Chapter Fifty-Six: A Survivor
The Crossroads Inn
Gendry
They'd been at the Crossroads for a no more than three nights before Lady Stark and the River King arrived. There weren't many of them. Him and Arry, Nymeria, her wolves, and a few of the guards that hadn't been there when that bastard maester had taken her. He'd picked them himself. Jon had too. And Lady Stark.
He'd picked some of them himself.
They'd all of them taken to sleeping in the inn, content to stay in the kitchens where the flames burned highest and the floors weren't too drenched with blood. The guards had insisted that Arry take one of the bedrooms, but she'd told them – told them, like a proper person with a proper voice! – that they'd slept on worse.
And so it was that Gendry was sat on a pile of straw, feeding the flames as she laid in his lap, when Oskar came to tell them that there were riders coming from across the river.
"Thousands of 'em, ser," the guard told him, though Gendry had told him a hundred times before that he was no knight. It made Arry laugh sometimes, though, so he never fought too hard. Once, when Oskar had called him m'lord, the laugh even had a little sound to it. That'd been the best night in a long while.
"Horses?" Arry asked. Her voice was still hoarse, but it only ever seemed to worsen whenever she was near the fire. It came through all the same. She struggled to her feet, batting Gendry's hand away when he went to offer it.
"A few dozen, m'lady. Most on foot."
Another of the guards, Cregan, shook his head and frowned. "It'll be a long journey then. Especially in these snows. M'lady's in no shape for-"
"'m fine," Arry said, as Gendry rose himself. "Cold's good."
"Aye, m'lady, and I'm a White Walker."
She reached for her hip, and the Valyrian sword she still kept there. Cregan only laughed and pat her on the shoulder. Gendry found himself grinning in spite of himself, if only because she did too.
It had been a fortnight since they had ridden from King's Landing, and he could not recall a better one. They hadn't ridden together since the Brotherhood had taken her and sold him off for bags of coin. They'd lost too much time to those bloody bastards. It was nice to have the chance to make up for it.
He made his way to the door and tried to search for some sign of approaching riders. He couldn't see them yet. Oskar had gotten into the habit of riding out every morning for hours, so there might be some time still before the others reached them. Good. It was time to prepare.
The inn wasn't in too bad a state, he thought. Worse than when he'd seen it with the Brotherhood, and worse than when he'd come North with Jon and the Queen, but none too terrible. There was some blood on the walls, a few of the tables still had axes set in them, and snow had taken the place of floor, but they'd brushed it away and swept the dust off the walls, and it had been clean enough to shelter them for a bit. Maybe it wouldn't be clean enough for a queen, but Arry and him had slept in pig pens filled with pig shit, so it hadn't mattered much to them.
Now, though? Now there was a queen riding to greet them. And a king. Arry might shrug it off as her sister and her uncle and her… whatever it was Queen Daenerys was to her – but Gendry'd been raised right. Highborn were greedy little bastards, and they liked nothing more than groveling smiths and clean places to rest their legs.
He set a hand down on the table and felt something sticky cling to his fingers. The thought of what it might have been made him grimace. He tried his best to wipe them on his breaches, but the damned things were leather. Whatever it was stuck fast.
This place? It wasn't very clean.
"Think the king'll like sleeping in the kitchens?" Pate asked, anxiously. King Edmure was his king, and he never much shut up about him. Arry'd called him All-for-Edmure once, and it nearly made Gendry spit out his drink.
No, actually. It had, now that he thought of it. That explained the sticky hand. Damned wine.
"Rooms clean enough, I think. They'll just split up the love birds is all," Cregan said. Then shouted as a ball of snow exploded in his face.
"Don't insult m'lady," Gendry said. "She's got damned good aim." He wasn't even surprised when the next ball struck him, even as he ducked away. She'd hit him in worse states.
