Gendry felt as though summer had lasted forever. King's Landing seemed wrapped in endless green, bursting with life.
The climate of Westeros was fickle; each season could last for years. A long summer brought prosperity, but a long winter promised famine and despair. This summer had begun in 289 AC and still had not ended.
Some claimed that King Robert was favored by the Seven, while others voiced quiet concern. If a summer stretched ten years, they said, its winter would linger even longer. Yet such cautious words were few, drowned out by the clamor of a city too busy reveling in wine, laughter, and lust. For most of King's Landing, a long summer was a blessing—to be enjoyed while it lasted.
"Come, children, we'll visit the Great Sept of Baelor! Better to honor the Gods than waste your time in Flea Bottom with dogfights, dice, and devils' temptations," Master Tobho declared cheerfully.
Gendry's life was not all work. Occasionally, Tobho led his apprentices to the Great Sept on Visenya's Hill. Tobho was not a devout man, but he enjoyed the spectacle—and, besides, the Smith was among the Seven. The Great Sept, just down the hill from his forge, was always alive with worshippers.
Gendry watched the wide marble square unfold before him, crowned by the towering statue of Baelor the Blessed. Within the shining dome of glass and crystal, seven great images stood: the Father, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Stranger, the Crone, the Smith, and the Mother.
The Smith represented honest labor and craft, and people prayed to him for strength in work and endurance in hardship.
"The Maiden brought forth a lady fair as a weeping willow, with eyes deep as blue ponds," sang the septas from *The Seven-Pointed Star*. "The Mother made her fertile, the Crone foresaw her sons, the Warrior made them mighty, and the Smith forged their arms of steel."
The air inside the Sept shimmered with reverence. Still, most of the apprentices struggled to stay awake. For them, this visit was merely an escape from the forge's heat. Faith was fine, as long as it meant rest.
When the hymns ended, Tobho turned to his students as they made their way down the steps. "Listen well, children," he said. "Every boy loves the Warrior, but few honor the Smith. The Warrior kills and makes widows cry, but the Smith creates—he brings livelihood and peace. Our hammers are not for blood but for bread.
"A smith's labor sustains the world. We make plows for farmers, nails for ships, and the swords of lords and knights. The Father rules, the Warrior fights, the Smith toils—all are duties of men. Remember that."
As they stepped into the plaza, a commotion erupted at the far end.
"Make way! Make way for the King!" shouted the Gold Cloaks, shoving onlookers aside.
The royal procession flooded the street like a river of gold and steel—banners flying, knights gleaming, servants marching in close formation. The banners of House Baratheon led the column: a crowned stag on golden field, rippling in the sun.
At the sight, the apprentices stood frozen. Even Tobho bowed slightly.
Gendry peered through the crowd and saw him—the King. A massive man astride a richly adorned horse, flanked by two white-cloaked Kingsguard. His father.
There was no affection in Gendry's gaze, only curiosity. Robert Baratheon was a shadow of the fierce warrior he had been. The years had added not wisdom but weight; his belly strained his armor, and the fire in his eyes had dimmed beneath wine and exhaustion. The Warhammer that had once slain kings had long been set aside for goblets and pleasures.
Behind him rode a tall knight with silver hair streaked by age—Ser Barristan the Bold, unmistakably gallant even now.
The people cheered as Robert passed, but the sound was muted, more respectful than adoring. Many still remembered the Sack of King's Landing; time had not softened that memory.
"Look—his brothers are with him!" someone whispered amid the crowd.
Gendry turned his gaze to the men following close behind. Both bore the same dark hair and blue eyes of the Stormlands.
The first was Stannis Baratheon—broad-shouldered and grim-faced, his skin bronzed by harsh sun and sea air. His hair thinned around his temples, forming a dark ring above a square, bearded jaw. Stannis's face might have been carved from stone, and the crowd's cheers dimmed when he passed. King's Landing had little love for iron men.
Then came Lord Renly. He was nearly the image of Robert in his youth—handsome, vigorous, and radiant in a green velvet tunic embroidered with golden stags. A golden cloak fastened with a stag brooch billowed behind him as he smiled and waved. The people erupted with cheers far louder than before. Renly had their hearts, though not their fear.
Robert only laughed, slapping his thigh in amusement. Stannis scowled, his resentment barely masked, and Gendry saw how cold his eyes had grown.
Unlike Renly's rich Storm's End, Stannis's Dragonstone was a bleak rock—a place of fire and shadow. Perhaps that was why everything about Stannis felt hard and joyless.
Then Gendry noticed a young man riding beside Renly, armored in green and gold. A slender figure, beautiful as a maiden, his cloak bore three golden roses. His long brown hair glimmered under the sun, and his golden eyes sparkled with self-assurance.
"The Knight of Flowers," Gendry thought. "So that's him."
Loras Tyrell, son of Highgarden. The people adored him, too—cheers rose anew as he passed beside his handsome patron. It was said he had been fostered at Storm's End as Renly's squire.
The royal parade swept onward toward the Great Sept, banners fluttering like wings. Only when the last of the escort disappeared inside did the Gold Cloaks loosen their grip on the crowd.
"What a sight," Gendry muttered under his breath. "The city's full of lions and stags now—all watching, all scheming."
He frowned. "Too many Lords, too many games. I just want to stay alive and away from their webs."
Nearby, an old woman shook her head. "Our King was once the handsomest man in the realm," she said loudly. "Such a strong man, clean-shaven and bright-eyed—every maiden dreamt of him. Look at him now."
"Hush, woman," her husband warned as the last guards passed. "Too much wine and too many whores—no hammer can survive that rust."
"It's been years since all three Baratheon brothers were seen together," another man whispered. "Must be the High Septon's doing. Faith moves kings, they say."
"It's not three," Gendry thought, watching the golden banners vanish over the hill. "It's four stags—and one wild deer."
And then, with a faint smirk, he added silently, "Faith, my arse. He's probably here to borrow from the High Septon."