'There it is, lad,' the man beside him said, nudging him on the shoulder and pointing into the distance. Not that it did any good—they were, as was the Riverlands' wont, shrouded in a thick mist that made the prospect of seeing more than a few feet in front of your face near-impossible.

'And how would you know that, Oswell?' Gendry responded. 'I suppose the Twins has its own special kind of mist that leaves you riding blind in a manner different to any other?'

The ex-Kingsguard laughed. 'I may know the Riverlands well, lad, but not quite that well. No, we've just passed a number of flags with trout on rather than the two towers—we're in Tully territory now, and the only place that could be at a time like that is the Twins. Aye, we're here alright.'

At first, Gendry and Oswell had had precious little in common—in comparison to the situation between himself and Robert, his history with Davos, the two knights who'd spent two weeks holed up in his smithy, and even the tenuous royal link with Aegon, the two of them had almost nothing to tie them together. That may have been why such a great friendship had begun to blossom. In his increasingly political world, Gendry had noticed that all links between anyone of note—whether it be family, friends, enemies, or mere acquaintances, all were linked by centuries of history, petty feuds and marriage contracts, taxes and levies. The one true friend he'd ever had, for example, was (unbeknownst to them) already linked to him through decades of friendship and political alliances, and should they ever meet again their positions as bargaining tools would be ever more prominent. As such, the distinct absence of any such pressure between himself—the bastard son of a dead king who'd never stepped foot in the royal court—and Oswell—the resurrected Kingsguard to an overthrown tyrant—made the effort to get on with him far easier.

Not to mention that his near-constant nattering allowed him plenty of time to think about the news he'd received barely a moon's turn prior.

His father was alive, and riding a few metres ahead of him.

As dreams went, it was relatively normal—after all, he'd had a recurring dream as a child that his father would come back and live happily ever after with Gendry and his mother, and whilst he'd never dared believe his father might be a king, there'd always be the dim flicker of hope that his father—whoever he may be—might one day return.

But by the gods, why did his father had to be the single most complicated (and yet simultaneously the simplest) man in the seven bloody kingdoms?

'You alright, lad? Apologies, I didn't mean to bore you,' Oswell said.

Gendry shot him a hollow grin. 'It's fine, Oz. You know that I don't listen to you anyway. I'm just…thinking.'

The knight's face was serious as he looked at Gendry. 'You know you'll have to talk to him at some point, right? You know, about the fact that he's your bloody father?'

'I know, Oz, I know. It's just been awkward since, you know…?'

Gendry would be the first to admit that he hadn't handled the revelation particularly well. After escaping the gold cloaks as they fled King's Landing, as soon as their blood had settled his father wanted to reconcile. Gendry, frankly, did not. Years of resentment and anger bubbled up, and he told him in no uncertain terms where he could stick his reconciliation. Since then, his father had respected his wishes, resulting in frosty silence along their train of horses.

'I'll talk to him when we're inside,' Gendry said. 'We'll all be in a better mood once there's warm food in our bellies and a bed other than the ground.'

Oswell simply smiled at him, and they continued riding in companionable silence. As they inched closer to the castle—and the no doubt difficult conversation it represented—however, Gendry could feel the pit in his stomach deepen, as though it was twisting back and forth before jolting uncontrollably when he heard Robert shout "Ned!" in that boisterous manner he had.

They sat in the main hall as the torches began to be lit, servants hurrying to and fro to try and appease the sudden influx of new guests, with laughter and ale beginning to flow in equal measure. As Oswell began to sip at his tankard, Gendry tossed his back, downing the pint within seconds before picking up another. True, he knew Baratheons had never been too great with their drinking, but tonight he was going to afford himself to extra fortification.

Gods, this was going to be a long night.

Robert

What was wrong with him? He had a full belly, was being warmed by the countless fires surrounding him, and was sandwiched between his best friend and the finest knight his house had ever produced. By all accounts, he should have been over the moon, or at least deeply contented.

But he wasn't. After all, his son was still not talking to him.

