Gendry rested his hand on the cool iron of the helmet he had shaped—a bull's head with two curved horns, raw and imposing. The metal caught the faint light of the forge and gleamed with a fierce, primitive strength. It was a masterwork in design, even if it lacked polish.
But it was also too distinctive.
Anyone who saw a youth wearing such a helmet would remember him. And Gendry's goal today was not to be remembered—but forgotten.
"Farewell, smithy," he whispered, eyes lingering on the forge that had been his home for years.
With only a small pouch of coins, a hooded cloak, and a short-handled war mace at his side, Gendry quietly slipped out of the barn.
The mace was his own creation—a vicious little thing with a pick-like spike on one side and a hammer on the other, a weapon designed to split helmets and shatter plate. In close combat, it was deadlier than any longsword he could wield at his age.
The foreman and the maid didn't stop him. Older apprentices often roamed the city on their free days. Gendry was steady, hardworking, and known never to pick fights. Everyone trusted he'd be back by dinner as he always was.
And no one blinked twice at him carrying the mace—King's Landing could swallow a boy whole if he wasn't armed.
Gendry tightened his cloak around his shoulders and made his way up Visenya's Hill, heading toward the Great Sept one last time.
---
A Final Glance at the City
The plaza before the Sept of Baelor was alive with worshippers and pilgrims. The old High Septon, draped in silver-threaded robes, stood on the steps reading from The Seven-Pointed Star. His voice echoed under the wide sky, solemn and resonant.
The statue of Baelor the Blessed loomed above them all—serene, tall, and carved of white marble that glowed like starlight in the sun.
As Gendry drifted through the crowd, he listened without really hearing the sermon. He was listening instead to the murmurs of people—voices from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
Two men from the Vale stood behind him, their accents crisp and their tone edged with frustration.
"Our Lord Jon is loyal to the King," the first man grumbled. "But he hardly tends to the matters of the Vale these days."
"Don't speak like a fool," his companion murmured. "It's natural the Hand stays close to the King. The King dreams, the Hand builds the dream. Robert can't rule without Lord Jon."
"Aye, but he should return home sometimes. The boy at the Eyrie needs his father."
The companion sighed.
"And who should rule in his stead? King Robert? The man is chasing wine, hunts, and women every day. If not for Jon Arryn, the realm would fall apart."
"Maybe so," the first man conceded. "But I'd feel better if he were back in the Vale. Not spending his time with Tully men and that Littlefinger fellow who rose from nowhere."
Gendry tuned out the rest. He had learned one thing during his time in King's Landing:
The city thrived on gossip and drowned in secrets.
And in a place where even the Hand of the King could be questioned so casually, a bastard boy could vanish without a ripple.
---
Slipping Through the City
Gendry moved with the crowd, then slipped away into a narrow alley, winding past the Street of Silk, down Muddy Way, and toward the River Gate.
He kept his hood low, posture relaxed, neither hurried nor slow.
On Muddy Way, the long summer had painted the city in vibrant colors. Farmers sold sweet corn and fresh apples from oxcarts. Knights in polished armor trotted on tall steeds. Tyroshi with purple beards haggled loudly with Summer Islanders decked in feathers.
Gendry kept moving, remembering every route, every turn.
Varys's spies—if they even still cared—looked for suspicious behavior. A boy wandering King's Landing on his rest day wasn't suspicious.
And he was right.
No one followed him.
No whispering children.
No men in gray robes.
No street beggars with eyes too sharp.
"Perhaps I overestimated myself," Gendry thought. "On the Spider's web, I'm just a small, forgotten knot."
When he reached the River Gate, he slowed his breathing.
Two Gold Cloaks leaned lazily against the stone walls, half-drunk or half-bored, watching the crowds flow in and out.
Their eyes skimmed right over him.
A hooded boy with an iron mask wasn't unusual here—not with the hundreds of docks lining the Blackwater Rush.
The harbor was filled with ships from across the world:
Long, sleek Myrish traders
Broad-bellied Braavosi merchant cogs
Tyroshi galleys with painted sails
Slender boats from the Summer Isles
Rough fishing skiffs from Blackwater Bay
Compared to the colorful chaos of the docks, Gendry's plain iron mask was barely noticeable.
But he still kept his head low.
Littlefinger's reach was the true danger here. As Master of Coin, he controlled the harbor officials, tax collectors, customs officers, and half the merchants. One wrong move could expose Gendry's escape.
He needed to slip out like a shadow.
---
A Narrow Escape
Just as he neared the docks, hoofbeats thundered behind him.
Gendry spun—then froze.
Under the crowned stag banners, King Robert rode through the River Gate, returning from a drunken hunt. The King slouched in his saddle, smelling of wine. A White Knight flanked him, and Gold Cloaks pushed people aside.
Gendry darted away just in time.
Hooves crashed onto the stones where he had stood moments before.
"Out of the way, you idiot boy!" a Gold Cloak shouted.
Gendry didn't look back.
Couldn't look back.
Heart pounding, he slipped through the crowd and vanished between crates as if he were smoke.
When he finally emerged, he spotted his dock.
A Myrish merchant ship, hull stained black with tar, already loaded with goods.
A sailor waved.
"Boarding, boy! If you're coming, do it now!"
"Sailing this early?" Gendry asked, breath steadying.
"Aye. Leaving late draws storms and pirates. Hurry!"
Gendry handed over his coins.
The sailor nodded. "Welcome aboard."
Within minutes, the ship pushed away from the dock, oars dipping into the water.
Gendry stood at the railing as King's Landing shrank behind him.
---
Last Look at Westeros
The royal warships gleamed upstream, anchored like watchful wolves along the Blackwater Rush. The sun glinted off their steel and gold.
Beyond them rose the Red Keep, proud and crimson, watching over the capital like a great beast. Once it bore the dragons of House Targaryen. Now it flew the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
"How fleeting kingship is," Gendry murmured.
"Beautiful… and fragile."
He would not miss this place.
Not the spies.
Not the Lannisters.
Not the danger.
But he would remember the forge.
And the feeling of shaping his own fate.
"This is my new beginning," he whispered as the city vanished into the horizon.
Beyond the Narrow Sea lay Essos—a land of magic, ancient bloodlines, free cities, and forgotten powers.
A land where he could disappear.
A land where he could be reborn.
---
A Stranger on Deck
"Boy," a gentle voice asked behind him, "can you read?"
Gendry turned.
A tall old man stood there, wrapped in a gray cloak. His posture was a little stooped, but his bright blue eyes held warmth rather than sharpness. His hair was mostly gray, his wrinkles deep but softened by constant smiling.
He looked like a kindly grandfather—the sort of man children clung to at feasts.
But something in his eyes… something sharp hidden beneath the softness… made Gendry tense slightly.
As if this old man saw more than he should.
Gendry kept his face calm.
"Yes," he answered. "A bit."
The old man smiled kindly.
"Good," he said. "Reading opens more doors than swords ever can."
The waves carried them both eastward, toward Essos—and toward the unknown future awaiting the bastard of a storm-born king.