Game of Thrones: The Stag's Storm

Chapter 107: Loyalty and betrayal

"Pentos is the Free City closest to King's Landing. Every day, ships cross the Narrow Sea to Westeros and arrive at King's Landing. Besides, Pentos is wealthy yet weak. Taking it would further your cause. An attack on Pentos would therefore be profitable," the Ragged Prince said softly.

The Ragged Prince did not dare ask for too much. He had not dared demand Pentos outright.

No, Pentos betrayed me first. Those damned magistrates wanted me dead. Since the people of Pentos treated me that way, I must repay them, the Ragged Prince thought. Hatred endured longer than anything else. Its roots ran deep.

"You make quite a persuasive advocate." Gendry looked at the Ragged Prince. "Have you considered those who live off Pentos, Prince? The khals and the Braavosi?"

The Ragged Prince painted a lovely picture of Pentos, but its passive submission had protectors behind it. Most khals loved coming to Pentos to bleed it dry, while the Braavosi tacitly regarded it as part of their sphere of influence. Neither was easy to provoke.

"How many years have you spent fighting abroad since you left Pentos, Prince?" Gendry asked the master of the Windblown, the Ragged Prince, who also went by the Ragged King.

"More than thirty years," the Ragged Prince answered. Time had left its marks on him, in the wrinkles on his face and the scars on his body. He had once been as radiant as Gendry, but merciless time had turned him into a decrepit old man.

The Ragged Prince had not dared accept the magistrates' invitation. He had chosen to flee to the Disputed Lands and had never returned to his native Pentos.

"Please forgive my eagerness. I glimpsed a ray of hope and let it carry me away. Day and night, I have waited for a chance to return to Pentos," the Ragged Prince said apologetically.

"Who could fault an old man for missing his home?" Gendry smiled.

The Ragged Prince's expression shifted slightly. He hated nothing more than being called old. By the standards of the Disputed Lands, he certainly was an old man. By Dothraki standards, perhaps a new khal should already have driven him out.

I truly have grown old, reduced to begging a new ruler for cooperation. The Ragged King felt a pang of sorrow, but quickly recovered. This was his only chance.

The Ragged Prince soon replied, "Your Highness, though I am old, these old bones can still mount a horse and fight. The two thousand sellswords under my command are all seasoned veterans. I also have some old connections in Pentos, should you need them."

"That sounds promising, Prince. You know I have always been generous to those loyal to me." Gendry repeated his point to the Ragged King. "Talent and loyalty."

"I place great importance on loyalty as well," the Ragged Prince agreed. "I despise every traitor. Each has his own excuse, and men who swear allegiance to me take my pay and run. My punishments for their betrayal are harsh."

The Ragged Prince held traitors in utter contempt and punished them severely. He sent men to hunt them down. If the deserters were caught and fortunate enough, he cut off one of their feet to ensure they never ran again. If they were unlucky, they were handed over to "Pretty" Meris.

One deserter claimed the Windblown's food made him sick, so when the Ragged Prince caught him, he cut off his leg, roasted it, and made him eat it. Afterward, the man became the Windblown's cook, and the food improved considerably. When his contract expired, he signed on for another term.

"Your request is persuasive, Prince." Gendry looked at the Ragged Prince. "Sellswords are not the same as soldiers. But I need only one kind of man: those loyal to me. You must have heard about the Second Sons and the Long Spear Company. I incorporated them into my forces, but they must obey my orders completely. I have no need for slippery men who think they know better."

The Ragged Prince nodded. He understood what Gendry meant. Sellswords were merely sellswords. They craved slaughter and gold, but they were also a slippery sort of force. In other words, they could fight only when things were going their way.

The Ragged Prince took in the forest of banners below, the galloping knights, and the cheering soldiers. Another meaning suddenly dawned on him: his two thousand men gave him no bargaining power. Before an army tens of thousands strong, two thousand men were hardly worth mentioning.

The Ragged Prince understood that he needed to make his position clear. He lacked the standing to be a partner; at best, he could be a subordinate. He could not control the decisions of war or peace, advance or retreat.

"Ten or twenty years ago, I would have flatly refused such a command. But more than thirty years have passed now. Of the six men who founded the Windblown with me, I alone remain alive. So I will consider your terms," the Ragged Prince said.

"I look forward to your good news," Gendry told him. Only the gods knew what the Ragged Prince was thinking.

"Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" Cheers suddenly rose from the tourney grounds below the platform. It seemed another rising star had emerged in the competition.

A short while later, Dick the Bowmaker hurried excitedly onto the platform.

"I've found a marksman," the Arrow Maker told Gendry.

"Really?" Gendry's interest stirred. Some considered the Arrow Maker the finest archer who had ever lived. Anyone who caught his eye would naturally have exceptional talent with a bow.

