In the pastures beyond the Wolf's Den, the wind rolled over the grass like a low tide. Gendry stood alone at the edge of the field, holding the will King Robert had left behind. He did not feel grief, nor joy—only a steady, tempered calm, like iron cooling after the forge.
The parchment was stained with old blood. Robert's seal had been pressed into the wax with a heavy, impatient hand, as if the king had known he had little time left. Biological father or not, Robert Baratheon had given him a final gift—one that would set the Seven Kingdoms ablaze.
Anguy, Grey Wolf, Qyburn, and several others stood a short distance away, silent and watchful.
"Is this why you've come?" Gendry asked, turning to face Ser Barristan Selmy.
The old knight stood straight-backed despite his years. Barristan the Bold—slayer of Maelys Blackfyre, rescuer of the Mad King, living legend of the Kingsguard. His white armor was gone now, replaced by the plain garb of a traveler, but the dignity remained. His blue eyes carried a deep, enduring sadness.
"Yes," Barristan said. "And perhaps I should address you properly—Your Majesty. You are the rightful king."
Gendry studied him in silence.
Barristan had traveled hard. He, Jon, and several Northmen had slipped out through the Kingswood, found a ship at Cape of Maysse, and sailed for Myr. Speed had mattered more than ceremony. Disguises had mattered more than honor.
The old knight looked at the young man before him—black-haired, blue-eyed, tall and powerfully built, nearly six and a half feet. For a fleeting moment, Barristan felt as though he were seeing Robert in his youth: fierce, unbroken, burning with life.
Along the road, Barristan had heard many rumors. The most shocking of all was the death of Khal Drogo. From that alone, he sensed something familiar in Gendry—a warrior who bowed to no one.
"You are the king," Anguy said at last, astonished. "Your Highness."
Gendry exhaled softly. "How many would believe it? As you said, Ser Barristan, this will was witnessed only by you and Lord Eddard. It bears no royal seal."
Barristan's voice tightened. "But it is the king's will. I swear it by my honor as a knight."
"Your honor is unquestioned," Gendry replied with a faint smile, handing the parchment to Qyburn. "But the realm is not ruled by honor alone."
"Lord Eddard was also a witness," Barristan continued, his shoulders sagging. "But he feared for his daughters. He insisted on escorting the king's body back to King's Landing."
Gendry's fingers tightened briefly.
He had expected this. One moment of hesitation, one choice made for family instead of power, and Eddard Stark had placed himself on the edge of a blade.
"I will save him," Gendry said firmly. "Lord Eddard is a pillar of the realm."
Barristan searched his face and saw no doubt there—only preparation.
"Your uncle, Lord Stannis, should also have received Eddard's letter," Barristan said. "I did not go myself. I entrusted it to others."
Gendry caught the phrasing immediately. "You don't trust him."
"Stannis Baratheon was once loyal beyond reproach," Barristan said slowly. "But this is the Iron Throne. Power changes men. If I were detained on Dragonstone, my duty would have failed."
"Stannis has ships but few men," Gendry said. "Let him weigh his choices."
Barristan hesitated, then sighed. "Lord Renly is worse. He fled the capital the moment Robert died. He will raise his own banner."
"So he wants more," Gendry said calmly.
Barristan stepped forward and sank to one knee. "My king's last wish was to see you on the throne. Allow me to serve you, Your Majesty."
Qyburn's voice cut in smoothly. "According to King's Landing, Ser Barristan, you have been stripped of your title as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and declared a traitor."
Barristan inclined his head. "Then this is my honor."
Gendry helped him rise. "Then I appoint you my Warhammer Guard."
He placed a black cloak over Barristan's shoulders. Upon it were four symbols, embroidered in stark contrast: a warhammer, a red dragon, a wolf pack, and broken chains—the mark of liberated slaves.
"You should fly the banner of House Baratheon," Barristan said quietly.
Gendry smiled but did not answer.
"When the dwarf king branded me a traitor," Barristan continued, "I knew I must find the true king. Your father once wished Princess Daenerys dead. Tell me—was she truly pregnant?"
"Whose lie was that?" Gendry replied coldly. "She is still a girl."
"Varys's whispers," Barristan admitted. "We believed them."
"Varys…" Gendry's smile sharpened. "Very good."
"The Seven Kingdoms need a true king," Gendry said. "But they will soon have a dwarf king and a traitor king as well. Send for Jon."
Grey Wolf returned with Jon Snow, his face drawn tight with worry.
"I will swear loyalty to you," Jon said. "But my father and my sisters are prisoners. My heart cannot rest."
"I will rescue Lord Eddard," Gendry promised.
Jon bowed deeply. "Then I am yours."
Ser Barristan ushered Jon away. "The king has weightier matters."
"The Iron Throne has demanded oaths," Barristan said. "Those who refuse are declared traitors."
Qyburn read the names aloud. As the list grew, the truth became clear.
"Dragonstone, the Stormlands, the Vale, the Reach, Dorne, and the North have not submitted," Barristan said grimly.
"Then we move faster," Gendry said. "My longships will carry my will to every shore."
He dictated his decree—his lineage, his claim, his accusation against the Lannisters. When it was done, the war had already begun.
"Will you not be crowned?" Barristan asked.
"In time," Gendry said. "First comes blood."
He planted his sword into the earth and looked up at the blood-red comet burning across the sky.
Power demanded sacrifice. Only one would stand at the end.
"I am the Storm," Gendry said softly. "I am the Glory. I am the Victory."
And the wind seemed to answer him.
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