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WOLF AT YOUR DOOR

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TYRION LANNISTER

CASTERLY ROCK was a sword hanging over his head, looming over him until someone cut the final cord. He had taken the Princess's advice, at least partially. The Kingsroad was unavoidable these days, as was the Riverlands themselves.

A dwarf dressed in the red and gold of Lannister garb would draw attention. But a dwarf in northern clothes with a plainer disposition would go unnoticed.

And so he had become Lann, the traveling mummer from the Free Cities until he had reached the Inn of the Kneeling Man. There he'd been pushed and shoved and japed at until he flashed the gold his family was known for.

Yoren laughed and corroborated his disguise, claiming that the Lord Commander had deemed him too short to join the Watch, although he made for a great jester.

Tyrion had laughed through gritted teeth, his mismatched eyes searching for Catelyn Stark, but not finding her. Perhaps she had already come through here, with her Northmen and her accusations, stoking a fire that needed to be put out.

His luck ran out the day he left. Yoren had gone after supper, and Tyrion's current companion was a sell-sword named Bronn, who he was certain was only spending time with him due to the gold in his pockets.

It had been the next morning when Tyrion decided to head in the direction of Casterly Rock, dread forming a knot in the pit of his stomach at the thought of having to face his father. Tyrion had asked Bronn to join him, to which the sell-sword merely shrugged.

And that had been when the Master of Arms of Winterfell had shown up, whiskers long and sad but his back proud and stiff.

Tyrion's breath grew quick and he spun on his heel, hoping his presence would go unnoticed. His plan fell apart when he tried to mount his horse, his foot cramping as it stuck itself in the stirrup. The pain shot through his legs and he let out a pained groan, collapsing to the ground, landing face-first in the muddy ground beneath him, tasting blood on his lips and swallowing dirt down his throat.

It dried out whatever moisture he had, and Tyrion found himself wishing for another cup of wine, but he kept his head shoved into the ground, one eye open to catch a glimpse of Ser Rodrik's movements. Tyrion found himself staring at a pair of well-worn boots instead.

"Sorry about that," He heard Bronn's musical lilt call toward Ser Rodrik, no doubt a smirk on his face, "My brother's a bit clumsy. Not the brightest."

Gods, Tyrion would slap the sell-sword if he hadn't just saved his life. The Master of Arms' eyes briefly flitted toward Tyrion's muddied form, an uncomfortable look in his gaze. Tyrion shut his mismatched eyes tightly, wondering if the knight was scanning for sigils. For any sign that the little man in front of him matched the dwarf his Lady was looking for.

Tyrion had been glad of Nymeria's advice. Without it, he may have gone around flaunting his wealth. Without her warning of Lady Catelyn, Tyrion wouldn't know who to look for. What to avoid.

Ser Rodrik was silent, and Tyrion supposed the man was nodding in Bronn's direction. Footsteps faded and Tyrion finally lifted his head off the ground, mud caking his face.

He let out a sigh of relief, although it didn't last long. If Ser Rodrik was around, then that meant Lady Stark was not far behind.

"Thank you for that," Tyrion spoke up after Rodrik had entered the inn, drawing a silk rag from his belongings to wipe his face. There wasn't much he could do about the rest of his attire until he reached the Westerlands. Only then would it be safe to reveal himself.

Bronn shrugged nonchalantly again, "You're a funny man. And I like funny men."
"In a perfectly reasonable manner, I hope," Tyrion japed, stuffing the rag back into his pack, "Regardless," He flipped a gold coin Bronn's direction, "I owe you a debt, and Lannisters always pay their debts."

Bronn fingered the gold coin before slipping it into his pocket, "So, a trip West then?" He asked, and Tyrion nodded, "Doesn't sound too bad. I hear there are good whores in Lannisport."

The sell-sword mounted his horse beside Tyrion and the dwarf chuckled. It was a sad chuckle. One filled with memories of big blues eyes and houses by the sea. Of a woman paid to love him and sung of love lasting seasons.

And now he was back to where it had all began. The Rock stood higher than even the Wall, and Tyrion always felt smaller when he stood below it. The mountain it had been cut into was a stone giant looming over them all. His Uncle Gerion always thought it looked like the king of lions watching over his subjects. The Lannisters had been Kings in their own right once. It cut an imposing figure, veins of dried up gold sparkling in the Western sun against the white alabaster. The only man-made part of the castle lay atop the mountain's peak, several keeps surrounding a large tower almost touching the sun itself, three tiers of rings descending into gentle slopes, forming the tufts of a lion's mane. It had been the source of the Rock.

