The Kingswood stretched endlessly, its trees standing like ranks of soldiers. Once they crossed this vast forest, King's Landing would soon be within striking distance.
Golden battle standards flew high as the Stormlands vanguard marched down the shortcut. In their spare time, the warriors still found time for sparring, contests, and drills.
The people of the Stormlands had always been martial, known for their strength, ferocity, and skill in battle. The warriors of the Marches were said to have a gift for sword and bow, and were even said to learn fighting faster than walking, men like Barristan, Anguy, and Fletcher Dick. They were a stubborn, unruly lot. If House Durrandon and House Baratheon had not been great knightly houses, they would never have been able to command them.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
The Stormlands soldiers stirred up the mood and formed a ring. They loved contests of strength, wrestling, riding, swordplay, spearplay, and archery.
The crowd was most excited whenever Gendry, Barristan Selmy, or Anguy took the field. Anguy's marksmanship seemed unmatched, and many believed even Balon Swann was beneath him. As for "Barristan the Bold" and "the Storm" Gendry, they were legends of two generations, old and new.
"Come on." Gendry raised the longsword in his hand and had Lothor Brune, Jon Snow, Ser Guyard Morrigen, and Ser Justin Massey all come at him together. No man alone was his match, so he preferred they attack as one.
All four were skilled swordsmen. A swordsman relied on endurance, strength, and technique, but before the Storm, they seemed clumsy.
Ser Barristan, Anguy, the red priestess, and several others watched from the side.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Steel struck steel, raw strength colliding as the swordsmen advanced.
Swordlight flashed like a dragon in motion. Gendry wielded his blunted sword, his attacks sweeping in like a storm, relentless and unforgiving. The edgeless practice blade moved freely in his hands. During training, Gendry had deliberately increased the sword's weight, making his blunted sword thicker and broader. One moment he spun and chopped, the next he thrust with its dull point.
The other four gave everything they had, whether joining forces to defend or dividing their attacks, yet they were quickly defeated. Swordlight swayed and flashed around him, but the gap in strength was too great, and Gendry's sharp eyes and keen observation quickly found every opening.
"I yield."
The first to fall was Justin Massey, who had once been King Robert's squire. But his weight had made him slower. Gendry reversed his blade and pressed Justin hard first. Justin sat down on the ground, dizzy and dazed. His shield was almost in pieces, the visor of his helm was knocked crooked, and his blunted sword had flown six yards away.
Justin pulled off his dented helm and smiled bitterly. "Next time I had better surrender early. Women, wine, and the years have all slowed me down. I remember sparring with Robert when I was young. I'm in even worse shape now than I was then."
Justin left the field first, followed by Jon Snow. Jon's arm had gradually gone numb. After Gendry struck him, his heavy blunted sword fell to the ground. Then Guyard and Lothor were forced out as well.
The defeated men sat on camp stools, waiting for the next bout.
"I trained under Master Tobho, the Smith of King's Landing. I trained with the Wolf Pack Company's Longspear, Steel Fist, and Pretty Boy. I also trained under Fletcher and Ser Barristan the Bold. Every one of them is skilled," Gendry said to Jon.
Jon nodded. "I still haven't done enough." He resolved to train even harder.
Though he lost faster each time, Jon still felt fortunate. Every time he finished sparring with Gendry, he felt stiff and sore. When he woke the next morning, his whole body would be covered in bruises. But that was exactly what he wanted. If he only trained with ordinary swordsmen, he would never improve.
The slash and clash of longswords stirred Jon's memories, as if he had returned to Winterfell. Jon wore a padded leather jacket and held a wooden sword, facing Robb. Ever since they had learned to walk, they had trained together every morning, Snow and Stark circling each other in Winterfell, laughing, shouting, and sparring. Later, the annoying Theon had joined them too.
"Beautifully done." Ser Barristan clapped. He lived for honor, and every knight loved the lists. The way of knighthood was repeated training, again and again, constantly pushing one's limits. He thought of the "Sword of the Morning." He had once believed Arthur would be the finest swordsman he would ever meet in his life. Now it seemed the new waves were overtaking the old. A new Storm had arrived.
After a short rest, a line of spearmen entered the field. The spears of these elite fighters moved unpredictably, bringing greater danger and difficulty.
Gendry wiped the sweat from his face and changed to a blunted hammer. The thrusts of the spears were precise and powerful, as though the weapons were extensions of the spearmen's arms.
