The sun beat mercilessly upon her as she observed the comatose man, the only sign of life being the gentle rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Sorcha's body still shielded him, though now from blinding sunlight rather than torrential rain. The afternoon was a stark contrast to the stormy morning proceeding. There wasn't a single wisp of white in the sky as she memorized every detail of the man's face. He was young, handsome, strong, everything she'd been warned against. His jet black hair had plastered itself against his pale porcelain skin. Dregs of ocean waves washed up around him, disturbing the soggy clothes now caked in sand.

Sorcha couldn't help but linger. She knew she should flee, but curiosity had always been her downfall. And what better opportunity to see a human up close? Hesitantly, she reached out her slender fingers to brush a few strands of hair from his eyes. He was shockingly similar to the mermen in her pod. But from the waist down, he was a foreign entity.

He seemed so peaceful in slumber. It was hard to place this man with that of her childhood cautionary tales. Asleep, it was almost impossible to link him to the monsters who'd taken Dyvon. So many young Merlings had been tempted by the charms of handsome sailors, only to meet a variety of unsavory ends. Yet here she was, a breath apart from one of them.

A short, sharp cough sounded from the man. His head tilted to the side of its own accord, and he began to dry heave over the sand. Sorsha flinched away, her heart a sudden thrum of fear. She scrambled across the wet sand, dragging herself into the shallows with the strength of her two arms. Her tail disappeared beneath the sea just as his eyes fluttered open.

Gendry's lungs screamed, his throat felt as if it'd been stripped raw. He let out an agonizing groan and rolled to his side. The sunlight bore down on his prone form and stung at his eyes just as the saltwater had. That was the first sensation he was able to distinguish. Then it was the scorching sand beneath him, wet with seafoam. The smell of sea brine and sun-dried kelp. Waves crashed, birds called, and palms rustled in the balmy post-storm breeze.

Something splashed in the water nearby, but when he turned to look, there was nothing but a light disturbance in the waves. He gazed out at the unfamiliar cove in bewilderment. Gendry couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. Had he washed ashore in the storm? How had he not drowned when his boat capsized? As he pushed himself shakily to his feet, he studied the sand between himself and the water. There were no footprints to be seen, only a large dent from something dragged ashore.

Someone must have saved him. It was the only logical explanation. How else could he have gotten there? He shielded his eyes from the sun's glare upon the water. In the far distance, he could scarcely make out the outline of a landmass, Westeros. He had somehow landed safely on land, but not the one he needed to be on.

From what he could tell of the island he stood upon, he believed it to be one of the countless vacant islands off the eastern coast. No-one stopped there, and trade routes avoided them due to unforeseen sandbars and coral reefs. His only hope would be to signal a passing boat, if by some miracle one passed close enough to see him.

Sorcha watched as the man pondered his predicament and turned towards the forest of palm trees. Her fingers clutched the rough surface of the clustered rocks she hid behind. About three meters from the shore, a boulder pierced the surface and provided her a perfect vantage point to spy on the human. Heart pounding out of her chest, she eyed his legs dubiously. It was one thing to see them laid out on the sand, but entirely different to see them in action.

He dragged his feet across the sand, kicking up clouds as he went. Sorcha was fearful of the power those legs gave him. So effortlessly could he haul her out of the water and stain that pure white sand crimson. But Sorsha also saw the opportunity The Drowned God had given her. Legs were the one thing keeping her from charging those sailors who stole Dyvon and bringing her sister home.

Gendry eyed the thick forest bordering the beach. It wasn't the most appealing option, but it was his only option. There wasn't a ship traversing the sparkling waters for as far as his eyes could see. Gendry patted his pockets for any trace of supplies. All that remained was a tiny, partially dull knife strapped to his waist.

The supplies Davos had packed for him were lost with the dingy, but luckily he'd had the good sense to sling the waterskin across his chest before the storm grew too volatile. He took a long sip from the pouch, much too empty for his liking. It took all of his willpower not to polish it off. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to find fresh water on the island.

Sweat beaded on his brow. The sun was no friend of his that day. As he approached the treeline, he took the knife from its sheath and clutched it tightly. It wouldn't do much against a wild boar or a venomous snake, but it made him feel slightly more secure as he ventured into unknown territory. He trudged through dense foliage for what seemed like hours, fending off spiders, mosquitoes, and a plethora of other unsavory creatures, until he reached the eastern edge of the island. There was no beach, only a steep drop off into rocky waters. He hadn't seen any sign of freshwater.

Sorcha watched the forest intently, searching for any indication of the man's return. He'd been gone for hours, and the sun had begun to dip low in the sky. She worried though she knew not why. She supposed he was precious cargo now. Somehow, she'd need to find a way to make him help her. When Gendry finally parted the wall of shining leaves and stumbled back onto the beach, he looked as if he'd been drained of all the energy he had.

