Chapter 2 Moving On Up (Literally)

The education in Westeros well and truly sucked.

The general concept is for parents to pass down what they know to their kids, who pass it down to their kids, and so on and so forth. Until eventually, it boils down to every child needing to follow along in the footsteps of their mothers and fathers or get fucked.

Not literally.

Well, okay, so maybe literally. If you're young, beautiful, and a female, or just one of those things, you could always find work in a brothel. Say what you will about this crap hole of a country, but at least it never lacks for prostitutes.

It's just like Amsterdam! You know if Amsterdam had high political tensions, incestuous relations, and several millions worth of debt. Oh, wait, it might actually have the last one. Probably has that last one.

I mean, I can't really judge. The last time I checked (when I was alive, eight years ago), my country was like a trillion in debt. And America is inarguably the greatest country in the world! (Fight me). Somehow, I don't think a nation run by hippies would fare much better.

What was I talking about? Oh, yeah! The education system!

So yeah, it was horrible, which is most definitely deliberate. After all, educated masses are thinking masses. Thinking masses may think that the whole government set-up really needs to be reformed. Then they might think, hey, you know, instead of 'reforming' it, why not replace it?

Suddenly, heads will go flying like it's the French Revolution, and the people begin to upturn a society that's been stagnant for over a thousand years. The lords, knights, priests, and the Crown all happen to take offense to this and call the 'rebellion' an 'insurrection'.

Suddenly it's a civil war, where all or at least most of the actually trained tacticians and warriors, make battle against the people who make their food, serve their wine, and tend to the majority of their land.

Either way, it doesn't really have a perfect ending. That's war for yah.

You might ask how this is all relevant to me. And I'll tell you, you poor, impatient sons o' bitches. Today's 'modern' society makes it so that I shouldn't know how to do anything other than serve food and drink to a bunch of drunken fools.

This, as I hope you all can clearly tell by my basic understanding of peasant uprisings, is not the case. Because, although I haven't been given so much as a lick of education in this life, I have years of many grueling classes and lectures on the subjects of math, science, english, and history.

All stored away in my brain pan. Mostly stored. Some stores. I'll admit it, a lot of it went through one ear and out the other. I mean, I did do well on tests, quizzes, and homework, but that was because I studied and paid attention.

Sadly, those are still very perishable skills, and if I didn't reflect on those things on a daily basis, then I was more likely to forget them, just to make space for a particularly amusing YouTube video. I have… some regrets about that.

Thankfully, the important stuff stuck.

I could read and write for one. Thankfully, the common tongue is pretty much the exact same as english. I'll admit, I half wasn't expecting it, but I should never question the laziness of the Human-Jabba hybrid known as George R.R. Martin.

I could also do basic math, some factoring, and quite a bit of what I remember from algebra. It's not exactly as easy as it would be with a calculator, but I get by. Mostly. Shut up.

The point is, I was a smart kid. My newfound mentor knew that and capitalized on it.

"Gendry! What order do we have next?!" Tobho Mott, my new blacksmith mentor, called out across the forge. You know, to my dad's credit, he wanted me to train with the Castle's Forgers, up at the Red Keep.

I thought about it, honestly I did. But then I thought, Cersei, and I was like 'No'. He completely understood.

"The City Watch wants a few more sets of spears," I noted. "Don't know if it's because they got a few more recruits, or it's because they broke their last ones measuring the lengths." It's always such a sad thing to lose a spear, due to size envy.

"I don't pay you for your lip, boy." Mott chuckled, despite himself. To be fair, he doesn't pay me much at all. "Anything else?"

"In terms of production?" I shook my head. "We're clear after that. We do have a shipment of charcoal coming in later. You want me to handle it?"

Charcoal was actually something I invented.

Well, in this world, anyway. It's simple, really. All you gotta do is take some wood that nobody wants, maybe it's some sticks, fallen branches, whatever. Basically, the things they aren't going to use to make houses, ships, shields, etc.

Then you put it in a sealed area, kind of like a stove or an oven, but with the ironic intention of burning that instead of the wood. The heat dries out all the moisture, dirt, all the impurities that stop the wood from becoming pure fuel. Then, once you're done, you take the charred remains, and you've got a source of energy that'll burn longer, and hotter than your run of the day sticks.