And those the worst times were behind them. The bruises were gone from around her face and her throat, and the scars had settled into dark blue lines that hardly reached halfway up her cheeks. Impossible to hide, but better than they'd been when they'd been black blemishes stretching to her eyes and beyond. Her arm had improved too. There, he could even see the outlines of fingers, where her throat was still a mess of scars.
He might have thought it strange how fast she'd healed since they'd started north, but he wasn't one to look a dragon in the eye. Gendry was more than content to let it lie. If it was strange, well… so was Arry. So was his life. So be it.
A quarter hour passed before Gendry heard the clatter of hooves and the clamor of a thousand voices tripping over each other as they marched for the inn. He stepped forward to greet the riders at the door, and Arry followed, her hand still on the hilt of her sword.
When he stepped through, he was greeted by more faces than he had ever known. Thousands of them. More, it seemed. Men of all different colors, creeds, and castles. Some wore tattered clothes, others the fine cloaks of lords and ladies, while others still wandered naked – even in these winter chills. How they lived, he could not say, but he doubted they would make it much further north. He thought to offer them some of the clothes they'd found in the inn, and Cregan was quick to retrieve them when he asked.
Like Pate had told them, there were few on horseback. Most were on the ground, or riding donkeys, aurochs, and even a few hump-backed sand-colored not-horses with necks as long and sagging as an old man's skin. There were no carts. The snow was too thick now and the roads too treacherous. Gendry knew that well. The Trident had only frozen in places, and the cart had caught in the snowed muds. Had Arry not stolen out of that cart, he would have had to carry her himself.
But ifs were nots, and they were safe and warm. Unfortunately for these folk, they would not be staying much longer.
He met King Edmure and Lady Sansa on his knees in the snow. Arry, beside him though she was meant to still be inside, slapped him upside the head when she noticed. It didn't hurt – it was only enough to muddle his hair and sting his pride – but he rose to his feet anyway.
The two nobles dismounted with a surprising speed. The lords in King's Landing had never been so quick as them. But soon, as the smallfolk filled the neighboring village, their feet were on the ground and they were approaching.
Lady Sansa threw her arms around Arry quicker than Gendry could follow. By the time he moved to separate them, Arry was already pushing her sister back and cradling her right arm against her chest. Pate, who had kneeled by the door, rushed forth with a salve of honey and snow, but Arry waved him away and faced her sister.
"You look better," Lady Sansa said in lieu of an apology.
Arry offered a shadow of a grin. She let her arm fall back to her side. It was a lucky thing that she had elected to go without her cloak, or her leathers, for Gendry could see that the wound wasn't too aggravated. There was some red around the black, but not enough to worry him.
"Feel it," she said.
The words were enough to draw a smile to Lady Sansa's face. "Your throat?"
"Better."
She looked doubtful. "And your arm?"
Arry looked amused. For once, instead of arguing, she only nodded.
"Where's Nymeria?" Sansa asked.
"Hunting. Not much food," Arry said. Gendry knew what she wasn't saying, and he suspected Lady Sansa did too. Not much corpses. Bloody wolves. Bloody walkers.
Lady Sansa looked back to the crowd, and to the many who were watching with great interest. They didn't know yet – couldn't have – but they would figure it out. No one was meant to be this far north yet, and no one bore scars like the ones Arry did. They didn't snake to her eyes anymore, but the ones on her cheeks were distinctive enough.
Should have found a scarf, he realized. Should have found anything.
"We should head inside," Gendry said, quickly. "We've got soup if you're hungry."
Arry winced a bit, but nodded. When she turned, Lady Sansa took her lead, and King Edmure hers.
They barred the door behind them, and Oskar and Pate set about blocking the windows. The fewer people who saw Arry, the better. The last time strangers had been around… Gendry tried not to think about that.
Lady Sansa claimed a seat by the same table Gendry had spilled his wine. He sat next to her and hastily threw his arm over the sticky spot. It did nothing to block the stains in the wood, but at least she wouldn't touch it. No need to offend Arry's uncle, after all. He didn't know the man well, and he wasn't one to offend kings, even if the lot of them were rotten bastards.
