggested the tour. Their eyes met slowly as he unlocked the door. Gendry tried to dampen the warm feeling that stirred deep inside him when she looked at him in that way.
The dark door opened to a massive room lined with every variety of weapons imaginable. Arya stepped in slowly and turned her head upwards in awe.
"You made all these?" She asked.
He nodded. "Between all the lordly bullshit and the ones we export." Her small hand reached out and traced the head of a battle axe on the wall nearest her.
"Is it my imagination, or are these smaller than standard?"
"They're meant to be." He walked over to a large shelf filled with sharp steel. "These ones are the normal size, the rest are better suited for… someone less large." Arya's eyes flew to his as she took in his words. "You're welcome to take whatever you'd like. Your crew can, too."
She stepped away from the axe and inspected a weapon closer to him. "Why?"
"I just figured -" He needed to decide if he would rather sound pathetic or cold. "I knew if you ever came back, you'd probably want a weapon or two." Her brow arched as she looked at the dozens of options hanging around them. "Besides, smaller weapons are easier," that wasn't true, "so some of these were prototypes for things my men requested." Her eyes glinted - she knew he was lying.
"And if I didn't come back at all?"
"Then any daughters I might have would choose from the best weapons in the Six Kingdoms." That part was true.
"You would let your girls fight?" Gendry couldn't believe Arya would even need to ask him that.
"The best fighter I've ever known is a woman - why shouldn't my daughters be like her?" He looked away, feigning interest in a pair of short swords he had nearly forgotten about.
"You've never even seen me fight."
"Who said I was talking about you? I was referring to Ser Brienne." He made his voice purposefully haughty and Arya laughed. Gendry let himself join her.
They stood there in warm silence, each occasionally looking at the other, then breaking off to look anywhere else. Arya's eye caught something in the corner and she stepped to it quickly. It was too high for her to reach, so Gendry stretched above them and removed the sword with ease.
"And this - was it your soldiers or your unborn children who you thought would need a wolf on their blade?" That sword had been difficult to make. It was approximately the same length as Needle, but much wider, and had decorative mountains etched upon its center. The hilt had been the most difficult part - two direwolves leaping in opposite directions, their tails connected in a circle. The pommel was a howling wolf's head that he had based upon the Stark sigil. He admired his own work for a moment before handing it to Arya. Their fingers brushed as she took it from him and he cursed himself for the fluttering feeling rising up through his chest.
Arya weighed the weapon in her palm and tested it with a slash through the air. She smiled and bent her head to look more closely at the wolves adorning the sword. "It's beautiful," she said as she handed it back to him. He grasped the haft wrapping his hand over hers to do so. Neither of them let go.
Arya's face looked uneasy, like she couldn't decide if she should shout with anger or throw herself upon him. Gendry wasn't sure which would be worse. Their eyes remained locked for a few breaths until she opened her mouth to speak.
"Why did you let me think you were married?" He hung the sword back upon the wall to give himself time to think before responding.
Because I didn't want you to think I was sitting here pining over you while you sailed the world, he wanted to say. And he truly hadn't been - he had gone whole days without thinking of her, he had been with other women, he had negotiated a damn betrothal. "You heard Davos. I might as well be," he said instead. Arya swallowed and smiled with something that looked too close to pity before looking back at wolves leaping from the sword.
Gendry studied her face, comparing every part to how his mind had remembered her. Her eyes were exactly as they had been in his dreams, expressive and as grey as the steel that surrounded them, though now they were graced by light lines when she smiled or furrowed her brow. Her nose remained the same, still miraculously unbroken despite her love of a fight, and her right cheek still rose nearly imperceptibly higher than her left. Her mouth was the same, but he noticed he had forgotten about the scar at the base of her lower lip. That scar had been there long before he met her, doubtlessly acquired as a result of some trouble she stirred up in the grounds of the North as a child. Gendry had noticed it glint in the fire light one night while she sat beside him on the kingsroad; he had realized it was smooth and unable to be felt through lips the first time they kissed. Somehow his mind had erased it from her memory, scrubbed it clean from the face that frequented too many dreams. It felt almost like a betrayal. His eyes lingered upon it now; he needed to be sure it didn't leave his mind and did his best to ignore the growing part of him that longed to claim it with his own mouth.
The door to the storeroom scraped open and he stepped away from her to see who had entered. Maester Forreal.
"My lord, I'm sorry to interrupt. There is urgent news from the capital. The lords wait for you in your solar."
Gendry looked to Arya. She looked as though she had been just as transfixed as he before the disruption - a soft pink crept from her cheeks and her breathing was deep. She turned to the maester and then twisted her neck to view Gendry once more.
"Thank you for the feast, Lord Gendry. I hope to see you again before I depart for Winterfell."