Water trickled across bloodied knuckles, pouring back into the pink tinted bucket below. Gendry squeezed the soaked cloth with one fist and watched as the distorted reflection of his battered face vanished beneath a waterfall of his own creation. Onyx eyes stared forward, drawn and unseeing. There was no spark of joy, intelligence, or even curiosity dancing behind them like fabled fire sprites amidst a barren winter. It was as if the essence of the Sorcha he knew had scurried back into the farthest recesses of her mind and barricaded herself beneath a landslide of granite.

Goosebumps trailed across her skin in the wake of the damp cloth that washed away the evidence of the earlier atrocity. It had been an inevitable moment, Gendry knew. A moment in which she saw the world of men for what it truly was. When she saw him amongst his people and realized that the man he was when they met is merely who he wished he could be -- not the reality of his character. No man could go through life unscathed, untainted with the blood and dirt of lesser beings -- and none could say that they had never been the lesser being themselves. What a fool he had been to believe she would continue to look at him with such a sparkle in her eyes, with that damned dazzling smile of hers.

Every time Gendry's fingers brushed against her warm ochre skin, he would freeze, his eyes flitting to hers in anticipation of the moment when she would inevitably recoil from his touch. She never did. The water he used had grown cold much too quickly, and he debated ordering another be heated for her. But at the thought of leaving her side, he decided it would have to do. Her borrowed gown was discarded and sent with one of the crew to be cleaned. She remained in the thin chemise that was mercifully protected from the spray of blood.

Gendry ran the cloth across the delicate line of her collarbone, down between the curve of her breast. Warmth rushed to his face, but Sorcha was still too catatonic to notice his embarrassment. Had she been herself, she would've chastised him for being too reserved, too prudish. He never thought he'd see the day a woman called him a prude.

It was his own chastising that settled his fluttering heart and helped him regain composure. His eyes trailed down the gleaming skin of her arms, and it was then that he noticed the almost imperceptible tremor of her fingers. Her expression remained impassive, not a trace of what she may be thinking or feeling.

Gendry let the cloth plop back into the clouded water bucket. With the gentlest touch he could muster, he wrapped his hands around hers, steadying the shake of her fingers with the unwavering solidity of his own. Sorcha's hands were soft as velvet, unmarred by the thick calluses as his were. Despite their delicacy, her slender fingers were strong. Not as thin and light as the bones of a bird, like most noble ladies. Given her life beneath the waves, the strength she'd shown in saving his life that fateful night, he wouldn't be surprised if she proved as strong as he. Her arms certainly looked muscular enough. He remembered the tales of warrior women across the sea to Essos, fighting alongside men for their kingdoms. She was the spitting image of what they'd described. But she was not hardened to the world. Not steely and ferocious as a lion. Sorcha was warm and kind. But not weak -- never weak.

The pad of his thumbs traced the line of her knuckles with profound tenderness. He didn't bother trying to speak to her. It would do nothing but fill the silence with meaningless reassurances. Shifting his weight, Gendry settled himself on the floor beside her. There was room enough beside her on the window bench that he could've sat beside her, but somehow this felt less intrusive. Their fingers remained intertwined, resting between them as naturally as if they were one. It was silent for a long while, the only stirring the rhythmic rise and fall of their chests as they breathed in near unison and the rush of waves outside stained glass.

There was a slight pressure in his palm as fingers tightened against his. Angling his chin to the side, Gendry glanced from their hands to her face. A single tear drifted lazily down her cheek, carving out its path to the ground. Gendry bent his neck down to place his lips against the back of her hand in. Sorcha's grip tightened in response as if trying to glean any strength he could give her through touch alone. He would happily oblige her, thankful that, for now, she still believed him worthy of her time.

"Is it all gone?" Her whisper was almost swallowed up by the constant roar of ocean currents. "The blood?" She didn't look away from the spot at the far wall she'd fixated on. Gendry raked his gaze over her, checking that he had gotten every last drop of it.

"Yes," He glanced at the cloudy pink water and the stained rag that floated atop the surface, just as that sailor's headless body would in a few days. That is if the sea creatures hadn't already cleaned the flesh from his bones.

"I can still feel it." The lines of her neck strained, tendons flexing and protruding as she swallowed the thick lump in her throat. Her skin was crawling as if she had swum through a hoard of sea lice.

"I know," Gendry frowned. He knew the feeling all too well. He was five years old when he'd seen his first blood spilled. Two men fighting in the pub where his mother worked. As the years dragged on, memories of his mother faded into the ether, but the memory of the man slain at the hands of another remained fresh as morning dew.

"I cannot let that wretched man hurt Dyvon. I know now what humans are capable of firsthand. The stories I was told as a girl, I was too naive to heed their warning. Had Darian- Captain Hornigold- not intervened, that man would've spilled my blood across the deck for no reason other than revenge."

"I wouldn't have let that happen. I couldn't live with myself if you were hurt or-" Or worse, killed. A flash of Sorcha's severed head rolling across the deck, her body slumping to the ground and fidgeting just as the sailors had, passed behind his vision. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as he swiped the picture from his mind and stowed it deep in the recesses of his consciousness.

"You are not like them. You are good, Gendry. Kind." His eyes prickled with emotion. He wished her words rang true.

