The magnificent royal procession continued toward the Great Sept of Baelor, its river of gold, steel, and velvet flowing like a brilliant serpent through the plaza. Only after King Robert and his two brothers disappeared beyond the Sept's towering doors did the Gold Cloaks finally ease their tight control over the crowds.
The apprentices, escorted by Master Tobho, were swept back into the bustling flow of people descending from the white marble steps. The brief excitement had passed, leaving behind whispers and speculation like dust in the air.
---
The Brothers Baratheon
Far ahead, Renly Baratheon urged his horse forward until he pulled up beside his older brother.
"Stannis, what are you brooding over now?" Renly asked, flicking his dark hair with the ease of a man born charming. His tone carried its usual teasing edge.
Stannis shot him a sharp look. "Nothing."
But his eyes remained fixed on the spot where he thought he had seen something—no, someone. A tall boy among the crowd, dark-haired, blue-eyed, with a build and presence unmistakably Baratheon.
The boy disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, swallowed by the sea of commoners.
Stannis frowned again.
Did I imagine it?
He had seen many of Robert's bastards over the years—Edric Storm, for instance, growing up in Storm's End and looking more like a true Baratheon than half the nobles in the court. But this boy… the resemblance had struck him like a thrown spear.
"Never surpassed Robert," Stannis muttered under his breath, half bitter, half mocking. "Not in looks, charm, strength, or even… children."
Because while Robert fathered bastards everywhere, Stannis had never even managed a daughter until recently.
He clenched his jaw.
"Why," Stannis thought coldly, "are all Robert's trueborn children blonde? Why none with deep blue eyes or black hair? Why do the bastards look more like Baratheons than the ones the queen bore?"
His suspicions curled like smoke in his chest, but he said nothing aloud. Not here. Not with Renly beside him.
He looked back once more toward the plaza, but the mysterious boy was nowhere in sight.
With a final, chilly exhale, Stannis followed the procession into the Sept.
---
Return to the Street of Steel
"Come along, children," Master Tobho called out, clapping his large hands firmly. "Best keep away from the Gold Cloaks. Their tempers are as sharp as their spears."
He herded the apprentices down the hill like a shepherd guiding a flock.
Behind him, some of the boys still buzzed with excitement.
"I saw Ser Barristan!" one said proudly.
"Ser Jaime wasn't there, though!"
"The lion?" another boy scoffed. "You mean the Kingslayer—"
Before he could finish, Tobho spun around and clamped a hand over the boy's mouth.
"Quiet!" he hissed. "Watch your tongue, child. Do you want trouble? Lannisters have ears everywhere."
He pointed to a passing pair of red-cloaked guards.
The boys immediately sobered.
House Lannister had woven itself into the capital over two generations. Their men walked every alley. Their gold bought every rumor. In this city, a wrong word could bury a man—or a child.
"Put away your knightly fantasies," Tobho added gruffly. "Becoming a knight costs one hundred gold dragons at the very least. Can any of you afford that?"
His words fell like cold water over their daydreams.
A proper knight required:
A master-at-arms for training
A warhorse
Armor
A sword
Noble sponsorship
Ceremony fees
And much more
A blacksmith earned a living.
A knight spent fortunes.
Gendry watched the boys' expressions fall, their illusions cracking like thin iron.
Reality was cruel—but honest.
---
The Craft of Survival
Tobho glanced at Gendry.
Out of all the apprentices, this one stood out—tall, broad-shouldered, with striking blue eyes and the unmistakable look of House Baratheon. But his identity was dangerous, tangled in webs Tobho wished to avoid.
"Fortunate he hasn't noticed how much he resembles Renly," Tobho thought. "Or the King in his youth."
Gendry himself felt no admiration for the Knights of the Kingsguard or the King who passed by atop his fat destrier.
What he envied was their freedom—the ability to travel, to ride, to leave.
His own future in King's Landing was a ticking trap. Lannisters prowled the city like lions waiting for prey. The Spider watched him with unseen eyes.
He needed a way out.
A plan.
A path.
Anything.
For now, all he had was his hammer.
---
Lessons of Steel and Society
"Listen well, children," Tobho said, slipping back into lecture mode as they reached the smithy. "Any village blacksmith can hammer out crude armor. What sets my work apart is not only skill—it is knowledge."
He pointed to his temple.
"You must learn more than forging iron. You need etiquette to serve lords. Writing to take orders. Languages. Mathematics. The ability to sketch designs. Without these, your work is worth copper. With them, it becomes gold."
Gendry nodded quietly.
This was something he did admire about Tobho: he believed in crafting both metal and minds.
While most smithies only taught hammer and anvil, Tobho hired tutors to teach:
Numbers
Letters
Sketching
Basic trade languages
He expected his apprentices to be craftsmen, not brutes.
But Gendry knew Tobho kept deeper secrets hidden behind locked doors.
Rumors whispered that Tobho possessed two rare arts:
1. Color-forging steel, making metal shine in hues unattainable by mere paint.
2. Reforging Valyrian steel, an ability nearly lost to the world.
But Qohorik smiths guarded such knowledge fiercely. Any man who leaked those secrets risked losing his arms—or worse.
If Gendry stayed a decade, he might glimpse the outer layers of those mysteries… but never their core.
A craftsman's crown jewels were not easily shared.
---
The Day's Work Ends
Back inside the barn-like forge, Gendry worked until dusk.
Sweat poured down his back, his arms aching with dull heat. He finished tempering the last sword and plunged it into the trough.
Hissssss.
Steam curled upward.
Today's sword was good—well balanced, cleanly forged, symmetrical. Not a masterwork, but far better than the work of any rural blacksmith.
Gendry loosened his leather apron, letting his muscles breathe. His arms were thick, corded with strength, carved by countless hours beside the forge's fire.
He wiped soot from his face.
Another day done.
Perhaps tomorrow's iron would be even better.
Just as he turned to leave, something flashed before his eyes—light forming patterns in the air, silent and unmistakable.
A translucent panel appeared in front of him.
---
The System Awakens
[Gendry]
[Bloodlines]
Storm's Blood — Enabled (Awakened 30%)
True Dragon's Blood — Not Enabled
First Men's Blood — Not Enabled
Rhoynar Blood — Not Enabled
Green Hand Blood — Not Enabled
[Talent]
Caste Resilience
(Descendants of the stag are tall, strong, fertile, and produce blue-eyed, black-haired offspring.)
[Skills]
Blacksmithing — Master
Drawing — Master
Mathematics — Master
Gendry froze.
The information glowed softly, shimmering like magic—but magic he somehow understood.
He stared at the bloodlines in disbelief.
Stacked upon each other like layers of ancient heritage—Baratheon, Targaryen, Blackwood, Dayne, Martell. He began to understand the truth his body hinted at but never revealed.
Storm's Blood pulsed like a living flame.
A lineage of warriors, storms, and giants.
True Dragon's Blood lay dormant, silent—perhaps tied to fire, dragons, or something deeper.
The other bloodlines—First Men, Rhoynar, Green Hand—slumbered like seeds waiting for rain.
Only one thing was active:
Caste Resilience, the hallmark of the Baratheons—stature, strength, endurance.
But the potential—
The possibilities—
A thrill ran through him.
For the first time since arriving in King's Landing, he felt hope.
Not the fragile hope of a child, but the fierce determination of someone who could shape his destiny.
He clenched his fists.
He was not merely a blacksmith's apprentice.
Not merely a bastard hidden away.
He was a storm given form.
A descendant of kings, warriors, and dragons.
He was Gendry.
And one day—
The world would know it.