THE WOLF AND THE DRAGON
Gendry IV
Gendry's knees ached. Arya might fit into impossible spaces like a fucking shadow, but all he got for his trouble were scrapes, bruises and angry joints for weeks afterwards. Still, Arya wanted to see the Dragon Queen so here they were, tucked away in a seldom used servants' passage with sightlines to the proceedings below. It was a thoroughly unpleasant hiding place; dark and damp and musty, with that bone deep cold only wet spaces seemed capable of creating. Gendry shivered unhappily but kept his complaints to himself. Arya crouched at his side, as silent and still as the stone surrounding them as she peered through the gap in damaged bricks with narrowed eyes. The smith wasn't sure why this particular passage hadn't been repaired along with the rest of the castle, but he tried his best to ignore the nagging thought that it had been deemed too unsafe to bother with…
The Great Hall was deserted save for the small group King Jon and Lady Sansa had accompanied in from the snow. There were only four figures in total and as the two Northerners settled themselves at the High Table, Gendry got his first look at the foreign queen.
She was, in a word, beautiful. Pure white hair jingled with each movement of her intricate braid as she removed her snow-covered hood, allowing the torchlight to glint off the bells weaved into it. Her skin was milk white and smooth in a way the women of Flea Bottom could only dream of, even where it was flushed with cold. She stood a bit taller than Arya, and while both of them were slender and small-chested the Dragon Queen projected an air of undeniable womanhood. It was the hips, Gendry reasoned, and the gentle slope where her back met her ass… And the softness... No one could ever accuse Arya of being soft. Her face, too — with her violet eyes and dainty features — was pretty in that impossible way that only his mother had been…
"Your father murdered her brother and destroyed her family, she's not going to spread her legs for you."
"I — what? No," Gendry was dragged back to reality by his best friend's whispered words and felt himself redden, "Fuck off, Arry."
Arya looked decidedly unimpressed. She cuffed him upside the head and gestured pointedly at the scene below. A woman with skin the colour of boiled leather and dark, curled hair the likes of which Gendry had never seen before had stepped forward with her hands folded at her waist and her eyes respectfully downcast as she addressed the room.
"Your Grace," her voice held the same precision as her posture, and for all Gendry knew she was a foreigner her cadence was that of every highborn he'd ever come across in King's Landing, "My Lady. You are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Princess of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons."
"It is an honour to receive you," Lady Sansa replied, all polish and politics, from her place at the King's side, "May I present Jon Snow of the House Stark, First of His Name, the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men, King Crow, The White Wolf and King in the North."
Arya made an odd little noise beside him, which may have been a quickly stifled laugh, as they exchanged a glance in the darkness before the dark-skinned woman spoke again.
"It is customary to kneel when addressing your queen."
This time the look that passed between the two old friends was weary. The immediate shift in the mood below was evident even from their perch.
"Rightful Queen, I believe was the title. Or did I hear wrong?" Lady Sansa's voice was far too pleasant, and Gendry noticed Arya's hand drifting toward the sword at her hip, "You are guests in our home and on our lands, every custom that I am aware of dictates your hosts be treated with respect."
The Queen raised a gloved hand before her advisor could respond, and the other woman stepped back immediately. "I must ask your forgiveness, but I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."
The King, who had seemed willing to let his sister feel out their guests, chose that moment to speak up. "Your Grace, may I present my sister, Lady Sansa of the House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. I'm certain your advisor meant no offence with her suggestions, titles and formalities can be complicated enough even if you haven't just arrived from another land."
"Quite," the Dragon Queen agreed, "And yet, I am the heir to House Targaryen, a House to which your own has sworn fealty in perpetuity."
"You are," Lady Sansa drew the conversation her way again, "And yet, what of the thousands of years and wars and oaths that came before your family? What of the Marsh Kings and the Storm Kings, the Barrow Kings and the Kings of Winter and all those who ruled over the First Men? What of the Children of the Forest and the Giants who roamed these lands before them? Or the Andal Kings who came after? The Kings of the Rock? The Kings of Mountain and Vale? The Kings of the Trident?"
"They all bent the knee and swore fealty to my family when Aegon and his dragons arrived."
"As they had done to each other with each war that came before, and as they did again when your father and brother fell to House Baratheon."
