Again, this chapter takes place directly after the last.
He woke before the sun came up, in the same cold room he preferred over his own across the Great Keep.
Gendry was always the first to rise. It was warm and welcoming under the blankets with her back pressed to him. He could hear the soft sounds of her breathing, feel the rise and fall of her chest, the heat of her skin. He pulled his arms away to sit up and brush a hand across his head. The chill off the grey stone walls made his skin crawl. He dressed quickly in the darkness. As he was pulling his tunic overhead, Arya opened her eyes. "It's early."
Gendry smiled at her, and moved to press a chaste kiss to her lips. "I have work to do."
By the time he climbed down the steps from the Keep, he could see that Emry had just arrived at the smithy. He always lit the forge every morning. It was Gendry's task to find fresh firewood and charcoal. Together they kept stock and counted supplies, though Emry was the one writing in the ledger and giving reports to the king. I should be doing those things, he mused. Gendry would have sought out Ser Davos, but the king's Hand had greater troubles. I did without in King's Landing, he told himself instead, I can do without here, until the great gates of Winterfell opened for Samwell of House Tarly, and the king decided Gendry would be the one to rewrite history when he did not know how to hold a quill in his own hand.
The smell from the kitchens drew them out into the predawn gloom, wending through the stables and passing the maester's rookery. The day looked to be another cold and grey one, with more snow falling by the hour. He pulled his cloak close and hoped there would not be another storm.
When they reached the dining hall, it was alive with laborers and warm from the ovens. They broke their fast on fresh bread and salt fish and washed it down with dark beer. Emry was quiet at this hour. It allowed Gendry time to recall the details of his dream. He could remember a little girl with black hair and blue eyes and the spirit of a wolf, riding on the back of Ghost in the godswood with red leaves falling all around. It was a sweet dream, a dangerous dream, but treasured all the same. If only the Long Night would last as long.
Samwell Tarly caught them as they left the hall. The cold scarcely seemed to bother him, though the black on his shoulders meant he would die on that bloody Wall. Emry carried on, saying he would meet them back at the forge.
"I have something for you," he said, and extended a hand to follow.
"Wildfire, I hope," Gendry quipped. "Though I do like dragons."
Sam smiled. "I worked all through the day and night to make it, and very carefully. There should be enough for thirty Valyrian steel longswords, if you succeed on the first try. Given more time, there would have been enough for fifty, but I haven't slept in two days, and it is past time I returned to Castle Black."
"You're leaving?" Gendry looked at him. He was beginning to enjoy Sam the Slayer.
He nodded. "I've left Maester Wolkan instructions on how to make wildfire, should you need more of it. For now, the jars are kept inside a heavy iron vault beneath the Bell Tower so no one will come looking to tip them over."
Sam fumbled with a set of keys he pulled from his coat, and opened the door behind the stables that descended to the cellars. Gendry saw torches burning in several wall niches as they made their way along the hall. Each storeroom had a solid wooden door closed with an iron padlock the size of his anvil. There were other men down here as well, taking stock, counting provisions, carrying baskets of salt meat and fish and firewood. Before long, Gendry could see his breath frosting in the torch light. It was even colder down here, below the massive walls that guarded Winterfell. He imagined how eighty feet of grey granite would melt from the heat of a green flame, just as he imagined Tobho Mott's shop when he nearly tripped over a stray cat hiding from the rain. Gendry pulled his cloak closer. "The alchemist's guild in King's Landing kept it a secret. You couldn't get a word from their mouth about anything other than magic and dragons. How did you find out?"
"When Cersei Lannister destroyed the Great Sept of Baelor, Lord Hightower send soldiers to find those men and bring them to Oldtown. How the Conclave weeded the information out, I am not certain, but the only thing that mattered was that the Citadel had it."
Sam the Slayer. It might have been a jest where he came from, but this man had more courage than the crows at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. "Samwell Tarly, stealer of hearts, family heirlooms, and uncovered secrets of the world."
They halted before a door made entirely of solid steel. It was no taller than the others, but the newly polished five-spoke metal handle in the center was larger than the padlocks on every other door. Seven thick locking bolts to the left kept it sealed, and two wide ball-bearing hinges secured it to the frame. Sam searched the keys again. They all looked alike to Gendry, yet somehow he managed to find the right one.
"It'll be easier for you to open," he said after. "I'm not so strong."
