The first time Gendry was in Braavos, the damp of the canals sank into his bones and made its home there in a way he liked not. He called Flea Bottom his home for most of his life; he was used to the heat and stink of too many bodies crushed together in that one place. He had supposed Braavos would be as steamy as Lys, or perhaps Myr, but the truth of it was that the former refugee colony was further north than King's Landing in Westeros.
Well, he mused with little humor, he supposed he was a refugee too, now, so Braavos might suit him well yet.
He had taken to wandering Westeros in search of what little work could be given, but wandering was work in itself, and dangerous at that. He had almost lost an eye to bandits in the Riverlands, a pinky to a damned lion in ragged crimson, and his toes to the ever-growing cold.
As for the Brotherhood…he had no stomach for the type of justice they served now.
So to escape it (her) and the cold and the countless others who wanted his head to satisfy their own game of thrones, he had taken his leave of Westeros.
And so he found himself, nestled into damp and rotting straw in the saddest animal keep in Braavos, keeping the pigs company thanks to the pity of the brothel madam who owned them and the last of his coin.
He could hear the grunts and moans of the whores and the customers through the flimsy walls. Annoying, but having to hear sounds of pleasure was infinitely better than the screams of agony that had often accompanied his nights with the Brotherhood.
The door creaked open, and the brothel's serving girl crept in. She came to stand before him, a lanky little thing on the edge of womanhood, with a wide mouth and inky hair and shrewd eyes far older than her years. She would make a fine whore one day.
She squinted at him, trying to see his face under the darkness of his hood, and he was about to ask what she wanted when she produced a heel of dark bread from her skirt. He took it carefully, with a nod.
It was hard as stone and had a biting taste. Delicious.
"Name?"
He startled a bit. He had not expected her to speak the Common Tongue. Master Mott had once told him that the Braavosi often refused to learn anything but their bastard form of Valyrian. He took another bite of the bread, and chewed slowly, hoping the quiet would force her away. She tilted her head to peer at him again, without success.
A shriek pierced their silence, petering off into a heady moan, followed by several rapid bangs of a headboard against a wall.
He cleared his throat. "Waters." Safe enough, he supposed.
She twirled a piece of her hair absently. "Much water here. It is known. You like it."
He grunted. "Maybe." Silence again. "You speak the language of Westeros?"
"A little." She nibbled on the corner of her bottom lip, then bit down firmly.
He knew a girl, once, who did that when she lied to him. Gendry sighed long and low.
"What's your name, then?" he asked.
"Mercedene," She scratched one bare, dirty foot against the back of her calf, and gave him a smile, a quirk of her wide mouth that pleased him unexpectedly. "But you call me Mercy, yes?"
He held up the bread she had gifted him with and smiled back. "Well for this, you are the most merciful queen in all the seven heavens. I will call you M'lady, instead."
She did not laugh at his jape like he thought she would. Instead, she stared at him, smile gone, those clear eyes changing suddenly, piercing him in a way that made him wholly uncomfortable.
"I am not a lady," she fairly growled, teeth bared. Her thin shoulders hackled, in offended response to his suggestion. Her stance became aggressive, as if in combat, legs spread and planted firm, as if ready to fell the one who would dare think her a weak-willed maiden. If he had not already been seated, she probably would have shoved him.
Gendry stared in shock. The unbelievable similarity tugged in his chest so suddenly, so sharply, that he felt he could not breathe. She would be about this age, he thought wildly. But no, no, the face was all wrong, the hair, the lips…
"Girl," he croaked, hand stretching out to grasp a thin wrist and drag her close, a half-formed thought racing incoherently through his skull. But she saw his intention, and backed away.
"I….I go," she muttered, and her face seemed to morph, and no longer was a warrior standing before him, but a simple brothel maid. She gazed at him for a breath of a second more.
A flurry of skirts and she was gone.