The day Gendry left Tobho Mott's forge, he hadn't cried. He'd been too angry for tears. It wasn't a fit of anger that spit and hissed like a feral cat. It was a fury that sat silent and festered like a pot of scalding oil. For so long he wished he'd had the strength to yell and fight, to tell Tobho Mott just what he thought about his decision to cast Gendry aside like he did a hunk of bad metal. He'd stood there and listened to his mentor say that he'd sold him to the Night's Watch. Instead of pleading his case, Gendry had nodded solemnly and left to pack his meager belongings. The forge was the only true home that Gendry had ever known. There were times he could convince himself otherwise, that he could belong somewhere beyond the smoldering embers and melting steel. Yet, no matter how far he strayed, fate had always brought him back to where he belonged.

Gendry stared across the street to the open doors of the forge. He was struck with a peculiar fondness for the place he thought completely condemned in his mind. Heat wafted out onto the street, and if he squinted, he could see the ripples warping the air. Metal clanged within -- the swing of a hammer on the edge of a blade. Mott alone crafted within. Gendry always believed his banishment had been a fault of his shortcomings in the trade. That he would be replaced without a second thought. Now, he understood the truth.

Still, it was no easier to be back. Gendry was home, but he felt like a fraud. He'd burned every fond memory to ash in his mind, dragged them through the mud, and slashed them to ribbons with a dagger of his creation. A few villagers stared openly at him as they passed. He stuck out like a sore thumb. The way he was ogling the shop, they might've thought him a tourist if there were such a thing in Flea Bottom. Instead, he drew unwanted attention to himself. They may not be searching for Gendry Waters in King's Landing, but a suspicious character in the weeks leading up to the king's wedding would raise more alarms than he could afford. So without time to change his mind, Gendry crossed the street.

Tobho Mott's back was to the door, something Gendry had learned was never a good idea when you had enemies in the world. The forge, however, required it when cooling the steel in a trough of water. A great cloud of steam billowed up as the top of a blade was plunged into it. The water splattered, hissed, and spit, eventually calming to a lazy trail of silver.

Tobho Mott was a muscular man, his skin as deep brown as the leather he oiled for armor. Puckered scars littered his body, burns, and cuts from boiling water, steam, and red-hot steel. It was the look of a man who'd worked himself to the bone for his craft. Resilient yet weathered. It was how Gendry imagined he would look in his later years. That is if he made it that far. What he once thought a promise was, in actuality, a privilege.

The moment Mott turned to face the entrance, their eyes locked. Gendry felt his stomach somersault. His former mentor paused with the soaked blade held in his hand. A plethora of emotions danced across his face, and Gendry was not astute enough to read them with certainty beyond surprise. Tobho Mott was frozen to the spot, his brows furrowed and a tight frown dragging the corners of his lips. Gendry didn't know what he expected -- not a hug or a grin, not a screaming match or a swing of the sword, but he'd expected some reaction. Instead, Tobho Mott took three steps forward and placed the blade on its workstation. Without a word, he strode past Gendry and swung the two massive doors of the forge shut with a bang. The locks slid into place with a click, and Mott turned to face him again.

"What are you doing back here? Last I heard, you were dead." Tobho's voice was without emotion as he took in the entirety of Gendry's appearance. The burnt skin that had turned to tan, the hair grown nearly to his shoulders, and the worn clothes given to him by the pirates of The Aurora.

"That seems to be going around." Gendry was comforted by the consensus of his death among the people of Flea Bottom and the Gold Cloaks. He'd never been convinced that Arya's quick thinking in naming Lommy's body as the Blacksmith's apprentice had done the job of sparing him. "I almost was, more than once." If he was honest, he'd lost count of his near-death experiences. Four years on the run, he'd accumulated far more enemies than friends. The friends he did have were constantly dwindling.

"And you thought coming back here was a good idea? You've gone mad, boy? I sent you away for a reason." There was a hint of what looked and sounded like frustration in Mott's voice. The muscles of his jaw worked with restraint. Gendry felt the little boy inside himself shrink back beneath his stare, but the man he'd become set his shoulders and stared back.

"Possibly, but I didn't have much choice. Besides, you didn't seem to think that reason was important enough to share before you got rid of me. I had to find out the truth the hard way." Bitterness seeped between his teeth, a growing discomfort culminating in his chest. Mott either didn't notice or didn't care, for he remained as stoic as before.

"The truth would've gotten you killed."

