From the temporary wooden platform overlooking the training grounds, Gendry, Qyburn, the Arrow Maker, and several officers observed the drills below. The Wolf Pack banner fluttered high above—grey and white, a snarling wolf stretching across the cloth. Beneath it, the soldiers marched in formation, their discipline and spirit resembling a coordinated pack, ready to hunt.
On the jousting field, rows of practice targets had been arranged. Archers stood at attention, their bows poised.
"Draw! Loose!"
"Draw! Loose!"
Black Billy's voice echoed across the field. Ten Summer Isles Longbowmen loosed in unison; their arrows sliced through the air like streaks of shadowless silk, striking dead center.
The Summer Islanders always drew attention. Their skin was dark as polished obsidian, and their cloaks—woven from green and orange feathers—shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. In their hands were longbows of goldenheart wood, the most prized bowcraft the Summer Isles produced. Only dragonglass bows surpassed them, and those were rarer than moonlight in a sealed chest.
Gendry himself possessed only a single dragonglass longbow, an artifact priceless beyond measure. He often found his eyes drifting with envy toward the fifty Summer Isles bowmen commanded by Black Billy. The officer had followed Gendry since his Golden Company days, and now commanded an even larger force—fifty Summer Islanders with goldenheart bows, all deadly shots.
But envy did not stop Gendry from acting. In the Disputed Lands and across the territory between the Two Cities, he had scoured ports, taverns, and mercenary guilds to recruit more Summer Islanders. A hundred in total now served him, their goldenheart bows making them one of his army's most elite units.
"Wham!"
Another volley struck the bullseyes. Soldiers watching from behind the firing line erupted into cheers. A trumpet blasted moments later, signaling the next formation to step forward.
"Wind, distance, elevation, terrain—take all of it into account," Black Billy barked. "But no matter what, your arrows must be fast and accurate. Only then will you survive the battlefield."
Though still officially the chief archer officer of the Wolf Pack Company, Black Billy now commanded a vastly expanded force: elite goldenheart archers, skilled yew-bow archers, and dozens of trained auxiliaries. With every new recruit, his responsibilities grew heavier.
The Summer Islanders stepped aside as the yew-bow archers took position. They slipped on leather gloves—bowstrings were unforgiving—and raised their longbows. Though yew lacked the range of goldenheart, these archers were seasoned enough to send many arrows cleanly into the center rings.
Gendry watched with growing satisfaction. Longbowmen were not common in Westeros, where lords obsessively trained knights in swordsmanship and horsemanship but dismissed archery as a peasant's art. Across the Narrow Sea, however, standing armies valued bowfire, and it showed.
"Properly used, arrows win wars," Gendry murmured.
The most famous archer Westeros had ever known was Bloodraven's Raven's Teeth—whose volleys brought down Daemon Blackfyre, the so-called Warrior, on the Redgrass Field. Gendry intended to build an army that could leave a mark just as legendary.
Qyburn leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Littlefinger has received our gift."
"I imagine he'll be delighted," Gendry replied with an amused smirk. "A man who spends his days scheming should occasionally learn what it feels like to be schemed against."
Gendry's plan targeted Littlefinger's greatest weakness. The Master of Coin had influence, but no real soldiers. Noble knights despised him; he was forced to hire mercenaries and opportunists.
Rosso Brenn was one such man.
"But…" Qyburn hesitated. "Rosso has wandered the world for many years. Mercenaries are unpredictable. If he truly throws himself into Littlefinger's service, that would be… inconvenient."
"When a man walks the world," Gendry said calmly, "not everything is bought with gold. Even sellswords keep something sacred in their hearts."
Qyburn looked at him, understanding dawning. Gendry trusted loyalty—real loyalty—more than coin. Littlefinger trusted gold more than people. In that alone, Gendry saw an advantage.
Seeing Gendry's confidence, Qyburn decided to voice no further worries.