It's easy, but easily overlookable, and admittedly, I wouldn't have even known about that, if my dad- er, first dad hadn't taught me. But it's the simple stuff I have the easiest time introducing. Like sliced bread! In my own world, it didn't even exist two centuries ago, but in this one, sandwiches are a thing while people are still fighting with actual, honest to God swords.

To be fair, sandwiches were also some of my work, but still.

I wish I could say that patents were a thing here, but sadly, in a feudal society, there's only one class that really has the right to those kinds of privileges. Unfortunately, I am not in that class. Thankfully I, or rather Mott, hell, we control a lot of the production processes.

For now, anyway. We certainly won't be able to hold onto it forever, this is King's Landing after all. There's even more spies than there are lords, and all of them want to screw you over. But, until they do, it's a nice cozy, moderately high side profit for us.

"Aye." My mentor/master? agreed. My only experience with apprenticeship comes from the Sith, so I'm still learning the ropes on this. "Who else could I leave it to? Little Tom?" He snorted

Better than Tiny Tim.

No, he's not a real person here. That was a joke. Little Tom, the ironically named, miniature Mountain, on the other hand, was very real. Very strong, and also a little dumb. Super nice, though. Kinda like Hodor, but- well, okay moderately smarter than Hodor. He can make a complete sentence. A sentence only really needs like three or four words, right?

And they are separate words. He doesn't just say the same thing over and over again. Unless it's 'no', but that just means he's being lazy, and whiney. Is that a real word? Meh. But yeah, other than that, his words are definitely different.

"You don't give him enough credit." I defended my large friend, who just has the greatest personality.

"And you're too soft on him." Mott countered, good naturedly. Huffing back into his favorite spot in the workshop, his anvil, he looked back at me, and I could see the sweat soaking his brow and running down his face, like someone maliciously dunked a bucket of water over his head. "Not exactly like he needs the help, boy."

"Well, he's my friend." I shrug, like that explains everything. Which, for me, it does. "He's gonna get it, anyways."

"Bah." He rolled his eyes, but I've known him long enough to know when he's not being sincere. Besides, I know he liked Little Tom, too. Everyone does, stupid people make us all feel better in comparison. I kid, but it's still kinda true. "If you like him so much, maybe you two should switch jobs. I'm sure he'd like a break from all this back breaking labor you're too good for."

"In my defense," I raised my hands in surrender. "You said it, not me."

Mott rolled his eyes again, this time he might've meant it. "Alright, alright. But you better keep that mouth under control when the Watch comes for their spears." He warned, pointing his hammer at me in emphasis, before frowning. "And get me another hammer. This one's feeling a bit too loose for my liking."

"Whatever you say, boss."

…

"Mom, I'm home." I called into the house, hearing the rapid patter of my mom's footsteps on every rickety plan in our crappy home.

Well, it wasn't that bad, to be honest. Or, at least, I've been used to much worse.

You see, once upon a time, I'd say about seven months ago, by now, we were still living in Flea Bottom. A place that certainly lived up to its name. How could I go about describing it? At least, in a modern day comparison.

Personally, I've visited, or at least, I've seen pictures of the worst places the homeless of New York, California, and even my home State of North Carolina had to live in. Cardboard boxes for homes, dumpster canned food for meals, rats and cockroaches for neighbors, and I once thought to myself, this- this is rock bottom.

My second life proved me wrong before I even turned two.

For the most part, The Sober Stag was good to us. Mind you, I had to start working at the elderly old age of six, which is fine here, no such thing as child labor laws, yet, but other than that, the wages were mostly fair. And wherever they had a room free, they gave us first dibs.

It's when they didn't have a room free that I got to see how the other half live. For the sake of moving on and upwards, I won't regale you with what it's like to be living out in the cold, shit reeking streets of King's Landing.

I won't describe to you the taste of the slop, the would-be Hobo Soup, that was blended with more foods than could've been safe or nutritious, and still cost a pretty copper, because it beat starving. I won't mention how most days I feared the pot they were using came out of a privy instead of a kitchen.

