Chapter 1 You Smell, Get Used To It

The first thing I said when I woke up in King's Landing, covered in blood, blankets, and other b words, was 'shhi' because my little baby mouth couldn't really make out words yet. I was trying to say 'shit' as I felt that was the sole word that could properly convey the pure level of how fucked I felt.

That was eight years ago, and to be honest, my opinion hasn't changed much.

In hindsight, I may have been a little overdramatic. But can you blame me? I was just born. It was a harrowing experience. It was almost as bad as dying. Okay, definitely an overkill exaggeration. Dying was way worse.

In comparison, it wasn't too bad.

I mean, it was bad. But, you know, it could have been worse. I'm not going to complain.

I got a sweet new body. (It's still in its adolescence, technically it's not even at that point yet.) A new family. (Just a mom. She's a tavern wench. And very occasionally a whore.) Plus, I got a job! (I don't get paid.)

See! Things aren't so bad. (If I don't stay optimistic, I'm probably going to shut down.)

"Gendry!" Mom called across the rambunctious (drunk) patrons. "Would ya' help ou' some o' the cooks in the kitchen? Folks are gettin' hungry." Isn't it so nice that she phrases these things as requests instead of commands?

I am so lucky.

"Sure, ma!" I hollered back.

Seriously though, I do have it pretty well off, at least compared to most bastards. Maybe not Jon Snow well off, but he's technically not even a bastard anyways, and he definitely isn't treated like one. So that doesn't count.

It's a surprisingly big stigma in this world, one I still don't wholly get, because these people have a lot of sex, and I doubt everyone could afford moon tea. There's bound to be at least one bastard for every three trueborn children out in the world, if not more.

You'd figure they'd make some kind of social protest. Fight the power!

Alas, civilization has yet to collectively drop its balls. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Because, again I reiterate, there is just so much sex. In the brothels, in the woods, in the streets. It's everywhere!

I mean, I get it. There's not much else to do around here except fight or fuck, but still. You'd think that would encourage some economic reform, introduce plays, or focus on industry, but instead everyone fawns over the lords. Because someone killed so or so a hundred years ago, or that guy cut me off in the market, and I killed his firstborn in retaliation.

It's ridiculous!

These frickin feudal societies. Christ. I miss democracy- nope! Don't go down that road, chin up, think happy thoughts. I'm not fat anymore! Whooo, okay, that helps. A little. Honestly, I'd be happier for the chance to get fat, but food isn't as plentiful as it was back in my old home.

But that's fine because I don't need it. It was bad for my health anyways. Frankly, I'm surprised my last life wasn't ended by a heart attack. Nothing good comes from overeating food that's unhealthy enough on its own.

Now then, back to helping the cooks prepare many of the Italian-like cuisines I introduced them to.

I know what you're thinking, and yes, I am a total hypocrite. In my defense, I really like my mom, and the money I got from those meals, little as they were actually willing to part with, saved her from dying of sickness.

Well, technically it was mostly me using the money to get her the help she needed, but she would have been much worse off without it. Bottom line is, she's alive and well, because of me. Because I'm a good son. Bastard. Whatever.

She never treated me like one. A bastard, I mean, which for all intents and purposes I am.

A mother's love, to be sure. Not everyone else is so kind, save for some of the other workers in the tavern. Specifically, the older ones, the ones who remember that my old man is their King. That's riiight, I'm not just any bastard, I am a royal bastard.

There's only about three more of those- sorry, I meant two, Tommen hasn't been born yet. Actually, probably way more than three, those are just Cersei's kids, I don't even know how many Robert has.

I remember reading somewhere that he's supposed to have sixteen at some point, but I only know about two others by name. Mya Stone, the eldest, she's from the Vale, and then there's Edric Storm, his eldest son, down at Storm's End.

Man, those are such cool last names, even if they're supposed to be insulting. I'm a little jealous.

More than a little actually. I mean, I don't even have a last name!

Robert, the metaphorical bastard, hasn't even bothered to acknowledge me. Thus, preventing me from getting one of those sweet last names. Confused? It's very simple.

A bastard, like me, is typically made from either an unwed commoner and a commoner, an unwed noble and a commoner, or far more rarely, an unwed noble and a noble. In the latter two, as long as the bastard is acknowledged, they usually get to have a last name based on their place of birth. Or maybe it's their noble parent's heritage? I admit, it's not abundantly clear to me.

