He didn't know how he was supposed to lead a whole navy when he apparently couldn't even get himself out of bed. It was still dark outside, and through groggy eyes he saw the first glow of the sun as it crawled above the horizon. Such a pretty orange.

He felt himself drifting, the siren call of sleep too enticing. No. His eyes snapped open and pinched his arm with all the force he had. Ow, ow.

"Get up, you lazy idiot," he hissed at himself.

Gendry took a deep breath and dragged himself out of bed. Still half asleep, he fumbled in the dark to put his leathers on before the Northern chill set. At one point he even banged his head against some sort of cupboard or rather, and cursed loudly.

I have no idea why I'm doing this, he though as he collected his warhammer and sword as he made his way down to the training yard.

But he did know. Between the years spent on the Small Council and the constant travel, Gendry had fallen out of regular weapons practice. It was a stroke of luck and a testament to his natural ability with a blade as well as muscle from hours still spent in a forge that he didn't get himself killed in the Westerlands. He didn't want to take that chance again.

And, he realised with a pang of guilt, he had gotten downright lazy. Once upon a time he would have had to be awake and ready every day at dawn, as did most of the smallfolk. Case in point – already the servants were darting between corridors, hands full of washing or flour or cleaning rags, the smell of fresh bread somehow managing to pervade every nook and cranny.

He could hear and smell the yard before he could see it, the rusty smell of sweat and the clang of blunt iron practice swords belling in his ears. He rounded the corner and grimaced. The yard itself was already crowded, with maybe forty members of the guard kicking up dust as they fought in groups, with more circling the yard in dogged lopes.

"Fifty more!" Came a bellow that near pierced his ears, and the guards dropped to the ground again, pushing against the dirt.

"Seven hells." He looked around for the source of the noise and found the unimpressed Captain Moyra bearing down on him. Hastily he took a step back, then another. Maybe she hadn't seen him, and she was stalking some other unfortunate. Maybe it wasn't too late to get out of this nightmare.

But of course, Gendry had no such luck.

"Are you lost, Commander?" She cocked her chin up and pursed her thin lips.

"No?"

"You sound unsure."

"I'm not." He was.

She seemed unconvinced.

"Then is there something I can help you with?"

Gendry steadied his shoulders and tried to look a slight more enthusiastic. "I'm hoping to get in some practice before I am to meet Lord Manderly for breakfast, and was wondering if I may train here with you and yours?"

The captain stared at him for a while. Then she sighed and shook her head. "Seven help me. Fine. But don't lag behind."

Gendry thanked her, giving an awkward half-grin, and rubbed sleep out of his eyes with one hand as he trailed behind her, hoping to all the hells that he wasn't too much out of shape.

In the end, his suspicion was right. He thought this ruefully as he laid flat on his back, heart racing and resisting another urge to heave, covered in a thick layer of sweat and dirt. He rubbed his hands together, noting with disinterest that it had the same consistency as mud.

He had just thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of all these men and women, managing less laps of the yard by a third compared to the rest of them, and less than half the exercises, before choking up whatever remained from last night's supper.

"May I make a suggestion, Lord Baratheon?" Captain Moyra asked from some distant point above him.

Gendry grunted his consent. Heaviness had settled into his bones at this point. Surely no one would mind if he closed his eyes, just for a few moments.

"Go to the smithy with your leathers and tell them to weight it. Also ask them for a blunted iron blade weighted with lead. "

Gendry cracked one stinging eyelid to glare at her. "Surely I just heard you wrong."

"You didn't." She sounded almost amused, the sadistic old crone.

"Then fuck no."

There was a gruff laugh. "I don't think I truly believed you were Flea Bottom stock till just now. Did you know you get an accent when you swear?"

Gendry grunted. Yes, he did. Tyrion and Pod had pointed it out on more than one occasion. Normally he would be self-conscious enough to make an extra effort to speak like he had a longer stick up his arse, but right now he couldn't really muster the strength to care.

