A.N.: I've been looking forward to write this chapter for ages… The scene in the show was good, but the character was criminally underutilised.
I was hooked into the depths of Pinterest and discovered pictures of the model Vittoria Ceretti, and all I can say is, I saw her and thought, except for her eye-colour, and the fact her hair isn't naturally wildly curly, she is Larra. She has this absolutely gorgeous, solemn face.
Henry Cavill is my face-claim for Gendry: Take a peek at Night Hunter on Netflix to get an eyeful of the glorious Henry with longish curls and full beard, and keep in mind Geralt of Rivia (especially his physique, and the fight-scenes…and the bath…mmm…)
Valyrian Steel
28
His Father's House
She stared into the fire, the soft click-clack of her needles soothing as Old Nan's used to be, as she reacquainted her fingers again with the feel of polished oak needles and soft yarn coiled around her finger to guide it. Like Old Nan, she could knit without even looking at the yarn: Her hands remembered every stitch, every pattern. It was embedded in her muscle-memory, as much as her knife-training and fletching skills.
"What are you thinking about?" asked a soft voice. More and more often over the last few days and weeks since Larra had told him off, Bran had been making an effort. To engage.
Perhaps it was the easiest and best way he had of remaining in the present, focused on them, rather than on the thousands of years' worth of memories fighting for dominance inside his own head. Asking them questions perhaps allowed him to sift through the memories, and realise where and when he wask.
Larra sighed, glancing over at Bran. "Arya."
"You still worry about her," Bran said softly.
"I worry about what she did," Larra admitted quietly.
Bran sighed, and reached over, his pale hand glowing in the firelight. Larra eyed it, knowing what that simple gesture meant. She lowered her knitting, transferred the needles to one hand so she would not drop stitches…and she took his hand, uncertain whether she was prepared to see what he had to show her.
Blistering sunlight blinded her, and she was deafened from the throng pressing around them. Bran stood at ease, but there was no relaxed, dry humour in his face, or wonder; only grief.
They stood among the mob outside the Sept of Baelor.
"No!" Larra blurted, whirling away, her eyes clamped shut: She would not look.
You owe it to him to look him in the eye…if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps he does not deserve to die…
Bran appeared before her, smiling sadly, his dark eyes pinched in pain. He pointed in the direction of the one man in the crowd not staring at the steps, jeering and screaming, and Ned Stark lowered his head to the executioner's block. The grubby man with the lined, weather-beaten face was dressed all in black, his clothing patched, threadbare in places and dusty: He had a small child snared in his arms, their head pressed tight against his chest, as they wriggled and thrashed to get free.
Not a child.
Arya.
She was in boys' clothes, and the Braavosi sword Jon had had Mikken forge for her as a parting-gift was tucked into its sheath at her belt.
As Larra stared at her little sister, grubby and hungry-looking, she heard the tell-tale swish…and her heart stuttered as a flock of pigeons took to the air; Arya's eyes were focused on them. Her breath caught in her lungs, her body thrumming with heat and despair, and she pushed back tears, focused on Arya. On the man who had her face tucked against him, to make sure she didn't see…
Larra sniffed, and focused on the grubby man in black. "I know his face," she said hollowly, hating Bran in that moment for bringing her here. Father… "Yoren. That was his name. The wandering crow… He shared the road with Lord Tyrion on his return from the Wall…"
She remembered him in the Great Hall at Winterfell, grateful for room at their hearth and table, given a good bed for the night. She remembered Robb trading barbs with Lord Tyrion, and herself, sheathing the blade Robb had laid bare before him as threat to Lord Tyrion…who had returned from the Wall with a wonderful design for a saddle that had allowed Bran to ride… Lion and crow had left Winterfell together, sharing the road.
"Look at me! Look at me!" Yoren forced Arya to look up; her eyes were damp, but she looked more shocked than anything, numb. His voice aggressive, forceful, Yoren shook Arya out of her daze. Sharp-minded and grim, Yoren eyed the crowd warily, his face pinched, and in that moment Larra knew, he understood exactly who Arya was, and exactly the danger she was in. Her respect for the wandering crow, Jon's black brother, grew a hundredfold. "You remember me now, boy? Hey, remember me?" Arya blinked, and seemed to come out of her daze; she focused on his face, adn appeared to nod. "That's a good boy. You'll be coming with me, boy - and you'll be keeping your mouth shut."
He lifted her roughly, shouldering his way through the crowd, her head tucked against his shoulder - she still could not see the steps of the Sept, and Larra did not look back. She followed Yoren, shoving his way through the crowd, the sound of King Joffrey's voice smug and arrogant as he addressed the crowd - who roared their approval.
In a dusty side-alley, Yoren stopped, shoving Arya against the wall. "Keep your mouth shut, boy."
"I'm not a boy!" Arya cried in protest, blinking up at Yoren with her huge expressive eyes, and jumped as he unsheathed a dagger at his belt. He was strapped with weapons, not just a brother of the Night's Watch but a wandering crow - and their job was more dangerous than the Rangers. Rangers only had to deal with wildlings and White Walkers: Wandering crows had to deal with every kind of scum, filth and other nobility there was in the Seven Kingdoms.
"You're not a smart boy, is that what you're trying to say?! D'you want to live, boy?" Yoren growled dangerously, and he starts to slash Arya's long brown hair off. "North, boy, we're going North…" He finished slashing Arya's long hair; it fell to the floor, dirty and tangled. How often had Arya threatened to cut her own hair, furious about having the knots combed out? Gripping her tightly by the upper-arm, Yoren led her away from the Sept, away from the crowds, to a dusty marketplace choked with the stench of the city's poorest and shimmering with heat. He released her arm, shoving her toward a group of young boys. "You, stay here with this lot, boy, and - stay - or I'll lock you in the back of the wagon with these three."
Arya stared at a prison wagon, inside which three men were locked. One had a cowl over his head, and sat complacently; the other two snarled and grumbled and howled. Arya stared so long, she didn't see the large boy until she collided with him. He pushed her down into the dirt.
"Watch yourself, midget!"
"He's got a sword, this one." A ratty-looking boy appeared beside the large one, watery eyes peering down at Arya.
"What's a gutter-rat like you doing with a sword?"
"Maybe he's a little squire," rat-boy jeered.
"He ain't no squire, look at him. Looks like a girl!" exclaimed the fat boy. "I'll bet he stole that sword."
"Let's have a look."
"I could use me a sword like that," said the fat boy thoughtfully.
"Well, take it off him."
"Give it here, midget."
"Look at him," rat-boy snickered. "You better give Hot Pie the sword. I've seen him kick a boy to death."
"I knocked him down, and I kicked him in the balls, and I kept kickin' him, until he was dead. I kicked him all to pieces," the fat boy, Hot Pie, boasted. "You better give me that sword!"
"You want it?" Arya snatched his hand, Needle already pointed at his belly. She used his weight to lever herself off the floor, the boy barely breathing as Needle threatened to pierce him full of holes "I'll give it to you. I already killed one fat boy. I bet you've never killed anyone. I bet you're a liar. But I'm not. I'm good at killing fat boys. I like killing fat boys." She advanced, tiny and terrifying, and Hot Pie stumbled back, into a taller boy stood behind him with his well-muscled arms folded across his chest, vivid blue eyes narrowed as he scowled.
"Oh!" Hot Pie gasped, stumbling away from the taller boy. He was older than the rest, sixteen or seventeen, tall and well-built - well-fed - and likely to get taller and bigger. His black hair was shorn for ease, his jaw was already strong, and his chin was dimpled. He had high cheekbones and an imperfect nose Larra thought perfectly fit his rugged, deeply masculine face.
He was already handsome, in a brutal sort of way - because of the harsh haircut. Those eyes - dark and mesmerising as the finest sapphires, finely lashed - were startling, set into his grubby and tanned face.
"You like picking on the little ones, do you?" he asked, and his voice…was attractive, not too deep yet but laced with menace, and he seemed to grow bigger as he crowded Hot Pie, dominant and threatening. He was all shoulders and arms and flashing yes. And he knew it: The other boys cowered. "You know, I've been hammering an anvil these past ten years. When I hit that steel, it sings. Are you gonna sing when I hit you?" Hot Pie fled, glancing over his shoulder warily, the rat-boy looking frightened. The sapphire-eyed boy sighed softly, his posture relaxing. All for show, Larra thought, finding herself smiling. He knows bullies are frightened of him. She eyed his arms, corded with muscles already, bigger than they should be for a boy his age. What had he said - he'd been hammering an anvil the last ten year? A blacksmith's apprentice. He turned to Arya, eyeing her shrewdly. He frowned at Needle, still gleaming in her hand. He wasn't afraid of the blade, the way Hot Pie had been, and he handled the steel with confidence as he reached for it. Not to steal it from her, and Arya seemed to understand that, for she did nothing to stop him as he took the Braavosi sword from her, examining it carefully. He noticed the maker's mark claiming it as Mikken's work. "This is castle-forged steel!" he said, surprised. He gave Arya an assessing look. "Where'd you steal it?"
