Game of Thrones: The Stag's Storm

"The king still has authority. Lord Eddard will help him coordinate the vast army stretching from the North to the Reach," Long Spear said.

"A vast army? I heard the king has grown so fat he hardly looks like the man he was in his youth." Steel Fist's mouth twitched. "Can he even lead an army himself anymore?"

"Even so, warriors and hedge knights still love him. The king simply dislikes governing," Jorah said in King Robert's defense. When it came to familiarity with the upper ranks of Westeros, no one here could match him. "If he calls men to arms, there will be people willing to fight for him."

Robert loved tournaments, hunting, and pleasure excursions. Though those pursuits had consumed far too many gold dragons, the king's generosity and openhandedness had indeed won many warriors' hearts. Besides, in his youth, King Robert had possessed peerless valor, like the Laughing Storm reborn.

"If King Robert and Eddard, the Hand of the King, intend to wage war, the Starks and the Stormlands will certainly join them. To support his son-in-law's cause and throne, Lord Tywin will surely provide troops and gold dragons as well. Then there are the Riverlands and the Vale. One is the homeland of Lord Eddard's wife, while Robert Arryn is his nephew. As for the Reach, they will certainly scramble to send grain. That leaves only Dorne. Its population is sparse, so whether it sends troops will make little difference to the war," Qyburn explained to everyone.

Six of the Seven Kingdoms would send troops beneath the banner of the crowned stag. That strength could not be underestimated.

"There is no need to be too afraid," Gendry replied calmly. "King's Landing has more internal troubles than we imagine. Chaos may break out there before their armies even cross the Narrow Sea. A direwolf and a lion were never going to dance together easily."

King's Landing was littered with powder kegs: Littlefinger's poisoning of Lord Jon, the longstanding hostility between Stark and Lannister, and the truth about the king's legitimate children. Any one of those powder kegs was terrifying enough. Worse still, they were now about to explode together, and their flames would drag all Seven Kingdoms into the mire of war.

"Even so, we must prepare." Gendry could not explain the impending upheaval to everyone, but it was bound to happen. There were too many Lannisters around the king. King's Landing was already a pit of fire.

"First, the soldiers. We must intensify their training. The Wolf Pack Legion is currently our main force, and its fighting strength is second to none. But the other armies, the Free Legion and the Second Sons Legion, must not slacken either." Gendry looked around at everyone. This was another matter he was keeping firmly in hand. Morale could rise, but it must not fall. Before war came, he had to rouse the troops' fighting spirit.

"Yes!"

"Yes!"

"Second, equipment. I want the best, sturdiest weapons," Gendry said. "The craftsmen of Myr and the smiths of Tyrosh are now in our hands. We need those fine suits of armor, warships, scorpions, and crossbows that can fire three shots in succession."

"By your orders, the arms factories in Myr and Tyrosh are now operating at full capacity. The craftsmen are also developing newer, stronger crossbows and ballistae," Handsome Man replied.

The Myrmen took great pride in their craftsmanship, and the smiths of Tyrosh were fairly skilled as well. The war-making potential of both cities had to be squeezed dry. The city's craftsmen designed gilded helmets and gold-and-silver armor. Their helmets could be shaped like birds and animals, with precious-metal trim.

"Archon, there is another matter," Brown Ben said suddenly. "Those Dothraki still refuse to wear armor. The Horsemen say armor is a sign of cowardice."

"Leave the Horsemen as they are for now. Customs are hard to change," Gendry replied helplessly. The Horsemen were superb riders, adept at ambushes, sudden strikes, and charges, but they were stubborn to a fault and flatly refused to wear armor. Using Dothraki riders as disposable troops was something of a waste, yet the Horsemen insisted on it themselves. It seemed he would have to train the younger Dothraki boys instead.

"There is one more matter: where we should land," Maester Qyburn said. "At the Archon's request, the generals and I have come up with a few ideas."

Qyburn studied the locations on the map, then began explaining them one by one. "If Westeros falls into chaos, our fleet must seize the initiative and land."

