Following his orders, Gendry arrived at the barracks and reported to Aldric. Shortly after, he was introduced to his senior fellow disciple, Jon Snow. Upon learning he had a "younger brother" in the craft, Jon maintained the frost-bitten, stoic mask characteristic of the North, but inwardly he was jubilant. In the hierarchy of their master's house, he was finally no longer the bottom rung.
Out of a sense of protective kinship for his "little" brother, Jon personally selected a squad of Golden Dawn veterans for Gendry. He led the boy to the Quartermaster—a department managed by the Staff of Shadows—and saw him outfitted to the standard of a front-line regular before Gendry officially joined the drills.
In the Seven Kingdoms, a smith was a man of station. They maintained the steel of lords and the plows of peasants. A village without a smith was a village in stasis. Because of the years required to master the craft and the physical strength demanded by the forge, even a Great Lord like Tywin Lannister would hesitate to throw a talented apprentice into an infantry block as common fodder. It was a criminal waste of potential.
Yet Aldric had done exactly that, and only after taking Gendry as a disciple. The boy was plagued by a quiet doubt: Does the Teacher truly value me, or am I just another spear?
However, once he was thrust into the relentless, high-octane tempo of the Dawn's training, he had no room for philosophy.
While the combat drills were "simulated," they were terrifyingly real. Gendry was spared the most suicidal positions and protected by the heavy plate of a regular, overseen by a Sunwalker captain named Wayne. Still, the process of taking a wound and receiving the Light was a visceral, haunting agony—a pain that burned in the memory long after the flesh was knit. After a pike-head from an opposing squad grazed the back of his hand, Gendry stopped overthinking. He focused entirely on the steel coming for his throat.
At dusk, after a dinner of thick barley porridge enriched with lake-fish, Gendry followed the squad leaders to the monastery's Great Hall. There, he sat through Maester Brand's lessons on letters and sums. By the time the day's tasks were done, Gendry was a shell of a man, dragging his feet toward the barracks.
He was intercepted by Jon Snow and led to the Staff of Shadows' office.
Inside, Gendry collapsed onto a bench. Jon pushed aside piles of papyrus ledgers and set a wooden cup before him. It was filled with a sour, sharp-smelling red wine.
"Most men struggle with their first week in the Dawn," Jon said, his voice quiet. "Drink. Sleep. Tomorrow the world will feel smaller."
The Riverlands were known for this vinegary red; the Reach had the honeyed vintages, but Aldric's prohibition on grain-alcohol meant ale was a luxury of the past. Jon had gone to great lengths for this wine, trading two Blessings of Wisdom to the head cook's dim-witted son just to secure the last skin in the larder. Gendry, unaware of the cost, took a cautious sip. The acidity made him wince, but the warmth of the gesture hit him harder than the wine.
"The Teacher told me you have the fire of a master," Jon said, watching Gendry over his own cup. "Did you learn the hammer from your father?"
Gendry swallowed the sour dregs and shook his head. "No. I don't know who my father was."
Jon offered a hollow, mirrored smile. "I should offer my sympathies, I suppose. But I don't know who my mother was."
Gendry looked into Jon's dark eyes, searching for mockery and finding only a reflection of his own void. "My mother was a tavern wench in the capital. She died when I was small. I remember nothing of her face."
Jon sipped his wine slowly. "I am luckier, then. I had fifteen years with my father. But he was murdered before he could tell me her name."
Gendry opened his mouth to respond but found no words. He found himself comparing their griefs—the boy who never knew a parent versus the man who lost one to a blade. It was a race where neither could win. He raised his cup to Jon.
"To a broken world," Gendry whispered.
Jon clinked his cup against Gendry's. "To a broken world. And to the Light."
The wine loosened their tongues. Jon spoke of the North—of the biting frost, the joy of racing his siblings through the snows of Winterfell. Gendry spoke of the Flea Bottom gutters, where despite the filth, he'd always been fed by a mysterious benefactor. He had never felt the sting of shame that Jon carried; in the slums, being a bastard was common. In a castle, it was a brand.
Neither revealed their dangerous secrets. Jon did not say his father was Eddard Stark, and Gendry did not say he was a fugitive of the Gold Cloaks for sharing the blood of a dead King.
The cups were soon empty. Jon didn't reach for more. Instead, he stood up. "Come, Gendry. Let's see that strength of yours on the field."
They moved to the moonlit muster field. Gendry was tall and barrel-chested, his arms thickened by years at the anvil. He lacked Jon's grace, but he had the raw power of a bull. Jon was leaner, but he had been trained by Ser Rodrik Cassel and tempered by Aldric's many battles.
They took up wooden swords and shields. The clash was immediate. Jon was a shadow, his movements fluid and precise. Gendry was a mountain, his strikes heavy enough to rattle Jon's teeth through his shield.
But the balance was a feint. After several exchanges, Jon shifted his weight, using a single-handed technique Aldric had taught him to bind Gendry's blade. Gendry tried to power through the lock, but Jon stepped into his guard, tripped his trailing foot, and sent the apprentice sprawling into the dirt.
Jon reached down to pull him up, grinning. "You have no foundation at all, do you?"
Gendry spat dust, clutching Jon's hand. "I didn't have a Master-at-Arms in a tavern, Snow."
"I had the advantage of blood there," Jon admitted seriously. "But our other brother, Kevin Turner... he makes me look like a novice. He has the steel of a natural."
"Tell me about him," Gendry said, resetting his stance.
They sparred until their lungs burned and their legs turned to lead. As they sat on the grass, gasping for air, Jon looked at the moon. "Tomorrow, I'll tell Wayne to put you on the pike. It's the easiest spot for a recruit. You stay behind the shields and push. It's safer."
"Thank you, Jon." Gendry hesitated, the doubt from earlier resurfacing. "The Teacher... taking me as a student... it's an honor, but it feels like a collar. He is the Lightbringer. I'm just a boy from a forge. Do you know why he chose me?"
Jon lay back on the grass. "Kevin was a shipwreck survivor, the ignored second son of a hedge knight. I'm a bastard with no name. If you're asking for the Master's logic, I can't give it to you. He has his own eyes. Just follow his lead. If you feel unworthy, work until you aren't."
The words didn't answer the question, but they gave Gendry a place to stand.
The following days were a blur of discipline. As the head of the Staff of Shadows, Jon was buried in logistics, leaving Gendry to bond with his squad. Captain Wayne was a firm but fair Sunwalker, one of the veterans Aldric had elevated after the Great Conclave.
The Joint Task Force was organized into seven companies of fifty men each. To foster unity, Aldric had mixed the men: each company contained squads from different allied houses, commanded by the seven Lords of the Covenant. However, the actual orders flowed through the Staff of Shadows. It was a clever trap—it satisfied the Lords' ego while ensuring their "private" soldiers became the Order's army.
During the rare breaks in training, Gendry faced his own trial: the curiosity of the ranks.
"Gendry, is it true? You're the Master's student?"
"Are you Jon Snow's brother in the craft? Will he lash you if you miss a step?"
"Can you use the Light? Show us!"
Gendry was exhausted by the interrogation. He had been a disciple for only three days. He spent his days in the mud and his nights in Maester Brand's literacy class. He barely saw Aldric. When the gossip from Jon ran dry, he resorted to "I don't know" or "I was just a smith in the city."
The questioning only ended when the command finally came. Aldric, the Lightbringer, stood before the host and issued the order to march.
On the road, silence was mandatory. Gendry had never been more grateful for a rule in his life.
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