"Niece," King Edmure greeted her, as he took his seat beside Sansa. "It's good to see you again."
"Uncle," Arry answered in kind. She was stood by the door, where the breeze was enough to freeze Gendry, and he was in all his leathers. She'd always been mad, though, so it shouldn't have been much of a surprise. Bloody Starks.
"Better away from bedrest, I take it?"
She laughed. Her nod came slow, but it came.
"I'm glad to hear it." His head cocked some. "See it, I suppose."
"Jon should be here on the morrow if they've stayed on schedule," Lady Sansa said. "We'll leave then. It's too cold to stay in one place long."
"Colder on the way," King Edmure reminded her. "And colder on arrival. I imagine the walls of Winterfell may not have fared well."
Lady Sansa skewed her lips. "The hot springs should still keep it warm enough."
King Edmure shook his head. Oskar offered him a mug of warm wine, and the man took it without complaint. By the time he'd finished drinking, Oskar had hardly even left the table. "Well I'll certainly be happy to get back home. We've much to do. Replenishing livestock, fixing our fields-"
"Things to be done after winter, uncle. I can't imagine your livestock will fare well swallowing snow in place of grass."
King Edmure's expression soured. "Any word on how long this winter is to last? I know the maesters said it'd be the longest yet, but that was before the Walkers. Any chance they – I don't know – lessened it?"
Arry's finger twitched on his leg at the mention of White Walkers. She gave no other sign of displeasure. Bloody mad woman. The Walkers discomforted him, and he hadn't…
Lady Sansa seemed just as displeased as he felt. "The Citadel hasn't sent word yet."
"Have they sent a maester?" He tore off his gloves and rubbed his hands together. When that did nothing to ease his chill, he took to sighing into his palms. "You'll need one in that tundra of yours."
"None yet. They said they sent a raven."
He looked to Gendry and Arry then. "Any word of one?"
"No," Gendry said. Then, as an afterthought, "Your Grace."
Next to him, Arry scoffed. He did his best to ignore it. It was a difficult thing to manage when she was grinning to herself like the pain in his arse she was.
But King Edmure only waved a hand and shook his head. "Ugh, just Edmure," he said. "Catelyn would have my head if I had you call me that."
Arry's hand was gone from his leg by the next blink. When Gendry looked up, he caught sight of Lady Sansa, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. "What?" the Lady asked.
"What? I have never been much good at being courtly, niece, but I doubt any of us are blind." That made Arry jerk, even more than the mention of the Walkers had. "Won't say I'm pleased, but…" He shrugged. "Better than mine, I suppose."
Gendry grit his teeth and said, "Blind about what? Your what?"
For some reason, the King only laughed. "You seem a fine lad, Gendry. But your head may be emptier than mine own at times." He looked to Lady Sansa then, grinning. "My men ride at sunrise. Should any of you need any aid after-"
"We'll send a raven," Lady Sansa promised. While she addressed the King, her eyes only remained on Arry, who was actually genuinely blushing.
Gendry was too, of course, but this was Arry. Blushing. Like a real, actual lady. It was near enough to make him laugh aloud.
"You ought to," King Edmure said. "I doubt the Riverlands will have much, but the North and the Trident were one. For a time, at least. We have not forgotten neither it nor Robb. I intend to remember for life, my lady." The smile had faded. "He was a good man, your brother. Not always the most reasonable, but smart. Never met a-"
"Tired," Arry said, suddenly, though the sun was hardly near the horizon. She set both hands on the table and rose. Two of the guards made their way towards her, content to follow as they always were. It took everything Gendry had not to rise with her. She was gone before her sister could say another word, though she certainly tried.
He wondered where she was even going. Not to the kitchens, surely?
"Well," King Edmure said, rising. "This was delightful, but-"
"It may be wise to check with your commanders, Uncle."
