Barristan stared at Gendry in disbelief. He saw the fire blazing in the young man's eyes—no longer the timid look of an apprentice before a noble, but the pride and fury of a Baratheon, the resolve of someone who refused to hide in the shadows any longer.
Gendry met Barristan's astonished gaze, his dark eyes unyielding, his resolve hardening.
He drew a deep breath, his voice ringing out louder. "Ser, if my father were watching from the heavens, seeing his son scurry like a rat, watching his kingdom torn apart by lions, seeing hundreds of thousands burned to ash by wildfire while he stood idle... he would be bitterly disappointed. The hammer of House Baratheon must never rust!"
Barristan looked at Gendry—at that young, sharply defined face now brimming with fearless courage. For an instant, he saw Robert in his youth, the Storm King who had swung his warhammer on the Trident with unstoppable might.
A long-lost heat stirred in the old knight's chest, mingled with helplessness and a flicker of pride.
The knight of House Ashford fixed his eyes on Gendry. "Are you certain you are Gendry, son of King Robert?"
"I am certain." Gendry lifted his chin.
Barristan slowly rose to his feet, meeting the Ashford knight's gaze. "I am Barristan Selmy, former Lord Commander of King Robert's Kingsguard. By the honor of my knighthood and in the name of the gods, I bear witness: before you stands Gendry Baratheon, the true-born son of King Robert Baratheon."
"Barristan Selmy?!"
The knight's voice broke in shock, his face frozen with disbelief. The name struck him like a thunderclap.
Every soldier behind him drew in a sharp breath and instinctively stepped back, gripping their weapons tight, their eyes wide with awe and confusion. The tavern erupted into chaos!
The knight glanced between the old man and the young man before him, then suddenly dropped to one knee.
"House Ashford, under the command of Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden, has been seeking the blood of King Robert. Prince Gendry, Ser Barristan—Highgarden has awaited you both for a long time. Please, come with me. Lord Willas will welcome you with the highest honors. The fire of the Reach's vengeance needs a Baratheon to lead it!"
...
Highgarden, a castle wreathed in roses and vines, now smelled of cold steel and hatred.
Deep within, in a quiet garden, Willas Tyrell sat in his wheelchair. His frail body was wrapped in soft silk robes. His pale face held no color. Only his eyes, fathomless, fixed on Gendry Baratheon and Barristan Selmy.
Willas's voice was barely a sigh. "The Lannisters burned Renly with wildfire. They burned my brothers Garland and Loras. They burned my sister Margaery. They burned my grandmother. They burned nearly every flower in the Reach."
With each name his voice dropped lower. The fire in his eyes burned brighter.
He turned his gaze to Gendry and Barristan. His tone went poisonous. "That was not war, Prince, Ser. It was slaughter. A shameless trampling of knightly honor. A complete betrayal of every noble order in the Seven Kingdoms. The Lannisters—they are not men. They have defiled the land the Seven gave us."
Gendry spoke. Complex emotion churned in his dark eyes. "My father, King Robert, was taken by them as well…"
Willas ground his teeth. "Yes. The Lannisters' crimes cannot be listed. Their blood debt must be paid in blood. We of the Reach have lost a king, countless nobles, knights, and soldiers. Our sorrow runs as deep as the Mander. Our fury is unstoppable as a summer tsunami."
He pushed his wheelchair closer and looked up at the tall, sturdy youth.
"The Stormlands have crowned Edric Storm, but the Stormlands cannot shoulder the burden of opposing the Lion and winning justice for the Baratheons and the Seven Kingdoms. But you, Gendry Baratheon, carry King Robert's warhammer in your veins. You are the true stag of House Baratheon. Your lineage has been certified by the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy himself. There is no doubt."
"The Reach, the wealthiest and mightiest domain of the Seven Kingdoms, will be your steadfast rear. Our treasuries are open to you. Our granaries will be filled for you. Our swords of vengeance will swing for you. Gendry Baratheon, I, Willas Tyrell, in the name of the acting Great Lord of Highgarden, recognize you as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Only you can lead us to tear the Lannister lion apart, to grind Casterly Rock to dust, and to avenge Robert, Renly, and all the souls who died unjustly."
Gendry stood and met Willas's near-mad vengeance with the weight of responsibility settling on him. He remembered the sellswords' roars in the tavern, Barristan's tales of Robert's valor, the hundreds of thousands turned to ash in King's Landing. The Baratheon blood inside him roared awake.
He drew a deep breath and straightened. "For my father Robert, for all the souls ripped from their bodies by lion's jaws and wildfire, I, Gendry Baratheon, accept your allegiance. This debt will be repaid in blood."
...
The next day the bells of Highgarden tolled long and loud to herald a new king. A septon of the Faith presided over the ceremony. Gendry donned a cloak embroidered with a crowned stag and edged with golden roses. Barristan Selmy once more wore the white robes and armor of the Kingsguard and stood vigil at the new king's side.
When the hastily made golden crown was set upon Gendry's thick black hair by the septons, every noble, knight, and soldier representative of the Reach in the hall dropped to one knee.
"Long live King Gendry!"
"Long live Baratheon!"
"Blood for blood. Crush the Westerlands!"
...
After the coronation the council chamber in Highgarden's main keep filled with the Reach's last strength. Lords and knights gathered. Many had fled King's Landing. Many had lost lords, nephews, or brothers and wore grief turned to bloodthirst.
Randyll Tarly stood in the center. His face held the cold hatred of a man who had lost his son. His eldest had been sent to the Wall when the war began. Now his heir Dickon had died in King's Landing.
"Your Grace, Lord Willas, my lords," he said. "Tears and mourning will not bring back the dead. They will not repay the ocean of blood the Lannisters owe us. Every moment we sit here, the lion's fangs lick our wounds and mock our weakness."
He stepped forward and slammed his right hand on the long table spread with a map of the Westerlands. Ink splashed. "Tywin's forces are concentrated in the Riverlands. We must act now. With iron and fire. With Westerlander blood and tears. To honor our kin and our warriors. I propose the army march at once, straight for the Westerlands. We will turn the Lannister heartland to scorched earth and demand every Westerlander pay with their lives."
"Burn, pillage, kill, burn, plunder. From Golden Tooth to Casterly Rock, from Crakehall to Lannisport—let every inch of the Westerlands burn. Let every soul with lion's blood taste the agony our kin have known. Let fear and death be House Lannister's eternal epitaph. Only by turning the Westerlands into a wasteland can we wash away the Reach's shame."
"Blood for blood!"
"Burn the Westerlands!"
"Slaughter the lions! Let the Lannister rains fall!"
The hall erupted in furious roar. The pain of loss and a hatred for the Lannisters ignited into a blazing vow of vengeance. Gendry sat upon the throne and listened. The fighting spirit of Robert Baratheon burned bright inside him.
...
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