Within the quiet room of Firegrass Manor, the night felt strangely heavy. The walls held the lingering echo of battle cries, and the air still carried a faint metallic scent of blood. Gendry sat on a wooden stool near the window, wiping down his warhammer in silence. The dark steel felt cold and unforgiving beneath his fingertips. Even though it was forged from fine Myrish steel, several dents and scratches marred its surface—a testament to last night's brutal combat.
Two additional weapons lay across the table:
• the curved arakh taken from Rust Kalaz, the famed Meereenese gladiator
• and the heavy Morningstar once carried by the fallen Wolf Pack warrior who had fought beside Gendry.
The arakh gleamed sharply even in the dim light. Half-sword, half-scythe, it was a weapon made for killing swiftly—favored by Dothraki screamers and pit fighters alike. Gendry traced the blade's curve, imagining the hands that once wielded it with such precision.
I need better steel, he thought grimly.
A Valyrian warhammer—sharp, unyielding, and hungry for blood—would be unmatched by anything in the known world. Valyrian steel was rare, but if he ever found such a weapon… his enemies would tremble.
A faint glow appeared before Gendry's eyes, visible only to him:
[Bloodline: Storm's Blood — Activated, Awakened 33%]
He could feel it pulsing through him. Last night's battle, the life-and-death clash against a warrior like Rust Kalaz—his bloodline responded to it. Storm's Blood grew stronger in chaos, honed at the edge of death.
His strength was rising.
His reflexes sharper.
His body tougher.
The battlefield awakened the fury in his veins.
"You look as though you are polishing a crown, not a warhammer," Maester Qyburn said as he stepped inside. His tone was mild, amused. "But I understand the sentiment. I once treasured my steel chain as if it were the most sacred artifact in the world… until I discovered the magnitude of the mysteries that lie beyond mundane knowledge. Magic, Your Highness, is a vast ocean. Westerosi prefer to hide in the dark rather than light the candles of truth."
He sighed dramatically.
"Rather than bleating like sheep, it is better to embrace knowledge."
Gendry glanced at him. "Maester Qyburn… what you pursue is truth. What I want is peace. Safety. A life not burdened by politics and daggers in the dark."
He set the warhammer aside.
Maybe in another life, he would have lived as a carefree lordling, racing through the forests, drinking summerwine, laughing with friends. But he had been born into a power struggle. Born too close to the Iron Throne… and too close to people who defended it with cruelty and paranoia.
He was older than Joffrey. Robert's true firstborn, even as a bastard. That alone put him in danger.
House Lannister would not tolerate him. His half-siblings—bastards like him—had already been quietly removed. Only Edric Storm, hidden in Storm's End, had survived so far.
"Kings' families are often worse than smallfolk's quarrels," Qyburn muttered. "Viserys the First, the Usurper, Aerys the Mad King, and even your father, King Robert—each presided over a house entangled in scandal and incompetence. Robert's lust scattered seeds like weeds in a garden. Cersei's ambitions poisoned everything else."
Gendry nodded grimly.
He remembered the jokes whispered in the taverns of King's Landing.
The Dance of the Dragons—Viserys's failure.
The Blackfyre Rebellion—sown by Aegon IV's bastards.
The Mad King—madness destroying his family.
Robert—too drunk on wine and women to hold anything together.
"So be prepared," Gendry said quietly. "If my identity leaks, House Lannister will become our greatest enemy."
"And a formidable one," Qyburn agreed. "The Westerlands are wealthy. Under Lord Tywin, they are ironbound in discipline. Even King Robert married a Lannister bride to ensure his own power."
Qyburn paced the room, glancing again at Rust Kalaz's arakh.
"It is a pity," he muttered. "I had hoped to study that Meereenese gladiator. To understand how to create a warrior who never tires—never hesitates—never fears."
Gendry gave him a sharp look. "Not here. Not now."
"If only we had such a fighter among your guards," Qyburn continued, undeterred. "Your own Kingsguard, like the White Knights of the Red Keep. Only stronger. Unbreakable."
"That time will come," Gendry replied. "But not while we remain simple sellswords in the Wolf Pack Company. Your… experiments… would see us both executed."
Qyburn sighed. "I know. I know. But knowledge tempts me more fiercely than gold."
He paused, then added with a spark of excitement:
"Besides forging invincible warriors, I am also fascinated by magic—by substances where arcane elements flicker and dance. If, perhaps, we could acquire a dragon egg…"
He smiled knowingly. "Your Highness, you carry a trace of Valyrian blood yourself. With the right conditions, you might even hatch a dragon."
Gendry shook his head. "Dragons are trouble. Whoever wakes one brings chaos."
"And yet," Qyburn replied, "the world already stirs with fools who seek dragons. Not just us."
Gendry knew exactly whom he meant.
The Beggar King—and his sister.
Three fossilized eggs sat in Pentos, guarded by Illyrio Mopatis. But cracked stone rarely birthed life. He needed living eggs. Younger eggs. Maybe from Dragonstone. Perhaps Summerhall. Somewhere unspoiled by time.
"You speak of Viserys and Daenerys," Gendry said.
"Indeed." Qyburn clasped his hands behind his back. "Their blood is pure. But do not underestimate the precedent. The Sea Snake could not ride dragons, yet his children—bastards included—flew through the sky."
Gendry snorted. "We have other paths to allies."
Qyburn smiled slyly. "Are you speaking of Daenerys herself?"
Gendry hesitated. "Her?"
"She," Qyburn corrected excitedly. "Daenerys Stormborn. The most beautiful girl in the world. The blood of Old Valyria incarnate. Her beauty, it is said, rivals the maiden goddesses. But her beauty is only the surface. Beneath it lies a hidden power."
"Have you even met her?" Gendry asked, almost laughing. "You speak as if you raised her."
"I have seen Rhaegar," Qyburn said softly, almost reverently. "Tall. Handsome. Silver-haired. Those indigo eyes… even years after his death, women still sigh at the memory. His sister must be equally radiant."
Gendry had heard the stories, too. Even Cersei remembered Rhaegar with longing.
"And Daenerys?" he murmured.
"A girl who has lived in fear since childhood," Qyburn said. "With a mad brother obsessed with crowns. What would she desire more than safety? Than someone powerful enough to shield her?"
He turned to Gendry.
"A strong man. Handsome. Fearless. Charming. A storm-blooded warrior. Someone like you, Your Highness."
Gendry frowned, but he could not deny there was logic in it.
"If I allied with Daenerys… many would hate me," he said.
Qyburn shrugged. "Power requires enemies. But she is also a key. To dragons. To legitimacy. To destiny."
Gendry leaned back, deep in thought.
A honey trap wasn't what he wanted to use—but in politics, everything became a tool. Daenerys was more than beauty. She represented the possibility of rebirth—for herself, for dragons, for an entire kingdom.
"We need to know where they are," Gendry said finally. "Smugglers and pirates know everything that moves along the coast."
Qyburn grinned. "Ah! The smugglers of the Disputed Lands. Excellent choice. They know more secrets than all the archmaesters combined."
"We'll pay them," Gendry said. "Gold makes tongues loose."
"And I," Qyburn said dramatically, "would be delighted to help with this… beautiful mission."
Gendry chuckled despite himself.
It was the beginning of a dangerous plan—but also the beginning of something far greater.
Storms. Dragons. Exiles. Magic.
The pieces were assembling.
And the world did not yet see the storm that was coming.