The king nodded. "Yes, I imagine they may need directing before we ride." He waved his mug to Ser Emory, who looked enough like Oskar that Gendry sometimes confused them too. "Any way you could-" Oskar refilled it as Edmure rose to his feet. "Oh, thank you. I beg your pardon, niece."
"Nothing to fear, uncle," Lady Sansa said. "We've both our crowns to bear."
The king granted her one last smile before he fled the common room. With him gone, Lady Sansa turned to him, a hint of a smile gracing her face.
"How is she, Gendry? Really?" she asked.
His mouth was drier than it had been running back to the Wall. This was a lady, calling him by name and treating him the same way she'd treated her kingly uncle. He wasn't quite sure he liked that. Not at all. I'm just a bastard. A king's bastard, but a bastard still.
He gathered himself anyway, and answered as she bid. "Well," he said. "Talking, walking…" breathing.
Lady Sansa leaned back, displeased. "Yes, that I saw." She ran her hand over her the arm she'd burned in the Eyrie. He'd seen it then, the cloth burned away and her arm scorched black and peeling. He wondered how it'd healed. Sansa dropped her hand when she saw his gaze and went on, "How is she acting? Feeling? Has she… said anything?"
"Normal, m'lady," he said. Her lips twisted. "She's acting like herself again."
"The way she was on Dragonstone?" Lady Sansa asked, rolling a thumb over the table, then curling it over her fist. "Or before?"
"Both," he said, but it was a lie. In Dragonstone, she had not forgone beds to lie on the kitchen floor with him. She hadn't ridden ahead of them any chance she'd gotten, and, while she'd spoken with them, she hadn't been this familiar with strangers either. She hadn't been throwing snowballs at Codd the way she was Oskar, Pate, and all the rest.
"The last time the three of us spoke, Arya said you were the worst liar in the Seven Kingdoms."
Heat flushed into his cheeks. "Before, m'lady."
The lady let loose a long-suffering sigh, and he knew the feeling as well as any. Somehow, around Arry, he always found himself sighing too.
"Why?" he asked. "Does it matter?"
"I'm not sure," Lady Sansa said. "Keep an eye on her. Especially when we're traveling."
Fear gripped his heart, and he nodded. "M'lady."
She rose then and made for Titus, another of Arry's guards. He showed her to one of the inn's many rooms, as Gendry sat at the table and set his head in his hands.
With both king and lady fled, Oskar stared after the escaped king, mouth somehow still agape. "That was my favorite mug," he said finally, as Ser Emory beat his back. "He took my mug."
"He's a king," Pate reminded him.
"And? I'm not of the bleeding Riverlands."
"You aren't? Where from then?"
"King Tyrion sent me."
"You're a bleeding Lannister?"
"I'm of the Crag," Oskar spat. "Don't call me a Lannister man."
"A Lannister sent you!"
"King Tyrion sent me. He's about as far from a sister-fucker as you can find. Trust me, I've no love for the lion. Lannisters killed my brother. Said he wouldn't lied about something where the Lightning Lord was. 'Course, Tytos was in the bleeding Crag, so I don't know where in seven hells he'd have known that, but he told them he seen him in the smith's shop. 'Course the smith's a sworn lion, so they trusted him, and even if they hadn't, Tytos was already dead. Didn't mean a thing."
"Why'd he tell them he see him in the shop then?"
Oskar clenched his fists and his jaw. "You tell anything when there's a rat biting his way through your stomach. Men lie when they die. We all do."
Gendry rose, abruptly, and made his own way from the table. This was nothing he needed to hear now, when it was all memory and dust. Mayhaps Arry really would be in the kitchens, or had made her way to one of the rooms. He didn't know, but he wasn't going to waste the rest of the day here listening to idiots ramble on about nothing. They followed him anyway. Bleeding bastards.