"Even Black Billy didn't win? What about the men from the Summer Isles?" Gendry pressed.

"No. Goldenheart longbows aren't allowed in the competition. Those lads shoot well, but they met their match. That marksman has already taken the championship."

Gendry headed to the archery range with the Arrow Maker, Jorah, and the Ragged King, where he saw the marksman the Arrow Maker had spoken of.

He was tall and lean, with freckles, red hair, and a very young face. He was a humble commoner from the Dornish Marches, yet now he stood proudly at the center of the crowd.

"What is your name?" Gendry asked him. A tall, lean build was indeed well suited to a good archer.

"Anguy, my lord," the archery champion answered, then eyed Gendry warily. Even in the distant Dornish Marches, Anguy had heard the Liberator's name.

Archers generally had sharp eyes. Anguy saw Gendry's Black Scale Plate Armor and the handsome quartered sigil: a warhammer, a three-headed red dragon, a wolf pack, and a slave shattering his chains. Young and handsome amid the crowd surrounding him, he was the king of the Twin Cities. The Dothraki Unsullied in black cloaks were cold and powerful.

"Those gold dragons... I already won this competition. You're not going to refuse to pay me, are you?" Anguy muttered.

"Are you questioning His Highness's word?" Jorah looked at Anguy.

"You can have those gold dragons right now, but I'd like to make a wager with you," Gendry said.

"What wager?" Anguy gritted his teeth. What he wanted most was the gold dragons. With them, whether he went to Lys or King's Landing, he could indulge himself, visit the pleasure houses, and find the most beautiful women.

"You're very confident in your archery?" Gendry asked Anguy.

Anguy looked at his bow and arrows and said proudly, "I trust my bow. So far, I haven't found my match."

"May I see your handiwork?" Gendry asked.

"There." Anguy pointed at the distant targets and smiled smugly. Five targets stood in the distance, and every one of his arrows had struck the bull's-eye.

"I'll have a little contest with you." Gendry smiled.

"My lord, isn't that rather inappropriate?" Anguy said cautiously. He had come only for the gold dragons, and he was already the champion.

"We'll simply compare our skills. You won't lose a single one of your gold dragons. If I lose to you, I'll give you another purse." Gendry walked over to Anguy.

Anguy understood that the wager was settled. A king's dignity was beyond compare. Once he gave his word, he had to keep it.

"Shall I fetch your bow and arrows?" Ser Jorah asked softly. Gendry owned a Yew Bow and a Dragonbone Bow, both renowned longbows.

"No, I'll use his bow and arrows." Gendry pointed at Anguy. Anguy immediately relaxed considerably. Using his own bow was far better than letting Gendry gain an advantage with a Dragonbone Bow.

Gendry took Anguy's longbow but did not remove his Black Scale Plate Armor or have anyone replace the targets. The arrows remained firmly embedded in their bull's-eyes.

"Aren't you taking off your armor?" Anguy asked, his eyes widening. He himself wore no heavy armor. Armor that was too heavy only impaired an archer's accuracy and power. Was this man truly so confident? Or merely arrogant?

Gendry ignored Anguy's surprise and quickly grew accustomed to his longbow. It was wooden as well; the Dornish Marches had no shortage of valuable timber.

Gendry felt the wind's breath. The sunlight was dazzling. He needed to judge the wind's speed and the distance in the light, and send his arrows through the targets.

Gendry felt as though his mind had sunk to the bottom of the sea. He cast aside the crowd's clamor and everyone else's expectations. Anguy watched him nervously. For some reason, at that moment, a little doubt crept into him as well. Gendry seized each fleeting, brilliant instant, making every shot the best it could be.

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

Gendry's arrows followed the paths of Anguy's, punching straight through the bull's-eyes. Anguy's arrows fell to the ground one after another.

Anguy rubbed his eyes. That power, that speed-and his opponent was wearing much heavier plate armor. Anguy sighed dejectedly. "So there really is someone better."

"Well, lad? I told you, didn't I?" the Arrow Maker said smugly. "I told you there was an even better archer."

Chapter 108: The Pact of Lion and Wolf

Anguy looked at the arrows that had pierced the bull's-eyes. His own arrows had struck dead center every time, but his opponent's shots had been stronger and more direct, splitting his arrows and piercing the targets with almost godlike skill. More terrifying still, his opponent had worn Black Scale Plate Armor and still had strength to spare.

The Ragged King watched the cheering soldiers in silence. That archery was truly astonishing. It seemed the young king was even better at riding, archery, and feats of strength than he had imagined. Yet precisely such a man would be harder to control.

"I lost." Anguy's face fell at once, and he sighed. Gendry's Black Scale Plate Armor was as dark as eternal night, and Anguy felt his mood sink into that same darkness.

