Chapter Text
Jon had proven once again his seeming immunity to death, but the fever he developed soon afterward demonstrated he was not fully invincible. It was not severe enough to leave anyone overly worried, nor for anyone to protest when Jon insisted on heading back to Winterfell straight away. That said, they did insist on him resting in his quarters and taking turns keeping an eye on him to make sure his health continued to improve. Though it was far more fuss than Jon was comfortable with, he realized it was a reasonable course of action and only put up minimal protest.
There was no real schedule or shifts, and Jon found himself alone for up to hours at a time—nobody was actually that worried, apart from maybe Davos, whose gruff, fatherly concern could sometimes morph into an almost motherly coddling.
Jon hardly minded; ever since he had left Winterfell all those years ago to join the Night’s Watch, solitude had become a luxury he was seldom able to enjoy. So when he did encounter such a rare moment alone, he allowed himself to bask in doing absolutely nothing, listening to the gentle creaks and groans of the ship Daenerys had generously loaned to them for their return journey, the patter of footsteps above, even the sound of his own breathing. He tended not to linger on the last too long, as focusing on his own body was too close to focusing on his own thoughts, which never stayed pleasant or simple long, no matter how hard he might try to keep them from veering into dark and shadowy places. No, in these few quiet moments he would allow himself to focus on the creak of boards and other such inane things that were as close to having a clear and empty mind that he was ever likely to get.
Jon was in the process of idly counting the scales of the dragon carved into the desk in his quarters when his new watcher arrived. The knock on the door made him lose track.
“Enter.”
“Your grace.” Gendry greeted him with a respectful but somewhat stiff bow of the head.
Jon was pleased to see the blacksmith. The lad had been amongst strangers and old foes in a strange and hostile land, facing conditions unlike any he had ever known. Jon had placed their fate in his hands, and he had not failed them. It was more than enough to earn the smith a place in Jon’s good books, though he had a definite sense that the young man had his secrets. What they could be, considering how forthright he was about his parentage, his qualms with the Brotherhood, and his experience with Melisandre, Jon did not know. but thus far Gendry had impressed him, and Davos thought highly enough of him to not just track him down, but encourage him to lie out of concern for his safety, which said more to Jon than any flowery words of endorsement. If it was something he should know, he trusted Gendry would tell him in time. And if it wasn’t, then the lad was free to his secrets. After all, what man or woman alive didn’t have a secret or two?
“Ser Davos says we should be at White Harbor in a sennight. From there we’ll get to Stonecross by raft down the White Knife, granted it hasn’t frozen over yet. From there it’s only two day’s ride—perhaps three, with the snow. With any luck we’ll reach Winterfell within a fortnight,” Jon said.
“Aye, your grace. And I’m sure your people will be glad to see you returned.”
Jon could not help but wince at that. They will be angered at how long I was gone, he though, and that will be before I tell them the news. But there was naught he could do to change the past, and bending the knee to Daenerys had been the right choice. Every day he grew more sure of that.
“What have you heard of Winterfell, Gendry?” Jon asked, changing the subject.
“Most folk in King’s Landing say it’s a frozen wasteland full of grim and dour people. That would be the few that would know of it, that is. Doubt any of them have been there, though. I’ve heard another tell it different, and those would be the words I’d trust.”
“And what was this second opinion?”
“That it’s beautiful. Not ornamented the Southron way, but rugged like. That the castle’s always warm—because of something about hot water, never could quite make sense of that bit. That no man can stand before the heart tree in the Godswood there and not believe in the power of the old gods,” Gendry said. I should tell him, he thought. He should know.
“Quite high praise,” Jon murmured. The smith felt the full weight of the king’s scrutiny and knew that the excuse of waiting for the right time, as he had told himself, would hold no longer.
“There’s no place like it in Westeros, she told me. No place better in all the known world than Winterfell in a summer snow.”
“She?” Jon repeated. “And who was this ‘she,’ who speaks so knowingly of Winterfell?”