Robert understood why, of course—he'd abandoned the boy before he was even born, living the most luxurious life possible whilst he scraped a living day-to-day, especially after his mother died. And then, of course, Robert had died and Gendry was posthumously left a kingdom-sized heap of shit to deal with. From the snippets he'd been told by Davos and the few words he'd overheard his son telling Whent, the journey he'd been forced to undertake in order to flee from his bitch of a wife and sadist son had sent him up and down the country, even ending up in Stannis' clutches for a time. It couldn't be denied that he was a shit father, but the fact remained that the worst thing he'd ever done for his son was to die.

Well, he might as well have a drink. He'd been attempting to remain responsible in order to dispel the image of him that his son no doubt had—the drunken whoremonger that had driven his kingdoms into the ground. Aye, there was a fair amount of truth to it, but Robert was trying to change. Still, if his son was as deep into his cups as he seemed to be, there'd be no point trying to hide it, and he'd spotted the Greatjon a few minutes prior with a barrel under his arms. Gods, that man was truly the most formidable drinking companion he'd ever met.

'You alright, Robert?' came a voice from his left, with Ned placing a hand on his shoulder a mere moment after he'd asked the question. His face, Robert noticed, was raked with thin red lines, as though he'd been scratched, and his voice was raspier than he could ever remember it being—perhaps a result of the bruising around his neck? Most concerning, however, was the thousand-yard stare his brother-in-all-but-blood seemed to have—his eyes were glum and unfocused, and there appeared to be a heavy weight dragging Ned down.

'I suppose so. After all, I've reunited with a son that hates me, put a bounty on our heads, turned half of King's Landing upside down, and missed the chance to watch the late Lord Frey get snuffed out. Could be far worse.' At his mention of Walder Frey he saw Ned flinch, and the sad grin appearing on his face vanished. 'Gods, Ned. I'm sorry. This whole ordeal must've been hard on you. Still, I'm sure Cat's resting just that little bit easier now that she's been avenged.'

Ned's breath caught in his throat, and he could only give a slight nod before he took another sip from his tankard. Something was up with him, Robert could see, but he had no time to ask what.

Gendry was approaching. His gait was unsteady and his eyes were glassy, but he was walking toward Robert with unmistakable determination, shown in the force with which he abandoned his drinking vessel, slamming it down on a table as he got closer.

'Your Grace…Robert, uh…Father,' he began. His words were slurred and his eyes were drooping, and Robert was beginning to realise that this might've been the boy's first time getting well and truly drunk. 'I think…I think it's about time we had a talk.'

The two of them sat on the side of a bed, the metre or so between them occupied with a barrel of ale that Robert had liberated before leaving the main hall. True, he'd told himself he'd cut down—and he would—but given the state the boy was in it hardly seemed quite so important that he remained sober.

They sat in silence for what could've been minutes or could've been hours—in all honesty, Robert couldn't tell, but knew that Gendry needed to be the one to make the first mood. After all, he was the one with all the questions, and any attempt to prematurely answer them could easily result in another moon's turn of silence.

'Why?' The single word rang through the silence, and Robert's mid immediately began to spin.

'Why? Why what? Why did I get with your mother? Why did I abandon her immediately after? Why did I never look for you?'

Gods, there I am pre-empting again.

Gendry simply nodded, and Robert sighed. 'To be completely honest, I barely remember. Those were the early days of my reign. I'd shag Cersei, loathe myself all over again, and then plough my way through a tavern or two a few times a week. I still loved Lyanna at that point, you see, and having a woman without any strings attached was the only way that the hurt would subside, even for a moment.'

'But…but what about my mother?'

Robert shook his head. 'I'm sorry, lad. I wish I could tell you that I remembered her, but that just wouldn't be true. Fact is, she was one of a hundred woman I bedded in one of a hundred Flea Bottom taverns. If I'd known you existed, I…well, I don't know exactly what I'd have done, but there's no point wallowing in it now. You've clearly grown into a good man, the kind of man I'm proud to know, and had I been there in your life there's a good chance that wouldn't have happened. Still, there never should've been such a choice, and I'd be glad to do whatever I can from now on…son.'