The whole fortress expanded from the peak.

Several watchtowers had been hewn into the stone between the tufts, the red and gold of Lannister soldiers unable to be seen from Tyrion's spot on the ground. If an army did try to attack, they wouldn't know soldiers were there until it was too late. There was no need for a moat when they had the sunset sea at their backs, and the inside of the fortress was impossible to reach when armies could get bottlenecked at the Lion's Mouth.

The marble stairs ascended with steep incline, the gatehouse two hundred feet high, but even it was still dwarfed by the immense size of the rest of the stronghold.

"That's quite a castle you got there," Bronn spoke as if he was unimpressed, and Tyrion rolled his eyes slightly. "Wouldn't mind having one myself."

"Well, unless you think yourself cleverer than my father, don't go getting any ideas about this one," Tyrion warned, recalling the history of the Rock. He knew it all. "In eight thousand years no man has ever taken Casterly Rock. It's impregnable."
Bronn shrugged again, as if the news didn't bother him at all, "Give me ten good men, and I'll impregnate the bitch"

Tyrion's laughter washed over the rock like the waves of the sunset sea, leaving no mark before evaporating into the air.

Their horses trotted up the marble case, and Tyrion waited with bated breath as the gates opened, the steel spikes looming over him like the rest of the rock, and when it finally stopped, Bronn turned to look at him.

"So, what do we do now?" He asked. Tyrion took a deep breath, spurring his horse forward through the cavernous Lion's Mouth, "Now, I meet with my father."

***

Tywin Lannister was, above all things, a patient man. One of the many attributes his children did not inherit. Cersei was impulsive, Jaime was impatient, and Tyrion was restless. Even now, as he sat across from his father in his solar, Tyrion used every bit of willpower to resist the urge to fidget.

His father would find any excuse to find a flaw in Tyrion, and he would never give the man the satisfaction. Not anymore.

He came home like he promised, although Tyrion was certain that Tywin would have preferred him in King's Landing instead.

Right now the Lord of Casterly Rock was pretending to write, something Cersei had copied from him. Tyrion knew when to wait. He also knew not to speak first.

"You've been busy," Tywin's deep rumble was all the allowance he needed.

Tyrion coughed and moved to speak, his words cut off by his father once more. "Tell me, what was so important that it dragged you North for another month?"

Tyrion shoved his nerves down and ignored the knot forming in his throat, "I wanted to see the Wall," He admitted, feeling rather foolish in his reasoning, "It actually proved to be more fruitful than I expected."

Tywin's sharp green eyes found his mismatched ones, lifting an eyebrow in silent curiosity.

Tyrion cleared his throat, "Princess Nymeria Martell rode up, bearing news that Lady Stark thinks we tried to murder her son."
Tywin's hand stopped writing, dropping his quill to the desk and standing up. The man's shoulder's tensed as he moved to face the window, hands behind his back as he stared out into the sunset sea, red banners framing him on either side of the floor-length window, the golden sun making him look more intimidating. Lannister colors flooded the room.

"Does Lady Stark have any evidence of this plot?"

"Not anymore," Tyrion spoke nonchalantly, reaching for the flagon to pour himself some wine. He was disappointed when he saw only water instead. Tywin spun around, a look of stoic approval on his face, "Good." He moved back toward his desk, pulling out a fresh piece of parchment and picking up his quill again, "Regardless, these accusations will not go unanswered. I am sending you back to King's Landing," Tywin commanded him, "Where you will inform Ned Stark that Lannisters pay their debts."

He sealed the letter with red and gold wax, the lion snarling proudly as he handed it to Tyrion. Tyrion nodded gratefully, and when he moved to leave, Tywin's gaze ordered him to stay.

"You will behave yourself," Tywin ordered, eyes narrowing, "Anything less than what befits a Lannister and you'll be back here. Cleaning shit out of the sewers again."

Tyrion nodded his understanding, trying to keep the burning anger at bay. This didn't change anything according to his father. Right now Tyrion was a pawn in his game, and he wasn't sure if he was grateful or resentful.

"Good." Tywin spoke up, tilting his head toward the door, "Now go."

Tyrion's feet finally landed on the floor, and he moved toward the rookery, sending Tywin's letter off to King's Landing before saddling his own horse, getting ready to head back into the Lion's den.