Suddenly, a roar of excitement surged from the training field. Soldiers nudged each other, pointing at the platform.
The Magistrate was going to shoot.
Gendry stepped forward. His presence alone drew the attention of every man below. He carried himself like a commander born in battle, dark hair stirring in the breeze, eyes focused.
Grey Wolf approached with reverence, presenting the bow.
"Your longbow, Magistrate."
It was the dragonglass longbow—double-curved, black as coal, smooth as obsidian. Even the Dothraki, who revered their weapons, considered bows like these to be holy treasures.
Gendry grasped it, feeling the familiar weight settle into his hand. This was a weapon forged not only of dragonglass, but of mastery, intention, and perfect balance.
Wind direction. Distance. Rhythm.
Now.
Only now.
He inhaled, exhaled, and drew the bow in one motion—smooth as water, fierce as flame. The arrow flew from the platform like a shard of midnight, slicing across the longest distance on the field.
"Swoosh!"
The arrow struck the bullseye.
A second.
A third.
Each arrow buried itself dead center, as if guided by unseen eyes.
For a heartbeat, the field was silent.
Then the cheers rose—thunderous, overwhelming, a wave crashing against the shore.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
"Long live Wolf's Den!"
The soldiers chanted until the very air trembled.
Gendry lowered the dragonglass bow. The faces looking up at him—young, hopeful, determined—filled him with a profound resolve. They trusted him. They fought for him.
He would not fail them.
Power. Real power.
The kind that crushed schemes, shattered lies, and silenced conspirators.
---
Deep beneath Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark walked alone among the dead.
The crypts were cold, colder than the winter wind above. Torches flickered against the rough stone walls, casting shadows that shuffled like long-slumbering ghosts.
He walked past statues carved with somber faces. His father, Lord Rickard Stark. Brandon, his brother—wild, bright, swallowed by fire. Lyanna, whose stone eyes seemed forever haunted.
He continued deeper.
Rickard's father, Duke Eddard.
Duke Willem.
Athos the Restless.
Duke Dono.
Boron.
Rodwell.
Jonnel One-Eye.
Barth.
Brandon.
And at the end—Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell.
A long lineage of ice and iron.
Eddard paused before the statue of Cregan, hands clasped behind his back, breath misting in the cold.
"I hear the sound of war horns," he whispered into the darkness.
Perhaps it was only the wind.
Perhaps it was memory.
But as he stood among the stone kings of his blood, he felt as if the crypts themselves were stirring.
"This may be the last time I see you," he murmured.
The South had always been a graveyard for Starks. Rickard had burned there. Brandon had been strangled there. Torrhen had bent his knee there. And Ned—Ned knew his path would lead him there again.
"The South…"
He spoke the word as if it tasted of sorrow.
He did not want to go. Catelyn urged caution. Maester Luwin whispered duty. Yet the call of honor tugged at him, relentless, merciless.
"Brandon would have understood," Ned said softly. "He would not have hesitated as I do now."
But Brandon was gone. All the bold fire in him extinguished. Only duty remained, and duty belonged to Ned.
He looked again at Cregan's statue.
Cregan Stark, fierce and young, who had once dueled a dragonrider and stood toe-to-toe with kings. Later, age had carved him into the Old Man of the North—a pillar of ice who had faced storms unbroken.
"What was your journey South like?" Ned whispered.
Cregan had marched South long ago, leading northern forces during the Dance of the Dragons. He had arrived too late for the war but early enough to change its aftermath. With only a fraction of his army, he had claimed the Iron Throne as Hand for a day—the Hour of the Wolf—bringing justice swift and cold.
Ned felt a sudden spark within him.
Perhaps he needed to hear Cregan's story again.
Perhaps the past held wisdom for the path ahead.
He turned abruptly.
He would go to Maester Luwin.
Tonight.
The dead had spoken.
Winter was stirring.
The world was trembling.
And Ned Stark knew the North could not remain silent any longer.
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