Author's Note: Hi guys. I hope I'm not updating too fast and I hope I don't run out of ideas any time soon… God forbid I do. D: Well anway, here. Have a little bit of a flashback before I move things along a little bit more.

Chapter 3: Gendry

Gendry hammered at the sword one last time with all his strength before he finally set his tools aside. He pulled an old, battered and termite-eaten stool close to him with his boot and sat down. He sighed audibly, satisfied with a productive day's worth of hard work, wiping the heavy torrents of sweat that covered his forehead before he took off his leather jerkin and let the heat steam out of his body. Gendry looked down on a floor, the sweat making its way from his hair, plastered together in heavy locks, to his forehead, and then to the tip of his nose and then to small, dark spatters on the floor of the smithy.

He watched the spatters on the floor increase idly for a while before he raised his head again, wiping more sweat away from his brows, and ran his eyes across the space of his smithy. Among all his tools and creations, his eyes focused on a shiny silver bull's helm resting on a wooden shelf bolted to the wall. Often times Gendry sometimes still considered the bull's helm as one of his finest creations. He stood up, taking the helmet carefully into his hands. He then took an oil cloth from the table beside him before he resumed his place on the wooden stool. Gendry still made a habit of polishing the piece of metal from time to time. It was, in a way, his lucky charm. He had lost the helmet more than once, but somehow it had always found its way back to him. When he was done, he put the oil cloth aside and raised the helmet, watching the sunlight streaming in from the window as it played on the metallic surface of the bull's head, from its nose, its horns. It had more dents and scratches than he remembered, but it was the only thing he had kept with him from his old life—not his old life, not really, more of his first life. Back when he was just a simple blacksmith's apprentice in King's Landing. Things had changed since then. He always wished for his old life back during the times when he was with Arya and the lost boys—back when they were supposed to make for the wall with Yoren, but things got ugly. It was a hard life surviving, Harrnehal was more pleasant, a life with the Outlaws less so, but Gendry couldn't complain. Not now. He couldn't complain about what had turned out after all of it was over.

The biggest surprise, of course, was learning that he was actually the son of the last king to the Iron Throne—his only legitimate son, if baseborn, after Joffrey and Cersei Lannister put to death all of Robert Baratheon's bastards and after it was concluded that none of Cersei's Lannister children had any Baratheon blood in them. Joffrey Lannister was poisoned, Renly Baratheon won back the Iron Throne and let all the kings keep their titles and fixed the world with peace treaties and alliances and that was the end of it. Knees were bent and lands and lordships and knighthoods were granted and heads were lopped off and things were slowly mending in the Seven Kingdoms. Gendry was called forth to court in King's Landing and that was when he found out about his lineage in a long-lost letter Jon Arryn had written. It would explain the visit from the King's Hands—both from Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark. He wasn't sure be believed it. He was surprised and slightly afraid because although he lived his life as a commoner, he knew how it was with nobility. All their scheming and their games of thrones. He was probably going to get the headsman.

Things turned out much better than expected—for some strange reason, Renly Baratheon was kind to him. Gendry thought he was a queer sort of fellow but he found a strange liking to the man. To his uncle. After all, he had been the one to fix the mess the Seven Kingdoms had made. Looking at Renly and Stannis Baratheon the resemblances here and there slightly dawned on them. He puzzled the pieces together—although Margaery Tyrell was pregnant, technically he had the best claim to the Iron Throne. Gendry cut them all off before anyone had ever even spoken.

"I'm only Robert Baratheon's bastard, I want no part in this." Renly Baratheon had laughed.

"Hush, nephew. I only called you here to make sure that my brother Robert's last son is well taken care of. Family is important to us, Gendry. There aren't a lot left in the male line of House Baratheon. I'd like to give you the name, you see." Gendry was silent. Renly paused to take a sip of wine and smiled before resuming his talk again.

