The walk back to the forge was cloaked in silence. Gendry's melancholy hung like a storm cloud above their heads, ready to bring upon a tempest as ferocious as the one they'd met in. Sorcha walked beside him all the same, eyes scanning the curiosities of Flea Bottom's streets, and the complexities of Gendry's expression in turn. He was quieter than she'd ever known him to be. While his disposition wasn't exactly chatty, he was never aloof, and certainly not cold. When he spoke, the sound startled her into a flinch.

"Mott knows only that we met along our journey. Same as Nour. We will stick to that for now." They turned the corner, and the open doors of Mott's shop came into view. Dimly lit with the light of a few lanterns and the glowing embers of the forge, it throbbed like blood through a heart. Sorcha nodded and made her way to the front without waiting for him. He reminded himself that he ought to tell her not to do that. She tended to wander off. In a city like Kings Landing, that was treacherous.

"This is where you grew up?" She moved her head in an arc, soaking up every dingy detail like a sponge. Gendry swallowed as a warmth spread from his toes like climbing ivy. He'd always been proud of his apprenticeship and wore it like a badge of honor on his breast. Sorcha was out of place surrounded by soot and metal scraps. She didn't belong in the dregs of society with a dirty blacksmith like him. Unlike the high ladies of the Red Keep, Sorcha didn't balk and grimace at the state of the forge. She studied it like a precious discovery, not something to be discarded and buried.

"Yes, some of the time, anyway." Gendry didn't remember much before Mott took him in. He caught glimpses sometimes, the passing scent of cloves and a flash of straw-colored hair. It was more of a feeling that he remembered, nothing concrete, but a fleeting radiance that warmed him to his core. All his life, Gendry yearned to return to such a sensation. But it was gone, a ghost dancing about the edge of a dark room, forever just out of reach.

Sorcha examined the piles of raw metal, waiting to melt into something new. She ran a finger along a steel block, revealing its smooth edge. It was sweltering within the shop, and the humid night heat of the outdoors was a refreshing contrast to the hellfire inside. At the far edge of the room, a man of hulking size stood hunched over a table, too engrossed in his work to take notice of his visitors.

"Mott," Gendry called, and the man started, almost banging his head on a dangling chain. He regained his composure once he saw who it was.

"Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you decided to spend the night at the brothel." He looked at Sorcha now, and his eyebrows rose to his hairline. Gendry cringed. Sorcha just had to be the most beautiful woman to step foot in Westeros. He knew that Mott wouldn't let him hear the end of it for as long as he lived. "This must be Miss Sorcha. It's a pleasure to finally put a face to the name, and what a beautiful face it is. Gendry is lucky to have found a traveling companion so easy on the old eyes."

"Thank you, you're very kind. I appreciate you giving me a place to stay the night."

"Yes, well, Gendry's good as family, and from the looks of things, so are you." Mott looked between them with the faintest smirk curling his lips. Gendry's eyes narrowed. "Make yourself at home. You can stay as long as you need. There's a pub round the corner where you can get a cheap pint and a hot meal. Gendry remembers where it is. I'm sure he'd take ya'." Mott winked at Sorcha, and Gendry placed a hand on her back.

"I can handle things from here, thank you." Gendry cut in, sensing where Mott's talk was headed and wishing to divert the topic by any means necessary. He gently nudged Sorcha towards the back, where the door to his bedroom was.

"We have only just arrived," Sorcha protested, trying to turn back to address Mott. Gendry was undeterred.

"We should get settled. Mott has a lot to do." Gendry announced and Sorcha frowned.

"Oh, alright." She nodded, "Tomorrow, then." Gendry hummed in agreement, though if he had his way they would remain as far apart as possible.

"Sure." He ushered her along, as Sorcha poked her head over his shoulder to call back to Mott.

"Goodnight, Tobho." Mott grinned, his chest shaking with silent laughter.

"Goodnight, Sorcha." Gendry shut the door pointedly between them and let out a breath of relief. It was going to be impossible to prove that Gendry was helping Sorcha because of their agreement, and not for any less proper intentions. But Gendry hadn't thought of their agreement for a very long while. Not once since he arrived did he think of anything to do with a transaction of services between them. The deal was that she saved his life and got him to King's Landing and he helped her find Dyvon. After that, Gendry had no reason to stick by her side. But he couldn't just abandon her in Kings Landing, could he?

Gendry flopped down on the bed. His muscles ached, and he was ready to pass out for the night. The room was lit by a single lantern, its light cast shadows over the furniture in a way that projected ghastly shadows across the stone walls. In his youth, it used to frighten him. Gendry would watch with the covers at his chin as they danced, mocking him with silent malice. He now knew what true evil looked like, and it wasn't that.

