The training grounds of the Wolf's Den were a symphony of clashing steel and heavy breathing. Above the dust, the grey wolf of the Pack and the shattered silver links of the Free Army fluttered in the salt breeze. At the center of the ring, a single man stood against four, his silhouette broad and immovable.
Gendry wore a black riveted vest over his scale mail, the direwolf sigil of the Wolf Pack etched into the leather. He moved with a speed that defied his bulk, his muscles coiling and releasing like iron springs. His opponents were no green boys: Longspear, Iron Fist, and two of the elite Unsullied guards.
"Again!" Gendry barked, his blue eyes burning with a cold, focused intensity.
The attack came in a coordinated rush. Longspear's blunted spear darted like a viper, while Iron Fist lunged with a practice sword from the flank. The two Unsullied moved in perfect lockstep, their shields forming a mobile wall that constricted Gendry's space.
Gendry caught Longspear's spear-tip on the boss of his oak shield. Instead of pushing back, he reached out with his left hand, seized the spear-shaft, and twisted. The wood groaned and snapped, the sudden torque sending Longspear stumbling forward. Gendry didn't let him recover; he dropped his shoulder and slammed into the knight, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
Clang.
Iron Fist's sword connected with Gendry's plate-covered arm, but Gendry ignored the impact. He pivoted, his warhammer whistling through the air in a flat, horizontal arc. The blow caught Iron Fist's shield with such force that the wood shattered into splinters, and the metal visor of the knight's helm deformed under the kinetic shock. Iron Fist dropped his weapon, his hands trembling.
"Yield," the knight gasped, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
Finally, the two Unsullied closed in. They felt no pain, and their discipline was absolute, but Gendry had become a hurricane. His strikes were no longer just strong; they were explosive. He ducked a spear thrust, caught an Unsullied by the throat-guard, and hurled him into his partner. The two bronze-clad warriors hit the ground in a heap of tangled limbs and clattering shields.
Gendry stood alone at the center of the ring, his chest heaving, a faint steam rising from his skin in the morning air.
[Bloodline: Storm's Blood (Activated, Awakening: 40%)]
[Talent: Caste Resilience (The blood of the Stag is strong; descendants are tall, powerful, and bear the black hair and blue eyes of the line.)]
[Talent: Storm's Fury (In a state of critical injury or rage, attacks gain a massive surge in kinetic power and speed.)]
The Storm's Blood was surging, its growth slowing as it reached the 40% threshold. He could feel the bottleneck—to grow further, he would need more than just sparring. He would need a true slaughter.
"Well fought, Commander!"
The surrounding soldiers cheered, the sound echoing off the stone walls. Gendry offered a hand to the fallen Unsullied, pulling them up before walking toward the benches where Pretty Boy and Qyburn waited.
"You fight like a man possessed," Pretty Boy noted, handing Gendry a skin of water. "In the stories my father told, only Lord Cregan Stark could move like that."
"The Wolf of the North? The one from the Hour of the Wolf?" Gendry asked, wiping the sweat from his eyes.
"The same. He took his uncle's regency at eighteen and held the Iron Throne for a single day just to execute the traitors," Pretty Boy said. "The Dragonknight himself said Cregan was the finest swordsman he ever faced. You have that same wildness in you—the kind that makes men forget their training and just pray for it to be over."
"Brandon the Wild Wolf had it too," Longspear added, limping over to join them. "He was supposed to be the great one. Then the Mad King burned him alive in the Red Keep. A waste of good steel."
Gendry's expression darkened. He looked toward the gates, where a new party was approaching under a flag of truce.
"Our guest has arrived," Qyburn whispered.
The man was a Volantene, but he wore the gold of the Golden Company. Gorys Edoryn, the Company's treasurer and second-in-command, was a gaunt figure with greasy, blood-red hair that hung in oily curls over his shoulders. A leopard skin was draped over one shoulder, and the gold arm-rings on his wrists were so heavy they could have bought a lordship in the Reach.
"Welcome, paymaster," Qyburn said, his voice smooth and welcoming.
Gorys Edoryn looked around the training ground, his eyes lingering on the broken shields and the dented helms. He found the atmosphere unsettling; there was a grim, hungry energy to the Wolf Pack that he hadn't seen in the more "civilized" cities of the Three Daughters.
"I come with an offer of brotherhood," Gorys said, his voice a dry rasp. "Our Captain-General wishes to collaborate with the King of the Wolves."
"In what way?" Gendry asked, his voice echoing under the stone archway.
"You want the Disputed Lands. We want our home. We want Westeros. It is a win-win scenario," Gorys declared, spreading his hands. "If we combine our ten thousand veterans and your five thousand freedmen, the Iron Throne will be ours within a moon."
A ripple of laughter went through Gendry's officers.
"My friend, I must remind you of a few facts," Pretty Boy said, leaning on his cane. "We have no fleet, our men are still in training, and the lords of the Seven Kingdoms are currently united under a single king. This isn't the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It's a suicide pact."
"We have the gold," Gorys insisted, his eyes flashing. "The Golden Company has five hundred knights—each with three destriers and a squire—and we have the war elephants. Maelys the Monstrous made it to the Stepstones. We can make it to the Blackwater."
"And you'll die there, just like Maelys did," Gendry said coldly. "The Reach is wealthy, the Westerlands are a fortress, and the North is a graveyard for invaders. I will not bleed my men for a ghost of a dream."
Gorys Edoryn's face darkened. "Then our business is concluded."
"Not necessarily," Gendry said, giving the paymaster a sliver of hope. "There is a more practical path. Myr has hired the Company of the Cat and the Second Sons to destroy us. They are marching even as we speak."
Gendry leaned forward, his blue eyes locking onto the Volantene's. "The Golden Company can march from the rear. You ambush the Cats and the Sons while they are engaged with my line. You'll get the Myrish gold, you'll get the spoils of two mercenary companies, and you'll make the Three Daughters so dependent on your protection that they'll pay you whatever you ask to keep the 'Wolf' from their gates."
Gorys was silent for a long moment, the gears of a treasurer's mind turning. It was a classic sellsword betrayal—one that promised profit without the risk of an ocean crossing.
"A double-payout," Gorys whispered. "And we keep our steel bitter."
"Think on it, paymaster," Gendry said. "Tell Harry Strickland that the Hammer is ready. The question is whether the Gold wants to be the anvil, or the spoils."