But the captain let his silence slide off her like water. "So, Baratheon. Weights. By tomorrow. And you'll join afternoon practice as well. That is, if you are made of studier stuff than most nobles. I'm still in two minds."

She was taunting him, plain and simple. But luckily Gendry was above such petty challenges and cock-measuring contests...mostly.

Rather than answer, he asked instead, "And how exactly will that help, aside from making my bones creak more than they already do? I'm getting older, you know."

Of course, he already had an idea what the answer would be. After all, he had been perfecting how to kill people for a very long time. With a sigh, he pushed himself up and onto his feet, giving a half-hearted attempt to beat the dirt from his clothes, which clung to him like a second skin.

But she gave no more than an arch look to his stupid question. "Add more weights when you find your exercises getting too easy. Keep doing this until I say so. If I can do it at fifty namedays, then you shouldn't have a problem, so don't whinge."

Gendry gathered just enough effort to be offended. Whinge? He never whinged.

But Seven. This would hurt. He would hurt, and he would be sore and exhausted most days. Although between that and getting slaughtered in battle, the choice was an easy one.

"I guess I'll see you this afternoon then," Gendry said as he turned to leave, limping and still struggling against his tumultuous stomach, feeling more than a little strange.

He cheered slightly when – although he might have mistaken it – he got another smile out of the captain.

He took a detour to the smithy before returning to his chambers to bathe. He almost thought better of it, but the idea turning up empty handed to the yard tomorrow irritated him.

Besides, he wouldn't allow the captain to be proven right. Guess he was joining the cock-measuring contest after all.

Gendry felt shaky as he climbed the stairs, limbs weak and loose. He didn't remember training ever being this bad afterwards, but he shook it off. Jaime Lannister had been over thirty-four when he was still in his fighting prime, so too now was Brienne of Tarth. He could do this.

As he approached his chambers, he found there was a youth maybe no more than seventeen namedays pacing at the door, fine clothes stitched with the Manderly sigil. His brown eyes widened under long strands of hair when they alighted on Gendry.

He looked like one of those long-eared rabbits that were fashionable for the highborn children in King's Landing to keep in baskets. Ridiculous.

"My Lord!" he cried and rushed forward. He looked so happy that Gendry's hand fell to his hilt. "I've been searching for you everywhere!"

"You have?" Gendry blinked.

"Yes," the boy nodded with eagerness. "I've been sent to tell you Lord Manderly requests your presence at breakfast in his outer chambers."

Gendry felt a small spur of pleasure. It felt good being included. Wanted.

"When?

The boy shifted stance awkwardly. "Well... a half hour ago, my Lord."

Gendry's face dropped.

By the time Gendry had hurriedly bathed with a washcloth and cold water in a basin and dressed, the bell had tolled again to mark the hour. He had dressed himself in one of his more decent sets of breeches, and a loose beige tunic embroidered at the edges with the Baratheon stag.

He was led through several sets of chambers by the overenthusiastic boy from before, whose name Gendry still hadn't learned. Finally they reached a door, two guards stepping aside to let them through. The clink of cutlery and the waft of pie crusts and cooked bacon greeted him.

The boy bowed to him quickly from the threshold. "Good day, my Lord." With haste he left.

"Ah! Gendry!" Manderly cried out, seemingly unhindered by a full mouth. "Come meet my family!"

It was a small table, and far more intimate then Gendry had expected. There were two boisterous children no older than seven, a tiny blonde woman who had just stopped scolding them to stare at Gendry. Finally there was Manderly himself, absorbed by what Gendry assumed was one of his infamous lamprey pies.

"Can you get a move on, friend? You're blocking the doorway," a voice came from behind him.

He jumped and turned around to a grinning, also tiny, woman with bright green hair, outfitted in plate armour washed white and holding a helm painted orange. It was the most bizarre outfit Gendry had ever seen.

