THE ONES WE LEAVE BEHIND
Gendry I
Gendry wasn't a worldly man. Born and raised in the filth and poverty of Flea Bottom, he'd known nothing else until he'd embarked on his failed attempt to join the Night's Watch. Even when his mother was alive, he had seen little more than the musty little room above a pub they had shared with the other whores who worked there and their various bastards. It had been cramped and dark and crowded, but it had been home. Until it wasn't.
When his mother became too ill to work the pub owner had put them out on the street without remorse. Gendry had been too young to truly understand what was happening, and even as he had watched her yellow hair fade to white he remembered feeling nothing but joy at his newfound freedom to run and play wherever he wanted. That joy had died along with his mother, as had his desire to explore and see and learn. In the years that followed, he had seen nothing but the inside of Master Mott's forge.
When Ser Davos had loaded him into that tiny boat and set him free from Dragonstone's shores he had been faced, for the first time in his life, with options. He may not be an educated man, but he had a trade and it was one which was always in demand. He could travel anywhere, lead a life like the ones in the songs his mother used to sing, be anyone he wanted to be. The Riverlands were the only other region he knew anything of (that and the North, of course, but Arry had never exactly given details on how to get there) so that seemed the place to start. Perhaps he could make his way northward from there? Or perhaps he should head south? Everyone spoke so reverently about Dornish girls, after all. There were endless possibilities, and they had consumed his imagination on the tedious trip back to dry land.
He was back in Flea Bottom within a month.
He'd been working at some nameless forge deep in the centre of the slums when the Sept of Baelor was demolished. The unnatural green blaze of the wildfire had been seen clear across King's Landing as it burned like a second sun. Such had been its strength that for a time the perpetual shadow cast by Rhaenys' Hill, which blanketed Flea Bottom day and night, had been chased away. The sounds of the roaring fire and shattering stone had twisted together with screams of terror as destruction had whipped through the streets.
Gendry had been among the first group of men to run toward the carnage, smithing hammer in hand (and privately aware of the irony) intending to help those who could be saved. When he closed his eyes, he could still see it even now, the burned-out shell of Visenya's Hill which had been reduced in mere moments to a smouldering mound of ash. The outer edge of the fire's reach had been even worse than the site where the Sept once stood. There the ash gave way to death as the forms of those unlucky folks who had tried (and failed) to escape the chaos were still distinguishable where they had fallen, their skin blackened and blistered.
He'd decided that day that he would not spend another moment sitting idly by. Cersei Lannister was the Mad King reborn, or that's what voices whispered in the shadowed corners of the city that she would never see, and Gendry took that to mean it was time to make use of the Baratheon blood his father had given him. He may not be a learned man, but even he knew that when the Starks and the Baratheons had last waged war against a mad ruler, the Targaryen dynasty fell. He didn't have the faintest idea where Arry was but rumours had reached King's Landing that a bastard named Jon Snow had been declared King in the North, and perhaps that meant something as well.
And so, after all was said and done, Gendry found himself where he had considered going all those years ago in Ser Davos' boat.
The Riverlands were colder than he remembered, and the dampness only added to the aches in his body from walking for weeks. He had no money left to his name but took shelter in the first inn he saw all the same, hoping it would take the owners long enough to notice him and put him out that he could warm his hands and feet, at least. Tucking himself into the shadows by the door, Gendry allowed the bustling of the other patrons to wash over him as he did his best to remain inconspicuous. It was only after a moment that he realized one of the many voices around him seemed oddly familiar…
"Hot Pie?"
And sure enough, there he was, looking just as he had the last time Gendry had laid eyes on him; large, curly haired and clad in an apron of sorts and a smile.
"Gendry!"
The blacksmith flinched at his old friend's exclamation and glanced around to ensure that it hadn't attracted unwanted attention. Hot Pie seemed not to notice his caution, however, as he hurried over to him with such excitement that he narrowly avoided spilling the tray of food he was carrying. The unfortunate guest on whom he'd nearly dumped the pies glowered after him.
"What are you doing here? You look half starved. Come. Sit." Hot Pie herded him to a nearby table with the same boundless energy and pushed the food in front of him, "Try the pie, just made it m'self. Folks say I make the best pie, it's all in the butter…"
Gendry snatched up the aforementioned pie without hesitation and dug in. It had been several moons now since his last proper meal, not since before the Sept came down at least. He knew that Hot Pie was still speaking, but he paid him no mind. He recalled with painful clarity how the boy could ramble for hours.
"Where did you get that!?"
Startled by the change of tone, Gendry looked up from his food to find Hot Pie examining the meagre supplies he was travelling with and…
Shit.
Gendry hurriedly tucked his bedroll back around the head of his war hammer. No need to draw attention to it, for more than one reason. "I made it. Can't very well travel unarmed, can I?"
"Can you use it?"
"Well enough."
"You could be a proper knight with that! Just need some armour…"
"Armour doesn't make you a knight…"
But Hot Pie wasn't listening. "You'd be a good knight, you're plenty big enough." He decided.