"There are two castles we cannot avoid choosing between. One is Storm's End. The other is Dragonstone," Qyburn said slowly.

"Storm's End is a hard castle to take. Lord Mace besieged it for so long back then and still failed. Dragonstone is little better. It still reeks of Valyrian sorcery, and it is just as difficult to capture. Why not bypass those places and attack King's Landing directly?" Long Spear proposed a bold plan.

"My lord, your courage is admirable, but naval warfare is not so simple. We would do better to seize some land to serve as our base first. If we sail straight for King's Landing, we could find ourselves trapped at sea," Moloz of Myr stressed. In naval ability, the Onion Knight, the pirate king of Lys, and Moloz of Myr were all almost evenly matched.

"We will leave King's Landing alone for now." Gendry offered an even bolder proposal, pointing at the long, narrow, barren peninsula above King's Landing. "A third route would be to head north to Crackclaw Point, stir its crannogmen into rising, then march out of the peninsula and occupy Harrenhal, putting pressure on King's Landing. We would not need too many troops to defend it, either, since the peninsula has no major cities or towns."

Even with his current strength, Gendry felt that taking King's Landing should wait. The city had countless mouths to feed and mobs in abundance. A steady, methodical advance would be better. As for King's Landing, he would wait until all its powder kegs had exploded. For now, he would secure his lines and await chaos in Westeros.

"It might be worth a try." Jorah's eyes lit up. The Crackclawmen had always been fierce and loyal to House Targaryen. If they truly turned out in force, they would certainly cause King's Landing enormous trouble.

Chapter 98: The Thief, Little Skin-Peeler

Gendry galloped across the pasture on a fine black horse, its hooves tearing into the turf and sending dirt flying. The Dorne horse the Red Viper had given him truly was an exceptional mount.

Only when Qyburn's aged figure appeared on the hunting grounds did Gendry rein in his horse and tether it.

"My lord, a great many thieving dogs have come around Wolf's Den lately," Qyburn said. "In the market, at City Hall, and around the new arms factory."

Qyburn controlled part of the intelligence apparatus, and his network had now expanded. Orphans, children orphaned by war, and fiercely loyal freed slaves served as his agents. Especially in the Disputed Lands, Lys, and Myr, Qyburn's spies were everywhere, and intelligence flowed in without cease.

Gendry now lacked neither gold nor loyal people, so building the intelligence network had gone quite smoothly.

"Someone ought to keep an eye on their hounds instead of letting them come onto our territory to steal food all the time." Gendry knew what those thieves wanted. Some were investigating his movements and those of his legions, some were probing the new arms factory's output, and others wanted information about the Targaryen brother and sister.

A new, large arms factory had been established in Wolf's Den, bringing together the finest craftsmen of Myr and Tyrosh to manufacture armor and weapons.

The rumbling war machine was starting up. Even the sluggish city-states had sensed its menace. Everyone wondered where the Wolf Pack would sink its teeth next: Westeros across the Narrow Sea, or neighboring Lys.

"Whose dogs are they?" Gendry asked.

"Volantis, Lys, Pentos, and the other side of the Narrow Sea."

"Should we draw in the net?" Maester Qyburn wanted an answer.

"Let the line run longer. See whether we can catch what we want," Gendry said.

"As you command."

"Oh, Archon," Qyburn said. "I also spotted an interesting group from the North."

"Who?"

"They seem to be people from House Bolton."

"Tell me about them," Gendry said.

House Bolton was one of the oldest, most powerful, and most infamous noble houses in the North. It had once claimed kingship as well. The Boltons' influence and strength were second only to House Stark, the Wardens of the North.

"A merchant from Pentos came to buy grain. Unfortunately, his attendants look nothing like flamboyant Pentoshi sellswords. They look more like well-trained soldiers. Men with strength who also conceal their movements are very likely from the Dreadfort. But that is not the most interesting part. One young, ugly attendant in the party is far too eager. He is deeply interested in the new arms factory and has been trying to wheedle out the secrets of the new crossbows."