"Well, are you moving or not, Stag?"

Gendry frowned, and took a step to the left.

"Ah, Wylla. Come bring poor Gendry to the table, he must be starving."

Oddly enough, he wasn't. The thought of food was actually making him feel a little sick. He turned his attention back to the woman. Beautiful, but strange. This must be Manderly's other granddaughter, the one who had been organising supply routes for the navy and the camps. The one who had married the legitimised bastard of House Hornwood.

Though she was as fragile looking as her sister, a vice-like arm shot out to grab his, and he was promptly dragged to the table and seated across from Manderly and next to Wylla.

Manderly stared down delightedly at him. "Gendry, this are my granddaughters, Lady Wynafryd and Lady Wylla. Wynafryd's husband, Desmond Locke, is the one whose position you are filling. These are their children, Wylisa and Denyl." The two small children chirped at him, and Gendry smiled.

He didn't mind children, but he never knew what to say to them. "It's a pleasure to meet all of you," he said, settling for safe and bland.

Introductions done, Gendry spent the next half hour idly pushing food around on his plate and listening to Northern gossip.

"Well, I heard old Ryswell is furious because his youngest daughter made off with a Northossi sailor. She jumped on the Nymeria and didn't look back!"

Gendry made the appropriate outrageous gasp, and laughed as he wondered what Arya would think of her prize ship being made use of as a vessel for elopement and scandal.

She would love it. He had no doubt. Probably would boast about it, in fact.

"I heard they're taller than Skaggs!" Little Denyl cried.

"And that their skin is as brown as the earth and they have red eyes!" His sister joined in. They both looked at Gendry expectantly, as if his status as an outsider held all the questions of the heavens and below.

Gendry gave a small laugh and shook his head. "I wouldn't know, I've never seen a Northossi man or woman."

The children muttered among themselves, disappointed. Soon a nursemaid ushered them off for their daily writing lessons with a septon. Gendry was always a little mystified at the strange upbringing highborn children had. He himself had spent his childhood stealing pasties and running through Flea Bottom barefooted and carefree alongside the other children of whores and dock-workers.

Wylla's voice rose sharply. "Well you're all never going to believe what I heard from some Free Folk traders this morning in the Inner Docks."

She had the smug look of a cat who had taken all the cream, and then some. Moments spanned on.

"Seven hells. Just spit it out, Wyl," Wynafryd growled. Gendry agreed wholeheartedly.

Wylla's grin grew wider. "It seems our dearest King Jon has had his wicked way with yet another Wildling, because now he has a son. A bastard for the former Bastard of Winterfell. "

Gendry choked on his ale, hacking up the offending liquid. Jon had a what? Around him Manderly and Wynafryd hissed their disbelief.

"Can you be certain?" Manderly asked intently. The quiet is deafening.

"Yes, Grandfather," Wylla said with a small smile. "It's all they could joke about, of how their king has finally given up his maidenly Southron virtues."

Gendry leaned in closer, resting on his elbows. He thought it would have been a cold day in the hells before Jon ever had a bastard. But then, it has been ten years since Gendry last saw him.

Wylla then hesitated, and her expression sobers. "Grandfather, there is one thing...they're calling the babe kissed by ice."

Manderly frowns. "What does that even mean?"

Wylla clasped her hands. "From what I gathered, the babe is less than a year old, but already he has a mop of silver hair and his eyes have settled as violet as Daenerys Targaryen's. The boy is a dragon."

Silence engulfed them again.

It was difficult for Gendry to process, the idea of Jon Snow with a son. But then, it was difficult for Gendry to process when he had heard that the brooding former King of the North had disobeyed orders and fled North to rule over the Free Folk as King.

Gendry may not know how to think about it, but he did hope Jon was happy. He also hoped the babe was of a sunnier personality. Gods knew that Westeros didn't need yet another sulking Stark.

"Who knows," Manderly said finally. "It may be nothing to worry about." But still he sounded troubled.