"Clang!"
Several spearmen thrust first. Gendry caught the blunt spearheads with one hand, then dropped his warhammer and gripped them with both hands. With a shout, he wrenched hard and tore all the spears from their hands before throwing them to the ground. Sweat ran down the spearmen's faces. They felt as if they themselves had nearly been dragged forward. Several stumbled and almost fell, unable to reclaim their weapons.
"Storm!"
"Storm!"
The Stormlands soldiers cheered.
"Which is harder, taking a spear or dodging one?" Jon asked curiously.
"Taking it," Ser Barristan answered without hesitation.
The red priestess stared, unable to look away from such strength. He was worthy of the blood of the Storm, the inheritance of an ancient house of blasphemers.
Gendry surged forward. The blunted hammer he had picked up whistled through the air as his strength drove it on. He charged into the spear line, striking left and right. His fierce figure swept across the field, unstoppable. The spearmen were knocked down one after another. Helms were dented, shields shattered, ashwood spears cracked, and warriors toppled to the ground in every direction.
When the match ended, Gendry helped the fallen spearmen up one by one. They swayed as if drunk. After today, these spearmen would be among his most loyal followers. After all, they had fought to the end against one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Storm!"
"Storm!"
"Swordbreaker!"
The Stormlands soldiers applauded as well, their blood racing. When Gendry fought, he burned like a blazing golden flame, unmatched by anyone, like the Storms of old.
"Just a little faster, a little stronger, a little sharper," Gendry thought. That was the path every warrior sought, the path of surpassing oneself. When his strength and speed reached a certain height, his enemies' movements seemed slow and clumsy. With keen insight, he could strike second and arrive first.
Gendry laughed with the warriors, drank with them, and sang with them. The camp was in high spirits, and the soldiers seemed as if they could burst out with twice their usual strength.
"Keep your insight sharp, and nothing will be beyond your reach," the red priestess said beside Gendry with a smile.
"Yes, insight." Something stirred in Gendry's mind. He did not need to fear warriors who faced him head-on. What he needed to guard against were sinister assassins like the Faceless Men.
"Jon, you've met a water dancer before. What did you think of them?" Gendry asked Jon Snow.
"I met Arya's teacher," Jon said. "The Water Dance is an assassin's dance. It relies on speed, surprise, and striking when the enemy is unprepared. In Westeros, ours is a knight's dance, hard and direct, cutting and hacking."
Gendry nodded. In truth, strength was still the faster and harsher way to kill. But the skills of Braavos had their own merits.
"Keen insight is the mark of every top warrior," Jon said. "Syrio saw the truth."
Gendry nodded. He roughly knew Syrio's story. When the Sealord was choosing his First Sword, only Syrio Forel, Arya Stark's teacher, had succeeded.
At the time, a fat yellow cat lay on the old Sealord's lap. He told the candidates that one of his captains had brought it to him from an island farther away than the lands beyond the sunrise. "Have you ever seen an animal like her?" the old Sealord had asked.
Only Syrio gave the right answer and was not fooled. "Every night in the alleys of Braavos, I see thousands of animals like him."
The Sealord laughed and chose Syrio. But later, that man came to King's Landing. The whole matter was strange. Perhaps the Sealord had changed again?
"But does the Sealord choose a swordsman only for insight? Or is there more to it? Perhaps a sharp-eyed man is better suited to recognizing the Faceless Men, to seeing through everything keenly, because the Faceless Men are best at confusing others by wearing another person's face," Gendry thought. It was a bold guess. If that was true, then an old Sealord had been at odds with the Faceless Men. But who exactly? If Syrio was dead, there would be no answer.
"A wonderful story, and a wonderful bout," the red priestess said as she stepped forward. "I also have some interest in the Faceless Men."
"Oh?" Gendry looked at the red priestess.
"Their stories also carry the scent of the Cold God. Otherwise, how could a face remain frozen and preserved for hundreds or thousands of years? It may even preserve a person's memories, for a face is easy to preserve, but memories are not." The red priestess lowered her voice. "Cold freezes life, like an ice sculpture. Fire burns life away."
"In that case…" Gendry felt that the red priestess's speculation was not mere alarmism. If the war continued, sooner or later he would have to face the Many-Faced God.
"Insight is one way to deal with them. Use your eyes, your nose, your skin, and your mind. A sharp person will be safer."