I won't even touch the topic of meat. Literally. I avoided that stuff like the plague.

It really has to say something about the sheer quality of disgust, if it makes horse meat look like a delicacy. So, no, I won't talk about any of that, if only to keep my fleeting sanity. I'm just going to thank my lucky stars for what I have now and repress the last eight or so years of my past.

Seems healthy to me.

Besides, the new place ain't that bad. Not quite as high as the Red Keep, but we're on the merchant's level, now. Onwards and upwards!

"Gendry!" Mom greeted, with a bright smile of her own, that reminded me, this is still the best life she's ever known. "Welcome back! How was ya' day?"

I happily returned her smile, while inwardly wondering about where her particular accent comes from. Granted, I didn't know many English people (none) in my last life, but you'd expect I'd be able to recognize some variant of it. It's like… butchered Irish? Butchered English. Cockney, maybe?

"It was good." I reflexively replied, she continued to stare at me expectantly, meaning she wanted more details. Again. I don't have any riches, lands, or titles, but at least I have a mother that loves me. Makes me luckier than most. "Simple stuff, I handled some stuff on the ledger, made sure we got a few of our shipments, you know, the usual."

She continued to smile proudly, thrilled, and delighted, as if I had just ended World Hunger. I guess even the simple stuff seems impressive when your kid's the one doing it. "Well done, son! Has Master Mott let ya' work the Forge, yet?"

I frowned a little, but immediately hid those feelings into the back of my mind, where they would one day manifest into what I'm hoping will be a positive outlet. "No, not yet."

It was admittedly disappointing. I get that eight might be too young to start playing with fire, but you'd figure being an apprentice and all, I'd at least get to see some practical demonstrations. Instead, I've been treated as a glorified accountant. And not very glorified at that.

Mom could tell how I was feeling, though. Somehow, she always could. She hugged me comfortingly (which is still a little discomforting to me, given that she pulls me to her breast, and I'm still technically an adult man in the body of a child), and reassured me encouragingly. "You'll get there, son. Just give it some time."

I nodded in a way that showed I understood, and also had the benefit of getting my head out of my mother's cleavage. Yeesh. I'm gonna need to repress this too. "You're right, of course, Mom."

The superpower that all mothers secretly possess, always being in the right. Or at least, convincing their kids that they are. You know, in my last life, I thought much the same. But looking back on it, older and wiser (well, maybe just wiser now), I think I might've had the right idea a few times.

Still, my current mom hasn't let me down yet. As far as I know.

Plus, she makes a good point. I am still young, it could be that Mott's just waiting for me to get a bit older before he introduces me to the joys of labor. Or maybe he's worried that I'll be so immediately successful, that I'll be able to own my own business before I turn ten and put him out of business.

Both seem like valid arguments.

"You're a good lad, Gendry." Mom beamed down at me, again. You'd think it'd be annoying at this point, but I gotta admit, I love the attention. Well, positive attention, anyways. I don't cope so well with the negative kind. "It won't be long, I'm sure of that."

Well, here's hoping she's right. Although, if I'm being honest, it's not such a big loss if she's wrong. I mean, the greatest part about being a blacksmith, if forging weapons and armor for you, right? And while I'm sure it'd be amusing to build a bunch of oversized, and underused, sets of helmets, blades, and other trinkets, maybe it'd be best to wait until I'm fully grown.

Unless I end up getting screwed like Tyrion and get stuck with a child-like body forever.

That was mean. I shouldn't joke about that. Besides, signs of dwarfism are noticeable at birth, and all things considered, I'm actually quite large for an eight (and three quarters!) year old. Or maybe all the other eight year olds I've seen are really short, I dunno.

Frankly, in a world where the heights are as low as dwarves, and as high as mountains, it's all very relative. With that said, I'd at least rank myself as upper middle.

Anyways, I'm not gonna worry about forges and anvils for a while yet. I've got plenty of projects to keep me occupied. Profitable projects. Hee, hee, hee. Mwah ha ha-! What, too dramatic? Whatever.

…

Naturally, one of the first, and most profitable things I could, and actually knew how to make, was the ever useful compass. Okay, sorta knew how to make, it's a very simple and complex device! Cut me some slack!.

