Chapter Text
Gendry | Winterfell
Deep within a pathetic excuse for a forge, with drafty walls, little lighting besides the struggling embers of a fire, and the frozen earth beneath him acting as the floor, a smith tried to work. Hammer met anvil again and again, a thousand times over, as it warped a slab of metal into a semblance of shape.
Winter was coming, it was almost here, and although the forge was probably the warmest place in all of Winterfell, even it couldn't ward off the chill. Another gust of wind pierced the forge’s crumbling walls with a sharpness the smith had never been able to give his blades, and made the fire, which had barely just recovered from the last gale, flicker and dim.
Cursing, the smith grabbed a pair of tongs and threw some more coal onto the fire and then snatched up a pair of bellows to breath in some life. The fire crackled and hissed, growing taller and brighter and stronger. At least until the next roar of wind came through.
He’d just picked up his hammer and shifted the piece of metal on the anvil, figuring out where he should strike it next, when the wooden door to the forge burst open, revealing a man on the other side. “Gendry,” he greeted, his tone short and clipped from the cold. His ears, unprotected by his short hair and lack of hat, burned a red brighter than the fire, and his salt and pepper beard was tangled in a web of miniature icicles.
“Davos,” Gendry nodded, then began to shiver from the chill. “Close the bloody door, yeah? It's colder than a Wildling's corpse out there.”
Davos blinked, then shook himself out of his thoughts. The movement dislodged some icicles free of his beard, sending them flying down to the ground. Hastily, he closed the door. “What's that you're working on? A piece of armor?” He asked, his tone almost hopeful.
Gendry scoffed, looking at the warped piece of metal on his anvil. “Armor? From this reused piece of shit?” He shook his head, “No metal was meant to be reused and reshaped this many times. If it were anywhere else it'd be in the rubbish.” He sighed, wondering if it wouldn't end up there regardless of his efforts, “I'm trying to shape it into a pot,” he admitted. “I just need it to bend . . . a bit more.”
Looking up at Davos, he asked, “How was town? You sell anything?”
For the past few years, ever since Davos had found Gendry in Flea Bottom and brought him up North to escape the Queen for the second time in his life, the two had been scraping by by selling products from Gendry's forge. Gendry would make the products--reforged cups, pots, kettles, the occasional horseshoe--and Davos would do his best to sell them. Easier said than done, though, when no one had any money.
“Oh, aye, I got a few copper pennies here or there. I was able to get rid of a pair of horseshoes, actually. Got a nice silver stag for them.”
That was impressive. Davos must've come across a Knight or maybe a Lord from a lesser house. Silver was hard to come by, especially with the taxes being as high as they were. The reminder made the smith wince.
“We're not going to make it through Winter are we?” Gendry sighed, his blue eyes trained onto his work. Gripping and regripping his hammer nervously, he glanced up at Davos, then back down again. “Not going on like this we're not.”
“Aye,” Davos nodded solemnly, his hands clasped together in front of him. “And half the North will be joining us in our graves by the sight of it.” Eyes darting left and right, searching for any eavesdroppers or spies--though the thought of anyone risking their balls to frostbite just to spy on them made Gendry snort--Davos stepped closer. “Right, well that's what I came to talk to you about. Our survival.”
His voice was quiet and his words crisp as he spoke quickly and with importance, “I had an idea. Now,” he said sternly, his brows furrowing and almost becoming one. “I know you won't like it, but I've had it, so just give me a moment, all right?”
Frowning, Gendry nodded. Feeling as if this conversation was about to take a turn, he placed his hammer on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. Now that he stopped moving, stopped his work, the cold was beginning to seep into his skin. He grimaced, shifted in an attempt to ward the chill away, and hoped Davos would be quick.
“I've heard a rumour,” he said, almost awkwardly as he wrung his hands. “In town. A rumor about the Princess Arya. Now, no, no,” he held up a hand, stopping Gendry’s objections before they could start. Sighing, Gendry closed his mouth, signalling for the older man to continue.
“We both have.” He said, his accent becoming thicker with ever word. Usually Davos’ voice reminded Gendry of the sea, of the sailors he'd known growing up in Flea Bottom. Usually the sound of it helped put the younger man at ease. This time, though, it just added to his dread. “Heard, I mean, that she survived.”
Gendry's face darkened. Yes, he knew the rumor well. Mayhaps better than anyone. That although the Starks did not survive, one of the siblings may still be alive. Some idiot, probably a fancy poet, had gotten it into their thick skull that since the details of Arya’s disappearance were unclear, she must still be alive somewhere.
Once, not too long ago, Gendry had believed the rumors too. He'd justified it, even. He'd known more than most had, anyway. He knew that she survived King’s Landing. So, he thought, why couldn't she survive the Red Wedding?
It was a fool’s dream, though. He'd come to realize that, with time. None of the Starks survived.