But, if the resulting child is the off-spring of an unwed commoner couple, or has not been acknowledged by their noble parent, then they don't have a last name. So, to most folks, I'm known as Gendry, Lydia's boy.

Not that Lydia. This is Westeros, not Skyrim.

If I'm lucky, and I use that word lightly, my royal father might one day make a note that I do in fact exist, and I am most probably his son. Then I'll be able to call myself Gendry Storm! Or Gendry Waters? Ugh, I don't like that one, at all. Still, it's better than Flowers or Sand. I hate sand. It's coarse and rough and irritating, and it ruined the second Star Wars prequel.

I'd rather just stay as Gendry if it meant I'd need to call myself that.

"Boy!" One of the chef's yelled to get my attention. I guess I got lost in thought again. What was I even doing? "That's enough sauce for the night. Go see if the jockeys need a hand stocking the ale."

"Yes s- boss." I had to remind myself halfway through not to call him 'sir' again. He got a kick out of it the last time, but it's a bad habit to keep around in these parts. Not on the Hound's level or anything, it's just-

Well, Mom and I work and live in a tavern, which is basically a medieval bar/hotel, so we see our fair share of customers. Usually it's just a few sad drunks, although sometimes we'll be hosting a merry band of knights, and occasionally even a few lords.

You don't want to call those guys 'sir'. They think I'm calling them a knight, which is apparently worth less than their 'station' demands they be addressed. I'm not entirely unfamiliar with it. When I was in Basic Training, one of the worst mistakes you could make was to call a petty officer 'sir' or 'ma'am'.

You can't just talk to them like everyone else because they're your superior and deserve your respect. I couldn't really argue with that, because frankly they earned their ranks, and not unfairly. These lords on the other hand…

I remain unimpressed.

Oh, wow! You're great, great, great, great, great grandfather's grandfather sailed across the sea on a boat and took this land from the natives?! How inspiring, you're basically a celebrity. Oh, and you're the eighth born son of who gives a shit?! I've never felt this humble.

I hope my sarcasm translates to the written word, otherwise that was a very uncomfortable paragraph. But I think you get my point. Screw those guys.

If I ever have to deal with that BS ever again, it'll be too soon.

…

It's too soon.

Seriously! I only made that vow last bloody night. Why do you do this to me universe?! What have I ever done to anger you?!

Over twenty lords in one establishment, each accompanied by a Knight or two, and I have less than five minutes, if even, to tell which is which without embarrassing myself. Or getting myself killed. Truly, if I am living under an omniscient creator in this universe, then there is little to no doubt in my mind that that being is sadistic. And possibly also George R.R. Martin.

"My lord," I half nodded, half bowed to one of the finer dressed men, fairly confident that I sized that one up right. "What can I get for you?"

He looked at me disdainfully, as if I were a rat that was suddenly capable of speech and had used that new found ability to say some very insulting things about his mother. "Water, just water. For all of us." The Lord said, glaring at everyone nearby. "We don't feast until the King arrives."

I've heard the expression 'heart leapt into my throat' before, but I never actually felt the sensation until that moment. "Aye, my lord." I said, swallowing my Adam's apple back down. "Water it is."

I half bowed again, for good measure, and took back to the Kitchen, where the cooks were already working triple time in preparation. I guess everyone got the memo but me. You know, just for once, it would be really nice to be included.

They were bringing in every barrel of wine, ale, and water we had on hand, almost tripping over themselves in the process. I actually had to catch the tail end of one, before one of the poor workers stained the floor with month old grapes. Or whatever they were using to pass off as wine.

"Thanks, Gendry." The worker in question, Ethan, sighed in relief. He looked as nervous as a man at his wedding, and as stunned as a deer in headlights.

"Don't mention it." Helping him set it down, I quickly picked up one of our only silver platters, before staking it with empty mugs. "Have you fellows brought the water in yet?"

"Over there." Ethan nodded, pointing in the corner, before moving back to his own task, and me to mine.

I turned the tap of the barrel and started filling the mugs one by one. We didn't have electricity, air-conditioning, plumbing, or running water. But at least we can get a grasp on tap water. To a point.

Once my part was done, I hurried back out, careful not to spill any of the drinks onto myself or on the floor. I wordlessly set the mugs at their table, and they wordlessly thanked me. Or maybe they were just ignoring me.

