28
A combination of adrenaline and sheer determination had made it bearable to get past the grinding agony that shot through the lower half of his body every time he planted for a pitch or moved for a step, but when Gendry saw Arya climb out of the dugout and begin to walk towards the mound he was relatively sure that he was hallucinating.
The line drive had caught him directly in the shin. There was little doubt in Gendry's mind, or his searing nerves, that he was dealing on an awful bone bruise or worse. When he had been initially lying on his back with Hullen beginning to give him a fatal diagnosis, though, he had become appalled at what he was doing, lying in the grass of a major league stadium in the middle of the World Series because he was in a little pain. Far more terrified of possibly leaving Game 7 in the moment of his victory than he was of being hurt, he had demanded to be let up for practice pitches, and while each step felt like his leg was being compressed in metal press and every plant was a hundred times worse, he would willingly shoot himself in the head before he left the diamond.
And he had told as much to Luwin, both when the manager came out when he was injured and when he made the mound visit only two batters previously. Which Gendry personally believed was the only reason Luwin had not already slapped him across the face more than one time: because he would quite probably have slapped the manager right back.
Two batters later, his vision was beginning to blur. The pain that was customary to his elbow was a hundred times worse than normal, a dozen worse than it had ever been before. A tunnel was starting to set in around his eyes. His fingers could feel the chill of the air nipping at their tips, but the rest of him was on fire, from the facial sweat and steam he could see rising from the corners of his cap and hair to the burning of his elbow as it flexed with the pitch to the pounding of blood that was coursing and swelling in his left leg. The leg itself felt as if it was snapped in two, and if the bone was really fractured as Hullen had predicted, Gendry was partly concerned that it would soon be much worse if he continued to press his two-hundred pound frame on top of it pitch after pitch.
But all of that was moot.
He was at the end of a marathon, two inches from the finish line. His busted leg didn't matter, his throbbing elbow was peanuts next to the colossal journey he was about to complete. His past, his father, his heartbreak, all of the chips stacked against him were as important as the cold Winterfell air he couldn't even feel. His heart was pounding, the undying cheers of the Winterfell fans pushing it into overdrive. His fingers were almost shaking in anxiety, in excitement, in horror. Everything was in line, albeit not in a perfect picture. Two outs in the bottom of the ninth with a one-run lead. All he had to do was get one last out.
The only thing standing in his way was Sandor Clegane. Unfortunately, that was also the last person he wanted at the plate in his moment of need, in his moment of glory. Even Targaryen was better. Even Sandor's even more brutal brother was preferable. The only time Gendry and Sandor had faced off before, if one discounted bar brawls, Sandor had come out on top; by a lot. It hadn't even been close; it had last all of one pitch. Gendry would have loved to push the past out of his mind, his former failures and successes so far out of reach that all he could concentrate on was the next pitch, but he wouldn't have been human if it was possible.
Instead, as soon as Sandor Clegane strode towards the plate, all his mind delivered him was a replay of King's Landing, in the bottom of the ninth, with a broken bat and a shower of jeers and two runs going on the board for the Monarchs. The memory was of his worst failure as a major leaguer, the worst professional moment of his life, period. He would have given anything to act like it was nothing, but from the first time Robb dropped into a crouch with Clegane in the box, even over the pain of his leg all Gendry's mind was shouting at him, No more mistakes. No more mistakes. You can't afford them. He is a fastball hitter. You cannot let him get a fastball to hit. But you can't hang a slider. You can't hang a slider. You have to be perfect.
He hadn't been on the first pitch, missing, and when Clegane had struck the second slider Gendry's heart had stopped dead—for a moment, he was back in King's Landing, watching the ball sail over the fence—and even after it sailed harmlessly foul Gendry could feel a miniscule tremble run up his spine as he'd realized how close he had come to losing it all. He couldn't miss like that, again. Clegane was hungry and on a hot streak, and they were playing for all the marbles.
Two fastballs later, though, one which missed the zone and one which Clegane somehow only fouled away, Gendry was waist-high in the pressure. Clegane was glaring at him, reminding him who had won in King's Landing, reminding him who had won the bar fight, and it was almost a promise, a promise that no matter what Gendry threw, Clegane would find a way to make Gendry pay. So Gendry went away from the fastball, and missed the strike zone on the fifth pitch of the at-bat, too, and suddenly the count was full, the crowd was up, the bases were loaded, and the entire damn season came down to a single pitch.
His whole damn life came down to. One. Pitch.
He was just toeing the rubber, heart hammering as he realized how much weight was riding on his arm, gritting his teeth and steeling himself mentally to throw the most perfect, deceptive breaking ball he'd ever thrown in his life when Luwin stepped out of the dugout and called time out. His first reaction was shock: having already made one trip to the mound in the inning, Luwin could only use his second one to yank Gendry from the game, and Gendry had thought they had reached an understanding that such wasn't going to happen.
When Luwin took not one step from where he stood, however, and Arya popped up from the dugout with a stolid look of determination across her face to begin marching straight towards him, Gendry was firmly under the impression that he had gone crazy.
