Chapter Text
297 AC
The raging storm had teeth.
The impromptu squall that descended upon King’s Landing like a disgruntled thunder god’s divine wrath was one that none has ever seen in such a long time. As many believed, both the noble and the peasantry, that these powerful acts were more akin to the Storm Lands than anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms.
Exceptionally rare were they for the Crownlands.
Many of the merchants rushed as they closed their shops early. Gold Cloaks too had long abandoned their posts. Inn keepers rejoiced for the extra boom in coin; no doubt taking advantage of weary travellers trapped in this impetuous deluge. The small folk scampered like drowned rats seeking shelter in their little shacks called home; a safe haven from the torrential rains that drenched the narrow, winding squallors of Flea Bottom.
A luxury not all could run towards unfortunately as a group of mismatched orphans huddled together sharing their fleeting bodily warmth under tavern eaves.
Gendry, despite his seventeen years, had weathered enough storms. It didn't matter how rare they were this time of year to know the difference as it was the third moon of the year 297 AC. With it the long, hot summer was soon coming to an end or something of the sort as he'd overheard some maesters speaking quietly about it when they visited his master’s shop.
Over ten long years has this sweltering summer lasted. As typical, with it some storms came and went with little more than rain and noise. Others rolled in straight from Blackwater Bay carrying the might and fury of the rumored storm gods that infamously settled over the Storm Lands themselves.
This one unfortunately seemed to be the latter.
The sky above King's Landing had suddenly darkened hours ago, thick clouds gathering like an army marching to war. They hung low over the city, a coalition of bruised purple and black, swallowing the late summer afternoon sun until the capital seemed perpetually trapped in an early twilight. Around him, people hurried about their business. Merchants gathered their outrageously overpriced silks and provisions. Perfumed whores darted beneath awnings as drunkards stumbled between taverns.
Still, the incessant rain hammered the streets without mercy forcing all who could to take shelter indoors. Luckily the wind has yet to take a dramatic turn giving clearance to the pouring rain.
It poured from rooftops in rustic curtains and cascaded from timber-and-wattle hovels . The gutters overflowed with something indescribable while dark, narrow and twisted alleyways that served as the cover for cut purses, murderers, rapists and the city's far too many street urchins became murky, copious streams of intermixed refuse. The muddy streets of Flea Bottom churned beneath countless boots, hooves, and wagon wheels until the ground resembled a foul-smelling swamp more than a road.
Most of all the atmosphere stank. By the gods, it always stank but now it was somehow worse than before.
A cacophonous menagerie of clashing smells blanketed the capital indefinitely. This involved: rotting leftover fish from the nearby fishmongers, shit (both human and horse alike), stale ale, the wild - oppressive stench of the nearby tanneries, and smoke from a thousand cookfires.
Yet today, for Master Armourer Tobho Mott's thick necked, bushy browed and broad shouldered apprentice, another scent lingered beneath it all. The distinctly sharp metallic smell of rain paired with ozone itself as lightning was awaiting the perfect opportunity to strike as he's come to know.
Gendry swiftly shifted the heavy sack upon his wide shoulders - which was the reason why he was out in this gods forsaken weather as his mentor, Master Armourer Tobho Mott, Kings Landing's most prolific blacksmith - had instructed him to fetch his latest order. Trusting none other with the task he was told. But Gendry suspected the man knew the other apprentices or his servant girls would struggle too much with the oppressive weight of the goods to make it back in time before the foul weather hit as the old blacksmith had predicted.
Too bad the old merchant who Tobho sent him to argued that he misplaced the order and then took his sweet time having it prepared. Nevertheless, Gendry wasn't a fool as he had seen the look of open disgust the fat, old man draped in fine blue wool that distinctly smelled of lavender straining under the stink of heavy sweat gave him when he stepped into his pristine shop. He took one good look at his soot stained tunic as if a sewer rat had just crawled onto his polished counter.