  "The truth would've kept me safe." Gendry barely paused before snapping back with force. He scoffed and shook his head with resignation. "It doesn't matter anyway. More than just the Goldcloaks are looking for me now." At this, Mott's expression soured.

"So you came back to destroy any chance of survival? You'll be dead within the week if you stay here." He said it like a fact, not a possibility. Perhaps he was right. Maybe he was a fool to consider it. It wouldn't be the first time he chose wrong along the way.

"The gold cloaks think they killed me four years ago. That bull helmet I took with me convinced them I died when they ambushed our caravan." Recognition flickered across Mott's aged face, his scarred cheek rippling with a frown. It was the same helmet that Arya's father complimented the day he'd come to the forge. He'd once believed the helm to be a good luck charm, a sign of power, a symbol to call his own. He had no house sigil, no identity other than the poor bastard boy from Flea Bottom. Now he knew that a helm such as that brought nothing but trouble and unwanted attention. Gendry found he could speak to his former mentor with his authority as a man, no longer a boy under his apprenticeship. His eyes held steady, his arms slack. "I've grown up these past four years. The people in Fleabottom who cared enough to know my name are all dead, except you and Nour. I don't believe either of you would sell me out for a pocket of coin."

"That doesn't explain why you're back here now." Tobho crossed his arms, muscles the size of grapefruit puckered pink with burns. "Why risk it? Why not take the first boat to Essos and start over?" It was a good question. Part of the answer was that he wasn't entirely alone. He had little Arya and Hot Pie to look after, a burden he'd accepted without much thought on the matter. They'd saved each other's lives over and over. At some point along the way, Gendry unconsciously decided that their trio was where he would stay. Even after Harrenhal, when he had no obligation to take them further. Even when Hot Pie found himself a home at that little bakery, Gendry would've gone all the way to The Wall with his friend had he not been deceived by a false promise of brotherhood.

"My uncle's under the thumb of a Red Priestess." It felt wrong to utter the word 'uncle,' but it was true. Stannis was his uncle by blood-- a fact he had yet to process. "She took me prisoner for my blood. The blood of kings, she called it. I managed to escape with help, but I need somewhere to lie low." Melisandre was a maggot. She burrowed her way into the ear of the last Baratheon, eating away at all that made him honorable and good. She warped perception, ensnared his heart and mind, then turned it on the world as a weapon. Gendry knew firsthand how alluring she could be.

"And you thought this was the best place to do it?" Mott raised a brow, sensing there was more to his return than he was saying. It sounded absurd to his ears, but Sir Davos was a good man, an honorable one. He wouldn't have helped him escape if he wasn't. The man seemed to know what he was talking about, though Gendry couldn't tell the difference. His lips flattened to a thin line of displeasure.

"I owe someone a favor." It was more a mutual agreement than a favor, but something in his mind whispered that he would've helped Sorcha even if he received nothing in return. "I plan to see it through."

"You should know by now that favors get you killed." It was a harsh observation, but more times than not, the truth.

"I owe her my life, the least I can do is help her find her sister." Tobho Mott was already making Gendry feel like a child again. He felt the need to justify his actions, to seek approval from the only parental figure he'd ever known.

"Ah, so it's a woman." Mott's lips curved up now, a flicker of amusement that lit a flame of irritation inside Gendry.

"It's not like that." He was quick to clarify, only succeeding in making him look more guilty. "Her sister was kidnapped and brought here. She saved my life on the road, and I'm repaying the debt by helping her."

"It doesn't matter what it's like-- you'll end up dead."

"I owe her this."

"You owe her nothing." There was a sharp edge to this statement as if Mott was working to pierce his point through to Gendry's heart. "Don't waste your life chasing someone else's ghosts."

"If that's what you think, why send me away?"

"I didn't send you away because I felt I owed it to you. I sent you away because I wanted you to survive." Mott's hands slammed against his work table, rattling hammers and pliers. But just as soon as his outburst began, his expression softened. His eyes drooped with a mix of sorrow and earnestness. "I never had children of my own. I longed for them, but there was never an opportunity. I took an apprentice for the sake of my shop, but you were always more than that. Within a year, I had two separate Hands come asking about you." I put the pieces together long before they did, but when both met untimely ends I knew it had something to do with you. I decided I'd rather send you away than watch you slaughtered before me." A lump crawled its way up Gendry's throat and lodged itself behind his adam's apple. It took him a few failed attempts to swallow it down and gather his thoughts.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice hitched with surging emotion. It was all too much for him to process. Nour had said as much when she sent him to the forge. But Gendry hadn't believed her. Hearing it from Mott's lips, seeing the anguish dancing across his face like the shadows of a dying fire, was when it struck him. "All this time, I thought you cast me aside like dirt."