"The flayed men. That is rather interesting." Gendry smiled. "I would like to meet them."

There was an inn on the western side of Wolf's Den. It was small and quiet, with one advantage: the arms factory was visible not far away.

Its black walls towered high, with soldiers guarding all around. The Wolf Pack's grey-and-white banner could be seen flying at its highest point.

The skilled craftsmen of Myr and Tyrosh were now gathered here. Voices clamored, and fire from the furnaces rose toward the sky like fire dragons.

"I hate the Wolf Pack," Ramsay said bitterly as he stared at the banner of running wolves. To become a true Bolton, he had to act more Bolton than the legitimate Boltons themselves. The Red King had fought the King in the North for a thousand years, and legend said the Red King had even collected the skins of several Starks.

"What are they doing?" Ramsay was very curious.

Ramsay watched master craftsmen and apprentices coming and going, but they rarely interacted with outsiders. The arms factory had its own housing and grounds. These men were now effectively dependents of the sellsword king, and the factory was said to treat them exceptionally well.

"My lord, Lord Roose only told us to inspect the grain markets of the Free Cities. What we are doing already goes against his wishes," Reek pleaded.

The long summer had lasted far too long, but seasoned northern lords like Bolton would never forget the shadow of the long winter. Roose had sent his bastard out to see something of the world, but had forbidden him to do anything. Ramsay was deeply dissatisfied.

"Shut up." Ramsay Snow looked at Reek, who dared not speak again. "These men Father sent me are truly useless. I should have brought my own lads."

Reek knew that Ramsay's good lads were men as cruel and savage as Ramsay himself. Bringing them would only have made things worse.

"That stench of yours is still strong, even though you washed so many extra times before boarding the ship." Ramsay looked at Reek.

"Reek, because I am Reek, master," Reek repeated, and a smile hung on Ramsay's face.

"Good dog."

"Father has always kept me hidden in the Dreadfort. This is my first time outside. I will prove to him that I am the true flayed man!" Ramsay shouted.

Reek fell silent again. Trouble came from the tongue, and no one understood Ramsay's cruelty better than he did.

Ramsay turned his gaze back out the window and saw garrison soldiers in black armor, wearing fine black cloaks marked with the Wolf Pack's emblem. Their breastplates shone beautifully in the sunlight, dazzling to behold.

"The Free Cities really are wealthy," Ramsay said enviously. Even at the powerful Dreadfort, most of his father's guards wore only grey mail and iron half-helms.

Yet here in Wolf's Den, the armor of ordinary garrison soldiers already surpassed that of the flayed men's elite.

Could House Stark, the lords of the North, have weapons and armor this fine as well? Ramsay wondered, though the answer was probably no. The North was cold and harsh, its population sparse, and its arms and equipment generally ranked at the bottom of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Plate armor. Crossbows that can fire three shots in succession." Ramsay could not get them out of his mind. If he could get his hands on some, even the Starks would fear an army equipped like that.

Unfortunately, Ramsay had no money, and he never paid for things anyway. Besides, the manufacture and export of fine weapons from Myr and Tyrosh were now monopolized by the new government. City Hall issued permits to merchants one by one.

Ramsay gave a smith's apprentice from the arms factory a few gold dragons, hoping to obtain some useful plans.

In the end, Ramsay could not suppress his ambition. This was his first time leaving the Dreadfort. Before this, Roose had concealed his whereabouts as though hiding a jester. Ramsay wanted desperately to prove himself.

Damn it, these little bastards from the ironworks are completely unreliable. I ought to flay him, Ramsay thought viciously.

Just then, Reek suddenly cried out, "Trouble, Lord Ramsay!"

Several tall Dothraki Unsullied in bronze spiked helms had appeared below the inn without anyone noticing their arrival. Then they began rushing inside.

"The Dothraki Unsullied. That bastard king's guards." Cold sweat streamed down Ramsay's face. He had made the wrong decision, and his venture had ended in disgrace.

Ramsay regretted not following Roose's teachings: a peaceful land, a peaceful people. That was Roose's way of governing. But Ramsay did not understand such things. He knew only that violence and cunning made others afraid.

