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There's a warm, roaring fire in the ovens and Gendry huddles down in a corner, drinking out of an ale-horn.

It's much too damned cold up North. They all wake up at the crack-arse of dawn, attending to the condition of splintered weirwoods, giving daily prayers to the Old Gods or whatever rot you believe when you live in a place where your piss freezes.

He's on his own in the kitchens until Gendry hears the door rattle open. "It's occupied," he mutters with a touch of impassive, blunt sarcasm.

A man, perhaps a several name-days younger than Gendry, dismisses the remark, smiling and walking in. Gendry's nose picks up the odor of blackberry wine.

"I recognise you. You're the smith who worked the dragonglass."

The young man seems pleasant enough, saddling himself on a wooden stool nearby and staring politely inquisitively at Gendry's direction. Hint of stumbletongue. Must of grew up with it. His dark, straight hair appearing like smoothed dark glass in the flame-light. Round features but handsome. Gendry presents out his arm, waiting for him to shake it firmly.

"Gendry."

"Podrick Payne, son of Pandolf Payne."

There's a ripple of an accent in Podrick's tone, but Gendry cannot pinpoint it. Sounds like a Valyrian of some kind. He internalised loads of accents to the Common Tongue bought as a child for his master, wandering on Street of Steel in King's Landing and around the taverns. "Robert Baratheon's bastard," Gendry replies, lifting his eyebrows and shrugging.

At this, Podrick's mouth smirks. "Weren't you legitimatised recently?" he asks quietly.

The ice-cold ale sloshes down the wrong passage. Gendry coughs and hacks, beating his sternum repeatedly with a fist.

"How, eeugh, did you know that—?"

"Folk tend to talk a lot when they have a cup more of wine than necessary and you decide not to." Podrick shrugs too. There's something mesmerising about his dark hair and dark eyes, and Gendry scolds himself. "Easier to remember the conversation."

"You don't like drinking?" Gendry says, attempting to lighten things up. At least for himself.

He tries anyway. But it's harder when Podrick's eyes brighten with humor, and all Gendry can focus on is those ruddy lips flattening against the rim of a silver-colored cup. "I suppose it depends on the drink," Podrick answers, eyes lidding, and gods, gods, his lips are as soft as Gendry imagined, tasting of blackberry and salt.

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GoT isn't mine. Requested by glove23: "PodrickGendry, whatever you wanna do with them." OH YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT I WANNA DO WITH THEM FKLHDFHBKLBJHFD HOOOOO MOMMA