He'd decided that he'd rather risk his luck camping on the beach than sleep with the creatures infesting those woods. A sturdy and slender stick was clutched in his hand, the only prize from his fruitless trek across the island. He sat with a dramatic thump, stretching out his legs and burrowing his toes in the burning sand. The knife in his pocket hadn't miraculously sharpened as he'd prayed.

With a groan, Gendry set to work, whittling the stick to a point. It was dull enough that every graze was an effort, and each time it took too much off the tip. As the sun began to descend upon the distant shore of Westeros, Gendry admired his handy work. Handy work would be a strong word for what he'd done. He may have been a blacksmith, but a whittler he most certainly was not.

Sorcha peeked out from behind the rocks, the warm light of the sunset reflecting off her glistening golden scales and dark skin. The man seemed to be struggling immensely. He'd deemed his work sufficient and hastily rolled up his pant legs to the knee. He waded into the shallows with his makeshift spear, which Sorcha couldn't help but giggle at. It looked more like something a muskrat had gnawed on than any weapon she'd ever seen.

Gendry watched the rippling sea with a keen eye, watching for any unsuspecting fish to swim past. It appeared the fish were much smarter than he gave them credit for. The moment his spear pierced the water, they'd be gone in a flash of silver scales, and Gendry was left with a growling stomach and a bruised ego. He was at once rueful and thankful that he was alone. If only to save himself the embarrassment.

When the final rays of sunlight winked from existence, Gendry resigned to remain hungry and returned to his spot on the sand. The temperature had dropped considerably in the darkness. He'd thankfully had the good sense to gather firewood before night had settled, and with a bit of work, soon he sat before a blazing campfire.

Fire was something he knew well. Once he'd taken comfort in its warmth and familiarity. The forge was his home. But Melisandre had spoiled it. Had he remained in Dragonstone, he might've been fated to death by the very thing he once believed he could wield like a sword. The fire was a gift of pure creation to a blacksmith. The man he was today was forged in it, just as any blade or arrow.

Gendry rubbed at his arms and laid back. Stars twinkled above him, unobstructed by any trees or buildings. There were views like this in King's Landing, but only if you knew where to find them. The sky lit up in a spiderweb of light, and Gendry prayed that The Seven were looking down upon him. Somehow, he doubted it.

Sorcha waited until the man's breathing settled into the deep and even pattern of sleep before pushing away from her hiding spot and swimming closer. He'd curled in on himself as he slumbered. Arms now wrapped around his torso in a vain attempt to protect from outside harm.

He was no doubt starving, as was Sorcha. She hadn't dared to leave her hiding spot once he'd returned to the beach. Diving beneath the waves, she searched amongst the ocean floor for something to eat. Oysters were the most prevalent form of food, often what they ate in the pod. Fish was much harder to catch, and her sharp unyielding nails were perfect for prying open their shells.

Pearls were quite the commodity as well. A gift from the Drowned God himself, they'd say. Her mother had a necklace of them, passed down to her by her mother. Sorcha often tried it on in secret, imagining that she was a grown mermaid, the leader of the Sirens. If only they could see her now.

With an armful of oysters and one unsuspecting sea bass, Sorcha returned to the little beach. In a nook between two rocks, she hid her dinner and set to work breaking apart the shells. Flinching at every audible snap and crunch the shells made. On the fifth oyster, a subtle glint caught her eye, and upon further inspection, Sorcha found a tiny glistening pearl. A metallic swirl of silver and blue cascaded across its surface, the moonlight catching on every variation of color within.

Perhaps it was a sign that all would be right in the end. That Dyvon would come out of this unharmed. Sorcha pinched the little pearl between thumb and forefinger and gently rolled it against her skin. The ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. The Drowned God was indeed watching over her.

Gendry awoke to the early morning sounds of twittering birds and rolling surf. His muscles screamed in protest as he propped himself up on his elbows. The fire was now only a pile of ash, having winked out sometime in the night. An animalistic rumble sounded, and he looked down at his empty stomach in dismay. But when his eyes turned upwards once more, he found his brows furrowed in confusion. For beside his long-dead fire was a pile of shucked oysters and a freshly caught sea bass. And atop it all sat a single shimmering pearl.

NOTE

Finally an update! I've been struggling to find inspiration for this fic and my Robb Stark one because it feels like the Game of Thrones fandom is dead after season 8. Which tbh is understandable considering that shitshow. But my babies shall never die so hopefully I'll be inspired to update again soon. Lmk what you guys think of this chapter!