Winter's Thaw

Nightmare Feast

Previously On: Bronn

"Tonight." Gendry growls in agreement, huddling back down into his seat at the Inn, curling into himself. His face is hard as stone as he forces them to recount what they'd overheard again and again and again. Every painfully boring detail. Looking for clues about his wife, listening intently for less painful answers, but never satisfied. He couldn't blame him, exactly. But he couldn't see what good he was doing anyway. Bronn decided he would start drinking early for the feast, what the Hell.

Well, whatever else happened that night, it was sure to be interesting. He did love a grand celebration and a halfway decent party.

The Nightmare Feast

Pod

They made Gendry wait until nightfall. It had taken a lot to convince him, to keep him from rushing in mad with desperation. The poor man was not in his right mind. He barely had a handle on his rage or his fists. He'd tried to pick numerous fights with Bronn, who in all fairness, was acting an inconsiderate prat as usual.

He felt for the man, truly. He could not imagine what he was going through; the fear of having lost something precious when his back was turned. Pod had nothing, nothing that could be taken away save his life; and he guarded it well enough. He preferred it that way, made life easier.

He took pride in his work, cared for his Lordship, and made a point to get done what needed doing. It's the reason he was here at all. Lord Tyrion had told him to acquire a letter from Lady Arya, a note from her own hand assuring her well-being. And it would be done. Somehow. However, the situation was infinitely more complicated than he'd anticipated. But he would have that letter. Despite Bronn and the rather large Lord Baratheon mucking it up.

Lord Gendry had that look in his eyes again, the one that said he was about to charge forward, smashing the faces of every man in his way. It was up to Pod to keep him calm, and it was proving more difficult than putting up with Bronn's obnoxious comments.

"My Lord." Pod says, eyes set in concern. "Breathe." He's annoyed at the suggestion but uncoils his muscles just the same. Let the man dislike him, so long as it kept him stable. In-check he was dangerous; imposing size and menacing scowl. But he would be useless once he lost control.

The Northerners were a strange, quiet lot. Their demeanor suited him; he knew now what Lord Tyrion had meant. They were appropriately somber at least, used to cold and disappointment. They were waiting too. The men who'd come back from the Wall seemed half dead, lost in their own homeland. They were anxious to enter Winterfell's gates as well. Just as unsettled. They'd been away from home for too long, and things weren't as they remembered. But how could they be?

Of course, he noticed the stunning lack of women, even without Bronn's loud complaints. He saw few children as well. All hoped someone lost to them was still living within Winterfell's walls. Though none knew exactly how they lived. Were the women prisoners or traitors? He guessed Lord Gendry wondered such things, if his wife was in grave danger, or simply unfaithful. If he believed the murmurings at all.

He knew which Bronn believed. For his own part, Pod couldn't be sure. Lord Tyrion had painted a comical picture of their union; lovely wild highborn girl forced to marry an enamored simpleton. It was clear he loved her, in physical pain beside him, clenching and unclenching his fists. But it didn't mean she loved him back. And truth be told, the way Lady Arya had been described, fierce teeth and claws; he found it hard to imagine her anyone's domesticated pet.

"The sun's about set." Bronn says, tapping his fingers, stringy hair combed back to look more presentable. Once the words are spoken, Gendry's up and ready to go. He paces back and forth, squeezing the handle of his hammer. Pod insisted he wear common clothes rather than his Baratheon emblazoned cloak. The man changed without argument, unconcerned with his sigil. A husband's pain and fury were useless in a situation like this. The man would be killed almost instantly if left to his own devices. Lucky he had them, er, him.