#
The next day, he woke on the floor in one of the inn's many rooms, Arry's naked shoulders pressed against his cheek. He'd thrown his own clothes on long before he fell asleep – it was too bloody cold in the Riverlands to sleep the way he liked– but her skin was warm enough, so he didn't worry too much of it.
Mother help him, that was a lie. He dislodged himself from her quaking arms and made to shift his cloak onto her shoulders, but no sooner had he moved than her eyes were open. She sat up swiftly, breathing hard and fast.
And then, the morning progressed as they all did.
She scrambled back, reaching for her sword. It was halfway across the room – they'd agreed to keep it far from the bed for mornings like these – and she wasted no time clambering for it. Her burned arm scraped the floor as she crawled, but she hardly seemed to mind the cry that left her lips. She was too busy moving. Always too busy.
"Arry," he said, taking care not to move a single muscle, "it's me. It's Gendry. Your stupid bull, remember?" She blinked once, twice, and stopped her retreat. "We're at the Crossroads. Heading North. Your brother should be back today. Your sister's already here. And your uncle."
"Gendry," she said, low and hoarse. She was always hoarse in the mornings. Even before…
"Aye," he said. "And you're Arya Stark, yeah?"
"Yes," she said. That was all it took. Within a second, she was back on her feet, stretching her shoulders and reaching for her pants.
It should have worried him. It did worry him. But if this was the only price they paid for the lives they lived? For years on the road, years at war, and those few terrible moments he'd agonized over her lifeless… over her? He would count himself lucky a thousand times over. He would thank the gods until his tongue was sore, and then he'd thank the weirwood too.
They had neither of them even thrown on their boots before Arry tensed, tilting her head to stare up through the battered wood roof. There weren't any holes, but that didn't seem to matter much to her.
"Dragon," she said, then smiled. "Jon."
Dragon? "How do you-" She was already out the door, still uncloaked, and he hastened to grab it for her. Bleedin' Starks with their bleedin' magic. He had to hop on one foot to throw on his last boot, before he made his way out into the snowed streets. She might be a bleedin' Stark with winter magic or whatever it was, but he wasn't going to let her out in the snow without a cloak. Even magic people could catch colds.
At least, he thought so. He hadn't met many magic people.
The wolf met them as they passed through the door and into the snows. She was leaning against the wall, curled beneath the roof with the rest of her pack huddled around her. Most of them had been left behind in King's Landing – crow food, if only there were any crows left to be had. When she saw Arry, she jerked to her feet and growled until the other wolves followed. Twelve in all, not counting her. Twelve left from hundreds.
He looked to the sky and caught sight of, well, absolutely nothing. A few clouds. A tree. Some snowflakes. Whatever it was her warg powers, or whatever it was, had noticed, he was mundane enough not to see it. He preferred it that way.
"How long 'til he gets here?" he asked her, stumbling over a snow mound. They passed by the main doors to the inn, and a crowd of people making their way about the land, each looking colder and hungrier than the last.
He threw his cloak over Arry's head, but she threw it off as soon as it touched her. "Arry," she said. "I'm Arry."
And, Seven help him, he understood as soon as she said it. The Seven only knew how. Unwashed and poorly dressed, they could both of them pass as the two bastard orphans they'd played on the Kingsroad. Well, she'd played. He'd been the bastard orphan, while she'd played the bastard.
When he looked to her, she looked no different than one of the hungry masses, scarred and bruised and moving. The wolves circled, never coming too close and never paying them much attention. Too far away to tie to them, but close enough to help should they need it. It was perfect. Too perfect.
It was still maddening to him to think he'd been traveling with a warg. A woman who'd stepped out of myths and into the world, and then slayed the King of the Walkers just because she could. Somehow, he didn't think he would ever understand it. Somehow, he didn't think it mattered much if he did.
By the time they reached the clearing, the sound of beating wings was clear for all the world to hear. The crowd was retreating, some shouting and some running, while a few brave souls approached with awe. They were whispering to themselves, but Gendry hardly even heard.
