Gerion almost tripped over his own feet as he raced back up the stone steps of Winterfell.
Rickald, his Master, had commanded him to fetch the fine wood carving chisels and the small wooden mallet from his workshop. Rickald and Wright had been carving the Direwolf symbol into the new headboard they were making for Her Majesty's bed when he left.
The production the two Master Carpenters had made of covering the broken ironwood headboard to get it to the cart had likely drawn nought but more attention in his opinion. Gerion could understand wanting to operate within the bounds of what is proper, especially where their Queen was concerned, but he thinks they have all been a bit over the top. Frankly, the Queen's bedding the god and breaking the bed has to just solidify what an absolute, cast iron badass she is. Not that anyone could say that publicly but, well, Gerion was in awe of her. Master Ricklad had told him he needed to be more mindful of the delicate politics and sensibilities of their society, and that he would understand when he was older which was insulting. He was five and ten dammit, and four years into a seven year apprenticeship. He was no child.
The brush off, which is what it had been, had annoyed Gerion. Unbeknown to the two master carpenters, Gerion perhaps knew even more than they did about the sports of the bed. He may be innocent, inexperienced with women, but he was not completely ignorant. His mother had worked as a whore for a time before they moved North when he was younger…an education he would wish on no child. None in the North knew of his mother's past however, bad enough he was a 'bastard' from the south. Being the 'bastard' of a whore would have made getting his apprenticeship even harder. No amount of work ethic or his prodigious natural talent for learning would have cleaned that stain enough for a Master to overlook and give him an apprenticeship. Even when he was a small child he knew his mother's past occupation was a shameful thing not to be discussed. It's not something they talk about since mother has managed to hide her past from people here. Mother worked now as a scullery servant in Wintertown Tavern and a casual labour hand for some of the local crofters. She had struggled and strived to provide for herself and Gerion all these years.
Gerion's brow furrows as he struggles to unravel the enigma of how everyone is proud of the Queen but oddly prudish about the realities of being a god's lover. He is smart damn it, he should be able to figure it out no matter what Master Wright says about his youth making him think too brashly about such things. He was one of the smartest boys of his age group…he had had to be, to have become an apprentice despite his 'bastardy,' southern birth and all the other things that stood against him.
Having learned to read when he was small from the seven pointed star because of a generous Septon that wished to save the soul of the son of a whore back when they lived in the south, Gerion was reading any book he could get his hands on since he was old enough to toddle. When fellow smallfolk children were barely grasping their letters if they could spare the time to attend the rare classes by charitable septons, and even spoiled noble heirs were still struggling with counting and simple addition, Gerion had been grasping multiplications and pestering the wood workers or Smiths with questions about how they practised their crafts. He had spent an inordinate amount of time as a child in Septs and around Maesters because if he was careful not to be too underfoot and to do some small jobs they would impart some knowledge to him, or allow him to read some pages from their books.
Feeling now as though he has fallen short in understanding the delicate politics at play annoys him. Perhaps his lower birth means he will just never understand all the polite manners of nobility and the courteous fictions that are necessary to seem proper. He wishes he could ask questions but he knows he can't ask anyone about what he has seen in the Queen's chambers, nor about the panicked need for discretion he saw in Sera and the Order members' eyes.
He has sworn an oath.
An oath to never speak of what he saw and what was spoken of in the Queen's chambers.
Gerion may think swearing oaths and trying to play down the Queen's achievement in getting the god to break the headboard is overkill but he had given his oath.
With all the determination and pride in his gangly frame he has vowed to never breathe so much as the colour of the Queen's curtains, nevermind anything else.
The fine chisels are wrapped in a worn leather roll and Gerion clutches it with two hands.
He has been mesmerised all afternoon watching Wright and Master Rickald.
Getting the old Ironwood headboard down had been an arduous task more akin to a march through one of the lesser circles of hell than an afternoon job doing woodwork. Yet hearing Master Wright's speculation as he examined the split once it was down, his thoughts on the methods and possibilities of how to fix the Ironwood had been a revelation.
Measuring the new headboard, working out the fixing points for the posts and the canopy had been interesting. He had felt useful and learned a few tricks from Wright.
The carving was where technical work became art as far as Gerion was concerned.
Wright had free hand sketched a direwolf with careful ease that can only come from decades of muscle memory. Gerion had immediately begun thinking of how he would need to start practising sketching more patterns and sigils on offcuts or perhaps getting his hands on some of the paper coming from the Smith touched man's workshop in exchange for some work if possible. He would need practice to sketch a design to be carved as smoothly and effortlessly as Wright had. Master Rickard had Gerion use the set square, point compasses and charcoal to mark out a curved border line.
Gerion had been set to the more mundane tasks of doing the first shallow chiselling for the curved borders and sanding, plaining and filing down the sharp edges to smooth curves. While Master Rickard finished the border in detail, Wright had begun the rough carve of the direwolf.
It had been mesmerising to Gerion.
Master Rickald and Wright had held some kind of silent conversation with barely a look and stated they were going to share the detailed work of carving the direwolf. Master Rickon as the junior bowed to Wright and agreed to work on the neck while Wright did the main head. Both Masters had agreed that carving some of the lower parts of the Direwolf would be good practice for him if he did it under their close supervision. It was an act of trust in his growing skills he was most pleased that both Masters had offered.
