At the training grounds of Firegrass Manor, two banners fluttered in the rising heat of the morning—one bearing the gray-white snarling direwolf of the Wolf Pack Company, the other displaying the broken shackles of the Free Army. Together they swayed over a field filled with dust, sweat, and the harsh clangor of steel.
In the center of the grounds, Gendry fought alone against an entire group of opponents. Around them, a dozen soldiers stood in a loose ring, shouting encouragement, pounding their shields, and letting the fire of the sparring match ignite their blood.
Gendry wore a black studded vest reinforced with steel, embroidered with the Wolf Pack's emblem. Though clad in armor, he moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man his size—muscle, instinct, and raw power working in perfect harmony. His opponents, Longspear and Steel Fist, flanked him from either side, while a trio of Unsullied pressed him from the front.
"Come on then!" Gendry called, taunting them with a wild grin. "Hit me harder!"
What followed was a storm of motion and sound—spears thrusting like striking serpents, blunted training swords slamming against shields, and the sharp metallic music of steel echoing across the field.
Longspear's attacks were fast, precise, almost elegant. Steel Fist, heavier and more brutal, swung his longsword with crushing strength. The Unsullied moved as one body, disciplined and relentless, their blunted spears driving forward like a rolling tide.
Gendry absorbed the hits that struck his armor, braced against the impacts, and countered with ferocious force. He felt each opening in the rhythm of his enemies—the slight mismatch between Longspear's fluid spearwork and Steel Fist's heavy blows, the subtle half-second delay in the Unsullied formation as they repositioned.
Those smallest flaws were enough.
With a sudden explosive movement, Gendry grasped Longspear's spearshaft, twisted, and snapped it cleanly in half. The break caused Longspear to stumble forward, shield raised instinctively. Gendry pivoted, slammed his shoulder into him, and sent him sprawling onto his back.
Steel Fist's sword whistled toward his helm. Gendry's plate armor glinted as he blocked the strike with a brutal swing of his oak shield. Then his mace came down—once, twice, three times—hammering into Steel Fist's shield until the wood shattered and the man's faceplate caved slightly under the force. Breathing hard, Steel Fist lowered his helm in surrender.
Only the Unsullied remained.
Unlike ordinary warriors, they felt neither fear nor pain the way others did. Courage wine and years of unrelenting training had hardened their nerves beyond understanding. They advanced as a single, unwavering wall.
Gendry charged directly into them.
The Unsullied fought like a machine—no hesitation, no flinching, no wasted movements. But Gendry fought like a force of nature. He ducked a spear, seized the shaft, and yanked its wielder forward before knocking him aside. He battered another's shield until his mace knocked the soldier off balance. His stamina seemed endless, his fury growing sharper and more focused the longer he fought.
When the final Unsullied fell to one knee, Gendry stood in the center of the churned dirt, chest rising and falling, steam rising from his armor.
A faint tingling spread through him—an awakening of the blood burning in his veins.
[Bloodline: Storm's Blood – Activated, 40% Awakened]
It was advancing, slowly but steadily. Yet Gendry could feel he was approaching a bottleneck. To awaken more, he would need stronger opponents. More battles. More pressure. More blood.
His inborn talent remained the same—the ancient resilience of House Baratheon:
[Talent: Caste Resilience]
Descendants of the stag are tall and strong, blessed with vitality and the ability to sire many children—usually black-haired, blue-eyed.
[Storm's Rage]
When severely wounded or enraged, attacks become ferocious and overwhelmingly powerful.
Across the field, men began cheering.
"Commander-in-Chief, magnificent!"
"Long live the liberator!"
"That's our Head Wolf!"
Even the Unsullied he had defeated were smiling faintly beneath their helms. Gendry offered each of them a hand, helping them rise one by one. Together, with Longspear and Steel Fist limping behind, they headed toward the benches set beneath the shade.
"The Commander-in-Chief is a warrior born!" the Handsome Man said admiringly. "In the stories I've heard, perhaps only Duke Cregan could compare to you."
Gendry raised an eyebrow. "The Wolf of Winterfell? The Wolf's Hour Hand?"
