Chapter Text
Ringing, ringing, always ringing was the steel, and Gendry did his best to keep it that way. He was determined not to give anyone cause to wonder about his presence there, inside Master Rymond’s forge. It felt good to be back in one again, almost like coming home, and he’d even exchanged a few words with Kevan and Koval, but of course it was obvious that they didn’t really feel like he belonged.
The squire of Ser Brynden Tully just wasn’t really supposed to be doing the work of a common man.
And who’d ever prefer smithing to squiring, anyway? Gendry could certainly think of no one but himself, and even he would’ve scoffed at the very thought of this idea just a fortnight ago.
Before the dungeon.
Before the wolves, howling, always howling in his head and dreams and memories.
Now, every time he had a sword in hand, intending to fight with it, even if it was just a mock-fight, suddenly he felt all squesy and more uncomfortable than he’d care to admit to anyone.
What made it worse was that he wasn’t really against the fighting, either. Sometimes it even went fine, and sometimes he almost enjoyed it, to. But then at other times he couldn’t help but think of Arya asking him to spar with her, and from there it was only a short way to her speaking up for him in that chamber, and then to the dark, wet walls enclosing him while he lay on – or rather, in – a muddy patch of ground and his own shit.
And now he was out of it, rewarded for something he wasn’t sure he’d ever done, and somehow wanted none of it.
Bloody idiot, you should be enjoying yourself while it lasts, not shun somethin’ every damned riverlord’s son’s been dreamin’ about since he’s learnt how to walk.
Truly, how many boys would shun the chance to squire for someone with such a name? Gendry had been born and stayed in the City for all his life, but even he knew who Ser Brynden Tully was. Maybe there weren’t as many stories about him as there were about Ser Arthur Dayne, or Ser Barristan the Bold, but he was still a well-known man, and unlike some other well-known ones, respected.
Moreover, it was well-known that Ser Brynden Tully wasn’t one to take on squires. It had taken him a while to figure that one out – everyone but him had assumed that it was common knowledge, and perhaps it was, here – which made the who business even more unusual than it had already been.
Somehow, sometimes he felt that he’d preferred to squire for someone less noteworthy; that, he felt, would have been less inadequate.
And then he’d burst into a fit of laughter because the idea of him squiring for anybody, even a hedge knight, had always belonged into idle daydreams, not into his real life.
He knew he should be happy, and suspected that he was, somewhere, but still …
If it wasn’t the Blackfish …
Maybe then he’d be able to beat out a sword without seeming suspicious, without asking eyes hovering over him, constantly. He could practically feel their thoughts, their questions, the questions of those that didn’t understand.
“Ah, there you are, boy! I’ve been running all over the bloody castle in search of you, though I’d suppose this should’ve been the obvious place to look.”
At last, his knight had found him. Somewhere, in some deep pit inside him, he suspected he was even a bit proud of it all.
Anyway, that was deep inside him, and he wasn’t really sure of it himself, either.
“Time for lessons, you know. Can’t just do nothing all day. But then, I’d hardly call all that hammering nothing, if I were honest.”
The old man gave a laugh, then walked out of the forge again.
Nimbly, Gendry followed him out. Together they crossed the little yards, came by barracks that hadn’t been there the day before or that Gendry hadn’t noticed yet, crossed the small arm of the Tumblestone that flowed right through the castle – hence its name – walked by some more badly-built shelters full of peasants who’d run from the fighting on the river’s other side, all the way into the training yard of Riverrun.
He suspected he shouldn’t feel any disappointment over the fact that Arya wasn’t there, but could do little to avoid it. Stupid! By now I should know better, he thought to himself, she’s never here, not anymore.
In fact, come to think of it, he’d seen her but once since she’d come back, and that was when she’d called the wolves to howl, and threatened to lead them into battle yet again.
Warg, he thought, “You shouldn’t be so surprised, fool!”
Still, he had been surprised by what she’d done in that little chamber. Not so much at what she could do, he’d seen some of that before, after all, and if it now was much more impressive, well, then obviously she’d gained practice. The howls might haunt him now, but it were her words that had truly terrified him. By now he knew when she was lying, and she hadn’t been lying, then, when she told them about the people she’d killed, or that she’d readily kill some more to get him out of his chains.
