The halls of Storm's End were quiet, though tension lingered in every corner. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, illuminating the polished stone floors and banners of House Baratheon. In the chamber at the heart of the castle, Ser Jorah Mormont stood clad in his leather armor, over which was draped a green brocade robe embroidered with a standing bear, the sigil of his House.
"That Ramsay is a menace, Your Highness," Ser Jorah said, his voice firm. He had observed the young bastard of House Bolton long enough to know the chaos he could unleash if left unchecked.
Gendry, seated at the head of the table, considered the matter with measured calm. "Then what do you suggest, Jorah? Shall I risk offending Roose completely?" He glanced at Maester Qyburn, who stood nearby, dressed in grey robes bearing the direwolf of House Stark on his chest. "Bear Island is still in the North. Roose must know of that fool's deeds, yet Ramsay is his last son."
Qyburn's expression was thoughtful. "Though Ramsay is indeed foolish and vicious, your assessment is accurate. Slaughter and cruelty are marks of madness, and the North is sparsely populated. A scoundrel like Ramsay will sooner or later imperil House Bolton entirely."
Ser Jorah fell silent, recalling the young man's arrogance and cruelty. "Ramsay's behavior is a direct result of Roose's leniency," he admitted reluctantly.
Gendry's eyes narrowed. "Ramsay is dangerous, yes—but the time for execution is not now. Reek has been disposed of, and Ramsay is already broken. I want a Ramsay who fears me, who barks a few times for me in the North, and then faces his end resolutely when the time comes. Patience, Jorah, is a weapon."
"Sooner or later, Roose will be undone by this son," Jorah insisted. "The Roose I remember was calm, calculated, a man of quiet menace. Lord Domeric was his true son, polite and measured. Though Roose was cold and ruthless, he employed courtesy and intellect as his shield."
Gendry snorted softly. "House Stark prides itself on justice, yet many lords cannot be fully controlled. The North is vast and remote, and tradition binds the heads of the Houses there. But one day, they will have to answer to a single king, a single law. That day will be mine, and I must prepare to seize it."
Jorah inclined his head. "Your Highness, there is another matter. The upcoming tourney at Wolf's Den must be prepared with care. I should inspect the site and ensure safety measures are sufficient."
"You've worked hard, Jorah," Gendry said, a faint smile touching his lips. Power had given the knight a sense of purpose that rekindled the pride and vigor of his youth, back when he had rushed across city walls, eager to prove his valor.
"It is my honor, Your Highness," Jorah replied, bowing and taking his leave.
Once the knight departed, Gendry turned his attention to Maester Qyburn. "And how goes your research, Maester?" he asked, curiosity sharpening his tone.
Qyburn's brow furrowed, a hint of frustration behind his polite bow. "I am ashamed, Your Highness. Progress has been slow; without suitable subjects, my experiments stall. The Khal you defeated has decomposed beyond use. He does not meet the requirements."
Gendry considered this. "Then wait a little longer. I believe the Mountain may serve as an excellent subject."
Qyburn's eyes gleamed with the subtle excitement of a man whose obsession with alchemy and necromancy bordered on mania. "The best subjects are strong and tall warriors—the Mountain, the gladiators of Meereen, or the Khas of the Dothraki. They provide the optimal body and vitality necessary for these experiments. Yet the magical tide must also be considered; the arrival of the red comet will greatly increase the probability of success."
"Then we wait," Gendry said firmly, leaning back in his chair. "The throne is not merely a seat of power—it is a responsibility. Patience is as vital as strength."
Qyburn inclined his head, a faint smile playing across his lips. "Even if my experiments fail, I have uncovered valuable historical records regarding bloodlines and power. The lessons of the past may guide us toward the future."
Gendry's interest sharpened. "Tell me more."
"The Baratheon bloodline," Qyburn began, "originates from Durrandon. Its strength lies not only in brute force but in resilience, cunning, and inherited vigor. Generation after generation, the bloodline manifests power that exceeds ordinary men. Legends abound of the Storm Kings, and of the Baratheons who shaped history with their ferocity."