It was only after he realized that both the home plate umpire and Robb—and Clegane, for that matter—were staring incredulously in the same direction as Gendry that it dawned on him that Arya was not an agonized conjuring from his imagination. The large jersey she wore was real, along with the baseball hat, and she really was walking towards him looking more stoic and belonging than a hundred coaches as if to deliver judgment. The crowd's abrupt loss of noise indicated that they had noticed her, as well, and were equally perplexed, which left all of them, from the fans in the top row to Gendry with his jaw hanging wide open. Pycelle and Jaime Lannister were in view in the Monarchs' dugout, the former with his mouth width nearly rivaling his beard length and the latter posing regally with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow. The reactions themselves to the situation would have been comical... if the situation had been any other situation whatsoever.
Arya crossed the foul territory grass and the foul line, not slowing down once. Gendry was sure that a nineteen-year-old girl with no official affiliation with the team was not allowed to make mound visits, but for whatever reason the home plate umpire looked far more enwrapped in a confused state than he was in dragging Arya back off of the field, and in the mean time she was over the foul line and into fair territory, nearly to him, still with the same fixated look sculpted into her features.
Robb, belatedly, several seconds behind, tore away from the plate at as near a sprint as his gear could allow him, making a supreme effort to head Arya off before she could reach the mound, perhaps spin her around and toss her back to the dugout. Gendry could see before he started, as mostly likely he had as well, that he was far too late to do any such thing, but that did not mean he made any less of an effort in the journey. As it was, they reached the mound dirt and stomped up it at the same time, one of them glaring at Gendry, the other glaring at the other.
"Arya," Robb hissed dangerously, his eyes forcefully not glaring around, "what the hell are you doing? Get the fuck back in the dugout right now!"
Arya completely, utterly ignored her brother and sidled right up to Gendry. Before he could say something much along the lines of Robb's words, she snapped at up him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Gendry gaped at her, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. "What the... What do you mean what am I doing? What are you doing?"
Glancing around frantically, Robb growled, "Arya, I'm pretty damn sure that you are risking the game right now for us by being out here. Get your ass in the dugout right now before I—"
"What the hell is with all the sliders?" Arya barked back, not once taking her eyes off of Gendry's. "You've put yourself in a full count because you've been fucking around offspeed."
Gendry blinked at her, his mouth still fully open, seriously trying to comprehend that she was on the mound in the middle of the ninth inning of Game 7 of the World Series because she was having a disagreement over his pitch selection. Before he could help himself, he replied, "What the hell am I supposed to throw?"
"Uh, the fastball?" she retorted condescendingly, as though it should have been obvious. Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head at him, and he knew that in any other circumstance in any other location she would have punched him. "Come on, stupid, you're not dumb. Quit messing around. Stick to what you know."
"You want me to throw a fastball," Gendry repeated, "to the best fastball hitter in the game. I've tried that, look, he's fouled me twice on them—"
"No, he fouled you off once, and he wasn't even close to solid contact," Arya rumbled, and even before her gaze had turned icy in a challenge to contradict her did he remember that she spoke the truth. "The other one was a slider that you shouldn't have been messing with in the first place." She threw her hands in the air and twisted her lips at him. "Well, now you're in a hole, and you need to go with your out pitch. You need to go with a fastball."
Gendry glanced at Robb, whose teeth were gnashing in frustration at being ignored but who also didn't appear as though he were inclined to intervene in his present state of mind. "Clegane's sitting dead to rights on a fastball. You want me to feed him exactly what he wants to see? He'll clobber it! He'll destroy it! It'll still be flying this time tomorrow!"
"No, it won't," Arya told him. He could see his blue eyes reflected in the back of her stormy grey ones, so intense was their contact. "You're going to put it past him."
"Arya," he hissed through clenched teeth, "he's the best fucking fastball hitter in the game—"
"Yeah?!" She took a step closer and crossed her arms over her chest. The crowd began to whisper in the background, rising to a murmur, perhaps as they realized what was taking place. "Well, you're the best damn fastball pitcher in the game, Gendry. All right? You're not throwing sliders because you think it's the smart thing to do, you're throwing fastballs because you're afraid of what he might do if you do throw a fastball. You're afraid of him, just because of some stupid scouting report. He hasn't even ever hit your fastball, all he's ever gotten off of you was one cheap home run on a mistake. Don't fall into his trap. Do what you do best. Throw your heat."
"I'm trying to pitch a game," Gendry muttered, feeling his own frustration rising inside of him. "I'm trying to win the World Series. So yes, I am afraid that he's going to hit my fastball, which is exactly why I can't throw it—"
"Oh, bull shit, Gendry." Arya shook her head, her intensity taking on a whole new color. "Bull shit. If he can hit your fastball, then he deserves to win. If he can hit your fastball, then there's nothing you could have done about it and there is no shame. If you throw a slider and miss, you bring in a run and might just throw the game away. Everything gone." She opened her eyes a little wider and lowered her chin knowingly. "But if you throw a fastball... the least that can happen is that you give yourself and your team a chance at an out. And if I were any kind of a betting person, if my money was on the line, I would take your fastball against anyone. Any inning. Any game. Any day."
Gendry blinked. His ears heard the words, but his mind struggled to process them. He blinked again, and lowered his own chin at her, unable to believe the praise. Arya didn't say such things. Arya was far too smart when it game to baseball... "I don't... if I could put a fastball past him..."