Eventually conversation started back up again and drifted away from gossip, ending in Manderly and his two meddling granddaughters planning out his new life.

"Of course, you will have your own office for correspondence, councils, and whatnot. We've assigned Garrick Overton as your secretary and errand runner for the time being. The boy is on the road to becoming a septon and the boy's father insisted quite strongly. I'm assuming you liked him. You haven't sent him away yet, and the boy can be a little...overenthusiastic."

"I'm sorry, who?" The name didn't sound familiar.

Wynafryd stared at him. "The boy who brought you. Garrick Overton, a son of House Overton, former vassals to House Bolton."

Gendry winced. "Yes, he will do fine," he replied weakly. While he was glad to be able to put a face to a name, he could have gone without that additional piece of information. If he hadn't already met the boy, he might have been inclined to dislike him.

"And of course," Manderly carried on, "there are multiple youths from good families that would make excellent candidates for a squire. Although I can recommend –"

Something cold slithered into Gendry's gut. "No."

"Pardon me?"

"No."

Manderly spluttered. "You need help with your armour. Do you expect to be able to get into it yourself?"

"I'll ask one of the men. I will not be responsible for sending a green boy who has no experience wielding a proper blade into battle." He could feel his voice lower, become rougher the longer he talked.

Manderly drew back, seeming shocked that such a simple thing could draw such an impassioned response. "Well they would have some experience."

Gendry maintained a stony silence. Finally Manderly gave way, raising his hands in mock surrender.

The bells rang out again, sounding mid-morning. Gendry clicked his tongue. Was it already that late in the day?

Wylla begged leave, and Manderly excused them all, but not before called out to Gendry.

"Yes?"

"If you plan on going into the city, please see me or the captain about an escort first. I haven't had time to sit you down and explain properly my reasons, but we'll need to at some point. The matter is important."

"Sounds good to me?" Gendry replied, drawing out the words in puzzlement. Gods only knew what the bastard meant.

With nothing further coming from Manderly, Gendry moved to exit the chambers. Only to find Wynafryd in his way.

"Come," she said. "We have somewhere to be. People you have to meet."

And he was back to meetings. He sighed. Again.

This one so far seemed only just less painful than those he experienced in the Six Kingdoms, but all the introductions were still enough to feel like his ears were about to start bleeding at any given point.

It didn't help that he still physically felt strange and disjointed.

Wynafryd was there to oversee everything with her second and third in command, two men whose names Gendry had forgotten already. He felt a bit guilty, but it wasn't his fault, really. They were just so bland-looking.

The group in front of him, however, was anything but.

"These are the leaders of the Company of the Rose, the Wolf Pack, and the Stormbreakers. You'll have a chance to be introduced to their senior captains later. And, of course, you've already met Lord Brandon Flint of Flint's Fingers."

The loud man he had met at the Banefort grinned widely and yelled at him from the other side of the room. "Good to see you again in one piece, Baratheon!"

"You too, Flint." Gendry laughed. The man certainly seemed more likable when he wasn't assaulting prisoners on Arya's orders. "If I see any more severed hands, at least I'll know who to blame!"

"Excuse y—"

Wynafryd cleared her throat, interrupting Flint's attempt at mock outrage. "He has remained here while Lady Alysane Mormont and Lord Ethan Lake journey south to meet with Lady Meera Reed at Greywater Watch. Captain Edda Poole you will meet on the morn. They are the primary leaders of the Northern forces."

There was a brief pause before she continued. "As for the free companies, the group to the left are the Company of the Rose, led by Lord Brandon Longsnow and his sister, Lady Sarai Longsnow."

Two figures of a similar height stepped in front of him, equally lithe and graceful, reminiscent of some wild predator in snowy forests.

"I haven't heard of many in the free companies with titles." Gendry said in his lightest tone. It was a poor attempt to break the tension, but Gendry's forte had never been conversation.

