The Best is Yet to Be
By littlelights
Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.
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Chapter 11
"Mistress, you alright?"
The voice wasn't the one Medda expected. It was a northern accent, younger and higher pitched. She'd heard it in the mornings and late afternoons when working in proximity of the kitchens. The boy, Aden, was not much older than nine namedays, was a skinny lad who would one day grow into a roughhewn man like his ancestors. The smudged cap on his head hid a thatch of brown hair, which dipped well past his eyebrows.
Aden's words, while concerned and kind, were rushed in the way unique to small boys. The urgency behind them were of more importance than the sentiment stated. His presence was never the less unwelcome, and Medda fought to gain control over her emotions, the messy business of strapping back sadness and grief back into their separate compartments in her head and chest was accomplished with several deep breaths.
"Well enough, Aden," Medda muttered wiping away the last of the tears on her cheeks. "I'm well enough. What do you need?" Straightening away from her temporary refuge, Medda turned to meet the boy face to face.
Aden didn't appear concerned with the evidence of her emotions drying on her face. In the darkness of the night, it was possible he couldn't see much of anything. Instead, the lad shifted on his feet with impatience. "Dolyse sent me. Some of the needlewomen are ill," he explained. "They are shivering and complaining of ache all over. Will you come?"
It didn't matter the wound her chest had been opened again by one small conversation or how the ghosts of her family had managed to find her again after several years of silence. Standing in the winter cold with a small boy asking for aid, Medda mentally shook off the last of her own thoughts and gave over to her role of the competent and unapproachable Stewardess of Winterfell.
"Where are they?" She asked, taking her first shaky steps forward to Aden's side.
"They're in two of the small houses near the big kitchens," the lad answered, his stride taking on that of a bird about to take flight. He wanted to run from the look of it, wanted to be back to where all the action was taking place. "There are a few people helping them, but the needlewomen are acting strangely."
"What do you mean by strange?"
"Shivering my mam says," Aden replied. "She was working in the big kitchen today, and when she returned from dinner three of the needlewomen in the other house were shivering, as if no fire would warm them. Dolyse sent me to get you because she and Sorcha is sick, and they answer to you."
Sorcha was one of her most reliable servants, capable of supervising others and seeing to some of the smaller details when Medda herself was playing hostess to visitors. Sorcha never complained of illness or hardwork, and for someone to send word of sickness on her behalf was a sign that something serious may be afoot.
"You did the right thing, Aden," Medda said briskly. "Let's see to this illness, whatever it is."
The walk down the snowy trail leading through the keep and into the scantily lit lanes of Winter Town. Two small houses appeared, with layers accumulation making appear lopsided from the weight of the snow. These two hastily erected structures were the last to be built near the large storehouse, the lack of other buildings making them stand out and acting as sentries for the goods inside the larger building. With the influx of refugees flooding Wintertown, the sentries were moved to other structures near the outskirts of town, and as the empty storehouse needed little protection while it was empty, people made use of all the space from floor to loft.
The five needlewomen in each house accounted for the smaller number of inhabitants, with widowed smallfolk, a few woodworkers, laborers, and children filling the rest of each house. These were good, hardworking people, who did their best to contribute in whatever way they could to the community outside the keep. What they lacked in possessions and coin they compensated with the willingness to work and maintain the town which sheltered and fed them. It was a cramped and sometimes smelly existence, but it kept everyone alive.
As Medda pushed through the wooden door, the glow of the hearth and gutted tallow candles were the only illumination in the small dwelling. Aden's mother the other adults were busy nursing the sick women while the older children sat on the dark corners with their younger siblings keeping well away from the bustle in the room.
The three afflicted needlewomen appeared to be well into middle age, and while thin were far from frail. Two of them cried out for warmth, their teeth chattering from cold, while the other was sweating profusely, her voice a combination of singing and giddiness.
"I once knew a man as brave as can be," the woman sang, sweat dripping from her neck and falling heavily across her chest. "He left one day to rove the seas. Ten years I waited by the shore. In vain, I know for I saw him no more."
Medda swept through the small huddle of people to the woman's bedside. Years of wiping sweaty brows and nursing her family through seasonal illness had done little to prepare her for the alarming fever emulating from the thin body on the bed. The others had stripped her of most of her clothes in an effort to cool her fever, but it was doing very little to ease the woman's suffering.
