eachdraidh | Forge One

[The forge had echoed loudly from the sound of hammer on steel. Such had been the case for a week now, ever since Gendry had discovered the forge and learned he had the freedom to use it and its materials. He had fallen in love immediately. At the Crossroads, he had suffered a shambling forge that he'd had to largely put back together himself. The forge in Harrenhal had been better, but he was one of many who worked it. Tohbo Mott's own forge came close, but it lacked the size of this one. It was expertly crafted and spoke of a skill he could only imagine. His old master had talked of the forgs in Qohor and Volantis and how great they were. He could only imagine them being like this one.

And so Gendry had set to work. His half finished sword was completed. The blade was made sharp and glimmering. He did not bother himself with anything but the most basic of hilt and crossguard. Why should he? The sword had been forged from the only steel he could acquire. Now he had superior metal to work with and he imagined how he might forge himself a sword of the finest steel as could be found. And then, armor. A new helmet. Greaves, gauntlets, breastplate, pauldrons, and gorget. And why not? They were generous in their provisions and Gendry though to himself that when he had finished, he would look more a knight than even Ser Loras Tyrell. And then he would be more than just King Robert's bastard son born in Fleabottom. He would be a self made knight, secure and confident in his own armor.

A week in the forge. Drenched in sweat and smoke, with nothing but a damning heat as company. It suited him fine. He was hard at work creating a new helmet, after all. Indeed, he was so utterly devoted to his craft that he had not even returned to his bedchambers. He found the hard ground of more comfort than the feather soft bed provided to him and the distant heat of a cooling forge like a friendly reminder of home. And though he could not claim to have friends among his fellow arrivals, there were at least people of note that concerned him. Even if some, like Arya Stark, thought him as little more than a stranger.

And so he tried the locket.]

[Audio]

I found a forge. A good one. Better than any I've ever seen, at least. These fairy folk might be a queer sort, but they make for fine things. So I've been doing the same.

[He paused and wondered at his own message. Did he want to offer to craft armor and swords for others? No. And certainly not for charity. He only wanted to arm himself and make himself a knight. Once he had, he'd only need the forge to maintain what he already had or replace what might be damaged. So he keeps himself from offering something foolish.]

If there's other smiths about, you might find the place of use. [And then he lingers after that, unsure if more should be said. And so stupidly he can be heard lingering. Breathing.

And then it cuts out.]

[Afterwards, Gendry resumes his work at the forge, where he has discarded his shirt and set himself to the first steps of his new helmet.]

(ooc: prose and brackets are both welcome.)

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Aye. [There's a kind of irritation in his voice, both that he needed to say so and because he had to figure out how to answer her. And because her voice having no source was so utterly unsettling.] And you, Lady Sansa?

[He does notice the small portrait, otherwise her voice might sound the same as Margary or Daenerys or Lucrezia. Highborn women that all droned on about in the exact same and tiring manner.]

[ a hastily drawn breath -- as if she doesn't care to have him speak her name, though she'd never told him not to. therefore it takes her a hefty moment before she responds. and nearly in a whisper: ] Yes. Me. I would ask you something, ser.

Edited (didn't notice the typo until i came back from supper and saw it sitting there on my browser still sigh.) 2014-04-09 21:29 (UTC)

Then ask, m'lady.

[Curtly. Because were this some common woman, she might have asked directly and be done with it. But he was learning from his brief experiences with highborns that you had to be slow with them. They were inefficient and slow and too used to pampered ease. They didn't have a lick of sense between them.]

My sister. When I --

[ stilted. sansa's composure runs to grammarless when she can't bring herself to articulate the question over these stupid little trinkets. how might she impress discretion on a low-born (at least partially so) up-jumped knight? where he expects her to be slow and pampered, she anticipates he will be brash and foolish. ]

I fear you may have lied to me. [ there. simple enough. ]

I didn't.

[She had surprised him with the accusation. And he responds immediately, defensively, and angrily.]

Those fairy bastards stole her memories! She don't even remember making it out of the city!

