296 AC, King's Landing — Street of Steel
The forge roared like a caged dragon in the stone barn behind Tobho Mott's smithy. Heat shimmered in the air, coiling in waves from the blazing furnaces. Sparks crackled like fireflies. The walls were stained black with smoke, and every corner rattled with the steady rhythm of iron meeting steel.
Gendry—twelve years old, broad-shouldered, and already stronger than most grown men—gripped a pair of long tongs, lifted a glowing breastplate from the forge, and plunged it into the cooling trough.
Hissssss.
Steam exploded upward in a rush, wrapping his face in warm mist. When the heat faded, he hung the breastplate to dry, admiring its smooth surface and clean lines.
"This one's good," he murmured.
The armor was made of fine steel, not the luxurious lacquered or glazed finishes that noble heirs preferred, and certainly not the rare "color-forged steel" that only Tobho mastered. Whoever the client was—likely a minor noble or a highborn bastard—they wasn't wealthy enough to afford such extravagance.
Still, the craftsmanship was top-tier. Gendry had shaped nearly the entire armor set himself. Only the helmet remained unfinished, crafted separately by Tobho.
This was his life now: iron, fire, sweat, and steel. And oddly… it suited him.
---
Storm-Blood Awakens
Recently, as he worked day after day at the forge, Gendry had noticed changes—swelling strength, sharper reflexes, a power brewing beneath his skin. And then, without warning, a panel had appeared before his eyes days earlier:
[New Talent Unlocked: Storm's Rage]
When severely injured or overcome by fury, unleash explosive strength and devastating attacks.
It was a frightening, exhilarating talent—one that made him feel like the old stories of Baratheons raised from storms and tempests.
His favorite weapon was no longer a sword.
But the warhammer he forged himself.
A hammer was honest.
Direct.
It didn't dance or slip. It crushed.
Only Valyrian steel could resist a full-force blow from a warhammer wielded by a Baratheon-blooded youth.
---
Hiding in Plain Sight
"Maybe being buried in blacksmithing isn't so bad," Gendry often told himself.
As long as he worked hard, kept quiet, and lived like a simple apprentice, others would grow complacent. Even Varys's spies had ceased paying him much attention. After all, what danger could a brothel-born bastard pose?
The apprentices saw him as nothing more than a strong, quiet boy with a talent for metalwork. Tobho saw him as a gifted worker. Even The Spider seemed content to let him rot in anonymity.
Every now and then, the older apprentices begged him to join them in Flea Bottom—to watch dogfights, cockfights, or even brutal knife duels between children. Gendry went once. Twice. After that, he refused. The bloodshed disgusted him, and the cost was outrageous for an apprentice's wage.
Besides, the foreman strictly forbade visits to the dingy brothels in Flea Bottom. Getting caught there meant being beaten bloody or tossed out of the smithy.
Gendry saved nearly every copper he earned. Among the apprentices, he already had the largest stash.
He would need it.
Because soon—
He planned to flee King's Landing.
---
Escape Routes and Stormblood Dreams
Next year, the city would host a grand tourney for Prince Joffrey's twelfth name day. Trumpets, banners, feasts, and pride would fill the air—yet beneath it all, King's Landing felt like a powder keg, primed to explode.
House Lannister and House Baratheon flaunted unity, but Gendry knew better. He had watched the tension simmer beneath every gesture of the royal family.
He had to get out before the city devoured him.
Across the Narrow Sea, Essos beckoned.
His dormant bloodlines—True Dragon's Blood, Rhoynar Blood, and more—seemed tied not to Westeros, but to the lands beyond the sea, where magic still lived in the shadows.
"That's where my chance lies," he thought.
"I'll cross the Narrow Sea… before the storm breaks."
---
A Helmet Fit for the Sea
Just as he finished adjusting the last piece of the breastplate, Tobho Mott strode into the barn carrying a helmet wrapped in cloth.
The old blacksmith pulled the wrapping away to reveal a silvered helm adorned on both sides with delicately carved seahorses. Their eyes were set with sea-green gemstones that caught the forge's light like shimmering waves.
Gendry recognized the sigil instantly.
"House Velaryon?"
Tobho nodded.
A noble house of ancient Valyrian blood. Once the proud Lords of the Tides, now diminished but still respectable. They served under House Targaryen for centuries—until fire was replaced by stag and lion.
House Velaryon was loyal to Stannis Baratheon these days.
Whether willingly or from necessity was another matter.
"Excellent work, boy!" Tobho praised, examining the breastplate Gendry had crafted. "Your hands were made for this trade."
Gendry shrugged modestly.
"A simple set of fine steel armor from a village smithy sells for five gold dragons," Tobho said proudly. "But our armor? Worth ten."
The other apprentices shot Gendry jealous looks. Not one of them possessed his natural strength or talent.
"Back to work, all of you!" Tobho barked suddenly. "Spend less time chasing girls, drinking, and gambling. Gendry—wait here."
The apprentices scattered.
Gendry followed Tobho to the courtyard, where a client in sea-green robes and a silver cloak stood waiting. His clothing bore the unmistakable colors of House Velaryon.
The man was striking—lean, long-limbed, with silver-gold hair and seawater-gray eyes. Ancient Valyrian beauty lingered in his features.
Tobho bowed respectfully.
"Lord Aurane, your armor is ready."
Aurane Waters, bastard of House Velaryon, younger half-brother to Lord Monford Velaryon of Driftmark. A man of elegant looks and quiet ambition.
Aurane examined the armor piece by piece, his expression brightening.
"This work is exquisite," he said. "Children will grab for that helmet—seahorses brought to life!"
Tobho puffed out his chest.
"I forge art, my lord, not mere armor."
But Gendry noticed something else.
Aurane Waters had gone still—eyes fixed on Gendry.
Shock. Recognition. Confusion.
Aurane stared at him as if looking at a ghost.
Tobho quickly stepped forward.
"This is my apprentice. Hardworking lad."
Aurane leaned down slightly.
"What of your parents, boy?"
"Gone, my lord," Gendry answered, lips curling into a practiced smile. "Long dead."
Aurane's expression softened—not with pity, but with something more familiar.
"An unlucky birth?" he murmured. "I know that feeling well."
He reached into his purse and withdrew two gold dragons.
"One because you remind me of myself. The second as a tip for your fine work."
Gendry hesitated.
"My lord, I am only an apprentice. The foreman pays me."
"Don't be foolish!" Tobho chided. "Take it. His lordship offers a gift."
Gendry bowed.
"Thank you, my lord."
Aurane turned, adjusting his cloak.
"I must depart. The sea air of Driftmark calls me home. King's Landing is… too noisy for my taste."
Before leaving, he glanced once more at Gendry.
Two bastards.
Two boys shaped by iron and circumstance.
Two lives far from power, yet touched by old bloodlines.
Aurane walked away.
Gendry slipped the gold dragons into his pouch.
It seemed staying low-key would not be as simple as he hoped.
But Aurane Waters was distant from royal politics—far enough not to risk meddling in dangerous secrets.
And now Gendry had money.
A small fortune for an apprentice.
A gift from one bastard to another.
A reminder that not all who share that title are cursed.