"House Baratheon is dead." An unfamiliar voice joined the conversation, and Gendry realized that he had failed to notice the fifth figure in the hall. A dwarf with blonde hair and a badly scared face stepped out from behind the Dragon Queen. Tyrion Lannister, he was sure of it. Even in the slums of his youth there were tales of the Imp of Casterly Rock. He'd never seen a dwarf full-grown, only the stunted children abandon to a life of begging until their inevitable death by starvation — or worse. He wondered if the little Lord had ever walked those filthy streets and thought on what could have been...
"Yes," Lady Sansa's mild reply kept the smith's thoughts from wandering any further, "And new oaths have since been sworn, new marriages brokered, new Kings and Queens crowned…"
"The Realm moves on, Your Grace. It has too. It cannot wait for the fallen to, perhaps, rise again." Like his sister, the King kept his tone even as he rose to his feet at the Head Table, "The North is an independent kingdom once more, as it has been for all but three hundred years, but that does not mean we cannot help each other."
The Dragon Queen's ethereal face hardened into something much more human. "Surely you have not invited us here under false pretenses?" she challenged, "I have been repeatedly assured that you are an honest and honourable man, if that is not the case…"
A monstrous cry echoed overhead and reverberated through the castle, causing Gendry to startle so badly he nearly pitched forward out of their hiding place in shock. Somehow, the idea of dragons differed completely from actual fucking dragons. A glance toward the youngest Stark revealed her left hand now fully on the hilt of her blade and Godsdamned smile on her face. Seven Hells, he almost missed Flea Bottom…
"Aye," King Jon agreed, somehow ignoring the monsters' reminder of their presence, "I try to be both of those things, as best I can, and assure you I have been nothing but honest with you thus far."
The dwarf Lord stepped forward as he looked between the two monarchs. "Your letter proposed an alliance…"
"It did," the King agreed, "War is coming, the most terrible war in living memory, and only together do we stand a chance of living to see winter through."
"Surely Cersei Lannister does not frighten you so much?" Queen Daenerys questioned, her tone just short of a scoff.
"We are not fools enough to discount the danger of her cruelty," Lady Sansa returned coolly, "As I'm sure Lady Olenna can attest to. But no, at this moment Cersei Lannister means nothing."
The Dragon Queen exchanged looks with her advisors and likely would have replied if a massive white shape hadn't all but materialized behind them. Gendry had heard about Ghost, he'd even seen him at a distance when Arya pointed him out, but seeing him indoors was something else entirely. The massive wolf stalked the length of the hall, ignoring the Targaryen Queen and her advisors in favour of flopping down to lounge under the Head Table at the King's feet. The dark-skinned woman who had first addressed the room seemed to have a similar reaction to the sight of him as Gendry himself had experienced at the sound of the dragons, her eyes going comically wide.
"There's no cause for concern," Lady Sansa smiled pleasantly, "This is Ghost."
"Yes," to the Dragon Queen's credit, she maintained her poise even with the interruption, "We've met."
"I do hope he didn't spook your horses too badly, direwolves are known to do that." Lady Sansa almost sounded sincere.
Arya snorted another quickly stifled laugh.
Queen Daenerys, however, did not seem amused. "Not at all. My forces ride mounts accustomed to my children. The wolf's presence was hardly an inconvenience."
As the two women continued to eye each other, Lord Tyrion stepped forward to defuse the situation. "What of this war, then?" he asked the King.
"Grumpkins and Snarks."
Wait, what? Gendry was about to ask Arya just what in Seven Hells her brother was on about, but Lord Tyrion's reaction stayed his tongue. The dwarf seemed to understand the nonsensical reply, if the frown creasing his mangled face was any indication.
"The White Walkers?" he asked.
"Aye," King Jon replied darkly, "They're real. I've seen them, and the Army of the Dead they command. I've fought them, and I lost. We all lost." He exchanged a look with Lady Sansa before heaving a heavy sigh, "Winter is here, Your Grace, and the dead are coming — "
"The dead," the Dragon Queen repeated, her tone somewhere between mockery and disbelief, "And what sort of numbers should I expect from these 'dead?'"
