Gendry galloped across the grasslands on a black stallion, its hooves tearing up the turf and sending clods of mud flying. The Dornish horse gifted by the Red Viper truly was an exceptional beast.
Only when he spotted Qyburn's aged figure entering the hunting grounds did Gendry pull the reins and dismount, tying the horse to a post.
"My lord, there have been quite a few thieving dogs sniffing around the Wolf's Den lately," Qyburn said. "In the market, the town hall, and the new armory."
Qyburn oversaw part of the intelligence apparatus. His network had already spread wide. Orphans, war orphans, and fiercely loyal freed slaves served as his claws. Especially in the Disputed Lands, Lys, and Myr, his spies were everywhere, feeding him a constant stream of information.
Gendry no longer lacked gold or loyal men. The intelligence network had been built smoothly and was running well.
"Someone needs to keep their hunting dogs on a leash. They can't keep coming into our territory to steal scraps," Gendry said. He knew exactly what those thieves were after. Some were probing the movements of him and the Legion. Others wanted to learn about the output of the new armory. And some were trying to gather information about the Targaryen siblings.
A massive new armory had been established in Wolf's Den, bringing together top craftsmen from Myr and Tyrosh to forge armor and weapons.
The rumble of war machines was beginning to rise. Even the slow-witted Free Cities could sense the pressure in the air. Everyone was watching, wondering where the Wolf Pack would bare its fangs next. Across the Narrow Sea to Westeros, or against neighboring Lys?
"Whose dogs?" Gendry asked.
"Volantis, Lys, Pentos, and some from across the Narrow Sea."
"Should we draw in the net?" Maester Qyburn asked, seeking a clear decision.
"Let the line run long. See if we can haul in something worth catching," Gendry replied.
"As you command."
"Oh, and Lord Governor," Qyburn added, "I also saw an interesting group. They're from the North."
"Who?"
"They appear to be men of House Bolton."
"Tell me about them," Gendry said.
House Bolton was one of the oldest, most powerful, and most infamous noble houses in the North. In ages past, they had crowned themselves kings. Their power and influence were second only to House Stark, the Wardens of the North.
"A Pentosi merchant came to purchase grain," Qyburn said. "But his attendants didn't look like the usual flamboyant Pentoshi sellswords. They looked more like disciplined soldiers. Anyone with that kind of skill who can also cover their tracks is most likely from the Dreadfort."
"But that's not the most interesting part. What's more intriguing is that among them is a young, ugly attendant who's far too eager. He's unusually interested in the new armory and keeps trying to pry out the secrets of the new crossbows."
"The Flayer," Gendry said with a faint smile. "Now that is interesting. I'd like to meet them."
...
At a small, quiet inn on the western side of Wolf's Den, the only real advantage was its clear view of the military factory not far away.
Black walls loomed high, with soldiers stationed all around. At the very top, the gray-and-white banners of the Wolf Pack snapped in the wind.
The skilled craftsmen of Myr and Tyrosh had gathered here, and the place bustled with activity. The flames from the furnaces roared upward, licking the sky like fire dragons.
"I hate the Wolf Pack," Ramsay muttered bitterly, staring at the banner where wolves seemed to run across the cloth.
If he wanted to become a true Bolton, he had to be more Bolton than the Boltons themselves. The Red King had fought the King in the North for a thousand years, and legend said he had flayed many Starks and kept their skins.
"What are they making?" Ramsay asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.
He watched the master craftsmen and their apprentices moving in and out, rarely speaking with outsiders. The armory had its own housing and enclosed compound. For now, these people were considered vassals of the Sellsword King, and it was said the treatment in the armory was exceptionally generous.
"My lord, Lord Roose only sent us to observe the grain market in the Free Cities. What we're doing now goes against his intentions," Reek pleaded.
The long summer had dragged on for years, but a seasoned northern lord like Bolton never forgot the shadow of the Long Winter. Roose had sent his bastard son out to see the world, yet forbade him from taking any real action. That restriction left Ramsay seething.
"Shut up." Ramsay Snow shot Reek a cold look, and Reek immediately fell silent. "The men Father assigned to me are useless. I should have brought my own boys."
