The murmured agreement from inside the Small Council's chambers flooded around Gendry's ears, echoing in them until it was the only thing he heard. The hustle and bustle of the people around him was washed cleanly away until that sound was all that was left in the world. Trepidation settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach at the sound, and he clenched his fists when he thought of what it meant.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he turned to Tyrion, who sat on the cold, hard bench beside him. "Do you think that is what they are really discussing?" he asked, not daring to say the words. The heavy, mahogany door hardly left any noise escape the room, so Gendry still had a sliver of hope that it might not be true.

Tyrion had sat so quietly and so still for the entirety of the Small Council's meeting that Gendry was beginning to suspect that he had turned to stone. His attention had been captured completely the moment the Small Council members had gathered together, exchanging hushed whispers and meaningful looks before disappearing inside the chamber. Giving a pointed look at Gendry, he had moved them from their Cyvasse game to this bench, and he had not budged so much as an inch since. Gendry trusted Tyrion's perception of the situation, and although he was not majorly shocked, he was still a little surprised that his father had not discussed this matter with him personally before taking it to the Small Council.

"Well, I highly doubt they are discussing drainage options in there," Tyrion said, his eyes never leaving the door, almost as if he believed a moment's diversion of his attention would cause him to miss the reveal to come. "Though mayhaps they should be. There is a lot of shit that should be flushed out of King's Landing and most of can be found inside that chamber."

Remembering Tyrion's previous appointment at Casterly Rock where he was in charge of the cisterns and drains, Gendry commented, "You would be the expert."

A grin broke out on Tyrion's face at his words. "Don't you start being funny," he said. "You'll render me useless."

The door swung open as Tyrion finished his sentence, and his laughter died on his lips as the men of the Small Council trickled out, one by one. Some faces wore smiles, but some had frowns so deep that the lines on their faces would be enough to challenge those on a crumbled piece of paper. As Mace Tyrell exited the chamber, Tyrion straightened up, and Gendry followed suit.

His father strode out, looking more alive than Gendry had ever seen him without Lyanna Stark's name falling from his lips, and he knew in an instant what this meant. The truth was plain on his face, and the stone in Gendry's stomach grew heavier with the weight of it.

"War it is," Robert said, his voice booming around the throne room. Men and women immediately stopped in their tracks. It was a rare sight to see the king sober, and an even rarer sight to see him taking control of matters concerning the realm. In that moment, he looked every inch the man his Maesters had told him stories of when he was a child, the man he used to be before Lyanna Stark had ran away with the Dragon Prince, before the Great Fire of Winterfell had happened and, indeed, before Gendry had even been born.

In the past, it had been Jon Arryn who had carefully and meticulously ran the realm- brokering peace with Dorne and with the Greyjoys after their first rebellion- while Gendry's father had sat back and concentrated on drinking himself into an early grave. Now the fabric of peace that Jon Arryn had spent so many years weaving was unravelling in an instant, and Gendry resented the Small Council for enabling his father to do as he liked without first considering the cost to the realm.
"The fields will be drenched red with their blood," Robert continued. "This time none will escape my wrath, and you can tell every single Greyjoy scum I said that."

"Inspiring words," Tyrion muttered under his breath, so softly that Gendry was certain he was the only one who could hear, while Lord Mace Tyrell started a round of applause that bounced off the high walls of the Throne Room.

The king left, the Small Council following closely behind, and the Throne Room descended into whispers at his departure. The whispers buzzed around Gendry's ears. There appeared to be a divided reaction among the other people present; some seemed happy with the decision while others did not hide their dismay.

Ignoring them, Gendry asked Tyrion, "Did this have to happen?"

"There have been rumours that the Greyjoys have been planning a rebellion," Tyrion conceded.

"But?" Gendry prompted.

"But the king has a thirst for war and no appetite for peace," he replied, his mismatched eyes locking with Gendry's. "If the king desires a war, then there are surely those in his service who could plant a few well-placed rumours to make it a feasible option to initiate attack."

"Jon Arryn was the only thing standing between us and war," Gendry commented.