He looked up at the plate, where the umpire was tapping his foot, the look of bafflement on his face still present but diminishing steadily. As he watched, the steady murmur of the crowd rose around him, and the unmistakable sound of his name being called for forty five thousand voices rose from a hush to a call, steadily escalating throughout the entire Great Keep as he watched. He nearly gasped in emotion, staring up at the crowd, staring in at an impatient crowd, glaring out at the scoreboard that echoed how close and how far he was from everything he had ever dreamed of. His leg panged; his elbow throbbed. A thousand miles of journey pounded away at his head, at his back, at his arm; he could feel every step that he had taken, every hardship, every obstacle. He had only one more. He was so close.
Turning back to look her straight in the eye, he murmured, "I don't know if I have it in me. I will throw my arm off trying, but I don't know if I can blow him away."
"Everyone gets hit some time," she murmured back. They weren't speaking anymore as baseball fanatic and pitcher, as they'd begun. Now it was personal; now it was intimate. Now it was only Arya and Gendry. "Everyone blows a save. Everyone loses a game. No one signs anybody expecting them to be perfect. No hitter hits a thousand, or five hundred, or freaking four hundred.
"That's your name they're chanting, Gendry. Your name, because they believe in you. Okay, so your fastball's not perfect. But it's pretty damn good. I saw what you could do the very first time I saw you throw. I saw what you could do, then, and what I saw was the best damn pitch I have ever seen in my life. And I haven't seen anything since then that has made me change my mind. Yes, you've been hit before. Yes, you'll probably be hit again." She looked deep into his eyes, her voice growing softer and softer with each word, so that now he wasn't even sure if Robb could hear what she was saying. "But not today. Not now. Not here. You're stronger than that, and I know that you are better than Sandor Clegane or Aegon Targaryen or anyone else that they could throw up to the plate against you.
"Because when you're on the mound and you have your heat in your hand and you're being who you are, it doesn't matter who you're facing, or if there's even someone there, or if everyone's there. When you throw, they don't hit. You're untouchable."
For a very long moment, he thought she was going to do something very stupid. Like kiss him. Instead, to his vast relief and disappointment, she took one step backwards without breaking their eye contact and then turned around and began to stride back to the dugout with the same dignity that she had held marching from it. Gendry and Robb stood on the mound, staring after her, both of their mouths still hanging slightly agape. The Direwolves' dugout, likewise, Luwin and Cassel included in the number, all sat or stood on the top step or bench staring at her as she returned. She reached the top step and threw Jory's hat back at him, where it bounced off of the man's chest invisibly as he, too, glared at her as if she was crazy. She merely glared back and flung his jersey back at him, too, before turning and leaning over one knee against the top step, her eyes back on Gendry, confidence mingled with power gracing her features.
It was that sight that rooted him back to the spot, and his mouth clapped shut firmly as he turned to Robb. Arya's brother began to speak, hesitated, then began once more and hesitated a second time. After taking a glance over his shoulder at the umpire, who was glancing down at a watch holding the probably over-the-limit time of their visit already, Robb muttered, "So what do you want to do?"
"What do you think we should do?" Gendry replied.
Robb hesitated once again, but after only a moment his face broke into a subtle grin. His eyes slid to the churning stands, where thousands of people were still chanting Gendry's name, before he turned back to his pitcher. "Well... say what you will, but my sister's no fool."
They stared at each other for one long moment, and then Gendry nodded. "Then let's do it and get the hell out of here."
The two men turned away from each other, the sounds of Robb descending the hill following the jostling of his gear as he hurried back to the plate. A roar of approval and excitement rose from the crowd anew as pitcher and catcher separated, with the universal understanding that it was all about to culminate, for better or worse. Their chant grew, following Gendry up the mound, causing him to look up at them once again whilst standing solitary in the middle of everything. For just a split second, he thought that he was about to wake up in his rundown apartment in King's Landing to find it was all in his head. Then it passed, and his worry morphed into disbelief, into incredulity, into emotional wonder.
He scraped the dirt off of the rubber as Robb reached the plate and pondered this wonder as he did so. Six months ago, his best hope was to get in three or four games of pickup per week, in the middle of scraping through every hour of work, hording all the money he could earn, praying for a better opportunity, resigned to a perpetual existence of no family and no future. Six months after that, he had dealt with as much emotion as was physically or mentally possible in a human, gone through more hurt in that time than he had in his first twenty-four years as a toll for crossing the border between hopelessness and destiny, and it had all driven him to this spot.
Sandor Clegane weighed in inside the batter's box, pounding the plate with his bat, waiting, waiting for Gendry, waiting like a predator who knew his prey would eventually come to him. The bases were juiced, only ninety feet minus change separating the run from scoring and ruining everything he had worked so hard for. A ligament in his elbow was torn, probably far worse than it had been when it was initially injured. He was pitching on a broken leg. One mistake was all it would take to destroy him; it was absolutely do or die.
And he'd be damned if it wasn't the best fucking moment of his life.
This was it.
This was his destiny, the culmination of his life, all of the moments from the second of his birth to his misery in the orphanage, past his rugged climb through school to the despair of the streets, to meeting the discarded angel he couldn't live without and finding greatness in the tiniest of places. Every event, every awful moment, every heartbreaking instant and incredible triumph, every last thing had been walking Gendry up to this moment, stepping onto the mound to face off against his worst nemesis for the championship of the world in a game he loved more than everything else in the world. Except for one thing.