"It was a gift." From Jon, Larra thought, frowning. 'I already killed one fat boy…'
"Did she kill a boy?" Larra asked Bran, remembering what Arya had told Hot Pie. She was no liar, after all.
"Oh, yes," Bran said softly.
"Don't matter now," the tall, blue-eyed boy told Arya. "Where we're going, they don't care what you've done. We've got rapers, pickpockets, highwaymen. Murderers."
"Which are you?" Arya asked, and for a second, sadness and disappointment flickered across his face, regretful.
"Armourer's apprentice," he said. He shrugged off his sadness, but Larra had seen it - and Arya did, too. "But my master got sick of me, so, here I am."
"Come on, you sorry sons of whores!" Yoren bellowed across the marketplace, climbing onto a wagon. "It's a thousand leagues from here to the Wall. And winter is coming!"
Arya sheathed Needle at her side, and marched off behind the boy with the blue eyes. He carried a pack and a helmet fashioned after the head of a bull, horns and all, and Larra noted it; it was fine work. A testament to his skill and his patience. Arya looked back, just once, past the wagon cage, to the dusty market square, but the steps of the Sept, still splattered with the blood of Ned Stark, were out of sight, and Sansa had been carried into the Red Keep by the Hound, the pretty she-wolf locked away in a cage.
They watched Arya. Her friendship with the brave, gentle and strong young man Gendry, with his blazing blue eyes and infallible sense of decency, his corded muscles, handsome laugh, cheerful charisma and his grit, his bravery and loyalty.
They watched the crows' journey North, and the death of Yoren, protecting not only Arya but also Gendry, hunted by the Gold Cloaks for a secret even he didn't seem to know.
They watched Arya sleeping in the rain at the feet of the ruined Harrenhall, as the screams of smallfolk being mutilated punctured the air, all the way to Arya, sleeping in the rain, on the steps of the House of Black and White. Everything in between. The playful protectiveness of Gendry; the extraordinary vulnerability of Tywin Lannister before his disguised cupbearer; the eerily entrancing Jaqen H'ghar. The Brotherhood - Gendry pinning Arya to the ground as she writhed and fought and spat at the Hound to "Burn in hell!" for the murder of the butcher's boy, judged by the Brotherhood's Lord of Light in a trial by combat against Lord Beric Dondarrion, resurrected half a dozen times.
"I can be your family," Arya had told Gendry, her heart breaking. The simmering hatred in her gaze as Arya glowered at the Red Woman, Lady Melisandre, who had bought Gendry from the Brotherhood determined to ransom Arya to her Tully relatives.
Sandor Clegane, riding through a burning army camp carrying an unconscious Arya and a Frey banner to conceal their escape as the Northern army was butchered. Teaching her where the heart was. A brawl in a tiny tavern…striking the Hound's name off her list as he lay broken, goading her to kill him…bartering for passage with the curious coin Jaqen H'ghar had given her, and the ancient Valyrian words, "Valar Morghulis," spoken to a Braavosi ship's captain.
They watched her lessons. Her blindness.
Larra watched her charismatic, fiercely just sister become consumed with vengeance. She watched the animated, vibrant and passionate Arya become still. Quiet, watchful. Wrathful. Burning with a hate that kept her blood warm as she lay in the mud listening to torture, or begged blindly in the damp, cobbled streets of Braavos, or calmly kneaded dough in a darkened kitchen, her mother's and brother's killers dismembered in a barrel, ready to be baked into a pie for their father.
And her prayer… "Joffrey, Cersei. Ser Ilyn Payne. The Hound. Meryn Trant. Amory Lorch. The Mountain. The Tickler. Raff the Sweetling. Polliver. Chiswyck. Weese. Dunsen. The Red Woman. Thoros of Myr. Beric Dondarrion. Walder Frey. Valar morghulis…" Names she had offered up to the god of Death before she even understood what Valar morghulis truly meant. Names that, one by one, Arya was striking off her list, the names committed to memory, committed to the god of Death. The prayer was becoming shorter.
As Arya donned a new face, fastening a crimson cloak to elaborate, gilded-steel armour, her lips moved silently: Cersei, the Mountain. The Red Woman. Thoros of Myr. Beric Dondarrion. Valar morghulis.
Bran sighed, and released Larra from the memory.
The ruddy walls of the Red Keep, glowing in the lingering sunset bathing King's Landing in blood-red light, faded to ancient grey stone and a log crackling orange-white in the hearth.
Larra sat quietly, her hand still clasped loosely around her knitting. Dazedly, she picked up her needles… Needle.
Arya had cried as she hid the little sword Jon had gifted her.
She had been unable to bear giving up that little sword, to shed all that she was, her identity, her past…her family. To abandon the love of her brother, her hope…to see him again. To return home, to her family…
Arya had knocked the poisoned rum from Lady Crane's hand, knowing that her death was undeserved - that her name had been offered up out of spite and jealousy, not a desire for justice. And when she was hurt, Arya had sought refuge in Lady Crane's home. Larra had thought there was a slight resemblance between Lady Crane and Lady Catelyn - their colouring, their cheekbones, the sensible maternal warmth radiating from the actress as she tenderly administered to Arya's wounds, the first motherly touch Arya had known since she left Winterfell…
Arya had killed the Waif not just in self-defence, but as justice for the actress who had healed and sheltered her - and been mutilated for her kindness.
No matter what Arya had done, Larra knew…her sister was not gone. She was lost. Drowning in grief, pain and a desire for vengeance to drown out the screaming inside her own mind that had not stopped since they took Father's head.
The butcher's boy had been Arya's first taste of true powerlessness, of injustice: Since then, she had witnessed almost every evil of Man's devising. Arya understood just how ugly the world truly was.
Now Arya had the skills to answer injustice with swift and brutal violence.
Arya's journey had been more gruesome, more brutal, more unforgiving than Larra could ever have believed if she had not witnessed it. It was no wonder that Arya was…altered.
There was no shame in Arya having been so brutally changed by all she had survived, all she had endured.
Weren't they all?
But when the last name was struck from her list, what then? Larra couldn't help wonder. When she had avenged their family, and anyone who had ever crossed her, would her wrathful sister ever be able to find peace?
Needle, Lady Crane…Larra had seen Arya's truest nature shining through in those rare moments - crying in heartbreak for missing Jon; seeking the safety of a mother's warmth.
Arya's tears, her rare vulnerability, had reminded Larra how young Arya still was; how young she had been when Father was executed. Arya was now only as old as Larra had been when she had fled Winterfell, and the Ironborn, with Bran and Rickon.
From the moment Ned Stark had been executed, Arya had been fashioned by the men she had met along her journey - every single one of them - but she was still, deep in her heart, that delightful, ferocious little girl who believed in justice, in loyalty and truth.
Larra hoped that, one day, Arya would be able to return home. Not just to Winterfell…to herself. To find peace, and shed the wrath she wore as both blanket and shield.
She raised her eyes to the mantel over the hearth, where Sansa had agreed they should place the small portraits Larra had long ago painted of their family. There she was, Arya, twelve years old, still with the light of innocence in her eyes and her thin lips curved into a breathless smile of anticipation, her long braids unkempt. To look at that painting…it bore no resemblance to the cunning, dangerous young woman Arya had become. Because of all Arya had endured…the torture, the training - Hot Pie and Yoren and Jaqen H'ghar and Tywin Lannister and the Brotherhood and Gendry.
"What happened to the boy?" Larra asked, glancing at Bran. It was easier than asking about Arya. But the boy, who had been charming and clever, even-tempered, shrewd, with an easy laugh and a spine of tempered steel - even as he faced down torture… His face lingered in her mind, those incredible blue eyes, the strong, dimpled chin, stronger arms, even the shadow of a beard he had grown by the time he and Arya were separated. How fiercely he had reminded Larra of Jon, just watching the way he treated Arya - with delighted incredulity mingled with fondness, deep love and fierce protectiveness. "The Red Witch bought him. Did he live?"
Bran smiled softly. "He lived."
"Where is he now?"
"About to meet an old friend."
"You know where you're headed?"
