On the archery range at the Wolf's Den, a pale-haired Westerosi elder in a faded green tunic was walking Gendry through the fundamentals of the longbow. The targets, tightly bound bundles of hay and straw, were set fifty yards downrange.
"Just call me Dick, lad," the old man said, watching Gendry with undisguised appreciation. "It's been so long since the Pack took on fresh blood, I was starting to think I'd never train an apprentice again. We prefer Westerosi steel, but our rules are too tight for most. It keeps the Pack small."
"Understood," Gendry nodded, taking the heavy yew longbow the old man offered. He was slightly surprised. He had assumed Black Billy, the Summer Islander, would be the master of archers. Instead, he was being taught by this unassuming grandfather.
"Good lad. I've never seen a boy built like you, but remember, even the finest steel must be forged," Dick said, tapping Gendry's broad chest. A true warrior needed mass, a deep chest, and dense muscle to draw a war bow.
"Too many fools obsess over the sword and ignore the bow. It's a fatal mistake! In a real fight, whether it's a longbow, a greatsword, or a morningstar, you use whatever is in your hands and whatever kills the enemy fastest! Don't overthink it. Claim your ground and strike!"
Gendry pulled on a thick leather shooting glove and ran his fingers over the polished yew. A heavy war bow was a dangerous tool; drawing a heavy string with bare fingers could easily flay the skin or tear off a nail.
"Good. Now, draw," Dick commanded.
Gendry nocked an arrow, raised the bow, and drew the string back to his cheek. His mind was as steady as a stone. He felt the weight of the wood, the tension of the hemp, and caught the subtle breath of the wind. He released.
The arrow hissed through the air and thudded heavily into the straw, just a few inches wide of the bullseye.
"Not bad at all, lad," Dick said. The old man fluidly nocked his own arrow. His draw was as smooth as summer silk. He released, and his shaft buried itself dead center in the bullseye.
"How was that?" Dick asked, lowering his bow.
"Brilliant," Gendry said, genuinely impressed, clapping his gloved hands. The old man's archery was mesmerizing.
"The wind. You must always feel the wind, child. You have sharp eyes and a steady hand. I've rarely seen such raw talent. But a battlefield is chaos. You must perceive the wind instantly, without thinking. Hitting the mark isn't the trick, hitting it fast and true makes you a master!"
Dick gestured to the quiver. "Now, loose a few more. Don't strain yourself. Stop before your muscles tear. I want to see your limits."
Gendry squared his stance and began to shoot. He drew and released in a continuous, rhythmic motion, his breathing perfectly steady, his core immovable. Shaft after shaft slammed into the target. None hit the absolute dead center, but the grouping was tight.
Dick's eyes widened with every shot.
"Enough, child! Put it down," Dick laughed, his face lighting up. "By the gods, you are a prodigy. A born killer. Your stamina... your endurance is monstrous! In a prolonged volley, you could loose three times as many arrows as a normal man before your arms gave out!"
"You need a proper bow, lad. A master cannot work with inferior tools," Dick declared, pacing around Gendry. "The finest in the world are dragonbone or the goldenheart bows of the Summer Isles. Sadly, they cost a king's ransom. But a masterwork yew or weirwood stave... yes, I'll have to craft you something special."
For the next hour, Dick painstakingly corrected Gendry's posture and release to ensure he wouldn't damage his shoulders. Recognizing a generational talent, the old man held nothing back.
Finally, Dick called for a rest, and they sat on a wooden bench beside the range.
"Fatty tells me you're from Westeros," Dick said, wiping his brow. "Whereabouts?"
"King's Landing. And you?" Gendry asked.
"The same. I fled Westeros a long time ago," Dick smiled wryly. "Have you ever heard of the Kingswood Brotherhood?"
"I have!" Gendry said, his eyes lighting up. "A band of lawless outlaws. They still tell stories about them in the stews of King's Landing."
He remembered a bawdy song he had heard a wandering singer perform in a Flea Bottom tavern:
The brothers of the Kingswood, they say we are but thieves,
The forest is our castle, the world our scattered leaves.
No gold can flee our daggers, no maid escape our hand,
Oh, the brothers of the Kingswood, the terror of the land...
"The Smiling Knight. Big Belly Ben. Wenda the White Fawn. Oswyn Longneck the Thrice-Hanged," Dick recited the names as if reading a sacred roll.
Gendry paused. He suddenly remembered that the stories of the Brotherhood always mentioned a master archer named Dick. He had assumed it was merely a common name. He looked at the old man, his respect deepening into awe.
"You're that Dick? Fletcher Dick?"
He was sitting next to an archery god. Fletcher Dick had been born in a village near Stonehelm. He had famously taught the outlaw Ulmer everything he knew. Many considered him the greatest archer of his generation.
"Aye, that's me," Dick nodded, entirely unbothered by the infamy. "Once upon a time, I was a brother of the Kingswood. A grand and glorious bandit. Now? I'm just an old drillmaster wasting away in a foreign land. Aside from Ulmer, I imagine all my old friends are dead."
The Targaryen dynasty that had outlawed them was gone. Dick could have easily returned to Westeros. But with his brothers dead, and the legendary Kingsguard who had hunted them, like the White Bull and the Sword of the Morning, also in their graves, Westeros was nothing but a graveyard of memories.
"I thought the Sword of the Morning wiped the Brotherhood out," Gendry asked, eager for the history.
"There was a final, bloody clash deep in the Kingswood," Dick murmured, his eyes distant. "A young Jaime Lannister, Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, and Barristan the Bold finally cornered my most infamous brothers, including our leader, Simon Toyne. Ser Barristan slew Simon. Arthur Dayne cut down the Smiling Knight. Wenda, Oswyn, and Ben were captured trying to break the encirclement."
Dick sighed. "But I wasn't there. I was deep in the Stormlands, hunting for rare timber to carve new bows. When word reached me that the Smiling Knight had fallen, I knew the dream was over. I took a ship across the Narrow Sea."
It had been nearly fifteen years. The legends he spoke of were just ghosts now.
"The Smiling Knight? And the Sword of the Morning?" Gendry asked. They were myths to him.
"The Smiling Knight was half the size of the Mountain, but twice as mad," Dick chuckled softly. "A complete lunatic, but by the gods, he could wield a sword. And as for Arthur Dayne... it still sickens me to think he died in the dirt of Dorne for nothing. He was the greatest warrior of our age."
Dick looked at Gendry. "Are there any new prodigies making a name for themselves in Westeros lately?"
"The Knight of Flowers, perhaps?" Gendry offered. Aside from Loras Tyrell, the realm still worshipped the old guard: Barristan the Bold, Jaime Lannister, and Bronze Yohn Royce.
"Bah. Tourney knights," Dick scoffed, waving a hand in disgust. "If you listen to my teachings, lad, you'll put them all in the dirt. I've seen enough perfumed lordlings in my time. The Smiling Knight gutted a Tyrell rose once, as I recall."
"Alright, old man. Are you boring the pup with your ancient history again?"
Pretty Boy, the scarred infantry commander, strode over to the bench, grinning as he interrupted Dick's nostalgic rant.
"On your feet, Hammer. The Captain has secured a new contract," Pretty Boy said, his eyes gleaming with the promise of violence.
Gendry stood, offering Fletcher Dick a respectful bow before following the commander. Over the past weeks in the Wolf's Den, he had been drilled relentlessly in archery, swordplay, and horsemanship.
Now, it seemed, the forging was done. It was time for his first true taste of war.