Gendry lingered by the resting bench in the smithy, his gaze resting on the helm he had just finished. It bore the heavy, unmistakable shape of a bull's head, complete with two sweeping, curved horns. Forged from rough iron and left unpolished, the craftsmanship still betrayed the hand of an expert. But the bull helm was too distinct. Wearing it now would only draw eyes.
Master Tobho had treated him well enough, but Steel Street was no place to hide forever.
He gathered his meager savings, hooked a short-handled warhammer to his belt, and stepped out of the workshop. His hammer was a brutal little thing of his own making, one side a heavy, flat striking face, the other tapering into a wicked, beak-like spike. Compact but devastating, it was designed for one purpose: cracking open armored knights like iron turtles.
Neither the foreman nor the serving girls paid him any mind as he left. Older apprentices earned their leisure, and most assumed he would simply wander the city streets before returning for supper. Gendry had spent years playing the part of the quiet, dependable apprentice, a boy who worked hard, kept his head down, and never picked a fight. Even the hammer at his hip drew no second glances. He always carried it, and King's Landing was hardly a city where one walked unarmed.
He made the familiar climb up Visenya's Hill. The marble plaza of the Great Sept of Baelor teemed with the faithful. A white-haired High Septon in silver-threaded robes stood preaching verses from The Seven-Pointed Star. At the center of the square, the towering statue of Baelor the Blessed gazed down at the masses with serene, stony compassion. Gendry slipped into the surging crowd, letting the sea of bodies swallow him.
Amid the droning prayers, the distinct accents of two Valemen drifted from behind him. Men of the Vale, the first landing site of the Andals, rarely missed a chance to display their piety.
"Our Lord Arryn is loyal to the king, to be sure, but he spares precious little thought for the Vale these days!" one muttered, his jaw set tight. "A Tully speaks, and Lord Jon listens. He hands them the keys to the kingdom. Especially that Littlefinger. Climbed right up Lady Lysa's skirts, he did."
"Keep your voice down about Lord Jon's household," his companion warned, shrugging. "And what else would he do but stay in King's Landing? The king dreams, and the Hand builds. Robert can't function without him. Without Lord Jon, how would His Grace find the time to hunt, host tourneys, and warm the beds of every whore in the city?"
"The king enjoys his pleasures, fine. But Lord Jon works himself to the bone. He ought to return to the Eyrie and raise his own heir, that weeping little falcon of his."
"If King Robert wants to wash his hands of ruling, who else is he going to trust? There's a reason Lord Jon has worn the chain this long."
"The gods smile on our king, at least. Without a summer this long, he wouldn't have the coin to drink and feast."
Gendry listened a moment longer before the men moved on. The Valemen respected the Blackfish, of course, Brynden Tully was a living legend among knights. But rigid men of honor would never stomach a lowborn upstart like Petyr Baelish rising so high, so fast.
In truth, Jon Arryn's tenure as Hand mirrored Tywin Lannister's long grip on the realm. Both wielded massive authority for years. But Arryn and Robert shared the bond of father and son, and the fat king was no Mad King to bite the hand that fed him.
Gendry let the crowd carry him a few more paces before slipping down a side street. He steered clear of Steel Street entirely, descending from the Great Sept and weaving his way down the Muddy Way toward the River Gate. He navigated the twisting alleys, the noise and stench of the long summer pressing against him. The city was too bloated, too preoccupied with its own roaring commerce to notice one boy slipping through the cracks.
His years at the forge had served their purpose. The Spider's surveillance had grown lax; Gendry cast glances over his shoulder, finding only empty shadows and indifferent faces. Perhaps he had overestimated his own worth. On Varys's vast web, a bastard apprentice ranked terribly low.
Carts of sweet corn and bruised apples clogged the Muddy Way, wedged between towering warhorses and colorful foreign merchants. Gendry kept his eyes on the knights, tracking their surcoats and heraldry, each one a thread in the tangled politics of the realm.
Ahead, the Gold Cloaks guarding the River Gate leaned idly on their spears, their golden cloaks bright over black ringmail. They barely spared him a glance. Gendry pulled his hood low, an iron half-mask tucked away in his pack, though down here, he hardly needed it.
Beyond the gate, hundreds of quays jutted into the Blackwater Rush, bristling with the masts of countless ships. The docks were a chaotic blur of Lyseni beauties, Tyroshi merchants with purple-dyed beards, and dark-skinned sailors from the Summer Isles. To the guards, a hooded boy was just another shadow in a sea of strangers.
Still, caution was necessary. It wasn't just the Spider he had to avoid, it was Littlefinger. The Keepers of the Keys, the King's Counter, the King's Scales, the masters of the mints, the harbormasters, the tax farmers, the customs sergeants, the wool factors, the toll collectors, the pursers, and the wine factors... Petyr Baelish had bought or placed them all. The docks belonged to him.
As he sidestepped a rolling barrel, a sudden shout forced him back against a wall. The king's hunting party was returning. Beneath the banner of the Crowned Stag, flanked by the white cloaks of the Kingsguard, King Robert rode past, reeking of stale wine and sweat. The massive destrier nearly clipped Gendry's shoulder. Barking Gold Cloaks shoved the crowd back with the hafts of their spears, and Gendry lowered his head, melting away into the throng.
He found the berth he had scouted days ago. A heavy merchant cog sat low in the water, its hold packed with Westerosi timber and ore, making ready to cross the Narrow Sea for Myr.
"Boarding, lad?" a Myrish sailor shouted down at him.
"Are we sailing now?"
"Aye. Tide waits for no man, and the sea is dark at night."
Gendry tossed his silver up to the purser and clambered up the gangplank.
The crew cast off soon after. The long summer made the crossing easier; the Narrow Sea was infamous for its autumn storms, but today, the winds were steady and kind.
As the cog pulled away from the docks, the sprawling filth of King's Landing began to shrink behind them. Further up the Blackwater Rush, the sleek hulls of the royal dromonds caught the sun. Towering above it all was the Red Keep, its pale red stone stark against the sky. The three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen had long been scoured from its walls, replaced by the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon.
No dynasty lasted forever. For now, it was simply the era of the stag.
A beautiful crown, Gendry thought, leaning against the rail. And a brittle one.
He exhaled, the salt air filling his lungs. King's Landing was a cage, but the vast expanse of Essos across the Narrow Sea was an open sky. There, away from queens and spiders, a man could forge his own fate.
"Can you read, lad?"
The voice broke his concentration. Even hooded and quiet, a boy of his size standing alone inevitably drew eyes.
Gendry turned. An old man in a simple grey tunic stood nearby.
He was tall, though his shoulders carried a slight stoop. Deep wrinkles framed a pair of striking, prominent blue eyes. Age had laid a heavy hand on him, yet his hair remained more grey than white, and a gentle, constant smile played at his lips, the kind of warm, grandfatherly expression that instantly disarmed suspicion.