Gendry often felt as if summer had lasted forever.
Since the day he first opened his eyes in King's Landing, the city had always seemed drenched in sunlight—green vines crawling over walls, flower carts rolling through narrow alleys, and children playing barefoot in the streets.
The seasons of Westeros were unstable.
A single season could last years, stretched long by the whims of gods or magic buried deep within the land. A long summer meant full harvests and joyous feasts, but it also foretold a Long Winter—a season of cold, hardship, and death.
This particular summer had begun in 289 AC and still showed no sign of ending.
Superstitious folk claimed it was because King Robert was favored by the Seven Gods.
Others whispered their fears—if summer lasted ten years, then winter would last even longer.
But the smallfolk of King's Landing were not philosophers. They were too busy living loudly, drinking deeply, and seeking whatever fleeting pleasures they could afford. A long summer meant one thing:
No one had to think about tomorrow.
---
A Visit to the Great Sept
"Come on, children," Master Tobho declared one bright morning, as the forges quieted and the morning heat settled in.
"Today we visit the Great Sept of Baelor!
Better to honor the Gods than to waste your time in Flea Bottom gambling or watching dogs tear each other apart."
The apprentices groaned quietly, but no one dared argue. Tobho wasn't a pious man, but he enjoyed the lively atmosphere of holy days—and besides, the Smith was one of the Seven. A craftsman paying respect to the god of labor seemed appropriate.
For Gendry, it was a welcome break from the heat of the forge.
They walked up the marble steps to the vast plaza, where sunlight glimmered softly on white stone. At the center stood a towering statue of Baelor the Blessed, serene and noble, casting a long shadow across the square.
Under the great domed ceiling—glass, gold, and crystal woven like a heavenly tapestry—Gendry stared at the seven colossal figures representing the Seven Gods:
The Father, stern and wise.
The Mother, gentle and merciful.
The Warrior, with his sword raised high.
The Maiden, delicate and pure.
The Smith, broad-shouldered with a hammer.
The Crone, holding her lantern.
The Stranger, faceless and frightening.
Gendry's eyes lingered on the Smith—the god of artisans, labor, and creation.
He could understand that one best.
A septa's voice echoed through the dome as she read from The Seven-Pointed Star:
> "The Maiden brought a lady as supple as a willow with eyes like deep blue ponds.
The Mother made her fertile, and the Crone foretold she would bear the King forty-four strong sons.
The Warrior made them mighty, and the Smith forged armor of steel for each of them…"
Her words rose and fell like soft waves.
Most apprentices, however, looked half-asleep.
To them, this was a chore dressed as a field trip. Still—better the Great Sept than sweating in the forge.
When the hymns ended, Tobho gathered his apprentices and began the walk back.
---
The Words of a Craftsman
"Listen well, boys," Tobho said, raising his voice as they crossed the plaza. "Every lad dreams of the Warrior. But few love the Smith."
He shook his head with exaggerated disappointment.
"What do warriors bring? Slaughter, battlefields, widows weeping for dead husbands. But a blacksmith—we create. We build. The hammer is our salvation."
The boys listened out of politeness, though most of them still fantasized about swords and glory rather than hammers and sweat.
Tobho went on passionately:
"The Smith gives plows for the farmer, nails for ships, horseshoes for steeds, and swords for the lords. Men like us keep the world turning. The Father rules, the Warrior fights, the Smith labors. These are the duties of men."
Gendry listened more closely than the others.
He respected the Smith, not because of faith, but because he understood the strength in creation.
A good hammer strike changed the world.
Even if only a little.
---
The King Arrives
Just as they were about to leave the plaza, a commotion stirred at the far end.
"Make way! Make way for the King!" shouted the Gold Cloaks, pushing the crowd aside.
A tide of color and steel swept toward the Great Sept—the King's procession.
Ten standard-bearers rode at the front, their golden banners fluttering in the breeze. The crowned black stag of House Baratheon shone proudly under the sunlight.