"I made this journey before, in the dark, drenched in the blood of my father and lover. I know the way," Lord Tyrion muttered, eyeing the red castle towering over the city. It was a tiny inlet, ideal for smugglers who wished to avoid detection - though most smugglers utilised the blanket of darkness that was night, with only the moonlight to guide them; so said Ser Davos, who was the expert in such things, as evidenced by his knuckle-bones draped around his neck in a leather pouch. Not them: Lord Tyrion had asserted that if he were to appear in the Hour of the Wolf, every Lannister soldier in the Red Keep would be called upon to skewer him, if the Mountain did not crush him like a grape before that. No, it was broad daylight for him, so to allay at least one of Cersei's fears. Even if Cersei was not the one he was here to see.
He just hoped Jaime had not armoured his detachable hand with a hook to disembowel him on sight.
Tyrion was under no illusions that…he had murdered their father, after Jaime had conspired to free him from his prison, and certain death by royal executioner…
Tyrion had murdered their father, after Jaime had spent a lifetime defending him.
"And where are you going?" Lord Tyrion frowned at the Spider, who had climbed out of the boat with surprising agility, and now stood assessing the cliff-face. He did not wear his fur-trimmed robes made of fine Qartheen samite. No; he dressed humbly, now, as Tyrion knew he was prone to when he did not wish to be noticed. Lord Varys was still a mummer, playing a part.
"I have things to attend to. My little birds find it difficult to fly through the storms," Lord Varys said softly. "And I do so miss their songs."
"Well, good luck. Does Cersei know you've been to Meereen and back?"
"What my little birds have told me, the Queen's new Hand believes he guides them," Lord Varys sniffed. "They give him titbits, little more - of course, your sister has never been anything less than petty and vengeful; she focuses on the little things, far too close to home. She has no care for news from abroad; she cares to know who still laughs at the Queen who walked naked through the streets, sheared and shamed, covered in shit."
Lord Tyrion's lips twitched into a leer. "Do you know, the people of King's Landing suddenly seem far more attractive to me than they were a moment ago."
"As for the news of my whereabouts, I took great care to conceal my movements - especially in connection with you…" Lord Varys shrugged. "And it takes a little more than candied plums to turn my little birds' feathers… If you'll pardon me, my lords." He bowed to them, moving with surprising speed and ease across the sand, and disappeared, heading for the city.
Ser Davos kicked a long stake into the sand, wedging it deep, securing the boat from drifting away into the tides of the Blackwater, their only escape.
"There's a path to the left that hugs the cliff," Ser Davos told Tyrion, gesturing. "City Watch hardly ever patrols it; too many steps."
"You're not staying here?" Lord Tyrion blurted, as Ser Davos strode past him, following in Lord Varys' wake.
"I've got my own business in Flea Bottom," Ser Davos told him.
"What if someone takes the boat?"
"Then we're fucked!" Ser Davos exclaimed, glancing over his shoulder as he strode off. "Best hurry."
The city stank. It always had. Like sour wine, rotting fish, baking bread, sweat, horse-piss, nightsoil and smoke. The cantankerous old captain of Cobblecat had claimed that King's Landing reeked like an unwashed whore. As a boy Ser Davos remembered his eyes watering at the stench in high-summer: The autumn past gone and winter officially here, the stench was not quite so bad, but it still stuck to the back of his throat, and he had to dodge pails of nightsoil being emptied from high windows that leaned over the winding, cobbled streets.
And yet, in spite of the stench and the nightsoil, Ser Davos felt the city around him, his onetime home with her three high hills…it was happy. Winter had come, but it had not yet truly touched King's Landing, except for the lingering chill in the morning air, the fog drifting off the Blackwater to curl around their feet as he avoided rivers of horse-piss and blood from butcher's stalls, the ground scattered with sawdust that gripped his boots as he trudged along, listening to the singing of washerwomen and the scream of seagulls as they dived about the Fish Market, fighting over discarded innards, and here and there he caught scents that took him back violently to his youth, fruit tarts baking, the stench of unwashed bodies, saltwater and sour ale and lavender growing in pots marking whorehouses, the nimble girls draped in the doorways reeking of the flower, coaxing and smiling.
Here and there, though, he saw evidence of the fear that had so recently gripped the city. The High Sparrow and all his little hateful followers; a few of the old brothels had been burned down, taverns had been hastily rebuilt, and in the markets, he noticed fewer stalls, less produce, and higher prices being bellowed about. And the Sept…or what had once been the Sept of Baelor. A tremendous crater, gouged out in the heart of the city. Children played among the ruins, as workmen struggled to clear the rubble, loading up carts. Ser Davos watched, realising…that amount of debris would be useful, come a siege. Projectiles to load the trebuchets with and shatter siege-towers, render soldiers to jelly.
The bite of smoke and steel tickled his nose, and Ser Davos followed it. He took his time, idling and observing everything. Flea Bottom was eternal, he thought; time would not change it. It felt the same as it had when he was a boy. The people looked the same, sounded the same, the children eyed his belt just the same as they had when he was young - he smiled at them, eyes twinkling: His coin-purse was tucked nowhere they were brave enough to venture.
The Street of Steel… He wandered between the forges, from smithies to armourers, seeking. He never asked, just observed.
A great hulking man with great arms muscled like basilisks hammered away at an anvil, steady and fierce, and Ser Davos almost moved on - until the man glanced to the side at the sound of a boy's voice, and Ser Davos saw…the strong nose, fierce jaw swathed in a trimmed beard, and vivid blue eyes…
He paused in the doorway, heat already beading sweat on his brow. The man at the anvil wore breeches and a decent pair of boots, and under his leather apron, his shirt was drenched through with sweat, sleeves peeled back, brawny forearms protected by leather gauntlets.
"Thought you might've have rowed all the way to the Summer Isles by now," he quipped, and the man at the anvil froze, stood up straighter, his head lifting at the sound of Davos' voice. The man set down the sword he was working on, letting the metal glow bright hot orange-white in the embers, and slowly set down his hammer. He turned, and Ser Davos stared.
As a young lad, Gendry had been tall, well-built and good-looking. Ser Davos remembered him slim, suspicious, stubborn, brave, earnest, clever and succinct.
As a man, Gendry had grown a foot taller, his shoulders wide enough to wreck stone doorways, back heavily muscled, his strong arms scarred and shining, thighs thick. His sweat-soaked shirt showed more muscles still, and dark hair on his chest. His black hair was longer than Davos had ever seen it, curling everywhere as he sweated, the shadow of the short beard swathing his deeply masculine jaw did not quite conceal the dimple in his chin.
Gendry grinned. He still had Renly's easy smile, Ser Davos thought, the Baratheon looks. Fierce and handsome and strong. He had grown into his strong features, very handsome, and fine lines crinkled the corners of his deep sapphire-blue eyes as he grinned, hinting at the time that had passed.
Ser Davos had saved a boy; he had become a man.
And he greeted Ser Davos as he would a brother, enveloping him in a tight embrace that startled a laugh from the older man as he was overwhelmed by Gendry's size - he was huge.
"Ser Davos!" Gendry said warmly, and even his voice had changed - deeper, still with that innate humour and earnestness, but rich and handsome. "I was certain Stannis had killed you."
"Almost," Ser Davos said, his beard twitching. "Step back, let me take a look at you! They must be adding something new to the bowl o' brown, you're enormous."
Gendry laughed richly. "I'm an excellent armourer and charge a fair price," he told Ser Davos, shrugging modestly. "I've the money to buy meat now."
"I can see that!" Ser Davos chuckled. Movement in the corner, and Gendry glanced around, still grinning. "Rhysand, come and say hello. This is Ser Davos Seaworth. Ser Davos, this is my son Rhysand."
Ser Davos blinked, staring at the boy. Son? He was tall, in that lanky phase between childhood and manhood, as if someone had taken hold of his boots and his ears and stretched him - growing too quickly, with nothing to feed him. Not nothing, Ser Davos understood, because the lad wasn't skinny as most Flea Bottom urchins were skinny; he was just growing that quickly. He had dark hair, violently streaked by the sun, his face faintly tanned, the skin beneath his eyes red from the sun reflecting off the water. Ser Davos knew the look of sea-burned skin. The boy had vivid blue eyes like Gendry's, though they were a different shape, and pale rather than deep sapphire, his left eyebrow was sliced through, scarred…but that was nothing to the scars fracturing from the right corner of his mouth, some of them tickling his jaw, some stretching toward his ear. He saw Ser Davos looking at the scar, and scowled.
"Your…?"
"Not actual son," Rhysand said, rolling his harsh bright-blue eyes. "He never fucked my mother - or maybe he did - ow!" In a slow and practised move, Gendry clipped him round the ear, raising an eyebrow warningly. "What I mean is, I'm too old to be his son, obviously."