Gendry grasped the handles and pushed with all his strength. Seven times he turned the spoke, and seven bolts withdrew from their keep. When he pulled, the panel opened slowly and the hinges creaked. Inside he saw a vast number of empty shelves.
Sam seemed to sense his bewilderment. "The maester says this vault has been vacant for years. It once housed Winterfell's gold and treasures, but when the ironborn sacked the castle and put it to the torch, they stole everything in it. Now the gold is hidden somewhere only the king knows, and the wildfire is here."
Gendry moved across it, taking in the stone walls around them. It was just as cold in here as it was out there, but the air was dry and heavy with dust. When he reached the end, the ground changed from dirt to wood. His eyes had to adjust to the darkness. There were small jars of pottery lined one after another, molded from roughened clay and pebbles. Each one was sealed with wax and wrapped in leather bands that were bolted to the wall to prevent any tumbles. When he counted, there were thirty of them.
"I won't bother you with the details of handling it. You seem to know your way around them," Sam broke the silence.
Gendry dropped to one knee and brushed his hand along one of the jars. Even in the cold, it felt warm. "I don't know how to thank you."
He could feel Sam's smile. "There's no need for that. Winter is here, and the Long Night is coming. We have work to do."
"Yes," he agreed, moving to stand. Today is the day this begins. All those sleepless nights spent engrossed in ideas and alterations would be put to the test. "We have work to do."
Gendry picked the first jar to the left. It was not as heavy as he had expected, but the pebbles along the pottery provided a solid grip. Retrieving it from the vault was one thing, but carrying it to the forge was another. Any chance of reducing risk was one worth taking. He was like to trip over some undead cat, and Sam was his second pair of eyes as he led the way out. Gendry noted the thickness of the door before it was pushed closed. Another seven swings of the handle, one twist of a silver key, and it was sealed until the next visit.
They walked down the hall to climb back up the steps and emerge among a fine sheet of fresh snow. The sun appeared almost in full now, and the rest of Winterfell was rising with it. Horses whinnied at the stableboys who tended them, and accepted apples from their master's hands. The sweet song of steel filled the courtyard as daybreak training began. Smoke erupted from the chimneys of the Great Keep as servants and maids moved about. Ravens flew from the rookery with messages for all seven kingdoms, and squawked for a taste of raw meat. Even the king walked amongst his people, causing a stir at the junction where the common well remained.
They know nothing, Gendry thought to himself. A dragon among wolves. He could still remember the look on Arya's face, the sound of her voice when she told him. Robert's Rebellion was built on a lie. Most of the Targaryens are dead because of a lie. History itself today was written from a single lie. And how the lies kept growing. Brandon Stark had given his brother one week of solace and comfort upon their return home. One week to remember what family felt like, before this rift drove right through it.
"Jon was never my brother at all," Arya had said flatly. "That wasn't even his name."
Gods, he had never been so lost for words.
"It doesn't matter, though," she turned to him, and the love she held for Jon Snow shone in her eyes. "My father is still his father. Sansa, Bran, and I…we're still his siblings. He will always be a Stark. A direwolf with fire in his eyes, like Ghost."
The rift had been no rift at all, and the true heir to the iron throne remained the same secret it had been before. The northern houses were spiteful enough that their king had bent the knee to a Targaryen queen. What would they think when he told them the truth? Would it matter when the dead were at their doorstep? Gendry wondered what they would tell Daenerys Targaryen as well, when she arrived with her army and two dragons. The woman was his aunt by blood.
Even he was not supposed to know the truth, but Arya had told him anyway.
"You're my family, too," she had said. He could not deny her then, but he also could not deny the self-reproach of keeping their relationship a secret. Arya claimed that her brother and sister would come to understand, but Gendry did not know what was worse. Waiting for the right time to confess their engagement, or the fact that Jon Snow did not yet know his sister was bedding another king's bastard. If Bran had an inkling to it, he was quiet. Gendry shuddered at the thought.
"I'm not leaving just yet," Sam smiled as he closed the door behind them. "Save your farewells for the morrow. I need to speak with Jon."
When Gendry arrived at the smithy, he called to Emry from the outside. "I need this forge today. You can have the one out here."
"You going to make all the damn swords yourself?"
"No, just one."
The other smith appeared then, wary, eyes flickering to the pot in his hands. "How do you plan on doing that without the supplies from Meereen?"