King Jon sank back into his seat, but try as he might, Gendry couldn't make out his expression. "Hundreds of thousands, at least," he replied, his tone grim, "There were one hundred thousand free folk gathered at Hardhome alone when we arrived to bring them south of the Wall. By the time the Walkers and their army were finished with us, only five thousand people escaped with their lives. The rest…" He shook his head, but when he spoke again, his voice betrayed nothing but mild acceptance. "You think me mad, of course, and you've every reason to. Regardless, the North's hospitality will stand for so long as we are at truce and I hope that we can continue to discuss the future of the realm during that time. As a sign of good faith, I would see one of your loyal advisors returned to your service." He turned to his sister and nodded.
Lady Sansa rose to her feet gracefully and moved to one of the hall's side doors. "Lady Brienne, if you could bring Ser Jorah forward?"
Gendry recognized Lady Sansa's sworn sword, with her custom armour and Valyrian Steel blade, as she escorted an older man into the hall. He was obviously Northern, with dark features and a stocky build, and his age seemed only exaggerated by the bandages he wore over the left side of his face and left hand both. The smith couldn't help but wonder what those wrappings kept hidden away…
"Khaleesi," the man's voice was rough with emotion, but still he looked to the King for permission before moving to kneel before the Dragon Queen, "I return myself to your service, if you'll have me?"
The Dragon Queen's posture changed instantly, her rigid stance shifting into something softer and more welcoming as she reached out to the kneeling man. Her hands stopped just short of him, hovering by his shoulders. "Hash yer chek?" [1]
The harsh sounds that came out of such a delicate girl were a surprise, but they must have meant something because the man raised his head. With his back to their hiding place Gendry could only guess at his expression, but his voice sounded happy. "Anha zin, khaleesi." [2]
She smiled then, full and true, and if he'd thought her beautiful before… Gendry shifted uncomfortably, well aware of Arya's gaze and the wicked smirk on her face. Ignoring his little bitch of a best friend, the smith watched as the Dragon Queen helped the stranger to his feet and embraced him tightly.
"Hash tat yer jadat tat tikh kijinosi valshe? Tat mori fichat yer athnithar?" [3] She rattled off another string of nonsense sounds when they broke apart.
"Anha came anni zhorre seris tikh. Jin ki anna ramasar, finne ato kashi." [4]
"Perhaps you would like to reacquaint yourselves in private?" Lady Sansa, who had returned to her seat to watch the reunion play out, suggested as she gestured to her sworn sword once more, "Lady Brienne will show you to your rooms."
Queen Daenerys snapped back into her regal posture in the blink of an eye and addressed the Lady of Winterfell with as much poise as ever. "I am honoured by the offer, My Lady, however I will be remaining with my people."
"Of course," King Jon cut in smoothly, "Lady Brienne will walk with you back to your camp. The snows can be treacherous to those who've not grown up with them underfoot." He smiled, here, and made certain to address his next words to all three visitors, "I had hoped you would join us here again this evening, we're having a small feast prepared to welcome you properly."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Lord Tyrion spoke up again, "We would be honoured to attend."
As the visitors excused themselves and made their goodbyes, Gendry rocked back on his haunches and turned to face Arya in the gloom. "That was…"
"Yes," Arya agreed in a whisper, "It was."
The smith released a long breath and shook his head.
That had been a scale model of war. Or a cock measuring contest. Honestly, Gendry wasn't sure those weren't the same thing, but suffice to say women could measure just as well as men.
"You can come out now," the King's voice echoed up to their hiding place suddenly.
Arya rolled her eyes, but the action was fond. "Come on, then," she muttered, scooting off into the darkness with more ease that should have been possible.
Gendry clumped along after her, muttering curses as he went.
By the time Gendry found himself back in the familiar heat of the forge, the whole of Winterfell was abuzz with whispers of the Dragon Queen. Very few were accurate, mostly exaggerated tales based on glimpses that featured scaled skin, demonic wings or some form of gratuitous nudity. Even the other smiths had stories to tell. She had commissioned a metal corset of crawling dragons to be worn in place of dress or slip from a haggard-looking youth who could scarcely form a serviceable blade. She had ridden another in a dark corner and screamed out that he was better than any dragon when he spilled his seed inside her. She had licked her tits at the sight of a spotty boy's cock and pleasured a white-bearded old smith with her ebony wings…
Arry put an end to the gossip with a particularly descriptive tale wherein the conquering hero lost his manhood to Daenerys Stormborn's claw-like fingernails before being devoured by her dragons piece by piece.