"Rhysand has the unique talent of being insolently truthful," Gendry said, with wry humour, eyeing the boy. He could be no older than thirteen or fourteen, tall for his age and older because of his scarring and scowl.
"He took me in," said Rhysand simply, and Ser Davos nodded. Despite his harsh tongue and scowls, when Rhysand looked at Gendry, there was nothing but respect and fondness in his eyes. Whatever their bond, it was strong.
"Rhysand, you'd know Ser Davos as the Onion Knight…" Gendry said, and Rhysand turned those vivid pale-blue eyes on Ser Davos, reassessing. "He saved my life. You're here because of him."
"You were a smuggler?" Rhysand said, disbelief dripping from him; Ser Davos' beard twitched as Gendry rolled his eyes.
"A lifetime ago," Ser Davos sighed. "I've been a lot else since then."
"Rhys, go and get Neva," Gendry told the boy quietly. "Take a few coppers and got to the fish market. Get some white fish. We'll have our meal. Have you eaten? Get enough for all of us, Rhys." The boy nodded, and strode off, shouting for Neva, whoever that was. Gendry grinned. "Thirsty? There's ale, and Neva's fish stew is…you'll see."
"The boy?" Ser Davos prompted, and Gendry glanced at him, halfway through a doorway into a back room, his living quarters or the passage to them.
"He was a rigging boy on a Myrish pirate-ship," Gendry said, his lips twitching. "I wouldn't believe it, but for the brand on his arm. 'P' seared into the skin; even I know what that means."
"He keeps that covered, I hope?"
"Always," Gendry nodded. "Anyway…somehow he made it to King's Landing. I found him by the docks, face split open… He's been with me ever since." He stared at Ser Davos. "I thought you'd been executed for helping me… When I came back to King's Landing…my Father's house…his people…my people… I knew I had to pay it on kind, what you did for me. I can't hold lands or titles, but when you saved my life, you showed me what it means to be a man. So, I…take care of as many of my father's people as I can. Orphans and tired whores and blind fishermen… Especially when the Sparrows came…"
Ser Davos had not known King Robert near so well as he knew Stannis: But he knew enough to think that Gendry was already a greater man than his father ever had been.
"I heard about the Squabble of Sparrows," Ser Davos said brusquely. "Saw the Sept."
"What's left of it, anyway," Gendry shrugged, and he carried two simple clay cups and a jug out of the back-room - holding them all in one hand. He poured them out a healthy measure of good ale each, and Ser Davos accepted a cup gratefully, smiling. Gendry's expression was scornful and angry for a moment, and he blurted, "They called themselves pious. Claimed to be godly men. They spread nothing but hate and fear. The city was choking on it."
"Feels as if the city's recovered," Ser Davos mused.
"I'll tell you something, Cersei's a callous bitch but she did in a morning what Maegor couldn't do in a decade," Gendry said. "I may wish her dead for what she did to my father - what she tried to do to me - but the city can breathe again. Young whores aren't being whipped through the streets, bastards aren't being drowned in the Blackwater as the product of sin, the ale-houses aren't being burned, merchants' shops torn apart for their spreading the sin of excess…"
"You seem as if you got through it unscathed."
"I did. I'm a skilled worker," Gendry shrugged. "I know my value. So I armed the Faith…now I arm Lannister soldiers. Never get a second look. No-one knows me. The hardest thing was keeping Rhysand and Neva out of sight. The Faith liked things in proper order, and those two…" Gendry sighed, swallowed his ale, and glanced at Ser Davos. "I was surprised to hear Stannis died fighting in the North. He abandoned his claim on the Iron Throne?"
"He never abandoned it; just approached it from a different angle," Ser Davos sighed. He shook his head, and sipped his ale. It was good, and flavourful. Gendry frowned at him.
"You've had a strange journey since we parted," he said quietly. "Are you going to tell me some of it?"
"Aye. I believe I shall," Ser Davos said. Gendry eyed him shrewdly.
"You didn't come back to this city to re-establish trade, did you?" he said, and Ser Davos shook his head.
"No. I'm here on urgent business for Jon Snow," Ser Davos said.
"Jon Snow - the Stark bastard?" Gendry blurted, his handsome face the picture of surprise.
"Aye. You've heard of him?"
"Bits and pieces. For months all anyone talked about in the taverns was the Battle of the Bastards. The White Wolf and his wildlings. Now he's King in the North," Gendry said, then frowned softly, shaking his head. "They talk about him like they used to talk about the Young Wolf, Robb Stark."
"Perhaps he is like his brother, I don't know - never met the last King in the North," Ser Davos said.
"Well, hopefully the North won't go through kings like King's Landing does," Gendry said.
"Indeed not," Ser Davos said grimly, thinking back, to the sound of a direwolf's mournful howling, a fire crackling in a small room chill with death, a snivelling man's false promises.
"They say he and his sister reclaimed Winterfell," Gendry said cautiously.
"Aye. Sansa Stark," Ser Davos said, and noticed the disappointment flicker across Gendry's sapphire eyes. "Good lass. Survived Cersei for years; she's wily as a direwolf herself."
He told Gendry everything, from saving himself from certain execution with a raven-scroll he had read, the details corroborating with a vision Stannis had in the flames. Their journey North, and the battle in the snows beyond the Wall. He told Gendry about Jon Snow, and Jon Snow giving the gift of mercy to Mance Rayder, a man he respected despite the fact they were enemies, as he burned. King Stannis' hard push to Winterfell to claim it from the Boltons, to protect the North and unite it against the coming storm… Gendry had never met his cousin, and swallowed a mouthful of ale trying to dislodge the lump in his throat as he tried to tell him about Shireen. Stannis had died on the moors outside Winterfell, before he had the chance to lay siege to the castle. Knowing his plans for his only child, who Ser Davos had loved as his own, King Stannis had sent Ser Davos back to Castle Black, back to Lord Commander Jon Snow… He had become advisor to the Lord Commander.
He slipped up: He told Gendry, "He did what was right, and they murdered him for it."
Gendry blinked at him.
"The Night's Watchmen murdered their Lord Commander? But…"
"T'was the Red Witch," Ser Davos growled.
"She brought him back," Gendry said easily, and Ser Davos blinked at him. Gendry explained, "With the Brotherhood, I saw…Lord Beric Dondarrion, cut down by the Hound. His friend Thoros of Myr brought him back, praying to the Lord of Light. That's the Red Woman's god, wasn't it?"
"Aye, that'd be the one."
"She brought him back," Gendry said wonderingly, and Ser Davos nodded.
"His watch ended; he was determined to leave the Wall and everything else behind, after executing the mutineers…then his sister arrived at Castle Black," Ser Davos sighed. "We spent months travelling the North, trying to scrounge up men to fight against the Boltons. And then it came. The Battle of the Bastards. Jon slew the bastard in single-combat, with naught but a shield against bow-and-arrows - but only after we'd almost lost the battle, and the Knights of the Vale rode in. They'd come for her - for his sister, Lady Sansa. Her cousin presides over the Vale as Lord of the Eyrie, you see."
"Now they've taken their home back," Gendry said, and Ser Davos nodded. "Ser Davos, did you ever hear anything about the Red Wedding?"
"I think we all heard enough about the Red Wedding."
"That's not what I meant. I never said a word before, but the Brotherhood who sold me to the Red Witch had Arya Stark; they wanted to ransom her to Lord Tully at Riverrun - her grandfather. Said they needed the gold to keep fighting. Same reason they sold me," Gendry said, and he could talk about it now without bitterness: He never would have learned his identity, never would have met Ser Davos, whom he respected and admired, one of the two men to show him what it meant to be a man. Yoren was the other. Gendry had realised that Yoren had known Arya's secret the moment he shoved Arya among them in the dusty marketplace, her hair hacked off, calling her a boy. He had protected Arya, and Gendry. He had lost his life for his decency, but that only made Gendry believe more strongly in honour and loyalty and protecting those who could not protect themselves. Not that Arya had ever really needed protecting - except maybe from herself; she had always been far too brave than was wise. He sighed, and shook his head.
Ser Davos sighed, shaking his head. "How is it you came to be captive of the Brotherhood with Arya Stark?" Ser Davos could not hide his disbelief.