"Lad." Gendry looked at Anguy, who had returned. "You're a genius."

"Not anymore." Anguy shook his head dejectedly.

"Don't lose heart, lad." The Arrow Maker patted Anguy's shoulder. "Your talent with a bow is rare indeed. You simply happened to meet a freak of nature. With more specialized training and a better bow, you'd become even better."

"Take your bow, for instance. It could be a little longer. That would improve its accuracy," the Arrow Maker advised, holding Anguy's bow.

Anguy looked at the elderly Arrow Maker in surprise, then said, "Give it back."

Anguy snatched his bow back, but still summoned the courage to say, "My gold dragons, Lord Gendry."

"I'll give them to you." Gendry smiled. "But I did beat you, after all."

"Then what do you want?" Anguy was dumbfounded. "How about you keep those gold dragons? I'll just go without them."

"That won't do. I want something unique. How about you follow me?" Gendry asked.

Anguy had never felt so valued. He had come to the tourney to earn gold, and being noticed by someone important was something he could have anticipated. Still, the courtesy of a "king" left him feeling almost giddy, especially when that king was a marksman himself.

"Let me think it over, my lord. I still want to enter tourneys in Westeros and win more gold dragons. They say the tourneys in King's Landing are the most generous."

"We can negotiate that too. You can take the champion's thousand gold dragons. I'll pay you every month, and I'll practice archery with you as well. What do you say?" Gendry had already anticipated Anguy's thoughts. Anguy was a marksman who had come to the city to seek his fortune, craving honor and gold dragons. But beyond those things, Gendry would also offer friendship and appreciation. Without someone keeping him in line, the lad would spend all his gold dragons in brothels, on fine wine and beautiful women.

"My lord, following you means missing my chance to make a fortune in King's Landing," Anguy said. King Robert's tourneys were always lavish. If Anguy also entered this upcoming competition in King's Landing, he would win ten thousand gold dragons there.

"Then I promise to give you twice the glory and gold in the future," Gendry said. A thousand soldiers were easy to find; a great commander was not. A talent this extraordinary was naturally just as hard to come by.

"I've decided. But I'm not doing it just for the gold. It's because I can feel your respect for me." Anguy's fondness for Gendry grew.

"We respect each other."

"Can I get a robe and armor like those?" Anguy thought for a moment, then asked quietly. He wandered from place to place, and if someone valued him, he was willing to serve.

"Of course. Welcome. There are no noble titles here, only military ranks now: soldier, sergeant, junior officer, and so on."

"That's not bad either." Anguy knew this system differed from that of the lords of Westeros, but earning gold dragons was good enough.

The Unsullied then brought Anguy a new robe bearing Gendry's quartered sigil. As for plate, scale, leather, or lamellar armor, Anguy would be allowed to choose for himself later.

"Your skill is certainly good, but there's room for improvement, if you're willing to study under an old man like me," the Arrow Maker added.

"Who are you?" Anguy was tempted, and he looked at the decrepit old man.

"The past hardly bears mentioning, but once, I was known as the Arrow Maker." The Arrow Maker revealed his name.

"The Arrow Maker? The greatest archer who ever lived?" Anguy rubbed his eyes. Many believed the Arrow Maker had long since vanished into the dust of history. He had never expected him to still be alive.

Anguy glanced at Gendry again. If that was the case, then his defeat was hardly undeserved.

At breakfast, Sister Jeyne told Sansa that Lord Eddard had left the camp before dawn. The king had gone to find him. They might have gone hunting; aurochs roamed nearby.

The road to King's Landing gradually grew smoother, and Sansa began to enjoy the peaceful feeling. It was warmer than Winterfell and livelier than the North. Mother must love land and weather like this best, Sansa thought. The Trident was where her mother had grown up.

Everything was lovely except Arya and Jon. Whenever Sansa thought of those two, she felt uncomfortable.

Sansa liked well-behaved girls such as Princess Myrcella best, but her own younger sister was truly a wild child.

Gods above, Arya had a gift for ruining everything. Sansa always wondered why she had a sister like Arya, who behaved like a wild child.

Arya wore leather riding clothes and befriended a wild assortment of people: squires, grooms, maids, old men, naked children, and lowborn free riders with filthy mouths. None of them had any standing, yet Arya liked making friends with everyone. The butcher's apprentice Mycah was the worst of them all, utterly wild.

As for Jon, he made Sansa even angrier. People whispered and pointed behind his back, discussing her father Eddard's honor and infidelity. Jon always wore a gloomy expression, as though everyone owed him something. Sansa was angry that her father had brought Jon along too; it made her feel ashamed. If only Bran had come instead. He would not have embarrassed her.