driftfleet | 01. Oh not this again.

Entry tags:

01. Oh not this again.

Who: Gendry
Broadcast: Nope
Action: SS Golden, Planetside
When: Today and June/July

The Golden

He hadn't been on the Marsiva all that long, but he had been on the vast ship long enough to come to the conclusion he didn't care for it at all. The food was strange and it all reminded him a little too much of the Station, which he'd never really liked all that much in the first place. More than that, he'd noticed how different things were around here. It reminded him of blood granite, though he didn't really mind that part all that much. All that business with Shards had always been an enormous headache equal only to the amount of times he banged his forehead in the tunnels of Troichean Beinn. Still, he hadn't been prepared for being in space. He hadn't figured out how to deal with that, so he'd made the decision not to.

When he arrived on the Golden to fanfare and annoying bits of confetti, the first thing he did was scowl. The second thing he did was find a direction to glare at and then scowl a little bit more. It was not that Gendry was extremely upset, it was just that brooding was something of an art form for him and he was at his best when boiling in sullen silence. All thanks to a bit of a chip in his head, he now knew exactly what he ought to be doing. So after mumbling his greetings to anyone who just so happened to be about to welcome him, he found himself in the engineering room. There were a few tense moments where he tried to grasp exactly what it is he was looking at, why he seemed to know so much about it, and if that was the sort of thing it was worth getting worried about. In the end, he decided that as long as he had valid reasons for hitting, then he might as well get on with it. There was a valve that he could instinctively see needed a great deal of banging, so he did.

Don't Hug Me I'm Scared

By the time the first native had got around to giving him a reassuring hug, Gendry had concluded that he now knew of three worlds he held a deep contempt for, which coincidentally happened to be all of the ones he'd experienced so far. But it was better than the ship, so he simply took extra care to watch that no one got close enough for any unexpected proximity. After spending a few hours wandering about the market area of one of the primary settlements, Gendry had found exactly where he ought to be. He'd found a smithy and after talking up his own experience (he'd apprenticed with dwarves after all!), he'd found himself gainfully employed and under the incredibly misguided idea that he had simply found a new planet to live on, this was how the rest of his life was going to be, and that he'd better just decide to be happy with it because that's simply how it was.

Rather than engineering as he was supposed to be, Gendry spent quite a lot of time making whatever was required of him, though it generally tended to be of the more mundane tool-like variety. When he wasn't working, he was finding places to buy his meals, trekking back to his private treehouse in an attempt to avoid risky hugs, and not actually paying all that much attention to the forests because he'd only just been in a world chock full of magical forests and this one didn't really seem all that exceptional to him.

(ooc: Gendry will just be here and there, trying to start his life entirely over because this is just the sort of thing that tends to happen to him. Find him at a smith, or out shopping, or trying to shoo little native children from trying to hug his leg because why)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For his part, Gendry had not yet mastered the timely and honed Dad reflexes known for their tremendous power of injury prevention. He had only just started to turn back around when she had started to fall. Gravity was quicker than he was, though he did not hesitate to kneel next to her. She might not be the same person he knew, but he was very much unchanged and some instincts don't simply go away.

"Sansa," he said sharply. "Are you hurt?"

She was unharmed. Her sense-of-self might have been ruffled, and she might wake tomorrow with a bruise or three, but no lasting damage was done. Nothing worth too much fuss. And yet the stranger hurried to a knee, and said her name like a friend might. Like family might. It was her name that dazed her more than the fall. Already exhausted (emotionally; not physically), she leaned her head back against the root she'd so recently vacated.

"Yes. No. Not a lot." She only fell. Children fell all the time, and they laughed it off. In fact, she could hear children's laughter floating down from up above, and she eyed their grinning faces with sulky judgement. After a moment, they disappeared. Back into the tree-tops.

"Who are you?" He might be a stranger, but she was a proper lady and she'd taken a tumble. So she held out a stiff hand for help back onto her feet. She wasn't so boldly independent as to try standing all on her own. Doubtless, had she tried, she'd trip and fall again and be even more of a laughing stock.

But, she noticed, he didn't laugh.

He'd given to giving the children a well practiced scowl, up until the moment they'd fled. This hadn't accomplished much, since they'd long proven they didn't seem particularly troubled at his presence. When his attention returned to her, he did so without actually looking at her.

"Gendry." He didn't bother with Ser and certainly made no effort to call himself Baratheon, because that meant so little to him. A year ago he'd stopped trying to elevate himself enough to try and appeal to her, so there seemed little point in starting all over again.

He clasped her hand and stood to hoist her back to her feet.

