The morning sun poured over Tyrosh like molten gold, illuminating the courtyard in a warm, shimmering glow. A faint sea breeze slipped between the stone columns, stirring dust and carrying with it the distant smell of brine. The training grounds were already alive with motion—specifically, the blur that was Gendry, swinging a longsword with such speed that even the Unsullied standing watch occasionally blinked in surprise.
His bare arms glistened with sweat. Each movement came with the unwavering certainty of a man forged by hardship—a rhythm shaped by the hammer, the anvil, and the battlefield. The heavy practice blade sliced through the air again and again, its whistle sharp and clean.
Across from him stood Rosso Brenn, feet braced, expression set, his own sword lifted defensively. Rosso's appearance was plain—flattened nose, square jaw, and simple gray hair—but his steadiness gave him an unremarkable strength that Gendry respected. The man didn't speak much, but every swing he blocked, every misstep he corrected, spoke of years of grit and survival.
Steel hammered against steel, each clash echoing in crisp, ringing bursts. The Unsullied ringed the training ground silently, their faces impassive, yet their eyes tracked the duel with soldierly interest. Gendry pressed forward, driving Rosso back with a series of sweeping arcs, each blow stronger than the last. Even dulled, Gendry's training sword weighed far more than a normal blade, and the force behind it threatened to crush any man less skilled than Rosso.
But Rosso held. His arms trembled, his breath grew heavier, yet he refused to break.
A final resounding clang! sent Rosso's weapon flying. He hit the ground on one knee, chest heaving, and let out a rough, honest sigh.
"I yield."
Gendry chuckled, extending a hand. "Up you go, Rosso."
Rosso blinked, startled that the Commander-in-Chief himself would offer a hand. He accepted it, rising unsteadily. That small gesture—the simple act of respect—left a deep imprint on him. For a man who had lived his entire life dismissed by his supposed family, ignored by lords, and overlooked by society, recognition mattered more than victory.
To be valued by someone like Gendry—a tall, broad-shouldered warrior who seemed carved from stone—was enough to ignite fierce loyalty.
"You're blessed by the gods," Rosso said awkwardly, still catching his breath. "Strength, skill… and character besides."
Gendry burst into a laugh. "Rosso, your tongue's gotten sharper than your sword."
Rosso flushed harder than a squire caught stealing wine.
"Well," Gendry continued, tone shifting to something more official, "I'm appointing you as a Major in the Kingsguard Legion. It won't be publicly announced yet, but you'll wear the rank."
Rosso blinked rapidly. "My… my lord, I—this is—this is an honor."
The Kingsguard Legion, unlike the great armies of Myr or Tyrosh, was Gendry's personal force—an elite guard formed of men loyal to him alone. Within his newly drafted military structure—Soldier, Sergeant, Officer, Major, General—each rank represented discipline and merit, not birth or title.
For Rosso, who had neither land nor name nor allies, it meant more than any feudal knighthood ever could.
"I'm glad to hear it," Gendry said. "You've earned it."
Rosso nodded, still dazed, but pride shone in his eyes. Tyrosh had been good to him—good food, fair treatment, and comrades who respected his skill. It was more than he had dared hope for.
Gendry leaned casually against a training post. "Tell me again about your time in the Claw Peninsula."
Rosso hesitated, but answered obediently. "After my father died, I went to Brown Hallow to seek refuge with the Brenn family." His mouth tightened with old pain. "They threw dung at me, said I wasn't of their blood, and sent me away before I could step into the yard."
Gendry's jaw clenched. He knew that kind of injustice intimately—Westeros had a way of breaking the weak and pampering the corrupt.
"Do you still know anyone there?" Gendry asked.
"No," Rosso admitted. "Too humble in status. No one wanted to remember me."
"That's fine," Gendry said. "The Claw Peninsula is a stubborn place. Loyal to the Targaryens for centuries. They fought to the last man at the Trident."
"And now…" Rosso said quietly, "they might listen to someone who holds Princess Daenerys in his hands."
Gendry didn't deny it. His ambitions stretched further than the Narrow Sea. Every coastline, every fortress, every hidden valley between Myr and King's Landing—each was a piece on a far greater board.
But he shook his head. "No, Rosso. I'm not sending you there."
Rosso looked confused. "Then… what mission do you intend for me?"
"Tell me," Gendry said. "What do you think of King's Landing?"
Rosso wrinkled his nose. "A filthy, overcrowded city. But… where there are rich men, there are always chances for someone like me."
Gendry nodded. "Exactly. I need someone of your temperament there—a loyal man, tough, quiet, unremarkable. King's Landing is a nest of vipers. I need my own eyes."
Rosso dipped his head solemnly. "If you command it, I will go."
"Good." Gendry clasped his shoulder. "This task won't bring glory. It requires patience, humility, and the ability to disappear when needed. If you dislike it, I can give you a chest of gold to go your own way."
Rosso shook his head firmly. "Gold is easy to find. Loyalty is not. A warrior should be as hard as his blade. I accepted your rank—I accept your mission."
Gendry's smile held genuine warmth. "Then my Kingsguard will always have a place for you."
The Web of Spies
King's Landing was already infested with players.
The Spider, with his little birds whispering through every alley, every brothel, every kitchen wall of the Red Keep.
Littlefinger, with his coin-sniffing rats in the tax offices and guild halls—accountants, measurers, shipmasters, toll collectors, wine agents, money handlers, all tied to him by debt or ambition.
Gendry would not rely on either.
He intended to build his own network—one rooted not in fear or gold, but in loyalty. Warriors who admired him. Slaves who saw him as the hammer that broke their chains. Landless knights who found honor under his banner. Adventurers seeking purpose. Merchants eager for protection.
"Let them play their games," Gendry thought. "In the end, swords and iron shape nations—not whispers."
He turned to Rosso. "Who are you now?"
"A down-and-out Free Knight," Rosso replied steadily. "A nobody in Westeros. A distant Brenn relative—unwanted and unclaimed."
"Good." Gendry nodded approvingly. "That's exactly who I need you to be."
He explained the task clearly:
"You will go as yourself. Live as any Free Rider would. Offer your sword for hire. Make yourself useful, and sooner or later, some lord—or someone more cunning—will recruit you."
Rosso frowned slightly. "The Spider. Littlefinger. They will notice me."
"I expect them to," Gendry said bluntly. "Littlefinger especially. He has no noble swords to rely on. He collects men like you—loyal, desperate, overlooked."
Rosso exhaled slowly. "If they try to recruit me…"
"Accept." Gendry's eyes gleamed. "The deeper you go, the better."
He added, "But be wary. The Spider's birds are everywhere. If you need a place to hide, use the Godswood. His birds don't whisper in the leaves of the old gods."
Rosso nodded, absorbing every instruction. "I will lie low. And wait."
"Good. Maester Qyburn will brief you further. He'll tell you what to avoid, and who to watch."
Rosso bowed deeply. "Then I will prepare at once, my lord."
Gendry watched him go with satisfaction. Rosso Brenn—plain, loyal, and invisible—was a perfect piece for King's Landing.
And the first step in a game Gendry fully intended to win.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)