JON SNOW

The ride down the winch had given Jon more time to think than his entire time at Castle Black. His gaze shifted to the large boy beside him. Sam was just like them. He'd been a fool to think otherwise.

He'd had no choice in his lot, while Jon had. Jon had chosen to come to the Wall. Jon had chosen to be shrouded in snow, doomed to wear black for the rest of his life.

But everyone else around him hadn't.

Grenn and Pyp had been forced. Sam had been forced. Even Nymeria had been forced to stay at the behest of her uncle.

He wondered how free she truly was. Whenever he saw her, she had a new command from the man, and she seemed determined to carry it out despite the personal cost. It was admirable really. It reminded Jon of his father.

And it reminded Jon that he had a duty now. He would be sworn to the watch soon, and he needed to be friends with his brothers. To stand by them through thick and thin, until Winter came for them all.

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

Jon noticed Sam's hesitation as he stepped off the winch, still unsure if it would ever hold his weight even after Jon assured him.

He was almost halfway to the keep but Sam hadn't moved an inch. The boy was fidgeting with his hands, staring at the wide courtyard with shiny eyes, his bottom lip quivering.

"Sam?" He pressed, shaking his new brother out of his stupor. Sam sighed and plastered a smile on his face. It didn't reach his eyes. Jon moved back toward the winch, clasping Sam's shoulder with his hand, "The trip wears you out, come on, we'll get some food and warmth in you and you'll feel much better."
Sam tore himself out of the embrace with a grateful shake of his head. "I uh, I'm not hungry."

Jon knew that wasn't possible, and then chided himself for the thought. He remembered his first day at the Wall. How isolated and lonely he had felt. How the hot tears warmed him when the fire finally burnt out.

So he nodded, and turned his back on the boy, the two of them walking opposite directions. Jon paused when he reached the timber keep, hand hovering over the handle. He wanted to make sure Sam was okay, but his stomach was urging him to grab his meal and check in later.

The door creaked as he entered, raucous laughter echoing in the common hall as he removed his cloak and joined Grenn, Pyp, and Nymeria, the latter sat between the two, a wide smile on her face as laughter spilled past her lips.

It was an unusual sight, though not an unwelcome one.

It ceased when Jon grabbed his dish and sat across from them.

Grenn spoke first, his jovial nature out of place among the brooding of the night's watch. "Where have you been?" He asked, one hand on the table, the other hiding. Jon briefly wondered if it was around Nymeria. He shifted in his seat.

"Watch duty." Jon replied evenly, stuffing the stale bread in his mouth, "With Sam."

Pyp let out a chuckle, "Prince Porkchop. Where is he?"

Nymeria swatted the recruit at the sound of the nickname and Pyp's smile diminished.

"He wasn't hungry." Jon shrugged.

Pyp and Grenn shared a jovial look before turning back to Jon, "Impossible!" Pyp jested.

"That's enough," Jon ordered, an edge in his voice as he caught his friends off guard. Nymeria wasn't having it either, glaring at the two boys beside her before moving to the other side of the table, her leg pressed against his. "Sam's no different from the rest of us," Jon continued, recalling the story he'd heard on watch, "There was no place for him in the world so he's come here."

Nymeria nodded, "He had no choice, just like the rest of you."

Grenn and Pyp's heads bowed in shame, and Jon nodded his thanks at the girl, appreciating the support. "We're not going to hurt him in the training yard anymore," Jon explained, tearing off another piece of bread, "No matter what Thorne says. He's out brother and we're going to protect him."

A snigger came from behind his back and Jon turned at the sound of Rast's haughty tone, anger already bubbling in his stomach.

"You are in love, Lord Snow," Rast taunted, his lips twisted into what was almost a smile, but it was too cruel, "You girls can do as you please, but if Thorne puts me up against Lady Piggy," He sneered at the nickname, relishing in it, "I'm gonna slice me off a side of bacon."
Jon's face was emotionless, but his insides were burning, itching to grab his sword and beat Rast in the courtyard like he had earlier. Something stiffened beside him, and Nymeria leaned forward, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed at the man.

"I'm curious as to how you're going to achieve that Rast," She spoke up, the edge of her pink lips teasing a smirk, "Last I heard your mother was still down south."

Rast's smirk disappeared and the brothers erupted into laughter beside him. Nymeria, proud of her work, raised her eyebrows and turned back to Grenn and Pyp, tossing a spare piece of meat Ghost's way.

Even Jon couldn't keep the smile off his face.