The fine chisels are necessary to get the finest detail on the direwolf. The sharp points of teeth, the subtle flick of the ear. The headboard will never be a masterpiece, being hurriedly cut and carved in a single day, even with the sole focus of a grand master, a master and an apprentice carpenter. Yet it will still be impressive, and he will be able to say his hands aided in its creation for his Queen.
It is as Gerion turns the long corridor that is the main thoroughfare that he sees Her.
Gerion skids to a halt. He stares wide-eyed at the Queen walking down the corridor in quiet conversation with her Steward Bower and Head of the Royal Guard Brienne of Tarth a mere step behind.
Gerion gapes in shock at being so close to the Queen. His heart flutters like the wings of a hummingbird.
Gerion remembers himself and dives to stand to the side of the corridor, his head down and eyes averted.
He scrabbles for his cap which he had taken off earlier when he was sweating from aiding carrying in the huge ironwood headboard.
Gerion digs in his pockets and feels his breath come in panicky short gasps as he realises his cap has fallen out.
The cap he wears almost all the time to hide his short shorn hair. His gods be damned hair.
He runs his hands through his short hair in desperation, hoping the wood wax and saw dust will darken his cursed blond locks.
The Queen approaches closer and closer with every breath.
Gerion feels his breath coming in short pants, and a faint tremble overcoming his gangly form.
He had never thought he would ever be this close to the Queen. He had never wanted to be.
Being a 'bastard'…the 'bastard' of a green eyed and blond haired lion had been tough in the North but he had survived. He had proven himself. He and his mother had found people like Master Ricklad who had treated them with kindness. Mother fled to the North while Gerion was a young child and his familial looks had begun to show too much to be ignored. Mother had feared whispers would reach his grandfather and he would come for him. What grandfather would want with him could not be anything good. They had never looked back. They had forged a new life in The North all those years ago, reforged themselves in the cold air and snow to speak and act like Northerners…to become Northerners. Gerion feels more of the North than anything else now.
Gaining a measure of respect from their neighbours in Wintertown had taken years and Gerion was under no illusion that if it were not for his now thick Northern accent and his constant wearing of a cap that he would have a fifty fifty chance of being stabbed for the mere suspicion of his heritage by less tolerant Northerners in the wider country where he is just an unknown bastard of a hated southern family.
The Queen draws close and Gerion bows deeply as she passes…yet she does not pass. She stops, her conversation with Bower faltering.
"And who might you be?" The curious voice of the Queen asks.
Gerion steels his shoulders and reluctantly lifts his green eyed gaze to meet his Queen's eyes.
He bows deeply again, "I am Gerion Hill your Grace. Apprentice to Master Carpenter Rickald Wainwright."
The Queen's blue eyes rake over Gerion, from his wood wax stained blond hair, down his sharp noble features which whisper their similarity to his handsome uncle and finally she meets his green eyes.
Recognition sparks in her gaze and Gerion freezes. His breath stops. He knows she knows who he is. His young mind races over the rumours of what his sire had done to his Queen and he prepares to become the whipping boy for her wrath. He braces himself to pay for his blood family's sins…it would be only right. He feels tears gather in the corners of his eyes but he does not flinch or beg, he will accept his fate like a Northerner..like the Northerner he is at heart.
Instead of the disgust or the anger that Gerion was preparing for, the eyes of the woman who could have been his step mother seem to gentle.
Her hands flick to the clutched chisels in the leather wrap that Gerion is grasping like a lifeline, "You are fetching tools for your Master?"
Gerion is frozen for a moment in confusion at the innocuous question but he sucks in a breath and hesitantly responds, "Aye…I mean, yes Your Majesty. Fine chisels for some carving."
Sansa nods, "You are making something ornamental? What are you carving?"
Gerion flickers his gaze between the Queen, Bower and Brienne. He knows that it was Bower who gave Master Rickald the job of the headboard but he is unsure if Brienne, the Royal guard, knows about it. He airs on the side of caution in his response in order to maintain his oath, "Yes my lady. Carving some decorations on some furniture."
A brief, almost invisible twitch of the Queen's lips is the only sign that she may know what Gerion is actually working on.
The Queen nods, "I look forward to seeing it, Gerion. An apprenticeship is a fine future for a young man and people like yourself will be essential in the future as we rebuild the North."
Gerion feels his heart stutter and his breath catch…the Queen thinks he will be essential to the North? That, that sounds a lot like…like acceptance. Like the Queen accepts him and is pleased he is part of her kingdom.
Gerion bows, "Th-thank you, your Grace. I will do my very best. I swear."
The Queen nods with utmost seriousness, "Very good young man. I look forward to seeing your skills grow."
The Queen turns and sweeps forward. Brienne gives Gerion a calculating look before nodding and following her Queen.
Steward Bower offers him a serious but warm look as he dismisses Gerion, "Off with you lad. I am sure Master Rickald is waiting for you and those tools."
Gerion jumps in place and sketches a quick bow to the Steward before racing off.
His heart races and a smile that hurts his cheeks pulls up his lips.
He is accepted. He is Northern.
Gerion swears a second oath this day: to serve his Queen with all his heart, to become the greatest carpenter he can be and to aid in the rebuilding of the North.