"How many more are like this?" Medda asked the others, their eyes heavy with concern and worry. A fever like this could sweep over the occupants of Winter Town, devastating an already fragile population.
"Four more in the other house, Mistress. And your two servants." Aden's plain-faced mother replied, her eyes darting to several young children huddled in a corner. Already the woman appeared calculate which of her children would be next to succumb to the illness.
"Not sweaty pox," one man replied, a graying haired laborer supplied. "Not a mark on her, begging your pardon Mistress. My wife had it years ago, and she was marked up something fierce."
"We've had no sign of the sweaty pox since before the war," Medda replied, checking the woman's tongue for further clues. "Not milk sick fever, the plants are all dead. When did the illness show itself?"
"This afternoon," the mother replied. "Come on sudden like. One moment, everyone is well, sewing away in the storeroom to shaking and shivering from the cold. This one went from shivers to the worse fever in just a few hours. I've never seen the like of it."
"They were in the storeroom?" Medda made a mental tally of what was in the building. Fabric and baskets from her recollection. The needlewomen were using the rich wool to make blankets and cloaks from the fabric which just arrived.
The fabric which arrived with the caravans. Fabric she noted in the ledger this evening was not in her lists of requests. Not fabric that fine, anyway. It was waiting for the caravan in White Harbor, she assumed was a gift from House Manderly. Did the fabric come from a pest house in White Harbor by mistake? She doubted it. A pest house specialized in winding sheets, not high-quality wool. Something was wrong, and the note in her ledger was the key.
"Move all the women who are ill to this house," Medda ordered, her eyes tallying the number of people left in the room. "Is anyone sleeping upstairs?"
"Just the little ones," the mother replied anxiously.
"Everyone who is not ill will temporarily move to the other house until the sick are cured." She addressed the concerns in the room before any voices could be lifted. "It will be cramped, but it is for the best. And any who become ill in the next few days will join the others here. Stay indoors, do not leave until you are given permission to do so."
Medda noticed Aden lingering by the door. Cautious of entering the room, he kept one eye on the door and the other on the ill woman raving loudly on the bed. Aden didn't live in this house, thank the gods. He slept on sacks of provisions in the kitchen larder, and had a much better place to tuck in for the night. But the stewardess was not ready to release him from her service.
"Aden, tell the people in the other house to move those who are ill here, and ask them to make room for a few more to sleep in their quarters tonight." Medda commanded. "Stay close. I may need you to deliver a few more messages."
In less than an hour, the swap was made. Seven women ranging from old to just into womanhood were laid out into empty beds. Dolyse and Sorcha were the youngest of the group, their usually friendly faces had taken on a sickly pallor from when she'd seen them earlier that day. There had been no time to change bedding or blankets from those who had occupied them previously. The chattering of teeth, and the raving of one feverish woman were the loudest sounds in the house.
With relieved faces, a small parade of people joined the other household, children climbed the latter to the loft space to sleep, while their parents found what comfort they could on the floor. While more than a few people volunteered to assist nursing the sick, Medda waved them away. It was well past midnight, and many had worked a long day before. "I've never seen this sickness. The fewer people around the ill right now the better." There was no way she would have been able to sleep this night, not after her near breakdown just a few hours before. Tending to the sick would help fill the dark hours ahead and keep dark memories away.
She couldn't see the dead, but they felt closer than ever before. Was this their reason to appear? To take more with them to the old gods? The gods could do what they will, Medda reasoned with herself. Their will would be done, and so would hers. A bucket of water in the corner was nearly full, and the little ladle inside was small enough to nurse the women in her care.
"Aden, I have an important message for you to deliver. Tell the guards at the gate, no one goes into the storehouse. Have them keep everyone away." Medda motioned to the large building across the yard. "If they need to speak with me, tell them to knock on the door and take several steps back. I don't want them in the house. If I'm not back to Winterfell by noon, tell Marcia the head servant where I am. Tell her to bring soup, bread, and water for the sick. And fetch the Hand of the King. He'll want to know what is happening."
"Yes, mistress." Aden nodded obediently. He was a brave little thing, managing to keep his wits about him this late even when his work began in a few short hours.
"The messages, then off to bed now," Medda ordered. "Go."
The boy scampered away, a small figure making a few hurried steps before he was swallowed by the darkness. The fevered woman called out for water, forcing Medda to close the door the house and attend to the small group who lay ill just a few feet away.
