On the drill yard of Fire Herb Manor, the gray-white banners of the Wolf Pack snapped beside the shackle-breaking flags of the Free Company. Out on the packed earth, it was one man against many, with more than a dozen onlookers shouting encouragement.
Gendry wore a black vest studded with rivets, the Wolf Pack's running-wolf sigil stitched across it. He was tall, quick, and powerfully built. Coming at him were Longspear, Steel Fist, and several Unsullied. Longspear and Steel Fist pressed in from the flanks, while the Unsullied formed the center, their spiked helms making them look even more inhuman.
"Then come on!" Gendry flicked his hand at them, inviting something wilder, something more vicious.
Steel began to sing, and steel brought the storm with it.
A spearpoint flashed in, followed by the heavy swing of a blunt blade. Gendry had to stay calm, steady, and precise to slip each strike. Longspear's thrusts were vicious, darting out like a viper. The Unsullied moved as they were trained to move, attacking in crisp, unified bursts.
Gendry caught the killing blows on his oak shield, the ones meant for throat and heart. The rest rang off his plate, but he kept driving forward all the same. Longspear, Steel Fist, and the Unsullied fought well together, but their rhythms weren't truly the same. A half-beat of hesitation, a fraction out of step, and that was enough.
He seized Longspear's weapon, wrenched it out of line, and snapped the blade section with sheer force. The man pitched forward on instinct, bringing up his own oak shield to cover himself. Gendry used that moment to hook and sweep him down with practiced ease.
Steel Fist came next, his longsword cutting in with a sharp whistle. The blow landed hard, but Gendry's plate took it. Gendry answered with a spiked warhammer, smashing down on the oak shield again and again. After several brutal impacts, the wood split. The visor on Steel Fist's helm buckled slightly under the hammering, and he finally lowered it and yielded.
"Thud. Thud."
The last to come on were the Unsullied, still pressing forward as a line. Even on a tourney ground they were a misery to face. They didn't respond to pain the way other men did. Courage wine and merciless training had stripped away fear of death, and with it the instinct to flinch.
Gendry's fight with them turned especially savage. The Unsullied were numbed to pain, far harder to put down than ordinary warriors.
But Gendry's speed, strength, and raw endurance only seemed to climb the longer he fought. His stamina felt bottomless. In the end, he forced the advantage, breaking one Unsullied after another until the last of them fell back.
Gendry stood amid the churned, battered yard, victorious after round upon round.
[Bloodline: Blood of the Storm (Activated, 40% Awakened)]
His Blood of the Storm was rising, slowly but steadily. Still, once it hit a bottleneck, the growth would only get slower. He likely needed harsher battles against stronger opponents to push it further.
His gifts hadn't changed. They were still the ancestral inheritance of the House of the Stag.
[Talent: Caste Fortitude (Descendants of the stag are tall and strong, blessed with many children, bearing offspring with black hair and blue eyes). Storm's Wrath (When severely wounded or enraged, unleashes more ferocious and powerful attacks)]
Blood of the Storm brought benefits on multiple fronts: tougher constitution, greater strength, more speed. And then there was bloodlust, an increase in power whenever he was wounded or driven into fury.
"Beautifully done, Lord Commander!"
"Long live the Breaker!"
"That's the Head Wolf!"
Cheers rolled across the yard.
Gendry grinned and helped the Unsullied back up, the ones still swaying after the beating they'd taken, then walked with them toward the benches. Longspear and Steel Fist were already slumped nearby, looking just as worse for wear. Compared to a mounted duel, this kind of brutal group fight was closer to what war really looked like.
"The Lord Commander is a born warrior," the Handsome Man said. "From the stories I've heard, only Great Lord Cregan might compare to you."
"The Wolf of Winterfell? The Hand of the King?" Gendry's interest sparked. Cregan was widely regarded as the finest Stark Great Lord since the War of Conquest. He had raised banners at eighteen to overthrow his uncle's regency, and in his twenties he had made his name in the Hour of the Wolf.
"Yes. And not just for his political skill," the Handsome Man said. "Great Lord Cregan was also the strongest swordsman of his day, or so the dragonriders claimed. It's a shame his heir died in Dorne. After that, Winterfell was thrown into turmoil for years. We all thought the Wild Wolf Brandon would bring back Cregan Great Lord's glory, but the Mad King burned the Wild Wolf alive."
"Truth is, the Wild Wolf was far stronger than Lord Eddard is now," Longspear put in. "Handsome, fierce, superb with a blade, and with the old blood of the Direwolf."
"Do you still miss the North?" Gendry asked, the kind of question that reached straight for the bone.
"The North is our homeland," someone answered, "but the Disputed Lands are our home now. Since the Wolf Pack came, we're no longer House Stark's sworn vassals."
They were still talking when Maester Qyburn appeared at the edge of the yard. Their distinguished guest had arrived.
Gendry's heart lifted. The plan had worked, at least in part. The men he'd sent out had gone through the motions of negotiating with other Sellsword companies, talking about joining forces to strike at Myr. They had spoken with the Second Sons and the Windblown Company, while pointedly avoiding the Golden Company. And the Golden Company, of course, had heard the whispers.
Their visitor from the Golden Company was an unusual Volantene: Gorys Edoryen, the Company's treasurer and, in practice, its second-in-command. He looked half-starved, his slick blood-red hair curling on his shoulders. A leopard pelt was draped over one shoulder, and the golden arm ring he wore was worth a lord's ransom.
"Welcome! Friends of the Golden Company!" The white-haired old Maester greeted them warmly.
Yet the Golden Company's envoy felt an odd tension in the air. The Wolf Pack's Lord Commander and the other officers did not look particularly welcoming.
"I come in friendship. Our captain wishes to cooperate with the Lord of the Wolf Pack."
"In what way?" Gendry looked directly at the Golden Company's treasurer.
"You want the Disputed Lands. We want to return to Westeros. It's a win-win."
"Hahaha!" Laughter rang through the tent. Even if the Golden Company joined forces with the current Wolf Pack and the Free Company, they still would not be strong enough to shake Westeros's ruling order.
"Dear envoy, I must remind you—we have no ships, and not enough men," the Handsome Man said.
"Not enough men?" the Golden Company treasurer countered. "The Golden Company fields ten thousand men—the largest mercenary Company in existence. Among them are five hundred knights. Each knight has three horses and a squire, and each squire has a horse as well. And don't forget the elephants. As for you, Lord Commander, you can muster more than five thousand men yourself."
"We would need an entire pirate fleet just to transport the army," Gendry said flatly. "And the lords sworn to the Iron Throne are already waiting at ease for any challenge."
"Westeros is not so far across the sea," the Golden Company treasurer insisted. "If the Monstrous Maelys could make it back in his day, so can we. We have no shortage of coin."
"You want Westeros? That's far too difficult. Back in the era of the Ninepenny Kings, even the combined strength of the Disputed Lands, Tyrosh, the Golden Company, and the many penny kings still failed to win the war."
"The Lord Commander's thinking is sound," the treasurer replied, "but we are not proposing an immediate invasion. This is cooperation. We will not obstruct your expansion, and in return, you will support our landing in Westeros."
"No." Gendry shook his head. "It's too risky. Highgarden is wealthy, the Westerlands are rich, and there are far too many enemies."
...
The Golden Company treasurer's face stiffened. This visit was turning into a wasted effort.
"But there is a simpler path," Gendry added suddenly, offering him a sliver of hope.
"Myr has hired mercenary companies. The Company of the Cat and the Second Sons are preparing to attack us. The Golden Company can strike at their rear. Win, and there will be coin to earn—and it will only deepen the Three Daughters' reliance on you."