He hadn't seen the green dragon since they'd left Dragonstone and, truth be told, he'd hoped that would be the last time. While he wasn't much one to despise creatures that had saved his life twice over, this sort never failed to put him on edge. Gendry hadn't even taking much of a liking to horses. Dragons? It was a bit much.
Arry didn't seem daunted though. As the beast grew larger and larger on the horizon, she only watched it go. Never flinching, never fearing. Before long, as it came to hover over the clearing, her wolf made its way to her side, its massive body dwarfing her as her fingers buried their way into its fur.
Yet, though the wolf stood taller than them both, the dragon was more massive than even it. Mother's mercy, just one of its wings was enough to dwarf them. As the snow few from the grasses under the force of its flight, great bronze talons clawed their way into the ground. The creature let out a terrible screech as its wounded leg touched down, but, before long, its wings were stagnant and its riders were climbing down its spines, and Gendry still couldn't understand how he'd ridden the beast without being eaten alive or falling to his death.
Somehow, he didn't think this was the life his mother planned for him. Somehow, he didn't think it was his Master Mott's idea, either.
Lord Reed was the first to descend from the dragon's back with a raven's cage on his own. As soon as he reached land, he unstrapped it from his shoulders and set the bird free in a great burst of falling feathers and dark wings. Arry's brother – he tried not to think too hard about that – took to the skies, searching for some strange thing Gendry didn't care to think about that. Seven hells, he hated magic.
Jon was the next to descend, and after him the Queen of Dragons. Neither looked any worse than when they'd last met, though Jon seemed to need more time to readjust himself than he had before. As he made his way to the inn, his every step was short and stuttered. His gaze even passed over Arry, as he walked by, and he didn't say a word. At least, not until she caught him by the arm to pull him into a long and deep embrace. Only then did he notice them. Only then did he notice anything at all.
"Little s- Arya," he whispered into her hair. "You're-"
"Fine," she said.
Jon's smile came slowly, but it was there all the same. That was good, Gendry thought. In all the time he'd known him, he'd rarely seen Jon Snow happy. Come to think of it, he'd rarely seen any of them happy. Come to think of it, he'd rarely been, himself.
While the two embraced, he watched over the dragon. The giant dragon. The dragon that had saved his life twice. The fire-breathing dragon.
He tried to smile at the beast. It snorted in answer, and a billowing plume of smoke burst from its nostrils.
Seven hells.
It took Arry's hand on his arm to drive him away from the dragon and into the inn. He hadn't been more thankful to her since she'd dragged him and Hot Pie out of Harrenhal. Bloody dragons. Bloody wolves. Bloody bastards, all of them.
There were others in the inn when they arrived, but most fled as Jon and the Dragon Queen took their seats. It was strange seeing the common room so empty. Before, when it had just been them, the guards had taken to sleeping on the tables, after drinking their nights away. They'd all had rooms they could have taken, but they hadn't. Instead, they'd stayed together in the one room that didn't smell of rotted corpses. Never a day had passed without someone boarding on a table, throwing arrows at a sleeping target, or stacking mugs on Ser Emory's snoring head just to see how high they could go before he noticed.
Now, it was quiet as the Mud Gate before the Walkers had sent their men and before the battle had begun. Thousands of men gathered, none willing to say a word. All the sound there was was the slow rhythm of their breaths in pace with their trembling hearts.
Gendry swallowed back the bile in his throat. In his experience, silence was never good. So, as any man ought, he set about to be the first to break it. "The dragon seems good," he said, settling across from Jon and the Queen. "Last time I saw, he wasn't flying near that good."
Jon failed to answer, while Daenerys offered him a shaky smile. "Yes, he is." Her smile slipped, and she shook her head. "Forgive us. It is good to see you again too, Gendry."
He frowned and shifted his weight between his feet. He hadn't thought she knew his name. He hadn't thought she'd noticed at all him, really.
