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It was nearly the third hour when Lord Baratheon jolted awake in his bed. He was almost convinced that it was a wolf’s howl that had awoken him. Had there been wolves in his dream? Gendry could not remember, but there couldn’t have been a wolf outside. It was a dream, and nothing more. She had been the last wolf to walk the Stormlands…
Storm’s End sat dark and quiet around him, as he well expected. It took a moment for his body to move itself on the thick feather mattress so that he could lay on his side. The night around him was cold and the deep ache that it caused in his bones, even under the furs, sat as a cruel reminder that he was no longer young.
He wasn’t even old. He was too old. Older than he had any right to be, especially without Arya by his side. Her name in his mind brought a sharp pang to his chest and he closed his eyes against the dim darkness of his chambers. His Arya, his beautiful wife. Gendry stopped to count, and landed on five. Five years since he had last held her, fve years since he had watched her chest deflate with it’s last breath, and five years since he had carried her body north to Winterfell. She couldn’t be buried here in the Stormlands. He wouldn’t allow it. Arya had taken the Baratheon name and had stood by his side with it, but she was still a Stark of Winterfell, and deserved nothing less than it’s quiet crypts and solemn stone effigies.
The melancholy rolled around in his head until Gendry’s eyes finally reopened. Yes, he was well awake now, and too cold to remain alone under his furs. So with an even greater effort than it took to turn over, he began the task of setting himself upright on the edge of the bed. The hit of the cool night air through his nightclothes brought on an involuntary shiver and he gripped one of the furs around his shoulders. Gathering his strength yet again, he hoisted himself onto his feet, standing for a second to gain his bearings before moving slowly across the room to where the fire burned low in the hearth. He thought that it surely should have burned lower by then, and Gendry suspected that one of the maids had stoked it higher at some point in the night.
He had been a good lord to the Stormlands, at least he hoped that he had. They prospered under his and Arya’s rule, so that surely must count for something. And Lyla would ensure that it lasted.
At the thought of his daughter, Gendry’s eyes moved up to the painting above the hearth. There he stood, much younger and stronger, one arm around Arya, and the other holding their precious child. He couldn’t look at Arya’s image for too long, had not been able to for the past five years. But Lyla; he could gaze at her precious baby face, framed in thick black hair, from morning until the morning after. She was their sun and their moon, Arya’s pride and his second great love. She had grown into his height but kept her mother’s lean frame, she Water Danced along the castle walls and mended her own armor, she could watch a room with silent grey eyes and then step out of the shadows with elegant Baratheon fury when appropriate. She was everything good that was left in his life.
He loved her brothers as well, Jon who stood taller than him and Davos who now wielded his warhammer, and supposed he must feel a touch of guilt for not feeling the same towards them as he did his only daughter. But Lyla had been the second ray of golden light to land on his face after her mother. And they were all so much more than a bastard smith ever deserved.
Sinking into the chair beside the hearth, Gendry brought his hands out from under the fur and began to work them together. The swell in his joints had stopped his smithing, even before Arya had passed. He had pouted that day, and she had only smiled knowingly and held his hands in hers, reminding him how her own joints could no longer move gracefully with her Needle. His callouses had slowly given way to wrinkled skin. Wrinkles, he thought, that were a perfect match to his deep grey hair and thinning form.
Yes, his time was nearing. Every day he found himself wishing it sooner. He knew his children worried. He had always been a stupid bastard, but he knew enough to hear when they talked apart from him. But they did not know. How could they know? How could any of them guess the kind of cavern that’s left when your love is lain to rest inside of a stone tomb in the deep north? Life loses it’s savor when you do something like that. Not one of the losses that he had ever witnessed had rent his soul like hers did.
Gendry let his face turn upwards again, choosing still not to look on Arya’s imperfect likeness, but instead on the dagger that sat on the mantle. Her Catspaw. Not Needle; no, he could never have kept that from her. It lay safe and cold in the hands of her stone image, ready for a day that she could raise up and take it again. But he had kept her dagger, it could remind him of her more than any painting ever could.
He shifted in his chair and almost felt surprised to discover that his feet weren’t as cold as they had been, nor was his face, and he sat back easier as a small smile came to his face.
Muscles had just relaxed in place when he heard it. Yes, it was, he was sure it. A lone deep howl outside of the walls. He had certainly not been dreaming this time. It was a wolf.
Gendry gave it no second thought to stand from his chair and move as briskly as he was able towards the door. The catch in his knee kept him from moving as fast as he would have liked, though. It had never quite healed after that run-in with the Black Bag raiders. Once in his solar, he draped a thick cloak around his shoulders and slipped into his boots. The carved walking stick that Davos had fashioned for him was in hand by the time his feet carried him to the door.
Briefly a thought passed that his children would have a fit if they found their elderly lord father wandering out at this hour. But what of it? He was stepping out to see the wolf and that was that.
Dark corridors passed around him. He seemed to be the only life that remained in the place as he moved slowly down stairs and carefully into large halls. Had he passed the guards yet? He couldn’t remember. But, then again, he was old.
