Gendry galloped across the grassland atop a sleek black stallion, its hooves pounding against the earth as clods of dirt flew behind him. The Dornish steed, gifted to him by the Red Viper, was as spirited as wildfire—fast, fierce, and eager to run. Only when Maester Qyburn's stooped figure emerged near the edge of the hunting grounds did Gendry finally pull the reins and bring the horse to a halt.
He dismounted, tied the horse to a post, and strode toward the elderly maester.
"My lord," Qyburn greeted calmly, though his white hair fluttered in the wind. "Several groups of thieving hounds have appeared near Wolf's Den in recent days—at the markets, the city hall, even outside the new armory."
Gendry wasn't surprised. In fact, he had expected it.
Qyburn oversaw a large portion of the intelligence network, much expanded in recent months. Orphans, abandoned war-children, freed slaves, and scattered wanderers formed the core of his informant system. In the Disputed Lands, Lys, and Myr, Qyburn's spies were now everywhere, and messages flowed to Wolf's Den like water into a reservoir.
Gendry lacked neither gold nor loyal men, and with both, an intelligence network grew quickly.
"They're watching us," Gendry said. "Someone has to watch their hounds in turn—before they start thinking they can steal openly from our table." He knew exactly what those petty spies sought. Some probed the Wolf Pack Legion's movements. Some measured the output of the new armory. Others tried to uncover the truth about the Targaryen siblings. All of them wanted a piece of something that was none of their business.
The new armory of Wolf's Den City—designed by Gendry himself—was bustling with master craftsmen from Myr and Tyrosh, producing armor, weapons, and prototypes of new engines of war. The very existence of such a military-industrial forge had sent ripples throughout the Free Cities. Everyone was anxious to know whether the Wolf Pack's next target would be Westeros across the Narrow Sea or their rival neighbors like Lys.
"Whose dogs are these?" Gendry asked.
"Volantis, Lys, Pentos," Qyburn listed, "and some from across the Narrow Sea."
"Of course," Gendry murmured. "Do we cast the net?"
Qyburn's eyes glinted. "Your word, my lord."
"Not yet," Gendry said. "Let them sniff around. Perhaps we'll catch something more valuable."
"As you command. But—there is something else." Qyburn leaned in slightly. "I saw an interesting group. Not from the Free Cities… but from the North."
Gendry's expression sharpened. "From the North? Who?"
"They appear to be from House Bolton."
The Boltons—one of the oldest and most feared names of the North. Their reputation was carved from a thousand years of blood, and once, they had even claimed the crown of the Red Kings. Their power, though reduced, remained second only to House Stark.
"Explain," Gendry said.
"A merchant from Pentos arrived claiming to purchase grain," Qyburn said. "But his entourage did not resemble the flamboyant Pentoshi sellswords. They moved with discipline, kept their distance, and carried themselves like trained soldiers. Northmen, by all signs. Likely from the Dreadfort. But what caught my attention most was a young, ugly attendant in their group—overly eager, overly curious, especially about our new armory. He tried to pry into the secrets of the new crossbow."
Gendry laughed softly. "The Leathers? Now that is interesting. I would very much like to meet them."
---
The Inn by the Military Factory
On the western edge of Wolf's Den City stood a small, quiet inn—unremarkable except for one thing: it overlooked the sprawling military factory.
From its windows, one could see rows of tall, black walls and heavily armed guards patrolling the perimeter. The banners of the Wolf Pack fluttered high above, grey wolves howling against a field of deep black. Fires from the iron furnaces roared skyward like dragons exhaling flame. Craftsmen from Myr and Tyrosh worked without pause, surrounded by apprentices carrying raw materials, spare armor plates, tools, and sketches of siege machines.
Inside the inn, Ramsay Snow stared out at the scene with a mixture of curiosity and envy.