_____<<0>>_____
Flashback Scene
“Master Mott sent me," Gendry said. Striding up to the counter as he stepped into the Flea Bottom shop that specialised in rare shipments of ores and iron his master took vast interest in. Normally theses businesses would be found within their vicinity of the Street of Steel but no this one had to be stuffed into the dwindling corners of King's Landing slums, thus having him have to travel over 15 minutes to reach his destination in the hellish heat. A heat that should dissipate by noon given Master Mott’s prediction of summer rains that afternoon. A prediction that he would think inaccurate given his state as sweat and grime clung to his arms and face like a second skin. His thundering voice, which he often tried to keep in check being susceptible to his emotions, was a bit too loud for the small, neat shop, scraping like iron on stone. "For the shipment of charcoal and the crated iron bars. He says you’ve been holding them three days now."
The merchant didn’t look at Gendry’s face. His eyes remained fixed on Gendry’s massive, grime-caked forearms. "Master Mott usually sends his servant girl. The pretty one with the big tits." He sighed with disappointment, tapping a long, pale finger against a ledger.
"I do not care for Flea Bottom filth rubbing off on my cedar counters. Stand back a step, boy.
Gendry didn't move back. He planted his heavy boots right where they were, crossing his arms over his chest. The muscles shifted under his dirt-streaked skin."The iron," Gendry repeated. He didn't say good master. "And the charcoal. Now”
"The merchant’s face flushed a sharp, angry pink. He bristled, insulted by the total lack of deference from a common apprentice. "You have a remarkably foul tongue to match your appearance. Perhaps I should send word back to Tobho that his boy lacks proper manners. A week in the cells might teach you how to address your betters.”
Wanting to get this squabble sorted out before he did something he would regret; the apprentice reached into his belt and pulled out a heavy leather purse, slamming it onto the cedar counter with a loud, metallic thud. A few silver stags spilled out onto the polished wood."The coin is all there," Gendry said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble.
"Count it or don't. But get the crates. I have a forge to get back to."The merchant stared at the heavy purse, then up at Gendry’s dark, furious eyes. Realizing the boy wasn't going to break, the man sniffed, picked up the purse with two fingers, and called out to his own servants in the back to fetch the order.
End of Flashback
______<<0>>______
He had not received the crates but a measly sack to haul his Master's goods through Flea Bottom.
Nevertheless, with his mind still on his directive, he continued to make his way towards the Street of Steel which was about ten more minutes from where he was currently.
Ice cold water from the heavens continuously streamed from his thick black hair that was plastered against his forehead like sweat and grime after a hard day's work which obscured his vision slightly. He really needed to have it sheared as his master had off-handedly suggested a moons turn ago. Thus, making it easier for the downpour to also run down the back of his neck straight beneath his tunic. The coarse linen, sleeveless material that was well worn clung heavily to his broad frame as with each step powerful muscles built through years hard at work bending steel bulged as he continued his quickened pace. He was utterly soaked everywhere for that matter as the sodden garb clung desperately to his lower half; so close it scarcely hid a thing of his manly build.
Well at least the grime of the prior weeks was gone, hereby saving him a hard earned Copper star he was reluctantly planning on spending at the bathhouse this sennight.
A very rare luxury he could afford with the little he sparingly got from his master for a job well done.
Pushing through the rain and the mud, he could feel between his legs, the wet, coarse seams of the cloth which rubbed at his core raw, more specifically his manhood, with every stride he took through the downpour. It felt as though someone were drawing a dull dagger across his inner thighs over and over, or scraping his tenderest skin with a handful of rough salt. He could do naught but grit his teeth, curse the rain, and force himself forward, praying for the dry, warm haven of his little cot within the cellars beside the forge where he could finally get respite from this gods forsaken day.
Inadvertently, the sight got him quite a few lustful looks and calls from a group of whores who settled at the doorway of their establishment; beckoning him over like a reluctant sailor to a siren's call. Very well enticed by the full visage that left naught for the imagination.
