The afternoon sun stretched the shadows of the two men long across the sand of the Ring of Order.
Gendry stood with the head of his warhammer planted in the sand, head tilted as he studied the old man who had suddenly appeared.
The words "How about this old man keeps you company instead?" still hung in the air, spoken with that same calm, unreadable confidence.
Gendry shook his head anyway. He pulled the hammer free, swung it back onto his shoulder, and spoke in that blunt, honest way of his. "You should leave. This isn't a place for games."
"You're not young anymore. If you get hurt I'll have to pay for a maester to set your bones…"
He said it completely straight, which only made the stands erupt in laughter.
"Hahahaha! Who the hell is this old man?"
"The Hammer's right, old-timer! Go home and take a nap!"
"This ain't your afternoon stroll, grandpa!"
The laughter rolled in waves, but the hooded man in the gray cloak didn't move an inch.
"You're worried about me?" the old man asked, the corner of his mouth lifting under the hood.
Gendry nodded seriously. "Yeah."
For a second the old man looked genuinely surprised. Then he let out a long breath, as if remembering something far away.
"I am old…" he said, voice carrying a trace of melancholy. But then his tone shifted, sharp and clear. "Men have been telling me that for twenty years."
He paused, and Gendry could feel the smile in his voice even if he couldn't see it.
"Most of the ones who said it don't talk much anymore."
Gendry scratched the side of his helm, clearly missing the deeper meaning. All he could think was that this old man was stubborn as hell.
Reminded him of the cranky blacksmith next door back in Flea Bottom who refused to throw out his ancient bellows and kept shouting about "tradition."
"I don't know how old you are," Gendry said honestly, "but you look like you've been on the road a long time. You should eat something first. Rest a bit."
"Besides, the fighters in the Ring of Order are professionals—"
"I'm a professional too," the old man cut in, voice laced with quiet amusement. "And I've already registered."
That stopped Gendry cold.
The stands went quiet too.
The old man reached into his cloak and pulled out a wooden token. He tossed it over. Gendry caught it and stared. It was a real fighter's registration token from the Ring of Order—number and rank carved into the wood.
"Nine-tier…"
Gendry's voice rose in confusion. "You're a brand-new nine-tier fighter?"
"That's right." The old man nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. "The lowest rank."
The arena exploded.
Nine-tier!
Everyone knew what that meant.
The Ring ranked fighters from nine-tier all the way up to one-tier. Nine was the bottom. One was the top.
New fighters started at nine-tier unless they were already famous knights or had serious records to back them up. They had to win their way up, one fight at a time.
That was one of Corleone's rules. No exceptions.
"A nine-tier challenging a one-tier?" someone shouted from the noble boxes.
"Is the old bastard crazy?"
"Does he know what one-tier even means? The Hammer's seventeen and zero!"
"Can a nine-tier even challenge a one-tier?"
The noise swelled, but the old man ignored it all. He simply lifted his head and looked straight at Gendry from under the hood.
"Lower ranks can challenge higher ranks," he said calmly. "As long as the challenger pays enough gold in bond money. That's Vito Corleone's rule, isn't it?"
He shrugged. "I paid two hundred gold dragons for the right to fight you."
Two hundred gold dragons.
The number hit the stands like a thunderclap.
That was enough money for an ordinary family to live comfortably for a lifetime. And this old man had dropped it like it was nothing.
Who the hell was this guy?
Even Gendry froze.
He might be honest, but he wasn't stupid.
Anyone who could casually throw down two hundred gold dragons just to register as a fighter was no ordinary old man. Even if the man's mind seemed a little off.
"Old man…" Gendry tapped his visor, voice lower now, genuinely concerned. "You sure you want to do this?"
The old man didn't answer with words. He simply tilted his sword point toward the sand and curled two fingers at Gendry in a clear "come on" gesture.
Gendry took a deep breath, swung the hammer off his shoulder, and gripped the haft with both hands.
If the man was determined to fight, then fine.
Seventeen fights. Seventeen wins.
He had beaten Vale knights, Westerland sellswords, even strange fighters from across the Narrow Sea. None of them had lasted ten exchanges.
Long winning streaks had taught Gendry one hard truth: when the strength difference was big enough, skill didn't matter much.
"Here I come, old man!"
He gave fair warning, then charged. The warhammer came around in a heavy horizontal swing aimed at the old man's waist, wind howling off the head.
He had used this exact opening in every previous fight. Very few people could block the first swing.