"Jon," Arry said. She sounded hoarser than she normally did. Whether she was playing to him or not, she couldn't tell. There were lots of things Arry did that were strange to him.
"I'm alright," Jon promised her. "It was a long flight." He offered her a shaky smile of his own. "Bran wouldn't stop screeching, and it kept setting Rhaegal off. Besides…" He brushed a feather from his hair. "I think he's molting."
That made her laugh. "Bran or Rhaegal?"
"Both," Jon said.
Someday, he was going to have to pull her aside and ask her how exactly her brother became a bird, but Gendry had dealt with enough magic of late, and he had no interest asking for more.
"How were the children?" he asked, instead. "The Eyrie kids. I remember leaving them, but I'm not sure I ever-" He stopped. By the sudden paleness of Queen Daenerys' skin, that answer was not one he needed to know. Seven hells.
"It was a long flight," Jon said, quickly. "After we see Sansa, we should rest. We can answer any questions then."
As it turned out, they would not. For, long after Lady Sansa had met with them, and long after Jon and the Queen were allowed their rest, and long after they had gathered again, still not a word was spoken of their journey across the sea. Gendry didn't plan on being the one to ask again, and when he'd asked Arry to, she'd pointed to her throat and shrugged. Apologetic. Bullshit. Pain in my arse.
In fact, by the time they had the chance to speak again, it was already too late. The horses were saddled, their cloaks tied tight, and the crowd of the hungry were marching up the road, headed to the land where the snow was somehow even thicker than this damned place, because of course it was!
King Edmure's horse was already loaded and mounted, and, on its back, The River King towered over the likes of them. Their own mounts had been readied for them, but none of them had gone near the stables, let alone retrieved the beasts. It seemed the king's desire to make his way home was greater than any of the Starks'.
While he said his goodbye to Arry and Lady Sansa, Gendry stayed back by the inn's doors, watching the crowd as the goldcloaks always had back in King's Landing. He said not a word, moved not an inch, and didn't even bother listening in on whatever the king told them. It was their business; he was their blood. Gendry was just the bastard boy who'd somehow befriended a bleeding hero.
He tried his best not to feel too proud of that. His best wasn't much, really.
They talked for scarcely more than a few short minutes, before King Edmure led his horse to him, to Gendry, to some bastard of Flea Bottom, some lowly smith, an unworthy lad who thought himself a warrior. A king did that.
"Gendry," King Edmure said. Why do they all know my name? "I do ask that you send me a raven, and I ask you take care when the time comes. You served us well in King's Landing, and I'm told you served my niece well in the Eyrie. Anything you need of the Riverlands, you need not ask." He leaned down, offering a smile, while Gendry spurred and sputtered and what? In a whisper, the king said, "I cannot imagine a better match for a she-wolf, and I'll be proud to call you kin."
Then, as Gendry stood, red-faced and shocked, the man led his horse back to his men and set about on the River Road. Thousands of men followed, though Gendry could hardly see a quarter of them. They marched on foot, on horse, in sleds pulled by their parents. Arry and Sansa stayed together, nearer to the road than he was. He watched them as much as they watched the people of the Riverlands, all three of them cautious and caring and cold.
He could not say how long she bore witness to the ride, nor how long he did her. He might have done it for hours, content to stand in the bitter winds, because she wasn't even in a cloak and must have been frozen to the bone, so how could he complain in his furs and his leathers and his cloak? Might have, a lifetime ago. As it stood, he was jolted from his watch by a hand on his shoulder, warm, rough, and calloused.
Jon Snow pulled him forward, careful as he was firm. He loosed his hand as Gendry started following, like a beaten lamb marching off to the slaughter. Does he know? he wondered. Did Oskar tell them? Pate? Ser Emory?
Yet, in spite of his fears, there was no slaughter to be had. He did not beat Gendry over the head with his sword, nor tie a noose around his neck and bind him to the horses. Instead, Jon brought him to his sisters and drew their attentions with a short but thorough cough.
