"Pentos is the closest of the Free Cities to King's Landing," the Ragged Prince began softly, his voice measured, almost conspiratorial. "Ships sail from Pentos to the capital every day. It is wealthy, yet vulnerable. Taking Pentos would greatly benefit your cause. Strategically, it is profitable."
Gendry listened carefully. The Ragged Prince's ambition was measured; he did not overreach. He sought a return, not conquest, understanding the limits imposed by history and circumstance.
"No," the Prince muttered to himself, more quietly now, a grim shadow crossing his features. "Pentos betrayed me first. Those damned Magisters wanted me dead. If they treat me this way, I will repay them." Hatred, he knew, endured longer than friendship; it was patient, precise, and deeply rooted.
"You are persuasive," Gendry said, studying the Ragged Prince intently. "But have you considered the forces that depend on Pentos? The Khals, the Braavosi?"
The Ragged Prince's eyes narrowed. "Pentos may appear serene and prosperous, but it is shielded by powerful interests. The Khals delight in extorting its wealth, while Braavos considers it within their sphere of influence. Provoking either would be… unwise."
"After leaving Pentos, how long have you been wandering, fighting abroad?" Gendry asked.
"Over thirty years," the Prince replied. Time had etched itself across his face in wrinkles and scars, turning the once-vibrant young man into a hardened veteran. He had fled Pentos to the Disputed Lands, never returning to his homeland, and had survived decades in the mercenary world by skill and cunning.
"Forgive my eagerness," the Ragged Prince said, a trace of apology in his tone. "I saw a glimmer of hope and forgot myself. I have long awaited the chance to return to Pentos."
Gendry smiled. "Who would blame an old man for homesickness?"
The Ragged Prince's jaw tightened subtly. He disliked being called old, though by the standards of the Disputed Lands, he truly was. Compared to the Dothraki, he might have been considered frail, yet decades of battle had tempered him into something far more resilient.
"I am old, yes," he admitted quietly, a shadow of melancholy passing through his eyes. "So much so that I must plead for cooperation from new powers. Yet, if these old bones can still fight on horseback, I will stand ready. My two thousand men are seasoned warriors, loyal and disciplined. I still maintain connections within Pentos that may prove useful."
"Very well, Prince," Gendry said, his voice steady, tinged with approval. "I am always generous to those loyal to me. Talent and loyalty are what matter."
"I value loyalty above all," the Prince echoed firmly. "I hate traitors. Every deserter, every coward who swore allegiance and then fled, receives my punishment. If captured, I ensure they cannot run again—one foot cut off if fortunate, or worse, handed to the Pretty Marys. I once caught a deserter who complained about our food. I cut off his leg, cooked it, and made him eat it. Afterward, he became the Windblown's chief cook, and our food improved. His next contract was renewed willingly."
Gendry chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Your methods are… effective. Mercenaries and soldiers differ, yet I need only one kind of follower: those loyal to me. I presume you have heard of the Second Sons and the Spear Company. They now answer to me fully. I require obedience, not cleverness or self-interest."
The Ragged Prince nodded, understanding the implication. Mercenaries thrived on opportunity, blood, and gold, yet their loyalty was fleeting without a master capable of commanding respect. In the presence of tens of thousands, his two thousand men were insignificant; he had no authority, no leverage over strategy or battle outcomes. Only alignment with a stronger power could grant him purpose.
"Ten, twenty years ago, I would have refused outright," the Ragged Prince admitted. "But after thirty years, of the six who founded the Windblown, only I remain. I will consider your terms."
"I await your good news," Gendry replied calmly, the words carrying weight that only experience could understand. Only the Ragged Prince knew the true conflict within himself: pride, ambition, and the faint hope of redemption.
Below the high platform, cheers suddenly erupted. "Hooray!" voices rang out across the tournament grounds, signaling the emergence of a new star in the competition.
Dick the Fletch, excited and wide-eyed, ascended the platform in haste. "I've found a marksman!" the Arrow Maker announced.
Gendry's interest piqued. Archers were a critical asset, and the Arrow Maker had a reputation for discerning true talent. The young champion had already demonstrated exceptional skill.
"Did Black Billy or the archers from the Summer Isles participate?" Gendry asked.
"No," Dick replied, shaking his head. "Goldenheart Longspears weren't allowed in this tournament. The archers were skilled, but none could match this marksman. He has already won the championship."
Gendry, Jorah, the Ragged Prince, and Dick approached the archery range. There stood a tall, slender young man with red hair, freckles, and an air of quiet confidence. Though from the Marches of Dorne, he held himself with a dignity far beyond his common birth.
"What is your name?" Gendry asked.
"Anguy, my lord," the young archer replied, wary of the legendary liberator standing before him. Even in the remote Marches of Dorne, tales of Gendry's prowess had reached him.
Anguy's eyes were keen, as was typical for an archer. He studied Gendry's black scale plate armor, the quartered banners emblazoned with dragons and wolves, the unmistakable symbols of freed slaves, and the imposing warhammer at Gendry's side. Surrounded by spectators, Gendry seemed the embodiment of power itself.
"Those gold dragons," Anguy muttered quietly, "I've already won them. They won't be taken from me, will they?"
"Are you questioning His Highness's credibility?" Ser Jorah asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not at all," Gendry replied with a smile. "But I propose a wager."
"What kind of wager?" Anguy asked cautiously, eager but uncertain. Gold dragons were not trivial rewards—they were a fortune in themselves.
"You are confident in your archery?" Gendry asked, nodding toward the target.
Anguy looked down at his bow and quiver, pride and determination in his eyes. "I trust my skill. I have no equal—for now."
"Then show me your mastery," Gendry said, gesturing toward the distant targets. Five arrows already marked the bullseye. Anguy's hands were steady as he released them, each striking precisely at the center.
"I will challenge you," Gendry said.
"My lord, surely this is improper," Anguy protested. "I am already the champion."
"Just one round," Gendry said, his smile calm and confident. "If I lose, you keep your gold dragons. If I win, I claim the set. Should I fail, I will grant you an additional set as well."
Anguy relaxed, realizing the wager was fair, the King's word binding. Ser Jorah whispered about bringing Gendry's renowned bows, but Gendry shook his head. "No need. I'll use his bow and arrows."
Anguy exhaled in relief. There was something intimate, almost respectful, about a master archer using his own equipment.
Gendry adjusted the bow to his grip, noting its texture and balance. He felt the wind, the sunlight, the slight tension in the air. Each arrow required perfect harmony of mind, body, and environment. Time seemed to slow as he drew, aimed, and released.
"Whoosh!"
"Whoosh!"
"Whoosh!"
Gendry's arrows struck true, piercing the bullseyes with precision and consistency. Anguy's heart sank. He had met his match, yet the humility and composure of the young liberator left him awestruck.
"There are still masters in the world," Anguy muttered, a mixture of frustration and awe in his voice.
"See?" Dick said proudly. "I told you, there's an even greater archer here."
Gendry nodded silently, lowering the bow. Around them, the wind carried the faintest scent of oak and leather, the sounds of cheering blending with the distant clang of swords. Loyalty, skill, and ambition intertwined in a delicate dance of power, each player testing the limits of their influence, their abilities, and their choices.
And in that moment, the true game of loyalty and betrayal began.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)