"I have an idea."
"Aye, a right stupid one."
"You don't even know what it is," he shifted the jar in his hands. "Find a bucket and douse the forge. If I bring this in there, it might light." The wood and charcoal need to be changed again anyway.
Emry grumbled but did as bid. "I have three children who like to eat my purse. Think they'll want to eat me if I come home nice and crisp, and empty-handed."
"There's plenty of breastplates still needing leather."
He groaned again. "I hate doing that."
"You hate doing lots of things."
.:.
The last time he had been this warm was in Tobho Mott's shop during the long summer. The heat from the wildfire was enough for Gendry to shed his cloak and coat for the same yellow-brown leather jerkin he had left King's Landing in. How he missed the heat, though, and the comfort of a hammer in his hands when the snow fell heavily outside.
A better part of the morning was spent welding several high-quality steel billets together with salt compounds and wildfire. When it burned red-hot, he hammered lightly at first, evenly all around, brushing off the old salt and debris to add more. Clang, clang, clang.
Salt, heat, set, heat, weld, forge, check the forge, add charcoal and wood to the forge, repeat. Four times. No more, no less. Each took almost one hour. Sweat was beading above his brow and seeping into his linens. Gendry fixed the steel into a vise and gave it a nice twist with the strongest wrench he could find. It took the form of a coil until he forged it back into a rectangular billet. Clang, clang, clang.
Heat, set, heat, forge, check the forge, add charcoal and wood to the forge, repeat. Gendry hammered until the steel started to take the shape of a rough-forged sword. By then, his throat was as dry as the deserts in Dorne, and his stomach was snarling back. He set the metal aside to cool down and wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck with a linen cloth. Gendry donned his cloak and slipped away from the smithy. In the kitchens, the cooks provided ale and water to take back with him for a few coopers, but he slipped them several more and earned enough bacon to settle the ache in his stomach.
Though he could not see the sun from behind the clouds and falling snow, the stableboy he asked said it was midday. Fine-tuning the blade itself was going to take another four hours, but with a steady flow of water against a belt grinder and several filers, Gendry managed to sand down the edges close to, but not all the way sharp. The last thing he wanted was for the metal to warp during the most critical hours of forging.
Gendry downed the rest of the ale when it was time to heat treat the steel. He took a deep breath and added more fuel to the forge. In this, every step had to be executed perfectly, or the blade would warp or shatter. It had consumed his every thought in the week spent with Sam. Combining Master Mott's teachings with the Braavosi technique would prove futile if he failed now. Gendry whispered a prayer and stood before the forge, feeding the wildfire until it burned so hot it near singed his skin. He set the steel inside and waited. A magnet would tell when it was ready to cool on its own, and so he kept a large one nearby. Half hour, check, one hour, check, no pull from the magnet, air cool, repeat. Five times, then once more. Gendry placed the sword back into the forge. The last step required an ordinary flame, but that he could not light in the same room as wildfire or the entire smithy might blow. When the time came, he peeked his head outside, briefly taking in the darkness that was beginning to settle over Winterfell, and asked Emry to start the oven. Gendry filled a metal bucket with oil, heated a piece of scrap metal and tossed it inside. There could be no hesitation when he moved to quench the sword. The hot steel hissed angrily.
Gendry treated it as though it were glass. If he hardened this correctly, the sword would shatter when dropped. He brought it close to look for any sign of the signature Valyrian steel ripples, but when he saw nothing, his heart quickened. No, it will take more time before you see it, he told himself. Gods, he wanted to see it. He wanted this to work.
Placing the sword in the oven as delicately as possible, Gendry threatened Emry with his life if he so much as thought about touching it. The other smith laughed at him, but looked on, intrigued. The temperament process was to be strictly controlled for just over an hour to draw out the hardness and improve the durability and strength. Even then, I will see nothing. The bells rang eight times to signal the hour right as he closed the oven door. Gendry smiled to himself, and then his stomach growled. He went back inside to ensure the wildfire would not spread, knowing that nothing could put it out, before locking the door.
The promise of supper drew the smiths out into the gloom of dusk, once again wending through the stables and passing the maester's rookery. The dining hall was filled with laughter and conversation and wine and wonderful smells. They ate salmon basked with lemon and salt, fermented crab served with sole, and fresh bread topped with butter. It was the second proper meal Gendry had this day, and the second proper conversation he shared with Emry.