[ her fingertips shake against the locket. briefly, she forgets that his anger is rooms away. sansa winces. she had hoped to be the angry one -- to come out doubting his claims and firmly tell him she no long has any reason to believe them. but his tone... ]

I -- [ at some point she had forgotten to breath, and now greedily gulps air. it pains her to muddle through this conversation in such an unsecured fashion. ] Even if that is what's at the heart of the matter, she can no longer vouch for you.

[ neither could she have if she'd never arrived, of course. but that's not the problem. instead, sansa has been reminded that she can't take anything on faith. the fresh blush of new acquaintances and a new castle had lowered her defences, but now she must rebuild them. ]

[He scowls. She's a bloody difficult woman. She was the daughter of Catelyn Stark, that was true. But what did that even mean? It meant killing Lannisters and Freys. He'd never been asked to look out for Sansa Stark.

Arya was his friend. Still his friend, with a bit of effort. And this stupid, stubborn girl? Well, she could hate him for all it mattered to him. If he found himself in some dire need of highborn women, then there were plenty of others equally as useless as this one.]

Then she won't. What it's matter to me? She ain't got her senses back yet, but she still thinks me a decent sort. [A friend.]

Edited 2014-04-10 14:28 (UTC)

[ what should matter to him, if not this? sansa falls into a sulking silence. whatever pretty things he'd said about the king in the north and his lady's allegiances, she could treat them no more than wind now. it isn't his birth she holds against him, but his temper. his shortage of patience. but, she supposes, perhaps that's equally a product of peasantry as a dozen other things. ]

Shouldn't it matter? [ but do you use this tone of voice with her? do you treat her thusly? because although sansa is pitiably late to the role of caring older sister, she felt it rush aggressively into her bones when she saw arya in the feasting hall. where once she looked at arya's associates with judgement and derision, she now looks with concern and criticism and a lurking understanding that anyone might betray her sister like they've betrayed her. ] Shouldn't it matter a great deal?

Edited 2014-04-10 14:35 (UTC)

I know what it is I did. You not believing it don't change nothing. The two of us went through hell together.

[And you hid in a castle. Married a Lannister. He keeps that added derision to himself. It was not that he disliked Sansa. He had liked her a great deal. And this sudden reversal of her opinion about him stung his pride. He'd managed to be somebody to her for his actions and not because of who his father was. And now? Now she didn't believe it.

He would have none of it. Because he could not hope to explain himself or convince her to believe him. Highborns were too stubborn for that and there was no Tickler here to force him to talk.]

Edited 2014-04-10 14:41 (UTC)

[ hell.

that admission -- though perhaps the knight (if he is indeed a knight) had not intended it as an admission -- brings her up short. the decision is a crossroads: if she refuses to believe him, then he is a liar and a danger to her and her family. but if she takes him at his word...

if she trusts him and takes his claims on faith, then she must believe her sister has suffered. at the feast, the little girl she'd found stealing bread had been as yet untouched by the worst of what westeros would throw at the stark family. she wants her sister to stay that girl -- she doesn't want her to muck through the countryside with bad-mannered knights. and so gendry gains her ire for the simple sin of having lived through hell. ]

You can see, surely, why one might hope it isn't true.

[He grimaces and supposes that he can see that. He knew what Arya had seen already. But he also knew that this was a girl who had not suffered as much. She was not quite the same girl who had become harder and harder with each step of their journey. And she was better for it.

It changed nothing.]

Hoping don't change nothing. It is what it is. It happened and you making me a liar don't change that.

They're all liars here.

[ we, she might have said. but her tongue is wrapping itself around someone else's words. someone who went on to assure her that every one of them in the court was a better liar than she could ever hope to be.

but the conversation, however brief, has brought upon a flush and an unhappy fervour. all of it threatens to dissolve her sense of self, and her ability to keep control on her emotions. so, stiffly: ] No matter. I'll leave you to your hawking -- [ assuming, erroneously, that he must be trying to find customers for his craft. ]

Good day, ser. [ archly, she stresses the title. ]

Edited 2014-04-10 15:11 (UTC)

M'lady. [He says it stiffly as a farewell. He is glad to have the conversation concluded and resigns himself back to his work. Perhaps he would need to have a talk with Arya about it later. But he could not imagine what might happen once Sansa persuaded her younger sister to be done with him.

In frustration, he lifted his hammer and made the steel sing.]

Forge One - (Audio)

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