At the archery range of the Wolf's Den, a grizzled instructor was teaching Gendry the art of the longbow. The targets, stuffed with straw and hay, were set fifty yards away, their painted bullseyes stark against the brown grass.
"Just call me Dick, lad," the old man said, his white hair a stark contrast to his green woolen robes. He looked at Gendry with an expression of deep appreciation. "It's been a long time since the Wolf Pack has seen new blood. I had begun to doubt I would ever take on another apprentice. We Northmen are a clannish folk, and our rules are too strict for most."
"Alright," Gendry said, accepting the tall yew greatbow. He had been surprised that his archery instructor was not the Summer Islander, Black Billy, but this unassuming old man.
"You have a fine natural build, boy," Dick said, his eyes scanning Gendry's frame. "But you must know, even the finest steel needs a master's forging." He gestured toward the bow. "Many young men focus only on swordsmanship and neglect the bow. That is a fool's thinking. In a real fight, you use what is at hand. You use what will keep you alive. Do not overthink it. Seize the advantage, and strike."
Gendry pulled on a leather glove and stroked the smooth wood of the longbow. An arrow is a dangerous thing, not just to its target. Without protection, the bowstring could flay the skin from a man's fingers. He nocked an arrow, drew the string back to his ear, and aimed. His posture was steady as a rock. He felt the whisper of the wind, held his breath, and loosed. The arrow flew true, striking the target just shy of the bullseye.
"Not bad, lad," Dick said. He then took his own bow, drew the string back as smoothly as flowing silk, and released. His arrow struck the target dead center with a satisfying *thwump*. "See?"
"Amazing," Gendry said, genuinely impressed. The old man's skill was a thing to behold.
"The wind, boy. You must learn to feel the wind," Dick instructed. "You have good eyes and a steady hand, a rarer gift than you know. But the battlefield is chaos. You must be able to read the wind in an instant. Hitting the target is not the true skill. Hitting it quickly, under pressure, is what makes an archer." He gestured for Gendry to continue. "A few more. Don't push yourself to injury, but let me see your strength."
Gendry took up the bow again and fired several arrows in quick succession, his breathing even, his stance solid. Though he didn't hit the bullseye again, every arrow found the target, and with each shot, Dick's eyes grew brighter.
"Enough, child! Enough!" the old man said, his voice full of delight. "It is a genius I have found. A born warrior. Your stamina, your endurance—in battle, you will be able to loose a dozen arrows when other men have loosed but three." He clapped Gendry on the shoulder. "You need a good bow, lad. The best are made of dragonbone or the goldenheart of the Summer Isles, but those are treasures beyond price. Yew, weirwood, or horn will serve. I will see to it you have a bow worthy of your talent."
After practicing stances meant to prevent muscle strain, Dick had Gendry rest on a bench beside the range. "I hear you are from Westeros," he said.
"King's Landing," Gendry replied. "You as well?"
"Aye. A long time ago. I fled here, same as you," the old man said, a distant look in his eyes. "Have you ever heard of the Kingswood Brotherhood?"
"I have," Gendry said, a flicker of excitement running through him. "A band of outlaws. They still tell stories of them in the city." He recalled hearing a singer in a Flea Bottom tavern, singing a bawdy tune about outlaws who made the forest their castle, stealing gold and maidens with equal glee.
"The Smiling Knight," Dick murmured, as if counting treasures. "Big Belly Ben, Wenda the White Fawn, and old Osric, who was too long to hang properly." He chuckled at the memory. Gendry's mind raced. There was a Dickon in the stories of the Brotherhood.
"Are you that Dick? The fletcher?" Gendry asked, his voice full of a new reverence. This was Dickon Flowers, "Dick the Fletch," a living legend who was said to be the greatest archer of his time.
"I was," Dick nodded, his smile fading. "I was a member of the Brotherhood, a formidable bandit. Now, I am just an old instructor, making a living across the sea. Most of my companions are dead now, I'd wager." The Targaryens had fallen, and he could have returned home, but to what? The men who had hunted him—the White Bull, Gerold Hightower, and the Sword of the Morning—were also dead. Westeros was a place of ghosts for him now.
"I heard the Brotherhood was wiped out," Gendry said.
"Aye. In the Kingswood. A great battle. Jaime Lannister, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Barristan the Bold cornered some of our best, including our leader, Simon Toyne, and the Smiling Knight. Barristan cut down Simon, and the Sword of the Morning himself faced the Smiling Knight. A battle of legends… one our man lost. The others were captured soon after. But I was not among them. I was in the Stormlands, searching for good wood for our bows. When I heard the Knight was dead, I fled across the Narrow Sea."
"The Smiling Knight and the Sword of the Morning," Gendry repeated, fascinated.
"The Knight was half-mad, but he was a master of the sword," Dick recalled. "And Ser Arthur… I still cannot believe he died in some dusty corner of Dorne. He was the greatest swordsman of our generation." He looked at Gendry. "Are there any promising young men in Westeros these days?"
"The Knight of Flowers, they call him," Gendry replied, trying to think of others. It was still the same names he always heard: Barristan, Jaime Lannister, Bronze Yohn Royce.
"Flowers," Dick scoffed. "Pompous lordlings. Let them come. Once you have learned what we can teach you in the Wolf's Den, you will break them all. The Smiling Knight once killed a Tyrell, you know."
"Old man, are you telling your war stories again?" a familiar voice called out. It was Handsome, the infantry commander, walking over with a grin. He knew Dick's nostalgic habits well. "Come on, Iron Hammer," he said to Gendry. "The commander has a new mission for us."
Gendry said his goodbyes to the old archer and followed. For weeks, he had trained relentlessly—archery, swordsmanship, horsemanship. Now, it seemed, it was time to go to war.