A funny thing happened. She put her bare hand in his -- felt his callouses -- and felt on some level repulsed by them. But as he helped her up, she might have sworn he smelled like snow. Sansa knew a little about this planet, and about the friendly warnings given about holding hands while on its surface, but it was such a strange phenomenon that she'd hardly paid it any mind. Even now, she was more caught up in turning her head and catching a whiff of freshly fallen snow. How unexpected! It would have been charming, were she not already so wary.

"Gendry," she repeated. And it was clear she did not know the name at all. But when she spoke it, it tasted like mint. It tastes like something else: bitter, sweet, and dark. Like the fake chocolate flavouring back on the Blue Fish. But much much better.

Her hands had always been as soft as silk, but the bracelets was new. His thumb roughly brushed the tip of it and he was struck by what felt like dampness in his eyes. The frantic sounds of ruffling leaves and chirping birds was for a moment drowned out by the dull thumming of a ship's engine. The air he breathed in felt stale and recycled, yet his heart was warmed by something else. By the time she was on her feet, Gendry had snatched his hand away. He touched a knuckle to rub at one eye, but there wasn't anything there to wipe away, so he turned the gesture to rubbing the side of his nose instead and stepped half a pace back.

"You broke your promise." He breathed in again and the air was once more thick with life and the sounds of nature.

He let her go. And she reclaimed her hand quickly -- not as though she'd been burnt, but certainly shocked. "I'm...I'm sorry," she apologized on instinct. The only indication that she might have felt it wasn't her fault -- that someone else was to blame -- came in how she looked quickly over her shoulder. But there was no longer any sign of the children who had precipitated this bizarre interaction.

With a lost look in her eyes, she turns her attention back onto the young man. Gendry. She knew nothing of his name, but when he'd touched her she'd felt a jolt of familiarity course through her body. Sansa wasn't to know that it wasn't her recognition she'd been feeling, but rather his -- hijacked, a moment, by contact.

"Do you know my brothers? My sister?"

Is that why you know my name? She didn't want to trust him, but perhaps she could if he knew her by way of her family.

"Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. Made himself king. Good with a sword, him. Jon Snow, bastard like me. Got himself made Lord Commander up on the wall. Bran Stark. Only ever saw him once, but his legs didn't work. Arya Stark, I met her in Westeros. The both of us made it as far as the Riverlands before she ran off. Didn't ever meet the other brother."

He'd rattled them all of from memories he'd shared with her, from those individuals he'd met or either heard her speak of. He might very well have mentioned the name of Eddard Stark as well, but he knew too well by now it was cruel to speak of that. Very nearly he began to speak again, this time about her. But he silenced himself, knowing it made no matter if he did. She did not know him and it would hardly matter if he claimed she did.

Hmm. He made himself worthy of another incisive look. Her (trembling) hands were now folded tidily against her stomach. And his quick-fire descriptions of her family members bought some measure of comfort, even as she was trying to sort through her feelings. Arya, then. Arya was the point of entry into this little drama. Most importantly, she'd known that Arya hadn't traveled as far as the Riverlands with anyone like him. So, did that mean...?

"When?" Her voice was strained, as though she didn't want to ask the question. And yet ask it she must. "When did you travel with my sister?"

This conversation was familiar. He hadn't only had it with Sansa once before, but he'd been required to do so with Jon Snow, Robb Stark, and most annoyingly with even Arya herself. He felt very tired of having it and grew tight lipped about the whole matter. Why should he bother with all of it all again? In the end, he'd discovered he'd had no place with the Starks. It seemed fruitless to start all over again.

"I did," he said firmly. "She'll remember it. Or not. It makes no matter."

Something moved along her jaw. A flicker, it might be, of frustration. To Sansa, the when made a great deal of matter. For if Arya truly did travel up to the Riverlands, then it must have been in the wake of their Lord Father's death. And if that was true, then mayhaps...

Mayhaps the Lannisters never had her. Mayhaps she never got sent North. Sansa looked prepared to ask again, to defy his deflection, but in the end she relented. Craven.

What did matter, however: "--Did you keep her safe?"

Gendry didn't want to answer, but he was not so stubborn as to try and be cruel about it. It left him scowling, though even he couldn't be certain if it was at her or at himself. But he gave an answer, for whatever it might have been worth.

"She didn't die," he answered. "But it was never on me to keep her safe."

He'd already had to tackle his guilt for having lost track of her a long time ago. Yet somehow it still lingered in the back of his mind, condemning him for having been unwilling to follow her on the last leg of her journey.

Rascally, wild Arya! She could curse her sister for her carelessness. And yet it was all sourced in this strange sad font of concern. Of love, twisted and overgrown in absence. Sansa was at least pleased that this must be how he knows her name. How he knew her to see her -- maybe one of her brothers had described her coppery, Tully hair. Or else they'd pointed her out to him. Common as he appeared, mayhaps he could be relied upon to be decent.