Reek knew exactly what Ramsay's "good boys" were like. Men as cruel and violent as their master. If they had come, things would only be worse.
"You really do stink," Ramsay said, studying him. "Even after all those extra washes before boarding the ship."
"Reek, because I am Reek, my lord," Reek recited.
A smile tugged at Ramsay's lips.
"Good dog."
"Father kept me hidden in the Dreadfort. This is my first time outside. I'll prove to him that I'm a true skinner," Ramsay declared loudly.
Reek lowered his head and said nothing more. Trouble comes from the mouth, and no one understood Ramsay's cruelty better than he did.
Ramsay turned toward the window again and saw the garrison soldiers in black armor. They wore fine black cloaks marked with the Wolf Pack sigil. The plate vests over their upper bodies gleamed brilliantly under the sun, dazzling to the eye.
"The Free Cities really are rich," Ramsay muttered with envy. Even at the powerful Dreadfort, most of his father's guards wore nothing more than gray chainmail and iron half-helms.
Yet here in Wolf's Den, the armor of ordinary garrison soldiers already surpassed that of the Flayed Man's elite.
Could House Stark, the lords of the North, equip their men this well? Ramsay considered it, but the answer was likely no. The North was harsh and sparsely populated. Across the Seven Kingdoms, its arms and armor ranked near the bottom.
"Plate armor. Crossbows that can fire three shots in a row." Ramsay could not stop thinking about them. If he could get his hands on some, even House Stark would think twice before crossing him.
Unfortunately, Ramsay had no money, and he never paid for anything anyway. Besides, the forging and export of fine weapons from Myr and Tyrosh were now monopolized by the new ruler. The town hall issued licenses to merchants one by one.
Ramsay had slipped a few golden dragons to a blacksmith's apprentice at the armory, hoping to get hold of some useful blueprints.
He could no longer suppress his ambition. This was his first time leaving the Dreadfort. Until now, Roose had kept him hidden away like some embarrassing secret. Ramsay was desperate to prove himself.
"Damn it. That ironworks brat is useless. I should flay him," Ramsay thought viciously.
Just then, Reek suddenly cried out, "Something's wrong, Ramsay!"
Tall figures wearing bronze spiked helmets had appeared below the inn without anyone noticing. Unsullied and Dothraki were already flooding inside, charging up the stairs.
"The Unsullied-Dothraki Guard. The bastard king's guard." Cold sweat broke out across Ramsay's forehead. This had been a mistake. His reckless gamble had ended in humiliation.
For a fleeting moment, he regretted ignoring Roose's teachings. Peaceful lands. Peaceful people. That was Roose's way of ruling. Ramsay understood none of it. He only believed in violence and cunning. Fear was the only language he trusted.
"Change clothes with me. Now!" Ramsay's eyes flickered as he barked the order.
Reek did not dare refuse. He quickly stripped off his clothes.
Ramsay rushed into the latrine and smeared himself with urine and filth, rubbing it over his body. He had to smell like a privy pit. Only then could he truly pass for Reek.
The fight ended quickly. Though the Bolton guards were capable men, they wore no armor and lacked proper weapons. Even if they had drawn steel, nothing could compete at close range with a triple-shot crossbow.
"I don't know them. I don't know them!" The Pentos merchant was dragged out, his face pale and streaked with tears. "These northerners only asked me to show them the grain market. Wheat, corn, even tobacco. Whatever they're planning has nothing to do with me!"
The detained guards of House Bolton accepted their arrest in silence. Resistance was pointless, and they held their tongues. Two quick-handed northerners tried to snatch up their longswords, but Myr crossbows punched straight through their bodies. After that, the rest behaved.
The door to the room was kicked open. Six tall Unsullied cavalry in light armor and bronze spiked helmets strode inside. They carried shields, short blades, and compact Myr crossbows. Their eyes swept the bedroom coldly.
A heavy stench hung in the air, sharp enough to sting the nose.
"Guests of Lord Bolton?" The Lord Commander of the Twin Cities Alliance, Gendry himself, surveyed the room with an icy expression, frowning slightly at the overpowering stench.