As far back as Gendry could remember, it always seemed to be summer.
King's Landing lay under a blanket of green, vibrant and teeming with life.
Westeros's climate was notoriously unstable, each season could last for years. A long summer brought prosperity; a long winter, suffering. This current summer had begun in 289 AC, and even now it showed no sign of ending.
Some claimed it was because King Robert was a favored son of the Seven, blessed with fortune. Others worried quietly. Summer and winter were two sides of the same coin, if summer stretched on for ten years or more, the winter that followed would be the longest and cruelest of all.
But such voices were few. The people of King's Landing lived loud, decadent lives regardless. A long summer suited them just fine, this was a season for indulgence.
"Come along, boys," Tobho called out. "We're going to the Great Sept of Baelor. Submitting to the Seven's glory is better than you lot running off to Flea Bottom to watch dogfights, gamble, or get tangled up with cheap whores."
Life in the smithy wasn't always dull. From time to time, Master Tobho would take his apprentices up to the summit of Visenya's Hill to see the Great Sept. He wasn't particularly devout, mostly there for the spectacle. Besides, the Smith was one of the Seven, after all. The Great Sept was close to the forge and always bustling with crowds.
Gendry stepped onto the gleaming white marble square. At its center rose the towering statue of Baelor the Blessed, serene and compassionate atop its plinth. Beneath the dome of glass, gold, and crystal, he saw the Seven in all their aspects:
the Father, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Stranger, the Crone, the Smith, and the Mother.
The Smith embodied labor and craftsmanship. When work needed to be done, people prayed to the Smith for strength.
"The Maiden brought a maiden supple as a weeping willow, her eyes like deep blue pools. Hugo swore to wed her. The Mother made her fruitful, and the Crone foresaw she would bear the king four-and-forty strong sons. The Warrior made them mighty, and the Smith forged each of them a suit of steel…"
The septas sang verses from The Seven-Pointed Star. Beneath the vast dome, everything felt solemn and sacred, the crowd steeped in the Seven's virtues.
The apprentices, however, listened with thinly veiled boredom. Compared to a free visit to the Sept, they would much rather spend a few coins in Flea Bottom. Still, at least they weren't sweating in the forge, and they welcomed the brief leisure.
When the hymn ended, Tobho gathered them and led them back out, ready to return to the smithy.
"Listen, boys," he said as they walked. "Every lad loves the Warrior, but few love the Smith. What do warriors do? They swing blades, leave corpses and widows behind. We smiths create happiness. The hammer in our hands earns us our bread, can a knight say the same?
"We make plows to till the fields, nails to mend ships, horseshoes to protect loyal steeds, and shining swords for lords and knights. The Smith's worth is beyond doubt, that's why he stands among the Seven. The Father rules, the Warrior fights, the Smith labors. Together, they are a man's proper duty."
Tobho spoke with passion, trying to hammer the lesson into their heads, hoping they'd stop dreaming of charges and glory.
That was when the disturbance began.
The king had arrived.
King Robert's procession was about to enter the Great Sept.
Gold, silver, and steel flowed together like a river. Gold cloaks, white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard, bannermen, sworn swords, all moved as one.
Ten Baratheon standard-bearers rode at the fore, banners snapping on their poles: a black crowned stag on a field of gold.
"Make way! Make way!" the Gold Cloaks shouted, shoving the smallfolk aside to clear the path.
From deep within the crowd, Gendry saw King Robert.
The fat man rode at the center, flanked by two Kingsguard in snowy white cloaks.
His father.
And yet, a stranger.
Gendry also spotted an older knight of elegant bearing, surely Ser Barristan Selmy, one of the greatest knights who ever lived.
Once, Robert Baratheon had been a peerless warrior. Now he was seven or eight stone heavier, a bloated giant. No cloak could hide the swollen belly or the dark hollows beneath his eyes. Since taking the Iron Throne, the king had indulged endlessly, his body expanding like an overfilled wineskin.
The crowd cheered as the king passed, though not with much enthusiasm. Many in King's Landing had not forgotten the Lannister sack of the city, and it was hard to love the king without reservation.
"Did the king's brothers come as well? That's rare," someone murmured.
Gendry heard clearly.
He looked past the king, and saw them.
Two more men bearing the stag of House Baratheon. The same deep blue eyes. The same coal-black hair.
Stannis Baratheon was broad-shouldered and powerfully built, his face rigid and weather-beaten, hard as iron. Though not old, his hair had retreated until only a thin black ring remained behind his ears, like the shadow of a crown. His beard was trimmed short and neat, a dark-blue shadow along his square jaw and hollowed cheeks.
As Stannis passed, the cheers grew noticeably quieter.
Most people found him unlovable, cold as steel.
Then came Renly Baratheon, and everything changed.
Renly wore green velvet and rich embroidery, his golden cloak fastened with a golden stag brooch. Every detail of his attire spoke of luxury. He looked strikingly like Robert in his youth, tall, handsome, black-haired, his locks falling to his shoulders.
The difference was this: Renly was no famed warrior. He was known not for valor, but for charm.
Renly raised a hand to the crowd.
The cheers erupted, many times louder than before.
King Robert roared with laughter, unbothered. Stannis shot his brother a sharp glance, his brow knotting tightly. Gendry noticed the contrast, Stannis's simmering anger, and the king's utter indifference to it.
Stannis's plain attire stood in stark contrast to Renly's splendor. Part of it was frugality, but part was Dragonstone itself: vital, yes, but barren. Storm's End was larger, richer, and that injustice had long festered in Stannis's heart.
"The Knight of Flowers?" Gendry spotted a slender youth riding close beside Renly.
The boy wore elegant armor, a green cloak emblazoned with three golden roses on a field of green. He seemed inseparable from Renly, long, flowing brown hair, bright golden eyes. He waved to the crowd as well, earning cheers of his own.
King's Landing loved a pretty face.
They're awfully close, Gendry thought.
It was said that the youngest son of House Tyrell had once been fostered at Storm's End as Renly Baratheon's squire.
The royal procession surged forward, disappearing into the Great Sept. Only then did the Gold Cloaks relax their grip on the crowd.
What a mess, Gendry thought.
King's Landing was a stew of chaos: Robert and his brothers, the Lannisters, Lord Jon Arryn, the Spider in the shadows, and Littlefinger. Gendry had no desire to track the shifting tides of power. He wanted only one thing: to escape the fate of a pawn and live safely.
"Our fat king!" an elderly woman scoffed. "Hard to believe it. When he was young, he was so handsome, clean-cut, clear-eyed, strong as a dream lover for every maiden. And now?"
"Careful," her husband muttered once the Gold Cloaks were gone. "If a man drowns himself in wine and whores, even a warhammer will rust."
"Rare sight, seeing three stags together," someone said. "The High Septon must be powerful indeed. Is it faith that brought them?"
Four stags, Gendry corrected silently. And one of them is a wild stag.
"Faith, my arse," another voice snorted. "More like borrowing coin from the High Septon."