In the quiet of the smithy's storeroom, Gendry's gaze fell upon a helmet he had forged, resting on a workbench. It was shaped like a bull's head, with two great, curving horns. The iron was rough and unpolished, but the design was undeniably the work of an expert smith. Still, the helmet was too distinctive; wearing it would draw far too much attention.
Tobho, the armorer, had been kind to him, but Gendry knew this could not be his life. *Farewell, forge,* he thought. With his meager savings and a short-handled warhammer tucked into his belt, he slipped out of the barn. The weapon was his own creation, with a sharp, beak-like pick on one side and a heavy, blunt face on the other. It was a vicious, compact tool designed to punch through the "iron shells" of plate armor.
The foreman and the serving girl paid him no mind as he left. It was common for the older apprentices to take their rest in the city. They assumed he would wander King's Landing as he often did and be back for the evening meal. In their eyes, Gendry was an honest, reliable boy who never caused trouble—a good worker, well-liked by all. They were accustomed to seeing him carry the small warhammer for protection; the city's streets were not always safe.
Gendry made his way up Visenya's Hill. The Great Sept of Baelor was bustling as always. In the plaza, the gray-haired High Septon, dressed in silver-threaded robes, was reading from *The Seven-Pointed Star*. In the center of it all stood the giant statue of Baelor the Blessed, his stone face a mask of serene compassion. Gendry moved through the surging crowd, letting its flow carry him toward the Sept's entrance.
He pretended to pray, blending in with the faithful, and soon overheard a conversation between two men from the Vale of Arryn. Their speech was marked by the region's pious tones.
"Our Lord Jon is loyal to the king, it's true," one said, his voice laced with resentment. "But he has little time for the affairs of the Vale anymore. He favors those Tullys, especially that Littlefinger, who owes his entire position to Lady Lysa's influence."
His companion gave a noncommittal shrug. "Lord Arryn must remain in King's Landing. The king is a man of grand visions; the Hand is the one who must build them. Without Lord Jon, do you think the king would have the freedom to hunt, host tourneys, and chase women day after day?"
"The king is joyful, certainly," the first man conceded. "But Lord Jon has worked too hard for too long. He should be back in the Eyrie, raising his heir, that mewling little falcon."
"And who would Robert trust to take his place? That is why Lord Jon has served for so many years. The gods have been good to our king, granting this long summer. It gives him plenty of time to eat, drink, and play."
They fell silent after that. Gendry understood their sentiment. They respected a legendary knight like the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, but had no love for an up-jumped courtier like Littlefinger. Jon Arryn's long tenure as Hand was much like Tywin Lannister's had been, wielding immense power while the king indulged himself. The difference was that Robert truly loved his foster father and was not a paranoid tyrant like the Mad King.
Gendry feigned interest in an altar for a few moments longer, then slipped away, following the crowd into a different corner of the plaza. He bypassed the Street of Steel and, after leaving the Sept, ran down Muddy Way toward the River Gate, savoring the lively chaos of the city one last time. This long, warm summer had made King's Landing more prosperous and boisterous than ever, and in the throng of humanity, the quiet departure of one boy went completely unnoticed.
His years as an apprentice had been stable, and the Spider's surveillance had grown lax. Gendry felt no eyes on his back. He had perhaps overestimated his own importance. He was a low-priority piece on Varys's great board.
Near the docks, the streets were a riot of activity. Farmers hauled carts overflowing with corn and apples, knights sat atop tall horses, and merchants from across the world haggled in a dozen languages. The Gold Cloaks guarding the River Gate, in their black mail and golden cloaks, looked bored and lazy. Gendry, now wearing a hooded cloak and a simple iron mask that covered the lower half of his face, knew he was hardly the most conspicuous figure. Lyseni beauties, purple-bearded Tyroshi, and even dark-skinned men from the Summer Isles mingled in the crowd.
Still, he remained cautious. It wasn't just the Spider he had to worry about, but Littlefinger as well. The Master of Coin controlled the city's finances, the port, the customs officers—his spies were everywhere. As Gendry neared the gate, he heard shouting and had to leap aside as the king's hunting party thundered past. Under the crowned stag banner, flanked by the Kingsguard, Robert Baratheon swayed in his saddle, reeking of wine. Amid the angry shouts of the Gold Cloaks, Gendry slipped away without a second glance.
He found his berth. A merchant cog, its holds filled with goods from all over Westeros, was preparing to depart for Myr.
"Boarding, boy!" a sailor with a thick Myrish accent shouted. "We're leaving now!"
"Now?" Gendry asked.
"Aye. It's not safe to sail after dark."
Gendry paid his fare and climbed aboard. The ship cast off its lines and quickly pulled away from the dock. The long summer meant the seas were calm; autumn storms were a terror, but for now, the waters were kind. The ship moved slowly down the Blackwater Rush, and Gendry watched as King's Landing shrank behind him. He saw the royal warships moored upstream and the red walls of the great castle that dominated the city. The three-headed dragon of the Targaryens was long gone, replaced by the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
*No king rules forever,* he thought, gazing at the distant banners from the ship's rail. *A beautiful kingship, but a fragile one.* He took a deep breath of the salt-tinged air. This was a new life. Staying in King's Landing had its risks, but Essos offered a wider world, a chance to forge his own destiny.
"Can you read, boy?"
Gendry turned. An old man in simple grey robes stood nearby. He was tall but slightly stooped, with a web of wrinkles around his kind, prominent blue eyes. His hair was more grey than white, and a gentle smile played on his lips. Though Gendry stood alone, a solitary, hooded figure, he had drawn the old man's attention.