***

It had been Nymeria's idea. Not directly, but she had inspired it. "Gods I wish I knew where he slept," She sighed in frustration, "I'd have my blade at his throat and then he'd think twice about obeying Thorne."

Jon didn't have a blade, but he had something much better. The barracks were easy to navigate, and it didn't take long to single out Rast's much louder snores.

Grenn held his arms down and Pyp knelt on his legs, pinning the irritating boy down while Jon gagged him, silencing his screams while Ghost leapt onto his chest, red eyes staring into beady black ones, sharp teeth nipping at the exposed skin around his neck, drawing blood.

Jon lowered his voice, "No one. Touches. Sam."

The next morning, Ser Alliser yelled and ordered and called them names that bore no repeating, but no one laid a finger on Sam.

SANSA STARK

She couldn't keep her eyes off the throne. It was a hideous, ugly thing that towered over the rest of the keep, but Sansa couldn't seem to look away.

She would be queen one day, as everyone kept reminding her. It was a dream she held since she was a child, the galvanized swords blending together into a collage of conquerors.

Aegon's trophies.

The stairs leading up to it felt insurmountable, but yet she would need to climb them to sit beside Prince Joffery when he was crowned. To sit beside him as he presided over the smallfolk, the dreadful people wasting his time with complaints and petty issues when he should be spending it with her. Riding and walking and talking until the sun went down.

Light footsteps fell behind her, but Sansa didn't turn around, she already knew who it was anyway. "Someday your husband will sit there and you will sit by his side." Septa Mordane spoke with a mother's smile on her face. But she was no mother. She was a teacher who expected the best of her student. "And one day, before too long, you will present your son to the court. All the lords of Westeros will gather here to see the little prince..."

Suddenly Sansa was struck with an awful thought. "What if I have a girl?" She blurted out, horror seizing her and sending her heart battering against her chest.

The whole kingdom would hate her. Joffery would hate her.

Septa Mordane only dismissed her concerns, "Gods be good, you'll have boys and girls and plenty of them."

Sansa shook her head. That wasn't what she meant. Not for the first time, Sansa wished Mother were here. She'd know exactly what Sansa was worried about. She'd cradle her and then sit her down and braid her hair until Sansa felt better.

"What if I only have girls?"

"I wouldn't worry about that." Septa Mordane tried to assure her. It didn't work.

"Jeyne Poole's mother had five children, all of them girls." Sansa reminded the old woman, but she was quick to respond.

"Yes, but it's highly unlikely," Mordane assured her again.

Sansa couldn't purge the thought from her mind, "But what if?"

The Septa sighed, her tone turning gentle, "If you only had girls, I suppose the throne would pass to Prince Joffrey's little brother."

Sansa felt pressure build behind her eyes. She'd disappoint everybody. Mother, Father, The Queen, Joffery. She didn't want to be a disappointment.

"And everyone would hate me." She uttered aloud, praying that saying the words didn't make them true.

"Nobody could ever hate you," Mordane spoke with a certainty Sansa had only ever heard from her Mother and father.

It wasn't true. "Joffrey does." She spoke with no emotion, as if it was a widely accepted fact. She had tried so hard, but he still hated her.

And the reason why only upset her further.

"Nonsense. Why would you say such a thing?" Septa Mordane met Sansa's eyes, and with one raise of her brow, the Septa understood why Sansa was acting the way she was. She braced herself for a lecture, but found she didn't have the patience for it, "That business with the wolves? I've told you a hundred times... A direwolf is not-"

"Please shut up about it!" Sansa cut her off, storming out the throne room, ignoring the calls of her Septa. There was no one around to chastise her, no one around to witness her unladylike behavior. She rounded a corner and forced herself to take a deep breath, almost running into the imposing figure of the Hound.

The burn on his face made Sansa want to shrink into herself, the marred skin bubbling up around his face, almost engulfing his eye. He had been someone she had been avoiding at all costs, yet Joffery always made sure he was around.

"Why are you alone little bird?" His rough voice scratched against her ears, but Sansa didn't move. Ladies didn't wince.

"I was headed back to my chambers," Sansa spoke, trying to swallow the knot that was forming in her throat, blue eyes widening as he took a step closer.

The natural light did not flatter him, and a shadow crept across the smooth side of his face, until all Sansa was staring at was the marred remains of what had once been.

"That's not an answer."