He paid them no heed yet his cheeks and ears burned a sudden, fierce crimson that had nothing to do with the pesky chill of the storm. Just then another ear shattering clap of thunder and a brisk, sharp wind rattled the tattered roof which they were cooped up under. The women shrieked in unison before a burly, beady eyed, sour-faced looking man draped in fine silks came forth in view, snared openly at the apprentice smith like his very presence offended him and his establishment just from where he stood in the rain, then bolted the wooden door with force.
Most men would have sought such shelter, the apprentice thought. But he had spent too many years standing before blazing furnaces to care much about discomfort such as a few droplets of rain or the chaffing of his loins. Nor was he inclined to a woman's warmth given such conditions. The mere thought of him whoring or fathering bastards was off putting to say the least; knowing first hand that the gods truly looked down on children born of lust and sin, consequently making their lives absolutely miserable.
At the present moment, he felt even more vindicated with his reasoning as this weather was making him more uneasy as time passed.
His sharp jawline flexed as his thick arms readjusted the oppressive weight of the sack along his back. At this moment the soulmark beneath his leather bracers choose to make its presence known. A strong heat. Not painful. But a steady, quiet warmth he has come to accept over time, it persisted despite the shivering coldness that now clung to his form - just enough to keep drawing his attention back to it.
A constant irritation he thought begrudgingly. Like a splinter buried beneath skin especially since the start of the day - one he had learned to ignore. Still his thumb unconsciously tried to rub at the hidden symbol through the worn leather. The gesture had become a habit over the years.
Eleven.
He had been one and ten when the mark first appeared.
A bit young some folk would have thought but that's the thing with soul marks; they had no set rules despite the Faith and the Citadel’s self proclaimed mastery of the subject. A soul mark in truth as many believed was a gift from the gods themselves; a blessing symbolising the union of two souls made for each other. Also, it dictates the other person with a mark same as yours - found on the wrist - as one's own till death. A vow so absolute and unshakable in the eyes of mortals and their deities.
Common knowledge would preach that they only manifested through skin to skin contact. Well proven by as all recorded testimonies across history would recount such conditions - even a mere brush of fingers with the other person deemed as one's bonded could invoke the god's gift or curse depending on who finds themselves suddenly in the gods immense favour.
As its inception predates all laws of men and the fancy chairs they sat on, fully rendering the games of kings and fools alike moot in the face of the gods' divine will. Within the sight of the Faith and the Old gods of the north respectively, it is deemed as absolute sacrilege to ignore one's bonded when found. Therefore once discovered, to appease the gods divine mandate, the pair must wed (once they both are of age), then consummate the bond to avert divine wrath.
This bit has caused many noble houses to be quite cautious in the games they played as a single chance meeting can render political alliances and well crafted schemes obsolete in the face of its insurgency.
On the other hand, some persons state they saw bursts of immaculate light, others a faint musical hum only they could hear when their hands touched while others described the feeling to be a gentle heat as the marks etched themselves into each other's skins.
In other words, the more flashy the bonding, the more ‘blessed’ the union was said to be.
However, one thing was generally noted was not all were so lucky to have a soulmate yet it did not stop young maidens from daydreaming about a valiant knight upon his noble stead who would sweep them off their feet then with a single, soft touch the gods’ favour would be upon them and live happily ever after. Or more chivalrous young men who dream of finding the perfect mate to love: protect, give them strong heirs, and grow old with.
He snared at the thought deeply citing them as nothing but noble born worries.
Gendry could still remember the panic and confusion he felt when his mark appeared.
_____<<0>>_____
He had been working tirelessly since dawn under Tobho's watchful gaze as he learned to memorise customers orders, - a swift nod and a grunt was the only appraisal he ever received but it made him feel even more prideful in his progress.
Since being taken in from seven years old, the young smith was determined to please his master, the one who took him when a soft spoken, hooded stranger found him in the filthy gutters and brought him to the master armourer who then gave him purpose when he was just another urchin surviving on scraps: no family, no heritage, no identity in this world. He has grown determined to show him that he could learn to hear the steel and mold it beyond perfection.
