Anguy's eyes followed the arrows piercing the distant targets, each one striking the bullseye with unnerving precision. His own arrows had hit perfectly, yet Lord Gendry's were different. Each of Gendry's shots seemed to cleave through Anguy's arrows in midair, striking the center with uncanny force. The precision, the sheer power, and the speed—all while clad in black scale plate armor—was nothing short of divine. Anguy's heart sank. He had trained for years, honed his skill with painstaking diligence, yet here was a young king who outshone him effortlessly in both strength and finesse.
The Ragged Prince, watching silently from nearby, could only marvel at the display. He had heard of Gendry's prowess in battle, but this demonstration in archery surpassed even his expectations. This was a man whose abilities in horsemanship, combat, and strength were nearly unparalleled. Yet such a person, so powerful, would be difficult to command—a fact that both intrigued and unsettled the old mercenary.
"I've lost," Anguy muttered, his youthful confidence evaporating. His shoulders slumped, and his freckled face grew pale. Gendry's black scale plate armor seemed to absorb not only light but the archer's own sense of pride.
"Boy," Gendry said gently as Anguy approached, bow in hand, "you are a genius."
Anguy shook his head, dejected. "Not anymore," he muttered.
"Do not be discouraged, young man," the Arrow Maker said, clapping a hand on Anguy's shoulder. "Your talent is exceptional. You simply faced someone extraordinary. With proper training and the right equipment, your skill could rival any archer in history."
Anguy studied the Arrow Maker, the old man who had been present but quiet throughout the competition. "You mean… with better bows and arrows?" he asked.
"Exactly," the Arrow Maker replied, pointing to Anguy's bow. "Longer limbs, finer balance—your aim would be unstoppable."
Anguy nodded thoughtfully, then snatched his bow back with a grin. "I want my gold dragons, Lord Gendry," he said boldly, his youthful pride resurfacing.
"I'll give them to you," Gendry replied with a smile. "But remember, I did beat you fair and square."
Anguy hesitated. "Then what do you want in return?"
"I want something unique," Gendry said, leaning closer. "I want you to follow me."
Anguy froze. Never had he felt such weight behind words. He had arrived at the tourney to earn gold, perhaps gain fame, yet the recognition of a king—the respect shown to him—was intoxicating. He had faced countless opponents, but this acknowledgment, coupled with Gendry's skill and dignity, stirred a deep admiration within him.
"Let me think, my lord," Anguy said cautiously. "I still wish to compete in King's Landing; the prizes there are legendary."
"You will not lose opportunity," Gendry assured him. "I will grant you the champion's thousand gold dragons and a monthly stipend. You will train, spar, and compete under my guidance. Glory, wealth, and honor await, but only if you choose to stand with me."
Anguy's eyes shone. Gold alone could tempt many, but respect, trust, and opportunity alongside a master archer and a wise, just ruler—this was rare. "I've decided," he said finally. "But not just for gold. I follow because you respect me, and I respect you in return."
"We respect each other," Gendry said simply, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"And… can I have robes and armor like this?" Anguy asked softly. The offer of service was one thing, but recognition and identity within Gendry's ranks made it official.
"Of course," Gendry said. "Titles do not matter here. Military positions are clear: soldier, sergeant, officer. Your skill and loyalty will define your path."
The Unsullied presented Anguy with a new robe, embroidered with Gendry's quartered banner emblem. Soon, he would also be offered scale armor, leather, or lamellar—his choice. The Arrow Maker, noticing the young archer's hesitance, interjected.
"Your skill is extraordinary, but there is always room for improvement," the old man said quietly.
"Who are you?" Anguy asked, curiosity and respect mingling.
"I am known as the Arrow Maker," the old man replied. "Once, I was counted among the greatest archers in history."
Anguy's eyes widened. "The Arrow Maker? Still alive?" He blinked in disbelief, the weight of history pressing down on him. "Then my loss… it wasn't unfair."
Meanwhile, far from the tournament grounds, the road to King's Landing wound gently across verdant fields. Sansa, riding beside Joffrey, allowed herself to savor the calm. The warmth of the riverlands, the soft rustle of the trees, and the lively chatter of the countryside reminded her of a world beyond Winterfell. It was a stark contrast to the cold, austere North, and Sansa felt a pang of longing for this beauty to endure.
She thought of her mother, who had grown up near the Three Rivers, and imagined how much she would adore the warmth and vibrancy of this land. Everything seemed perfect—except for Arya and Jon. Sansa's thoughts drifted uncomfortably.
Arya, unpredictable and wild, was the antithesis of the well-behaved girls Sansa admired. She preferred order and propriety, whereas Arya thrived in chaos, befriending anyone and everyone, from attendants to stable boys, even the low-born and foul-mouthed. Mikke, the butcher's apprentice, was perhaps the wildest of all.
Jon, too, frustrated Sansa. Whispers of her father Eddard's honor and the perceived slights against Jon stoked her irritation. She wished Bran had accompanied them instead; he would not have caused such tension.
Her relief came in the form of Joffrey, whose presence was a balm. She remembered her mother's lessons: to learn to be a lady, to recognize honor, and to seek marriage to a worthy knight. Joffrey, tall and handsome, seemed to fulfill every expectation.
The Small Council had dispatched emissaries to welcome the royal party, including Lord Renly, Ser Barristan, and Ser Ilyn. Their presence only deepened Sansa's admiration.
Ser Barristan, clad in intricately enameled white scale plate armor, gleamed like fresh snow. His white hair mirrored the purity of his armor, and a snow-white cloak, symbolizing the Kingsguard, flowed from his shoulders. Every movement was measured, elegant, and commanding.
Lord Renly, only twenty, wore deep green steel armor that shimmered like a dense forest. Tall, robust, with shoulder-length black hair, he carried a stag-antlered helmet with golden tips. His blue eyes sparkled with mirth, a perfect match for his youthful confidence.
Ser Ilyn, however, exuded an aura of intimidation. The tales of the Mad King and the brutal punishment he had inflicted lent weight to Ilyn's terrifying presence, causing even Sansa to shrink back.
Confused, Sansa turned to Joffrey. "Your Highness, what have I done wrong? Why won't he speak?"
Lord Renly chuckled softly. "Our Ser Ilyn has not been much for talking these past sixteen years."
Joffrey's golden hair gleamed under the sun as he led Sansa gently by the hand. "Aerys Targaryen had his tongue pulled out with hot pincers," he reminded her solemnly. Despite the grim lesson, Sansa felt safe in his presence.
"Mother," Sansa began, seeking guidance, "I was to meet Myrcella, but…?"
"The Queen said your meeting must wait. Matters of state take precedence," Joffrey replied gently. "Come, my lady. I shall accompany you and ensure your honor is preserved."
Sansa felt a rush of happiness. She followed Joffrey, leaving her Direwolf and The Hound behind, and walked west along the Trident River's north bank. Joffrey drew a small, beautifully forged longsword—a miniature yet deadly weapon, double-edged and gleaming steel, with a hilt wrapped in fine leather and a golden lion's head at its pommel. "Lion's Tooth," he called it proudly. Sansa marveled at the craftsmanship, and Joffrey beamed at her delight.
Together, they strolled toward adventure, royalty and commoner, lion and wolf, forging a bond in the warmth of the Riverlands as distant echoes of tournaments and battles lingered on the wind.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)