"I suppose it started with her father…maybe even with Stannis, before him, and Lord Arryn. They all came to Tobho Mott's armoury in the weeks before they died, seeking me out, asking me about my mother. They knew what I didn't, you see. They saw it in my face the moment they looked at me; I was Robert Baratheon's bastard… Lord Arryn seemed shocked, he said, 'The seed is strong!' when he looked at me. He said, 'They're nothing alike'… Suppose he meant the Queen's bastards… They'd learned the truth in my face…" Gendry sighed, shaking his head. Those men - good men, who led well and ruled justly - had died for the truth of Gendry's birth. They had died for his looks. "When Ned Stark came to the capital, he visited the shop, too… He told Tobho Mott, 'If the day ever comes when that boy would rather wield a sword than forge one, you send him to me'… Ned Stark was arrested, not long after, and I was sold to the Watch. We were set to leave the capital the day they executed Lord Stark, and Arry appears with the rest of the recruits, hair freshly shorn and carrying castle-forged steel in the style of the Braavosi water-dancers' blades. 'Course, none of us knew who she truly was, and I think I was the one of the few who paid enough attention to realise she was a girl… But she told me who she was, eventually - when the Gold Cloaks came for us; she thought they had tracked her down, were going to drag her back to the city, to Cersei… They wanted me. The Gold Cloaks left, but they came back with the Mountain's men. They killed Yoren. They took us prisoner at Harrenhall…we escaped, but the Brotherhood found us. Would've gotten away, if they hadn't grabbed the Hound, too, and he recognised Arya. When the Red Witch bought me, that was the last time I saw Arya."
Ser Davos stared at him. Until now he'd never breathed a word of Arya to anyone. But it was Arya who Rhysand reminded him of so violently - his stubborn refusal to die, his viciousness when provoked and his hilarious, insolent truthfulness. And he was loyal, like Arya. She may be a High Lord's daughter, and Rhysand born the lowest of the low, likely a bed-slave's son or worse, and they had had very different lives, but they were so alike in nature it was uncanny. Gendry loved Rhysand as his own: He also frustrated him near to tears sometimes. Arya had been the same.
"But the Freys took Riverrun after the Red Wedding…"
"If they had snatched Arya Stark, all of Westeros would've learned of it," Ser Davos said vehemently, and he saw the disappointment and grief flicker in Gendry's eyes.
"But if they had her… House Frey is a dead House now," Gendry said grimly. "They're saying that winter came for House Frey, if she was there…"
"We'd have known it," Ser Davos sighed, shaking his head. "It does no good to dwell on her fate, Gendry…believe me. There's worse than winter coming."
Gendry frowned at him. "What d'you mean?"
Ser Davos faltered for a heartbeat, then told him - everything. The White Walkers, Hard Home, Jon Snow letting the wildlings through the Wall, and the army of the dead, Jon's search for obsidian that had led him to Dragonstone. Gendry listened, never interrupting, but Ser Davos could see his mind working behind those clever blue eyes.
Gendry listened, and became more and more impressed, and more homesick for Arya, the only family - the only sister - he had ever had. He listened to Ser Davos' stories of Jon Snow, and thought, He sounds just like Arya always described him. He told Ser Davos as much.
"It'd break his heart to hear what his sister endured," Ser Davos said quietly.
"Have you seen it?" Gendry asked him quietly. "The army of the dead?"
"No, but -"
"But Jon Snow says he has, and you believe him?" Gendry prompted.
"I do."
"Then I believe you," Gendry said simply, shrugging. He refilled their cups. "I know Arya would believe her brother. The world's ending. Thought it'd be by dragonfire the way they're talking about what happened in the Westerlands."
"It may yet," Ser Davos said darkly.
"You've seen her?" Gendry asked. "The Dragon Queen?"
"Aye."
"And?"
"Short in stature, but every inch a conqueror, and you'd best not forget it," Ser Davos said, frowning. "Prideful. Arrogant."
"You don't like her," Gendry noted.
"I don't trust her. I saw what wildfire did to Stannis's fleet at the Blackwater. She has infinite supply of it in those three dragons of hers…" Ser Davos said uncomfortably, and he scowled, his cup shaking as he raised it to his mouth, glaring into the distance as he thought of the girls… "You heard about the Lion Culling?"
Gendry's eyes were intense as he raised them to meet Ser Davos', and he nodded slowly. "She hunted down Lannister women and children and burned them to ashes."
"I smuggled food to Stannis during the War her father started when he burned Rickard and Brandon Stark alive. Her father had wildfire, and it's said he lusted for death by fire…" Ser Davos said, grimacing. "I worry about what she'd feel herself entitled to if Jon manages to convince her to ally against the Night King's army."
"Isn't life enough?" Gendry blinked.
Ser Davos chuckled softly, raising his cup. "To simple folk like us."
"To simple folk," Gendry smiled softly, gently clinking their cups together. "What about Jon Snow? What does he think of this Dragon Queen?"
"She is a beautiful young woman, but he has no respect for her, especially not now. She's used to getting what she wants, and she finds him infuriating and attractive," Ser Davos said astutely. "Knows her way around a man, I'd guess - how could she get so far without learning?"
"Like the Red Woman." Gendry's eyes narrowed, and he seemed to suppress a shudder.
Ser Davos' expression was murderous, he knew. He would never forgive or forget Shireen's murder, and hoped for nothing more than the Red Witch's return to the North - so he could execute her. Ser Davos reflected on the Red Witch, on Daenerys Targaryen. They were so similar, he realised - they were as unlike each other in looks as blood and chalk, but in their utter belief in their gods - Lady Melisandre in the Lord of Light, the Targaryen in herself…their faith was infallible, they believed every act they committed was blessed by the gods, was necessary, no matter how evil…because they did not believe it was evil… "And just like her, you'd meet your death by fire…"
"Jon Snow can't have made it this far without keeping his wits about him - if he's anything like his sister, he's a lot cleverer than he lets on, even if his fierce heart is likely to get him killed," Gendry said, his eyes widening subtly as he caught Ser Davos' gaze, remembering what Ser Davos had said about the mutiny.
"You've no idea how right you are." It was goodness that caused Jon's death. Goodness.
"You're going back to Winterfell?" Gendry asked.
"I'll stay with Jon; we need to keep sending shipments of dragonglass back to White Harbour but it's a delicate situation, and only becoming more so," Ser Davos said, wincing and glancing at the door to the armoury: He could not see the Red Keep from here, the streets choked with people and overhanging buildings…but he hoped all was going well with the Imp and his brother the Kingslayer.
He supposed, as with Arya Stark, if Cersei had managed to get her hands on Tyrion Lannister, the entire city would have heard of it by now.
"Because the Dragon Queen is burning her way through Westeros," Gendry said succinctly, and Ser Davos nodded.
"One of the many reasons," he sighed.
"We bought bread!" Rhysand reappeared, his scarred mouth rippling as he grinned, his eyes alight, and he held up four small bread rolls scattered with seeds, and Ser Davos' eyebrows rose in delight as a little girl entered the forge beside him, carrying two silver fish from strings. "It's from yesterday, but it's the good stuff!"
"Put it next to the coals," Gendry told him, as the little girl wavered uncertainly in the entrance.
"Bless my knucklebones!" Ser Davos chuckled, as Gendry smiled warmly at the girl, and she glanced uncertainly at Ser Davos, to hurry to Gendry, behind whom she hid. "If I'd known I was to be meeting such a lovely young lady, I would've brushed my beard! Who might you be?"
The little girl was about six, slender as a reed and daintily made, her skin pale and without flaw, her hair glimmering like crushed pearls, and she had huge eyes pale lavender in colour. She was also exquisitely beautiful, even at such a young age.
It was a shock to see her pale hair and purple eyes, but not really. Here in King's Landing, where there was a great deal of trade and movement between Essos, the Summer Isles and the islands of Lys and Myr, the blood of Old Valyria showed itself here and there. She was not the first child Ser Davos had ever seen with the Valyrian looks; it was only a shock, because he was so accustomed to the harsh, demanding nature of Daenerys Targaryen's beauty.
This little girl had all the same features of Old Valyrian blood - pale skin, pale beautiful hair and even finer eyes - without any of the Queen's severity. Softness and delicacy seemed to radiate from her, even in her plain-spun frock. Even in her bashfulness, light seemed to shine from her face, gentle and steady like the stars, not fierce like the sun or beguiling and changeable like the moon. She was barefoot, and she rubbed one foot behind her ankle as she leaned shyly into Gendry's arm, tucking herself out of sight, nothing but a pair of light-purple eyes gazing back at him.
"This is Neva…she's very shy around strangers," Gendry said softly, his voice tender, as Rhysand took the two fish from the little girl. Gendry tenderly stroked her hair from her face. "My little girl's shy," he said affectionately, kissing her temple. "But you'd never know it, hearing her chatter away in bastard Valyrian with her brother… And this is no stranger…Neva, this is Ser Davos. You remember me telling you about him?"
