On the vast plains outside Wolf's Den, four great banners fluttered proudly in the wind.
Behind the ranks of armored knights stood their escorts—Wolf Pack guards draped in black cloaks, their expressions cold and disciplined, and Unsullied soldiers wearing spiked helmets, standing like iron statues. The formation was neat, orderly, and imposing, a clear display of overwhelming force.
At the center of the camp, Gendry Baratheon led a horse forward by the reins.
Beside him walked Daenerys Targaryen.
The old knight Ser Barristan Selmy, the archer Anguy, and the silent Grey Wolf followed close behind, each keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings.
Gendry wore a fitted black studded jerkin, black breeches, and tall riding boots. A sigil rested against his chest, and in his palm he held a small silver horse, its craftsmanship exquisite. Though his attire was simple compared to a king's finery, it radiated authority earned through blood and victory.
Daenerys, in contrast, seemed almost otherworldly.
Her silver-gold hair shimmered in the sunlight, framing her delicate features and deep violet eyes. She wore a long gown of dark purple silk that flowed with the wind, its color accentuating her gaze. Though she was still young, still a maiden by age, the last true dragon possessed a beauty that transcended mortal standards—regal, distant, and dangerously alluring.
The horse Gendry led was no ordinary steed.
A young Dothraki mare, spirited and proud, her coat gleamed like the surface of a winter sea. Her mane flowed like drifting silver smoke, and her eyes were sharp with intelligence and untamed fire.
The moment Daenerys laid eyes on her, she stopped walking.
"She's… beautiful," Daenerys murmured softly.
The silver mane matched her hair so perfectly that it almost felt as though the gods themselves had shaped the horse for her.
"As long as you like her," Gendry said with a smile.
Many of the finest Dothraki horses had once belonged to Khal Drogo. After Drogo's death, Gendry had taken possession of a great number of superior mounts—spoils of conquest, acquired without cost. Over time, his stables had grown diverse and formidable: Dornish sand steeds, Ghiscari blood horses, and tall, powerful Dothraki warhorses, ideal for cavalry charges.
This silver mare was among the best.
Gendry stepped closer, wrapped an arm firmly around Daenerys's waist, and lifted her with effortless strength. Like a child, she was placed gently upon the narrow Dothraki saddle.
Daenerys grasped the reins with both hands and settled her feet into the low stirrups.
Her horsemanship had once been poor—awkward and unsteady—but constant riding had transformed her. Now, as the mare began to move, her posture was confident, natural.
Moments later, Daenerys was galloping freely across the plains.
Her laughter carried on the wind.
Ser Barristan watched with a gentle smile.
"The Princess is very fond of your gift, Your Grace."
Gendry nodded slightly, his gaze following Daenerys as she rode.
Ser Barristan himself looked resplendent. Gendry had gifted him a new suit of armor—gilded on the outside, meticulously forged, hard as ice and bright as fresh snow. It gleamed brilliantly under the sun. A dagger rested at one hip, a longsword at the other, both secured with a white leather belt fastened by gold buckles. A white cloak flowed from his shoulders.
On his helmet, one side bore the leaping stag, the other a soaring dragon.
Symbols of old loyalties, now united.
"This," Gendry said quietly, "is the wind—the power of freedom."
He mounted his black steed and followed Daenerys across the open fields. They rode for a while, enjoying the rare peace, until Daenerys eventually reined in her horse and dismounted.
She wished to see her dragons.
After handing the mare over to a guard, Daenerys walked toward Vhagar and Viserion, tending to them with practiced care. Blood called to blood, and the bond between dragon and rider needed no words.
Gendry, meanwhile, carried Balerion across his shoulders like a black-and-red scarf, the small dragon clinging lazily as he approached Ser Barristan.
"Your Grace," Ser Barristan began, his voice respectful but heavy, "I traveled with the longships to the Arbor, spreading your will and declaration as instructed. I regret to say… many Lords are still observing."
"That's fine," Gendry replied calmly. "The Reach and Dorne both have the luxury of waiting."
He glanced toward the horizon.
"The Reach is too rich. Dorne is too dangerous. They won't commit until the outcome becomes clearer."
The Baratheon dynasty had already collapsed beyond repair. With the death of King Robert, it had fractured completely. No declaration or will could save it now.
Gendry would reshape the realm through strength alone.
Dorne remained inactive. The Reach had begun to deliberate rather than oppose outright.
That alone was progress.
"There is also troubling news regarding your two uncles," Ser Barristan said carefully. "They know of the late king's death and the contents of the will… but they continue to act independently. Lord Renly is said to be preparing to declare himself king. Lord Stannis remains silent."
Gendry's eyes hardened.
With Robert dead, two great powder kegs had exploded.
First, House Lannister's recklessness—the lion marching against the trout, provoking not only House Tully but also drawing the attention of the direwolf and the falcon.
Second, Renly Baratheon's ambition.
Renly was the youngest brother. He stood behind older brothers—and their heirs—in the line of succession. His claim was thin to the point of absurdity. To rebel solely through military strength revealed how mad the times had become.
Yet because the Reach hesitated, Renly's momentum weakened.
"Let Renly stir chaos," Gendry said coldly. "As for Stannis… I will speak with him when the time comes."
He paused.
"Stormlands is not the heart of this war."
"The heart lies in the Riverlands."
Ser Barristan nodded gravely.
"Your Grace, the situation in the Riverlands is dire. House Tully has been completely defeated. Jaime Lannister is besieging Riverrun, and Lord Tywin marches toward Harrenhal with twenty thousand men."
"Unless the North or the Vale intervenes, House Tully will fall."
Anguy clicked his tongue.
"How could Edmure Tully be so incompetent? The Kingslayer lays siege, Tywin sweeps through the land, and the Riverlords scatter like frightened fish."
He continued bitterly, "Tywin crossed the Red Fork via the Gold Road, crushing every stronghold in his path. Only Riverrun, the Twins, and Seagard remain—and even those stand on borrowed time."
Ser Barristan sighed deeply.
"It was not always like this. In the days when Minisa Harroway married Lord Hoster Tully, House Harroway was one of the wealthiest families in the Riverlands. The Tourney at Harrenhal during the false spring was legendary."
"And now?" He shook his head. "All but gone."
"Perhaps the curse of Harrenhal is real," Anguy muttered.
Gendry frowned slightly.
"A curse… perhaps Qyburn would have thoughts on that."
Ser Barristan continued bluntly, "Edmure lacks his father's political sense and his command is mediocre. Even Lord Hoster relied more on marriage than military brilliance."
"In Robert's Rebellion, it was Robert and Eddard Stark who carried the war."
"You're saying Edmure should have ambushed Tywin at the Red Fork," Gendry said calmly.
"Yes. His heart is kind, but his vision is small."
Gendry was silent for a moment.
Then he spoke.
"I will go to the Riverlands."
Ser Barristan froze.
"Now?" he asked. "That is… extremely dangerous."
"Robb Stark marches south, but slowly," Gendry said. "He wants to save Riverrun."
"I can do it faster."
Barristan frowned deeply.
"To move troops by sea requires time. If Lord Stannis blocks us—"
"Then I won't rely on Essos," Gendry interrupted with a faint smile. "I'll raise soldiers in Westeros itself."
Barristan's eyes widened.
"The Claw Peninsula… or the Vale?"
"The risk is great," Gendry admitted. "But so is the reward."
"The people are like water. They follow those who protect them."
He turned toward the horizon.
"I'm not saving the Riverlands for House Tully."
"I'm saving it from them."
Once the mouths of the rivers were controlled, the North's throat would be in his grasp.
And the war… would truly begin.
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