It was near around the Hour of the Bat, alone was he in the forge save for his master in the far background inspecting his latest work which was a set of Gold Cloaks armour he recently polished to be collected on the morrow. Despite it being awfully later than the usual time he spent working he was quite content with his newly given task of mending some horse shoes for the City Watch. At that moment, the steady comfort he developed while hammering at a piece of steel took a dramatic pause when he felt the little bumps all over his skin stand on end; like a cold wind had washed over him. Then he felt it. The steady rhythm of his hammering broke as an instantaneous, constant burning made itself present which vibrated throughout his entire body.
His hammer had fallen to the floor forgotten with a loud clank that fell on deaf ears as his senses felt dulled under the immense pressure rising beneath the soot covered skin on his right hand . A strangled yelp escaped his lips only because of the overwhelming sensations of a thousand hot needles pressing into his skin at once. He had borne pains like that of hunger, a cuff to the ear once that made his head throb for days, nearly being trampled down by the king's horse when he was playing at the Mud Gate plus the few burns he got when he foolishly mishandled a hot piece of iron. Therefore, he had learned to bear pain over time by holding it in.
He gritted his teeth so hard he could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth as a strange, inflamed symbol resembling a circle enclosed by a triangle with a line through it manifested right there on his wrist.
He had learned in the past that these bonds only appeared when you touch another person meant to be yours yet he had done no such thing. Alone he was in the forge. All he remembers is doing his work when he felt a strange force overcome him then the cursed mark appeared.
He had not truly understood why it happened and grew fearful. Fearful of being marked by strange magic in such a way. Scared not only to end up on the streets again but to bring disorder to the orderly life he was gifted by his master because of this unnatural occurrence that found him. His heart was pounding in his chest as his mind tried to understand what was not even meant for wiser men.
Still his thoughts were erratic and filled with terror.
‘Was this also punishment for being born in sin? Forever sullied by a bastard's curse?’
If anyone found out, worse, his Master, he would certainly end up back where he started: forgotten, alone and begging for scraps or worse due to his grotesqueness. So he did what any sensible boy his age would do in the face of trouble. He tried to be rid of it.
Making quick work by grabbing a hot poker from the furnace, burning red-orange, as he clenched his jaw shut readying his mind to do what was necessary. ‘He was a smiths boy and nothing more.’ he told himself.
‘Master Mott took me in when I was nothing. I cannot allow him to believe I brought a curse into his honest shop.’
Closing his eyes, he then pressed the biting iron into soft flesh . The pain was indescribable as his eyes watered and his knees buckled, threatening to collapse beneath the weight of self-inflicted agony, but he withstood it with fierce determination akin to a bull.
Placing the poker down he made his way to a slack tub filled with a foul mixture of stagnant water, black iron scale, floating ash, and old grease he was using to cool hot metals during the day. He dipped his hand inside allowing the cool sensation to ease the sizzling heat that throbbed beneath the disfigured skin that cradled his soulmark. When he pulled his arm out of the dark water, wiping away the wet soot, he expected to see charred, ruined flesh. But to his absolute horror, the charred edges of the burn were sloughing off, and new, pink skin was rapidly crawling across the raw meat of the wound. The soulmark stubbornly reasserted itself, refusing to be erased by the heat of iron before his astonished blue gaze.
Still, this did nothing to deter his sheer stubbornness; driven by pure survival instinct he quickly grabbed a heavy steel file used to shave done raw iron determined to rip the foul mark away from his body since heat was not enough.
He had scrubbed at it with a violent force until his wrist bled. The metal teeth shred the delicate, regenerating tissue instantly. It was agonizing - worse than the burn - because he could feel the teeth of the metal tearing through his layers of flesh down to the muscle. Blood, bright and hot, splatters across the anvil and pours down his forearm, mixing with the soot on his skin
Just then, Master Moth finally entered the space. His face was stern and his voice gruff as he demanded to know the cause of neglect regarding the boy's task. Then, he spotted his most promising apprentice hunched over the tub, scrubbing insistently at gods know what.