Forty-five thousand people stood on their feet, his name on their lips nearly reaching the level of a tumultuous storm. He could see their faces, could hear their voices, their cries, their cheers, their beliefs, their emotions, their hope, their longing, their need, their hearts, their souls, as clearly as he could feel the blood flowing through his arms and legs, as naturally as he could hear his heart beating, take comfort in the light thumping of its pace. Above, thousands and thousands watched, thousands and thousands that were hundreds of feet away, millions who were miles and miles farther, all of them in reality right by his side, as much invested in the moment as he was, their lives as much destined to change in the space of following few seconds as his. His breath was the air they drew, his heartbeat was theirs, their thunderous applause and rabid screams were the sweat droplets running down his face, the steam rising from the back of his neck. They were his, he was theirs, they were an irreversible part of each other, and every last one of them loved him, needed him, wanted the pitch he was about to throw.
He stepped onto the rubber.
On third base, Duckfield peered nervously between Gendry and Clegane. Swann and Tyrell took their leads from first and second, but they didn't matter. Joffrey stood on deck, useless as always, watching with blatant anxiety. Clegane planted himself in the batter's box and raised his lumber onto his shoulder, arms as wide as pineapples flexing threateningly. His scarred face was set, fearsome and determined. Gendry could feel his own face set, quiet and concentrated. Forty-five thousand people waited loudly for one pitch, one moment, one defining second of history. In the dugout on one side, Pycelle, Lannister, a dozen other greats who already had their names written into the legacy of baseball forever watched in trepidation. In the dugout on the other, thirty men who had scratched and clawed their way every inch to where they were peered onward trustingly, emotionally, as their hero stood in for the last second. Next to Luwin, Arya crouched on the edge of the top step; of everyone in the stadium, her face was the only one that wasn't anxious. It was calm, collected... it was his.
Robb glanced up at Clegane's eyes. He dropped one finger between his legs. Gendry nodded.
His plant leg throbbed as he came set, two jagged ends of broken bone grinding against one another as his weight settled onto them—he barely felt it. The torn ligament in his elbow sent arcing pain up the length of his arm, tingling in his fingers and wracking his muscles all the way to his ribcage—it was a fly buzzing at the edge of his consciousness. Sweat pounded against the chill of the air, rolling across the fire of his blood, cooling the heavy beat of his heart, washing away all of his senses, all of his thoughts, everything, Clegane, the fans, the game, the world, everything except for Robb's glove, opening and closing once at the end of a tunnel, an endless corridor at the other end of which rested his fate.
He drew breath, and knew it would be his last gulp of air before he threw the baseball, the last gulp of air before he strode to the plate. As it filled his lungs, filled his body, replenished his blood, seethed his head, words floated across the surface of his mind, words from a hundred voices, memories of a hundred moments, a hundred faces.
My daughter tells me you're a ballplayer. The first thing Ned Stark had ever said to him, the words that began it all. Throw the ball! Don't be such a girl! An antagonizing remark that had made him throw for the man. I want to give you a shot to pitch professionally. I'm going to go about this bluntly, Gendry. We like what you have. We like the potential you have. Perhaps not the most extravagant beginning to fulfilling dreams, but all legends and losers alike must begin somewhere. Luwin's voice joined the mix.
And there were others. It's not much, lad, but every great starts somewhere. Dondarrion. Are ye trying to snap your bloody elbow, boy? It's a wonder it hasn't broken in two and fallen off in the dirt with how you're throwin'. Jack, lucky Jack. First time, eh? Let's just do your thing. Thoros. And they didn't stop, and he didn't want them to. Your head is what it will take to get you to the next level. Proveto me that you're a bigger person than this. Sometimes, it's okay to give up a run or two to prove something your character.
So you can hit, too, huh? Slow down, hotshot. You're not all that, you know. A hundred pains, a hundred smiles, a hundred voices, even his own. Just because you swung through strike one from some person and then through strike two from another doesn't mean you're out yet. I did it, Arya! I made it here! I made it!
I don't know why you were messing with the slider to the first two hitters, though. Should've just blown them away with the fastball.
I need you in for the ninth inning.
Your first career save ever. Hewantedyou in that position, Gendry, because he knew you could execute, and you did. Maybe if Robb called a better game you would already be an all-star. It's never too late to learn. For anybody.
I know Ned Stark wouldn't put any stock at all in you unless you have heart, and you have heart. Whether you're a competitor or just one tough bastard, you belong. The team needs you. You call for it. I'll hit it. What has happened is yours to deal with. Make a choice and start convincing the world the face you just showed isn't you. This is our shot at greatness! I don't think I've ever faced anyone like you before. Let's go make history. They're just like all the others, you know, like everyone else who said we wouldn't get this far. You must just be so strong show them how dangerous a cornered wolf really is I'll be watching if he puts the ball where he wants to when he wants to he's virtually unhittable they can't touch him he is still the best weapon you have the only weapon you have I don't know how you can possibly do it if I were any kind of a betting person if my money was on the line I would take your fastball against anyone whenyouthrowtheydon'thityoumustbesostrongdon'thitsostrongdon'thitsostrongyou'reuntouchableyou'reuntouchableuntouchableuntouchableuntouchable...
