"Pentos is the free trade city closest to King's Landing. Ships cross the Narrow Sea every day, sailing straight for the capital. And Pentos is rich but weak. Taking it would help your cause. In other words, attacking Pentos would be profitable," the Tattered Prince said softly.
He did not dare ask for too much, and he certainly did not try to demand Pentos outright.
"No. Pentos betrayed me first. Those damned Magisters tried to have me killed. If the Pentoshi treated me that way, then I will repay them in kind." The Tattered Prince turned it over in his mind. Hatred lasted longer than anything, and his ran deep.
"You're a convincing advocate," Gendry said, watching him. "But have you considered the people who live off Pentos? The Horselords. The Braavosi."
The Tattered Prince made Pentos sound like an easy prize, but its laziness had protectors behind it. Most horselords loved coming to Pentos to strip it bare, and Braavos, in its own quiet way, treated Pentos as part of its sphere. Neither was easy to provoke.
"Since you left Pentos, how many years have you spent fighting out there?" Gendry asked the master of the Windblown, the Tattered Prince, who was also known as the Old Grey-beards in Rags.
"More than thirty," the Tattered Prince replied.
Time had left its marks on him, in the lines on his face and the scars on his body. He had once been as bright and clear as Gendry, but ruthless years had turned him into a worn-out old man.
He had not dared accept the Magister's invitation. He had fled to the Disputed Lands, and never returned to Pentos.
"Forgive my impatience," the Tattered Prince said, a note of apology in his voice. "I saw a small glimmer of hope, and it made me forget myself. I have waited day and night for a chance to return to Pentos."
"Who would begrudge an old man for missing home?" Gendry said with a faint smile.
The Tattered Prince's face tightened. He hated being called old. By the standards of the Disputed Lands, he truly was. By Dothraki standards, a new khal might have driven him off long ago.
"I am old enough now that all I can do is come before a new power and beg for cooperation," the Tattered Prince thought, bitterness weighing on him. But he steadied himself at once. This was his only chance.
He answered quickly. "Prince, I may be old, but these bones can still mount a horse and fight. The two thousand sellswords under my command are all battle-tested. And in Pentos, even after all these years, I still have some old connections, if you have use for them."
"That sounds promising, Prince. You know I've always been generous to those who are loyal to me." Gendry repeated it plainly to the Tattered Prince. "Talent and loyalty."
"I value loyalty as well," the Tattered Prince agreed. "I hate every traitor. Every one of them has an excuse, and yet the men who swore to me took my pay and ran. My punishments for betrayal are harsh."
The Tattered Prince held deserters in utter contempt, and he punished them severely. He would send men after them. If the fugitives were caught and were lucky, he would cut off one foot so they could never run again. If they were unlucky, they would be handed over to the "Pretty" Meris.
Once, a deserter claimed the Windblown's food turned his stomach. When the Tattered Prince caught him, he had the man's leg cut off, roasted, and made him eat it himself. After that, the man became the Windblown's cook, and their meals improved greatly. When his contract ended, he signed on again.
"Your request is persuasive, Prince," Gendry said, looking him over. "Sellswords aren't soldiers. But I only need one kind of man, a man loyal to me. You've heard what happened with the Second Sons and the Long Lances. I took them in, but they still have to obey my orders completely. I have no need of smug clever men who think they can wriggle out of anything."
The Tattered Prince nodded. He understood.
Sellswords were sellswords. They wanted killing and gold, and they were slippery besides. Put another way, they only fought well when the wind was at their backs.
He looked down at the sea of banners, the thundering knights, the soldiers roaring their approval, and suddenly the deeper meaning became clear. His two thousand men gave him no room to bargain. In the face of tens of thousands, two thousand was nothing but humiliation.
He understood he had to take a stance. He did not have the standing to be a partner. At best, he could be a subordinate. The right to decide war or peace, advance or retreat, was not his to claim.
"Ten years ago, twenty years ago, I would have refused an order like yours outright," the Tattered Prince said. "But it has been more than thirty years now. Of the six men who founded the Windblown with me, I am the only one still alive. So I will consider your terms."
"I'll be waiting for good news," Gendry told him. Only the gods knew what the Tattered Prince was truly thinking.
"Long live the King!"
"Long live the King!"
Cheers suddenly surged up from the tournament grounds below the platform. Someone new had just made a name for themselves in the lists.
A moment later, Fletcher Dick hurried up onto the platform, practically buzzing with excitement.
"I've found a master archer," the fletcher said to Gendry.
