In the quiet of his room at the fire-weed estate, Gendry sat cleaning his warhammer. The black iron was cold to the touch, scarred from the brutal melee, but unbroken. On the table beside him lay two new trophies: the curved arakh of the Meereenese pit fighter, and the heavy morningstar that had belonged to his fallen mentor.
He ran a hand over the arakh. Half sword, half scythe, it was a vicious weapon designed for slashing, beloved by the Dothraki and the pit fighters of Slaver's Bay. But as deadly as it was, it wasn't enough.
Gendry craved Valyrian steel. Nothing in the world cut like dragonsteel.
[Bloodline: Storm's Blood (Activated)]
[Awakening Progress: 33%]
He watched the floating text with grim satisfaction. Combat—specifically life-or-death combat against elite foes—was the fuel for his bloodline. He could feel the Storm's Fury settling into his marrow, making his muscles denser, his reflexes sharper, and his stamina nearly inexhaustible.
"I used to be obsessed with the heavy links of my maester's chain, until I realized how small the Citadel's view of the world truly was," Qyburn mused, watching Gendry work. " The maesters are like men in a dark room trying to blow out the only candle because they fear the shadows it casts. I would rather stare into the flame."
"You chase truth, Maester Qyburn. I chase security," Gendry replied, setting down the oil rag. "I want the kind of freedom where I don't have to look over my shoulder for the Spider's knives."
But he knew that kind of safety was a lie. His existence was a threat to the Iron Throne. Even though he was older than Joffrey, his bastardy made him a loose end. Cersei Lannister would eventually hunt down every drop of Robert's blood. He knew about the fate of the others—little Barra killed at her mother's breast, the twins sold to a slaver. Only Edric Storm, hidden away at Storm's End, was safe for now.
"King Robert's family is a disaster waiting to happen. Just like Viserys I, just like the Mad King, just like Aegon the Unworthy," Qyburn sighed. "A king who ignores his children and a queen consumed by ambition... it is a recipe for civil war. The realm is a powder keg."
Gendry nodded. The history of Westeros was a cycle of bad fathers and bloody successions. Viserys I's neglect birthed the Dance of the Dragons. Aegon the Unworthy's lust birthed the Blackfyre Rebellions. And now Robert's apathy was paving the road for the War of the Five Kings.
"Prepare yourself, Maester. Whether my identity is revealed or not, House Lannister is already our enemy," Gendry said coldly. Tywin Lannister commanded the wealth of the West and a disciplined, loyal army. To fight that, Gendry needed more than a warhammer.
"We need manpower. It is a pity I couldn't experiment on that Meereenese gladiator," Qyburn muttered, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "He would have made a magnificent... asset. Tireless. Fearless. Unfeeling."
"Like the Kingsguard, but better. A monster in white armor who never questions orders," Qyburn speculated, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Not now," Gendry cut him off. "We are mercenaries in a reputable company. If the Wolf Pack caught you turning a corpse into a monster, they'd hang us both."
"True. But beyond soldiers, I am interested in magic. If we could secure a dragon egg, Your Grace... you carry the blood of the dragon through your grandmother. Perhaps you could hatch one."
"Dragons," Gendry scoffed. "Every fool in Essos wants a dragon. The Beggar King and his sister have been trying for years."
He knew where the eggs were—Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos had three petrified ones. But stealing them was impossible right now, and hatching them required a blood sacrifice he wasn't ready to make.
"Speaking of the exiled siblings," Qyburn said thoughtfully. "Their claim is weak, but their blood is pure. The Sea Snake couldn't ride a dragon, but his bastards could."
Qyburn leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "There is a shortcut to power, Your Grace. It carries risks, but the reward is absolute."
"You mean Daenerys Targaryen."
Qyburn nodded. "By all accounts, she is the most beautiful woman in the world. She has the blood of Old Valyria. And she has hidden strength. Do not believe the lies that the Targaryen loyalists are all gone. Dorne remembers. The Crackclaw Point remembers."
"Is she really that beautiful? Or is that just a story?" Gendry asked.
"The dragonlords were always inhumanly beautiful. I never saw the girl, but I saw Prince Rhaegar once," Qyburn said, a strange softness entering his voice. "He was... striking. Indigo eyes, silver hair, and a melancholy that made women weep. If his sister has even half his looks, she is a prize worth fighting for."
"She is a Targaryen. I am a Baratheon," Gendry pointed out. "We are hereditary enemies."
"Fate is a wheel," Qyburn countered. "Orys Baratheon was Aegon the Conqueror's bastard brother and his fiercest general. He gave his sword arm for the dragon. And yet, his descendant Robert smashed the dragon dynasty to pieces. Why can the wheel not turn again? You both hate the Lannisters. You both want the Iron Throne."
Gendry laughed. "You have a silver tongue, old man."
"Think on it," Qyburn pressed. "A girl raised in fear, dragged from city to city by a mad brother who sells her birthright for scraps. What does she crave? She craves a protector. A strong arm. A warrior who can shield her from the world. You have the looks, the strength, and the charm, Your Grace. If you appeared before her as a conqueror..."
Gendry fell silent. It was a ruthless, calculated plan, but it made terrifying sense. A marriage alliance between the Stag and the Dragon would heal the realm's deepest wound and unite their claims against the Lannisters and Starks alike. And Daenerys was the key to the dragons.
"We need information first," Gendry decided. "The smugglers along the coast of the Disputed Lands know everything that moves in the Free Cities. Have them start listening for whispers of Viserys and Daenerys."
"I would be delighted to play matchmaker," Qyburn smiled thinly.