And she used it all to free me.
He wasn’t sure what to think about that. If she’d never told anyone, why, she’d just be the same Arya that had been gone. But now she’d chosen to tell everyone, and all only to get him out of his chains.
By the time he had gotten his hands on a practice sword Gendry was confused, and probably a bit angry, too, though he wasn’t sure as to why or at what. Maybe at the world, he thought, or maybe just himself. Maybe at Arya, too, who’d turned up playing the part of monster and hero both at once only to disappear into her chamber, and never again coming out.
And since he didn’t want to intrude on her – and probably a bit afraid of her, too, he admitted to himself – he didn’t go to see her, either, which meant that he’d lost the only friend he’d had in the castle.
He missed it. He missed the stories they used to trade in the evenings, missed the time when she’d made him drink sour wine and pretended, just for a moment, to be a real lady, and all that missing only served to make him angrier.
Though he never looked forward to it, he often hoped that the fighting would help, that hacking at the air or a wooden puppet or the Blackfish would somehow make him feel better, but it didn’t. No matter how much he threw himself into it, no matter how hard he tried to hit the Blackfish, the old man wouldn’t stop to slip from his grasp as easily as Arya had done, back on the run.
A blacksmith’s strength, he’d found, were very little against the skill of any swordsman even if he was only half-trained, no matter how old he was or how white and weathered his hair, and no matter if the man was only a girl smaller than he himself.
In the end, when a small crowd had gathered for their gawking – Riverrun was more a village than a castle now, in truth, with all the people who’d come here for protection having erected all sorts of crude shelters against the walls, and you didn’t often got to see the Blackfish fight – when Gendry was bathed in more sweat than after a good day in a forge, Ser Brynden let him go. Looking at the yard and the castle, Gendry could see the sun had already begun to set, casting the walls and people into sharp relief-like shadows, which made the world look almost dream-like. He might have fallen asleep then and there, or he might have started shouting at them all, but he kept himself back.
Around them, some boys had found sticks somewhere and where play-fighting on their own. He hadn’t noticed them before, and now wondered how he’d managed that, with all the noise they made.
It took him some time to realize that what he’d first taken for screams was, in fact, laughter.
Wasn’t long ago that I’d have played at swords, m’self.
What a strange idea that seemed, now, to play with swords.
The Blackfish gestured for him to follow, and together they made their way in the great hall, where it was quiet for now. Not long, and the crowd would come in, to sleep for the night.
“You did well, boy.”
“I was terrible.”
“No. Well, you were, in a way, I’d guess. But you’ve understood the important thing.”
Gendry was halfway through a defeated nod when he realized what the man had actually said. Surprised, he raised his head again, to look at the knight. He didn’t understand at all.
“These boys out there, would you say they enjoy the bits of sparring they’re doing?”
“I’d expect so.”
“What about you, then? Do you enjoy it?”
“No”, Gendry told the man, then added, “I hate it.”
“That’s what I meant. You don’t enjoy it. Look around you.”, he added, pointing at the empty tables, the abandoned dais, the few forgotten bits of straw lying on the ground, “Right now there’s not much in here, but an hour or two and you’ll find that scores of men, women and children come here for sleep every night.”
Gendry knew that, of course. He’d spent his first night in Riverrun in this hall, before he’d shared a room with Kevan and Koval.
“They had to flee from the fighting, or else they’d be dead by now.”
“And yet their children play at swords for fun. Surprising how many people never realize it, isn’t it?”
Realize what?
The Blackfish looked at him for a moment, straight in his eyes, then sighed and continued:
“Don’t fight because you think it’s fun. It’s not, and never has been. Fight because you must. You? You understand that. But think about how many knights there are in this war, right now, who haven’t noticed that yet, and how many of them maybe never will.”
Finally, slowly, Gendry began to connect the dots, like how he’d combine the letters in Maester Vyman’s lessons until they made a word.
“And so the people still have to run.”