With their cocks now well and truly flaccid, the forge slowly returned to its usual state of business.
"You didn't have to make her out to be a monster," Gendry pointed out as they worked together to flatten a piece of steel intended to become a breastplate, "Surely that won't help your brother's plan."
Arry shrugged between hammer blows. "And if I'd told them she's unyielding and capable, do you think they would respect her more?" she asked, "Men only respect what might harm their little dagger." She paused in her hammering long enough to wiggle a finger between her legs mockingly.
The problem, Gendry mused as he returned the steel to the flames, was that she wasn't wrong. He remembered the group of young men on the march to Winterfell and their laughing plans to fuck Lady Sansa. He remembered the way their fellow captives' gazes had turned more hungry when Arya had been revealed as a girl at Harrenhal. He remembered women with blood-soaked skirts left the tidy themselves up in forgotten alleys as their satisfied customers laughed. He remembered the bodies of the female paupers who would never be paid. Hells, he could even remember the bruises on his mother's pale face…
"Do you ever wish you were born a boy?" he asked over his shoulder as he worked the bellows.
"Of course," Arya's response was quick and sure and obvious, "But wishes only come true in songs and stories. I am what I am."
Despite asking the question, Gendry found that he had no response to that and they fell back into the rhythm of working without further comment.
It was a testament to the force with which, some time later, the worn pile of metal was deposited next to him that it made enough noise to cause the young smith to jump despite the clamour of the forge.
His hammer skipped off the now-roughed out breastplate and landed dangerously close to the fingers of his other hand as the surprise gave way to anger. "The fuck do you think you're playin' at?" he snapped, rounding on the newcomer only to freeze at the sight of him.
"Couldn't even make it with a dead man and a drunk," the Hound snarled, "Should've known you'd end up in this frozen shithole."
Gendry scowled, glancing down at the pile of scrap properly to find that it was the battered remnants of the armour he'd last seen the man wearing at his trial by combat. "Yes, I can see you've managed much better," he fired back sarcastically. He noticed, in that part of his mind that was always tracking her movements, that Arry had slipped away and busied herself with her back to them while they'd been speaking and took the unspoken cue to keep the other man busy. "This is hardly worth repairing. What did you do, fall off a cliff?"
One of the remaining muscles in the Hound's burned jaw twitched.
Huh. He'd have to see if Arya knew what that was about.
"Fuck your excuses," Clegane growled, "Fix it, or it's you I'll throw off a cliff."
Gendry bit back the retort that wanted to break free (this was the Hound, he wouldn't put it past him to find a cliff and carry out his threat) and gathered up the old armour instead. He deposited it in front of Arry to be cleaned for examination before returning his attention to its owner. "Won't be ready for a few days, and even then I can't work miracles."
"Tomorrow. I'm not going naked with the dragon bitch here."
"That's not — " Gendry began to argue, but Clegane wasn't listening.
"Girl."
Arya's movements slowed and Gendry saw an odd expression quirk her lips. She sighed, her body relaxing from Arry the orphaned smith's apprentice into the agile predator that Arya had become as she turned around to face them. "You're not dead, then."
"No thanks to you."
Arya watched him impassively, accepting his words without argument or explanation.
Clegane shook his head with a sneer. "Your sister is looking for you."
"Who told you that?" Arya laughed, a smirk playing on her face, "I assure you, Sansa is not looking for anyone."
"Hhm," the Hound looked almost impressed behind the anger and general disgust for just a moment, before the expression vanished as quickly as it had come. He turned back to the smith with his usual scowl back in place, "By tomorrow, boy."
With one final glare, Clegane made to stalk off but paused briefly at the entrance to their little alcove. "Be careful, girl. Your father played the game and lost his head, your mother and brother too."
Arya only smiled. "Not this game."
1. Are you well?
2. I am my Queen.
3. How did you come to be in the North? Did they bring you pain?
4. I came of my own free will. This was my land, at one time.