But seriously, it's hard to design. I'm not flying blind here, either. I made one for a science project once, but it wasn't exactly nautical built. It was just some pieces of metal, magnets, and a good old fashioned kiddy pool. Not exactly something people can lug around on a horse. Or a ship for that matter.

Mind you, that's not to say that I haven't made any progress. Just not a lot, and not very quickly at that. Which is still totally fine! As a weirdo from Toy Story 2 once said, you can't rush art. And sure, maybe a compass isn't so much 'art' as it is a 'lifesaving tool', but really, that's just arguing semantics.

"Have you gotten anywhere with that, boy?" Tobho Mott asked over my shoulder, inspecting my designs with a shrewd eye. Probably just trying to make sure I wasn't using my breaks to just laze about it. Which in my opinion is still dumb because the bloody point of breaks is to be lazy.

"Somewhat." I answered, hopefully while keeping the doubt out of my voice. "The prototype's almost working the way I want it to. Just gonna need some time to figure out the minor kinks."

Strictly speaking, the only reason Mott gave me this much slack was because he saw the science experiment version I cooked up. Then after watching me do it three more times, two of which were observations taken from his exact directions, he was willing to believe that I could in theory make a device that was always capable of pointing North.

Which might've been as surprising to me as it was to him. Keep in mind, the only reason that compasses were capable of doing that back in my old world, was because of the strong magnetic fields fixed on the North Pole. Even then, if there was a stronger presence nearby, they'd just point at that.

Thank God (possibly gods?) for minor consistencies. Or the laziness of an author's world building. Then again, he did make seasons last for years instead of months, the sick bastard. I used to like winter.

"I'm getting close, though." I reassured him, and me. But he doesn't have to know that.

"Hmm." Mott hummed, unconvinced. Or maybe he was just humming to seem like he was wise and paying attention. Oh, don't look at me like that, everyone does it.

"I am." I insisted, argumentatively. "Look, I've already done the theory. The hard part's over! As soon as I can figure out some of the finer details, I'll have a borderline magical device capable of telling me where I want to go, at all times."

"We'll be needing that then." That… wasn't Mott.

Turning towards the entrance, I saw four Gold Cloaks moving into the shop, each heavily armed, large, and probably going on their third day without a bath. At least, if the smell is any indication.

They came in without invitation, inspecting weapons on the walls...and stealing them. "What in the Seven Hells do you think you're doing?!" Mott demanded furiously. I didn't know he worshiped the Seven? Then again, maybe he just likes using Hell- sorry Hells as a cuss word.

The lead Gold Cloak, really hoping that the badges on his armor make that apparent, shrugs carelessly. "Just following orders. Calm yourself, old man."

"Orders!" Mott spat, unimpressed. "I've been dealing with the City Watch Commander personally for over five years! You think you can just ransack my shop, looting what you please, even stealing from my bloody apprentice because you were ordered to?! By whom?!"

"The King." The Gold Cloak answers calmly, even slightly amused. Mott certainly wasn't, sweating from something other than the heat of the Forge, I think. "It's the Crown's orders. Not sure you've heard, but the Greyjoys decided to have a little rebellion of their own. Tis the season, and whatnot. But good King Robert's only okay with those if he's the one doing it."

"So, a withered old fop, with ships made of rotten wood and rusted iron, wreaks a little bit of havoc, and we're the ones paying for it." I remark sardonically, attracting the attention from the guards and my mentor. I probably shouldn't have said that. "The King's justice is righteous indeed."

I really need to learn when to shut up.

The Gold Cloak on the other hand didn't seem offended at all, even snorting in approval. "Welcome to Westeros, lad." He stretches his arms out in mock wonder. "The lords shit, and the lowborn clean it up."

That's not the saying.

"Still though, it's not all bad." He reassures me. "From what I understand, the Master of Coin is going to make sure all blacksmiths get their commission on this. And as for you in particular, well, your Father's heard great things about you. Wanted to see some of your work with his own eyes."

Isn't it nice when parents take an interest in their children's hobbies?

"Is this it?" He didn't wait for confirmation before picking up the proto-prototype. "Doesn't look like much."