Lord Stark had been the first to die, but little did anyone know at the time that he wouldn't be the last. Not long after him, just a few moons, the traitor Theon Greyjoy killed and burned the youngest boys, Bran and Rickon, and hung their bodies from the castle’s gate for all of Winterfell to see.
Next was King Robb, the savior of the North, the Young Wolf. Not even he could survive whatever curse had been placed on his family. He and his mother, the Lady Catelyn, had been brutally slain under the protection of guest right by House Frey. Their deaths had changed the country drastically. If a king couldn't feel safe in the home of their own Bannerman, what chance did the common folk have? After the Red Wedding, neighbor turned against neighbor, and the North was left defenseless.
Then the poor Lady Sansa, crushed on the rocks of Blackwater Bay. Some say the fall was an accident, some say that the late King Joffrey pushed her, and some say that, after hearing about the death of her brother and mother, she became broken hearted and jumped. The Stranger didn't care about the whys or hows, though, and neither did Gendry. Dead was dead, after all.
As for Arya, most thought she had perished at King’s Landing, not long after her Lord father, though how no one could say. All they knew was that she was in the Red Keep with her sister, Sansa, and assumed she came to the same tragic end as the rest of her family. But Gendry and a handful of people knew differently. Arya had made it out of the lion’s den, had been on her way to Castle Black to reunite with her bastard brother, Jon Snow, and had been so close to freedom. Then she met Gendry and everything turned to ruin.
Chest tightening at the thought of their meeting, Gendry had to physically shake off the guilt that had once again come so close to consuming him. Focusing back on Davos, he tried to hear what the man was saying.
“It's a lot of money, Gendry,” he was saying, “enough for both of us to live happily, if not modestly, for the rest of our days. I was thinking we'd do that somewhere a bit warmer, perhaps Lys, but--”
“Sorry, what?” Gendry interrupted, not following. “What money?”
Pursing his lips and breathing slowly out his nostrils, Davos glared at Gendry and began again, slower this time. “Prince Jon. Arya's cousin. You remember him, yes?
Gendry did, though not many people would call them cousins. To many Northerners, Jon Snow was still Ned Stark’s bastard son. To the Southrons, he was just another usurper, vying for the throne. To Gendry though, he'd always be Arya's favorite brother.
“He’s in Meereen now, with his aunt, Queen Daenerys. He believes Arya's still alive, Gendry, and he's offering a reward to the person who can bring her back.” Davos’ brown eyes searched Gendry's, looking for any signs of anger, disbelief, maybe even grief. Gendry looked back, unsure of what emotion the older man would indeed find.
“So I thought,” Davos continued hesitantly, “that since the two of us are in an opportunistic position, that we might . . .”
“Might what?” Gendry shrugged, the action bordering on aggressive. Running a hand along his jaw, he grimaced. The small hairs there scratched at the skin of his hand even though he'd just shaved that morning, which wasn't good--he couldn't afford a beard right now--but could be dealt with later.
“Just find an Arya lookalike, teach her what to say?” His fingers twitched with the need to hit something, “Then what? Dress her up as a lady and take her to Meereen?”
“You knew her better than anyone,” Davos argued, “save for her family, and they're all gone.”
“And so is she!” Gendry bellowed, his temper flaring like his fire did earlier. His face had turned a blotchy red and the cold no longer seemed to touch him. Pacing back and forth in the small forge in an attempt to exercise away his rage, Gendry continued. “Arya's dead, Davos! And maybe Jon Snow doesn't know that yet, or hasn't accepted it yet, but she is, and he will.
“He was her favorite brother, he'll be able to spot a fake miles away, and I for one do not want to be caught in a lie by someone whose aunt can control dragons!”
“Gendry, lad, calm down,” Davos waited for Gendry's pacing to stop, for him to take in some deep breaths and cool his blood. “I know the idea doesn't sit well with you,” he took a step closer and placed both hands on the taller man's shoulders. “I don't much like it myself, but it's all we've got right now.”
Looking over his shoulder for a moment, once again keeping an eye out for any enemies, Davos sighed, “You're right, we won't make it through a Winter this far North, but we can't go south, either. I was Hand to a king that never sat on the throne, and you,” he stopped to take a breath, his dark eyes, “well, with every passing day you look more and more like the dead King Robert, especially with that beard you keep trying to keep off your face.”
He paused, then, “Someone's bound to notice, and since Winterfell is currently decorated with colors from House Bolton, well,” he grimaced, “let's just say I'd rather face a dragon than that bastard Ramsay.”
Gendry had to admit, he had a point. At least the dragon would be quick about it. Ramsay was known for dragging things out, making his victims suffer. The stories he'd heard had been enough to give him nightmares for days.
Shaking his head, Gendry took a different approach, “And how, exactly, would we get to Meereen?”
Taking a step back and crossing his arms over his chest, Davos raised a brow, “I've been able to smuggle some money away these past few years,” he chuckled. “Enough to get three people across the Narrow Sea to Meereen, and then stay a few nights at a simple inn.”