At that, Gendry seemed to release a breath that Robert hadn't realised he was holding, and it all made sense. Of course there was hatred there, but he was now only seeing the fear that was there—the idea that even after the reunion following lifetimes of absence, his father might still reject him once more. Realising that there'd never been any malice, it seemed, had made it all easier for Gendry to handle.

'You really mean it?' Gendry asked shakily.

Robert smiled at him and placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Of course. There'll be no titles, no riches, and there's hardly likely to be any glory, but you will be, for the rest of your days, a Baratheon.'

With that, Gendry sat closer to him and wrapped him in a hug. Robert reciprocated, hesitantly at first, before committing and wholeheartedly hugging his—frankly, very drunk—son back. The night was young, however, and he'd doubtless have more questions for him; questions that would in all likelihood be easier to answer if they were both on a similar level.

'Pass us that barrel, lad, and I'll answer any more questions you have.'

They were found the next morning, snoring against the wall of the smithy with three empty barrels at their feet. Both were decked in armour, with helmets placed haphazardly on their heads and a collection of swords scattered about on the floor, like two children who'd been playing at being knights.

Both were smiling, and for the first time in a long time both were content.

Oswell

He couldn't resist the grin forming on his face when he spotted Gendry enter the main hall, noticing his grimace at the general hubbub and the presence of ale, as well as the way he seemed to flnich when he entered a shaft of light. He'd been there countless times himself, but he still intended to make the boy's life miserable—at least, for a while.

'Is he alright? You know, Gendry?'

The voice came out of nowhere, seconds before the two other members of the Kingsguard joined him, sitting across from him. It had been Duncan who'd spoken, but Aemon also appeared to have a worried look in his eyes. After all, they'd lived with him for a time before Oswell had arrived, and despite Aemon's pious misgivings about illegitimacy he was still clearly fond of him.

'By my reckoning, he'll be fine. I saw him talking with Robert, and they both appear to have matching headaches and sensitivity to bright lights and loud noise.' That elicited a chuckle from the two knights, and the atmosphere of their segment of the table was far happier than it had been. The atmosphere, however, did not last long.

'Oswell, gentlemen,' Lord Stark said as he reached their table, having walked down from his position to the right of the vacant lord's seat. He looked tired, Oswell thought, as though he'd been the one riding hell-for-leather up the continent, rather than resting at the Twins as he had been. 'At noon, we'll be holding a meeting in the Lord's solar. I suggest that you all attend—we'll be forming a plan for the liberation of Riverrun, and what'll happen…after.' With that, he turned away and walked over to the table containing Robert, Davos, and the newly arrived Gendry.

'What do you think will happen then?' Duncan asked. 'And why the bloody hell would we be invited? Meaning no offence, but I don't have a lick of political sense in me—what good will I be in such a meeting, what with all the kings and lords who've been trained since birth to, uh…meet in such a way?'

'Wait and see, Ser Duncan,' Aemon responded, patting Duncan on the shoulder. 'You were lord commander of the Kingsguard, after all, and I'm sure you'll have an illuminating perspective on this entire affair.'

Whilst clearly not wholly reassured, Dunk was notably more relaxed, and the three of them finished breaking their fasts before retreating back to their quarters, resolving to see each other at the meeting once they'd made themselves more presentable. After all, he was the disinherited son of a house fallen to ruin, and with the company he'd be in the least he could do was make a little effort.

First, the beard. Before he'd died, he'd been conscious enough of the pock marks that adorned his face following a childhood of being known as "Unwell Whent" by all the other children of Riverlander lords, and as such had covered as much of his face with the wiry brown hair that the Whents were known for. However, since their flight from King's Landing it had become wild and untamed, and in all honesty he couldn't bring himself to give a shit about it anymore. Not to mention the fact he'd been singlehandedly picked to return from the dead to fight immortal creatures beyond the wall—why should he care about the taunts of his childhood anymore? With that in mind, away it went.

