295 AC, King's Landing.
At the peak of Visenya's Hill, the forge of Tobho Mott roared from dawn till dusk, painting the air with heat, smoke, and the metallic scent of steel.
Two years had passed since Gendry had been brought to the smithy.
He was now eleven years old, tall for his age, shoulders broadening, muscles growing denser each month under the relentless demands of the craft.
Life inside Tobho's smithy was far from easy, but Gendry had long grown accustomed to its rhythm—the hiss of quenching metal, the ringing of hammers, and the fiery breath of the forge that swallowed every corner of the stone barn behind the main workshop.
He stood bent over an anvil, black hair matted with sweat, deep blue eyes focused with unwavering calm. The world around him faded until only metal, fire, and rhythm remained.
Hammer.
Turn.
Strike again.
The iron breastplate slowly took shape under his hands, glowing orange, alive.
When the metal reached the perfect temperature, he clenched the long-handled tongs, lifted the piece, and plunged it into the cold water trough.
Hissssss.
Steam exploded upward like a dragon's snarl.
Gendry's arms did not tremble. He worked with a natural strength, an inherited toughness in his bones—a legacy from a father who had never bothered to know him.
Robert Baratheon, once a storm of a man, had stood nearly two meters tall in his youth—a giant with the strength to break men in half. Even his ancestor, the Mad Storm, had been a towering beast of a warrior.
Gendry had inherited that power.
He felt it every time he picked up a hammer.
Tobho Mott watched the boy with rare approval.
"Very good, Gendry," he said, rubbing his bearded chin. "For your age, you are strong and tall. And you work harder than anyone else I've ever taken in."
His voice held genuine admiration, almost paternal. Though he owned the largest smithy on the Street of Steel, Tobho was a craftsman at heart, and he valued skill over lineage.
Gendry gave a small, indifferent reply.
"Thank you, Master Tobho."
He meant it. The work was hard—backbreaking at times—but at least he had food, rest, and meat every other day. Tobho kept his apprentices well-fed; a starving blacksmith was a useless one.
It was certainly far better than running around a tavern, earning copper pennies and bruises.
Tobho crossed his arms.
"Child, smithing is slow work," he began, slipping into one of his lectures. "Pig iron becomes refined iron. Refined iron becomes steel. And above all that sits Valyrian steel—the greatest craft of all. To reach even the level of a good master, you need years. Three years, then three more, and then three more after that."
Gendry listened quietly.
Tobho opened his mouth to brag about his apprenticeship in Qohor, but paused. His expression dimmed, thoughtful.
This boy will not be allowed to stay here forever, he realized.
A bastard of Robert Baratheon—older than the queen's children.
A living threat wrapped in charcoal hair and blue eyes.
Queen Cersei's temper and pride were infamous across the city. Her hatred for Robert's bastards was no secret. She despised the very idea of them.
One day, this innocent boy would be dragged into the whirlpool of power.
Tobho could only hope that day came later rather than sooner.
He hesitated before asking softly,
"Do you miss your parents?"
Gendry paused his hammering.
"Missing them is useless," he said simply. "I've forgotten most of it. My mother died when I was small. I only remember… she sang to me. She had yellow hair."
He wiped sweat from his brow.
"As for my father… he's probably long dead."
Tobho's heart clenched.
The sadness in the boy's voice was too calm—too resigned.
Compared to the pampered princes living in the Red Keep, Gendry worked like a mule for his bread, unaware of who he really was.
Perhaps ignorance was a kindness.
A bastard who dreamed of his father's identity could easily lose himself in dangerous fantasies. And House Lannister did not tolerate threats—real or imagined.
Tobho cleared his throat.
"You're a smart child. A bit stubborn, but smart."
He inspected the breastplate again.
"This will do. You've finished early today. Go, have some time to yourself."
Gendry gave a small nod.
"Thank you."
Stepping out of the sweltering barn, Gendry walked toward the narrow courtyard behind the smithy. Several apprentices were already gathered there—boys between thirteen and fourteen, all wearing simple undershirts and trousers, the uniform of Tobho's workshop.