"Did you ever once think your master might have been one of them smiths from Qohor?" The other man questioned. "He's got a fancy name for it, I reckon, though I never heard of no wildfire being used to rework anything."
Gendry pondered that. "If he was, I never knew. Tobho Mott sold me to the Night's Watch when I was still an apprentice."
"You were an apprentice for a long fucking time then. Five years, was it?"
He frowned. "What of it? How long did you serve?"
"Two years," Emry nodded.
Gendry did not know what to think. After a time, he decided that it did not matter. Tobho Mott was a thousand leagues away, and he was here. When the bells rang nine times, they bid each other farewell and he headed back to the forge alone.
Not always alone, he thought when Ghost bounded up beside him. Gendry had saved the direwolf a bit of salmon and scratched him behind the ears as he liked. "Would you still love me if I stopped bringing you food?" Ghost nudged at his hand and the smith rubbed his head, smiling.
He pulled the sword out of the oven upon arriving at the forge, and pressed it into the same bucket of oil from earlier. The wildfire was not burning as hot as he had left it, but it was still very much there, keeping the air warm and basking the room in a soft green light. When he looked at the sword, there were still no visible markings, but it made no difference. Gendry prepped the belt grinder with water again, and worked the blade down into its final shape. That took another hour, but when it did not shatter at first touch, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief and held out hope. If the acid would not reveal the detail later, then…
Something brushed along his arms and nearly made him jump from his skin. Gendry whirled around.
"Are you planning on coming to bed?" Arya asked flatly, her hands on his shoulders. "It's late."
He was becoming accustomed to reading the subtle undertones in her voice. She doesn't sound angry, he pondered, before venturing a smile. "Good of you to knock, m'lady."
She ignored that and moved to stand before the forge, observing the wildfire and raising a hand to ghost above it. "You're working on Valyrian steel."
Gendry pressed the blade back against the belt. "We'll see soon. If this isn't it, then I don't know what it is."
"Have you been here since dawn?"
"Longer." A few more grinds should do it nice. "I'm almost done."
Arya moved away from the forge to stand beside him and watch. When it was done, Gendry looked at it again. Steam rose from the blade as he held it against the firelight to check for any misshapen or unaligned edges. They were still dulled, but ultimately straight. He set it down against the anvil and moved around Arya to find the acid powder Emry had put aside for him yesterday. This was the exciting part, but also the thing that terrified him the most. If he had forged Valyrian steel, the acid would reveal the pattern by etching out more hard layers of steel than soft. If not, it would look just as it did now, and the entire day he spent welding, forging, and shaping would be for nothing. Gendry hadn't the slightest clue what kind of steel he would have created in its stead. His stomach roiled at the thought.
Into the mold they often used to form longswords, he poured a mixture of three parts water and one part acid. Against the stone framework, it appeared black in color and shared the same thick consistency as oil. Gendry gently placed his sword into it and breathed deeply.
Arya must have sensed his trepidation. She stepped beside him and weaved her fingers into his, squeezing gently. "You can always try again, if this doesn't work."
"I know," he said, with a heavy heart. In truth, he would try again, but not until the supplies arrived from Meereen. Today was merely an idea grounded on evidence that had a slim chance of working, but he had to hold out hope. He had to try something.
Arya's presence alone was enough to calm his racing heart, though Gendry could not quite bring his eyes to face her. There were bubbles starting to form at the surface. It was impossible to see anything, but all they needed was a few minutes. The gods saw to test his patience multiple times today, but when his mind was focused on a task he felt deeply passionate about, patience was nothing. He would forget to eat, to sleep, to breathe. He was holding his breath now.
"If you faint, I'm not catching you," Arya deadpanned, and he managed a smile.
Gendry released her hand and reached for the tongs left atop the anvil. With a single grasp of the hilt, he pulled the blade from the acid and it shimmered like a thousand glittering stars.
If anyone has read up on the history of Damascus steel, it sounds like the inspiration behind Valyrian steel in almost every way. Authentic pieces are very expensive and difficult to make, and involve too much physics and chemistry for my brain to handle. The very simplified written version here that Gendry figured out behind the scenes is just what I found in research.
Suppose it is safe to say that the first chapter began when everyone returned from King's Landing.