Next, the clothes. He was tempted by the fine clothes that had been provided for him, but the thought that they'd once adorned the body of a Frey disgusted him—he'd met Walder Frey once at the Tourney at Harrenhal, and the idea of wearing the same clothes as his weaselly sons didn't quite sit right. Instead he opted for the boiled leather jerkin he'd already been wearing, albeit with a layer of mail underneath. It was of vital importance that none expected anything of him other than the simple, black-and-white point of view of a soldier; as such, the trappings of a soldier (rather than a lord) would do nicely. He did, however, elect to forgo his famed helmet, as a metal bat shown in flight may not be the best for preliminary talks. After all, with all the battles to come, he was sure it'd get its time in the sun.

He left the sword as it was, but slid a dagger into his boot. Better safe than sorry, he thought before opening the door and making his way to the lord's solar.

Oswell was the last to arrive, he noticed, seeing a only a single seat remaining around the large oak table, sandwiched between Robert and Egg. He took his seat silently before Ned looked to him.

'Excellent, Oswell. You're here. I was just explaining our situation to Lord Umber,' he said, rising out of his seat at the head of the table.

'You mean you've told him…everything?' Oswell asked incredulously. Gods, will there be anyone in the Seven Kingdoms that doesn't know about the Long Night?

'Aye. Everything.'

'Not that any of it makes a bit of bloody sense,' the lord of Last Hearth grumbled, idly fiddling with the leather eye patch that now adorned his face. 'Nor would I believe any of it if it weren't for the fact that I'm surrounded by dead folk.'

With that, Ned raised a hand, and the chatter from around the room subsided. 'I've called all of you here so that we might find the best, most bloodless way to retake Riverrun from the Lannisters' clutches. Ser Brynden, do you have any ideas? After all, it is your home.'

The Blackfish scratched his jaw as he looked over the map before him, detailing the intricacies of his house's seat. 'I won't lie to any of you. It's a tough nut to crack—the moats will stop any real chance of open invasion, and the walls have never been breached by honest means. As much as I hate to say this, there's a chance we'd have to lower ourselves to the Lannisters' level if we want any hope of retaking it without a pitched battle.'

'They're Southerners,' the Greatjon scoffed, prompting glares from the majority of the room. 'Give me half a dozen good, Northern men, and I'd have the castle in our hands within a night of attacking.' He sat back and smiled, apparently unaware of the idiocy of his comment.

'Gods, Jon,' Lyanna said. 'You haven't become any cleverer over the last twenty years, have you?

'Now, listen here, woma—'

'Peace, Jon. Lyanna, be quiet unless you have something productive to say,' Ned interrupted.

'If I might ask a question, my lords,' Lyonel said quietly, drawing the attention of all eyes around the room. He was still looking at the map, and his brow was furrowed as though he was in deep thought. 'What knowledge do the Lannisters have of our recent Riverlands campaign?'

'If I'm not mistaken, they know that the Twins were taken in the name of the Tullys by a large Northern force, although it is unlikely that they'll be aware of our identities,' Egg said. The change between the softly spoken idealist that Oswell had ridden up and down the kingdoms with, and the hard-nosed monarch beside him was astounding. Even Robert (whose hatred for Targaryens did admittedly seem to be slowly diminishing) seemed as though he was treating his words with a certain weight.

'Hmm. In that case, I propose that as far as the outside world is concerned, our leadership is in the hands of Lord Brynden, Ser Patrek, Lady Dacey, and Lord Umber. The element of surprise will be vital for our coming battles, and as such I feel that there should outwardly be any returned people amongst our forces. Is that agreeable?'

'We have the numbers, we have the fighters—why not just attack outright? The worst that'll happen is a few casualties amongst our soldiers and the locals,' Marq Piper said. 'In my opinion, that'd be a small price to pay for Riverrun to be back in the hands of the Tullys. Or, you know, actual Riverlanders.'