Large wooden doors swung open with the push of his hand, and he found it somewhat odd, remembering them heavier. But then, he did feel stronger this night, and thought that it must be the howling wolf who filled him with a little bit of hope.
The night was cool around him, but not as cold as he had been in his chambers. Above sat a company of stars in the deep sky, and before him lay his keep in silent slumber. Through it he moved, boots hardly making a sound on the packed dirt. He briefly thought that this must have been what Arya felt like all those nights that he had awaken to find her not in their bed but wandering the castle grounds. They had walked together on those nights, talking and keeping each other company until either they had tired enough to return to their chambers, or the pale light of morning began to stain the sky.
He had been so deep in the thought that he almost stretched out his hand to his side to take hers. He clenched his fingers, though, and drew them back to his side.
The outer gate stood before him, and with it came no guards. ‘Must be changing watch.’ he thought with a shrug. ‘All the better, no one to run and tattle to Lyla that Old Bull Baratheon is out in his nightclothes.’
The world felt more open outside the walls, and Gendry felt himself standing a little taller, feeling the night breeze coming off of the sea and ruffling his hair in much the same way that Arya had. No wolf could be seen yet, but oh it felt so nice to be out in the wide open again. He wanted to stay, wanted to walk himself down to the sea again.
It felt almost right to lay down on the soft grass, as though that’s where he should be, there on the cliff overlooking the dark waves, waves that had lulled him to sleep on so many nights, waves that had pounded on the shore as he and Arya had loved each other on those very cliffs. Even those thoughts held no weight in his chest now. Gendry felt peace. His walking stick in the grass by his side, Gendry stretched out his legs and laced his fingers over his chest. He had nearly forgotten how comfortable the hard ground could be sometimes. Yes, this felt much better than his featherbed. Surely Jon and Davos would forgive him if they found their father sleeping under the stars. Lyla may worry more than them, but she too would soon brush it away.
Blue eyes slipped closed against the starlight and Gendry felt his breathing slow to an easy pace. He let the clear air and soft grass carry his mind away from him, through trees and over rivers, to rocks and valleys that had once seemed so familiar to his eyes. But soon his eyes were detecting light. It was bright and warm against his skin. Had morning come so soon? Surely it was the best he had slept in so very long!
But the light was soon broken by soft shadows against his lids. Tree branches? Could he have drifted off beneath a tree he hadn’t seen? No matter, it all still felt so right and warm and Gendry decided that he would wait in silent rest a little longer.
Then there was a hand. Small and gentle, it brushed his cheek. Had Lyla found him? Gendry smiled and slowly opened his eyes against the sun’s glow. Yes, he was under a tree, a wide sprawling oak, and the sun was nearly at it’s crest. Bright green leaves filtered the midday light above his head. But the sound of waves seemed to have melted into the rush of leaves against a breeze. As the hand continued it’s caress, his eyes trailed over to find it’s owner.
And there sat Arya.
His heart nearly stopped. No, he was sure it had stopped, because any other reaction wouldn’t have been enough. She was there, and she was smiling, and gods she was beautiful. But this wasn’t right. The strands of hair that caught the gentle wind were deep brown, not the white hair he had smoothed when she lay on her deathbed, and her face held none of the scars that her hard life had gifted to her. She looked much the same as she had when they had reunited all those decades ago.
She must have read his expression, she always could, because she just laughed softly and moved her fingers to cup his cheek. “Stupid bull,” she said softly. Oh how he had missed that voice. “Have you not guessed?”
Gendry found himself licking his lips and opening his mouth a few times before replying, almost afraid that speaking would break whatever spell this was. “Am I dead?”
Her expression softened further. “As dead as I am.”
Gendry couldn’t hold himself back. Any fear of losing what he had before him vanished as he lifted himself from the ground and took her in his strong arms. Yes, his strong arms. He was strong again, young again, and felt as though he could carry her forever. The sound of her shrill laughter brought tears to his eyes as he spun her around beneath the shade of the oak. And when he stopped spinning, he kissed her, and her lips on his made him melt under the warm sunlight until he had pulled her back down to the ground with him.
********************
Winterfell’s gates opened slowly before the somber procession of black horses, two of them pulling a single carriage. The carriage held a high lord, and he was dead, found one morning deceased in his bed by his daughter.
Theon Stark, Second of his Name, The King in the North, The New Wolf stood outside of the gates and watched his cousins lead the company. They were all welcomed warmly under his protection, and he himself supervised as his uncle, the famed Lord Gendry Baratheon, was carried from the carriage to the doorway that lead down into the cold crypts. Many would not have agreed to this act, but their opinions were none of his concern. Lord Gendry had fought in the Long Night, had stood in the first ever Grand Council, and had helped a broken kingdom to heal. The least reward the king could give would be to have him rest beside his wife.
A stone direwolf still lay at the feet of Arya’s statue, but across it’s paws lay a warhammer.