"Change clothes with me. Quickly!" Ramsay's eyes darted, and he roared the order. Reek dared not disobey and obediently stripped off his clothes.

Ramsay then ran into the privy and smeared urine and filth all over himself. He needed to smell like a cesspit so he could resemble the real Reek more closely.

The fighting ended swiftly. Though the Bolton guards were well trained, they had no armor and had not brought weapons they were accustomed to using. Even if they had weapons, nothing in their equipment could match a three-shot crossbow at close range.

"I don't know them! I don't know them!" The Pentoshi merchant was dragged from his room with a miserable expression. "These northmen only asked me to show them the grain market! Wheat, corn, even tobacco! Whatever they wanted to do had nothing to do with me!"

The subdued Bolton guards silently accepted their arrest. Resistance was difficult, but they all kept their mouths shut. Two quick-handed northmen tried to take up longswords to defend themselves, only for Myr crossbow bolts to punch straight through their bodies. The remaining northmen became much more docile.

The door to Little Skin-Peeler's room was pushed open. Six tall Dothraki Unsullied in light armor and bronze spiked helms strode in, carrying shields, shortswords, and small Myr crossbows. They surveyed everything in the bedroom with harsh eyes. There was indeed a stench here that assaulted the nose.

"Lord Bolton's guests?" The Commander-in-Chief of the Twin Cities Alliance coldly surveyed the room. All Gendry could think was that the place stank to high heaven.

Chapter 99: The Real and Fake Reek

"Who is Bolton's bastard?" Gendry wore a black studded vest, black riding breeches, and black riding boots. A sharp sword hung at his waist, while Grey Wolf, the captain of his guards, carried his arakh.

Gendry stood tall and straight. His cropped black hair was like black jade, and his blue eyes resembled a deep ocean. His handsome face carried an unmistakable presence, a storm of youth belonging only to an outstanding young man.

Ramsay recognized Gendry at first glance. So young, so handsome. Even in ordinary clothes, he still possessed a hero's bearing and overflowed with charisma.

He really is House Baratheon's seed, Ramsay thought. Ramsay had never seen King Robert. Roose had hidden Ramsay away like a jester, never allowing him far beyond the Dreadfort's lands for years, much less letting him meet those great figures. But Ramsay still knew House Baratheon's traits: tall, straight figures, black hair, and blue eyes.

Why? Why? Ramsay seethed with anger and hatred. He understood now why he hated them. They had a bright, youthful air, a presence that shone like the sun. It was something Ramsay had never possessed. He had only Reek's companionship and Roose's contempt.

Ramsay hated these people, especially dazzling young people, while he himself was ugly and fat. Why was this man so much more handsome when they were both bastards? He wanted to destroy these beautiful young men and women, just as he had destroyed his older brother, Domeric.

Not now. Hold back. Ramsay kept reminding himself. Next came the performance of the real and fake Reek.

"Yes, my lord. I am Lord Bolton's son, Ramsay Snow. I believe there has been a misunderstanding," Real Reek replied eagerly. "We only came to look at grain. We have done nothing to offend you."

"Out. Leave now." Gendry looked at the two men: Reek in fine clothes, and a filthy, stinking servant curled up in a corner of the inn.

Stench was the first thing Gendry noticed. The man in fine clothes had an innate body odor he could not conceal, as though he lived in a pigsty every day. The servant in the corner had actually brought himself to smear urine and filth over his body, which was even more revolting.

"Who is he?" Gendry asked the man in fine clothes, who stood rooted to the spot, at a loss. Gendry pointed at the plump lump of a man who claimed to be the bastard's servant.

"My servant, Reek," Real Reek said shamelessly. "Please forgive him, my lord. He lives in a pigsty and never bathes. A little stink is unavoidable."

Good lad. Ramsay thanked his good servant in his heart.

"He certainly lives up to his name." Gendry smiled. "But you need a bath now too, Reek."

"Thank you, my lord," Fake Reek said with a humble expression, making as if to leave.