"You said he died," Rhysand said bluntly, and Ser Davos chuckled, watching Rhysand hack the tails off the little fish on a board near the fire, where a small pot was starting to steam.
"I thought he had," Gendry said, shrugging.
"I came all this way, from the far North," Ser Davos said coaxingly, "because I heard that a little lady named Neva makes the best fish stew in the Seven Kingdoms. Would that be right?" Pride radiated from her smile, even as she tucked her face into Gendry's neck; he chuckled richly, winking at Ser Davos.
"I'm sure we could spare a bowl for Ser Davos, couldn't we?" Gendry asked, and the little girl nodded. She gave him a gentle kiss on the lips, untangling herself, and went to the fireside; in a few moments, Ser Davos heard the two children rapidly speaking bastard Valyrian between them.
"D'you speak bastard Valyrian?"
"Enough to put a stop to any rebellions before they happen," Gendry said, with a wry smile as he watched the children, and Ser Davos laughed.
"Where's the little one from? She has the look of the Lyseni."
"That's exactly where she's from," Gendry sighed, shaking his head. "Her mother was a courtesan, a bed-slave; Neva was bred for her beauty. If you think Neva's beautiful now, her mother was… Well, I'm not a poet, but she was stunningly beautiful, even with the scars that came later. She earned enough money to buy her freedom, and her daughter's, and came to King's Landing to open a pillow-house… She did well, until the Sparrows descended on the city. They burned the brothel, whipped her girls through the street, slashed her face for her vanity… Rhysand found Violanthe being hassled in an alley, with Neva naked and hungry and crying to watch her mother whimpering in pain… Rhys stabbed the worm and left him - he brought them home to me, and we tucked them away safe from the Sparrows…Violanthe died a few days later, but not before asking me to look after Neva. She's been with us ever since."
Ser Davos sighed heavily, shaking his head.
"How long, Ser Davos?" Gendry asked, and Ser Davos glanced at him.
"How long?"
"Until…?"
"The army of the dead," Gendry said grimly. "If Winterfell can't stop them, how long until they reach King's Landing?"
"If the Wall falls, and the combined might of the North can't stop the Night King's hordes…months," Ser Davos said, shrugging. Jon said it wasn't a matter of if as much as when. The Others had not been gathering their armies for no reason. "A year at most, Jon hazards. If they breach the Wall, and Jon's certain the Night King will find a way."
"And what if the living win?"
"If we can stop the Night King, then, well, all we have to worry about is a Dragon Queen setting Westeros aflame to claim the ashes from Cersei Lannister," Ser Davos said archly. Gendry frowned, watching the two children. Rhysand was wiping his hands on a cloth; Neva was humming to herself as she gently dropped chunks of white fish into the little cooking pot. On the cutting board, there was a pile of skin and scales, the fish-heads and bones, the smallest of which Neva had felt out with her tiny fingertips and removed with a small needle, tongue between her teeth in concentration.
"If you were in my position, Ser Davos…between waiting for the storm, hoping the people who trust you to protect them will survive, and facing it head-on, knowing you joining the fight could make all the difference…what would you do?" Gendry asked quietly, his voice soft and thoughtful. He glanced at Ser Davos, and for a heartbeat, he was with Stannis again.
"I can't make that decision for you. But it sounds like you've already made up your mind. You don't know what it is we're truly facing," Ser Davos warned. "The end of all things. You don't know that we'll survive the Night, at all."
"No. But I know the Starks," Gendry said, and there was pride and a lot of respect in his voice. "If we fight, and I fall, but they live, I want them to live under Stark rule." He nodded at the two children.
"You might die," Ser Davos said.
"We all die," Gendry said grimly. He shrugged, glancing away from the children. "But I'm going to choose what I die fighting for."
The stew took moments, the fish cooking through, and turned wooden spoons were brought out, the ale shared around - it was safer for the children to drink ale than water, Ser Davos remembered. The wells in Flea Bottom were notoriously rancid. The small, seeded rolls were plucked off the embers, the ash dusted off their bottoms, and they sat in companionable silence as they ate, the lid of the pot removed, each of them helping themselves to the pot, dunking their bread, the same way Ser Davos remembered eating with his family as a boy. Large lavender eyes rested on Ser Davos, and he made a show of enjoying every mouthful - though it really was very good, and he didn't have to put it on, creamy and spicy.
"One of the neighbours taught her how to make it," Gendry said fondly. "She takes such care with it, that's why it's so good. The fish is never chewy."
"You've a treasure here," Ser Davos smiled, and Neva leaned in to Gendry's chest, gazing coyly at Ser Davos through her lashes, a smile on her plump lips.
Content, stomach full, Ser Davos folded his hands over his belly, crossing his ankles near the fire, as the children tidied the things away, Neva humming to herself prettily, Rhysand keen to take over the forge while Gendry spoke with Ser Davos.
"So…you want to come North," he muttered. He eyed the walls and racks of weapons Gendry had forged. Dozens of swords gleamed, freshly sharpened, ready to be sold. Their craftsmanship was second-to-none - but then, Tobho Mott was the best in the city, and Gendry had apprenticed under him for years. "You'll be needing one of those."
"I've been practising," Gendry admitted, shaking his head, and he reached for something hooked on one of the beams. He lifted down…a great war-hammer, spiked and lethal. Just from the way Gendry held it, Ser Davos - who was not a natural warrior - could tell that it was perfectly weighted, and lethal, one side wide and heavy with nine shallow spikes meant to demolish anything that got in its way, the other side boasting two long, wicked curved spikes. On the top, there was another long, gruesome spike. The steel haft was dark, near-black, and banded with bronze and wrapped with a leather grip; the head was intricately, almost lovingly detailed with dark bronze horns. "But I'm far better with this."
"Horns," Ser Davos observed, his beard twitching. "Not antlers?"
"Bastards can't use their father's arms. Besides, everyone always called me the Bull," Gendry shrugged, and Ser Davos laughed, eyeing his great size. Even as a boy he'd been tall and strong for his age; now, he truly lived up to the nickname. "Want a look?"
"I doubt I could even lift it," Ser Davos chuckled, and Gendry smiled. He sighed, glancing from the children to his great war-hammer. "Neva, Rhysand…get your things. We're leaving."
Rhysand turned, wide-eyed, then scowled. "But I haven't finished my helm!"
"You'll have plenty opportunity to forge armour at Winterfell."
"Why the fuck do we want to go to Winterfell - ow! I mean, why in seven hells would we want to go to Winterfell? - Stop!" Rhysand said, brandishing his fists at Gendry, who had clipped his ear for every curse. He gave Gendry a stubborn look, rolled his eyes, and turned to Ser Davos. "I apologise, Ser." He turned back to Gendry, exasperated. "It's winter. They say the Citadel has sent out white ravens. That means winter has come. D'you know what happens in the North when it's winter?"
"Yes. The Starks look after their people," Gendry said stoutly, already moving around the forge collecting things to tuck into a leather pack, an enormous sword he strapped to his back, a dagger and a throwing-axe tucked into his belt, a sling for his hammer crossed over his front. "Think Cersei Lannister's going to feed us all through the winter, when the Dragon Queen has just burned half the food from the Reach? We'll be fighting another war just to survive if we stay in this city."
"What about my girls?" asked Rhysand indignantly.
"By the gods, Rhysand - you're too young to be chasing after girls," Gendry said, and Ser Davos chuckled.
"They chase after me!" Rhysand protested. "I bear their advances as best I can!"
"My arse!" Gendry laughed, and Ser Davos smirked. "Get your things, and help Neva. Where's your cloak?"
"What? Never 'ad no cloak," Rhysand grunted. An arched eyebrow from Gendry, the threat of another clip round the ear for his poor manner of speaking. "I meant, 'Pardon? I do not own a cloak'."
"I believe I can help with that," said Ser Davos, his beard twitching as his eyes glinted with amusement. Rhysand raised his dark, scarred eyebrow at the old man, who smirked. "As it is I am of a mind to lighten the burden of my coin-purse. And I need a lady's opinion on ribbons." He twinkled down at Neva, who was tucking a rough doll into a small bundle of clothes, a few spare dresses and nothing more. "Do you think you could help me?"
"For yourself or the King?" Gendry teased.
Ser Davos chuckled, but his eyes dimmed. "Rosebuds and lion-cubs."
Gendry stilled, tucking his great war-hammer into a leather sling across his front, the sword strung opposite across his back. "The survivors. They're all on Dragonstone?!"
"Every one of them," Ser Davos said grimly. "The only Lannisters on the mainland sit within that red castle."
"The Queen and her brother," Gendry said. "Or is he her lover?" Ser Davos stared at Gendry, frowning in confusion. "The Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister. They took his white cloak and gave him the Lannister armies. He led the sack of Highgarden."
