Pear Orchard lived up to its name.
Rolling hills stretched outward, blanketed in rows of pear trees that shimmered under the sunlight like silk. Their pale blossoms swayed gently in the breeze, giving the entire landscape a soft, almost dreamlike quality. Between the groves, narrow canals flowed steadily, feeding fountains that sparkled like scattered jewels. Wooden houses dotted the hillsides, blending naturally into the environment, while tall watchtowers rose from the outer walls, their guards keeping constant vigil over the surrounding lands.
It was peaceful.
Beautiful.
And yet, beneath that beauty, power was gathering.
Gendry and Daenerys sat together on an embroidered tapestry spread across the grass. The fabric was richly decorated, but neither of them paid much attention to it. Their focus lay elsewhere—on the future, on war, and on the fragile balance of power.
Nearby stood their trusted companions.
Anguy, ever watchful.
Ser Barristan Selmy, silent and resolute.
Others, like Dumb Harry, Jon, and Dacey, had already been sent to the Kingsguard barracks. They were promising, especially among the younger generation, but they still required discipline and refinement.
Especially Dumb Harry.
Curled lazily beneath Gendry's arm was Balerion.
The young dragon radiated heat like a stone left under the blazing sun all day. Even at rest, its presence was intense, almost oppressive.
Not far away, Vhagar and Viserion were locked in a chaotic struggle over a piece of roasted meat. Their wings beat wildly, stirring dust and loose petals into the air as they snapped and growled at each other.
Thin wisps of smoke curled from their nostrils.
Dragons, as Gendry had learned, never attacked without warning.
First came the roar.
Then the smoke.
Their heads would draw back in a synchronized motion—
And then, fire.
"They're still too wild," Daenerys said with a soft smile.
The sunlight caught her silver-gold hair, making it shimmer. Her violet eyes reflected both warmth and authority, a beauty that seemed to belong to a lost age—ancient Valyria.
Gendry watched the dragons carefully.
One day, he thought, their colors will darken… black as night, blue as lightning.
The so-called "Dragon King bloodline" would not hold much advantage before the storm.
House Baratheon carried its own power—a lineage infused with the fury of storms.
History had proven that bloodlines were unpredictable.
Even the Targaryens, famed for their silver hair and purple eyes, had exceptions. Some heirs had lacked those traits entirely—like the sons of Rhaenyra or Baelor Breakspear.
And none of them had ever sat the Iron Throne.
Gendry's own lineage traced back to Orys Baratheon, rumored to be a bastard of a Targaryen. Yet over generations, the Baratheons had taken on the traits of House Durrendon—black hair, blue eyes, and the strength of storms.
Power took many forms.
"They're growing quickly," Gendry said, watching the dragons. "But they're still too small. I can't risk anything happening to them."
In another year or two…
Balerion might be large enough to carry a rider.
"Dragons are creatures of blood and fire."
The voice came from behind.
Qyburn stepped forward, his expression calm yet unsettling.
Behind him stood a towering figure.
Jon Strong.
Nearly eight feet tall, his body was immense—arms like tree trunks, chest like a fortress wall. Clad in black steel armor, his face completely hidden, he radiated a silent, terrifying presence.
Gendry knew exactly what he was.
A creation.
A grotesque fusion assembled by Qyburn—crafted from the remains of the Mountain and the head of a fallen Dothraki khal.
An abomination.
But an effective one.
"Any movement from Lys or Volantis?" Gendry asked.
"The situation remains uncertain," replied the Handsome Man, their treasurer. "They're hesitating between war and peace. However, pressure is building. The slave cities, along with exiled governors from Myr and Tyrosh, are pouring gold into both cities to provoke action."
Gendry nodded.
Cutting off their income had struck deeper than any sword.
"They'll move eventually," the man continued.
"They always do."
Gendry folded his arms.
"Not yet," he said quietly. "The timing isn't right."
Perhaps they were still reeling from his rapid conquests.
Or perhaps…
They were waiting.
Either way, the storm was coming.
"I'll continue gathering intelligence," Qyburn said. "Lys, Volantis, Pentos… and especially Braavos."
At the mention of Braavos, Daenerys fell silent.
Memories flickered in her eyes.
A red door.
A forgotten home.
"One day," Gendry said softly, taking her hand, "we'll return."
Braavos might be an ally now.
But alliances never lasted forever.
Balerion stirred, clearly bored, and launched itself into the sky with a powerful beat of its wings.
Gendry watched it rise.
Then turned back to his council.
"If Volantis and Lys bring in royalist forces from the Disputed Lands," he said, "even better. Let the battlefield grow."
Around him stood the pillars of his growing power:
Barristan, commander of the guard.
Qyburn, master of intelligence.
Fletcher, quartermaster.
The Handsome Man, treasurer.
And others who represented soldiers, merchants, and craftsmen.
This was the new order.
One forged from chaos.
"Winter is coming," the Handsome Man said quietly. "We don't have time for games."
Gendry nodded.
War was inevitable.
"Have the dragon seekers arrived?" he asked.
Qyburn inclined his head.
"They have. Since the Red Comet appeared, magic has grown stronger. Some claim they can connect dragons to its power."
Ser Barristan frowned.
"Magic is dangerous," he said. "We should not entertain such people."
"Any from Qarth?" Gendry asked.
"Yes," Qyburn replied. "Two. A warlock… and a masked woman."
The next day, under a bright sky, they received their guests.
Anguy stepped forward, his voice ringing clearly.
"Before you stands His Highness Gendry, heir to the Iron Throne—and Princess Daenerys, the last true dragon."
The two visitors stepped forward.
"I am Pyat Pree," said the pale warlock, his lips tinged blue.
"And I am Quaithe," said the masked woman.
Gendry's hand rested on his sword.
He trusted neither of them.
"May we see the true dragon?" Pyat Pree asked eagerly.
Gendry's expression hardened.
"She stands before you."
The warlock hesitated.
"That is not what I meant."
"What do you offer in return?" Gendry asked coldly.
The warlock smiled.
"Visions. Immortality. Truth."
Ser Barristan's grip tightened on his sword.
Gendry stood.
"I'm not interested."
His voice was final.
"Leave."
The warlock tried to persist.
But one look at Barristan's blade was enough.
He retreated.
That left Quaithe.
"You have done well," she said softly.
"But be careful."
"Of whom?" Daenerys asked.
"Everyone," Quaithe replied. "They will come—for the dragons. For power."
Gendry studied her.
"Will you serve me?"
Quaithe shook her head.
"Power demands sacrifice," she said. "Blood and fire."
Then her gaze sharpened.
"You… are different. You are breaking bloodline limits."
Silence fell.
"The glass candle burns," she continued. "The stormborn and the dragon… the wolves… the sea… all are awakening."
Far away, beneath King's Landing…
Tyrion Lannister stared at rows of wildfire.
Green liquid shimmered in fragile jars.
Deadly.
Unstable.
"Handle it carefully," warned Hallyn, a pyromancer.
"One spark… and everything burns."
Tyrion nodded.
There were thousands of jars.
Enough to destroy a city.
As he climbed back to the surface, the air grew warmer.
Above him, war was coming.
Stannis.
Gendry.
Dragons.
Tyrion looked toward the horizon.
"Let them come," he muttered.
Because whether they sought dragons or not—
The dragons were already coming for them.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)
75% offer are going on my patreon for limited time only. Claim yours as soon as possible.