"Oh?" Gendry's interest was immediately piqued. Some people considered Fletcher Dick the finest archer in history. If he had taken notice of someone, that person's talent had to be exceptional.
"Did Black Billy lose? Those lads from the Summer Isles?" Gendry pressed.
"They did. The tournament doesn't allow goldenheart longbows. Those boys can shoot, but they ran into a real expert. That marksman has already taken the championship."
Gendry went with Fletcher Dick, Ser Jorah, and the Tattered Prince to the butts, and there he saw the marksman Fletcher had meant.
He was tall and wiry, freckled, red-haired, and very young. A nobody from the Dornish Marches, yet he stood proudly at the center of the crowd.
"What's your name?" Gendry asked. The man was tall and lean, the kind of build suited for a fine archer.
"Anguy, my lord," replied the champion of the archery contest, eyeing Gendry with clear caution. Even in the distant Dornish Marches, Anguy had heard the name of the Breaker.
Archers tended to have sharp eyes. Anguy took in Gendry's black scale armor, the splendid quartered banner, the warhammer, the three red dragons, the wolf pack, and the slave breaking his chains. Surrounded by his retinue, the young and handsome ruler stood there as the King of the Twin Cities. The Dothraki and Unsullied in black cloaks nearby looked cold and formidable.
"Those golden dragons..." Anguy muttered quietly. "I've already won the contest. They're not going to withhold them, are they?"
"Are you questioning the Lord Governor's honor?" Jorah said, staring at Anguy.
"The golden dragons can be given to you right away," Gendry said. "But I'd like to make a wager with you."
"What kind of wager?" Anguy clenched his teeth. What he wanted most were those golden dragons. With that kind of coin, whether he went to Lys or King's Landing, he could spend freely, visiting the finest pleasure houses and finding the most beautiful women.
"Are you confident in your archery?" Gendry asked.
Anguy glanced at his bow and said proudly, "I trust my bow. For now, I haven't met anyone who can match me."
"Let me see your handiwork," Gendry said.
"There." Anguy pointed toward the distant targets with a satisfied grin. Five targets stood far away, and every single arrow he had fired was planted squarely in the bullseye.
"I'll have a round with you," Gendry said with a smile.
"My lord, that might not be appropriate," Anguy said cautiously. He had only come for the golden dragons. Besides, he was already the champion.
"We'll just compete," Gendry said. "You won't lose a single golden dragon. If I lose, I'll give you another share of golden dragons on top of what you've won."
Gendry walked over to him.
Anguy understood the wager was now certain. A king's word carried weight. Once spoken, it had to be honored.
"Shall I bring your bow?" Ser Jorah asked quietly. Gendry owned both a purpleheart bow and a dragonbone bow, longbows famous across the world.
"No need. I'll use his bow." Gendry pointed at Anguy.
Anguy immediately relaxed. If Gendry used his own bow, that was far better than competing against a dragonbone bow.
Gendry took Anguy's longbow, but he did not remove his black scale armor, nor did he ask for new targets. The arrows already lodged in the bullseyes remained there, steady and unmoving.
"You're not taking off your armor?" Anguy asked, eyes widening. He himself wore no heavy armor. For an archer, too much weight only ruined accuracy and draw strength. Was this man truly that confident? Or simply arrogant?
Gendry paid no attention to Anguy's surprise. He quickly familiarized himself with the longbow. It was also made of wood. The Marches were not lacking in fine timber.
He felt the breath of the wind and the harsh glare of the sun. He had to grasp the wind's speed and the distance through the light, guiding the arrow clean through the target.
In that moment, Gendry felt his mind sink into the depths of the sea. The noise of the crowd and the expectations of others all faded away.
Anguy watched him nervously. For some reason, he too felt a trace of doubt creeping in.
Seizing the brief, shining moment, each arrow was released at exactly the right instant.
"Whoosh!"
"Whoosh!"
"Whoosh!"
Gendry's arrows chased after Anguy's arrows, striking the bullseye and punching straight through it. Anguy's arrows were knocked loose and fell to the ground one after another.
Anguy rubbed his eyes.
Strength. Speed. And his opponent was still wearing heavier armor than he was.
He let out a frustrated sigh.
"So there are still greater masters."
"Well, lad," Fletcher said smugly, "I told you so. I told you there was an even better archer."
...
If you'd like to support my work and unlock advanced chapters, you can follow me on p-@-treon.
[email protected]/PinkSnake (50 Chapters Ahead).
You can also follow as a free member to read a few advanced chapters.