Among the guards and bannermen who entered the camp with Robb Stark was a female knight as well. Gendry recognized at a glance that she was one of the Mormonts. Over her armor she wore a green surcoat, a bear standing amid green woods.
Dacey Mormont, eldest daughter of Lady Maege Mormont and heir to Bear Island, was long-limbed and fully six feet tall. At an age when other girls were still playing with dolls, she had already been swinging a flail.
"Robb, your guard isn't a standing one, is it?" Gendry asked.
"No. Most of them are young men, though there is one girl as well." Robb nodded and pointed to Dacey.
Each day, Robb rode beside different bannermen, learning their families while also bestowing honor on them. The choosing of his personal guard worked much the same way. Every guard selected was an honor Robb granted to that man's house.
"Sons of bannermen, the hostage Theon, and men from the mountain clans." Gendry looked over the guards. Almost all of them were sons of the North, loyal to House Stark.
As Robb entered the camp, he saw the cheering Crackclaw soldiers. Soldiers only worshipped victorious generals. The devotion born of victory was not the same as the reverence born of bloodline and rank.
Father, I can't read the faces of the northern nobles, and I can't read the face of power either, Robb thought, feeling strangely hollow and lost. Set wolf beside stag, and the gap was simply too wide. Worse than when his father rose with Robert all those years ago. Others would think he was no more than a son living off the shadow of his forebears, while Gendry was like a conqueror returned to life, impossible to stop.
The Young Wolf had meant to earn glory on the battlefield, but now many of the battles ahead of him had already been fought. In strength, in military merit, in territory, he was far behind Robert's heir. Even his great-uncle the Blackfish would likely leave him soon enough. The Riverlands had already chosen their king.
"You're kin to Jorah?" Gendry asked Dacey deliberately.
"I am the niece of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont of the Night's Watch, the heir and eldest daughter of Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island. Ser Jorah... Jorah is my cousin. He is a criminal of the North. When Lord Eddard went to pass sentence on him, he fled..." Dacey paused.
"Jorah misses his kin on Bear Island often enough as well."
"But he is a criminal. He ought to go to the Wall," Dacey said to Gendry with great seriousness. Heir Gendry was the most handsome and vigorous young warrior Dacey had ever seen in her life, and she could not understand why someone so brilliant would speak in defense of her cousin.
Gendry smiled and said nothing more. Perhaps Jorah's feelings had already become that fear of homecoming that grows stronger the closer one gets. Unless he received a formal royal pardon, he likely had no wish to set foot in Westeros, let alone face his kin.
"That's enough, Dacey," Robb said, cutting off his female guard.
When they entered the vast tent, the brazier inside gave off a pleasant warmth, yet Robb found it hard to bear. He took the chief seat opposite Gendry, beside him but not equal, and the meaning was clear enough. Allies were not the same as lord and subject.
Robb already knew that his mother Catelyn and his elder kinsman Brynden would only arrive later. For now, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and face it. Northmen were plain and rough by nature. Most of them were little more than blunt men with few schemes in their heads.
"So this is how you treat your guests?" Greatjon suddenly bellowed, pointing beside Gendry. "Why can't our Young Lord Robb sit in that seat? If this is where you mean to put us, I'll turn the army around and head straight home."
Ser Barristan frowned. "Lord Jon." Northmen were like this. Robb's authority was far from absolute.
Gendry looked at Greatjon. He was the very image of a musclebound brute, much the same sort as the Mountain. Jon Umber was a towering man, nearly seven feet tall. His body was packed with thick muscle, and he was a fearsome warrior to behold. Members of House Umber were often huge of frame, fond of noise and uproar, and their sigil was a giant.
Most Northmen were simple enough. They trusted fists and whips. Men like Bolton were the minority. These northern lords needed to feel the lash before they would bleat obediently.
"Greatjon." Robb frowned slightly, instantly sensing trouble. He started to rise, ready to rebuke the fool. He should never have brought this idiot with him, however loyal the oaf might be.
Robb understood well enough that the meeting of stag and wolf had been led entirely by the stag, just as his father had once helped the king seize the Iron Throne. But bowing down as a vassal would inevitably mean burdens and obligations, and right now he had little connection with the wild stag, whose strength far surpassed that of the North. What Robb had not expected was for the Greatjon, this reckless brute, to be the first to act.