She gulped again, and took a step back. Had he come to hurt her? She was to be Queen right? That meant they couldn't hurt her. Not while Joffery was prince. But The Hound wasn't a Kingsguard. He worked under Joffery's orders.

Did the prince really hate her that much? It was a mistake, surely he could see that. Sansa was being a perfect lady, not choosing sides at the Trident. Obeying her father and the King at the same time. Surely Joffery saw that. The Queen did, didn't she?
"Well, what have we here?" A smooth voice drew her gaze away from the Hound, and Sansa met the bright blue gaze of Renly Baratheon, his easy smile relaxing her. The Hound remained still, his back straight like the knight he was. Renly shot a look of concern toward Sansa, moving by her side to play the hero. It was like one of the songs, the handsome lord coming to the rescue of the frightened young maiden. But Sansa knew she shouldn't be so frightened.

The Hound would surround her until the end of her days. As long as Joffery reigned, there he would be. Perhaps she should get used to him. But she didn't want to.

"I'm to escort the little lady to the Tourney," The Hound gruffed, and Renly tilted his head, his smile turning into a smirk, "By order of the prince."

His words were strained, and Sansa wished she could see the other half of his face, His scarred half rarely moving.

Renly stepped forward, "I admire your loyalty dog, but I shall see Lady Sansa to the Tourney, her father wishes to speak with her first."
Sansa didn't want to speak with her father. Her father was the reason Lady was dead. Her father was the reason she was so unhappy. Her father was the reason Joffery hated her.

The two men shared withering looks before the Hound gave in, snarling as he whirled around.

Armor clanked and soon the Hound disappeared behind a corner, Renly smiling victoriously. He held his arm out, "My lady,"

She took it, resisting the urge to giggle at his chivalry. He began to walk in the opposite direction of the Tower of the Hand, a fact Sansa was quick to point out.

"Do forgive me, Lady Sansa," Renly apologized, a guilty look crossing his handsome face, "Your father has no intention of speaking to you. I'm afraid I said that to diffuse the situation."

Sansa felt foolish. Of course, she should have realized. Her father hated the Tourney, but she recalled Renly's gallant actions. "There's nothing to forgive my lord, I am grateful for your interference,"

Renly smiled and continued to escort her through the Red Keep, each hallway looking the exact same as the last, "I'm glad." He stopped at one of the doors in the guest wing, grasping Sansa's hands in his, "There's someone I want you to meet,"

She waited patiently, ignoring the curiosity eating at her as Renly disappeared behind the door. Sansa resisted the urge to fidget with her hands like Arya would, or look around the keep. She held her head high and waited for Renly. When he came back out, a tall man was beside him, slimmer and a little off balance. It wasn't until Sansa saw the cane that she knew who he was.

"Lady Sansa," Renly began, "May I present Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden."

She curtseyed, ever the dutiful lady, and Lord Willas bowed, the green in his tunic complimenting the bright red of the walls surrounding him, his dark brunette locks curling around his ears, strands of gold appearing when the sun shone on him.

"It's a pleasure, My lord," She smiled, and Willas reached out his hand, taking hers in it before pressing his lips to the back of it.

"The pleasure is mine Lady Sansa," He parroted, butterflied burst behind her chest, the gesture perfect and sweet.

You're betrothed to Joffery, she reminded herself. It would not do to be seen with the unwed Lord of Highgarden, not before the Tourney.

"My sister is quite curious about you," Willas announced, his smile sweet and gentle, "She's quite fond of love stories, and the one between you and Prince Joffery has caught her attention."

Sansa tried to go over the Tyrell bloodline in her head, recalling her lessons with Septa Mordane. Lord Mace, Lady Alerie, Ser Garlan, Ser Loras....aha!

"Lady Margaery is too kind," Sansa beamed, unable to keep her emotions hidden much longer, "Please tell her that I would happy to regale her with tales of our love whenever she wishes it."

Not that there would be much to tell.

Willas nodded, and shared a look with Renly, who ushered her away and toward the Tourney grounds. Sansa was still grinning when took her seat next to Arya.

NED STARK

The tourney was a violent mess and Ned had seen too much of war to ever long for one again. He was glad for the trip down the Street of Steel, if only to have a reason to miss the damn thing. Robert craved these ghastly displays with every fiber of his being, and being King was the only thing stopping him from competing.

The only thing the King's Tourney was good for was taking his mind off this whole business with the Lannisters. The violence distracted him from the petty feuds and subtle politicking in King's Landing, as well as the thought that someone had tried to kill his son.