Gendry nodded, feeling the pulse of his heritage in his veins. Among all his bloodlines, only the Storm's Blood seemed active, potent, and alive. The other ancestries within him had yet to reveal their hidden potential.
"Strength is only part of it," Qyburn continued. "The Baratheon line shows its might in warfare and ferocity, yes, but it is tied to the natural world—the storms, the oceans, and the unyielding land of the Stormlands. Think of King Robert, or Lord Borros in the Dance of the Dragons—heroes and warriors who defied the odds, capable of feats that mere mortals could scarcely imagine."
"But even this," Gendry said thoughtfully, "seems only physical. How far can it extend? Will the Storm's Blood surpass mere mortal limits?"
"Physical strength is only the beginning," Qyburn said gravely. "With the end of the long summer and the onset of winter, the resurgence of magic may awaken deeper powers within you. Storm's End itself is said to be imbued with protective enchantments, capable of withstanding magical assault. These are not mere tales—they are manifestations of the old world, of magic intertwined with bloodlines and stone."
Gendry murmured, recalling the legends. Storm's End, built by the first Storm King Durran, had stood against gods themselves, resisting destruction with both walls of stone and spells of the ancients. Six castles had been destroyed before Storm's End rose, yet the fortress remained, a testament to mortal ingenuity bolstered by mysticism.
"I will monitor the climate, Your Highness," Qyburn assured him. "Its patterns, its storms, all can be harnessed to enhance your strength and secure your rule. Magic is tied to the world, and the longer it endures, the greater its power will be in your hands."
Gendry smiled faintly. "I await your good news. But take care of yourself, Maester. Your work is vital, yet your health cannot be sacrificed to it."
"Rest assured, Your Highness," Qyburn said proudly. "Though I age, I am still willing to fight for your cause. The battlefield for warriors is the plains; mine is the laboratory, the web of intelligence, and the secrets that others overlook."
Qyburn's eyes flickered with intrigue as he added another point. "House Stark is heading south. Lord Eddard, his daughters, the bastard, and a hundred guards are en route. Their movement presents an opportunity—direwolves are not only guardians but also markers of magical significance. The old gods' influence is subtle yet potent."
Gendry nodded, anticipating the convergence of fate. "The Old Wolf is cleverer than expected. Even with fifty extra guards, he will not change the outcome, but he is not entirely foolish."
"Your Highness," Qyburn added with a measured bow, "the stories of magic tied to House Stark and Storm's End provide insight. The Children of the Forest, legends say, aided in constructing Storm's End, imbuing it with protective enchantments. Likewise, House Stark's lineage carries miraculous potential through the direwolves and the First Men. We must study these carefully, lest the forces of magic slip from our grasp."
"Curb your curiosity for now, Maester," Gendry advised. "Grasp the present. The future may yet demand your knowledge, but first, we secure the foundation."
Qyburn sighed, though there was no real frustration—only eagerness. "If Archmaester Marwyn were here, my work would be doubly fruitful. He is a like-minded scholar, a master of magic and mysticism, whose insights rival my own. The Citadel, however, suppresses such endeavors. Magic is forbidden, studies of dragons and old powers seen as madness. Yet opportunities arise, and I shall seize them."
Gendry's gaze hardened. "Then prepare, Maester. The game of bloodline, power, and magic has only begun. Storm's End is ready, the North moves south, and destiny favors the bold."
Outside, the wind stirred the banners of House Baratheon. The sun shone over the plains, casting long shadows of warriors, scholars, and strategists alike. Bloodlines and power intertwined, forging a path that only the cunning and ambitious could navigate. Gendry's eyes reflected the horizon, where future battles, political maneuvers, and the resurgence of magic awaited.
The Seven Kingdoms were poised on the edge of change, and the storm was coming.
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