“Your sister, your grace. Arya Stark.” Gendry realized that for all he had thought of her, for all the time he spent regretting the terms on which they parted, for all the evenings he spent in taverns, nursing the same tankard of ale for hours, straining his ears for news of the younger Stark girl, to at least know what had become of her, he had not spoken her name aloud since the day the Brotherhood had sold him to Stannis’s red witch like a hog at auction.
“You knew Arya?” Jon asked. “Why did you not tell me this before?” His voice was accusing, but Gendry supposed that was fair enough.
“There were other matters at hand, your grace.” Gendry knew it was a weak excuse.
“We spent a good bit of time walking together, north of the Wall,” Jon quickly replied.
“I didn’t know how you would respond. Figured it best to wait,” Gendry said.
“When did you meet Arya?” Jon asked, after studying the smith for a few moments and deciding to let it go.
“It was the day your lord father lost his head. There was a man from the Night’s Watch come to collect recruits and spotted her in the crowd. Hacked off her hair and looked to pass her along as a boy so as to deliver her to Winterfell on the way. A few of the recruits were trying to scare her. She was threatening them back with the skinniest little sword I ever saw.”
“Needle.” Jon’s eyes lit up. “She kept it?”
“She loved that blade more than anything. Said it was a gift from you.”
“A parting gift. Last time I saw her was the day I gave her that blade,” Jon said. “You never made it to the Wall.”
“Aye. Lannister men. They wanted me, but Yoren refused to hand me over, so they came back in the night and attacked. It hadn’t taken me long to realize your sister was a girl—thankfully the others never caught on, somehow—and I kept an eye on her. Tried, at least. She never made it easy.”
“No, Arya wouldn’t,” Jon agreed with a chuckle.
“She returned the favor. Saved my sorry arse more than once.”
“And what happened?”
“We made a run for it, but they caught us soon enough. Arya managed to convince them a boy that they killed already was the one they were looking for, and we were rounded up and marched to Harrenhal.”
“Harrenhal?!” Jon shouted. He had heard stories about the place, and none of them were good.
“I will not lie, your grace, it was not a pleasant experience. But when Lord Tywin was around it was more… bearable,” Gendry said, unable to think of a better word. “Arya managed to find a way to escape and got us out. She was determined to get to your brother Robb at Riverrun, but the Brotherhood captured us. Probably would have let us go if the Hound hadn’t come along and told them who Arya was. Got it in their minds to ransom her off to your brother. Arya wasn’t too happy about it, but they were taking her where she wanted to go, so she didn’t fight it too much. She wanted me to go with her, to smith for King Robb, but I told her I was going to stay with the Brotherhood. Got it into my head that it was the right thing to do. That I could be my own master. I was young and stupid. They sold me to Stannis’s red witch not a sennight later. Arya tried to stop them. I hurt her, and she still fought for me. And that’s the last time I ever saw her. It was about a fortnight before the massacre at the Twins. Don’t know if they ransomed off Arya before it happened. I hoped I’d hear rumors of her, back in King’s Landing, but I never did. I’m sorry, your grace.”
“Arya’s in Winterfell,” said Jon.
“She’s alive.” A relieved smile crept across Gendry’s face. There was something in his expression that gave Jon pause. Could it be?
“Gendry, I do believe I am glad we did not have this conversation earlier.”
“Your grace?” He’s still nervous, Jon thought.
“Something tells me that if we had, you might have been more favorable to Ser Davos’s plan of sending you straight to Winterfell. And if you had, I’d likely be dead. So yes, I am decidedly glad we didn’t have this conversation to begin with.” The lighting in the cabin was quite dim, but Jon strongly suspected that the young smith’s ears were a few shades redder than they had been a minute before.
“What, and tell her I left her ‘best brother’ behind to get himself killed beyond the Wall? You have met your sister, haven’t you?” Gendry retorted, eyes wide.
Jon himself was surprised at the heartiness of the laugh that tumbled from his chest—as was Gendry, judging by the stunned look on his face, which only inspired him to laugh harder.
We are not our fathers, Jon thought. But mayhaps they got a few things right. Things that bear repeating.