In the year 295 AC, at the summit of Visenya's Hill, in Tobho Mott's smithy.
Gendry was eleven years old, and by now he had fully adapted to life as a blacksmith's apprentice.
Behind the shop lay a spacious stone-built workshop. Forges burned fiercely in every corner, and the air was thick with the stench of saltpeter and sulfur.
With his short coal-black hair plastered to his head and deep blue eyes focused intently, Gendry was shaping a breastplate. He was completely immersed in the work. The world narrowed until only metal, bellows, and fire remained, a harsh music of steel being born. The hammer felt like an extension of his arm.
When the shaping was done, he lifted the breastplate with long tongs and plunged it into the quenching trough. Steam hissed violently as the metal cooled.
Gendry felt as though his body held endless strength.
Born tough, he thought wryly. For that, he supposed, he should thank the father who had never cared for him.
His ancestor, the Laughing Storm, had been a giant of nearly seven feet. King Robert Baratheon himself stood close to six and a half. Strength ran thick in Baratheon blood.
"Well done, Gendry," Tobho said approvingly. "For your age, you're tall, strong, and diligent."
To Tobho's eyes, the boy resembled a proud young stag, healthy, solid, full of vitality. Though Tobho owned one of the largest smithies in King's Landing, at heart he was still a craftsman. A build like Gendry's, if the boy didn't go to war, was made for the forge.
"Thank you, master," Gendry replied evenly, without looking up.
Truth be told, he liked this work. Blacksmithing was grueling, one of life's great hardships, but in Tobho's smithy, food was plentiful and nutrition adequate. He was growing tall and broad-shouldered. It was far better than starving while running errands in a tavern.
"Boy, smithing is a slow craft," Tobho went on. "There's pig iron, then fine steel, and above even that, Valyrian steel. Three years and three years again. It takes many such cycles to become a true master. Back when I was an apprentice in Qoh, "
He stopped himself.
This apprentice wouldn't stay long.
A bastard of King Robert, older than the acknowledged heirs, was already brushing the edge of the whirlpool of power. Everyone in King's Landing knew of the queen's pride and obstinacy. She loathed the king's bastards above all else.
This boy was not destined to remain at the anvil forever.
"Do you miss your parents?" Tobho asked quietly.
"Missing them doesn't change anything," Gendry said. "I barely remember. My mother died when I was very young. I remember her singing to me. Her hair was yellow."
He brushed his damp black hair back.
"As for my father, he's probably dead too."
The words nearly choked Tobho.
An ignorant child, unaware of the truth. Compared to the silk-clad, legitimate heirs, this boy endured the dull hardship of a smith's life. Perhaps that was for the best. If he ever learned who his father truly was, if he began dreaming of being the king's son, he would never settle for the forge.
And that would end badly.
The Lannisters were not to be trifled with.
"You're a clever lad," Tobho said at last. "Stubborn, though. All right, this breastplate is well done. Go on, take a break."
"Thank you."
After work, Gendry was allowed some time to idle with the other apprentices.
"Gendry! Come on, we're playing knights!" someone shouted.
Leaving the workshop, Gendry entered the narrow courtyard behind the smithy. The apprentices there were mostly thirteen or fourteen, dressed alike in simple sweat-soaked tunics, the uniform of Steel Street. Some were sons of local smiths. Others were second sons of ruined nobles or children of smallfolk, sent here through favors and coin.
"You go ahead," Gendry said. "I don't like that game."
"Here he goes again! Built like an ox, but doesn't like weapons!"
Gendry found a spot to sit and watched them play. The smithy kept piles of rejected, dulled weapons, mostly blunt swords, which served as toys for the apprentices.
"Watch out! I'm the Sword of the Morning!" cried a chubby blond boy, swinging a blunt blade.
"You'll kill me laughing!" shouted a thinner boy with freckles. "If the Sword of the Morning were as fat as you, he'd have been kicked out of the Kingsguard ages ago!"
"Damn you! Duel me, then!" the fat boy snapped.
"Gladly!" the freckled boy raised his sword. "I am Barristan the Bold, the greatest knight who ever lived!"
The Sword of the Morning. Barristan the Bold.
The names were familiar, white knights, legends of the Kingsguard. Great warriors, all of them. None of it had anything to do with him.
His task was simple: survive. Stay hidden.
They clashed clumsily. It looked less like knightly combat and more like a street brawl. None of these boys had any real training, just children fooling around.
By the time they tired themselves out, the duel ended in a draw.
Gendry had no interest in their circus of knights. Fighting, as far as he was concerned, was simple, be bigger, be stronger. In that regard, given a few more years, none of them would match him.
"Forget it," someone laughed. "None of us will ever be knights anyway. Gendry might've had a chance, he's the strongest, and he looks the part!"
"Gendry? All he does is hammer iron! Tell us, Gendry, do you want to be a knight?"
"No." Gendry shook his head. "I'm here to be a blacksmith. What do I need knighthood for? Being a smith is good enough. If our craft is good, won't those lords still beg us to forge their armor?"
The others burst out laughing. They were used to that answer by now.
No knightly dreams. A born smith.
That night, Gendry lay awake amid the noise of the apprentice dormitory. Four boys shared the room, one snored like a sawmill, another ground his teeth.
His thoughts churned.
I need to run.
The idea surfaced again. But it was impossible, for now. He was just a boy, with no allies.
King's Landing was dangerous. Staying here was not safe. Worse still, he lived inside a spider's web.
Among the apprentices who entered the smithy through Steel Street, Gendry knew there were Varys's eyes, men who observed him, chatted with him, gauged his growth. So he played the role perfectly: forge well, speak of nothing but iron, avoid politics and knighthood.
It was the best disguise.
As for revealing his identity to King Robert, exposing the secrets of the so-called royal children, he had never once considered it. That path was death.
Robert Baratheon had little affection for bastards. Even his legitimate children received scant attention. The king was no father, after the bed, vows meant nothing. And in King's Landing, House Lannister's power was overwhelming.
For now, only the Spider knew the truth.
The king's eldest bastard.
Who knew how long Varys would keep that secret? Perhaps it was nothing more than a card to be sold at the right moment.
Gendry hated spiders.
The Spider had placed him here. Varys saw him as a piece on the board, something to be cashed in when the time was right.
But what Gendry feared more than spiders… were the Lannisters.
If they ever learned of his existence, that cruel queen would kill him without hesitation, just like his other bastard brothers and sisters.