Behind them marched:
Gold Cloaks
Knights of the household guard
Lords and sworn swords
Two tall figures in white armor—the Kingsguard
And at the center, riding a huge destrier that strained under his weight, was King Robert Baratheon.
Gendry's grip tightened around the strap of his satchel.
There he was.
His father.
And yet… nothing in Gendry stirred except a faint, distant ache.
Robert had once been the greatest warrior in Westeros—a titan with tree-trunk arms and boundless strength. Now he was swollen with fat, his armor straining, face flushed, eyes sunken.
A king rotting from within.
But for all his flaws, Robert still had an air of careless charisma, a loud laugh echoing across the plaza.
Beside him rode an older knight in gleaming white—Ser Barristan Selmy, tall, elegant, and noble. A legend of the Kingsguard.
Gendry swallowed.
His father had more honor in Ser Barristan than he ever had in his own blood.
The crowd cheered—though not very loudly. Some still remembered how the Lannisters had sacked the city.
The loyalty of King's Landing was fragile at best.
---
Stannis and Renly
"Look! The King's brothers are here too!" someone whispered nearby.
Gendry lifted his eyes and spotted two more stags behind the King.
Stannis Baratheon rode first.
Broad-shouldered, stern-faced, with skin weathered like iron and a fringe of dark hair clinging to his scalp. His jaw was square, his expression cold, his presence harsh.
The crowd's cheers dropped noticeably.
People respected Stannis, but few loved him.
Then came Renly.
Renly wore embroidered green velvet, a golden cloak pinned with a stag brooch. His hair was long and black, his smile bright and easy. He resembled Robert more than Stannis ever had—especially Robert in his youth.
When Renly waved, the crowd erupted in much louder cheers.
People adored beauty and charm, after all.
Robert laughed, amused, not noticing the irritated twitch in Stannis's jaw.
Gendry noticed.
Stannis's displeasure simmered like a pot about to boil over.
---
The Knight of Flowers
Just as the procession neared the steps of the Sept, another rider caught Gendry's eye—a slender youth, hardly older than sixteen, dressed in brilliant green armor.
Three golden roses gleamed on his cloak.
His long brown hair caught the sunlight, and his golden eyes sparkled as he waved to the crowd. The people cheered wildly for him as well.
"Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers," someone whispered reverently.
Gendry watched him ride beside Renly, the two almost inseparable in posture and expression.
Rumors swirled, of course—but Gendry was wise enough not to judge.
In the Red Keep, alliances came in many shapes.
---
The Four Stags
As the procession passed the apprentices, Gendry's heart gave a strange jolt.
Robert Baratheon.
Stannis Baratheon.
Renly Baratheon.
And himself—hidden in the crowd.
"Four stags on the same stage," Gendry thought quietly.
"Three known… and one wild."
He felt suddenly small in the shadow of power. A bastard in the crowd, invisible and alone.
The procession swept into the Great Sept like a river of gold and steel. Only then did the Gold Cloaks ease their grip on the crowds.
---
The People's Voices
When the king disappeared inside, murmurs rose around the plaza.
"Our fat King… gods save him," an old woman muttered. "He was so handsome when he was young. A dream for every maiden! But look at him now."
Her husband elbowed her sharply.
"Hush, woman. Too much wine and too many whores will ruin even a warhammer."
Another man snorted.
"It's rare to see all three Baratheon brothers together. Must be something important."
"It's four," Gendry thought bitterly, "if they only knew."
One man spat on the stones.
"Faith? No. They probably came to borrow money from the High Septon again."
The crowd laughed.
But Gendry felt no humor.
King's Landing was turbulent beneath its sunshine.
The Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Hand of the King, the Spider, Littlefinger…
Everyone pulling strings.
And he, a bastard boy, was caught somewhere in that web—too young to fight, too visible to hide forever.
He clenched his fists.
I must escape this fate. Before someone decides what to do with me.
Above the city, the sun continued burning bright, unaware of how quickly summer could turn to winter.