"If I thought there was any other way to keep you safe, I would've done it. Yoren was a good man. I knew he'd help you and give you a good life at The Wall. I wished nothing more than to keep you. Haven't taken another apprentice even after all these years."

"I'm so sorry."

"By The Seven, what for?"

"For thinking you were the type of man to get rid of me. I loathed you. I thought you were a monster -- no better than the bloody Lannisters. I was so stupid."

"You have no reason to apologize."

"But I do--"

"Listen, my boy." He raised his voice slightly, but it was not unkind. "I would rather you loathe me your entire life, cast me out of your heart and into that damned fire--" He made a passionate gesture to the smoldering forge-- "Than have you slaughtered by a fucking bitch like Cersei Lannister. You survived. You made it all this time on your own. That's all I ever cared about." Tears flickered in his dark eyes, red and gold in the firelight. Mott stared intently, his gaze piercing like the swords and daggers crafted by his hand. Gendry felt pinpricks behind his own and mounting pressure in his head and chest. His lips pursed hard to keep the tears at bay, but there was nothing he could do. Tobho Mott hunched over his workstation with his shoulders bowed inward with grief.

With a shuddering breath, Gendry crossed the space between them. His body crashed against the solid wall that was Tobho Mott, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. Mott stood still a moment. His head fell hopelessly onto Gendry's shoulder. Then his arms wrapped the boy in a bone-crushing embrace. The pain and hatred between them melted away like hot metal and molded itself into something new. Something stronger than steel or diamonds.

"You've grown so much, boy." It was then that Mott took in Gendry's appearance. A smile brightened his face. To those who didn't know the master blacksmith, Tobho Mott might've seemed brutish, hardened, and abrasive. He was a big man, but when he grinned, the warmth he exuded was like the sun on a mild afternoon. "A proper man, you are." He clapped a hand across Gendry's shoulder and squeezed affectionately.

"Don't think I've had much cause to notice." Gendry gave a sad smile. He hadn't paid much attention to his changing body, how his face was more chiseled and defined, his body less lanky and more like a man, a warrior. He wondered if he did look like Robert Baratheon in his youth. There didn't seem to be much of a likeness between him and Stannis, though maybe he hadn't been looking hard enough. Arya told him a little about the different houses, idle chatter as they walked. It was knowledge she claimed to be abysmal at remembering correctly. It was always her elder sister, Sansa, who was the proper one. But Arya had no issue in relaying the facts of House Baratheon.

Charcoal black hair, eyes the exact shade of blue that painted the sky on a clear day. They were strong, brawn over brains, she'd said. A comparison she often made of Gendry and herself. It hadn't bothered him. It did ring with truth more often than not. She was the clever one, though too hot-headed for her own good. That was where he had helped her, keeping her from barging head first into trouble. He sometimes wondered if his own bull would've been a better sigil for her than a wolf.

She'd told him war stories of Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon, how he'd wielded a hammer as well as if it was an extension of his arm. That was the similarity that struck him most. Gendry was familiar with hammers. It was his weapon of choice if he was in a fight. He wielded it in the forge, over and over as it made the metal sing.

But no matter how similar Gendry was to Robert, the man had never been a father to him. That title always belonged to the man before him. The Blacksmith who'd taken him as his own. Who taught him, fed him, loved him. Robert Baratheon was none of those things to Gendry. He was a stranger and a ghost. If he'd been born a Baratheon, not a Waters, it might've been different. Gendry slowly pulled away and began wiping his wet eyes with the stained sleeve of his tunic.

"My friend is with Nour now, but she can't stay there."

"She's welcome to bunk here. Whatever you need. Your old room is just like you left it. Might've dropped a few crates of supply back there, but nothing we can't clear out easy enough." Mott pointed to the door at the far back of the forge. It was a room scarcely more than a broom closet, but it'd been more than Gendry could ask. He looked at Gendry pensively. "Though, I hope you will heed my warning in your future endeavors." Gendry paused. Mott's warning echoed in the back of his mind. You owe her nothing. You'll get yourself killed. Do not waste your life chasing someone else's ghosts. Then, he nodded.

NOTE

Please excuse how completely fucked all my books look rn because Wattpad decided to make every photo and gif in everyone's books stop working and now I have to go through, replace headers, gifs, dividers, and graphics galleries for every book. So maybe not a new update until I fix everything. Don't forget to vote and comment cause it fuels my writing!