Out of some vague sense of respect for the elderly, Gendry even pulled his strength a little.
Worst case I'll pay for a good maester later, he thought as the hammer whistled in.
The old man simply took one small step to the side.
The hammer missed by inches. It didn't even brush the edge of his cloak.
Gendry blinked, surprised.
He recovered fast, twisted his wrists, and brought the hammer back around in a backhand strike toward the shoulder—the same move that had sent the Vale knight flying earlier.
This time the old man didn't even move his feet. He just leaned back slightly. The hammer passed a hair's breadth in front of his shoulder, the wind lifting the corner of his cloak.
Missed again.
Gendry frowned, stepped in, and brought the hammer straight down from above with everything he had.
The head screamed through the air. If it connected, it would have smashed through a man or even an iron plate.
The old man sidestepped once more.
BOOM!
The hammer slammed into the sand, kicking up a cloud of dust and leaving a crater the size of a washbasin.
When the dust settled, Gendry was breathing hard, yanking the hammer free. He stared at the old man.
They had switched places. The hooded fighter stood several yards away, cloak untouched, perfectly calm.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Gendry's hammer had never felt this slow before.
No.
It wasn't the hammer that was slow.
It was the old man who was too fast.
Or… not exactly fast.
Gendry couldn't put it into words. The old man's movements weren't quick. If anything they looked almost lazy. But he kept stepping exactly where the hammer wasn't.
Like he already knew where it was going to land.
It felt exactly like sparring with Corleone.
"What's the matter?" the old man's voice drifted out from under the hood, amused. "You were talking so big earlier. Already out of breath?"
"I'm just an old man and I haven't even warmed up yet."
Being mocked by a nine-tier fighter made something hot flare in Gendry's chest. He was a one-tier fighter, damn it.
He didn't waste words. He just raised the hammer and charged again.
One swing. Two. Three.
Faster. Harder. The hammer moved so quick it was almost a blur—faster than some knights swung their swords.
But the old man moved like a leaf in a storm. He shifted, stepped back, slid aside. Every single time the hammer missed by the smallest margin.
Gendry lost count of how many times he swung. All anyone could see was that every blow missed.
The stands had gone dead silent, then filled with stunned murmurs.
"What… what kind of monster is this old man?"
"Seven hells, the Hammer can't even touch him!"
Gendry finally stopped, chest heaving, both hands locked around the hammer haft as he stared at the old man.
Sweat ran down his face inside the helm and soaked the back of his shirt. Even in the afternoon air the armor felt like an oven.
This wasn't possible.
He had fought plenty of knights who tried to dance around and tire him out. They jumped like monkeys, waiting for him to gas out.
But his stamina was better than anyone's. His body always carried him to victory in the end.
This time…
Gendry glanced at the old man's feet.
Those worn boots were planted steady on the sand. His breathing was still even. The hem of his cloak had already settled. No sign he had moved at all.
This wasn't a fight.
He was playing with him.
The thought sent a rush of anger straight up Gendry's spine.
He planted the hammer in the sand, tilted his head back, and shouted, "Stop dodging!"
"I can swing this thing all day and I won't get tired! I'll chase you until tomorrow if I have to!"
The words came out rough and angry through the helm.
Under the hood, the old man's mouth slowly curved into a knowing smile.
That only made Gendry angrier.
"What are you smiling at?!" he roared, yanking the hammer free and charging again. "I told you I can go all day!"
He swung another heavy horizontal strike.
This time the old man didn't dodge.
Gendry saw a blur of gray. Then came the sharp, clear ring of steel on steel.
CLANG!!!
The old man's sword had struck the hammer haft exactly between Gendry's two hands.
The angle was perfect. Gendry felt the shock travel up his arms. The hammer nearly flew out of his grip.
Before he could recover, the sword pulled back and tapped his elbow joint—right where the armor had a gap. Not hard enough to injure, but precise enough that if the old man had wanted to, he could have crippled the arm.
Gendry stumbled back on instinct. The old man followed, sword pressing forward with the same calm pressure he had used earlier, only now it felt a lot more dangerous.
Strike after strike rang against the hammer haft. If Corleone hadn't had this weapon made with the best materials, it would have broken by now.
"Your footwork's sloppy," the old man said while he fought, voice still annoyingly calm. "Your center of gravity is too high. Every time you swing you leave yourself off-balance."
Gendry gritted his teeth and blocked.
Clang!
"Your power generation is wrong too."
Clang!