Instantly, Master Mott's hawk-like gaze found the tiny specks of blood on the floor and the blood-soiled water in the tub - a waste, he noted, which his apprentice tried to block with his stance, hands clasped behind his back.
The boy was shaking like a leaf in spring, his eyes red-rimmed, yet no tears fell.In all the years he had known the boy since being paid to take him on, Gendry had never been one to play coy or try to be subtle when it came to his emotions. So now, seeing him in a poorly concealed state of distress was shocking to witness, especially given the scenery he was made privy to.
The tension was as thick as horseshit on a hot summer noon. The large room suddenly felt smaller as the deafening silence caused Tobho to practically hear the frantic beating of the boy's heart against his chest. Finally, it was broken by the sharp, heavy splatter of a single droplet of blood that seemed to reverberate against the forge walls.
"Hands out now, boy," the master armorer commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.
Defeated, Gendry held out his semi-brutalized wrist, visibly shaking way worse than before as his eyes burned, yet he refused to let the tears fall. He would not shame himself any further in the sight of his master.
Tobho took all this in with a blank expression, yet his eyes for a brief moment nearly betrayed his hidden fear. Seeing his prodigy - whom he had never seen distraught, much less on the brink of tears - was not on his list of things for the day.
Crouching down slightly to meet the rapidly growing boy's eyes, he took the bloody wrist in his much bigger hands. He then observed something he had never witnessed in all his years: the tarnished skin and muscle quickly knitted itself back together, leaving nothing but smooth, pink skin.
But what remained atop, transfixed in deep, black ink, was a symbol - one Tobho didn't recognize to be of any noble houses he had encountered by Westerosi or Essosi standards. The mark - more specifically a soulmark - was tattooed on the boy’s wrist, encompassing a circle enclosed by a triangle with a line through it. It pulsed with a faint warmth beneath his tentative grasp. He was lost for a second seeing such an anomaly before steeling his thoughts and meeting the still-watery blue gaze of the boy in front of him, ready to ask one simple question despite already knowing the answer.
"Who did you touch, boy?"
“No one, I swear it on all the gods!” came the quick, earnest reply of his apprentice. “I was alone, busy finishing up my duties when it came to be. I - ”
The boys frantic rant instantly died in his throat as he was given a stern look from his master. One that he recognised overtime as his cue to stop talking and listen.
Unfortunately, Tobho has yet to utter another word, very much deep in thought as his calloused fingers caked in dried blood tentatively prodding the fully healed skin.
Tobho had seen a lot in his lifetime. As a native Qohorik, his experience as a master smith was significantly expanded by his brief knowledge and exposure to the dark arts commonly practiced in his homeland alongside travel to the other Free Cities even as far as Asshai. Seven Hells, his own expertise to rework Valyrian steel was steeped in the forgotten arts of the once proud dragon lords of Valyria, now long gone.
He took another good look at it before grunting and sending his apprentice back to work.
"Stop fussing over it."
"But what if I did something wrong?"
Tobho simply snorted. "What makes you think the gods care enough to mark a bastard blacksmith?"
But deep down, as he watched his young apprentice clean up his mess and begin anew his neglected work with renewed vigour - now sporting a set of leather bracers to shield his mark - Tobho’s mind tried desperately to convince himself that the gods' latest source of cruel amusement would not befall him or the young boy in his care.
The truth was that mark was an indicator of old magic, apart from being a soulmark. No, the symbol carried another power within it so ancient that he could still feel its content hum even now, further proven as it refused to be removed by fire or force.
He was one of the few people alive who knew whose blood his young apprentice shared. Now, adding the strange imprinting of a soulmark outside of traditional means would put the poor boy at the center of absolute chaos before he was ready. Even worse when and if his other half made their appearance. So for now, he prayed that the gods would stay their meddling hands from bringing further hardship to a lad he begrudgingly saw as one of his own, whose only desire was to be seen as worthwhile only by those he believed deserving of it.