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Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storms End and goodbrother to the Queen and King of the North, woke up in bed and was not entirely sure how long he had been there. While not a man who given to drinking in excess, he could admit, rather grudgingly, he had partaken of a tankard or two more than he was generally accustomed.
By this time in the morning, he had usually broken his fast with few mouthfuls of bread and cheese on his way to spend most of the day hammering away in Winterfell's forge.
Eyes still sandy with sleep, Gendry rubbed his face and rolled spread eagle across the bed. The covers on his wife's side were cold, a sure sign she was up and about training in the tiltyard already. A few more minutes he told himself, just a few more and he would shake the sleep away. He closed his eyes, tiredness pulling at his eyelids for a second time.
How much did he actually drink last night?
It had been an evening of dark Northern ale and good conversation. He had spent several enjoyable hours listening to the flamboyant Salladhor Saan exchange stories with Ser Davos, and swapping war stories with their guests from across the Narrow Sea. The men from Saan's fleet spoke of Essos, with its old tales of Fisher Queens who ruled the Silver Seas from a floating palace, of savage hairy men who rode equally hairy unicorns into battle, and the city of Lyber where followers of a spider goddess made war against those of a serpent god. At one point during his third tankard, Gendry managed to pull his wife close to his side, where he nuzzled her hair as the pirates boasted of laying with tall and fearless warrior women from the mountains east of the Red Waste, while later bribing bejeweled princes of Volon Therys with chests of gold in exchange for a pardon.
The kingdom of the warrior women was the type of place Arya would love to visit in person, and more than likely would have begun packing her bags to see if the guests hadn't added most of the men in those cities were gelded, and only the strongest and handsomest were kept intact to father children. None of which explained how the pirates had managed to have dalliances with such women in the first place, but they had jokingly advised Gendry to steer clear of the place before he "lost his pillar and staff altogether, which would be a disservice to his admirable wife."
Gendry couldn't remember much past that point, other than he remembered spending a particularly pleasurable moment kissing his wife in the darkened hallway outside their room and whispering what he thought were rosy descriptions of her many attributes. Groaning, he vaguely recalled some rousing fondling before she had taken control by pushing him toward the bed, unlacing and pulling down his trousers to sheath herself and ride him into oblivion. Too bad he couldn't remember what happened after that. Arya might have stripped him naked afterward, but the only way to find out was to ask her later in person.
Taking in one more minute of peace, Gendry forced himself up and out of bed, into his clothes, and ambled to the nursery. The ever vigilant Oona was in attendance, helping the two youngest members of his family with their morning meal. Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell and his nephew was not impressed with the pottage in his bowl. While not exactly coaxing, Oona smashed the pottage with a spoon and added more hot water and cooked apple to the meal. The toddler was more receptive to the pottage during the second attempt. Sitting amiably in the arms of the other nurse was his own daughter Carys, placidly gnawing on cooked apple without a care in the world. Bright cheeked and smiling, the little girl smiled and wiggled at Gendry's approach.
"There's m'darlin'," Gendry chuckled as he bent to scoop up the babe and give her a smacking kiss. "How did you sleep, Carys m'love?"
It was a highly rhetorical question, as he didn't expect a response in kind. But it seemed to excite his daughter, as she voiced her answer with babbling and gibberish. It was good to hold her before starting his own day, knowing she was happy, safe, and eating well while he went about his work. Since her first nameday she could stand on her own and call out for both parents, and while he was loathe to leave her in the nursery for long stretches of time, he and Arya carved out snowy afternoons and evenings to spend to time playing with Carys on the floor in front of a fire.
"You're late today stag lord." Oona said as she shoved another spoon of pottage into Robb's mouth. "Arya Stark was here just after sunrise, quiet and careful as she cuddled your girl. Given the noise from your hall, there was plenty of drink to go around. What's the matter? Can't keep ale in your belly?"
It was a gruff voice he'd learned to appreciate over time, as Oona held absolute dominion over the nursery. Garbed in the furs of the free folk, she attended the children in her care with a loving hand while safeguarding them with a knife at her side. She was possibly the only person in the keep whom no one would ever call a servant. She was Oona, a free woman, in Winterfell of her own choosing. And Gendry, Arya, as well as the king and queen were grateful to have her around.