Still on about the bloody armour, then… Gendry barely suppressed a sigh and searched for a change of topic. "Don't suppose you have any ale?"
"O'course!" And Hot Pie was off.
This time, Gendry didn't bother to repress his sigh as he pushed his bundle of possessions further beneath the table with his foot. He'd made himself a sword when he first returned to Flea Bottom, the ever present threat of the Gold Cloaks giving him cause to carry a weapon, but it became apparent rather quickly that he had little aptitude with a blade. The hammer, however, felt right. Perhaps it was the influence of his father's blood, but if he were asked Gendry would dismiss the comfort he felt with the weapon as a by-product of a lifetime of smithing.
"Arry!" the name cut through Gendry's thoughts and he looked up sharply to see Hot Pie gesturing excitedly in his direction, "Gendry's here too! Come see!"
The next thing he knew, Hot Pie was ushering a very alive — and very unimpressed — Arya Stark toward his table. She'd hardly grown, that was the first thing Gendry noticed, still a tiny, unassuming little thing with that steely edge he'd come to love about her. It was at that moment that he realized just how much he had missed her.
"I can't believe you're both alive!" Hot Pie continued cheerfully, oblivious to Gendry's observations as he herded Arya into a seat at the table and settled down himself, "I thought you was both goners when the Brotherhood came back through here without ya. What happened?"
No one responded right away. Gendry was still busy looking over his old friend critically. She looked healthy and whole, but he found himself concerned by the emptiness in her eyes and the stoic expression she wore.
When it became obvious that Arya had no intention of answering, Gendry prodded her gently with a reply of his own. "I got sold to a red witch," he explained to Hot Pie.
"I ran," Arya shrugged, drawn somewhat into the conversation as Gendry had hoped, "Ended up with the Hound."
"The Hound?" Hot Pie looked torn between being impressed and horrified at the thought, "Joffrey's Hound, you mean? The big knight with the burned face?"
"Hmm," Arya nodded, "Then Braavos." She snagged the pie Gendry had been eating away from him and tore off a piece before returning the rest of it to him, "What did the Red Witch want with you?"
Gendry frowned and gathered up the remaining pie protectively. "My blood," he explained, "She was working with Stannis Baratheon. Did some spell with my blood and leeches."
Arya chewed thoughtfully. "Why your blood?"
"I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard." he confessed, the words still foreign on his tongue, "I didn't know. She said there was power in a king's blood or something. She and Stannis would have killed me, I think, if Ser Davos hadn't let me go."
If he had been expecting a reaction to his revelation, it didn't come. Arya simply finished the last of the pie calmly and wiped her hands on her trousers. "She's on my list, the Brotherhood too, they'll be dead soon enough."
Hot Pie, however, was a different story. "You're the King's son!" Thank the Gods he kept his voice down, but even so his excitement was palpable, "But, if you're the King's son shouldn't you be King 'stead of Cersei?"
Gendry groaned, already regretting admitting his parentage out loud. "I'm just a bastard smith, I shouldn't be anything."
"You'd be better than Cersei," Hot Pie shrugged.
"Anyone is better than Cersei," Gendry replied, nonplussed, "Is she still on that list of yours, Arry?"
"Yes. That's where I'm going."
Gendry frowned. "You're not going North?" he asked.
"Why would I go North? The Boltons have Winterfell, there's nothing for me there."
"Nah," Hot Pie cut in, "The Boltons are dead. Jon Snow came down from Castle Black with a Wildling army and won the Battle of the Bastards. He's King in the North now. He's your brother, ain't he?"
"Jon's king?" Arya's voice was soft, emotions flickering behind her eyes for the first time since she'd sat down.
"Aye, it's true," Gendry told her gently, "That's where I'm headed. Figured your brother would be a better ruler than Cersei."
There was silence for a moment as Arya stared at them. "You're serious."
Both men nodded, watching a flurry of emotions break free from Arya's eyes and dance rapidly across her face before she locked them away.
"I'm coming with you," she decided firmly, "You'd better not slow me down."
Gendry snorted. "Of course not."
In the end, of course, he did slow her down.
As they plodded northward through the growing darkness, Gendry tried valiantly to master the rhythm of the horse beneath him with limited success. Arya had only stared at him blankly when he had been forced to admit that he had never ridden before and had only the vaguest idea of what it entailed, before instructing him bluntly how to mount as she pulled the reins over the horse's head and took them in hand. The hours that followed had been spent in silence, with Gendry working to keep his balance on the horse's back while Arya led the beast from the ground. He'd tried to convince her to let him walk, but the stiffness in his body must have been obvious if the look the young Stark had thrown his way at the suggestion was any indication, and he'd given in without too much fight.