"Yes," his companion agreed. "Jon Arryn knew how to control your father's urges, but, without a good Hand, your father will do as he likes, and the realm will suffer for it. For some men, peace breeds discontent and boredom. They are never happy unless they're planning on stabbing someone in the gut and that is the truth of it." Tyrion stood up, stretching his limbs before speaking again. Now, if you don't mind, I'd better go pack," he said.

"Pack?" Gendry asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Oh, yes," Tyrion replied. "I figure we have a couple of months before your father gathers his troops, and there is one thing I must do first."

"And what would that be?"

"Piss off the edge of the world," Tyrion called over his shoulder as he left, and Gendry could not help the grin that took up residence on his face at his words.

Thoughts of the impending war disappeared when he laid eyes on Arya later that afternoon. The concerns of being a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms seemed to melt away to nothingness in her presence, and Gendry was grateful for the refrain from the onslaught of thoughts and questions that had plagued his mind since his father had officially declared war on House Greyjoy.

They went exploring. Instead of heading to their usual spot near the river, they had stolen through the Iron Gate- Arya having distracted the unsuspecting guards so Gendry could escape unnoticed- and spent the afternoon sparring and swapping stories with only the beauty of the Blackwater Bay for company.

Gendry had swiped two blood oranges from the kitchens, along with a couple of bread rolls and cheese, and so they had had a picnic of sorts on a cliff overlooking the bay, their bare feet swaying free over the edge.

The wind loosened Arya's braid, and Gendry laughed at how frustrated she became as her hair splayed out in all directions. Grumbling, she tucked it into a messy bun before jumping up quickly and turning to face him again. The garnets of her sword glinted brightly in the sparse sunlight as she raised it. He mimicked her movements and they duelled once more, dancing around each other and hardly noticing as the light began to dim.

They were both breathless by then, but neither could seem to get the upper hand or mayhaps neither was trying hard enough to force a victory. Their sparring had turned into a welcome companionship, and neither was especially fussed about getting the upper hand anymore. They could always argue about it afterwards, he thought and, indeed, they usually ended up doing just that.

It took just an instant for Arya to tumble over a displaced rock hidden in the grass, and Gendry grimaced as the edge of her sword scratched across the inside of his wrist- drawing blood that matched the colours of the stones on her sword- before she was hurdled to the hard ground.

After a few seconds she raised herself from where she had fallen, and made her way towards him, wobbling slightly on one ankle. "Are you hurt?" she asked, concern evident on her face.

The force of the wind ruffled his hair as he inspected the wound, his sword and hers lying forgotten on the ground. "It's just a scratch," he assured her. A dull ache was beginning to move up and down his inner forearm, but Gendry had had far worse injuries in his life, and this one did not faze him in the slightest. He was certain the wound would heal in time, although whether it would leave a small scar remained to be seen.

Examining the wound with her serious grey eyes, Arya moved her fingers down to the edge of her overlarge shirt- more than likely stolen from one of her older brothers- before ripping a strip. "Here," she said. "We can use this to cover the wound, but Mother always says to make sure it has been washed properly first."

They did not have any wine to boil, and so, after Gendry promised to seek out his Maester the second he returned to the Red Keep, Arya doused it with the rest of the water he had brought with him and set about wrapping the clean strip of cloth around his wrist. The edge of her nail grazed the underside of his wrist as she did so, and Gendry could not help the strange sort of nervousness that began to swim through his veins at the contact. The strange feeling only got worse as her cool fingers replaced her nail. When he flinched slightly, she looked at him with questioning eyes, but he shrugged it off- not wanting his thoughts to linger on what it might have meant- and she continued.

Gendry played the part of a perfect patient while she worked. He sat still, raised the hem of his sleeve, and obeyed every order to turn his wrist this way and that. Even though, Arya lamented that she was not as good at this kind of thing as her mother or her older sister, Sansa, Gendry found she did quite a good temporary fix anyway.