What do we say to the god of strikeouts?
Gendry exhaled.
...today.
There was no majestic slowing of time, no silence that blotted out everything except for his heartbeat. None of that. He simply strode to the plate and released the baseball. From his hand it soared like a bullet with the wings of an eagle, the most natural flight the world had ever seen.
Sandor Clegane took one step and swung at the pitch with all of his might.
...and Robb snagged the untouched fastball down the heart of the plate, and, before Clegane's backswing had even finished, it was all over.
Too many things happened at once for Gendry to realize all of them, and he himself was involved in most of them. The stadium shattered, forty or fifty thousand or a million screams breaking the night in half as all of Winterfell collectively cried out in victory and leaped into the air. Gendry brought his glove and throwing hand up to his head, cradling himself, his mouth hanging agape, unable to fully comprehend what had happened as the Direwolves' dugout exploded. Robb tore his catcher's mask off of his face and threw it straight into the ground as he roared in triumph, ripping his mitt off next and slinging it mindlessly into the air as he took off for Gendry with a face full of joy and disbelief.
As it began to set in within the next few seconds, Gendry's arms came down from his head to clinch in victory, and he stared straight at Robb whilst releasing a giddy scream as he hobbled down the mound on his broken leg and launched himself towards his catcher. Robb hit his arms at the same time, the two of them clinging to each other in a wild embrace of success and, broken leg or no, Gendry lifted his best friend into the air, the both of them crying out happily at the top of their lungs, until their center of gravity shifted and they went toppling to the ground, still clutching each other and roaring.
Which was where the infielders met them. It became a pile, the two corners and second basemen seizing Gendry by the jersey and slinging their arms around him, a five-person mass of flailing limbs and embraces, before Hallis crashed over the top of them and began hugging any limb he could find. At the bottom of the pile, Gendry still held on to Robb, gasping in deep breaths, holding tight to his friend and to his infielders and to their win, nearly hyperventilating in his euphoria.
We won the World Series. I won the World Series. I just won the World Series.
It hit him again and again, like cannonballs to his chest, like the relievers, pitchers, and utility players from the dugout that had reached their mass and were piling on themselves, a conglomerated mess of smiles and limbs and slaps on the shoulder and red faces as every Direwolf at once tried to let every other Direwolf know just how much they loved each other. Through the gaps between his teammates, Gendry could see that the stands was a roiling throng of hands and leaping, many of the fans embracing the people on either side of them just like the players, although in more than one case the fans had no idea who they were hugging. It was mindless celebration, it was mindless victory, it was unintelligible happiness and shock. The game was over, with the score of eight to the Direwolves against seven for the Monarchs. Game 7 of the World Series decided, four games to three in favor of the Direwolves.
His eyes catching the masses of the crowd while Robb cried exclamations of success and fraternity in his ear, Gendry suddenly remembered Arya through his drunken glee. He slammed his hand into Robb's back a few more times—as much as he could considering the heap—and then released the catcher, beginning to claw his way out of the pile.
It wasn't easy; every time he made progress towards the edge, away from the crushing weight of the center of it, he found a new teammate who would nearly kiss him in his happiness, a new teammate that he couldn't resist seizing a hold off and celebrating anew with for a long moment before continuing his journey. His leg was jostled more than once in a more than excruciating manner, but the adrenaline and bliss and determination of the moment didn't let him feel it as he continued to fight joyously for the surface. Even when he finally emerged from the pile, Edric suddenly front-flipped into it anew as the outfielders sprinted in to join the celebration and knocked him, laughing, back into the mess. Only a renewed effort let him disentangle himself enough to limp up on his feet and gawk around frantically for Arya.
He was a considerable mess himself. His jersey had been pulled out of his pants, his hat had been lost somewhere in the mess and his hair was sticking up at all angles, but he didn't care about any of that as he swung around. Some stragglers outside of the pile grabbed hold of him and screamed into his face for another few moments before moving along to other people, leaping up and down. Some paces away from the pile of players, the coaches were gripping each other by the forearms, considerably more composed but still quite giddy as they shook each other's hands and slapped each other's shoulders and finally succumbed to the hugs everyone was secretly trying to resist. Gendry had to peer past hurtling outfielders and Luwin and Cassel both looking as though they'd been hit by a truck—in the best way possibly—for more than a single moment before he finally saw her.
She was standing removed from both the coaches and the players, on the other side of the foul line. Camera crews and reporters were milling around her, trying to get in close for a shot of the Direwolves' celebration, but she herself wasn't moving. Her arms were by her sides, her hair was not in disarray. She stood perfectly calm, but her eyes were trained directly on him as he found her, and the most genuine smile he had ever seen out of Arya Stark was emblazoned across her face.
Without hesitation, he skirted the edge of the pile, pausing only long enough to slap a few more players on the back, and swung around it at a near jog on his broken leg to where she stood. Cameras and reporters pushed in close to him, and questions were screamed in his face, flashing lights going off inches from his eyes, but he ignored them all, so intent was he on the woman waiting on the other end of their mass, her smile never faltering in the slightest and even growing a shade as he approached her.