"I hate the Wolf Pack," he muttered. His voice was sharp, bitter, full of the familiar venom that defined him. To become a true Bolton, he believed he had to act more like a Bolton than any legitimate heir. Legends claimed the Red King once made cloaks from Stark skins. Ramsay glorified such tales, dreaming of carving his name into history with equal cruelty.
"What are they doing?" he wondered aloud, watching craftsmen move in and out of the vast complex. The security was strict; almost no one spoke to outsiders.
Behind the complex, Supporting housing housed the artisans. The city hall offered high salaries, benefits, and personal guards to keep these precious craftsmen safe. The entire system ran like clockwork.
"My lord," Reek whispered nervously behind him, "Lord Roose only ordered us to observe grain markets. This—this is far beyond what he wanted. If he learns—"
"Shut up," Ramsay snapped. "You're trembling again. Useless creature."
Reek shrank back. Misfortune came from speaking too much, and no one knew Ramsay's cruelty better than he did.
"My father hides me in the Dreadfort like a secret," Ramsay snarled. "This is my first time abroad. I will prove to him I am the true Leather!"
Reek held his tongue, understanding perfectly well that Ramsay's ambition far exceeded his abilities.
Ramsay's attention drifted back to the guards outside. The Wolf Pack soldiers wore black plate armor that glinted under the sun, with heavy cloaks bearing the wolf sigil. Even ordinary guards were decked in armor finer than many northern lords could afford.
"The Free Cities are richer than I imagined," Ramsay muttered with envy. "Even at the Dreadfort, most guards wear simple chainmail. Yet here… even the doormen wear plate."
He wondered whether House Stark possessed such equipment. He doubted it. The North was too cold, too vast, too poor.
If he could obtain some of the Wolf Pack's triple-shot crossbows or armor, he imagined he could even frighten Stark.
But Ramsay never paid for anything—and now all the weapons of Myr and Tyrosh were under strict monopoly. The city hall issued licenses only to approved merchants, and even those waited months.
Still, ambition gnawed at him.
He had bribed a poor workshop apprentice with a few gold dragons, hoping for blueprints. But the apprentice failed to deliver anything.
"Damn apprentice," Ramsay thought. "I should flay him."
Just then, Reek gasped. "My lord—something is wrong!"
Ramsay's head snapped toward the window. Several tall Dothraki Unsullied—though "Unsullied" was a misnomer, for these were fierce Dothraki youths trained by Gendry—were charging across the courtyard. They wore bronze spiked helmets, light armor, and carried shields, short swords, and compact Myr crossbows.
They stormed into the inn.
Ramsay's blood ran cold.
"The Bastard King's personal guard," he whispered. Sweat poured down his back. This had been a mistake—a reckless adventure with a humiliating end.
Roose Bolton had taught him subtlety. Ramsay never listened.
"Change clothes. Now!" Ramsay barked. Reek hurriedly stripped, trembling.
Ramsay rushed into the latrine, scooped up filth with both hands, and smeared it across his body and face until he stank like a cesspit. He transformed himself into the thing he believed he was born to be: Reek.
The clash downstairs was swift and brutal. The Bolton guards, though trained, had brought neither armor nor their preferred weapons. Even if they had, nothing matched the killing power of a triple-shot crossbow fired at close range.
The Pentoshi merchant was dragged out screaming, insisting, "I know nothing! They only asked me to show them grain—grain, tobacco, whatever! Their deeds have nothing to do with me!"
The Northmen soldiers offered no resistance. Those who tried to reach for their swords were instantly shot. Blood pooled on the floorboards.
The remaining guards lowered their heads and accepted their fate.
Finally, the Unsullied kicked open Ramsay's door. Six tall warriors stepped inside, surveying the room. The stench hit them instantly.
Gendry himself entered, accompanied by guards, his expression hard.
"So," he muttered, "Lord Bolton's guest?"
He stood in the doorway, staring into the foul room. His nose wrinkled.
"All I smell," he said coldly, "is fear."
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