JOE DEMPSIE SAVES WESTEROS

Part 1 – JON ARRYN

"Wine, wine for the King's Hand and the King's brother," the Master Armorer urged his attractive serving chit immediately upon entering the display chamber from the forges behind the store front.

They had not been waiting long. A good sign of an efficient establishment. He had never shopped here but word was the Essosi made quality steel.

"No wine," Stannis commanded, cutting to the chase. "We came to talk."

"Of course, milord. I am Tobho Mott, what type of blade or helm or plate do you desire. I have many not arrayed for view here I can bring forth if nothing catches your eye. You will find my craftsmanship equals any in the Seven Kingdoms," he declared proudly without a tinge of boast.

"Not you," his companion growled dangerously.

"Milord?" the Qohorik by his accent asked in confusion, but not fear.

"There is an apprentice of yours that has been brought to our attention. We wish to have private words with him," Jon explained.

"I have many apprentices under my care."

"This one would be large for his age; even for a smith," Stannis clarified impatiently.

"Oh. That one," Tobho Mott muttered sourly.

"Which one, Master Mott?" Jon queried.

"Gendry. A promising lad. Been training him seven years; then, a month ago, t'was as if he had been hit in the head. All I had taught him over the years … gone."

"You did not release him from your service, did you?" Stannis demanded eagerly.

"No, though I have been sorely tempted. A lord paid me twice the usual gold to take him on. If he ever returned to not find him here …" the armorer let the hint of noble retribution hang in the air.

"Which lord?" Jon asked without trying to seem to press.

"I know not. He never said his name nor wore a sigil on his cloak and kept his face well hidden."

"Then how did you know he was a lord and not a master craftsman or merchant?" Stannis prodded to near accusation.

"The heavy purple velvet of his cloak, t'was worked with fine silver thread. And his voice, the proper words and tone. I've hammered steel here for lords and proper sers the like of that Knight of Flowers for near twenty years. My ear knows the difference between t'a likes of them and some jumped up coin monger, milords." Tobho Mott challenged right back, refusing to drop his eyes from his betters.

Jon found he approved of the armorer.

"Aye," Stannis acknowledged in terse, begruding acceptance. Then commanded, "We shall see the boy now."

They followed Tobho Mott through the back door, across a narrow yard and into a large stone barn that echoed with the repetition of hammers on anvils. The forge blazed with heat as the smallest of the apprentices or house servants pumped the bellows and journeymen sweated from exertion of the dance beat upon iron and steel.

In the far back, in an alcove, a large framed lad stood alone, back turned to them, making nails and rivets. The simplest of smithy tasks.

"Gendry, stop." His master instructed the apprentice.

The black haired youth did so and turned about. Jon swore something flashed for a second in those blue orbs half hidden by long, sweat soaked, shaggy hair before the eyes dipped to stare intently at the hard packed dirt floor.

"This is Lord Arryn, the Hand of the King, and Lord Baratheon, brother of the King and Master of Ships."

"Milords," he murmured uncomfortably.

Jon could not blame him. A rather imposing sight the pair were for a smallfolk, regardless he might be a royal bastard. "Look at me, Gendry."

Slowly the head came up. Heat grew in his cheeks and the pucker of the lips within the start of a first beard took a sour disposition.

"He's one," Stannis grunted unhappily in confirmation.

Jon concurred. The features and size of the lad were unmistakable. He could be none other.

"One what, milord?" The Master Armorer asked curiously.

"No questions, Master Mott," he snapped. "We shall speak to the boy alone."

"Milords," the Qohorik responded quickly. Cowered for the first time the armorer promptly retreated back into the greater heat and noise of the main barn.

"Do you remember your mother, lad?" Jon asked in his most sympathetic voice. "Do you remember where you lived before coming here to the Street of Steel?"

The image of Robert as a squire in the Eyrie gave a slow lick to his lips. "Did the Master of Whisperers send you? I swear I haven't done no wrong, milords. I swear to the Mother," he pleaded.

"What!?" Stannis roared in a deck voice that brought the clanking of hammers to an immediate halt.

The words brought the exact opposite affect to Jon, temporarily rendering him speechless. Until, in a hoarse voice he found the words, "What do you know of the Master of Whisperers?"

A nervous shifting of wide shoulders, a scuffing of well-worn boots in the dirt, and another long look to the ground. "His little birds follow me from time to time when I run errands for Master Mott," Robert's bastard said equally quietly.

"You've seen the Whisperer's 'little birds'?" Stannis choked out of a face starting to turn purple.

"Yeah, not at first. I mean, I … I thought at times I was being watched. I did not know who they were. Then, one time I hid and followed this street urchin, scraggily thing younger en'me, I'd seen her in a window reflection watching me. Found a bunch of 'em gathered in a ruin down on Charcoal Lane."

"What did they say?"

"They didn't. Not with words. They gestured funny like … with their hands. Think their tongues were cut out. Only the man who arrived later laughing and calling himself Rugen and them 'his little birds' did."

"Rugen," Jon said slowly. The name seemed almost familiar. But he couldn't quite place it.

"An … undergaoler. Yes, an undergaoler in the keep," Stannis growled; succeeding where Jon had failed. And by his tone, even for Stannis, not liking this tale one whit better than Jon. "When did Varys arrive?"

"Who's Varys?" the lad asked stupidly.

"The Master of Whisperers," Stannis barked, clearly wanting to strangle his brother's dim bastard in frustration.

"Oh, I didn't know his name," Gendry said apologetically, shoulders slumping. "Saw him once coming out of Baelor's. One of the beggars in the crowd hissed and said that was the Eunuch Whisperer of the King's."

"So when did the Master of Whisperers arrive," Jon said with what patience remained to him.

A small, pleased grin flashed for a second. "He didn't milord. Cause he was already there. As he talked, the man there took off his steel cap and mail shirt and boiled leather; then, his beard. A fake one. Just like a mummer. See, the Whisperer, he was Rugen."

"By the Seven!" Jon erupted.

Stannis grabbed the large boy and shook him. "What did he say, damn it. What did he say!"

"I … I don't remember much. Nothing bout me."

Stannis shook all the harder. "WHAT?!"

"Somethin' … about a … Littlefinger … putting the leg over … on a … Lady Lysa … It it made him … laugh more," the boy stuttered out through the bounces.

Jon felt his heart skip a beat and he began to grow cold.