The sun hung low over the Wolf's Den as Gendry stood upon the archery range, the smell of trampled grass and oiled bowstrings drifting through the air. Wooden targets stuffed with hay lined the far end of the field, each with a painted bullseye set fifty yards away.
A dozen men trained nearby, but Gendry's instructor for the day was an old man who walked with surprising confidence for someone his age.
"Call me Dick, lad," the old man said, his white hair spilling from beneath a green hood. His weathered face creased into a smile as he studied Gendry. "It's been far too long since the Wolf Pack Company welcomed new blood. I feared I'd never take another apprentice."
The bow in Gendry's hands felt unfamiliar. It was a tall yew greatbow, the sort only seasoned archers dared to handle. He had expected Black Billy—the famed Summer Islander—to be the one teaching him, but instead he found himself learning from this unassuming elder with bright, sharp eyes.
Dick noticed his hesitation. "Good lad. You've a fine build for archery, but remember—good steel still needs forging. A warrior's body is the same. Broad chest, strong back, and arms that don't tremble in the wind."
He tapped the bow gently. "Most fools spend all their time practicing swordsmanship. They forget the importance of archery. Poor thinking. A true warrior uses whatever weapon the moment demands—be it bow, greatsword, or Morningstar. The only rule is this: strike fast, strike true."
Gendry slipped on a leather glove to protect his fingers. He had heard enough warnings about bowstrings slicing nails clean off.
"Whenever you're ready," Dick said.
Gendry drew a slow breath, nocked an arrow, raised the bow, and pulled. His shoulders tightened; the string groaned with tension. He released.
Thwip.
The arrow streaked through the air and landed slightly off-center.
"Not bad at all," Dick said approvingly. The old man stepped forward, lifted his own greatbow, and drew with a smoothness that reminded Gendry of flowing water.
Dick fired. The arrow flew straight as a whisper and slammed dead center into the bullseye.
Gendry's eyes widened. "That was incredible!"
Dick chuckled. "Wind, lad. Pay attention to the wind. You have sharp eyes and steady hands—rare gifts. But the battlefield isn't kind. If you can't read the wind fast, you'll waste your arrows."
He nodded to the bow. "Again. Shoot a few more, but stop before your muscles fail. Let me see what kind of stamina you have."
Gendry obeyed, drawing and releasing again, and again. His breathing deepened, but his posture remained steady. None of the arrows hit the center, yet each landed solidly on the target.
With every shot, Dick's eyes shone brighter.
"That's enough," he said at last, grinning with genuine delight. "I've found a genius today. Your strength is impressive, your endurance better still. Most men tire after five shots—your arms barely tremble."
He clapped a hand on Gendry's shoulder. "But even a skilled archer needs a proper bow. A good bow is a companion in battle—lighter than a sword, deadlier than a spear."
Gendry listened eagerly.
"The finest bows in the world," Dick said, raising a finger, "are carved from dragonglass wood or goldheart wood from the Summer Isles. Treasures, both of them—worth more than most men earn in a lifetime."
"Then there are yew bows, weirwood bows, and even bone bows. A good archer can make do with any of them, but you—" he paused, eyeing Gendry up and down, "—you need something special. I'll see what I can find."
He spent the next short while correcting Gendry's stance, posture, and breathing. He adjusted where Gendry placed his feet, how he locked his shoulders, and even the angle of his jaw.
"Archery's as much about protecting your body as hitting targets," Dick said. "If you keep drawing wrongly, you'll tear your shoulder apart before you ever fire a shot in battle."
When they finally stepped away for rest, Dick sat beside Gendry on a long wooden bench.
"You're from Westeros, aren't you?" he asked casually.
"Yes," Gendry replied. "King's Landing. Are you Westerosi as well?"
Dick laughed. "Aye. Though I fled long ago. Have you ever heard of the Brotherhood Without Banners?"
Gendry nodded vigorously. "Of course. In King's Landing, people sing about them. A band of outlaws—thieves and troublemakers. Songs make them sound half-myth."
He recited a bit of one tune he remembered hearing in a smoky tavern:
"Oh, the wandering Brotherhood Without Banners, they say we are thieves.
We make the forest our castle, the earth and sea our home…"
Dick's smile deepened with nostalgia. "Ah, yes. Those names carry echoes, don't they? The Smiling Knight, Big Belly Ben, Wenda the White Fawn, Long-Osric…"
As he listed them lovingly, Gendry's mind snapped to memory. There was indeed a Dick in those tales.
"Wait—are you that Dick? Dick the Fletch? The legendary archer?"
The old man's expression did not change. He only nodded.
"I was once a brother," Dick said calmly. "A feared outlaw. A master fletcher. A friend to men who are now long dead."
He leaned back, eyes distant. "Except for Ulf. He was my best student. Most of the others… gone."
Gendry swallowed, staring at him with renewed respect. This wasn't just an old instructor. This was a man whose life had shaped legends.
"What happened to the Brotherhood?" Gendry asked cautiously. "Weren't they wiped out by the Sword of the Morning?"
Dick nodded slowly. "Aye. There was a great clash in the Kingswood. Jaime Lannister, Barristan the Bold, and Ser Arthur Dayne—the greatest swordsmen of their time—all rode against us.
"Barristan slew our leader, Simon Toyne. Dayne fought the Smiling Knight in single combat…" He paused, voice softening. "The madman died laughing. But he died well."
"And you?" Gendry asked.
"I was far away," Dick said. "Searching for special wood to craft longbows for my brothers. When I returned and heard the news, I fled across the Narrow Sea."
He sighed deeply. "The Targaryens were falling. The nobles who hunted us were dead or dying. There was nothing left to return to."
Gendry sat quietly. The names—Smiling Knight, Sword of the Morning—were spoken like legends, yet here sat a man who had seen them with his own eyes.
"What was the Smiling Knight like?" he finally asked.
Dick chuckled darkly. "Mad. Brilliant. Terrifying. He was just a man in body, but twice a man in fury. Even in madness, his swordsmanship was unmatched."
"And the Sword of the Morning?"
Dick's voice softened with awe. "Ser Arthur Dayne… the greatest of our age. I still can't believe he died in some lonely corner of Dorne. A man like him should have died leading a charge or defending a king."
He glanced at Gendry. "Any talented young ones in Westeros these days?"
Gendry thought. "The Knight of Flowers, perhaps."
Dick snorted. "Pretty boys who win tourneys don't impress me. Learn well, and you'll surpass him easily."
He leaned back, smirking. "I've met enough arrogant lords to know—skill matters more than lineage. The Smiling Knight once killed a man who carried the rose of Highgarden."
Before Gendry could ask more, a familiar voice interrupted.
"Old Man, are you boring the boy with your stories again?" the Handsome Man called as he approached.
Dick rolled his eyes. "Stories? These are lessons!"
The Handsome Man ignored him and turned to Gendry. "Come, lad. The commander has assigned us a mission."
Gendry rose immediately, offering Dick a respectful nod. "Thank you, Instructor."
"Remember your posture!" Dick shouted after him. "And protect your shoulders!"
Gendry grinned. Despite the sweat on his brow and the ache in his arms, he felt more alive than ever. In these past days with the Wolf Pack Company, he had learned archery, swordsmanship, and horsemanship. Piece by piece, the blacksmith's apprentice was becoming a warrior.
As he followed the Handsome Man toward the commander's tent, one thought pulsed in his chest:
My training is over. Now comes battle.