He had to admit that his aching muscles did appreciate the break, and Arya didn't seem troubled by putting in the distance on foot. From horseback, it had become evident that she carried herself differently than the last time he'd seen her. He remembered her as an expressive, strong-willed young girl whose actions reflected her wild nature, but the woman who now walked beside him moved with as much purpose as he had ever seen. There were no wasted movements, no expression and perhaps most disturbingly, no sound. Somehow, every one of Arya's movements were completely silent.
"How did you get to Braavos?" he asked at last.
Arya didn't look up, nor did her stride didn't falter. "Jaqen. He'd given me a way to find him if I ever needed to."
"Jaqen? The man from Harrenhal?"
Arya hummed in confirmation. "He's a member of the Faceless Men. I trained with him for a few years."
Gendry frowned, drunken tales and stories whispered in the darkest alleys playing in his mind. "They're assassins, aren't they? The Faceless Men?"
Arya glanced up at him, finally, her eyes calculating in the fading light. "That bothers you."
"Bothers me?" Gendry took a breath to gather his thoughts, trying to ignore the images of the tiny girl Arya had been with blood on her hands, "Of course it bothers me, Arry. They'll kill anyone for a price. How many innocent people did you slaughter in your training?"
The horse came to an abrupt halt and Gendry had to grab onto its neck to keep from toppling off. Arya had stepped in front of the animal without warning, turning to face her travelling companion with a stony expression. "I don't kill innocents."
They stared at each other for a long moment before Arya turned and led the horse forward once more. The beast snorted its displeasure, but complied.
Once he was stable in the saddle, Gendry sighed. "I imagine that didn't go over well. Surely they didn't just let you leave?"
"No."
"But…?"
Arya kept her eyes forward, leaving Gendry's prompt hanging between them for a moment before she replied. "But I'm here. They're not."
Gendry nodded, although he knew she wouldn't see him, and tried not to think too hard on the implications of that statement. "Good."
Silence settled over them once more as they continued down the King's Road. It wasn't long before night was truly upon them and Arya led the horse off the beaten trail to a suitable clearing where they could rest for the night. Gendry dismounted clumsily, his ass and thighs tingling from so long in the saddle, and stumbled to help set out their bedrolls as Arya set about getting a fire started. Hot Pie had sent them off with a couple of skins full of ale and some sweetbread and Gendry unpacked a loaf of bread and skin to share between them before flopping down on his bedroll. Arya joined him a moment later, her face lit by the glow of the newly lit fire as she set her little sword to one side and took the bread he offered her.
Gendry smiled at the sight of the weapon. "You got it back," he remarked.
Arya nodded and swallowed a mouthful of ale. "The Hound and I came across Polliver after leaving the Twins. I put Needle through his neck, just like he did to Lommy."
"Right," Gendry tried once more to avoid imagining that scene too clearly, "What were you doing at the Twins?"
Even in the firelight he could see that Arya's face had darkened dangerously. "The Hound wanted to sell me to my mother and brother. We were too late."
"Gods, Arya," Gendry breathed, "I'm sorry."
"You know what happened, then?"
"Everyone knows what happened. The Red Wedding, folks call it."
"So I've heard."
Arya's voice was too steady, too calm, and it sent chills up Gendry's neck. His thoughts drifted to the Red Witch and bound hands and useless struggles and the leeches and Stannis saying the names… He shuddered. "Arya…" he began, unsure what exactly he planned to say but needing to do something.
"They're dead now." Arya interrupted in the same mild tone.
Gendry winced. The Usurper Robb Stark. "I know, I'm sorry — "
"Not Mother and Robb, the Freys. House Frey is dead." She turned to face him, the fury she had successfully kept out of her voice dancing in her eyes instead, "Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe. That was old Walder's mistake. He died like the cowardly cocksucker he was."
Gendry felt cold all over, despite the fire and ale. He'd have to tell her… "Arya," he began carefully, "The spell, the one the Red Witch did with my blood… She had Stannis throw the leeches into a fire and speak three names: Joffrey Baratheon, Balon Greyjoy and… and Robb Stark. I think I may have helped condemn your brother to death…"
Arya studied him impassively for a moment. "So you mean to tell me that three men styling themselves kings are killed during a war for the throne? And somehow that's magic?"
"But, my blood… The leeches…"
"You think too highly of yourself." Arya cut him off easily as she laid back on her bedroll and shifted in search of a comfortable position, "War doesn't care about blood, Gendry, it spills it all just the same."
The blacksmith felt a smile tug at his lips as some of the warmth returned to his body. "Thank you."
Arya snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, go to sleep."
This time, Gendry allowed the smile to form in earnest. "As My Lady commands," he teased softly, settling down on his side and closing his eyes. He was just beginning to drift off to sleep when Arya spoke again.
"And to think, all this time I should have been calling you My Prince."
Gendry groaned. "Arry…"
"How might I be of service, Your Grace?"
"Shut up."
"As My Prince commands."
Gendry could hear the smirk in her voice and had to fight back the urge to laugh. Maybe the snarky little shit he'd come to care for was still in there after all? He certainly hoped so. "I've missed you, Arya," he murmured into the darkness.
"Me too."
