Chapter Text
The men were not used to seeing a woman in the forge, let alone a lady of Winterfell. Some groaned that she wasn’t the Lady of Winterfell. They complained that she had come dressed like a man rather than in an elegant gown like her sister would have. But others, particularly those old enough to remember the late Lyanna Stark, whispered that Lady Arya was a striking northern beauty, the spitting image of her aunt. Despite their differences though, the blacksmiths of Winterfell could agree on one thing: Gendry was a lucky man to get a visit from Lady Arya.
Gendry did not consider himself particularly lucky. If his father could see him now, Robert Baratheon would most definitely deny having fathered such an awkward bastard. Gendry thought back to the easy way he had had with women in Flea Bottom. They used to wait outside the shop every evening to catch a glimpse of the dashing blacksmith with the dark hair and piercing blue eyes. All he needed was a smile and a few sweet words to win them over for the night. And yet, when he needed those sweet words the most, they had forsaken him and all he could say to Arya was “I mean, you look good.” She was right, he was stupid.
As he studied the drawing she had given him, he slowly began to let himself believe that she was real and alive and well. He had thought about Arya so many times that the memory of her was worn in his mind. Fragile and faded, like a piece of parchment that had been read too many times. To tell the truth, sometimes, he couldn’t even remember what she looked like, only that she was the only thing he ever wanted, ever wished for.
Had she even been real, he would ask himself. While he was rowing for his life away from Dragonstone, hungry and delirious, he had spoken to her. Spoken was a generous way to put it. He cried, shouted. Begged her for forgiveness for leaving. Begged her to let him be her family. Begged her to be his lady. By the end, when he finally made it ashore at Flea Bottom, he was certain that she was merely a figment of his imagination. A fantasy princess he had conjured up to keep him rowing all those days and nights.
After all, bastard boys don’t meet princesses, let alone fall in love with them. That’s what he told himself, all those years in the shop at Flea Bottom. Yet, he still felt a twinge of disappointment when she wasn’t amongst the ladies seeking his affection outside the shop at night. Gendry had spent his days secretly hoping that Arya would walk into his shop. Proud and highborn, like her father had all those years before. You’re just a bastard boy, he would remind himself when he imagation got too colorful. But he wasn’t a just bastard boy was he. Bastard boys don’t get kidnapped by red witches. Bastard boys don’t befriend bastard kings. Bastard boys don’t journey north to capture wrights.
Gendry had told himself he was waiting for something. Packed a bag and forged a warhammer in anticipation. Davos assumed he was waiting to play his part in the great war to come, but in reality, Gendry was waiting for the next remarkable thing to happen to him. Perhaps if enough remarkable things happened to him, he would finally let himself believe that the most remarkable thing that had ever happened to him had happened.
That’s why Gendry didn’t tell Jon he knew his sister. If he said her name, spoke of their adventures out loud, she would become real and he risked realizing that she had been a fantasy all along. So, Gendry hoarded her in his heart, replaying their memories together, but only in his most private moments did he dare to dream of making more memories with her.
The sound of men crassly laughing brought him back from his reverie. Someone loudly said, “Boy’s got it bad. You’ll get nowhere dreaming about princesses. Best focus on that little toy she’s asked for because that’s all she wants out of you.” The rest of the blacksmiths guffawed as they came over and tried to take Arya’s drawing out of his hand. Gendry responded with a fury that King Robert would’ve been proud of and the men retreated back to their workstations, muttering about dumb bastards and their dumb fantasies.
Gendry put the drawing in his pocket and returned to the dragonglass arrowheads he had been forging before Arya’s arrival. He didn’t have to deal with this now, she would come back, he desperately hoped. Arya was not known for her patience. After all, he had never agreed to make her this weapon. Why did she need a… he didn’t even know what to call it, a doubled-sided mini spear? She already had Needle and a Valyrian steel dagger. Rich girl. Gendry smiled to himself quietly, bending over his workbench so the others wouldn’t see. He could gripe all he wanted but he knew he would make her the weapon; labor over it, obsess over it, seal his own soul into it if it would keep her safe. The Hound had called her a cold little bitch, but Gendry felt the warmest he had since coming north.