Noticing how the darkness was sneaking its way quickly across the late evening sky, they decided to head home. In the shadow of the Dragon Pit, they made their way through the labyrinth of streets that formed Flea Bottom.

A foul stench bit his nostrils, growing stronger and fiercer the more they walked, and it took Gendry a moment to realise that it smelled like death. As he glanced at Arya, he could see the narrow slits of her eyes as they darted left and right and he knew then that she suspected something was wrong also. Her hand flew up to rest on the pommel of her sword, and he quickly copied her action.

When they rounded the corner, the eerie silence hit them like a sudden blow to the chest. There wasn't a sound to be heard, and Gendry thought it almost seemed as if the world around them was holding its breath.

Flea Bottom was usually packed with people at this time of the night. Whores and drunkards were known to litter these streets, and Gendry had always made it a rule to move as swiftly as he could through this part of the city at night. This was not a place you wanted to linger.

But tonight, there was not a sound, save for their soft footsteps and their shallow breaths. The nearer they moved towards the centre of Flea Bottom, the fainter the scarce light became. The roofs of the houses above them grew closer and closer together until, after a while, they almost seemed to knit together. Arya and Gendry quickly found themselves shrouded in darkness, the light of the moon and stars being hidden from their eyes.

After a few moments, the narrow passageway opened up into a small square, and Gendry breathed a sigh of relief as light began to bathe their surroundings again. Rough voices could be heard yelling from the other side of the square, and Arya and Gendry exchanged a worried look.

Though it was still rather dark, Gendry could see the silhouettes of the group up ahead. He gave a quick look around the square. There were people huddled in corners, dirty and shivering, and in front of the angry group was a line of Gold Cloaks. Glancing at his friend, he could see Arya swallowing thickly, trying to keep herself from vomiting up everything in her stomach. After taking a deep breath through her mouth, she asked, "What's happening?"

"I have no idea," he replied, and as soon as the words left his mouth, the commotion up ahead grew louder.

"Let us out of here!" Gendry heard a man's voice shout, the people around him echoing his cry.

"This is a quarantine zone," one of the Gold Cloaks said. He was bad and appeared to be in charge of this situation. His voice was hard, as hard as the steel that had forged Gendry's sword, and he knew immediately that the men had no chance of winning their argument against him. "No man, woman, or child may pass."

"You can't keep us locked in here like animals," another man piped up. Gendry could hear the anger in his voice, and he could not blame him for it. It was then the horrific stench made sense to him. It was the smell of death. It was the smell of the Bloody Flux.

Gendry began to move towards the front of the crowd, but no sooner had he taken a step when the anger of the crowd overwhelmed them and they charged the guards.

Their little rebellion failed, and in mere seconds Gendry found himself surrounded by the bruised and battered remains of the crowd. Without thinking, his arm stretched out to keep Arya away from the conflict. "You need to let us pass," he said, speaking directly to the bald man in charge. "Some of these people need medicine."

A harsh laugh escaped the man's mouth, one entirely devoid of humour. "I don't have to let you do anything," he said. His sword travelled up Gendry's chest, to rest its cold point at the base of his throat. "Who exactly do you think you are to give orders to me?"

"I am the son of the king," Gendry gritted out as Arya tugged on his hand, her fingers trembling slightly.

"Half the children in this city are the bastards of the king," the Gold Cloak spat as the row of his peers laughed from behind him. With a snort of disgust, he lowered his sword. "Question me again and I'll break your legs," he threatened before ordering the rest of the Gold Cloaks to patrol the nearby streets.

With no choice left to them, Arya and Gendry found a vacant corner to sleep for the night. The darkness crept around them as they lay down. Gendry could almost feel its cool breath prickling the back of his neck as it surrounded them like a cocoon, enveloping them in their own little world. It felt almost safe here, although he knew it wasn't safe at all, not with Gold Cloaks and enraged, embittered common folk surrounding them on all sides. He could sense that Arya knew this too.

Arya lay with her back to him. She shivered, and it made every kind of perfect sense to pull her closer to him-so he did, the curve of her spine resting against his chest- but it didn't make any sense at all.