It was a usual, sweltering summer day in the Red Keep. The forge's doors were left open to allow the heat of the fires to mingle outside, and permit a soft breeze to flow in every once in a while. Gendry noted that it was rather pointless when one was standing over the forging fires, but even a hint of coolness was welcome on a day like this.
It was on this typical summer day, that an unusual guest practically danced into the forge, balancing on the balls of her feet as she glanced between his employer and the open door.
"And what is a lady doing in the armory?" The Smith asked, eyebrow raised in a ruin of his polite tone as he inspected the girl.
"Looking for my father," the girl replied, head held high.
"Well I can assure you that your father is not hiding in here," Mott joked, shoulders shaking with his deep, throaty laughter.
"His sword has been notched and dulled, one he got from here not more than sixteen moons ago as if it were years of age," she replied swiftly and without hesitation.
"You must've got the wrong armory then girl, run back and ask again, and if he restates, tell him to come himself and we'll talk. Though I doubt he will," Mott dismissed her, turning back to the notched wooden table.
I was silent, but watchful as I noticed the girl glance outside, then back at me. She met my gaze if only for a moment before glancing away as though I made her nervous.
"I'll tell my father the Smith's tongue is sharper than his swords, and if he wants to deal with him than he can leave me out of it upon his next visit," she replied, a whisper of a smirk upon her lips before she whisked out of the door, long straw-coloured hair flying behind her.
"What're you chuckling at boy? Think a woman who doesn't know her tongue's place is funny? Ahh get back to work," he grunted, waving me away. I only shook my head with a grin, returning to my broadsword. I knew that there was little chance that the unusual girl came here on her father's demand, by the way she glanced out the door every five seconds unlikely that my forging master would notice though.
Rachel smiled at the crisp bread hidden in her cloak, dodging through the edges of the crowd. Not too close to the edges mind you, she knew how far the reaches of mud-caked hands could grab out on young women and orphans alike.
"Ever think of joining a whorehouse?" the thin figure in the corner of their small home greeted, glancing up from her work on a torn cloak.
"Welcome home yourself," Rachel replied, unwrapping the bread and breaking off a piece for her companion. "Honestly Emma, I've considered it briefly, very briefly. Didn't take long for me to decide against the rough voices and rough hands of uncivilized men."
"We're uncivilized Rachel," Emma laughed, taking a bite out of the bread.
"True, but at least you have a nice laugh," Rachel smiled crookedly in return, seating herself upon the small wooden table with crossed legs.
"Are you going to bring any to your father?" her friend questioned, glancing at the bread. Rachel broke another piece off and tossed it over.
"He can steal his own bread if he wants some, that or next time he orders another drink, he can think twice and order a small meal instead," she replied casually, wrinkling her nose as a fight broke out by the open window.
"That boy gave me some apples today," Emma changed the subject, standing with a stretch and shake of her short rust-brown hair.
"The market boy, West?" the other girl questioned, smiling slightly. "Did he ask for anything in return, a kiss maybe?" She chuckled teasingly, wrapping up the bread.
"Just a smile and a promise of a visit tomorrow or the next day," Emma replied, shaking her head at Rachel's laughter.
"Still don't like him?"
"I like him just fine, but if I have the choice I'd rather his father not follow us home and take note of our faces, thieves as we are."
"Shhh Emma," Rachel laughed, hopping off the table and covering her friend's mouth lightly. "We're ladies, and ladies don't steal," she reminded her friend in a mock seriousness, releasing her when Emma nipped at her finger.
"And they don't bite either," Emma replied, chuckling alongside her friend.
"YOU BLOODY MUTT!" A man roared outside, falling drunkenly against their closed door. Emma sighed and strode over to close the windows, attempting to ignore the fight outside. "This is why I stopped considering brothels," Rachel frowned. "I'm going to get outside a while longer while daylight permits it, it's stuffy and loud in here. Do you need anything?"
"More water, take the back ways, men of the streets are fond of fighting today it seems," Emma noted, grabbing the bucket and tossing it to her friend. Catching the wooden pail, Rachel wrapped her arms around the whole of it, humming as she left through the back door, closing it with the back of her foot as she left.
The back streets felt less cramped than usual, as a warm summer wind blew through the city, stirring up dust and stirring clothes hung along windowsills to dry. Most citizens back here paid her no mind during the day, as Rachel was as common as the breeze that swept the streets of stray papers. The girl decided to take a route she hadn't used in some time, and revisit the same forge she'd refuged in earlier. There was a well where water used to cool and rinse the metal for the weapons was taken from behind the stone building, and it was seldom used for other purposes, being at the top of the sloping street. For this reason, there was smaller chance of running into another there, and only the man and the boy worked in the establishment.
Rachel slowed her pace as she neared the well, listening for footsteps among the clang of hammer on metal. Hearing only the dull clang coming from inside, Rachel padded over to the well, hooking her bucket upon the rope. The slight creaking of the turn-wheel was masked by the sounds of the forge as Rachel hurriedly let the bucket fall. Or it had every other time she'd 'visited'.
Glancing up from her rope, a pair of blue eyes met hers, causing her to nearly drop the wheel of rope and loose her bucket forever. He said nothing, only watched her as she froze and did the same. Voices emerged from inside, and Rachel glanced behind the boy before meeting his gaze once more.
"A customer," his voice was deep, and showed her no insight as to what he may be thinking as she studied him. "He won't hear you, and he won't come back here."
She was the same girl from earlier. Though her eyes held their former composer as her knuckles turned white from grasping the rope so fiercely, as if it held a child instead of a bucket upon the other end that needed her protection. I nodded at the rope, motioning for her to continue as I turned to watch my proprietor and the object of his attention. The quiet squeaking of the rusted wheel resumed as she quickly reeled up her bucket, pulling it over the edge and grasping it tightly to her chest.
"Thank you," she spoke, and I turned to meet her gaze. I took in her features; deep warm-brown eyes, full lips, a round upturned nose, and relatively pale skin, though it was smeared with brown dust from the streets of The Red Keep and reddened with an unknown emotion, or maybe just the sun. I wanted to ask her why she was really in our forge earlier, but I could guess the answer easily enough, and I supposed it was one she wouldn't be willing to tell me. "Truly… I won't take from your well again," her eyes held what looked like truth, though I couldn't tell.
"It's just water," I replied, swinging my hammer in one hand lazily at my side. She looked at me with curiosity, so I continued. "He doesn't usually come back here, just me. You can use the well if you'd like," I offered, a bit quieter this time so Mott wouldn't overhear.
"What is your name?" She questioned, relaxing her tight grip on the bucket.
"Gendry."
"Rachel, pleasure meeting you Gendry…" she offered me a small smile, and I felt my palms grow slightly moist and I readjusted my grip on the hammer. I ignored it, wiping my other hand upon the edge of my leather apron discreetly. No sooner than she had introduced herself did she take leave, padding down the back streets swiftly and quietly.
"Gendry, come show the Lord that broadsword," Tobho Mott, my smith master, beckoned. I took one last glance at the girl as she disappeared around a corner before turning back to the heat of the forging fires.