“Exactly. You know why I never took any squires? I had one, once, and first thing the fool did when he’d been dubbed was to get himself killed.”
Finally, he understood, and that he already had. He wondered when that had happened. When they’d left the City? When Lommy had died? Or maybe only in the dungeon?
And now that he thought about it … why would one continue at all? Why had Ser Brynden taken on a lowborn nameless boy as squire when he’d refused high lord’s sons?
The Blackfish had already turned back, and Gendry sensed that he’d been dismissed, but still, he couldn’t help it, he had to know.
“So why have you taken on me, then?”
The old man looked back at him, his eyes weary and tired.
“Because when I first saw you, I recognized that look in your eyes, and knew that won’t happen with you.”
Sweeping his arms around the hall, the Blackfish said: “Remember this, boy. Remember this hall, and those who have to sleep in it. And that knighthood isn’t about fighting, or at least not only about it. Any old fool can learn how to fight. It’s about when not to fight.”
And while Ser Brynden turned around to walk back to his chambers, Gendry swore himself that he’d remember.
So lost to his thoughts, Gendry only looked up when the children began to come in, running and shouting around the hall before their parents – if they still had parents, that was, if not, it was probably uncles or aunts or just whoever else was around – put them to sleep on whatever pieces of straw they’d been able to find in the castle.
Numbly, he made his way to his own bed, now inside his own little chamber in the main keep, just beside the Blackfish’s own. Sometimes he missed the company of friends around him, be they Arya or some of the boys at Master Mott’s forge back in the City, or even Kevan and Kobal, whom he barely knew and had seldom exchanged as much as a word with.
At other times he’d just be glad to be alone, after a long and draining day of knighthood-training. Today almost felt like one of these times, except that Gendry wanted to tell someone a story, and there was nobody there to listen to it. He felt there should be a campfire somewhere, and the sounds of the wild around him. Now all he had was his bull’s head’s helmet, and it couldn’t listen to stories, of course.
It surprised him how much he was missing that; after all, it hadn’t really been the best of times. He’d started the storytelling when Arya hadn’t said a word for days after she’d had to kill Lommy, while they were all starving and freezing out in the open, fearing the rain and cold as much as a bandit’s knife. And yet somehow, it had managed to worm its way into his life so successfully that he couldn’t really live without it anymore.
After quite some time he finally fell asleep, worn out from the day. Then he woke again not very much later, dimly remembering howls and shouts in his ears while he frantically searched with his hands for something evil and twisting and probably imagined, before falling back to sleep once more when he’d made sure that there was nothing there at all, and it had only been his mind tricking him.
When finally he woke to find it was actually morning, he found himself wondering how Arya’ night might’ve been. If there was anyone who could understand him now, than probably it would be her.
And not all that long ago, maybe he would’ve gone over to her chambers to ask her, or told her of his nightmare, or maybe even the story that he’d been itching to tell her the night before, though he’d by now mostly forgotten what it’d been about.
He was almost at it, before he remembered what had happened, and that he wasn’t at all sure how to deal with her anymore. How did you talk to someone who’d slaughtered thousands?
Instead, that morning he had lessons with the maester – letters, mostly, since the man said that he was surprisingly good with numbers, which Gendry suspected might be a result of Master Mott’s drilling on the subject – and after endless hours of sitting, bent over an old and dry piece of parchment all about horseshoes, fighting his way through it one letter and one word at a time, finally, something like an idea popped into his head.
If someone had written so much about horseshoes of all things, why shouldn’t have someone else written about wargs as well?
Surely, they were a more interesting topic?
And hadn’t Arya said that some of the things she’d told him when they’d still been trading stories every night had been from books she’d read back in Winterfell?
Determined – and Gendry could be stubborn, he knew that, he’d not made his helmet in a bull’s shape for nothing – he redoubled his efforts to learn. Maester Vyman had showed him his library when he’d first come in. Gendry had never been in one before, but it turned out that a library was a whole room full of books and loose pages. He hadn’t really seen the point of it, then, but now …
There might, he concluded, be something useful in there, after all.