Gendry's room was more of a broom closet, where he spent the evening clearing extra tools and lumps of metal with the help of Mott. It was only large enough to fit a mattress low on the floor, and a small set of drawers, topped with a mirror and basin. There were no decorations on the walls, but along the window ledge, only large enough to poke a head out, metal figurines stood in a perfect line. A thin sheen of dust collected like snow upon them. It was just as he'd left it, a memorial to his innocence, however fleeting.

Gendry stared at them - soldiers forged from the scraps of noblemen's swords and armor. They were one of the only material possessions he had in this world, and he was forced to leave them behind. He'd almost forgotten they existed and that, for a time, he was safe and protected, even loved. It all flooded back in a bittersweet tidal wave, sending him head over heels in a current he couldn't escape.

"I suppose we should prepare for sleep, then. In the morning, we will discuss our plan for Dyvon." Sorcha nodded to herself, not noticing Gendry's far-off expression. She began unwinding the countless interwoven laces of her gown. It was lovely, but it wasn't the simplest of executions. It was much cooler in the back room, thanks to the stone structure and the distance from the forge. But Sorcha still felt suffocated beneath layers of cotton. It took her quite a bit of fiddling and the help of the hanging mirror to undo the ties and slip off her corset. Then she undid her overskirt and let it fall in a pile on the floor. She was in a thin chemise that hung about her loose and airy. If Sorcha had her way, she'd take it all off, but Gendry was a strange human. Much too modest in her opinion.

Gendry ran his fingers along the smooth surface of the glistening pearl. His mind knew every dip of its glass-like edge, every variation, and the swirl of its milky hue. He knew it like the lines of his palm. It was a familiar, grounding sensation he'd grown fond of since the morning he found the pearl sitting atop a pile of oysters like a gift from the drowned god himself. He held it close throughout their journey, reaching into his pouch for a cool, comforting touch. Gendry sought Sorcha's pearl in the most trying times like a high lady clutched tight to her prayer beads in stress.

This was by far the worst of his journey. Beheadings, sadistic soldiers, and Red Priestesses paled beside the growing chasm in his stomach now. He sat at the edge of the worn straw cot that used to be his. Once upon a time, he complained about its lumps and dips. Now, it was like lying on a cloud. He spent too many nights sleeping on the cold damp ground, nights in the pig pen with Arya in the haunted grounds of Harrenhal.

"Nour did show me how to do this." Sorcha struggled to wrap the silk scarf around her hair. She managed to cover most of it, but it looked nothing like the impeccably knotted bonnet Nour demonstrated. She huffed, tugging at the edges only to create gaps in other sections. Gendry remained silent, his eyes unfocused as he turned the pearl over and over. Sorcha furrowed her brows, a blanket of worry settling the frustration in her. "Gendry?" Still, he ignored her, though she was sure it was unintentional. Sorcha dropped her hands from their fiddling.

She crossed the room in three strides and knelt before him, her skirts fanning into a pool of white snow. Gazing up through full lashes, Sorcha searched for the man she knew, but he was off in a memory, a haunted one from what she could tell. His shoulders hunched, his overgrown hair falling in a dark curtain beside his face, he reeked of sorrow and regret. Sorcha's heart clenched. She wanted to stand between him and his pain as a shield.

Her hands reached out on instinct. One lay atop his as he fiddled with the pearl, her touch slowing his movement. The other ran along the scruff of his jaw and the dark beard that grew with every passing day. Sorcha's palm cupped his cheek, and there she found wetness from silent tears shed. His eyes, as piercing blue as the sky itself, met hers. The torment Sorcha saw within was enough to strike her like a hand to the face. She leaned into him, her chest pressing against his calves, and lifted her chin.

"What is it?" Sorcha whispered, her thumb running along the ridge of his cheekbone. Gendry thought her voice was like a caress to his clawing chest. Soothing like a salve on a burn. "You can tell me."

"I'm afraid that if I do, you'll think less of me." He refused to meet her gaze, even when she positioned herself in its path. His chest was weighted by the body of his sins. Taking a breath felt akin to lifting a boulder above his head.

"Nothing you can say would do that." Sorcha poured as much compassion into those words as she could. He leaned into her touch on his cheek, shutting his eyes to savor her warmth and her perfect silky skin. Gendry shook his head, his lips grazing her palm ever so slightly. Sorcha wanted them to linger, but they were gone as soon as they arrived.

"That is where you're wrong." Gendry swallowed the growing lump in his throat, but it remained a solid stone lodged within. Sorcha was too pure, for this world, for him, for all of it. He was anything but. "I'm not this brave, strong, protector. I'm not a man of honor or title. I'm no knight in shining armor. I am a bastard. A bastard who let his friend run to her death because of a few empty promises." If he only listened to Arya when she asked him to go with her to Winterfell. If he'd stood by her side like she had his. Perhaps she would still be alive. How different their lives would be. Sorcha's face tightened, and Gendry watched from his periphery as she sought his gaze.

