Growing up in the darkest depths of Flea Bottom, my family were often short for many things. We stole, we begged, we haggled. More often than not, we would come home empty-handed, hungry and parched. My mother would try not to worry us, throwing together whatever she could to keep us alive through the night, before heading off to the tavern for work ever night of ever miserable week. I still remember the night she brought home a salted ham that a grateful drunk had thrust upon her in a stupor. How we feasted that night. She had even slipped home a pint of ale to wash it down with, not that she would allow me more than a drop. Too young, she said. She said that a lot before she died. But still, it would be the simpler things that would bring us the rare joy that only Mother's gifts could. Even a bowl full of clean, untainted water was enough to bring tears to my eyes.

And now I'm surrounded by the fucking stuff as far as the eye can see, and I can't drink it.

Pulling myself up in the wretched boat that I simply refused to call home, I had a long look around and managed a groan, that came out as more of a growl from my dry, dead lips. I had been on the water for days now. At the start I had rowed furiously, trying to get as far away from Dragonstone and the madness of 'King' Stannis and his apparent lust for my blood, as I could. I had given up the oars after some time, with the mere thought of rowing further seeming like another torture method conjured up by the Mountain back in Harrenhal. Nothing had changed. Water in every direction, no sign of land or life. I had grown accustomed to thirst as a boy, but even by my standards this situation was fast becoming perilous. I considered praying, but thought the better of it. The Gods were cunts, they had never done me any favours, and were not likely to start any time soon. I was just a bastard born in the shittiest part of the shittiest city in all the Seven Kingdoms. Noble father or not, why would they give the slightest shit about me? This sacrilige almost felt good, as though I was giving one last middle finger to the world that I was about to leave behind. I closed by eyes and smiled, dreaming of those cold winter nights with Mother, many years ago.

oOoOoOoOo

Fucking water.

I knew I had fallen overboard when I felt it splash directly into my face, some going down my gullet, making me cough and nearly vomit all over the wooden deck below me.

Wait. Wooden deck?

My eyes burst open to find a collection of boots pointed at my eyeline. A man, blurry through my saltwater encrusted vision, spoke firmly, with an exotic nature to his voice, as though he could be a stern leader one minute and a poet the next. There was something distinctly untrustworthy in the tone, yet oddly welcoming at the same time.

"What's your name, boy?"

Gendry. Gendry Baratheon, if that red-haired temptress could be trusted.

"Do not make me ask a second time. Salladhor Saan does not like to be kept waiting when there are many miles to sail and ships to plunder."

Pirates. Shit. Admittedly, my experience with pirates was limited, though even I had heard the stories of their ferocious and uncomprimising natures. If they didn't see anything of value in you, overboard you would go. In calmer times, they would have been hunted down like dogs and taken before King...my father...to pay for their crimes. Ned Stark and his Northern cronies would have seen to that. Now, in times of war? The pirates were like crows, feasting on the carcass left behind in the North. Savages.

"Your name, before I toss you overboard and feed you to the Drowned God those Ironborn cunts are always screaming about."

"My...name is...Arry."

My eyes slowly drying themselves in the beaming sun, the man came into focus. He was dark-skinned and athletically built, a smirk coming over his face. He was surprisingly well-dressed for a pirate, with a red robe-like garment hanging over his shoulder and many gold chains draped down onto his chest. A large and diamond-encrusted cutlass hung by his belt, but I tried not to focus on that. "Tell me, Arry, how a boy who looks like a pile of horse shit finds himself in a little boat in the middle of the sea? Escaping for a holiday? Wanting to join my crew?"

The tone turned from playful to deadly in the blink of an eye, the other men behind him laughing in unison. "Where are you coming from? Better yet, who are you escaping from? No food, no water...you were in a rush, no? I know the look of a man who is running from death."

The pirate paused, as if expecting an answer, but continued anyway. "You are a lucky boy. A day more, and you would have been running towards it. I very nearly made the same mistake not long ago because of a promise made to a friend. Never again, boy. Though I will make this promise to you now."

The cold steel of the cutlass was pushed against my throat suddenly as one of the other men lifted me to my knees. I was too weak to argue, to fight, to plead. In a lot of ways, I almost wished that he had slashed my throat open then and there. But it seemed the man had other plans in store for me. "I promise you your life in return for your services. The decks need scrubbing, the sails need cleaning, and my sheets need washing. You will do these tasks without complaint, else the next boy we find will be wiping your blood off the boat. Does this sound reasonable to you?"

It wasn't really a question he wanted answered, but I had no intention of doing so anyway. I had spotted an opportunity instead. "That's a fine blade, sir. Let me guess...forged in Braavos, a year or two ago I would venture. Would not have come cheap. Those diamonds on the hilt are proof enough of that."

The pirate spat with contempt. "Doesn't take a genius to recognise a fine Braavosi blade such as my own. Do you expect me to be impressed, boy?"

"Braavosi blades are amongst the finest there is, there can be no doubting that. But have you ever swung it in anger? I guarantee that embedding those rocks will have weakened the hilt to the point where the sword will shatter with a well aimed thrust at the bottom of the blade. Any fighter worth his salt will know that. He'll have it off you then he'll have you in an instant."

Salladhor Saan looked back at his crew, who all seemed to move in slow motion, as if expecting Saan to kill the boy right then and there. However, they neednt be alarmed. An amused smile crept its way over the pirate's face, and he turned back to the captive with curiosity. "How do you know this? Are you a fighter yourself?"

"Not a fighter, though I can wield a sword if I have to. I was a blacksmith in Kings Landing, one of the best there was. Let me live, and you will find value in my skills. I know you will."

Saan stood in place, muttering something about Kings Landing under his breath. With some caution, he withdrew the blade and held his hand out to the boy. "As you say, Arry. Let's see just how skilful you are."