He broke away from the reporters at the last moment, as they realized that he actually had a destination in mind and halted, and Arya lifted her arms to him as he reached her. He seized her around the waist, lifting her off of the ground, exactly the same as he had the very first time he had held her, on a night at his apartment that seemed years in the past. Her arms seized around his neck hard as she wrenched him into a hug and squeezed with all of her might. Directly in his ear, she finally released her own peal of happiness, but against the already deafening crowd it made no difference, and he could only smile wider as he held her as close to him as he possibly could.
When she drew back, neither of them let go. He didn't set her down. With her arms firmly locked around his neck, peering an inch or two down at him from her ascended vantage, she leaned down to him and kissed him, in full view of the world. In full view of the cameras snapping and filming away only paces behind him, in full view of the forty five thousand people still hooting and hollering for dear life in the stands. In full view of her family, in full view of Ned Stark, Arya kissed him as sweetly as they had ever kissed before, and when they both finally allowed the other's lips to escape, she simply kept grinning at him slyly as she rested their foreheads together.
The celebration continued around them, players beginning to simmer down, their energy running from hyperactivity to simple happiness. Occasionally, a player would still pass by, take one glance at the two of them and grin, and then heavily slap Gendry on the back two or three times before rushing off to find another yet unclaimed teammate to rejoice with. Only when it was finally Robb who came over to them, his leg protectors discarded somewhere in the field and his chest protector hanging half off of his shoulder, did Gendry set Arya back on her feet. Sister and brother embraced, laughing, singing, both of them looking close to tears, and when the two released each other Robb seized Gendry by the arm with another smirk and roped him in for another embrace, one that was between brothers, not teammates.
"I knew you could do it," Robb hissed at him emotionally, squeezing hard at Gendry's ribs. "I knew you had it in you."
Gendry pulled back and seized Robb by the shoulders, and shook him once with a broad grin. "I knew we could do it. And we did. We all did it together."
The two of them beamed at one another wordlessly for another long moment, too happy to speak, speech unnecessary to convey what they were feeling, and then they both turned to Arya and opened up their arms once more. She smiled a little wider, a tear actually escaping her eye, and rushed into their arms eagerly, the three of them bowing their heads together in a shared moment of completion in the midst of the infernal tempest of Winterfell's ultimate victory.
In the middle of their hug, Gendry lifted his head away from the other two while Robb whispered something to his sister, and glanced over towards the Monarchs' dugout. Clegane still stood near the on-deck circle with his back turned to Gendry, his bat now broken into two pieces in either hand and his head turned towards the ground in disbelief. Pycelle was leaning against the dugout railing, gripping it stiffly and staring at the dirt, a few more wrinkles than usual standing out around his eyes. Jaime Lannister stood next to him with his arms crossed, hosting a furtive expression, neither angry nor joyous, as he watched the Direwolf celebration. Inside, underneath the overhand, Joffrey was in plain view screaming in the face of several of his teammates, all of whom were pointedly ignoring him. Except for him, the Monarchs, down to a man, either stood or sat stiffly, as though they were still trying to acknowledge that they had just lost the World Series to the Winterfell Direwolves.
Targaryen stood on one of the steps, staring out at the Direwolves with a perpetually wide-eyed expression, his arms hanging lifelessly by his side, his silver, hatless hair reflecting the gleam of the stadium lights as though an emblem of his shock. Gendry watched his eyes travel over the Direwolves, one by one, and then turn up to the stands without him ever shifting his head. The look in Targaryen's eye was as if he had never seen such a calamity of celebration before, like he'd never before beheld something as spectacular as what was occurring in the stands of the Great Keep, but also that he had never expected it to happen and that he was flattened by it.
Gendry, despite himself and all that had passed between them, almost felt pity and sympathy for his opponent, and was just about to look away when Targaryen's eyes darted directly to his and locked. Both of them froze, both of their faces locking. For several long moments, they stared at each other, while Gendry wasn't quite sure what they were feuding over anymore. The game was over; the Direwolves had won, as evidenced by the prancing players, fans, and reporters strewn about the Great Keep.
Then, after a very long moment, Targaryen glanced over the Direwolves and the stands once again before he opened his mouth and clearly sighed. Looking back to Gendry, his head shifted an inch forward, nearly making Gendry's jaw fall open in surprise. Before Gendry could muster a reply in anyway, the Monarch turned his back on the field and descended into the dugout and out of sight, but the ghost of the nod, the ghost of acceptance, remained, and Gendry found himself regarding Targaryen in a different light.
At precisely that moment, Arya turned her face up to him and smiled, and the joy of victory surged into him renewed, and he forgot about Targaryen and the Monarchs and held her and Robb a little tighter.
Sometime later, what may have been hours, wearing a randomly scooped-up hat backwards and a Direwolves World Series Champions t-shirt that someone had thrust at him, Gendry was still walking around with Robb, an arm slung around Edric, all three of them grinning from ear to ear shamelessly. He'd shaken countless hands of teammates and reporters and coaches and even some fans that had pushed their way up to the rope-restraint that held back the crowd from the platform that had been rolled onto the field for the postgame ceremonies, and was enjoying a moment with two of the people who had rode on the hard journey with him when Luwin strode up to Gendry and tapped him by the arm.
"Come on, Gendry," Luwin said with the smallest smile Gendry had ever seen. He nodded towards the platform, where a podium had been set up and atop which Ned Stark stood with the commissioner of major league baseball. The two men were looking at Gendry, leaning towards each other and speaking, and Gendry's heart stopped as he realized what Luwin meant. "We've got something for you."