The goodwill died when Sarai Longsnow's eyes met his, armed with an impossible grey. Taken aback, Gendry glanced over to her brother. His had the same unusual, but familiar colour. What was more, Gendry knew he wasn't mistaking the distain there.

Wynafryd cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I should have mentioned, Gendry, that Lord and Lady Longsnow have only recently been granted their titles at the command of the Queen, as the closest kin of House Stark."

Gendry's brows shot up. A Queen acknowledging an illegitimate line? Not that he could talk, but still, what was Sansa thinking? "I didn't realise her Grace had cousins outside of the North."

"Distant," Brandon said in a deep timbre, chin raised and lids low. "East was where the Starks sent their chaff – the unwanted second sons and bastards." There was a hint of a Free Cities accent beneath the ice in his voice, although as to which city Gendry had little clue.

"The occasional wanton daughter, too," Sarai said coolly, her smile entirely too sharp.

Gendry gave a shallow smile and nodded. He was starting to feel odd, like there was a woollen blanket separating himself and the rest, and there was a strange buzzing sound in his ears. He motioned to one of the serving boys at the side of this table, "Water, please."

After receiving the clay cup, he took a long draught. Still his head buzzed. He would just have to try his best to ignore it. Gendry turned back to find them watching him, Wynafryd looking annoyed, and he didn't care to interpret the others expressions.

He wasn't off to a good start.

"Yes...well," Wynafryd said, "Best move on." She gestured to the two men in the middle, "May I present Ronnard Hornwood, Captain-General of the Wolf Pack, and his son, Captain Ronnel Hornwood."

Gendry cursed silently. It was like they were begging for Gendry to mix up their names.

A pale, leather-faced man of average height and his reedy, pimpled youth of a son approached, and with alarm Gendry realised they weren't stopping. Ronnard strode forward with a confident grin until he captured Gendry's hand with his own.

There was no escape.

"It's a great honour to be introduced, Lord Baratheon. I have an old friend from Greenstone that fought for you in the Stormlander Rebellion in 308, he says you were a bloodthirsty beast. I for one cannot wait to see your fighting first-hand."

Yes, well first the man would actually have to let go of Gendry's hand.

"I fought with many good men then, and I look forward to fighting with you," Gendry replied, pasting a fake smile onto his face while his gut roiled. The man was being friendly, and Gendry couldn't afford to waste whatever friendliness he had.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gendry could feel another person approach.

"Ah," Wynafryd said, "and this is Captain Thom Tully of the Stormbreakers, and his second, Lieutenant Rolph... Frey."

Brandon Flint hissed something under his breath, and Wynafryd shot him a sharp look that promised death and destruction.

Turning to his left, Gendry saw a small, olive-skinned man with red hair, next to a taller, but predictably more weasel-faced one. Seven. Another Frey. Where in the blasted hells were they coming from?

"It is Ser Thom, if you will," said the man, violet eyes set above wormy lips. Rolph Frey rolled his eyes behind his commander's back.

"A pleasure," Gendry replied, before saying with caution, "It isn't a common thing to see Tullys and Freys making allies of one another."

"We are not our highborn relations. Not by at least a hundred years," Rolph said shortly, his face hard.

"But," Thom Tully interrupted with a pointed, pinched look at his second-in-command, "let it also be said that nobility stays with the bloodline. For instance, my dearest cousin, Sansa, recognised our kindred spirit when we met. She embraced me as if I were one of her long dead brothers, although truth be told I believe she sees dearest cousin Robb when she looks at me. "

There was a long, shocked pause. Gendry blinked, as if somehow that would erase the sheer idiocy of the man in front of him.

The slain Starks were a sore point for the North even all these years later. One only had to look at the murderous faces of Brandon Flint and Wynafryd to see. Even the servants and guards were sneering, hands grasping their trays and tridents till their hands went white.