'Of course. After all, what are the lives of a few peasants in comparison to a bloody great hunk of stone by a river,' Duncan said, staring at Marq as though trying to set him on fire. 'Tell me, Lord Piper—where do you intend to be in this battle you envision? At the front, alongside the men that are fighting and dying for you, or at the back with the followers and the infirm, safe and sound?' Marq opened his mouth to form a retort, but fell silent at the sight of Duncan raising his hand. 'I'll tell you a secret about battles, my lord. They are not won by the lords and ladies, nor the knights upon their horses, but rather the men that you're clearly so willing to sacrifice. Know this, everyone,' he said, looking around the room. 'If this is the course of action you choose, I will be on the ground with the…soldiers and locals.'

'He's right. We'd be no better than the Lannisters if we were willing to throw our men's lives away so willingly,' Robert interjected, receiving a grateful look from Duncan. 'Not to mention the fact that we'll need every man who can hold a sword in the war to come.'

With that, the room fell silent as all surrounding the table scrutinised the map, looking for the slightest weakness in the castle's defences.

'Seven Hells,' Lyonel muttered. 'It's bloody impenetrable! Only a ghost would be able to get in.'

Ghosts, Oswell thought. That was it.

He remembered advice he'd been given by his father decades ago, back when he'd been teaching him the basics of swordplay.

'Don't attack the soldier, Oswell. The soldier is a beast of plate and mail, with long talons of steel and shields of wood. Attack the man. The man is fallible, the man is finite, and the man is always weaker than the soldier. Defeat the man, and the soldier will die also.'

Sure, it wasn't exactly the same, but in combination with the inspiration Lyonel had provided, a form was slowly forming in his mind. It would be risky, and the lives of hundreds—if not thousands—of men would be resting on his shoulders.

Gods, Oswell. Why couldn't you just stay the simple knight?

He stood. 'I think I may have a plan,' he said. 'But I'm not sure how much you'll like it.'

The Turnkey—Three weeks later

The arrival of the Freys was notable for three reasons. Firstly, any kind of custom had been scarce since the departure of Lord Jaime, as the loose coalition of minor Western lords did little to inspire people to come to Riverrun. Secondly, the entirety of the Riverlands were (as far as Eryk was aware) under the impression that the Freys had been pulled out root and stem; even if they had not been annihilated completely by the Northern host, it was unlikely that they'd ever be able to form their own company of the hundred-or-so soldiers that Eryk could see before him. Thirdly, it was a strange company of soldiers who rode with three figure wearing black hoods at their head, with only the flag-bearers riding ahead with the Twins billowing in the wind.

'State your name and what you want!' he shouted down, as he'd been trained to do when faced with such a group of men. He could see archers alongside him nocking their arrows, but none had begun to aim yet—after all, what could a hundred Freys do against the high walls and deep moat of Riverrun?

'We come in peace!' shouted a man at the head of the train, albeit not one of those blinded by a hood. 'My name is Walder Frey, and I lead the last remnants of House Frey! We have a gift for whoever is in charge!'

'The lord is a busy man and has no need for gifts!' Eryk shouted back. 'Be on your way!'

'In that case, you can be the one to tell your lord, whoever he is, why you gave up the chance for three of the most valuable hostages in the seven kingdoms!'

He pulled of the first man's hood, and Eryk gasped. The man proceeded to pull of the other two hoods.

'May I present Lord Brynden of House Tully, and Jon and Arya, son and daughter of Lord Eddard Stark!'

A/N: Here's another update, without the billion year waits that have been a bit more common recently. Hope you enjoy it. As always, feel free to follow, favourite, and review, and a massive thank you to those who already have. Again, I'm very lazy by nature so haven't properly proofread, nor do I have a beta, so if you find any mistakes or anything you'll just have to live with it.

Next time, we'll be returning east for the inevitable shitstorm that's happening there.

See you then,

Kinginthenorth1 xox

RHatch89: Cheers!

Kingmanaena: Thank you!

Guest: Glad you liked it :)

Lalalamb: Rhaegar's definitely gonna have a role to play, but in the meantime there are other dragonlore experts around.