"I kept the ale down but can't remember much of the night." Gendry replied sitting in the chair and feeding Carys another spoonful of mush from the bowl.
"A good night then." Oona nodded sagely. "Had plenty of those before the walkers came. Will have plenty more in the winter to come."
They passed the remaining moments in their work, allowing the half-words and grunts from the children fill the void. Each of them talking the babes in their laps, lines of coaxing rubbish which parents had used on children as far back as anyone could remember. Robb finished his meal, and with a last bite Carys followed suit.
"One last kiss, m'love. One more and papa can go about his business today." The smacking kiss had Carys laughing again, wiggling to be put down on the floor so she could play with the rope loop and ball in a basket nearby.
"I'll try not to take it personally that she wants to play more than spend time with her papa." Gendry deadpanned when he saw Oona smiling through wrinkled eyes.
"She'll be wanting to play with strapping boys next." Oona shot back.
"Seven save me." Gendry rolled his eyes. "Don't give her any ideas."
Snaking his way through the corridors and down the stairs to Winterfell's kitchens, Gendry nodded and replied 'morning' to the servants who addressed him by his title. Pulling two apples out of a barrel near the back door, he palmed one of the red fruits to a drowsy looking kitchen boy who appeared to be half-heartedly cleaning a cooking pot.
"Eat it, lad. You'll feel better."
"Thank you, m'lord." The lad answered, taking a bite with renewed gusto.
Rounding the courtyard, Gendry heard the clang of tools and saw his apprentice busily repairing a spear head. The exposed beams of the out building were open to the elements, with a small alcove closer to the stone walls sheltering the fire from the winds of winter.
Winterfell's forge had been extended several times during the War Against the Long Night to make room for the dozen bodies creating weapons, most of the structure had been dismantled and used to erect shelters in Wintertown. There was ample enough space for a master and apprentice, with storage to spare metal and supplies and items waiting for repair. It reminded Gendry of the shop he'd shared with Tybo Mott in Kingslanding. This time instead of providing most of the labor while his master chatted with customers, Gendry worked across from his student, providing guidance and advice with a watchful eye while the two of them clanged hammers in tandem.
Gendry's newest apprentice, Bryce, was a bright lad who'd grown up in Wintertown. He had managed to keep his head and wits about him during the Ironborn raid and Bolton occupation of Winterfell. Due to his short height and malnourished appearance escaped quickly and easily away from the keep to hunt and live in the Wolfswood when Ramsay Bolton began flaying people alive. Bryce had returned when the Starks took back the keep. He was a decent person, and it was strange how the Starks seemed to attract and retain more than their fair share of decent people. And while quick with a smile or a bit of humor, Bryce focused on his trade and was making good progress to becoming a master smith.
"Steady going, Bryce?" Gendry said in way of a greeting.
Looking up from his current project, Bryce nodded and replied good-naturedly. "Finishing this, m'lord. Then onto the barrel rounds."
"I'll take them up while you finish." Gendry smiled and donned his leather long vest, the heavy hammer from the shelf, and stepped up to the warm fire.
It felt good to work each morning, the motions of his trade got his blood going and the daily labor ensured a steady supply of tools, weapons, barrel rounds, and other goods. He'd taken to shoeing horses as well, using the techniques he'd learned from the Dornish during the war. Lord Blackwood used rounded metal pieces nailed into a horses hoof to give their animals more grip on the ground. It was a clever idea, Gendry thought, if the shoes protected horses from the heat and rocks of the south, why wouldn't they would work well on the snow and ice of the far north? Besides, if people wore shoes in the winter to protect their feet, shouldn't horses have them too?
It was moments like this when he was sure he was cut from a different part of the Baratheon cloth than his whoring drunkard of a father, Robert Baratheon. While not a wholly bad man, if the stories he'd heard from Lord Varys were true, his father could drink all night, sleep a few hours, and arise the next morning to share a small ale with his bedmate before heading out to cut down whatever enemies were in his way.
"Robert's reign was peaceful and productive because Jon Arryn held a firm grip on the reins of the kingdom," Lord Varys had confessed one night at the Wall. "The Lord of the Vale had always been a competent and shrewd figure, and he was a good man for your father to have as his Hand. Westeros flourished in the wake of the Mad King, because your father left the bulk of the decision making to the best person in the realm, while King Robert drank and whored his way to an early death."