"Now, I'm afraid I cannot hand over the Iron Throne to you, but we do, however, have some other concerns. As things stand, my brother Stannis can no longer sire any children, and I would in fact like you to be his next heir." Renly said it as if he were offering Gendry a nibble of cheese. Gendry's eyes darted sideways in a slight flurry of panic and emotion. Was this some sort of noble joke he wasn't getting? The king chuckled.

"Oh, the look on your face, nephew. This is not a trick. You have my word for it. Truly, I'd like to give you a comfortable life. One that was long owed to you. I've heard of the things you've been through. Now, you can say no if that is what you want—however, it would help the kingdom greatly in terms of balance were you to say yes. As for the issue of your name, though, I am giving it you whether you like it or not." Renly's eyes crinkled in amusement, his smile intact as he rested his elbow on the arm of his seat, and then his cheek on the palm of his hand.

"I—sire, I don't know what to say, believe me…"

"Call me uncle—I insist. Oh, it is quite alright. Three days. Stay here in King's Landing with me. I'll have your answer by then."

Three days later, he did say yes.

In those three days he had gotten to know Renly Baratheon—Renly was a vain and grandiose man—much like Robert, truth be told, except for the excessive drinking— but he had begun to understand why the man was so well-loved. He had no taste for sly games—now that Cersei Lannister, Littlefinger and Varys were out of the picture there was no need for them— and his was an honest rule. He was not as much a great king as he was a generous king, but in Gendry's opinion that was what the Seven Kingdoms needed at the moment. It made him think that he wanted to help common people such as himself—being one, it made him better suited for the job. With enough motivation and enough reassurances that lordship wasn't what he thought it would be, he finally said yes. Renly required that he be taught, however, and offered Gendry a place in King's Landing or if not—tutelage from any other ruler in the Seven Kingdoms. Gendry had opted for Winterfell. Stannis insisted on a place by his side but eventually they had come to an agreement. Both strongly admired Eddard Stark's principles as a ruler, and the Young Wolf had taken to them very well—even more so that now he was older, and wiser. Renly had also obliged, and now here he was.

Gendry's reminiscing was cut short by a knock on the door.

"Come in." he called. The door opened and Jeyne Stark entered. Suddenly Gendry was in a flurry.

"My lady—" He said. No longer m'lady, one of the things he had learned from his lessons was to correct the way he said the two words. He only used the other one with Arya. Gendry was embarrassed. He was half-naked, unkempt, and covered in sweat and grime in front of the queen. Jeyne began to laugh.

"It's quite alright. I didn't mean to intrude on you while you were working… but I needed to ask if you knew where Lady Arya was?" she asked, tilting her head to one side and folding her hands together in front of her. Gendry quickly pulled over his jerkin and scratched his head.

"If she's just ran away from her septa, you'll find her by the clearing in the woods. With a sword, most like. Or two. Perhaps she's abusing Hot Pie with it."

"She hasn't."

"If she was supposed to have a dress tailored or something of the sort, then she's hiding out in the kitchens. Eating… and a lot, mind you. She'll eat just as much for supper."

"Nothing of the sort."

Gendry sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and raising his head up to the ceiling in thought.

"Court, manners—then she's out hunting."

"No."

Gendry grunted to himself, not noticing that Jeyne was trying to stifle a giggle.

"Did she have a fight?" Gendry said with a snap of his fingers, almost sounding victorious.

"With Robb, yes."

"Well then, you'll find her in the godswood, my lady." He said with a coy smile, bowing his head. Jeyne chuckled.

"How do you know these things, Gendry Baratheon?" she asked him, amusement all over her voice and face, a hand placed gingerly over her lips as she waited for his answer.

Gendry thought—well, he didn't actually know how he knew these things. Just that he did. He'd known Arya just as long as anyone but for some reason, he could always predict the way she thought, only realizing it now. He shook his head and shrugged.

"Don't know, my lady. I've known her a while. And brutes think alike, I expect." He said with a grin that Jeyne returned.

"Yes, I suppose they do. Thank you very much for your help."

"You're most welcome."

The queen shut the door behind her quietly and Gendry went back to his work, whistling, wondering vaguely what it was Arya and Robb had fought over. He would have to ask her later in case she was upset.