"It's not done, yet." I decided against snatching it back, because I'm rather attached to my hand, and would rather not give him a reason to separate it from the rest of my body. "When it is, men will be able to navigate the seas and lands at all times of day, with or without a map."

"Impressive, if you can do it." The Gold Cloak placed it back, unconvinced. "But, I think your Father's more eager to see what kind of weapons you've forged. Which ones are his?" He directed his question back at Mott, who stared back defiantly.

"He's eight." Tobho Mott said with such conviction, that it was clear he found it incredulous that a child should be allowed to start making instruments of death. To me, a fellow from the 21st century, that made all the sense in the world. To them… "He hasn't started his training yet."

The Gold Cloak frowned. Good, be sad you entitled little- "Well, you might want to start. He sails with us in a week."

Mott blinked, so did I, actually, but he was the one to speak first. "What?"

The guard smirked a little wryly. "His Grace wanted to bring the Crown Prince along, but word is that the Queen wouldn't have it, said the boy's too young. My guess, he decided to take the next best thing." He shrugged again. "But what do I know? I'm just a Captain, after all."

"But- he's just a boy." Mott emphasized, bless him. "The King can't expect him to fight. He doesn't even have any training!"

"Maybe." The guard considered. "Maybe not. For all we know, he could just want the company. Not our place to question, is it?" He ended with a hard stare.

"No." Mott bit out through gritted teeth.

"No, it's not." The Gold Cloak agreed with a shaking head, before giving one last thoughtful glance back at me. "Show him what he needs to know, as quickly as you can. I'll be back for him in a week." He looked at the others, who didn't even hide the fact that they were clearly looting the place. "Men! Gather what we need, and nothing else! We're leaving."

The guy was a dick, but at least he was a dick with a commanding voice, and a hint of common sense and decency. I still don't like him though.

One by one they left, each grumbling more than the last, and as the last gold cape swayed out the door, my mentor slumped in defeat. He looked at me pitifully for a moment, before sighing and standing back upright. "Right, then. Grab a hammer, Gendry. It's time you learn how to swing one."

"Do you mean like, forging, or fighting-"

"Yes."

Well, I did want to learn, didn't I? Besides, I was never all that patient anyways.

…

So, that escalated quickly. And no, I'm not talking about the chapter, well, okay, kinda the chapter too, but not what I meant. Hell, I'm posting this a day in advance, because I'm that thrilled about it!

Here's the thing, sometimes I publish things, and I wait a bit, usually while working on something else to see what kind of reception I get. Like, is it good, cliche, did I fuck something up?

Usually, I do okay, and it ends up being pretty well liked, but I have never gotten almost two hundred followers on just the prologue before. Not to mention the overwhelming support on the reviews! I haven't actually been this pumped about one of my fics for a while now!

With that in mind, I'm going to do something I haven't done in a while, reply to my favorite reviews.

Umodin: Hey, it's all 200% mutual, buddy! It's self inserts like yours that inspired me to write fics of my own. I hope you enjoy the second chapter, I spent a lot more time and effort on it than I planned too.

Betmen123/Goldenflame107: You know, I actually did make an account for that about a week or two before I published this, because I was just starved for GoT/ ASoIaF SIs, but I ended up reading all the incomplete ones, and I didn't see any new ones worth binging. I'm still not sure about cross posting this onto here, because it's gonna follow the show, but I'll think about it.

Which btw, there may be some book elements in this, but please don't overthink it. A lot of the best parts about the books were just left out of the show, so I want to bring in some of those, but not too much. So seriously, do not ask any questions about Arianne, Strong Belwas, Lady Stoneheart, or Aegon. Especially not Aegon I still think he's a Blackfyre, and the more people try to convince me he's not, the angrier I get! So, the less said about him, the better.

Finally, to everyone with concerns of knightly titles, squire ships, and whatnot.

I'm gonna need you to get all the way off my back about this. Trust me, he's where he wants to be, he has plans. And while the title, and minor respect, of being a Knight has some appeal to him, he still follows the Sandor approach. Doesn't mean it's not gonna happen, just means that he's not going to actively seek it.

Anyways, until next time, please Follow, Favorite, and Review!