"Everyone says I look like 'im," Gendry had stated simply. "He never saw me, or cared to. I'll never know, will I?"
"If I may say, my lord, you have proven so far to be the best of your house. A skilled smith and warrior, with a compassion and understanding of people not embraced by your father, or by either of your uncles Stannis or Renly, I'm sorry to say. Perhaps it's some of your grandmother's Estermont family peeking through. He's still alive, your uncle, Lord Selmond and his heir, your cousin Ulrick. You should write to them. They might be able to answer some the questions you have about the Baratheons, as the two houses have always been close."
Ser Davos had helped him write the letter to the Estermonts when they returned to Winterfell. The polite words on paper still sat on the desk in the room he shared with Arya. There were moments when he wanted to send it, and other times when he felt enough resentment and irritation with his Baratheon birthright to toss the parchment into the fire.
Lately, it was gnawing at him. Send the letter or not send it. Just decide. The Estermonts of Greenstone did not owe him anything. And while legitimized, Gendry was still just one of Robert Baratheon's bastards to the people in the south. The only one still alive, anyway.
He'd made a vow to himself to be better than his father, and not spawn a small army of children in want of a stable home and family. The king had sired how many? Twenty children? None of whom were left alive but him. It was strangely ironic that all that was left of the Baratheon line was a bastard-born boy and a trueborn babe not yet able to walk on her own. Carys would have to be the one to carry the burden of House Baratheon after him, as Arya flatly refused to conceive any more children, at least for the time being. Arya would change her mind when she was ready to do so, and while Gendry himself would have loved to make two or three more children by numerous attempts, it was his wife's decision to carry them, and he respected her choice.
If his performance last night hadn't been so frustratingly hazy, maybe he could persuade her to give him another chance tonight.
Two hours into his work, and the midday bell was rung for all to hear. Bryce hedged putting his hammer down until Gendry bade his apprentice to enjoy his dinner and return when he was finished. Catching up on the last of the barrel rounds, he added more fuel to the fire and applied himself to making more shoes for the horses.
His mind on the task at hand, Gendry hardly looked up when the shadowy outline of the king's hand approached the forge. He arrived bearing no food or drink, leaving him to believe Ser Davos was in want of company for midday meal or to needle him a bit for any folly which occurred during last night's gathering.
"Ser Davos," Gendry greeted politely, his hammer fashioning the curve of the thin metal into an acceptable shape.
The older man had a kindly but smug expression as he replied in kind. "Lord Gendry. I thought you might still be abed."
"Go ahead," Gendry gestured with his hammer. "How badly did I behave last night?"
"You mean you don't remember?" There was a quirk of humor in the graying knight's words. "That's a pity. Every man should recall the night when he waxed poetic about his wife's ample charms. Most of it wasn't fit for the ears of the good folk here."
"I didn't." His stomach fell to his feet. "There's no way I would have done that."
Ser Davos nodded sagely. "You're right, you didn't." He laughed then, a rough chuckle the Onion Knight employed when he was truly amused.
"I didn't shame myself?" Gendry asked, looking for reassurance only a good friend could provide.
"'Twas nothing more than some affectionate exchanges with your wife which most of the men in the hall considered quite tame," the Hand supplied.
Gendry felt a wash of relief flow through his body. Where he certainly did not restrain himself from kissing his wife in front of everyone, it was something else to pursue his wife in front of guests. He might unfamiliar with most of the trappings of lordship, but Gendry knew there were some things men did not indulge in publicly, regardless of station.
"To be honest I was busy trying to walk Captain Saan's first mate to the privy pot before he relieved himself in the corner of the Great Hall." Davos smiled broadly. "I had to show him where to aim his water. Never thought I'd show a pirate where to point his cannon, if you will. I had to leave him to sleep on a bench outside in the corridor. He was still there when I went to bed."
"He still there?"
"Snoring away. I pity his poor shipmates. Sharing a hammock row with him should be a punishment." Davos nodded to the horseshoe. "If you hurry and hang up your hammer, you can have dinner with our guests who have just woken up and are in need of a good meal."
"Too scared to face that lot alone?"
"They're descent, as far as pirates are concerned. I was hoping for a friendly face to entice them into filling in what you can't recall last night, instead of sharing some of the more colorful exploits of my youth."
