As far back as Gendry could remember, it had been summer. King's Landing was draped in a vibrant, almost suffocating green, pulsing with life. The seasons of Westeros were a thing of chaos; each could last for years. A long summer meant prosperity, while a Long Winter brought only death and hardship. This summer had begun in 289 AC, and it showed no signs of ending.
The smallfolk said it was a blessing from the Seven, a sign of their favor for King Robert. But there were whispers of concern from wiser corners. Summer and winter were two sides of the same coin; a summer that lasted a decade could only be followed by a winter of equal, crushing length. These voices were a minority, however. The people of King's Landing preferred their loud, decadent, and boisterous lives, and a seemingly endless summer suited them perfectly. It was a season made for indulgence.
"Come, boys," Tobho announced one afternoon. "We will visit the Great Sept of Baelor. Paying your respects to the Seven is better than sneaking off to Flea Bottom to watch dogfights and be tempted by cheap women." Gendry's life was not always tedious; the armorer would occasionally take his apprentices up Visenya's Hill. Tobho Mott wasn't a deeply pious man, but he enjoyed the lively atmosphere, and besides, the Smith was one of the Seven. The Great Sept, so close to their forge, was always teeming with people.
Gendry gazed at the beautiful white marble plaza, where a giant statue of Baelor the Blessed stood on a pedestal, his expression one of serene compassion. Inside, beneath the dome of glass, gold, and crystal, were the seven altars for the seven aspects of the god: the Father, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Stranger, the Crone, the Smith, and the Mother. The Smith represented labor and craft, and men often prayed to him for strength in their work.
"The Maiden brought a lady with eyes like deep blue ponds, and Hugo swore to marry her," a septa sang from *The Seven-Pointed Star*. "So the Mother made her fertile, and the Crone prophesied she would bear the King forty-four strong sons. The Warrior made them mighty, and the Smith forged a suit of steel for each." The hymn echoed through the dome, filling the space with a sense of solemnity, and the crowd seemed immersed in the virtues of the gods.
Most of the apprentices, however, were thoroughly bored. They would have preferred spending a few coppers on the grimy entertainments of Flea Bottom, but a break from the sweltering forge was welcome enough. When the septas finished, Tobho led his boys back toward the exit.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice earnest. "Every boy dreams of being the Warrior, but few respect the Smith. What does the Warrior do? He brings slaughter and the wailing of widows. But we Smiths, we create. The hammers in our hands are the tools that feed us. The Smith makes the plow that tills the field, the nails that hold the ships together, and the shining swords the lords so prize. That is why he is one of the Seven. The Father rules, the Warrior fights, and the Smith labors. Together, they are the duties of men."
As they prepared to leave, a commotion outside brought them to a halt. The King's procession was arriving. A river of gold, silver, and steel flowed toward the Sept, a grand display of Gold Cloaks, Kingsguard, and sworn swords. Ten Baratheon standard-bearers rode at the vanguard, their banners—a black crowned stag on a field of gold—fluttering in the breeze.
"Make way! Make way!" the Gold Cloaks shouted, shoving the common folk aside.
Peering through the crowd, Gendry saw him. King Robert. His father. He was a fat man on a tired horse, flanked by two knights in snow-white cloaks. There was no feeling of kinship, only a detached curiosity. Gendry recognized the older, elegant knight as Ser Barristan Selmy, one of the greatest swordsmen in the realm. Robert Baratheon had once been a peerless warrior, but now he was a bloated man who had gained eight stone, with a protruding belly and dark circles under his eyes. His youth was a distant memory, washed away by wine and pleasure since he claimed the Iron Throne.
The people cheered as the king passed, but the sound was muted, lacking real enthusiasm. The memory of the Lannister sack of King's Landing was still too fresh for many to truly love their king.
"Are the king's brothers with him? That's a rare sight," someone whispered nearby. Gendry's sharp ears caught the words, and he looked past the king. He saw two more men with the same charcoal-black hair and deep blue eyes, following closely.
Stannis Baratheon sat his horse stiffly, his shoulders broad and his limbs powerful. His face was taut, his skin weathered like old leather from years at sea. Though not yet old, his head was balding, with only a fringe of black hair remaining like the shadow of a crown. His beard was trimmed so short it looked like a blue-black stain on his hollow cheeks and square jaw. As he passed, the crowd grew even quieter. Stannis was a man made of iron, and few people loved iron.
The mood shifted entirely when Renly appeared. He wore an embroidered green velvet doublet and a golden cloak clasped with a golden stag. He was the image of Robert in his youth—tall, handsome, with black hair that fell to his shoulders. But unlike his brother, Renly was no warrior; he was known for his charm, not his valor. He waved to the crowd, and the cheers erupted, several times louder than they had been for the king. Robert laughed heartily at the display, but Stannis shot his younger brother a dark look, his brow furrowed with a familiar anger that the king ignored.
Stannis's attire was plain compared to his brother's, partly from frugality, and partly because Dragonstone, while strategic, was a barren rock. Storm's End was a far richer seat, a fact that always simmered beneath Stannis's cold exterior.
"The Knight of Flowers," Gendry heard someone murmur. He then saw a slender, handsome youth riding near Renly. He wore beautiful, shining armor, and his green cloak bore the three golden roses of House Tyrell. With his flowing brown hair and striking golden eyes, he seemed inseparable from the younger Baratheon lord. He waved as well, and the crowd cheered again for the noble son of Highgarden. The people of King's Landing loved a pretty face.
The royal retinue swept past them and into the Great Sept. Only after they had passed did the Gold Cloaks relax their cordon.
"What a shame," an old woman complained nearby. "That fatso is our king! Can you believe it? He was so handsome in his youth, a dream for any maiden. But look at him now."
"Hush, do you want us to be executed" her husband grumbled. "Too much wine and too many whores will make any warhammer rust."
"It's rare to see all three stags together," someone else commented. "Perhaps the High Septon's prayers are truly powerful."
"Prayers?" another voice scoffed. "More likely he's here to borrow money from the Faith."
*It's four stags here today,* Gendry thought, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. *Not three.* His only desire was to escape this city, to break free of his fate as a pawn before the game began in earnest.