Gendry thundered across the open plain on a black destrier, the horse's hooves cutting through the tall grass, sending the earth flying. The Dornish stallion was a gift from the Red Viper of Sunspear, and it was a magnificent, fierce beast.
It was only when the frail, aged silhouette of Qyburn appeared at the edge of the hunting grounds that Gendry finally reined the horse to a stop and tied it to a post.
"My lord, we have identified a number of foreign hunting dogs operating near the Wolf's Den," Qyburn said quietly, his hands folded in the sleeves of his grey robe. "They are active in the market square, the City Hall, and near the new armory."
Qyburn managed a sizable portion of Gendry's intelligence apparatus. His network had grown considerably since the conquest of the Twin Cities. Orphans, war children, and freed slaves of proven loyalty had all become Qyburn's eyes and ears. In the Disputed Lands, Lys, and Myr especially, Qyburn's whisper-network was nearly omniscient, and the intelligence flowed in without ceasing.
Gendry now had gold, loyal men, and time. The intelligence apparatus had been built quickly and built well.
"We need someone to keep their hunting dogs on a leash," Gendry said, recognizing the intentions of each group immediately. Some were probing his logistics and troop movements. Others were trying to gauge the armory's production output. A few were specifically attempting to learn more about the Targaryen siblings in his custody.
The new Wolf's Den armory was a formidable enterprise: an entire industrial quarter dedicated to weapons production, staffed by the finest smiths and engineers from Myr and Tyrosh.
The war machine was already grinding, and even the notoriously complacent Free Cities had taken notice. Everyone was asking the same question: where would the Wolf Pack strike next? Westeros? Or the nearby Lyseni sea lanes first?
"Who do these hunting dogs answer to?" Gendry asked.
"Volantis, Lys, and Pentos," Qyburn replied. "And from across the Narrow Sea."
"Shall we cast the net and haul them in?" Qyburn wanted an answer.
"Let them run a while longer," Gendry said. "Play the long game. We may yet learn more from watching them than from catching them."
"As you command."
"There is one more group of interest, my lord Regent," Qyburn added, his tone shifting slightly. "I have spotted a particularly curious collection of northerners."
"Northerners?"
"They appear to be men of House Bolton."
"Tell me about them," Gendry said, his interest sharpening.
House Bolton was one of the oldest, most powerful, and most infamous noble houses in the North. In ages past, they had even been Kings in their own right. Their dominion—Dreadfort, a massive stronghold in the east of the North—was second only to the seat of the Wardens themselves. They were called the Flayed Men, and the flayed man sewn upon their banners was not merely a symbol; it was a tradition.awoiaf.westeros
"A Pentoshi merchant arrived in port, ostensibly to trade for grain," Qyburn explained. "But his retainers are entirely inconsistent with the soft, flamboyant bearing of Pentoshi hirelings. They are not mercenaries. They carry themselves like disciplined soldiers trained to disappear. Men of that particular build and temperament likely hail from the Dreadfort. But that is not the most interesting part."
Qyburn allowed a thin smile. "The most interesting member of the party is an ugly young servant who has shown an entirely disproportionate fascination with the new armory and has been actively attempting to charm an apprentice smith into discussing the specifications of our new repeating crossbow."
"The Flayed Men are curious," Gendry said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I very much want to meet this particular guest."
In a small, quiet inn on the western edge of the Wolf's Den. The establishment's sole virtue was its unobstructed view of the nearby armory district.
The black walls of the armory rose high above the surrounding buildings, guarded by sentries at every gate, the grey-and-white wolf banner rippling at the summit. The foundries roared and blazed day and night, brilliant flames erupting from the great iron furnaces like captive dragons.
"I despise these wolves," Ramsay Snow muttered, his pale, sunken eyes fixed on the dancing wolf banners. His teeth were grinding. To become a trueborn Bolton, to be truly worthy of the name, he had to prove himself greater than any legitimate lord in the North. The Red Kings had warred with the Starks for a thousand years, and legends whispered of Bolton lords who had taken the skin of Stark men as trophies.
But looking at this armory, the scale of it, the wealth behind it, Ramsay felt a rage and envy he could barely contain.
"What are they making?" Ramsay murmured, watching through the cracked shutter. Master craftsmen and apprentices moved in and out of the armory district in a constant, disciplined flow, but they rarely spoke to outsiders. The district had its own housing and its own walled yards. The workers were treated exceptionally well, now considered valued subjects of the Regent-King.
"My lord," Swick said hesitantly from the corner. "Lord Roose sent us to the Free Cities to observe the grain markets. What we are doing here goes entirely against Lord Roose's instructions."
The long summer had stretched on, but an experienced northern lord like Roose Bolton never forgot the shadow of the long winter. Roose had sent his bastard abroad to learn, but with strict orders to do nothing, to observe only. The restriction made Ramsay's blood boil.
"Shut your mouth," Ramsay said, looking at Reek. Reek instantly shrank into himself, pressing against the wall as though he could disappear into the plaster. "The men my father sent with me are utterly useless. I should have brought my own lads."
My lord's own lads are no better than animals, Reek thought, but he would sooner cut out his own tongue than say so aloud.