Hard to tell when you're a servant. Most people overlook you, like I used to do with custodians. It's something you get used to, I guess. Existing without being seen.

The doors banged wide open, and a hush took over the tavern, with some men on edge and many others looking anxious. Loud, heavy footsteps could be heard in the quiet that consumed us, each sounding closer than the last.

Then suddenly, there he was. The man himself- no, the legend, the one, the only…

Bobby B.

Wait! I mean, Robert Baratheon. My father, the King.

He took one wide look around us all, and many a man had to clench their assholes, at risk of shitting themself in front of His Grace. But then, he spoke… "Drink up, ya shits!"

And like that, the tension fled, replaced by cheers and merriment, showing once again that the Realm was the most stable under Robert Baratheon. Apart from the whole 'Greyjoy Rebellion' thing, but those guys were assholes anyway.

Plus, it technically hasn't happened yet. That war's set for next year. So, yeah, still the most peaceful Reign we've dealt with so far. No Wildfire, no Dragon fire, no regular (religious) fire, or cults, or all seeing cripples. Looking back on it all, maybe Robert was the best choice for King. Huh.

The man who wanted the job the least, and hated it the most, did better than everyone else. There's definitely some irony in there somewhere.

Man, I was so focused on theories and crap, that I forgot the Greyjoy Rebellions are gonna happen next year! Should I enlist, can an eight year old (nine by then) even enlist? Should I sell the information of an impending attack on Lannisport to the Lannisters?

...Nah. That'd probably come back to bite me. Also, screw the Lannisters.

I felt a hand roughly grab my shoulder, and I had to hold back my ninja like reflexes, and my yelp. Their nails dug, they turned me around and I came face to face with… oh, it's just my mom.

"Gendry!" She tried to quietly yell, but she still attracted a bit of attention from some of the tables nearby. Including Bobby B- The King. "I told ya, you have the day off! What are you doing here?!"

"Malcolm told me it was all hands on deck." I shrugged, wincing slightly as her nails were really digging into my shoulders. "Could you just-"

"I don't care what Malcom told you." Mom screeched in a whisper. Oh, she's going to have words with him later. "I told ya' to stay in your room. Now, hurry off, you need to go, before-!"

"What's this all about?" A loud voice boomed, seeming to take amusement in a very clearly private affair. I turned, and my anxiety reached a new boiling point.

Mom, likewise, seemed to pale. "Your Grace," She quickly bowed. "It weren't nothing. Me boy's just up past his bedtime, you see. He'll be going back to his room, now." She ended with a quick glare at me.

"Will he now?" He chuckled, humor glittering in his eyes as he turned to me, before pausing in curiosity. "You have a familiar face. Have we met before, boy?"

I shrug. "Don't think so." I coughed, in remembrance. "Your Grace."

You know, I had pictured meeting him before, in my head. I thought of all kinds of wild scenarios. Maybe I'd surprise him as a mystery knight, winning one of his many 'grand' tourneys. Or he might've come to me, offering legitimization and the Iron Throne, with land and titles for my mom to boot.

Yet somehow, I'd never imagined I'd meet him in the tavern I worked in, while I was covered in sweat, spilled ale, and still reeking of three days without a bath. I miss my shower. Hopefully, he won't mind. After all, this is King's Landing. The whole city smells like shit.

"Hmm." Robert hummed to himself, his eyes going over my mother searchingly, before they lit in recognition. "Ah! I remember you, now! Lydia, isn't it?"

"A-Aye, Your Grace." Mom stuttered, bowing her head again.

The King of Debauchery (And of Westeros, but then again, they are pretty much the same thing) grinned. "I thought so. Good memory here." He tapped his head proudly, before his grin turned a little sheepish. "Not that the drink helps much with that."

That brought on a round of cautious laughter from many of the various lords, ladies, and poor tavern employees caught in the middle. To be fair, I completely understand why they're being careful about this.

Laughing with the King is fine. It's good, even encouraged. But laughing at the King? Oh, ho, no, that is a much different, much darker story. Even Eddard Stark would have tread on thin ice about it. Heh, ice. You get it? Because it's like… his ancestral sword… and…

Oh, you guys are so lucky that I'm not the King.

Fortunately for the patrons and employees of the Sober Stag (The name's ironic), Bobby B laughed along with them. "It's been too long!" Has it though? "It's been what? Seven, eight years?"