“And then what?” Gendry asked, his brows raising up to meet his hairline. “We walk up to the palace, or wherever it is royalty lives in Meereen and just, what? Ask to meet with their prince?” He shook his head, “Why would they even meet with us?”
“You forget, lad, that I knew Jon,” Davos said, his beard hiding his frown. “Back when he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He nodded his head confidently, “I can get us an audience.”
Eyes softening, the older man said softly, “We can't stay here anymore, Gendry. We need to start over. We need to take a chance.”
Gendry sighed, a slow acceptance rushing through his veins and loosening the tension in his neck and shoulders. Davos was right, he knew that. They couldn't stay in Westeros any longer. It was just asking for tragedy, and hadn't they both lived through enough of that?
“All right,” he nodded, rubbing a hand down his face. “All right. Well,” he said, trying not to think of how all this could go wrong. “Who else could pull it off but me and you?”
“You and me,” Davos corrected automatically, making Gendry duck his head and smile.
Cat | Braavos
Cat felt the weight of her new purse hit against the meat of her thigh as she took step after step. Part of her was tempted to pat it, like patting herself on the back, but refrained. Such an action would do nothing but bring attention to it, and after having just won it, the young woman didn't wish to part with the coins in it so quickly. Ensuring that no one would challenge her to a duel and steal her prize, Cat pulled her long coat to cover her sword and new purse.
She'd won the purse off a young, green horned fool of a boy from Salty Town. He'd most likely had never been in a real duel in his entire life before today, and it hadn't even been a challenge for Cat to disarm him and win her prize. Kids like him were always visiting the city this time of year, looking for adventure and excitement, and they always went home a few coins lighter than they came.
Running her thumb up the length of her sword's handle, she wondered how best to spend her winnings. Perhaps she'd buy a pomegranate, or a Myrish orange, if she could find someone who sold them. Or perhaps she'd visit some of the girls at the Happy Port. She hadn't visited them in a while, maybe she'd buy some oysters for them all to share.
There was a lot of silver there, though, she thought as the purse bounced against the fabric covering her leg again. More than she'd seen in a long while. More than enough to . . .
She stopped and shook her head, she knew where that line of thought led. To the Bay, to a ship, to her home . . . In truth it led nowhere. Cat didn't even know where home was.
North, her thoughts stubbornly answered. Her home was in the North. Westeros.
She gritted her teeth, and then what? She asked herself. Then what would she do? The purse of silver wouldn't last forever, and she couldn't even remember the last time she'd been in her native country, or why she left. There might not be anyone to return to anymore, either.
Her grip on her sword tightened, her slim fingers turning bone white beneath her skin. Looking down at the sword--at the only link to her past--Cat’s chest swelled with an unnamed emotion. She'd had the sword for as long as she could remember, before that, in fact. It had been the only thing she could truly call her own after she'd left the House of Black and White.
The sword was small, meant for a child, really, but Cat’s hands were small, too, and the Braavosi preferred to use lighter blades in duels, ones that only needed to be held in one hand, so no one ever questioned her about it.
It had a name. Cat knew it had one, long ago. She wished she could remember it, she knew it was a good one, but its name continued to elude her, just as the rest of her past did.
Every now and again she'd remember something. Nothing tangible, just small flashes that were too obscure to gain anything from them--a warm hug, a hand ruffling her hair, the taste of lemon cake on her tongue--breezed in and out of her mind, and made her ache for the life she once had.
The memories, her past, would return to her. Someday. Cat knew this to be true, knew it with every fiber of her being. It might be tomorrow, it might be a year from now, it might be more, but one day Cat would know the name of her sword, sure as she knew her own, and, more importantly, who had given it to her.
She wondered sometimes, especially at night, after having awoke from sleep, whether or not she had a family. She must have, at some point. But no, she thought, family wasn't quite right. Pack. She had a pack.
The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. The words surprised her, stopping her in her tracks. Where had they come from? Although the words felt foreign and unused, they also felt right, like they belonged to her.
Still, Cat had never thought about packs or wolves before. Braavos had no wolves, and the people here never spoke of them, so she wouldn't have heard the phrase from a stranger or a friend. In fact, nowhere on the Eastern continent were there wolves. But in Westeros . . .
Cat blinked and realized she'd been standing in the same spot for far too long. Taking a look at her surroundings, her mouth dropped open as she realized where she was: Chequy Port. Her feet had led her almost all the way up to a ship without her noticing. Closing her mouth and shaking her head, Cat could take a hint.
It was time for her to take the first forward in finding out who she was, and the first step towards her future. Releasing a shaky breath, she squared her shoulders and walked up to the Harbormaster.
Swallowing down a spike of fear and pushing down on the rush of excitement buzzing in her hands, Cat voice was steeled with conviction as she announced, “I’m looking for a ship to Westeros.”