Firegrass Manor had finally been harvested clean. The once-rustling hills of gunpowder herb had turned into rows of drying racks, the green stalks curled and brittle, ready to be roasted and packed. Once dried, the herb could be used in medicine or brewed into the famed Myrish firewine. This year, every barrel mattered. The Governor needed coin more than breath, and everyone in the Wolf Pack Company understood it.
Inside the manor courtyard, Steward Luv wrung his hands anxiously as the Mercenaries loaded the last crates onto wagons. Smoke from roasting herbs clung to the morning air.
"I will await your message, my friend," the Steward told The Handsome Man with a weary smile. "Governor Kasu's fate hangs like dice in the air—either soaring into glory… or smashing into the mud."
"Aren't you returning to Myr with us, Steward Luv?" The Handsome Man asked quietly.
The old steward gave a low, dry laugh. "This red-gate manor has been my life—born here, raised here, grown old here. Myr is no safer than this place, and should Kasu lose the election, I would be cast to the streets anyway. At least here I can cling to familiarity."
Gendry watched the exchange from behind the wagons. He saw the tension etched deep into both men's faces. Myrish politics were a world he had only begun to understand, but even he recognized the truth: the fall of a Governor dragged down everything around him. Family, wealth, servants—nothing survived the purge.
"Take care, old friend," The Handsome Man said solemnly, clasping Luv's hand.
"And you as well," the Steward replied. "If the winds in Myr turn foul, this manor still has hills, walls, and slaves. It could serve as a refuge. Remember that."
A horn sounded through the courtyard—deep, mournful, almost funereal. The Wolf Pack Company had been blowing horns for weeks, but this time was different. They were truly leaving.
---
Leaving the Manor
In his room, Gendry buckled the last strap of his polished black scale armor. The mirror on the wall reflected a tall, broad-shouldered young man with the blue eyes of Baratheon blood and the hard jaw of a warrior. He looked older than he had months ago—older, sharper, forged by hardship.
Weapons lay arranged before him: the Morningstar he'd taken up after a brother's death, the arakh won from the Meereenese gladiator Rust, the yew longbow from Dick the Fletch, and of course, his warhammer—scarred but reliable.
Qyburn entered, already dressed in black chainmail that seemed far too heavy for his frail body.
"Let's go, Your Highness," he said softly. "If our march is swift, we may yet witness the Myr election spectacle."
Gendry snorted. "A spectacle. Power must have some magic of its own. It makes fools and kings dance the same way."
"It is the true magic of this world," Qyburn replied. "Stronger than flames, older than dragons."
Then he added with a sigh, "Unless one has an army like the Golden Company—then even Governors must bow."
They walked out together into the clean morning air. The convoy was disorderly but determined: wagons laden with gunpowder herb, slaves bound to duty, and fifty-odd Wolf Pack Mercenaries marching around them. Sixty had been at Firegrass Manor days ago; Morningstar and three others had fallen. Their absence felt like missing teeth in a warrior's grin.
"What if Governor Kasu fails?" Gendry asked as they mounted their horses.
"A failure means ruin," Qyburn replied without hesitation. "His ports, ships, manors, coin, women, and children—all would be seized. That is the law of the Three Daughters. Power is not passed—it is devoured."
"And the Wolf Pack Company?" Gendry asked.
"Then we must flee or fight," Qyburn whispered. "But one thing is certain—Myr will no longer welcome us."
---
The Road to the Coast
The Wolf Pack took a new route this time, abandoning the wide roads to avoid bandits and rival Mercenary companies. The path toward the coastline wound through bare foothills and patches of forest.
Dick the Fletch rode alongside Gendry and The Handsome Man. "Head went with thirty men," he said, flicking his reins. "Twenty of us came here to relieve him. Wolf's Den has the rest."
"We're no longer sixty," The Handsome Man corrected grimly. "Fifty-three. Morningstar and three of our brothers left their bones in the dirt."
Dick only shrugged. "Still enough to tear through most companies in the Disputed Lands. And this Boy—" he clapped Gendry's shoulder, "—this one crushed Rust into paste. I would have paid silver just to watch it again."
Gendry flushed slightly, unsure whether to feel proud or uneasy.
They continued on until Gendry noticed something strange. Bodies—scores of them—lined both sides of the road. Men, women, even youths, nailed to wooden crosses. Their flesh had long been stripped by crows; their ribs were like old ships rotting on a shore. The wind pushed their loose clothing back and forth like grotesque flags.
"Seven hells…" Gendry whispered.
"These are the condemned," The Handsome Man said soberly. "Runaway slaves caught near the coast. Smugglers, too. No trial. No mercy."
"This land devours the weak," Dick muttered. "Always has."
The sight lingered in Gendry's mind long after they passed. Each nailed corpse felt like a warning—or a prophecy.
---
News from Pentos
Qyburn urged his horse beside Gendry's. "Your Highness, the Targaryen siblings… matters have worsened."
Gendry's expression sharpened. "Tell me."
"Smugglers report that Viserys has nothing left. He sold the last of his jewels years ago. Even his mother's crown. Now only the Princess remains—and he seeks to trade her for an army. But no Free City dares risk war with the Seven Kingdoms. They call them the 'Beggar King' and the 'Beggar Princess' now."
Gendry frowned. "Viserys wants too much. A price even greedy Archons won't accept."
"He dreams. And his dreams rot his sanity," Qyburn whispered. "They say he mutters to himself. Sees betrayal in the shadows."
"What about Daenerys?" Gendry asked.
"The girl's beauty is a currency, and Pentos knows it. Merchants already whisper of alliances. But Viserys bargains like a desperate gambler."
Gendry pressed his lips together. A strange mixture of pity and calculation stirred in him.
A pawn.
A key.
A future.
Qyburn read his silence. "The Princess may be a dream for now, but first we must survive Myr. The cheese merchants and gunpowder herb lords are clawing at each other's throats."
Gendry nodded. "Our battle is here first."
---
A Growing Sense of Dread
The Wolf Pack Company moved deeper into the hills. The coastline was still a day away. The wagons slowed their march, and the Mercenaries had to dismount often to cut through brush or push a stuck wheel free.
Slaves glanced around nervously, carrying crates of gunpowder herb like they were cradling their own hearts.
And constantly—constantly—Gendry felt eyes on them.
He said nothing at first, but as the sun lowered behind the hills, The Handsome Man suddenly lifted a hand, halting the column.
"I feel it too," he said quietly. "Something's been watching us."
The wind blew across the field, carrying the smell of salt from the distant sea. The grass rustled unnaturally.
Gendry tightened his grip on the warhammer across his saddle. His pulse quickened.
Dick touched an arrow to his bowstring. "There," he whispered. "In the treeline."
Gendry turned.
Something flickered in the shadows.
Not one figure—
many.
The Handsome Man's expression went hard as iron.
"They waited for the right moment. And now they think they've found it."
He raised his arm high.
"Wolf Pack! Shields up! Circle the wagons!"
The Mercenaries fell into formation with trained precision. The slaves scrambled behind wheels and crates. Horses snorted and stomped the ground in fear.
Gendry inhaled slowly.
The bloodstained road was only beginning.