Two years had passed. On the summit of Visenya's Hill, the fires of Tobho Mott's smithy burned as hot as ever. Gendry, now eleven, had fully adapted to the life of a blacksmith's apprentice. Behind the main shop, in the sprawling stone barn, forges roared in every corner, filling the air with the sharp scent of smoke and hot metal.
With his charcoal-black hair plastered to his brow and his deep blue eyes fixed on the task, Gendry hammered away at a breastplate, wholly absorbed in his work. In these moments, the world shrank to the glowing steel, the wheezing bellows, and the forge's hungry flames. It was a symphony of metal, and the hammer felt like an extension of his own arm. When the shaping was done, he seized the armor with long-handled tongs and plunged it into a trough of cold water. The breastplate hissed violently as it tempered.
Gendry felt a tireless strength in his bones, a warrior's constitution that he owed, however begrudgingly, to the father who had never acknowledged him. His ancestor, the Storm King of old, was a giant of a man, and King Robert himself stood nearly two meters tall in his prime. The Baratheon blood ran true, even in a forgotten bastard.
"Excellent work, Gendry," Tobho praised, observing the boy. "You have strength and diligence beyond your years." The armorer, more craftsman than businessman, saw the fine form of the boy's work. Gendry's powerful build, if not destined for the battlefield, was perfectly suited for the forge.
"Thank you," Gendry replied without looking up, his focus returning to his work. In truth, he had grown to love the craft. Smithing was one of the world's great hardships, a life of sweat and fire, but here he ate well. The steady diet of meat and bread had made him tall and strong, a far better fate than starving in the back of some Flea Bottom tavern.
"Patience, boy," Tobho said, his tone softening. "Smithing is a slow craft. From pig iron to good steel, and from steel to something more… it takes years. Many sets of years to become a true armorer. When I was a lad in Qohor…" He trailed off, catching himself. This apprentice was not destined to stay here. As Robert's bastard, older than the trueborn heir, the boy was tangled in a web of power he didn't even see. The queen's hatred for her husband's by-blows was common knowledge in King's Landing. He was not long for this simple life.
"Do you ever miss your parents?" Tobho asked quietly.
"There's no use in missing what's gone," Gendry said, brushing his sweat-soaked black hair from his eyes. "My mother died when I was small. I remember her singing, and that her hair was yellow. As for my father… he's probably long dead."
Tobho winced at the boy's bluntness. It was a bitter thing, for this boy to toil in a forge while his half-siblings lived in the Red Keep's luxury. Yet, perhaps it was for the best. If Gendry knew his true parentage, the dream of being a king's son would poison him. He would never know peace at the anvil, and that would be a far worse fate. The Lannisters were not to be trifled with.
"You are a clever boy, if a stubborn one," Tobho said with a sigh. "The breastplate is well made. You can be done for the day. Go and play."
"Thanks." Leaving the barn, Gendry entered the smithy's narrow courtyard where his fellow apprentices were already gathered. They were all around thirteen or fourteen, wearing the same simple undershirts, their bodies lean from their labor. Some were the sons of other smiths from the Street of Steel, sent here to learn from the best. Others were the younger sons of poor knights or common city folk.
"I don't want to play," Gendry told them, finding a spot to sit on an old barrel. "These games are not for me."
"There he goes again," one of them muttered. "He has no fire in his belly. For a boy his size, he has no interest in picking up a sword!"
Gendry watched as the apprentices began their mock battles, using discarded, blunted weapons from the forge's scrap heap.
"Have at you! I am the Sword of the Morning!" a chubby, blond-haired boy declared, swinging a blunt sword in a clumsy arc.
"You'd make me die of laughter!" a thinner boy with a face full of freckles shot back. "If the Sword of the Morning were as fat as you, he'd already be dead!"
"Damn you! Then face me in a duel!" the chubby boy shouted, his face red with anger.
"I'll duel you!" the freckled boy retorted, raising his own weapon. "I am Barristan the Bold, the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms!"
Gendry listened to the names—Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy. They were legends, white-cloaked heroes whose stories were told in every corner of Westeros. But they had nothing to do with him. His only task was to survive, to remain unseen. The two boys clashed, their "duel" more a chaotic brawl than a knightly contest. They were untrained, their swings wild and clumsy, a game for children. When they were both panting and exhausted, they called it a draw.
"None of us will be knights," one of them said, collapsing on the ground. "But Gendry might have a chance. He's the strongest of us all!"
Another apprentice turned to him. "Gendry, do you want to be a knight?"
"No," Gendry said, shaking his head. "I'm here to be a blacksmith. That's a good enough life for me. If our skill is true, even the great lords will come to us for their armor."
His companions laughed, but they were used to his answers. Gendry had no dreams of glory; it seemed he was a born smith.
Later that night, Gendry lay awake in the apprentices' dormitory, listening to the sounds of four boys sleeping in one room. One snored like a dying boar, another ground his teeth. The noise was maddening, but his own thoughts were louder. *I have to run,* he thought, an idea that grew more urgent each day. But where would he go? He had no allies, no gold, and was still just a boy. King's Landing was dangerous, but the world outside was no safer.
He felt trapped within the Spider's web. He knew that among the apprentices were informants, little birds sent to watch him, to report on his every move. And so he played his part. He was Gendry, the born blacksmith, a boy who cared only for the quality of his steel and had no interest in politics or knights. It was his only defense.
The thought of revealing his identity to Robert, of exposing the secret of the queen's children, was a fool's dream. Robert Baratheon cared little for the bastards he sired, and less for the children he thought were his own. He was not a father. And in King's Landing, the Lannisters held all the power.
For now, only the Spider knew he was the king's eldest bastard. Gendry hated Varys for it, hated being a valuable piece in a game he couldn't see, a pawn to be sacrificed when the time was right. But as much as he hated the Spider, he feared the Lion far more. If that vicious queen ever learned of his existence, she would have him killed, just like all the others.