Tyrion Lannister, according to his wife. He had never distrusted Catelyn's judgment, but he was at a loss as to why the Imp would go to such extreme measures to keep him up North.

What had Jon Arryn been doing that warranted a possible poisoning? That had warranted a catspaw sent to his sleeping son's chamber?

His mind floated back to the tome Pycelle had given him. It sat up on the desk in his solar, collecting dust. Perhaps it was time to look into it.

From the few pages he'd read, there had been nothing of note. Just lists of every son and lord of the Great Houses since the time of the Conquest.

Nothing that would warrant the hand's attention. But yet, here he was, following in Jon Arryn's footsteps, hoping he didn't meet the same fate.

Their horses came to a stop, Jory dismounting with him as they stepped into the blistering heat of Tobho Mott's shop. The last known spot Jon Arryn was seen alive.

"You shouldn't be out here, my Lord," Jory warned, "There's no telling who has eyes where."

"Let them look." He was tired of these endless games. Of hiding what he really thought in case it was used against him. Politics were meant for Brandon, not him. Cat had attempted to teach him the game long ago, but he had no patience for it.

The blacksmith wiped his brow, his bald head shimmering with sweat, no doubt from the constant fires that blazed around him.

"The former Hand did call on me, my Lord, several times." Mott explained, although he seemed to grimace at the thought, "I regret to say he did not honor me with his patronage."

Ned had no time for past grievances, "What did Lord Arryn want?"

Mott shrugged, "He always came to see the boy."

Searching through the great houses, visiting children in the Street of Steel, what had Jon been looking for?

"I'd like to see him as well."

Mott didn't look surprised, although his guard visibly dropped. "As you wish my lord," He stepped aside, turning toward the lone smith in his forge, "Gendry!" He called out.

A strong name.

The shadow moved closer, flames reddening his skin as Ned got a better look at him. When the boy finally moved into the light, Ned gasped.

"Here he is, strong for his age. He works hard." Mott almost sounded proud. "Show the Hand the helmet you made, lad."

Ned was back at war, a boy of nine and ten, riding beside a hulking mass of muscle and curly black hair and stormy eyes.

That man stood before him now but three years younger, a willfulness to him that Ned recognized and Jon had tried to temper.

The boy was built like an ox, cropped black hair framing his face, exposing the bright blue Baratheon eyes to everyone he met.

For a moment Ned's mind wondered. Was this what Lyanna's son would have looked like?

A bronze bull's head was placed in his hands, and Ned could find no fault in the craftsmanship. He studied the boy's hands once more. They were large callused things, and for a moment Ned imagined a warhammer in his hand instead of a smith's. "This is fine work." He complimented.

The boy stiffened, "It's not for sale."

"Boy, this is the King's Hand!" Mott scolded him, "If his lordship wants the helmet..."

The boy shook his head, "I made it for me."

And with all the stubbornness of a Baratheon.

Mott tilted his head down, eyeing Ned as if the man would eat him alive, "Forgive him, my Lord."

Ned shook his head, "There's nothing to forgive." His eyes met Gendry's, but the boy turned away quickly, "When Lord Arryn came to visit you, what would you talk about?"

Gendry shrugged, "He just asked me questions is all, my Lord."

He was still refusing to meet Ned's gaze.

"What kind of questions?"

Gendry shot a look at Mott, who nodded approvingly, "About my work at first, if I was being treated well, if I liked it here." Every sentence his eyes moved away to another location in the room, but they never met the Hand's. "Then he started asking me about my mother"

Ned's eyebrows creased, "Your mother?"

Gendry nodded, still staring down at the floor, "Who she was, what she looked like."

"What did you tell him?"
The boy shrugged again, digging his toe into the dirt like Arya did at times. "She died when I was little. She had...yellow hair. She'd sing to me sometimes,"

He sniffed and turned away, but Ned needed one last look.

"Look at me," He commanded, and the boy did. He was thrown back to the Trident, to the Vale. To all the times Robert had charged into battle with a wild look upon his face, ready to die if it meant saving the woman he loved.

And yet Ned saw none of that when he looked at Joffery. At Tommen. At Myrcella.

Ned handed the helm back to him, "Get back to work, lad."

Gendry nodded and Ned stared one last time before turning back to Tobho Mott. "If a day ever comes when that boy'd rather wield a sword than forge one, you send him to me."

Mott nodded gratefully, and Ned shook himself from his memories.