Gendry froze, rooted to the spot. On either side of him, Robb and Edric smiled and placed their hands on his back, and tried to shove him forward. He had long since lost any feeling in his left leg, but it betrayed him now; beneath their push he hobbled forward on it, still staring at the platform in shock, and Luwin took the opportunity to place his own hand on Gendry's back and direct him forward, towards the platform. Left behind, Robb and Edric merely smiled wider when Gendry threw a glance over his shoulder for help.
Thrust up to the platform steps by his manager, Gendry was helpless but to march up ahead of the man, up towards where Ned Stark stood waiting with an unintelligible expression, his mitten-clad hands clasped before him sternly. The commissioner stood behind him, watching Gendry with a warm smile as he mounted the steps. Both older men scrutinized him, though one was considerably warmer than the other. Gendry had made no attempt to hide his display of affection, considering that the series was over and his contract was mute, now, but he still did not know what Ned Stark's reaction would be if he had seen. And he had almost certainly seen. Now, the man's face was blank and cold, though it could have been only the weather, as he gestured beside his own body.
"Stand here, if you would please, Gendry," the owner of the Direwolves told him, stepping slightly aside to make room. "We're behind schedule, so we'd like to get this done immediately."
"What?" Gendry blurted, as he stumbled into his place. Luwin quickly stepped up on his other side, barring him in, leaving him with no route of escape. "Just wait a—"
"No time for waiting," Luwin said, cutting off his words with a deceptively sharp elbow, all the time wearing the infuriating little smirk. "Just smile and look pretty."
Gendry turned to his manager to quite vocally continue his protest, but it was all happening too fast for him to get the opportunity. The next thing he knew, the commissioner was stepping up to the podium and taking one last glance over his shoulder to receive a thumbs-up of preparedness from Ned Stark before he cleared his throat into the microphone. Gendry's jaw snapped shut as the cough was echoed throughout the stadium, over the loudspeaker, as all of the world's eyes turned onto the platform, and he was helpless thereafter to do anything but look on in a mixture of horror and excitement as the commissioner began to speak.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!" the commissioner boomed, glancing around at the assembled fans with a wide beam. "What a ride, eh?"
The crowd roared in agreement, showering their players still huddled below the platform with cheers. Pockets took up chants of Gendry's and the Direwolves' names anew, but for the large part there was simply glee reflected in the exclamations of those assembled.
"It is my honor to welcome you here to the end of another great season of baseball," the commissioner continued. "Just in our game tonight, we saw an incredible battle between this year's two greatest teams. Beyond that, we've just seen the end of one of the greatest World Series' ever played. I don't think anyone in their right mind could dispute that. Just watching it myself, I wished that we had two trophies, because each team deserved it."
A chorus of conflicting cheers and pockets of boos went up throughout the crowd, but the commissioner merely smiled at them until they had calmed once more. "Nevertheless, only one team can win. Only one team can take home the cake. We set out this morning with two teams in the running, but tonight, ladies in gentlemen, it's down to one."
The loudest roar of them all took root in the fans of Winterfell. Gendry felt his face color, not in embarrassment or fear but in simple emotion, causing him to take a shuddering breath as he gazed up at the fans. Ned Stark and Luwin both raised their hands as well to clap along with the audience, all eyes trained upon the forty men wearing the Direwolves' uniform, standing around the platform in clumps, many with their arms around their teammates, staring up at the crowd with smiles and awestruck expressions.
When the noise died down once again, the commissioner pressed forward. "Before we bring out the big trophy, we'd like to present the award to this year's World Series MVP. This year's selection was very difficult. My colleagues and I both felt that there were a number of players, on both teams, were deserving of this honor, with their play, with their approach, with their determination and toughness, but, alas, as with the World Series itself there can only be one MVP, and we've spent time in careful consideration before we've finally settled on who our MVP is."
A man to the commissioner's right stepped forward and handed to the commissioner the MVP trophy, shining in brilliant silver transparence beneath the lights of the Great Keep. Gendry shuddered as his breath washed from him shakily; Luwin clapped him lightly on the back, still grinning. The commissioner shifted the piece of ornate glass in his arms as he turned back to the podium, and Gendry almost gasped. It was just as beautiful as he'd ever imagined it to be, as beautiful as he'd ever pictured it when he dared to dream about what it would like in his hands...
"Many players in these seven games displayed the qualities major league baseball finds most endearing in a professional player. But one of them has stood out above all the rest. Not in many years, if ever, has baseball ever seen such a determined rise, such an attitude for toughness and endurance, to persevere through adversity and continue to compete." Ned Stark shifted his feet and glanced at Gendry, but said nothing; Gendry was having too much difficulty breathing to care. "If I may say so, it is the final image of a season where underdogs truly rose to become titans, and it is embodied in this player if it is embodied in anyone. So, it is my distinct pleasure and honor to present the World Series MVP award, boasting five games pitched out of the seven in the World Series with two of them resulting in saves, to the winning pitcher of Game 7, Gendry Waters."