"That's not what I heard," Ronnard or Ronnel said slyly, breaking the tension. "I heard you made a right fool of yourself when you met Her Grace, and that she sent you away within a day."

"That's a lie." The response was a little too quick and certain.

There was a heavy sigh to Gendry's right. "I guess not everyone can have our fortune with family connections, sister." Brandon said pensively, dark bronze hand stroking his salt-and-pepper beard, as if he were making a comment in the privacy of his chambers. "Maybe we should ask our dear cousin if she can also give Goodman Tully here some land."

"You will address me as Ser, you cock-sucking Myrish bastard."

Gendry's mouth fell open. Brandon Flint starting laughing at Tully with not so much as even an attempt to hide it, and with a downright malicious edge.

"I think the little Lyseni likes you, Bran," Sarai said drolly to her brother, watching in a predatory manner as Thom Tully got so purple in the face that the colour almost matched his eyes.

The throbbing in Gendry's head increased and he swallowed roughly. "Right," he jumped in quickly, "I think I have heard enough." All faces turned toward him. Gods it was like he was right back where he was several months ago, brokering decades-old grudges and blood feuds at Lannisport.

Only this time he felt unbalanced. The words couldn't come quickly to his mouth and he so, so tired. It felt as if something was coming to a breaking point.

Evidently he took too long, because Wynafryd frowned at him and addressed the group in his stead. "You've all been called here today become acquainted with one another and with your commander, who our Queen has appointed to organise our fleet with your aid while my husband has business in Deepwood Motte. We'll wait until the end of the week before discussing plans, and that should be enough time for the rest of the North's –, "

"No offense meant, Lady Manderly," Rolph Frey interrupted, "But shouldn't our...interim navy commander be telling us this, and not your Ladyship, who has domain of White Harbour's land defences?" Cold eyes stared at Gendry over a long and pointed nose, and there was more than one grunt of agreement at the table.

Gendry couldn't help but catch the elder Hornwood's disappointed glance at him, and Gendry felt a spike of shame. No doubt the older man was trying to match this wasted image of Gendry to the inflated stories he'd heard of the Wendwater and Weeping Town, the two deciding battles that closed the Stormlander Rebellion all those years ago.

Battles Gendry had led, and won.

The Rebellion had happened in the years after Bran had ascended, and the stuffy old hacks who had managed to survive or avoid Stannis and Renly's wars had objected to suddenly being ruled by, to quote a popular ditty, "a bastard, a half-man, and a cripple".

It had been a different time, and a different place, and frankly Gendry didn't remember a whole lot. He had given himself to bloodlust, and Gendry rarely had full memories of those periods.

He sighed and shook his head, returning to the present.

This was bad. Gendry hated being thought of as a fool as much as the next person, but on a practical side – being thought of as a weak and pliant leader was dangerous. For...for some reason. His sluggish mind drew a blank, and Gendry found that his hands were clammy. Still he couldn't think of a response.

But he was saved when Brandon Flint stood abruptly, toppling the seat backwards, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. "Listen here, Frey–

"What Lord Flint means to say," Wynafryd trampled over his words with no subtlety, "is that this meeting would be better scheduled for another time. At the end of the week, or six days hence?"

Flint glared, seemingly wanting to argue. But – hesitantly – he settled back into his seat, content with casting an evil eye at Rolph Frey. Gendry wished Flint would have just punched him instead.

"I wonder how we're expected to plan anything at all when it seems no one can finish a sentence around here without being interrupted," Sarai Longsnow murmured with spite to her brother, who snorted.

Gendry stared dully around the table, wondering how he could fix this situation. Wynafryd regarded him, and her frown deepened. She took a deep sigh, and gave a short wave to the table. "You're all dismissed. I expect you all back here promptly at three hours past sunrise on the day to cooperate our defences."

Gendry briefly closed his eyes, and focused on breathing deeply. There was a shuffling sound, and Gendry opened his eyes to see them all leaving the room. Relief filled him, and he sunk into the chair.