"He survived the ash meadow?"
"So they say. Hard not to spot a handless man in gilded armour damn near killing his horse to reach the Red Keep. They've been locked up in the Keep since then, up to only the gods know what," Gendry grunted, tucking things into his pack. "Probably trying to make more bastards, from what they say. Better to get out soon: the city's about ready to tear itself inside-out over fear and rumour, again…"
"Aye, I feel it. The city's holding its breath waiting for the storm. I'm of a mind not to linger," Ser Davos said. "Come, we've ribbons to purchase. What's a fine colour for little girls, do you think?"
Neva glanced at Gendry, who gave her an encouraging smile. Quietly, her voice soft as silk, Neva said, "Purple."
"Purple. The lady has spoken," Ser Davos said, smiling fondly. He offered his hand, and Neva shyly took it as Gendry climbed up into the eaves, and Ser Davos heard the stifled sound of coins slinking and sliding against leather. "Best tuck that somewhere none'll be tempted to root about for it…though you're in danger from every woman in this city!" Gendry smiled, tucking his coin-purse around his neck, out of sight. Beside him, Rhysand was arming himself with several wicked knives. Ser Davos murmured to Gendry, "Does he know how to use one of them?"
"Better than I can," Gendry muttered back, giving Ser Davos a telling look. "When I found him at the docks, he was bloodied and dying…I took him to the armoury, patched him up, tucked him into bed - when he woke he tried to knife me. Vicious little beast - said he'd been rigging-boy on a Myrish pirate-ship. Wasn't used to kindness, except from a whore the captain kept on-board - though I'm not sure it was kind what she did to him. He's very comfortable with concealed blades."
"And this is the gentled version?" Ser Davos asked, as Rhysand strode out of the armoury.
"He's vicious when provoked, but he's a good lad," Gendry said fondly, and they cast their eyes upward, ever watchful for nightsoil being dumped out of windows. "He just…wanted someone to love him. And he'd murder anyone who tried to hurt Neva…"
"Or you, I'd imagine," Ser Davos observed.
"He reminds me of Arya Stark," Gendry said warmly. "It's those fierce eyes. Spine strong as steel."
"Jon never talks of her."
"Arya?"
"Or the elder, his twin. Larra. According to Lady Stark, they were his favourites, though she said it without bitterness…just grief," Ser Davos sighed heavily. "They were her sisters, too. Jon's twin, lost beyond the Wall. Their youngest sister, lost the day Ned Stark lost his head."
"She wasn't lost; Yoren hid her in plain sight," Gendry said thoughtfully. "I'm surprised she's not made her way home."
"Why's that?"
"Because Arya Stark never needed protecting: People needed protecting from her," Gendry said, his face alight with amusement. "She was fearless. A fearless she-wolf."
"You loved her."
"She was the only family I ever had. She asked me to go with her to Winterfell…I thought I'd join the Brotherhood, be part of something great… I didn't understand… I should've gone with her," Gendry said regretfully, shaking his head, and they dodged a car loaded with turnips. "Still…here we are all the same. Heading North."
"Hopefully a fairer journey than your last," Ser Davos said.
"Thank you, Ser Davos," Gendry said earnestly. "It should be me repaying you. Though I don't know how such a debt is ever repaid."
"It was never a debt," Ser Davos told him.
"I fully expected Stannis to execute you - over me."
"One innocent life is worth everything," Ser Davos said stoutly. "You agree, or those children would be dead."
"When I learned who I was - who my father was - and you helped me escape… I've never forgotten that I'm alive because you did what was right, no matter the price you had to pay," Gendry said solemnly.
"Save one person, save the world," Ser Davos said simply.
They found a fine tailor's emporium, with a milliner's attached, and little Neva's eyes widened with awe as walls of colour spread out of sight, rich fabrics from all over the world, heavy furs and the most delicate of Qartheen lace, shimmering velvets, silks light as air, and ribbons… Fat ribbons, skinny ribbons, silver ribbons, embroidered ribbons, woven ribbons, beaded ribbons, velvet and gossamer and samite and silk. Ser Davos knew the girl had never seen so many colours before in her life, from the daintiest pearl-pink to cloth-of-gold to the most vibrant ruby-red - very popular, they were told. Undoubtedly; the Queen's colours.
Gendry gave Ser Davos an uncomfortable but grateful look as he ordered new winter clothes - for Gendry, and the children, including thick warm wool cloaks, a fur for their shoulders, and good strong boots.
"Ser Davos -"
"Don't. I know what you're about to say," Ser Davos said, his beard twitching. "It's my pleasure. I'm bringing you North to gods-know-what, the least I can do is properly clothe you and your little ones. Now - tunics for the lad and dresses for the little lady. Wool for both, if you please, and the finest Northern wool you have to hand, none of that rough-spun shite from Essos. And plenty of room for them to grow. And a leather jerkin for the young man. For the Bull, good strong leather, cotton and wool." He chuckled at Gendry's small smile.
"Any colour preferences, Ser?" the attendant asked Gendry.
"Black would be more practical," Ser Davos spoke up when Gendry looked uncomfortable, and Gendry smiled.
"My father's colours," he said softly.
While they were outfitted, Gendry's clothing tailored to his enormous size, and Rhysand was fitted with strong boots of fine leather - protesting against having to wear them at all, too used to the freedom and movement afforded his bare feet on-board ship - Ser Davos coaxed Neva to the wall of ribbons, and let her take her pick. She picked out the prettiest, some plain, some intricate - some were vibrant dark sapphire, like Gendry's eyes, and some were delicate, pale mauve, perhaps like her dead mother's eyes. She fancied the rose and sky-blue silks, cloth-of-gold ribbon woven in intricate love-knots, violet silk, fresh pale spring-green silk, a wide velvet-trimmed ribbon embroidered with tiny colourful beads like a posy of flowers, sunset-orange taffeta that shimmered fuchsia in the light, pale-yellow that glowed like candlelight, and crimson velvet.
He had told her they were for several sad little girls, and he needed her help to pick them out so they'd smile again. She was to pick the loveliest ribbons she could find.
"The last one, then," he said coaxingly, and Neva drifted along the coils, not daring to reach out and touch the fabrics - intuitive about the suspicious glances of the attendants, their eyes on her and Rhysand like hawks ever since entering the grand shop, too grubby, too common, too bluntly-spoken - too poor. Neva stopped, and smiled, pointing a tiny finger. "Oh, now, that's a lovely colour. Reminds me of the chicory flowers that grow by my home in Cape Wrath."
"Just the one more," Ser Davos told the attendant in a low voice, giving them a subtle wink. "Neva, why don't you go see to your brother, he sounds as if he is being murdered. I'm sure he's just making a fuss." Neva nodded, cast one subtle, longing look back at the ribbons, and skipped away to find Rhysand, who did sound as if he was engaging in a skirmish for his life - he was being fitted for new shirts. Ser Davos wasn't forcing true finery onto the boy, just strong cotton shirts and a thick wool tunic, but it certainly sounded as if he was being tortured. There was a wildness to Rhysand, no doubt, as if he had been made of wind, earth, fire and sea - and there was no trapping him inside such mortal coils as clothing. Ser Davos was reminded of the wild rigging-boys of his own smuggling days - brave lads up for anything. As soon as Neva had disappeared, Ser Davos nodded to the attendant. "Which is the one she kept looking at so admiringly?"
"The plum velvet, Ser," said the attendant, at once.
"A length of that, if you please, long enough to bind the girl's hair however she should wear it," Ser Davos said, thinking how he had never made a gift of ribbons to Princess Shireen, and never had a daughter of his own to treat to such things.
"Certainly, Ser. Anything else you require?"
"Aye. D'you happen to have embroidery threads? I've a mind to make a gift to a young lady who has considerable skill with a needle," Ser Davos said. To his recollection, Lady Sansa had sewn every night, even travelling through the North to rally their bannermen. She sewed her own gowns, and shirts for Jon, the direwolf-embossed great-cloak he always wore.
Sometimes, Ser Davos wondered if the cloak meant far more to the young man than the crown. The lady's needlework, his father's sigil.
"Certainly, Ser," the attendant said, and disappeared with a bow after snipping a healthy length of the plum velvet ribbon from its bobbin. Ser Davos sighed, and thought of Shireen as he gazed at the neat little knots of ribbon ready to go. She had never seen such vibrant colours, such fine fabrics. All her life, except for the last, brutal chapter of it, had been spent in a dismal chamber at Dragonstone. When the attendant returned, he held two handfuls of vibrantly-coloured skeins of cotton embroidery threads. His wife Marya bought such, always separating out the threads to adjust the thickness of her embroidery.