"Everyone is like them to some degree. Even I am. We all have a part of us willing to do the unspeakable. It takes only a moment for it to rear its head and strike. It is easy to let it out, to succumb to it, and sometimes it is a necessary evil." To survive the unspeakable, one must become something else entirely. Lock away the innocent core of your soul behind a cask of forged steel. He'd learned this long ago, and it had been just as earth-shattering as it was now for Sorcha.

"Will you stay with me?" It was then that she looked down at him with red-rimmed eyes and furrowed brows. Gendry pushed himself up from the floor to sit beside her, taking their joined hands and resting them on his lap. With his one free hand, he brushed his fingers across her dampened cheek. Sorcha leaned into this touch and let her lashes flutter shut as he wiped her tears away.

"I wouldn't dream of leaving." He pressed a kiss to her hand once more. "My Hammock is also here, so it would be highly inconvenient if I had to seek other accommodations tonight." The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. After a moment, her head sank to rest upon his shoulder. Gendry stiffened. She didn't hate him. Overwhelming relief washed over him. The silence had been almost as painful as if she'd told him she loathed his presence. But though she was aching and raw from trauma, she at least held some affection for him. Her trust in him remained, and his in her.

Captain Slank twirled a dagger between his fingers as he sat behind the massive desk of his quarters. Across from him, sat the Quartermaster, beside him, stood the First Mate, arms crossed as he recounted the news of the day to his superior.

"The Merling will be the main entertainment for the wedding. A raven was sent ahead, and The King will be expecting a grand gift to celebrate his nuptials."

"Good." Slank leaned back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully. "We will be in the king's favor for as long as he reigns over the seven kingdoms." Though Slank didn't smile, his hum of approval was enough to placate his underling's nerves. The First Mate pressed his lips into a thin line.

"Joffrey Baratheon is notoriously unpredictable." He spoke slow and concisely as if each word sailed him further into treacherous waters. "Are you positive you wish to do business with him, sir?" The Quartermaster glanced warily towards their captain and leaned forward. A line of tension formed at the corner of Slank's lips, the only sign of displeasure.

"The boy is a spoiled tart. He wants nothing more than to be fawned over and showered with gifts." Slank pressed a finger to the tip of his dagger, pressing in until his skin was on the brink of breaking. "He craves power for the sake of power. A facade he can wield without skill or tact. A king in possession of a Merling's heart-- that will be something to behold." Tales of the young King Joffrey's cruel disposition spread like wildfire across the sea, and many sailors had chosen to take their business elsewhere rather than risk falling out of favor with the boy. Trade regulations were tightened to a nooselike coil. Port Authority was taking any chance to arrest wayward sailors and illegal imports. Furthermore, The Battle of Blackwater Bay left the path to King's Landing a graveyard of Stannis Baratheon's ships. It served as a reminder to any illegal traders of the wrath the young king could bring down upon his enemies.

"But, Captain, Merlings are almost mythical. Surely we should preserve the creature rather than kill it?" The Quarter Master, Mr. Alan Everie had grown on the shores of the Iron Islands, where Merlings were nearly as revered as their Drowned God. Merlings were his children, the beings who guarded his watery halls with their crafted tridents and lethal song.

"You know the legends, Mr, Everie." Captain Slank stared pointedly across the desk at his Quartermaster. It wasn't quite a glare, but somehow the coolness behind it was just as menacing. Everie shifted in his seat. "He who holds a Merling's heart in his hands will be granted all that he desires. The Stag King will reward the men who present the creature to him with his favor."

"There are also legends of Merling's savagery when angered." There was the slightest edge to Everie's voice. He knew the warnings of the tales Slank spoke of, and he wished not to bring the wrath of The Drowned God down upon his crew. Slank raised a brow at this. A creak sounded through the cabin, low and groaning like the solemn wail of a sea spirit. Ships like The Carnival were always groaning and creaking as they traversed choppy seas.

"Does that little Mermaid look like it could do much against our entire crew?" Slank spoke with a chilling calm, a warning sound. Everie's brows knit together, his jaw flexing with vexation.

"It almost took Orin's arm off." There was no hiding the anger brewing in the Quartermaster's chest. It bubbled over in the quickened sharp tones. Everie was not an easily angered man. He was known for his uncanny ability to keep his composure even in the most vicious of tempests. The First Mate's eyes had widened a fraction, and now he glanced feverishly between the Captain and Quartermaster. "It is more than---"

A sickening crunch and muffled thud sounded through the cabin. A second passed, where The First Mate hadn't registered what happened. Then the blood-curdling scream split the air in two. Captain Slank's fist curled around the handle of his dagger. The blade was embedded in the dark wood of his desk, having cut through Everie's resting hand in one fluid plunge. Mr. Everie clutched his hand, groans, and cries escaped as he stared wide-eyed between his pierced hand and his captain, who was just as collected as he had been before. Slank glanced up at his First Mate, who seemed to be frozen in place, not knowing whether to help or pretend as if nothing had happened.

"Any other objections?" Just outside the door, a young boy swallowed his rising terror. As the telltale screech of chair legs against the floor slipped beneath the door, Navi Sand scampered off with a pit in his stomach.