"If you truly believe I will hate you once I know, then tell me. Let me prove you wrong." Her whisper was so achingly sincere and fierce that his heart clenched. Somehow, Sorcha had reached inside him, and now his heart was in her hands.

"You aren't like me. You are good and pure and innocent. I don't want to take that from you."

"I lost that the moment my sister was taken." Sorcha's eyes fluttered shut as shimmering tears leaked from between dark lashes. "When I close my eyes, all I can see is her face. She was terrified, and she needed me. I could do nothing but watch. I feel so-- so angry. At myself, at men, at the way things are. I'm angry that I was unprepared for the realities of the surface. The Sirens told us it was dangerous, but they never told us why. They said, 'stay close to the reef', but not what would happen if you strayed too far." Sorcha clenched her teeth, and for the first time, Gendry saw the depth of her pain. He'd seen her as something ethereal, untouchable, but she was just like anyone else. She was vengeful and heartbroken, and desperate. "I'm far from innocent. Maybe I was, once. But not anymore. Not for a long time."

Gendry met her gaze, and in her eyes, he saw a sorrow akin to his own. Arya was gone, and Dyvon was gone. Gendry held onto hope that Arya made it home, that she was safe in her mother's arms. He pictured her in a dress, miserable and spiteful like a wronged spirit. That was what she was meant to be, not a bargaining chip in a war for power. She wasn't meant to be slain before she'd seen four and ten.

Gendry told Sorcha everything. From the moment he'd stepped between Arya and those two stable boys in Kings Landing. To the night she saved his life by naming Lommy the Baratheon Bastard the Gold Cloaks wanted. He spoke of nights spent in the icy rain and mud of the Harrenhall pig pen, the screams, and pleas of tortured souls that echoed through its cursed halls. He spoke of his deception at the hands of the Brotherhood Without Banners. His naive hope for a new life and a family. He told her his biggest regret. The moment he turned his best friend away for a false promise. Sorcha listened intently and sat beside him on the bed for what very well could've been hours. She gripped his hand when the pricking of his eyes spilled over into salty tears and let him speak his pain aloud.

Gendry wove the story through every twisting turn and agonizing mistake he'd made. He trusted Melisandre, blinded by beauty and empty words, and fell victim to her plot. Ser Davos was perhaps the only man to care enough to do the right thing, even when it put his life in peril. When Gendry trailed off, his story emptying into the journey they shared, he and Sorcha sat in pensive silence. Gendry braced himself for her rejection and the disgust and judgment he cast inward. It never came.

"You are not at fault for what happened to her. For any of it." Sorcha's voice cut through his misery. He looked up at her, with her eyes warm and inviting, yet so sharp. Sorcha fought to convey every bit of conviction in her voice and expression. Her hand squeezed his. His palm was calloused and scarred from years of smithing.

"You can't know that." Gendry shook his head, the lump in his throat expanding. This time it was a different emotion. Relief.

"Yes, I can." She nodded and reached up to cup his cheeks in both hands. Her grip forced him to look at her, really look at her. "You protected that girl at every turn, kept her secret like an oath. You were a brother to her when she had none to speak of. Gendry, you couldn't have known what would happen to her."

"My mind knows that. But my heart tells a different story." His eyes pressed shut, squeezing out hot tears. They fell in the crease between her palm and his cheek, trailing down her wrist and forearm. Still, she kept her hold on him.

"Do you think I am at fault for my sister being taken?" This time her voice was strong, commanding, and fierce.

"Of course not." He immediately refuted the suggestion. If he knew one thing to be true, it was that Sorcha was innocent of any guilt.

"Then you must believe the same of yourself. Even when every fiber of your being wants to place blame." As Sorcha voiced the words aloud, she spoke not just to Gendry but to herself. She knew the right of self-inflicted blame. She wore her shame like a second skin. As her voice filled the silent room, Sorcha let its vibration loosen the grip of her guilt. She let it fall to the floor like the fabric of her gown. And there she left it to gather dust. "We made choices, some we regret more than anything. I couldn't have known those sailors would take Dyvon any more than you could've known the Starks would be killed. I've been spinning round and round, spiraling, with all this guilt and blame and agony. But the one thing that's given me comfort is knowing that, though I couldn't stop them from taking her, I will make sure I take her back." Gendry set his jaw and met her gaze with new conviction.

"So will I." He promised, and this time, he decided they would succeed.

NOTE

It's been more than a hot minute since I updated and life has been up the walls insane. Most of you probably know I'm focusing on my novel and that takes most of my writing time. Buuuuttt I'm feeling inspired for this fic so I'm gonna try to update more and hopefully fucking finish after literally forever.