"That'll do very well," Ser Davos nodded, examining the array of colours. "It won't get the lady through the winter entirely, but she'll have it to hand to make herself something pretty when the snows block out all the colour in the world."
"Would you care to have everything boxed, Ser?"
"No, thank you. A canvas sack would be better - we shall be travelling light, no room for bulky packages," Ser Davos informed the attendant. "And I would settle the bill before the young man finishes his fitting."
"Of course, Ser."
"Ser Davos…" They tumbled out of the emporium, Rhysand vibrating with dismay at the softness and tailored snugness of his new clothes, clutching at several parcels while Gendry and Ser Davos carried the rest between them - Gendry now dressed in fine new leather trousers buttoned to the waist and a black shirt of treated, double-thickness cotton with buttons down the right shoulder, with a heavy wool cloak folded under one arm - while Neva hummed and clasped Ser Davos' hand and he led the way out of the city.
At the tiny little beach, and the small smugglers' boat nestled in the sand, Gendry levelled a black look at Ser Davos. "Not more rowing?"
"It'd be a shame to waste all that training," Ser Davos smirked, his beard twitching, and Gendry scoffed, grinning easily.
"So is there a reason you're not docked in the wharf?" Gendry asked, while they waited; their purchases were safely nestled in the boat, and Rhysand was currently tormenting Neva with long ropes of seaweed. They watched him chase her across the sand, her giggles echoing off the cliff-face. "Or is it just that old habits die hard."
"Needs must, I'm sorry to say," Ser Davos said, glancing a Gendry.
"How's that?"
"I had some important cargo that needed to reach the Red Keep unencumbered by our friends the Gold Cloaks," Ser Davos said, sighing, as he noticed someone staggering down the hewn staircase. He squinted at the figure, who looked more than halfway into his cups. "Ah. Looks like he's returned. Best get the children into the boat, don't want to linger in case he was followed."
Lord Tyrion staggered down the last few hewn steps, wine-skin in hand. He stumbled, and fell, landing heavily in the sand with a groan delayed by his drunkenness.
"Mind grabbing him?" Ser Davos asked, wincing. "You're the stronger. And he's heavier than he looks."
"Is that the Imp?" Gendry asked him, his face sombre and shrewd. He frowned at Ser Davos, then sighed, shaking his head, and strode across the beach to the foot of the stone staircase. While Ser Davos situated the children - Neva was quiet and watchful, while Rhysand lolled easily - Gendry managed to get Lord Tyrion on his feet, and guided the drunkard to their little boat as if herding sheep. Lord Tyrion hummed to himself and drank and staggered the entire way. He tumbled into the boat rather inelegantly, and Ser Davos left him there, with the two children peering down at him, a wealthy man in considerably finer clothing than their own, hugging a wine-skin, belching freely and murmuring to himself. Gendry pushed the boat out into the water, as Rhysand engaged the paddles - a laughable thing, to row their weight, but he got them past the gentle waves, and was dextrous enough to clamber about the boat without upsetting it when Gendry indicated for him to move from the bench, so that he could take over the rowing. He was by far the strongest of them all.
Lord Tyrion hiccupped, and rolled in the damp bottom of the boat, turning to frown first at Rhysand, who was leering down at him as if he had already sliced Lord Tyrion's purse-strings and pocketed the contents - then Neva, blinking rather stupidly, until finally he turned and his gaze rested on Gendry. It was at that point, the drunk fool tried to stand up, and ended up half in the young Bull's lap. He reached up, grabbing Gendry's strong jaw, and Gendry looked amused and a little affronted as Lord Tyrion stared him dead in the face, swaying as much from the drink as the water.
"Robert?" he blurted disbelievingly. He released Gendry's jaw, sighed, and dropped his wine-skin. "Too much strong-wine." He was slurring rather a lot.
"How did it go?" Ser Davos prompted.
"Let me sleep this off and I'll share all I can recall," Lord Tyrion said, settling himself down against Gendry's folded cloak. He sat with his eyes closed, yawning widely. "If I am speaking, I imagine my head remains safely lodged upon my shoulders and my sweet sister failed to detain and eviscerate me."
"Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen," Ser Davos said, his beard twitching, though his eyes were grim. Lord Tyrion raised a hand, gasped, and almost fell overboard with the enthusiasm of his hurling.
"Oh, dear…" Rhysand grinned.
"Better out than in," Ser Davos tutted.
"Can't you handle your drink?" Rhysand snickered.
"Rhysand."
"Oi!" Rhysand started as Gendry smacked him round the back of the head; Rhysand tucked the wine-skin out of the way, stoppering it. "What, I was only - fine."
"This is Gendry," Ser Davos told Lord Tyrion, when he had recovered enough to stare gloomily around at them. "Rhysand, stealing your strong-wine, and this little lady is Neva."
"The ghost of Old Valyria," Lord Tyrion slurred, his eyes on Neva. He rolled his head to the side, to peer up at Gendry. "And of dead stags."
"Can you keep your thoughts to yourself before your liege, or shall Gendry leave you floating in the Blackwater?" Ser Davos asked severely.
"Had I been in King's Landing to stop Cersei sending Gold Cloaks after Robert's bastards the first time, I would have - I won't start handing innocent men over to unstable sovereigns now," Lord Tyrion said. That he could string together a complete sentence was miraculous, Ser Davos thought; that he could sound so condescending and elegant at the same time, truly a gift. He frowned and gazed around the boat "Where's Varys?"
"Told me not to wait for him to return; he has business on the mainland."
Lord Tyrion dropped his head back, sighing heavily, and his fingers flicked expressively as he murmured, "'The storms come and go, the waves crash overhead, the big fish eat the little fish, and I keep on paddling'… Wonderful. He dragged me halfway across the world, only to abandon me with her…" He groaned, and sat up a little straighter, eyeing the packages in the bottom of the boat. "What's all this? Treasures for the Queen? I don't think ribbons will distract her from desiring the North - or your King in her bed."
"They're for the girls. Tell me your journey was not wasted," Ser Davos said. "Did you manage to speak to your brother, at least?"
"I did. He hates me." Lord Tyrion reached for his wine-skin, his expression despondent.
"You killed your father with a crossbow while he was in the privy…not that anyone really blames you," Gendry said, and Lord Tyrion glanced at him as he drank deeply of the wine-skin. "Accusing you of killing the King, when it was likely the Old Lion himself who did it to get the vicious boy off the Iron Throne before he could do any more damage - and wanted you dead to wed Sansa Stark himself."
Lord Tyrion choked. He lowered the wine-skin, grinning. "Is that what they're saying?"
"People say she's very beautiful," Gendry shrugged. "That your father coveted her. They said that's why she disappeared when King Joffrey was poisoned - your father had her spirited away to the Rock…"
Lord Tyrion threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"Oh, that's tickled me!"
"Now people say she's a skin-changer like her brothers, takes the form of a monstrous red direwolf; that's how she made her way north and fought beside her brother the White Wolf to reclaim Winterfell during the Battle of the Bastards." He howled with laughter, hugging his skin of strong-wine as he wheezed, wiping the tears from his scarred face.
He was still gleeful as a ship appeared, its sails plain but the figurehead very clearly a monstrous direwolf. Ser Davos caught Gendry's eye.
"At least you don't have to row all the way back to Dragonstone."
Neva turns to Gendry with wide eyes as a rope ladder descended nearby; Rhysand yawned, clearly bored, and clambered up, nimble and quick, hopping over the side.
"You go first, I'll catch you if you fall," Gendry told Neva gently. As Rhysand appeared overhead, he coaxed and cooed to her, spurring her on. Lord Tyrion ascended next, and Gendry and Ser Davos brought up the rear, hooking the little dinghy up to lowered ropes to be hauled up by the sailors as soon as they were on-board.
"How long will the journey take?" Gendry asked, gazing around the ship.
"With this good, strong wind?" Ser Davos said, checking the sails. "We'll reach Dragonstone in about two days' time."
"So soon?"
"How long did it take you to row back to King's Landing?"
Gendry glanced at Ser Davos, his expression wry. "Longer."
A.N.: So I gave Ser Davos grandchildren. It was necessary.
Gendry's new clothes are Geralt's from The Witcher during that gorgeous 'Butcher of Blaviken' swordfight scene. No armour yet, though that'll come.
Also, Neva exists to show that Daenerys' beauty is not unique in this world: There are plenty of places where her looks are actually quite common, and she would not be considered the most beautiful of them.
And I had fun thinking of the gossip and conspiracy theories that floated around King's Landing about Sansa and Tyrion and Joffrey's death!