"Joffrey." The voice paused.
"Cersei." Another pause.
"The Hound." And another.
"Meryn Trant." And another.
"Ilyn Payne." And another.
"The Mountain." And another.
"Amory Lorch." And another.
"Polliver." And another.
"The Tickler." And another.
"Raff the Sweetling."
The pause was longest then, at the end of the prayer.
Gendry rolled over, his narrow cot creaking under his weight. The shadows under his eyes were sunk deep. He hardly slept anymore, but when he did, it was only after he'd repeated the names. Slowly. Like a prayer. Like she'd used to.
He'd memorized each and every one of those names. How could he not have? Night after night, he used to lay there silently and listen as her voice spoke the prayer. She said her prayer every night without fail. At inns. Outdoors, in the middle of the forest or underneath the stars. At Lady Hornwood's, when she'd snuck out to the forge after the Lady had fallen asleep, to crawl into Gendry's cot with him. Without fail, nightly, her warm body curled up or curled into him, he heard her speak the prayer.
Gendry hadn't even realized he'd memorized the names until after she was gone. The first night had been the worst. Not the first night she'd gone missing. He hadn't even tried sleeping that night. Or the next. Or the next. Not even the next. But he'd tried the night after that. How else could he go on looking for her if he couldn't keep to the saddle?
There'd been a fire, and it hadn't been a cold night, but he'd been colder that night than he could ever remember being before. He couldn't remember how it felt to sleep without her warmth at his side. The Brotherhood, Harwin mainly, had tried to separate them at first. At night. But she wouldn't listen. She never did. Afterwards, they didn't really see the harm in it. It became much more than a habit. It was more like a need, that he hadn't realized he'd suffered from until she was gone.
It was so quiet too now. Gendry hadn't realized before how much he'd depended on her perpetual disruptiveness to soothe him to sleep. First, she'd talk to him. About the day. About what they'd do the next day. About Winterfell, sometimes. About her family. Then, she'd burrow into his side, sometimes even beneath his arm, that on the colder of nights - she hadn't seen the harm in it either. Then, she'd say her prayer. Soon, she'd fall off to sleep, and her soft breathing and low snores would soothe him to sleep. Sometimes he'd wake up at night and her soft growls greeted him like old friends. He'd go make water, come back and curl his body around hers, wrapping an arm soothingly around her to make the growls and fidgeting go away. Sometimes…she'd smile then, all sweetly yet somehow spitefully too, all in her sleep. That helped him sleep sometimes too.
But, without her, he found he couldn't sleep. At all. Until he'd tried the prayer. The Brotherhood tried talking to him about the Lord of Light. He'd had the Seven before that. Not that he was one for praying. He'd tried that when his mother had been dying. It didn't work then either. He figured it wouldn't work now. Not that he hadn't tried praying to them all, old and new alike. But just like he'd known, the prayers didn't work. Not to bring her back.
One night, as Gendry lay flat on his back, staring dully up at the dark grey sky, a color he tried not to associate with anything, a voice came unbidden into his head, so clear she might have been laying there next to him. Only, she wasn't. "Joffrey. Cersei. The Hound…" And so on.
Without thinking, he closed his eyes, opened his lips and slowly repeated the names one by one. The next morning, he'd awoken only to remember that the last thing he could remember before falling asleep was saying the names. After that, he knew that all the other gods could go fall off the Wall for all he cared. He had one god, and her prayer would get him to sleep every night from there on out.
So he said the names every night. One after the other, until he fell into a deep if still uneasy sleep.
Gendry didn't say her name though. He never did. Not anymore. He'd spent weeks scouring the Riverlands, as far as the Saltpans, shouting that name hoarse. Now he tried not to even think it. Not because he didn't want to, but because it hurt too much.
When he slept, though, he couldn't control where his thoughts went. He didn't dream often, but when he did, she was always there. Usually she was in trouble. And almost every time, even in his dreams, he was powerless to help her. The dream, or nightmare really, that recurred the most in his sleep was the one of him galloping towards her on his horse, her name desperate on his lips. She was always on a horse just ahead of him, but not alone. The Hound held her captive and carried her away from him. She was always just out of reach and would always eventually disappear completely. Sometimes, he woke from that in a cold sweat, her name perched on the edge of his lips.
There were good dreams too, though. Dreams of laughing and wrestling in a forge. Dreams of traveling on the road side by side with her, talking about everything and nothing. Dreams of hiking through the woods with her. Hunting. Eating. Swimming. In them, she either laughed or scowled, hit him and called him stupid or smiled and called him stubborn. Those dreams, somehow, were worse than the nightmares. He'd always awake then with a smile on his face, forgetting she was gone and had been and probably always would be. Slowly, the grin would fade. The warmth was not there, and neither was she. A few times, when sleep still clung to him, he'd reached a hand out and searched for her, only to come up empty.
Gendry rolled to his side and covered his face with his hands. The prayer wouldn't work if he said it in conjunction with thinking of her. So he had to try and forget and try the prayer again.
"Cersei."
"Joffrey."
"The Hound."
"Meryn Trant."
"Ilyn Payne."
"The Mountain."
"Amory Lorch."
"Polliver."
"The Tickler."
"Raff the Sweet..."
Soft snores replaced the voice, and he slept. Hours later, the Bull shifted in his sleep, a smile blossoming on his face. His lips moved.
"Arya," he breathed.