Gendry roared and swung with everything he had.
"Shut up!!!"
The old man stepped forward instead of back. His sword flicked the haft and sent the twenty-pound hammer swinging wide, smashing into the sand behind him.
"Strength is good," the old man continued, one boot resting on the buried hammer head, "but strength alone isn't enough."
"You need to learn how to control it instead of letting it control you."
"I said—" Gendry's voice cracked with frustration, "—shut up!!!"
He ripped the hammer free and charged again, eyes bloodshot.
Anger, shame, and stubborn pride all crashed together in his chest. Seventeen straight wins had made him believe he was one of the strongest men in the Seven Kingdoms.
And now some random old man with no name was running circles around him and giving him fighting lessons.
"You're not my father!" Gendry shouted as he swung at the old man's head. "You don't get to lecture me!"
The old man sidestepped.
"You're just a nine-tier—"
Missed again.
"—nameless—"
Missed.
"—old bastard!!!"
The final swing came with every ounce of strength Gendry had left. The hammer screamed toward the old man's chest.
This time the old man raised his sword flat and struck the haft hard.
CLANG!!!!!!
The sound rang through the entire Ring of Order. People in the front rows winced and covered their ears.
Gendry felt fresh pain shoot through his hands. The hammer almost left his grip.
"Anger," the old man said quietly. "You carry a lot of it."
He twisted his wrist. The blade slid along the haft and forced Gendry to let go with one hand and stumble back.
"But anger isn't strength."
The old man stepped back instead of pressing the attack. He simply watched Gendry panting and spoke in that same steady voice.
"Anger makes you faster. It makes you hit harder. But it also makes you stupid."
The entire arena fell silent.
Everyone stared at the gray-cloaked old man in disbelief.
A nine-tier fighter was teaching a one-tier fighter how to fight.
On the sand, Gendry gasped for air, mind spinning. Anger, frustration, and something close to despair twisted inside him.
He thought about facing Corleone's disappointed eyes and something inside him snapped.
"Ahhhhh!!!"
Gendry roared and charged again, hammer raised for a desperate, all-or-nothing swing.
The old man shook his head lightly, slipped aside, and kicked Gendry hard in the lower back.
Thud!
Right in front of thousands of people, the one-tier fighter known as the Hammer went down face-first in the sand like a drunk.
Gendry slammed his fist into the ground in frustration, but before he could push himself up, that calm voice spoke from right behind him.
"You've got good talent, boy."
"I've seen men as strong as you before. Their hammers hit harder than yours. They smashed plenty of knights' heads in."
"But one day they couldn't lift those hammers anymore."
Gendry lifted his head.
Sunlight finally caught the side of the old man's face under the hood.
Weather-beaten skin darkened by years of sun. Deep lines at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. A neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.
But it was the eyes that held Gendry.
They weren't cloudy or tired like most old men's. They were clear, bright blue—like autumn lake water.
Gendry stared.
He had seen plenty of handsome men back when he apprenticed in Tobho Mott's forge. Knights from the Crownlands came in all the time for armor and weapons.
But this man…
Gendry would swear to the Seven that this was the most handsome face he had ever seen.
Not the pretty kind young men had. This was something older, carved by time and weather, carrying a quiet, dangerous charm.
Like an ancient sword whose scabbard was worn and whose hilt was dark, but whose edge was still razor-sharp and cold in the light.
If this man walked down a street in King's Landing wearing bright, expensive armor, Gendry could already picture the noble ladies losing their minds. Some of them might even offer a thousand gold dragons just for one night.
No wonder the old man hadn't even blinked when he dropped two hundred gold dragons.
"Your eyes are full of anger," the old knight said, not seeming to notice Gendry's slightly rude thoughts. His voice stayed calm. "That's good. But it's not enough."
"No one ever taught you, did they?"
"When you swing that hammer, don't stare at the enemy's body."
Gendry blinked, confused.
Don't stare at the body? Then what?
He suddenly remembered something from his old blacksmith days. The master had once told him while teaching him to shape metal:
"Don't watch the hammer. Watch the iron."
"The hammer is just the tool. The iron is what you're trying to change."
Watch the iron.
Not the hammer.
Gendry's eyes lit up.
His fingers tightened on the hammer haft. He drove his knees into the sand and pushed himself up in one explosive movement.
"Again!"
The old knight looked at him. Under the hood, those clear blue eyes showed a flicker of surprise, then the smile grew wider.
"Good."