The year was 296 AC. In a forge on the Street of Steel, the air was thick with heat and the clang of hammers. Gendry, using a pair of long tongs, lifted a glowing breastplate from the fire and plunged it into a trough of water. It screamed as the steam billowed, and he hung the freshly tempered steel on a hook to cool.
It was the final piece of a commission Tobho had given him, a suit of armor for a client in the city. The man was likely not a wealthy lord, Gendry mused, as he had requested simple, fine steel. There were no lacquered or enameled finishes, let alone the expensive Qohorik method of infusing color into the metal itself. He was probably a minor noble or, perhaps, another highborn bastard. Gendry examined his work with satisfaction. The curves were uniform, the steel flawless.
This was his life now. At twelve years old, the forge was his world, the hammer and fire his constant companions. His Baratheon blood gave him a sturdy build and a deep well of strength, making the grueling labor feel almost natural. He had also recently become aware of another trait simmering within his blood, a counterpart to his resilience. He could feel it, a coiled fury deep inside him that promised to unleash a terrifying power if he were ever enraged or grievously wounded. A storm's rage.
His favorite weapon, one he had forged himself in secret, was a warhammer. A longsword was elegant, but a hammer was brutally final. Its crushing impact could shatter shields, bones, and morale. Short of Valyrian steel, little could stand against it.
"Losing myself in the forge is not a bad thing," he often thought. "It draws the eye away from me." By playing the part of a simple boy content with his station, he made himself uninteresting. A bastard born in a brothel who was happy to be a blacksmith was a story that made sense. Even the Spider's little birds, who he knew were watching, would report back that the boy was no threat. Tobho, too, had grown comfortable, seeing him as just another apprentice.
The older boys sometimes tried to coax him into joining them in Flea Bottom to watch dog fights or children with sharpened teeth tearing at each other in rat pits. Gendry had gone once or twice and found the bloody spectacle pointless and expensive. He saved his coin instead. He was already planning his escape. The next year, a grand tourney would be held for Prince Joffrey's twelfth name day, a lavish display of unity between the lions and the stags. But the celebrations were for others. King's Landing was a powder keg, and he wanted to be far away when it finally exploded.
He weighed his options. He could disappear into another city in Westeros, or he could cross the Narrow Sea to Essos. Unlike Edric Storm, the king's acknowledged bastard at Storm's End, Gendry was a secret, and that gave him a freedom Edric would never know. The Spider viewed him as a minor piece on the board, far less valuable than the Targaryen heirs he cultivated across the sea.
The call of Essos was strong. There, he might learn more about the dormant bloodlines that slumbered within him—the blood of the dragon, the blood of the Rhoynar. His future was not in Westeros.
Just as Gendry finished his thoughts, Tobho Mott entered the barn, holding a newly finished helmet. It was a magnificent piece, with intricate seahorse motifs adorning its sides, their eyes made of sea-green gems. The delicate work had been done by the armorer himself.
"Someone from House Velaryon," Gendry recognized the sigil at once. The Lords of Driftmark were a shadow of their former glory, no longer the powerful Lords of the Tides, but a minor house sworn to Stannis on Dragonstone. Still, they were of old Valyrian blood.
"Excellent work, boy!" Tobho praised, inspecting Gendry's breastplate. "Your skill grows more refined by the day. You were born for this trade." The other apprentices looked on with envy. "A plain suit of armor is worth five gold dragons," Tobho continued, his voice booming. "But a suit from my forge is worth ten!" He turned to the others. "Now back to work! Less time dreaming of girls and gambling! Gendry, a moment."
In the courtyard, their client was waiting. He was a lean man dressed in sea-green robes and a silver cloak, the emblem of House Velaryon clear to see. "Lord Aurane," Tobho said with a bow. "The armor you requested." He gestured to the pieces Gendry had assembled.
Aurane Waters, the bastard brother of the Lord of Driftmark, had the silver-gold hair and grey-green eyes of his Valyrian ancestors. It was no wonder, Gendry thought, that the queen regent would one day see a phantom of Rhaegar Targaryen in him.
"The craftsmanship is superb," Aurane said, his eyes lighting up as he examined the seahorse helm. "I am very pleased."
"I am glad you like it," Tobho said proudly. "Any smith can make armor, but I make art."
As he spoke, Aurane Waters's gaze drifted past him and fell upon Gendry. The man froze, his expression turning to one of utter shock.
"This is my apprentice," Tobho said, oblivious. "He is a hard worker."
"Where are your parents, boy?" Aurane asked, his voice low, his eyes never leaving Gendry's face. Gendry's hair was thick and black as ink.
"Gone, my lord," Gendry replied with a tight smile.
Tobho chuckled, sensing the awkwardness. "An unlucky boy. King's Landing is full of them, Lord Aurane."
"Unlucky," Aurane repeated softly, his eyes still fixed on Gendry. "It seems we have that in common." He reached into his purse and pulled out two gold dragons. "The first, because your luck is as poor as my own. The other is a tip for your fine work."
Gendry hesitated. "My lord, I am an apprentice. The armorer pays my wages."
"Take it, boy!" Tobho insisted. "It is a gift from the lord! He is as stubborn as a bull, my lord, you must not mind him."
"Thank you," Gendry said, finally taking the coins.
"I must return to Driftmark," Aurane said, his squires appearing to collect the armor. "I prefer the sea breeze there to the stink of King's Landing." He gave Gendry one last, long look before turning and leaving.
Gendry pocketed the two gold dragons. So much for staying hidden. But it was unlikely the Bastard of Driftmark would risk himself by speaking of what he had seen. The two coins felt heavy in his hand. They were more than just gold. They were a gift from one bastard to another.