"You stink, Reek. Even though you bathed three times before we boarded the ship," Ramsay remarked conversationally, tilting his head as he studied his manservant with the detached curiosity of a man inspecting a dead thing.
"Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak," Reek mumbled, the familiar litany tumbling from his cracked lips. A smile touched the corners of Ramsay's mouth.
A good hound.
"My father keeps me locked away in the Dreadfort like a dirty secret," Ramsay said, his voice rising with genuine, burning fury. "This is the first time I have been allowed outside those walls. I will prove to him that I am a true Bolton, every bit as worthy as any trueborn son he might sire!"
Reek made himself very still. When Ramsay spoke of proving himself, someone always got hurt.
Ramsay turned back to the window. The sentries below wore black plate armor of a quality he had never seen on any northern soldier, draped in fine black cloaks embroidered with the snarling wolf sigil. Their breastplates caught the afternoon sun and blazed like mirrors.
"The Free Cities are obscenely wealthy," Ramsay muttered with naked envy. Even his father, commanding the resources of the Dreadfort, kept guards in grey ringmail with iron half-helms. These common sentries at the Wolf's Den wore armor that exceeded the best gear of House Bolton's household knights.
And the North? House Stark had the same frigid climate, the same sparse population, the same grinding poverty of the long winters. The North ranked dead last in armament and equipment among the Seven Kingdoms.
Full plate, Ramsay thought, pressing his palm flat against the cold window glass. Three-bolt crossbows. An army equipped like this would terrify even the Starks themselves.
Unfortunately, Ramsay had no coin, and he had no interest in paying for anything. Furthermore, the Myrish and Tyroshi military armaments were now fully under government monopoly. The City Hall issued export licenses to merchants individually, closely controlling the flow of weapons technology.
Ramsay had slipped a few gold dragons to an apprentice smith in the armory foundry, hoping to bribe out a useful schematic. Thus far, the apprentice had delivered nothing of value.
Ramsay simply could not suppress the ambition burning in his belly. This was his first real journey beyond the Dreadfort; his father had kept him hidden like a shameful secret. Ramsay needed to prove himself.
"Useless little whelp," Ramsay thought furiously, fantasizing about what he would do to the cowardly apprentice smith. "I want to skin the little wretch alive."
"My lord Ramsay," Reek suddenly hissed from the window, his voice cracking with naked fear. "Something is wrong!"
A column of Unsullied warriors appeared without warning in the alley below the inn. They wore light, close-fitting armor and spiked bronze helms that cast fearsome shadows across their impassive faces. They moved in complete silence. They had surrounded the inn entirely before anyone inside had even noticed.
They began forcing open the ground-floor door.
"The Unsullied. The Bastard King's personal guard!"
Cold sweat trickled down Ramsay's neck. This was a catastrophic miscalculation. His first adventure beyond the walls of the Dreadfort was ending in utter humiliation.
For a fleeting moment, Ramsay genuinely regretted ignoring his father's careful teaching. Peace in a peaceful land. Let men come to you. That was the Bolton way. But Ramsay only understood violence and cunning, and he had deployed neither wisely here.
"Give me your clothes! Quickly!" Ramsay's eyes darted around the room and he snarled the command. Reek had no choice but to strip.
Ramsay then stepped into the small privy chamber at the back of the room. What followed was deeply undignified, even for Ramsay Snow. He smeared himself thoroughly with filth and waste. If he was going to disguise himself as Reek, he was going to commit to the role entirely.
The fight below was brief and entirely one-sided. The Bolton household guards were trained killers, but they wore no armor and had not expected a confrontation; they had left their most dangerous weapons aboard the Pentoshi merchant's ship. Even armed, at close quarters they stood no chance against the repeating crossbows.
"I don't know them! I have never seen these men before!" the Pentoshi merchant screamed as he was dragged out of his chamber, his fine robes twisted and torn. "These Northmen simply asked me to escort them to view the grain market! Wheat, corn, tobacco! Whatever they were doing, it has nothing whatsoever to do with me!"
The captured Bolton guards accepted their fate in disciplined silence, offering no resistance. Two of the more quick-tempered northerners had attempted to draw their swords and were immediately put down by Myrish crossbow bolts. The rest of the party became dramatically more cooperative.
The door to Ramsay Snow's chamber was pushed open. Six tall Unsullied entered in a line. Their breastplates gleamed, their spiked bronze helms casting long, sharp shadows into the dim room. Short swords hung at their belts beside Myrish steel daggers.
Their eyes swept the room methodically. And then they stopped.
A wave of absolutely overpowering, gagging stench rolled out to meet them.
Gendry stepped through the door behind his guard. He looked at the sorry, shivering, filth-smeared shape huddled in the far corner, pressed against the wall, beside the privy.
His gaze was cold as the Narrow Sea in winter.
"Lord Bolton's guest?" Gendry said, his voice quiet and entirely without warmth. He looked around the room, taking in every detail. The open shutters. The direct line of sight to the armory. The scattered coins near the window. His blue eyes returned, finally, to the wretched, reeking figure in the corner.
He already knew exactly who he was looking at.