The Lone Wolf Returns(RECONTINUED)

The Brother Without A Banner

Gendry kicked the dead man's face over, inspecting. It was swollen and grey, the skin bloated with water. Drowned. Perhaps that was not the manner in which he died-the foul-smelling wounds that ribboned his stomach told Gendry a different story-but that is what became of his corpse. Anguy had helped him pull this particular body from the river that morning. The Lady had more than a thirst for death-she had a terrible respect for it too, and every corpse that didn't have a lion, a flayed man, or twin gates sewn somewhere on it was to be buried.

There was a time when Gendry would have balked at the task of dragging bodies onto shore and burying them; especially in the dead of winter, with snow all around and frostbite a likely thing. He would have been sick at the sight of the bloated, white corpse, perhaps even doubled over and spilled his breakfast on his boots. But now, Gendry merely found the task tedious, the stink annoying at best. He hardly even felt sad any more.

He had not felt much of anything in a while. He worked whenever possible, even late into the evening; he hated sleep. His mind was too active at night, and his dreams were never kind. At night I can see Harrenhal, and men with two colours in their hair, and girls with grey eyes. But most of all, he saw the Lady, before she was the Lady. He remembered them pulling her from the river, the same way she made the Brothers pull bodies now. She had been swollen and grey, too, with a fat cut that left her neck hanging loose and open. This was Arya's mother, Gendry had thought. This was Lady Catelyn Stark. There was nothing left of the beautiful woman his skinny friend used to pipe about, though. Now she was a thing of death and horror.

And somehow, Gendry had become her man.

Is it penance? He wondered. Is this the gods' price, for Arya? For what I did? He remembered Lem telling them that the Hound had taken her off towards the Twins. He remembered the ride there, the panic he had tasted in the back of his throat. She can't die, not after Harrenhal. Not after she escaped death so many times before. Not when it was because of me that she ran.

Lord Beric had had them sort through corpses, searching. They found a Mormont girl, a Manderly, some Umbers...but none small enough to be her. Instead, they found her mother.

When Lord Beric kissed her and fell down dead, and her eyes-huge, horrible, so horrible-opened, the Lady could speak...in a sense. She managed to tell them Arya was not there, had never been there. She could have been killed outside, Gendry had thought numbly. If she lived, she would have come back to find us. What else is there for her?

Gendry had stopped caring for politics when the Lady assumed control of the Brotherhood. The Young Dragon had the Stormlands and Dorne, the Tyrells ruled King's Landing in all but name, the Lannister queen sat desolate and alone in the Red Keep-her two brothers both missing-the ironmen were squabbling amongst themselves after the return of their prince, and the Dragon Queen he'd heard so much tavern talk about years before appeared to be sitting comfortably across the Narrow Sea.

And Gendry didn't care a fig for any of it.

Dead highborns or living ones, what difference does it make to me? The only highborn he'd ever been fond of was three years dead. The Lady kept them out of politics; in a funny way, Gendry felt he was nearly a brother of the Night's Watch, as he'd intended to become when he made the march with Yoren. We swore vows, hold no lands, take no part...All they seemed to do was kill Lannister creatures and bury corpses. They don't even seem human when we hang them. It was as if they were all solemn brothers, killing wights and defending the realm, like the men of the Night's Watch did in the stories.

That evening, Gendry stood in the Lady's tent with Anguy, Lem, Ned Dayne, and Thoros of Myr. All the best, in our ragtag bunch of outlaws and farmer's boys.