Duke Cregan Stark—one of the greatest Starks in history—had once raised an army at eighteen to break his uncle's regency, and later orchestrated the famed Wolf's Hour, a decisive maneuver after the Targaryens' civil war.
"Yes," the Handsome Man continued. "Duke Cregan was shrewd and unmatched with a sword. The Dragonrider himself acknowledged him. A pity his heir died in Dorne… after that, Winterfell suffered decades of turmoil."
Longspear joined in. "Many thought Brandon the Wild Wolf would restore the North's glory. Handsome, fierce, a master swordsman… but the Mad King burned him alive."
Gendry paused. "Do you still miss the North?"
Longspear exchanged a look with Steel Fist. "The North is our homeland, yes. But the Disputed Lands… this is where we belong now. After we joined the Wolf Pack Company, we ceased being Stark bannermen."
Before Gendry could reply, Maester Qyburn appeared at the edge of the field.
"Our honored guest has arrived," he announced.
Gendry's lips curved upward. Good. His plan was moving forward exactly as he hoped. They had intentionally contacted several mercenary companies—Cat's Company, the Second Sons—about a possible joint campaign against Myr, deliberately ignoring the Golden Company. In doing so, they had baited a reaction.
And the Golden Company had taken the bait.
Their envoy was a peculiar Volantene named Gorlys Edoryn, the Golden Company's treasurer and its de facto second-in-command. He was gaunt and pale, his long, blood-red hair slicked with oil. A leopard skin hung over one shoulder, and the golden armbands circling his arms were worth more than some castles.
"Welcome, friend of the Golden Company!" Maester Qyburn said warmly.
But the envoy quickly noticed something off. The Handsome Man, Longspear, Steel Fist, and even Gendry himself showed no particular enthusiasm.
Still, Gorlys smiled thinly. "I come in friendship. Our Captain wishes to cooperate with the Lord of the Wolf Pack Company."
"Oh?" Gendry folded his arms. "How so?"
"You want the Disputed Lands," Gorlys replied confidently, "and we want to return to Westeros. This could be mutually beneficial."
Gendry barked a laugh. Around him, several commanders chuckled as well.
Even with all their forces combined, they couldn't hope to overthrow the entirety of Westeros's ruling powers.
"Dear envoy," the Handsome Man said, "we have no ships. And we do not have enough men."
Gorlys lifted his chin proudly. "Men? The Golden Company fields ten thousand—the greatest of all mercenary hosts. Five hundred knights, each with three horses and an attendant. Do not forget the elephant corps. And you, Commander-in-Chief, can rally at least five thousand more."
"We'd need an entire pirate fleet just to transport such an army," Gendry replied. "And the lords loyal to the Iron Throne are well-rested and well-armed."
"The sea isn't so wide," the treasurer insisted. "If the fierce Maelys returned once, we can do it again. And we are not lacking coin."
"You want Westeros," Gendry said, shaking his head. "That is madness. During the era of the Ninepenny Kings, even the combined armies of the Disputed Lands, Tyrosh, the Golden Company, and countless petty kings couldn't win."
Gorlys's expression tightened. The cracks in his confidence grew visible.
"But we do not ask you to fight," he said stiffly. "Only to support us. We will not obstruct your conquest here. You will not obstruct our return home."
"No," Gendry answered decisively. "The risks are too high. The Reach, the Westerlands, the Iron Throne itself… all would be your enemies."
For a moment, silence hung heavy.
The Golden Company's second-in-command looked defeated.
Then Gendry leaned forward slightly.
"However," he said, letting the word hang in the air, "there is a simpler option."
Gorlys blinked, hope flickering in his eyes.
"Myr has hired the Cat's Company and the Second Sons to strike at us," Gendry continued. "If the Golden Company attacks Myr from the rear, you will win coin. And it will make the Three Daughters even more dependent on your strength."
The tent fell into thoughtful silence.
Gorlys Edoryn stood very still, weighing the words.
Gendry knew he had him.
Because every sellsword longs for gold,
and every exile dreams of home.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)