The crowd erupted, and Gendry completely forgot how to exist. The commissioner turned to him with a broad smile, but all Gendry himself could do was gape incredulously until Luwin nudged him into motion from behind. With a stumbling hobble, lurching past Ned Stark before he tried to cover his limp, Gendry moved forward to grasp the commissioner's open right hand and mumble a thanks to counter the commissioner's congratulations. With numb fingers and nearly-shaking arms, he gingerly accepted the trophy that the commissioner lightly placed into his hands, staring at it for several moments before he was able to do anything else.
Then, looking up at the crowd, at all of the faces roaring their approval, at all of the hands going together for him, at the searing chant of his name that pounded through the stadium at that moment, Gendry truly began to lose his grip. He thought that perhaps he should do something—hold the trophy up, smile, wave, anything—but he was losing his thoughts.
Before he could help himself, his eyes darted towards the Direwolves' dugout, where Arya was lounging now, leaning against the railing with crossed arms. Her two younger brothers were with her, both of them clapping with the crowd, both of them cheering loudly for him, but she herself was just gazing at him with a soft smile on her lips. She could feel what he felt, as the fans cheered, as their exclamation rolled over him, rushing through his blood, playing with his soul. She knew exactly what was running through his mind; all of his past, all of his present, and how he never thought he would ever amount to anything... and suddenly he was there. At the end of Game 7 of the World Series, holding the MVP trophy in his hands.
Arya gave just a little nod, and a tear slipped from Gendry's eye as so much understanding passed between them, and that was when he began to really fall apart. He turned away from the podium, from the crowd, as the tears really began to cascade down his face. One lurching step was all it took him to get to where Luwin and Ned Stark lunged to catch him in his emotionally spent state, and then Luwin was carefully lifting the trophy away from him and Ned Stark had him fully encased in a protective grip, and Gendry was sobbing in Ned Stark's arms.
It was the last thing he had ever expected to happen, but the grip the older man held over him wasn't tentative, humiliated, or unsympathetic. Instead, the old man held hard, patting and rubbing his back, as if even he knew how much feeling was passing through Gendry at that moment. Whatever had passed between them before was moot in that moment, as Gendry wrapped his arms, too, around his owner and simply let his emotions fly. The crowd only grew louder and more emotional themselves as he broke down, holding tight to his only lifeline, and it seemed there was nothing he could do to sever his connection with them. Even the commissioner's camera-worthy smirk regressed into a very sympathetic smile as he, too, put his hands together with the crowd.
So it was that Gendry, the World Series MVP, sobbed himself dry on Ned Stark's shoulders until he was able to finally release the older man and grab hold of Robb by the shoulders where the catcher had risen onto the platform. Smiling warmly, the captain merely held Gendry up as he brought his breathing under control, and was finally able to hold his weight once again. They held onto each other's shoulders, bonded by something greater than friendship, and simply nodded at each other while Robb's father and Luwin patted them on the back and the crowd finally settled down enough to allow the commissioner to once more approach the podium, as the man from previously now brought out a different trophy, a gleaming metal trophy made of tiny, varying heighted flags arranged in a circle.
"And now," the commissioner continued, "we say goodbye to another baseball season. But what a fantastic season it was. And now, without further ado, ladies and gentlemen of Winterfell, ladies and gentlemen of the world, I present to you your World Series Champions, the Winterfell Direwolves!"
As loud as it had been for Gendry, the boom this time was even louder. The commissioner strode to Gendry and Robb and offered them the trophy, which they each took with both hands, staring at it for a long moment as the entirety of the city rose up around them, the cheers extending beyond the walls of the Great Keep, beyond the edges of the city, to the farthest reaches of Westeros. The two men, the two brothers, looked each other in the eye with a mutual grin, and then they both hoisted the trophy up over their heads, holding it up to the audience, and if it was even possible the cheers only become louder.
They stood like that for several moments, staring up at the crowd, bearing their pride and accomplishment to the world. Then, with a muffled prompt from Robb, they brought the trophy back down to their hands and Robb took it from Gendry with care. Both of them walked, one of them at more of a hobble than the other one, past the applauding Ned Stark and Luwin, past the flashing cameras and blitzing reporters, and strode to the edge of their platform, where their teammates were waiting for them. Both of them wearing wide smirks reflected in the forty faces of the Direwolves, Robb leaned over and passed the World Series trophy to a beaming Edric as all the team moved close to touch a hand to their prize. One by one, the Direwolves each took their turn hoisting the metal beauty in their hands, each savoring the feeling, each savoring the joy, sharing it with each other while the world looked on in praise.
As Robb and Gendry still stood with their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, Gendry wondered how he could possibly keep living, when he had reached a moment of such joy. Then, his eyes swept over Arya's and they both grinned anew, spending their time as the trophy exchanged hands simply watching each other and relishing the moment.
He completely smothered his wonder, then, now shocked that he had ever had the thought. The arm around his shoulder belonged to his best friend. Below him, his family wavered between staring magnificently at the trophy and reaching up to grasp his hand. Ahead of him, a future of companionship, not loneliness, awaited him, and no matter where his road took him, no matter what tomorrow had in store, the moment around them at that second bound them as more than family. Forever.
And, staring in Arya's eyes, he knew that the promise of a future with her only meant that his best days were yet to come. So, instead of wondering how it could possibly get better, he wondered instead if he would ever be able to stop smiling.