"But are from Westeros, then," she hastened to clarify.

He nodded, slowly.

"King's Landing."

There was a time, at least before he'd spent two years in another land, when his accent was thick enough for anyone to tell. Less so now, but much of it was still there.

"...Oh," her mouth (briefly) formed a perfect circle. The distinct desire to bolt, and to escape, was written so large in her eyes that they didn't need hand-contact to understand one another. It made her uncomfortable to think he was from the lion's den from whence she'd escaped some many months prior.

"How, ah, lovely." She tried to be polite; it failed miserably.

He snorted, this time from amusement more than derision. "Lovely for some. I told you I was a bastard. And common born, too. And I ain't no Lannister, either." He tugged a lock of his own short cropped hair. "See?"

It was poor enough proof, but he'd had the time to learn about why the current king wasn't a Baratheon at all. Black of hair and blue of eyes were what set him apart as a Baratheon and had caused him no end of trouble because of it.

How curious that he should rush to wash his hand of the Lannisters. Plenty did not care for the family, she knew -- but it surprised him that he should say it so loudly. So boldly. And yet, a great deal about him seemed bold. She almost envied him his easy, angry laughter.

"Careful who hears you," she tested his waters. "There's a Lannister in the fleet."

He considered that, if only briefly. Time in the Drabwurld had taught him that titles from Westeros did not mean a great deal elsewhere. If he could be named a legitimate son of a king, then it really cast doubt on the importance of any highborn noble. "Do they have an army?"

That, he knew, was the only bit that really mattered.

"No. None do, here, I don't think."

But Tyrion had friends. And that seemed to be as good as an army within the fleet. He had people who wanted to defend him, to help him, and who would sympathize with him -- luckily for her, her name has been kept off many a tongue. And if she was careful and lucky, the Imp would see no cause to mention her to anyone.

That settled that, then.

"Bugger them."

She was clearly taken aback not only by his language, but also by the flippant way in which he dispensed with the problem. Sansa thought that if he knew the lion in question -- and, more importantly, knew the lion's strengths and how they lay outside the battlefiled -- things might have been different. Worse yet, he'd allied himself with the Dragon Queen.

But at least her brothers were here.

"Armies are less and less useful, it seems, when the fleet houses whole individuals who can do the work of whole battalions."

Having seen battles on the Drabwurld, he knew just how true she spoke. The defense of Cothromach had demonstrated that very plainly. He'd never been one of those individuals, but he'd become stronger there. Thinking about it left him to touch the bracer on his left arm. That was all he had now. No enchanted shield, no Valyrian steel axe, no dragon-hide armor, no air conditioned helmet, and no inner Shard to provide him strength, speed, and magic. All he had left was his skill at the forge and the small bit of magic that had followed him here. He should have hesitated to proclaim where his loyalties might lie, but he'd nearly forgotten why he should have any at all.

"Do they bother fighting at all? Don't seem much point in it up there in those metal ships, unless it's to try and make more room."

"There was fighting not too long ago. A man went mad -- he hurt a lot of people." Sansa could not bear the bad posture found in hugging herself, so instead she clasped her hands tighter. She didn't know much about Winter, barring a few awkward meetings. But she knew people got injured. And she knew many said it wasn't even the man's fault. But she couldn't quite fathom why they weren't angrier with him.

"Did he hurt you?"

This was a pointed question. Gendry wasn't so concerned with the rest of them, but he knew her enough to see it had meant something to her. It was not easy trying to maintain any kind of distance, but he'd been her shield. He never swore an oath, that much was true, but he'd been prepared to consider it. His fingers looped around the iron bracer, if only to keep him from plunging a hand into a pocket where a small pinned silver shield was present.

-- Why should he care? Indeed, at first she thought it might have been some connection to her family, but he'd chased that idea off when he'd spoken so cryptically about Arya's safety. Sansa blinked, taken aback and caught between confused and concerned.

"N-no. It happened on the Iskaulit; I don't go there." Indeed, Gendry's pointed question made her so uncomfortable that she shared more. "But I had met him once or twice before and he'd never seemed mad."

Spared any absurd desire to go and inflict some retribution, he was able to relax. His hands fell away again, only they had nothing to do, so they were instead crossed across his chest. Her wariness was grating on him. He'd stomached it before, because even that long road south from Dorchadas had only just been enough for her to tolerate his presence. It was worse now, because he knew why.

"They don't always show it," he commented mildly. In truth he wasn't really paying that much attention to what she was saying now. Most of the mad men he knew had belonged to the Mountain and none of them had ever made their cruelties much of a secret.

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