At the archery range of the Wolf's Den camp, the longbow master-at-arms was teaching Gendry how to shoot. The targets were bundles of hay and straw, the bullseye set more than fifty yards away.
"Just call me Dick, lad!" said a pale-haired old man in a green tunic, eyeing Gendry with open admiration. "It's been a long time since the Wolf Pack took in a newcomer. I was starting to think I'd forgotten how to train apprentices. The Wolf Pack favors Westerosi men, but with all our rules, we've never really grown."
"Alright," Gendry said as he took the longbow. It was a tall Purpleheart greatbow.
He found it novel that the one teaching him wasn't Black Billy, the famed master from the Summer Isles, but this other old man instead.
"Good lad. I've never seen such a fine natural build," Dick said. "But remember, even the best steel needs forging."
In his eyes, a warrior should be solid, broad-chested, and full of muscle.
"Too many people obsess over swordsmanship and neglect the bow. That's foolish. In battle, whether it's a longbow, a greatsword, or a Morningstar, you use whatever's in your hands, whatever works best. Don't think too much. Take position first, then strike."
Gendry pulled on his gloves and ran his hand along the bow. A bow was a dangerous thing. Drawing with bare fingers could easily tear skin or split a nail on the string.
"Good. Now!"
Gendry nocked an arrow, drew the bow, and aimed at the target ahead. His mind was steady as stone. He caught the wind's breathing and loosed a clean, graceful shot. The arrow flew true, though it landed just off the bullseye.
"Not bad at all, lad!"
Dick followed him, drawing his own bow in a motion as smooth as summer silk. He released, and the arrow struck dead center.
"Well?" Dick asked as he stepped back.
"That was incredible!" Gendry applauded, genuinely impressed by the old man's skill.
"The wind," Dick said. "Always mind the wind, boy. You've sharp eyes and steady hands. I don't often see talent like yours. But the battlefield is chaos. You have to sense the wind instantly. Simply hitting the target means little. Fast and accurate—that's what makes a master."
"Now shoot a few more. Don't force it. Stop before you strain your muscles. Let me see how much strength you really have."
Dick watched him with clear anticipation.
Gendry lifted the longbow again and fired several shots in succession. His breathing remained even, his stance unshaken. None struck the exact center, but every arrow landed solidly on the target.
Dick's eyes grew brighter with each shot.
"That's enough, lad. You can stop now," Dick said cheerfully. "I've found a true talent. A born warrior. Your stamina is better than most, your endurance stronger. In a real fight, you'll be able to loose several more rounds than others."
"You need a proper bow," Dick said. "A good hand can't do without a good weapon. That's our lifeline. The finest bows are Dragonbone bows and the golden-heartwood greatbows from the Summer Isles, but both are worth a fortune. Just below those are Purpleheart, Weirwood, or even ordinary beastbone bows. I'll see about getting you a good one."
Dick went on to correct Gendry's shooting posture, teaching him how to avoid muscle strain. Faced with such a natural warrior, he held nothing back.
After some time, Dick finally told Gendry to rest. There were benches set beside the range.
"I hear you're from Westeros," Dick said. "Where exactly?"
"Yes. King's Landing. You too?" Gendry asked, curious.
"That's right. I fled here from Westeros as well. Ever heard of the Kingswood Brotherhood?"
"I have!" Gendry said, brightening. "A band of lawless outlaws. Their stories are still told in King's Landing."
He had heard songs about the Kingswood Brotherhood in the small taverns of the city, sung by wandering minstrels:
"The brothers of the Kingswood, they were an outlaw band.
The forest was their castle, but they roamed across the land.
No man's gold was safe from them, nor any maiden's hand.
Oh, the brothers of the Kingswood, that fearsome outlaw band ...
"Smiling Knight, Big Belly Ben, Wenda the White Fawn, and Oswyn Longneck the Thrice-Hanged!" Dick recited the names as if counting treasured keepsakes.
Gendry paused, thinking it over. There really had been a Dick in the Kingswood Brotherhood. He looked at the old man again, having first assumed it was just a shared name.
"You're that Dick from the Kingswood Brotherhood?"
A deep respect rose in Gendry's heart. This man truly was a god with the bow. Fletcher Dick had been born in a village near Stonehelm. He had once taught Ulmer how to shoot and was revered by some as the greatest archer in history.
"Yes," Dick said with a nod, utterly unconcerned. "I was once one of the Brotherhood. A magnificent outlaw, at that. And now? Just a master-at-arms scraping by in a foreign land. Aside from Ulmer, my old companions are probably all dead."
The Targaryen dynasty had already fallen. He could have returned to Westeros if he wished, but most of his companions were gone. Even the White Bull and the Sword of the Morning, who had led the campaign against the outlaws, were dead as well. There was nothing left for him there but sorrow.
"Wasn't the Kingswood Brotherhood completely wiped out by the Sword of the Morning?" Gendry asked, curious.
"There was indeed a decisive battle, in the Kingswood," Dick replied slowly. "Jaime Lannister, Arthur Dayne of the Sword of the Morning, and Barristan the Bold crossed blades with my most famous brothers, including the Smiling Knight and our leader, Simon Toyne. Barristan killed Simon Toyne. Arthur Dayne slew the Smiling Knight."
"Later on, Wenda the White Fawn, Oswyn Longneck the Thrice-Hanged, and 'Big Belly' Ben were captured while trying to break out. I wasn't among them. I was in the Stormlands, looking for precious timber to make longbows. When I heard the Smiling Knight was dead, I fled across the Narrow Sea.".
Fletcher Dick fell silent for a moment. That had been more than a decade ago. The people in his stories now belonged entirely to the past.
"The Smiling Knight? And the Sword of the Morning?" Gendry couldn't hide his fascination. Both names were legends.
"The Smiling Knight," Dick said, recalling him, "was built like any ordinary man, but he carried twice the madness. He was unstable, but his swordsmanship was real. As for the Sword of the Morning… even now, I can't imagine how he ended up dying in the wilds of Dorne. He was the strongest of our generation."
"Are there any promising young fighters in Westeros these days?" Dick asked.
"The Knight of Flowers," Gendry answered after a moment's thought. Truthfully, he hadn't heard much about newer talents. Most of the names still being spoken were Barristan the Bold, Jaime Lannister, and others of that generation.
"What do they amount to?" Dick snorted. "If you're willing to accept the training of the Wolf's Den, they'll all fall to you in the end. I've seen plenty of flashy young lords. Back in my day, the Smiling Knight killed a Rose."
"Alright, old man, you're telling the youngster about your glory days again?"
The Handsome Man walked over, spotting Dick and Gendry sitting on the bench. He clearly knew Dick's habit of getting nostalgic and called him out without hesitation.
"Come on, kid. The Captain's given us a new assignment."
After saying goodbye to Dick, Gendry left with the Handsome Man. Over the past days, he had undergone a full regimen of training with the Wolf Pack: archery, swordsmanship, and horsemanship.
Now, it seemed, it was finally time to step onto the battlefield.