"You had best keep your bannerman under control, Robb," Gendry said with a smile, then turned his eyes to Greatjon.
The bond between lord and bannerman was stable enough in this age, but never absolute. It was a bond of fealty, yes, but also one full of conflict, and a bannerman's loyalty was always a matter of circumstance. Even under the Targaryen dynasty, King Maekar had died putting down the Peake uprising. The Mad King had been lured to Duskendale and shamefully humiliated there.
"It seems that before I deal with the Lannisters, I'll have to hang you first as an oathbreaker, Lord Jon," Gendry said.
"Hmph. I'm not as stupid as some others. You, green as fresh grass, cut down the Kingslayer?" Greatjon had started to curse, but he was not completely witless. After provoking Robb before, he had already lost several fingers to Grey Wind's teeth. Still, Greatjon was acting on pride now, and once he had set himself against someone, he was bound to push through stubbornly. Even so, as he looked at Gendry, he still refused to believe this hard-faced youth could have beaten the Kingslayer. Most likely, he thought, it was all boastful talk.
"Lord Gendry, I'm sorry. I'll rein in my bannerman at once," Robb said immediately.
"Draw your sword." Gendry rose to his feet and spoke to Greatjon with grave seriousness. "There's little amusement to be had in camp. We may as well test each other."
Most Northmen were wild and hard to tame. Power was not something that passed smoothly by blood alone. Even Robb had been challenged and looked down on from the very start, not to mention all the scheming besides. But Greatjon, for all that he was simple-minded, at least knew how to accept a wager's outcome. This was a good chance to show these Northmen something.
It did not take long for the space beneath the wooden platform outside the tent to turn lively. Soldiers quickly gathered in a ring on the open ground below. Two towering warriors stood atop the platform, one a black-haired storm of six and a half feet, the other a northern giant standing nearly seven.
"Victory!"
"Victory!"
"Glory to the storm!" the soldiers shouted first.
Greatjon drew the biggest and ugliest greatsword Gendry had ever seen. Gendry had a soldier bring up a sword for him as well, a heavy blunt-edged iron sword.
Greatjon sprang forward. He had even meant to leave this formidable man a shred of dignity, so as not to make him look too foolish. When Greatjon swung his huge sword, it was like a mountain splitting apart. His strength truly was astonishing.
Steel crashed against steel with a deafening metallic roar. Greatjon pressed the attack. For a man of his size, his speed was barely nimble enough, but Gendry defended with the ease of a man taking a stroll, dealing with every blow smoothly and never taking the offensive himself.
Sword-light flashed everywhere. On the platform it was like two giants fighting, two savage beasts loosed from their cages. Though Greatjon still looked relaxed on the surface, inwardly he was beginning to grow wary. Anyone who could take so many of his blows head-on was clearly no easy opponent.
Below, Robb watched with his heart hammering. Greatjon was not only the loudest of them, but also the most reckless brute.
"Don't worry, Robb," Theon said softly to him. "Storm's men all look perfectly at ease, as if victory is already in hand. If the Kingslayer really was crushed in the Whispering Wood and had his hand cut off by Storm, then Greatjon might truly lose." For all the Kingslayer's infamy, no one doubted his actual skill.
"Is that all you can do?" Gendry asked.
"Not even close!" Greatjon roared, throwing himself into the fiercest assault he could muster.
"Hah." Gendry's arms seemed to split into many as the heavy blunt sword whistled through the air. Greatjon was powerful enough, but in the end he still fell short in agility.
Greatjon could hardly believe his eyes. The blunt sword struck hard at one of the weak points in his armor, right at the join. The force behind it was even more violent than his own, let alone his opponent's agility, swift as a hunting leopard. In both strength and speed, he was beaten.
"Ah!" The first blow smashed into Greatjon beneath the ribs. Had Gendry used a little more force, his ribs might well have broken. In the confusion, Greatjon swung his greatsword wildly, but Gendry had already slipped behind him and brought the blunt sword crashing into his knee, quick as an afterimage.
Greatjon had no time even to struggle. Like a mountain of flesh, he crashed to his knees on the platform. He managed, in a flurry, to jam his huge sword into the boards to keep himself from toppling face-first in total humiliation.
Gendry lowered the blunt sword and looked at the defeated Greatjon. His gaze was sharp and bright, like the tip of a drawn blade.