"I'm just a distraction?" Gendry sighed. "And here I thought I was some sort of high and mighty lord."
"A high and mighty lord who was observed showering affection on his wife while drinking with a band of gentleman pirates. You'll have to endure some ribbing for your conduct. I'm sure you're strong enough to endure it."
"At least I didn't piss m'self." Gendry rolled his eyes and struck the last few blows to complete his task.
"To which the servants are grateful, believe me." Davos leaned against one of the wooden beams, his eyes turned to scan the comings and goings of the people in the courtyard.
One of the kitchen matrons led by the kitchen boy he gave the apple to just a few hours earlier, were striding determinedly in the direction of the forge. It was usually the formidable stewardess who politely warned him about snagging food from the kitchens between meal times. His youth spent eating whenever he could and not adhering to any particular timetable was proving to be a sticking point with the women who held the keys to all the food in Winterfell. Gendry didn't blame the lad for giving him up, but it was tiresome to keep apologizing for a habit he picked up during his years on the run.
Ser Davos looked at the mismatched pair with an inscrutable gaze. "Friends of yours?"
"That's a polite way of asking if I took apples from the barrel again." Gendry pulled the apron over his head and straightened his tunic. "Yes, I did. And it seems the stewardess is delegating the task of warning me off to a member of her kitchen army. I'll be lucky to see another apple until next fall."
Bracing himself for a verbal onslaught, Gendry was surprised to see the servant and lad do little more than nod in his direction before addressing Ser Davos with a rushed curtsey.
"Lord Hand, I have a concern to bring to you." Her strong voice and rushed manner spoke of a need which could not wait.
Ser Davos shot Gendry a quick smile before addressing the duo politely. "How can I help you? Mercia, isn't it?"
The muddy haired woman nodded quickly. "Aye, m'lord. I wouldn't trouble you if it wasn't urgent. Some of the needlewomen fell ill last night after the other servants and I went to bed. The mistress went to attend them. She's been nursing them since late last night. She bade young Aden here to inform me of her whereabouts should she not return by the noon meal."
While calm, there was a certain urgency in the Onion Knight's voice which sounded sharper than his usual kindly tone. "If she's nursing others through the night, has anyone been helping her?"
Mercia shook her head. "None that I know of, m'lord."
"What illness did she say are they suffering from?" The question was pointed in the direction of the skinny boy trying his best to stay respectfully still.
"The mistress said she'd never seen it before," the boy said in a rush. "There were chills then a fever. One of the needlewomen was laughing out loud and crying for water as I left."
"All the needlewomen?" Davos questioned the boy again. "Are you sure?"
The boy nodded. "All of them, and Dolyse and Sorcha, who were helping them in the storehouse. Mistress asked the sentry guards to make sure no one else went in or out of that building. Or the two houses where they were staying."
Ser Davos was not a man to give in to urgency with any great frequency. He had told Gendry more than once how patience and the ability to keep a cool head served him well as a smuggler, and even more so when serving the noble houses of Westeros. The world could be full of danger and uncertainty, and there were those who kept their wits, and those who lost their heads.
The Stewardess of Winterfell was an unspoken subject between the two of them. The Lord Hand kept his personal affairs stanchly private. Gendry never felt the compulsion to ask and Davos kept his mouth firmly shut about anything which roved into the loss of his wife, or matters of the heart.
It was only through years of friendship and at times an almost fatherly role which made Gendry closer to the old man more than most. He would have been blind not to see the way Ser Davos carried himself around Winterfell's stewardess, how happy he appeared to be when in her company. The gentle looks he gave her as they shared meals in the hall.
Gendry knew if there was some threat to the stewardess, there was nothing short of a king's command which would keep Ser Davos from her side. Honestly, his friend could use more happiness in his life. Why hide what love he had for the lady?
"Let's go." Gendry volunteered, grabbing an extra cloak from the peg on the wall. "The path to the town is clear. We can get there fast enough with everyone eating."
Pulling the cloak around his shoulders, Ser Davos eyed the road leading down into Wintertown. "Can you find your way back to where the mistress is staying?"
"Aye, m'lord."
"Good." The hand responded gruffly. "Lead the way."
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Gendry had agreed. During his years falling in and out of dangerous situations, it had been his ability to swallow his fear, think clearly, and take whatever move was needed to escape with all his working parts in order.