"About." Mom answered without detailing, her eyes darting back to me, and then quickly back to Robert. Unfortunately for her, His Grace definitely noticed.

"And who's this lad?" Robert smiled, rubbing my head affectionately. Or at least as affectionately as a man over two hundred pounds, or whatever that weight is in stones, and more than slightly tipsy, can manage. Still, points for trying. Dad of the year, right here.

Mom answered, "No one." At the same time, I said, "Gendry."

She glared at me in warning for a bit, and I sheepishly turned back to the King. "I'm uh, her son, Your Grace. My name's Gendry."

"Are you now?" He asked, with some suspicion creeping into his voice. Yup, he's starting to piece it together. "And, just about how old are you, Gendry?"

"Your Grace-" My mom tried to interject...

"How. Old." And was swiftly ignored.

"I'm on my eighth name day, Your Grace." I answered calmly on the outside, while on the inside panicking as much as my mom seems to on the outside.

"Eight name days." Robert repeated, looking contemptibly at my mother, ticking me off in the process. I would've said something if the guy wasn't like three times my size. Or the King. "Fancy that."

Mom paled, her pink skin turning paper white, her blonde hair making her look all the more ethereal. "He- Your Grace, it's not what you think."

"Spare me." He scoffed. "Is he mine?"

"I- Aye." She sighed in defeat. "He is.

"And you didn't tell me?" Robert asked in a cold voice. A quiet voice, yet far from benign. It was more like distant thunder… you could tell something bad was coming up.

"The Queen," Mom hesitated. "She-" She couldn't finish, but the King seemed to understand.

Blew the wind right out his sales, and he seemed to slump in resigned fury. "Say no more." He sighed, his eyes turning to me in quiet consideration. "How about you, lad? Have you got something to say?"

Well, if he's just going to ask… "Could I have a last name?" I might as well, too.

Robert snorted in surprise, some of his lost cheer resurfacing in a blink. "You just found out that your Father's the bloody King, and you already want to be legitimized?!"

"No!" I immediately denied because that is a whole can of worms that should never be opened. "No, thank you, that'd probably be a lot more trouble than it's worth. An acknowledgement would be nice, though."

"Smart lad." Robert chuckled. "Very well, then. I, Robert, of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, titles, titles, do hereby acknowledge you as Gendry Wat-"

"Storm." I interrupt.

Robert blinked back at me. "Were you not born in King's Landing?" He turned to my mother in question, and she bobbed her head in agreement.

"He was, Your Grace."

"Enough with that 'Your Grace' shit." He mumbled under his breath, before his eyes refocused on me. "Well, if you were born here then that makes you a Waters."

"Fuck Waters." I argue.

"Gendry!" Mom admonished, horrified.

Robert stared at me. "Attitude like that…" His stony visage cracked into a smile. "I'm half tempted to legitimize you, anyways! Aye, Gendry Storm it is. Any other outlandish requests?"

I thought about it for a moment.

And decided that yes, I would like to push my luck.

"Could you help me get an apprenticeship?"

Bobby B raised a brow, and smirked.

…

With so many stories in the works, you'd figure I'd be working more on them rather than making entirely new ones. But I'm a creative writer, and my writing follows my interests, fickle as they are.

But still, what did ya think?!

Obviously, I'm not the first guy to post a self-insert for this, but as I like to be as original as possible in all things, I tried to make a twist on it. Like, this is technically the first and currently only Gendry SI!

There've been bastard self inserts before; Joffrey, Ramsey, Jon Snow (who shouldn't count, because his parents were technically married), but I decided to take this route, because I honestly feel like he's an overlooked character with a lot of potential.

Of course, as always, I leave the deciding factor to you, the audience, because I am constantly swayed by peer pressure! If you like it, leave a review, follow, and favorite. If you don't like it, then you don't have to, but please don't be one of those people who leaves me a review saying how much you hate it and why. It's not like I get paid for this, and I'm not forcing you to read.

As for everyone who's reading my Handsome Jack Self Insert, well… yeah. It might be another few weeks. Thing is, I've got a summer job right now, and I'll be attending a full class schedule at an actual four year college this Fall, so things are gonna be a little hectic.

I've got a partial chapter written for another story, that I hope to finish by next Saturday, and after that I might be able to start typing a new chapter for Borderlands, and this, if it does well enough. But like I said, I'll leave that up to you guys!