"He has the right idea of it, your uncle. We ought make our way as quickly as we can," Jon said. "Rhaegal could carry us quicker than horses."
His heart dropped at the sound of it. The dragon? Again?
The last time he'd ridden a dragon hadn't been the worst experience he'd had – anything that let him wrap his arms around Arry for a few hours was nice enough, especially before King's Landing – but the time before that, he'd seen a castle fall as they took to the skies, and the time before that, he'd nearly died doing it.
He wouldn't deny it, if they ordered it, but he would rather ride a horse ten thousand miles than ride a dragon one. Gods be good, he would rather walk the ten thousand miles, if it meant not riding the beast again.
Thankfully, it was Lady Sansa who was the first to answer, her lips pursed and skewed in disapproval. "I would ride the sand steed," she said, ever gracious.
"Horse," Arry agreed. He could have kissed her. He would kiss her. Later. Sometime her brother wouldn't run him through for it.
"We can ride ahead then," Jon said, grimly. "Set some things to right."
There was protest. There always was. Gendry wasn't the one to do it – what with the beast being only a few dozen feet away – but Arry and Lady Sansa certainly fought for a long, long while.
But the dragon needed a rider, and while the Queen seemed content to ride it herself, Jon muttered something of a Stark in Winterfell and, whatever that meant, it was enough to convince the rest of them. He and Lady Sansa shared a hug, then he and Arry, and then Jon's hand even fell on his shoulder before the man returned to his beast.
He had hardly spent an hour in their company before he was away again, quicker than Gendry really took care to follow, with the beat of the dragon's mighty wings nearly sending Gendry to the floor. It did send Arry down, but when he offered her a hand, she stood on her own.
She was angry, he could tell. Fists clenched, breathing quick, hand constantly falling to the thin little sword that was no longer by her side. He didn't know what had happened to it, nor how she'd gotten it back after Polliver, but he could guess both well enough. The Night King and the Faceless Men. It always seemed to come back to those two.
She must have joined them to get it back for her. She must have begged them. She must have killed Polliver herself. She must have done it without them. She must have.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered. The little sword was gone now. He should have offered to search for it. He would. Someday, he would go back, if she asked him to. He didn't want to set food in that damned city again in his life, but he'd seen the way she held that sword. He'd get it for her. He had to.
I can make her another, he thought. In Winterfell. It made him smile to think of it. The smithy would need fixing, he knew, but he could do it. Just for the smile she would surely give him, and the hug, the kiss, and the…
He grinned for a second, but he wiped the smile away when he looked to her. She was frowning now, staring after Jon and shaking. Gendry made his way to her, clasped an arm over her shoulder and did his best not to react to the flinch as it came.
"We're close to Riverrun, you know," he told her. She looked at him, confused and hurt and a million things more. Gendry only smiled. "We can finally make it, if you want. Shouldn't be too far."
She took in a breath, slow and steady, and loosed it with a stuttering laugh. It was enough to startle her sister, which only made her laugh harder. "Farther," she said. "200 miles."
"200-" he sputtered. "How far was it from Harrenhal?"
"Hundred-" She coughed, a bit. "Hundred fifty."
And then, he was laughing too. They both were. Two idiots laughing about nothing as they saddled their horses.
It was the best day he'd had in a long while. There would be better ones to come, he knew. And that was what made it even better.
A/N: Edmure ships it so hard in this ridiculously long chapter.
Bit of a tonal shift here, but I think you can see why Gendry's in such a good mood. Things are finally looking up for him, even as the rest of the crew (minus Sansa) are hitting some lower points.
This one was originally going to be set in Darry, but I couldn't resist setting a scene in the place this story (sorta) started. It's a sort of stopping at the start, which still holds as the characters head to Winterfell. Oh, and about Winterfell…
Anyway, Jon's returning with another POV very soon after his last. It's time for the once-King in the North to survey the castle he abandoned, and the kingdom he sacrificed to save the world.