Gendry, Qyburn, Fletcher, and the others stood on a hastily erected platform, watching the archery drills below.
The banner of the Wolf Pack flew high overhead, gray-white wolves roaring across the field of cloth. The soldiers trained with fierce momentum, like a pack in full charge.
Targets had been set up across the training ground, and the archers were taking their turns.
"Draw! Loose!"
"Draw! Loose!" Black Billy shouted.
Ten longbowmen in the front rank pulled and released in unison. The arrows flew clean and swift, slicing through the air and punching through the targets with silky precision.
These archers from the Summer Isles were anything but ordinary. Their skin was dark as coal, bright green and orange feathered cloaks draped over their shoulders, and in their hands were goldenheart longbows.
The Summer Isles were famed for skilled bowmen and fine warships. Goldenheart was the finest bow wood short of dragonbone. Gendry had once considered equipping more dragonbone bows, but they were far too rare. He possessed only a single dragonbone longbow, a treasure beyond price.
Under the command of the Golden Company's archery officer, Black Balaq, there were fifty Summer Islanders wielding goldenheart greatbows. Gendry had envied that force greatly. Goldenheart bows were difficult to obtain, but between the Disputed Lands and the Twin Cities, he had spared no effort in recruiting a hundred Summer Islander sellswords who carried their own goldenheart bows. He folded them into his army as the elite core of his archers.
"Thwack!" "Thwack!"
As arrow after arrow struck the bull's-eye, the watching soldiers burst into cheers. Then the longhorns sounded, calling the next rank forward.
"Customs, terrain. If you want to shoot true, you must account for these," Black Billy called out. "But no matter what, you must be both fast and precise, boys. That is how you live through a war."
Black Billy still served as the Wolf Pack's archery commander, but his ranks had grown considerably. Elite goldenheart bowmen, yew bowmen, and large numbers of trained archers now answered to him. The weight of responsibility pressed heavier than before.
The Summer Islanders stepped aside, and the next group advanced, longbows of yew in hand. They pulled on gloves before shooting. Bowstrings were unforgiving things. Though yew lacked the range of goldenheart, these archers were competent, and many arrows found the center of the targets.
Gendry watched with clear satisfaction. His longbow corps would bring Westeros a sharp taste of firepower. Longbows meant death and screams. The most famous example remained the Raven's Teeth of Bloodraven, who had slain the "Warrior" Daemon Blackfyre upon the Redgrass Field.
In Westeros, knights often prized swordplay above all else, neglecting the bow. But across the Narrow Sea, standing armies understood better.
Used properly, a bow was devastating. More importantly, it was cheaper to train. Swordsmanship and horsemanship took years to master. Training a longbowman was far more efficient.
"Littlefinger has received our gift," Maester Qyburn said quietly.
"I hope he enjoys it," Gendry replied with a faint smile. Littlefinger relished calculating against others. It was only fair he taste the same in return.
Gendry's scheme struck directly at Littlefinger's weakness. His power rested on gold and on Jon's trust. But he had no real military strength. Noble knights of standing disdained serving him, forcing him to recruit among sellsword bands that worshiped coin.
"But..." Qyburn hesitated. "Lothor has wandered as a sellsword for many years. If he truly throws in with Littlefinger... sellswords loving gold is hardly unusual."
"A man walking this world must hold something dearer than gold," Gendry said calmly. "Littlefinger believes in gold. I believe in loyalty."
Those who would conquer the world required a certain heroic spirit. That confidence was his.
Seeing his resolve, Qyburn said nothing more.
Suddenly, a tidal wave of cheers erupted from the training ranks. The Lord Governor of the Twin Cities Alliance, supreme commander of all legions, was about to take a shot himself. The soldiers craned their necks toward the platform, eyes fixed on the dark-haired young man standing above them.
"Your longbow, Lord Governor."
Greywolf stepped forward, presenting Gendry's weapon. The twin-curved dragonbone longbow was pitch black, a treasure even the Dothraki would call priceless.
Gendry took the dragonbone bow in hand.
Wind. Ground. Direction.
In this instant, everything aligned perfectly. If he let it pass, there would never be a better shot.
Gendry let out a slow breath, then drew his bow and released.
The arrow flew from the high platform straight toward the center of the target. The Dragonbone bow had a far greater range than any wooden bow, and firing from that height made it the longest and most difficult shot possible.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The specially crafted long arrows streaked through the air and punched cleanly through the bullseye, as if they had eyes of their own.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the soldiers' cheers exploded like thunder rolling across the mountains.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
"Long live Wolf's Den!"
Gendry lowered the black Dragonbone bow, listening to the roar of their voices.
Those faces. Those young faces. They fought for him, and he would not fail them.
Power was power. Strength that crushed every scheme and trick beneath it.
...
Winterfell, the crypts of House Stark.
"I can hear the war horns."
Great Lord Eddard walked alone through the deep, frigid crypts. Shadows shifted with the torchlight, as though the stone kings and lords might step down from their pedestals at any moment.
His father, Lord Rickard. Brandon. Lyanna.
Rickard's father, Lord Edwyle. Lord Willam and his brother "The Implacable" Artos. Donnor, Beron, Rodwell. Jonnel One-Eye. Barthogan. Brandon. And Lord Cregan, who once dueled a dragon rider.
Eddard's gaze moved across the statues. From Lord Cregan onward stood the Stark Great Lords closest to his own time. The she-wolves of Winterfell had once torn at each other in bloody struggles for succession, and Eddard's line descended from the victors of that brutal fight.
"This may be the last time I look upon you."
Sorrow filled his eyes. The south was a place of grief for him. Yet now, going south was the only path left.
He had to leave. Leave Winterfell. Leave the crypts where his ancestors lay.
"Brandon understood everything. Brandon would never have been forced, as I am, to heed the counsel of the Lady and the Maester. But this bitter cup… it is mine to drink."
He looked at Brandon's stone face. His brother would never return from the long river of years.
"South. South."
He turned the word over again and again. The cold crept into his bones, sharp as the fingers of the Others.
Rickard's journey south had ended in tragedy.
King Torrhen's journey south had ended in submission.
And mine? What will my journey south become?
His eyes fell suddenly upon the statue of Great Lord Cregan on the opposite side. A direwolf still lay carved at his feet. The famed sword that had once shaken the realm had long since rotted to dust.
In his youth, Lord Cregan had been handsome and fierce, the Wolf of Winterfell. In later years, he earned another name: the Old Man of the North.
"Cregan… Cregan…"
A thought struck him.
What had Cregan's journey south been like?
An unexpected urgency rose in his chest. He needed to know this ancestor's story.
He needed to speak with the Maester.