Some were sons of blacksmiths from the Street of Steel, some were children of craftsmen, and a few were second sons of minor noble families sent to learn a trade.
"Come join us, Gendry!" one boy shouted.
"You all play," Gendry replied, shaking his head. "I don't like these games."
"That's because you've got no spirit!" a freckle-faced boy teased. "Look at you—big as a bull, but you won't even pick up a practice sword!"
The boys had gathered a collection of old, discarded blunt swords from the smithy—tools unfit for sale but perfect for childish reenactments of heroes and knights.
Gendry sat on a wooden crate and watched.
"I am the Sword of the Morning!" declared a chubby boy with pale yellow hair. He swung the blunt sword clumsily, puffing with effort.
"You?" The freckled boy burst into laughter. "If the Sword of the Morning were as fat as you, he'd break his own armor! You'd be thrown out of the Kingsguard!"
"You want to fight, then?!" the chubby boy snapped.
"I'll fight! I am Barristan the Bold!" the freckled boy declared, striking a heroic pose with his blunt sword.
The names stirred memories in Gendry's mind.
The Sword of the Morning.
Barristan Selmy.
Legends of Westeros.
But those legends had nothing to do with him.
He was not destined to become a knight.
He was not destined to march in shining armor.
His only task right now was to survive.
The two boys clashed with their blunt swords, arms flailing wildly. It was more of a street brawl than a duel—clumsy, untrained, and full of shouting. They swung too wide, tripped over each other, and nearly hit a younger apprentice at the edge of the courtyard.
After several minutes, both collapsed to the ground, panting and laughing.
It ended in a clumsy draw.
Gendry lost interest.
To him, strength meant lifting heavier hammers, holding hotter metal, and lasting longer in the forge. The childish games of fake knights were meaningless.
One of the boys wiped his nose.
"Let's be honest—we're not becoming knights. But this boy Gendry? He's got a chance. Look at him. Strong as a bull!"
"Forget him," another said. "He only cares about smithing! Gendry, do you even want to be a knight?"
"No." Gendry didn't hesitate.
"I want to be a blacksmith. A good one. Lords come begging for good armor. That's enough."
His companions burst into laughter.
They had heard the same answer dozens of times.
To them, Gendry was "the born blacksmith." Not a dreamer. Not a fighter. Just steady hands and a stubborn will.
---
That night, the apprentice's sleeping room was filled with noise—snoring from one bunk, teeth grinding from another, and restless tossing from a boy who talked in his sleep.
Gendry lay awake, frustrated.
But noise was the least of his concerns.
His mind was elsewhere.
I have to leave here someday.
The thought had returned many times over the past year.
But he had no plan, no allies, no safe path. King's Landing was a nest of blades hidden beneath silk. A boy alone wouldn't survive a week.
Worse, he felt eyes on him wherever he went.
Varys' eyes.
The Spider's informants were everywhere—slaves, beggars, children, even apprentices. Some of the boys who had joined the smithy recently seemed too curious, too eager to talk to him, too observant.
The Spider was watching.
Waiting.
Gendry had learned quickly: the best disguise was to act exactly like a normal apprentice.
Work hard.
Talk little.
No politics.
No questions.
As for revealing himself to Robert Baratheon?
The idea alone was madness.
Robert barely cared for the children he believed were his—blonde, lion-like heirs that bore no resemblance to the stag he once was. He certainly wouldn't risk angering the Lannisters over a bastard boy.
Cersei's hatred was legendary.
If she learned who he was…
He would disappear.
Like Robert's other bastards.
Gendry clenched his jaw.
Only Varys knew his true identity.
For now.
But the Spider wasn't keeping the secret for kindness.
No—Gendry was a piece on his board, nothing more.
A pawn, polished and prepared for the day Varys needed him.
Gendry hated him for that.
But he feared the Lannisters far more.
In the end, the only path forward was the one he walked every day:
Be a blacksmith.
Be invisible.
Be nothing more.
For now.