Gendry stood upon the raised wooden platform overlooking the training yards of the Wolf's Den. Beside him stood Qyburn, Dick Fletch, and the commanders of his newly formed legions.
Above them, the grey-and-white banners of the roaring wolf snapped sharply in the wind, resembling the wings of a massive bird of prey. The yards were alive with the rhythmic, terrifying hum of hundreds of bowstrings drawn taut.
"Nock! Draw!"
"Loose!" Black Balaq roared.
The first rank of ten archers released their strings simultaneously. The arrows hissed through the air like silk tearing, burying themselves dead center into the distant straw targets.
These were no ordinary mercenaries. They were Summer Islanders, their skin as black as polished coal, wearing vibrant cloaks woven from green and orange feathers. More importantly, they carried greatbows carved from goldenheart.
The Summer Isles produced the finest archers and shipwrights in the known world. A goldenheart bow possessed a draw weight and kinetic snap that Westerosi yew could not match; only a bow carved from dragonbone was superior. Such weapons were exceedingly rare, heavily guarded by the princes of the Isles, but Gendry had spent a fortune scouring the Disputed Lands and the Twin Cities to recruit a hundred of these elite marksmen.
"Bullseye!" Balaq bellowed over the cheering of the men. He blew a sharp note on a bronze horn, and the next rank stepped forward. "Wind, elevation, and the spin of the earth! You must feel them all! But above all, you must be fast, and you must be lethal! That is how you survive the slaughter!"
Black Balaq, a former captain of the Golden Company, had been given command of Gendry's entire ranged division. The goldenheart elites, the yew longbowmen, and the crossbowmen all answered to him.
The Summer Islanders stepped back, making way for the Myrish and Westerosi longbowmen armed with thick yew staves. They wore heavy leather bracers, for a snapping longbow string could strip the flesh from a man's forearm. While the yew lacked the devastating range of goldenheart, the men were seasoned veterans.
Gendry watched with grim satisfaction. The armored knights of Westeros placed far too much glory on the sword and the lance, viewing the bow as a coward's weapon. It was a fatal arrogance. The greatest slaughter in Westerosi history—the Battle of the Redgrass Field—had been decided when Bloodraven's archers, the Raven's Teeth, rained death upon Daemon Blackfyre.
A heavy cavalry charge took years to train and a fortune to equip. A longbowman could be trained in months, and a volley of steel-tipped arrows could turn a thousand galloping knights into a screaming, bloody ruin in seconds.
"Petyr Baelish has received our gift," Qyburn murmured softly, stepping closer to Gendry so the wind would mask his words.
Gendry did not look away from the yard. "I hope he finds the sellsword entirely to his liking. Littlefinger enjoys placing his pieces on the board; it is time he learned what it feels like to play against someone else's pieces."
The infiltration was perfectly designed. Baelish possessed no military strength of his own. Proud Westerosi knights despised the Master of Coin for his low birth and grubbing nature, forcing Littlefinger to surround himself with coin-hungry freeriders. Lothor Brune fit the mold perfectly.
"There is a risk, Commander," Qyburn noted, ever the pragmatist. "Lothor Brune is a hedge knight who has survived on coin for years. If Baelish offers him enough gold... mercenaries are practical creatures."
"There are things in this world heavier than gold, Qyburn," Gendry said, his blue eyes cold and certain. "Littlefinger puts his faith in the ledger. I put my faith in the forge, and in the brotherhood of the shield wall."
Qyburn bowed his head slightly, saying no more.
A sudden, thunderous cheer erupted from the training yard below. The men had spotted the Regent. They began chanting, banging their sword hilts against their shields, demanding their Commander take a shot.
"Your bow, Liberator," Grey Worm said, stepping forward from the shadows of the platform. He held a massive, double-curved bow.
It was pitch black, polished to a dull sheen, completely unadorned. It was not dragonglass—which was brittle and would shatter if bent—but true, ancient dragonbone. It possessed a draw weight that would tear the shoulder socket of an ordinary man. Even the Dothraki Khals considered such weapons priceless artifacts.
Gendry took the heavy black bow. The wind was blowing crosswise off the Narrow Sea. He felt the tension in the air, the slight dip in the terrain below. He nocked three heavy, steel-tipped arrows simultaneously.
He drew the dragonbone back to his cheek. The dark wood groaned, containing terrifying kinetic energy. He held his breath for a fraction of a second, letting the world go utterly still.
He released.
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
The three arrows tore through the air with the speed of striking vipers. They slammed into the distant target in a tight, perfectly spaced triangle, burying themselves so deeply the iron tips protruded from the back of the straw.
A moment of stunned silence fell over the yard. And then the roar of three thousand men shook the foundations of the Wolf's Den.
"Long live the Pack!"
"Long live the Hammer King!"
Gendry lowered the black bow. Petyr Baelish and Varys could keep their whispers and their gold. True power was the roar of an army that believed you were a god among men.
Thousands of leagues away, beneath the frozen earth of Winterfell, the crypts were dead and silent.
"I hear the sound of war horns," Eddard Stark whispered to the dark. He walked alone down the long, vaulted corridor, his lantern casting shifting, monstrous shadows against the stone pillars. It felt as though the dead were stirring, watching him pass.
He walked past the generations. His father, Lord Rickard. His brother, Brandon. His sweet sister, Lyanna. Beyond them sat his grandfather, Lord Edwyle, and Willam, and Artos the Implacable. There was Donnor, and Beron, who had died fighting the Krakens. There was Rodwell, and Jonnel the One-Eyed, and Barth.
Ned stopped. He stood before the kings of winter who had bled and butchered each other during the dark years of the She-Wolves, fighting for the very seat Ned now held. He was the blood of the victors.
"This may be the last time I look upon you," Ned said, his voice thick with unshed grief.
The South was a graveyard for Starks. But he was trapped. Robert had commanded it, his wife had demanded it, and the ghost of Jon Arryn screamed for justice. He had to leave the North.
"Brandon would have known what to do," Ned whispered, looking at his brother's fierce stone face. "He would not have let Catelyn or the Maester dictate his path. He would have rode South with fire in his blood. But the bitter cup has passed to me."
The South, Ned thought, shivering despite his heavy furs. The chill of the crypts felt like the hand of the Stranger resting on his shoulder.
King Torrhen had marched South and surrendered his crown to Aegon the Conqueror. Lord Rickard had marched South and been roasted alive in his own armor by the Mad King.
And what will my march South bring?
Ned raised his lantern. The light fell upon a statue much older than the rest. The stone face was harsh, unyielding, and utterly devoid of mercy. A massive stone direwolf crouched at his feet, and a rusted iron greatsword rested across his lap.
Cregan Stark. The Wolf of Winterfell. The Old Man of the North.
Ned stared at the legendary Lord of Winterfell. Cregan Stark had also marched South at the command of a King. But Cregan had not gone to play the game of thrones or to negotiate with vipers. Cregan had marched South with an army of Northmen who had come to die. He had seized King's Landing, executed the traitors, imposed the brutal justice of the North during the "Hour of the Wolf," and then marched home, leaving the capital trembling in his wake.
Cregan did not play their game, Ned realized, a sudden, cold clarity piercing his gloom. He broke the board.
Ned turned away from the statue, his jaw setting into a line of iron. He needed to speak with Maester Luwin. He needed the histories of the Hour of the Wolf. If he was going South, he would not go as a sacrificial lamb. He would go as the Warden of the North.