"I lost. You are a true warrior, a true son of the storm." Greatjon lowered his greatsword, dropped to one knee at Gendry's feet, and apologized sincerely.
Below, Dacey Mormont had seen it all clearly. It was a display of pure, crushing force, every blow landing true. Unmatched.
"Victory!"
"Glory to the storm!"
For a moment the whole camp stirred with excitement. War drums, horns, and whistles all erupted at once.
Robb's heart sank. How much control would he still have left at the negotiating table now?
Just then, Catelyn, the Blackfish, and several northern lords arriving on the scene witnessed the astonishing sight. Robb's strongest man, Greatjon, was kneeling, and had been utterly beaten.
And now Greatjon had turned into yet another loud admirer of Gendry. This stag might still be young, but he was the strongest warrior alive, far stronger than that luckless Robert in the grave. Following him all the way through had not been the wrong choice.
Gendry came down from the platform with the laughing Greatjon and went first to greet Catelyn. Though Gendry did not care for Catelyn, appearances still had to be kept.
"Lady Catelyn," Gendry said. "I deeply regret what happened in King's Landing as well."
Catelyn gathered in the countless thoughts churning inside her. What her uncle the Blackfish had told her was enough to make her mind feel as though it would shatter. If Lysa really was the murderer, then it was her own rash actions that had doomed Eddard and her daughters. Catelyn felt dazed and half-lost now.
"I never expected to see you here, Prince Gendry," Catelyn said. She wanted to save her daughters and see her old father. She also knew that her son had to make his position clear today. If he had to bend the knee, then at the very least it should be done from a better angle.
Gendry is not Robert, and Robb and the others are not foster brothers, she reminded herself silently. But all I can do is pray that they become as close as brothers. Catelyn had always hated bastards most of all, but the times were stronger than personal feeling. They had no choice now.
"Prince Gendry, allow me to introduce the lords under my command," Robb said.
"The honor is mine."
"Lord Roose Bolton." Roose's eyes were like dirty ice. He was neither fat nor thin, and there was little about him that felt northern. Yet his manner toward Gendry was surprisingly deferential.
"The Dreadfort stands ready to serve."
"Lord Rickard Karstark." The Karstarks were a branch of House Stark. Their men were tall and broad, with fierce faces, thick beards, and hair falling past their shoulders. Their cloaks were made from the pelts of bear, seal, and wolf.
"Karhold as well."
"Ser Wylis and his brother Ser Wendel." The two Manderly brothers were astonishingly fat, much like their father. Wylis was quiet and polite, while Wendel was loud and rough-voiced. Both wore huge walrus-like beards, both were bald as a newborn babe's backside, and nearly every garment they wore bore food stains.
"White Harbor welcomes your arrival."
...
Sword belts hung all around the great tent. After a short while, the Blackfish entered with Catelyn and the others.
Gendry sat at the top. The Northmen sat along one side below, while the knights of the Vale, Crackclaw Point, and the Riverlands sat along the other.
Of the four great houses beneath House Stark in the North, Bolton, Manderly, Karstark, and Dustin had all sent men south. But some among them had held back their elite troops instead of gambling everything at once.
The camp east of the river was full of celebration. Concertina and flute began to sound, and the singers struck up a song.
"What tune is that? I've never heard it before," Theon could not help muttering.
"It's called The Stag of the Night," Anguy said proudly. "It commemorates Breaker's great victories. The battle in the Whispering Wood, the relief of Riverrun, and the taking of The Twins."
Theon's expression turned awkward, and he only laughed it off.
"To your victory, Prince Gendry, for relieving Riverrun and taking The Twins," Robb said after a moment's thought, rising with his cup in hand. The Northmen's anxiety was carved into their very bones. Their hostages were in the Red Keep, their ally the Riverlands had already thrown in with the stag, the Vale could not be relied on, and now even marching south depended on another man's leave.
"Let us raise our cups. I sincerely wish Lord Gendry victory without end!" the Blackfish said, rising as well.
"Victory to the storm!"
"Victory to the storm!"
All the cups struck together with a clear ringing sound, as if laughter could hide the negotiations still to come.
"Let us drink to the friendship between stag and direwolf," Gendry said, lifting his cup and leading the toast.
"To friendship!"
"To friendship!"