"Baratheon. What was that?"

"A lapse in judgement," Gendry mumbled.

"A lapse?!"

Yes. It was obviously a lapse by deciding to even get up this morning.

"You looked weak," Wynafryd told him bluntly. "You let your inferiors lead the discussion. Now they'll think they can lead every discussion. That they can lead you. I did not think a man of your status and experience would let that be so."

"It was not like that at the Banefort," Brandon told Wynafryd. "He had a fucking iron grip over every Southron man and woman there, and a good deal of the Northern ones, too."

Wynafryd gave a small hum, her expression thoughtful. She turned back to Gendry. "So what happened here?"

"Are you alright, Baratheon?" He heard Flint ask distantly. "You look a little peaky."

"I – ," he opened his mouth to reply, but the buzzing in his ears returned worse than before, his head began to fell hot and his mouth began to water. Gendry frowned. "I –,"

He threw himself to the side with barely enough time to miss the table, and retched onto the wooden floors. Lowered to his knees, the smell of bile filled his nose and he groaned.

Seven hells, this was turning out to be a wonderful day.

"Ah," he heard Wynafryd comment drily from above, "That makes more sense."

He woke groggily to a familiar, shouting voice.

"Traipsing all around the South and North, from mouth to arse crack and back again, and then you put him through his paces on the first day he settles, and with a summer chill in the air. Are you mad?!"

"He seemed fine! No more than any soldier getting into shape after a long absence. Frankly, we need our commander to be competent on the field for morale, my Lord. He is not that by huffing after just a few exercises."

"Frankly? Well, frankly we also need him to not die of fever in the first week, if you so please. I expect you to be more careful next time, Captain."

The brief silence was sullen, before a quiet, "Yes, my Lord."

There was another voice. "Father, he did not appear sick until the last. Now the sellswords, barring maybe Hornwood, think him lily-livered. Likely our soldiers too. It will be hard to reverse those impressions, maybe impossible. They will bite at every order he gives."

There was a heavy sigh. "Well nothing can be done about it at the moment. Let them know he caught an illness and tell Wylla she'll need to stay a little longer."

"Yes, Father," came the reply, then the sound of heavy footsteps retreating. With the tread of each step, Gendry fell further back into sleep.

When his fever finally broke, Gendry opened his eyes to find that same dusky orange sunrise prying through his windows. Head still cushioned by pillows and his bedding no longer sweat soaked, Gendry took a deep breath in and out, amazed by how rested and energetic he felt.

But slowly, the events of however many days ago came back to him and he felt himself flush red with shame. He should have realised that first day, before the training yard, that something had been wrong. Serves him right for not recognising it sooner.

Still, this was going to be an absolute shit show to fix.

Politeness wouldn't get him anywhere with these people. The more and more he stayed in the North, the more he realised all those years spent polishing his accent and court manners in order to survive the Southron highborn were wasted now. The North didn't appreciate intricate manners and flowery prose, they appreciated strength.

He sighed. If they wanted strength, then strength he could give them. Could teach them. In a move that was decidedly sneaky for him, Gendry hatched the beginnings of a plan.

A/N: Annnnnd I'm back. Having just gotten thoroughly pummelled by uni, a needy retail job, and a work experience placement, I'm happy to be finally updating again. I also have crippling intimacy issues with self-imposed deadlines, so to say sorry this chapter is longer than usual.

Hopefully this will be the last chapter with a stack of OC introductions. I wanted to avoid too many OCs when I first started this story, but that was just a tad unrealistic seeing as D&D have erased, forgot, or killed off most of the canon characters, and poor Gendry needs friends and NPCs. I couldn't really get by with generic descriptions of "this captain did this, this lord did that". (Btw bonus to anyone who spots the Tamora Pierce reference.)

To those who have stuck with me so far, I cannot thank you enough. I promise this will be the last chapter without Arya in some shape or form.