Gendry glanced at the helmet he had already finished, resting on a bench in the smithy's workroom. It was shaped like a bull's head, with two curved horns. The iron was rough and unadorned, but the design was the work of a true craftsman. It was also far too conspicuous. Wearing something like that would draw eyes.
Even with the weapons master Tobho looking out for him, staying in the smithy forever was not a real plan.
"Goodbye, smithy," Gendry told himself. He gathered what little money he had, took up his short-handled spiked hammer, and walked out of the barn.
One side of the spiked hammer was a sharp, beak-like "hoe-blade," the other a solid hammer face. Small and vicious, it was made for fighting men in plate, for cracking those iron turtle shells. In a real brawl, few people could take a clean hit from it and keep standing.
The foreman and the maids did not try to stop him. Older apprentices were allowed time off; the smithy was human enough about that. They assumed Gendry would do what he always did, wander King's Landing for a while, then come back in time for supper. He was steady and reliable, never picking fights, a good worker everyone liked.
As for the short-handled spiked hammer, it was something Gendry had made himself, and he carried it whenever he went out. No one thought much of it anymore. After all, King's Landing's "peace" was a joke.
Gendry climbed the hill. The Great Sept of Baelor was bustling as ever. In the square, a white-haired High Septon in a robe threaded with silver read aloud from The Seven-Pointed Star. At the center of the plaza rose the towering statue of Baelor the First, serene atop its pedestal, a look of pity carved into its face.
Gendry took in the bright white marble and melted into the surging crowd that had come to visit the Great Sept of Baelor.
Among those listening to the prayers, he overheard two men from the Vale speaking behind him. The Vale was where the Andals first landed, and its people were especially devoted to the Seven.
"Our Great Lord is loyal to the king, sure, but he has no mind for Vale matters anymore," one man complained, resentment in his voice. "When House Tully speaks, Lord Jon listens, gives them real authority. Especially Littlefinger. He got in through the Lady."
"Enough," the other man said. "Keep Lord Jon's household out of your mouth. And him staying in King's Landing is only natural, isn't it? The king dreams, the Hand makes those dreams real. The king can't do without our Lord Jon. Without him, how would His Grace have time to hunt every day, hold tournaments, or chase women?"
"The king gets his fun, but Lord Jon has worked too hard these years," the first man muttered. "He ought to return to the Eyrie and raise his heir properly, that little eagle who cries at everything."
"But at a time like this, when His Grace Robert wants to throw up his hands, who else can he trust besides our Lord Jon?" the other replied. "That's why he's been at it for so many years."
"Still, the gods haven't been too harsh on our king," the first man said. "Without this long summer, how would he have the heart for all that eating, drinking, and revelry?"
Gendry listened, but the two men only spoke a little before falling quiet. Vale men still held the Blackfish in respect. He was a legendary knight, after all. But Littlefinger, a lowborn favorite who had risen too quickly, was not someone those stiff Vale knights would ever truly accept.
Come to think of it, Jon Arryn's years as Hand were much like Tywin's had been, long and heavy with power. The difference was that Jon and Robert were foster father and foster son, and King Robert was nothing like the Mad King, driven to extremes.
Gendry wandered in circles for a while longer, putting on a show of aimless drifting, then slipped with the crowd into a quieter corner. He avoided the Street of Steel entirely. After leaving the Great Sept of Baelor, he started from Muddy Way and headed for the River Gate, turning through the city's streets and alleys, tasting the noise and life of it all.
Thanks to the freedom of the long summer, King's Landing was louder and more crowded than ever, and no one noticed a boy quietly beginning his journey out.
Gendry's life as a smith's apprentice over these past few years had been steady, almost too steady. The Spider's eyes had grown lazier about watching him. No one followed him at all, and Gendry began to wonder if he had been flattering himself.
On the Spider's web, he was far too low on the list to matter.
On the Muddy Way, farmers hauled carts piled with fine corn and apples. Knights rode tall horses, and foreigners of every sort moved through the press. Gendry paid the most attention to the many differently colored knights, each likely bearing the marks of a different house.
He soon spotted the Gold Cloaks guarding the River Gate, black chainmail beneath their golden cloaks. They looked like a lax, undisciplined force. Gendry slipped through without difficulty and made his way to the docks. He wore a hood and his iron mask, but in a place like this, he hardly stood out.
Near the River Gate were hundreds of piers, the harbor crowded with ships and thick with traffic. People came and went in endless streams. He was nothing special here. Handsome Lyseni, purple-bearded Tyroshi, even men from the Summer Isles could be seen. To the Gold Cloaks on duty, he was no more than another oddly dressed visitor.
Still, Gendry needed to keep his movements hidden, not only from the Spider, but from Littlefinger as well. After all, the Keepers of the Keys, the King's Counter, the King's Scales, the officers in charge of the mints, the harbormasters, the tax farmers, the customs sergeants, the wool factors, the toll collectors, the pursers, and the wine factors—most of them were Littlefinger's own people. He had eyes on the docks too.
The damned thing was that as Gendry was leaving the River Gate, he ran into the king's procession again. Perhaps it really was coincidence. Beneath the banner of the Crowned Stag, with white-clad Kingsguard riding close, the king returned from a hunt, drunk on wine. If Gendry hadn't bolted out of the way, he would have been run down by the king's horse. Amid the angry shouting of the Gold Cloaks, he slipped off without drawing notice.
Gendry chose his spot along the docks carefully. A merchant ship lay ready, its hold already crammed with goods from all across Westeros. It was sailing that very day for Myr, across the Narrow Sea.
"Boarding, lad!" a Myrish sailor shouted.
"Leaving now?"
"Aye. Sailing late is dangerous."
Gendry paid his fare and followed him aboard.
Not long after, the ship cast off. That was one mercy of high summer. Autumn storms were the most terrifying, while summer seas were far kinder.
The merchant vessel slowly drew away from the riverbank, and King's Landing began to recede into the distance.
Gendry glimpsed the beautiful royal warships anchored upstream on the Blackwater Rush. Beyond them rose the Red Keep. Its towering walls no longer flew the black dragon on red of House Targaryen, a thing of the past, but the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon. There was no such thing as eternal kingship. For now, at least on the surface, this was the age of the Baratheons.
"A splendid kingship, and a fragile one," Gendry murmured, standing by the rail and staring at the banners.
This is my new life, he thought. Staying in King's Landing had its advantages and its dangers, but across the Narrow Sea in Essos, the world felt far wider. Plenty of people from Westeros lived there as well.
"Boy, can you read?"
Though hooded and alone, Gendry's tall, solitary figure had still caught someone's attention.
He turned and saw an old man dressed in gray.
The man was tall, his back slightly bent. Deep wrinkles framed his striking blue eyes. He was clearly advanced in years, yet there was more gray than white in his hair. A constant smile rested on his lips, giving him the look of a kindly grandfather beloved by little girls.