The morning air was crisp and cool as Gendry and Qyburn rode out from the Wolf's Den alongside their commander, Pretty Boy. Above them, the grey banner of the Wolf Pack snapped in the wind. Their path led south, deep into the Disputed Lands. Though further south than King's Landing, the climate remained temperate, tempered by the constant breezes blowing off the Narrow Sea.
As the detachment rode across the rolling plains, Gendry took in the landscape. It was a patchwork of quiet villages, walled towns, low hills, and winding rivers. Lines of slaves toiled in the fields beneath the harsh crack of overseers' whips. These vast agricultural tracts belonged to the Magisters and noble elite of the Free Cities.
The Wolf Pack detachment numbered forty lances. It was Gendry and Qyburn's first official deployment. Occasionally, they passed other mercenary bands on the road. The sellswords offered curt nods or raised hands before quickly riding on; in the Disputed Lands, trust was a luxury no one could afford.
Gendry rode tall in the saddle, clad in his stolen black iron scale mail. His short-handled warhammer was hooked to his saddlebow. Slung across his back was the magnificent yew longbow crafted for him by Fletcher Dick, alongside a Myrish repeating crossbow and a heavy dagger.
By contrast, Qyburn rode at a leisurely pace. As the company's physician, the old maester was treated with profound respect, afforded a gentle, even-tempered gelding and spared the burden of heavy armor.
Four outriders rode far ahead of the main column, scouting the terrain.
The Disputed Lands were notoriously treacherous. Situated in southwestern Essos, the vast territory was an eternal battlefield. The Three Daughters, Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh, bled each other dry fighting for sovereignty over the region, with Volantis occasionally wading into the slaughter. Ever since the Triarchy collapsed, the endless, grinding warfare had turned the region into a paradise for sellswords.
"The Disputed Lands are effectively split into two zones," Pretty Boy called out, snapping his riding crop toward the horizon. "The outer rings, closest to the Three Daughters, are controlled by the Magisters. There's a semblance of order here. Most free companies know better than to bite the hand that feeds them by raiding the Magisters' personal estates. The Myrish grow fire-weed here. The Tyroshi plant pear orchards and raise pigs. And the Lyseni? They plant white and red grapes for their wines, and fragrant reeds for their perfumes."
Pretty Boy pointed his crop further south. "But the deep interior... that is the viper's nest. That is where the borders blur, where the Daughters fight their proxy wars, and where the free companies butcher each other over patches of dirt. If you want to live to see old age, stay out of the deep interior."
Gendry nodded. The Disputed Lands were a concentric ring of violence. The deeper you rode, the more chaotic and lawless it became. The Free Cities relied heavily on these agricultural zones to fuel their massive export economies. Even Volantis, the most powerful of the cities, relied on three massive vassal towns, each the size of a Westerosi city, to sustain itself.
"Keep your eyes open, boys," Pretty Boy warned the column. "There are more sellswords in the Disputed Lands than fish in the Rhoyne. And half of them are nothing more than exiled bandits!" When a free company lost its discipline, it quickly devolved into a roving horde of brigands.
The Doom of Valyria set the board for all of this, Gendry thought, looking out over the rolling, fertile plains. When the greatest empire in the world shattered, it left behind a vacuum of power, inviting barbarian invasions and endless civil war. It was a tragedy that such rich soil had been drowning in blood for centuries.
The Three Daughters fought over the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones. Braavos and Pentos had fought a massive war over slavery and control of the fertile lands and waters between their cities, ending in a crushing defeat for Pentos.
But the most terrifying consequence of the Doom had been the rise of the Dothraki.
Four hundred years ago, the horselords had poured out of the east, burning every city and kingdom in their path. They annihilated the Kingdom of Sarnor, sacked the Qartheen cities of the Red Waste, and destroyed the Ibbenese settlements of the Kingdom of the Ifequevron. Their apocalyptic march was only halted when Khal Temmo and his khalasar of fifty thousand screamers were broken by the Three Thousand Unsullied of Qohor. During the Century of Blood, the Dothraki had driven the peasants from their huts and the lords from their manses, leaving nothing but grass and ruins from the Forest of Qohor to the headwaters of the Selhoru.
"There's our mark. The fire-weed estate," Pretty Boy announced. Looking at the scarred commander, Gendry realized that in this brutal world, the man's horrific facial scar actually looked rather friendly.
The column halted before a sprawling, Myrish-style walled compound. The estate encompassed several large, rolling hills.
Gendry stared at the hillsides. They were blanketed in a waist-high crop of vivid, bright green plants. The edges of the broad leaves were tinged with a distinct, rust-like brown.
"Myrish fire-weed," Pretty Boy explained. "Worth its weight in silver."
Fire-weed was a potent medicinal crop used to staunch bleeding and prevent infection, and it was also the primary ingredient in Myrish fire-wine.
"I've never seen a fire-weed plantation in person," Qyburn remarked, his scholarly curiosity piqued. As a maester, he knew the plant's incredible alchemical and medicinal properties, but seeing entire hillsides devoted to it was staggering.
Gendry recalled the mission briefing. The Wolf Pack had been hired by a wealthy Myrish Magister. While the Magisters rarely visited their holdings in the Disputed Lands, this particular estate was highly sensitive. Because it was located perilously close to the interior viper's nest, the Magister was forced to hire a reputable free company to guard the harvest.
Spotting the grey wolf banner, the estate's sentries blew a long, low note on a horn to signal the gates to open.
"Ah! My old friend! The hot water is drawn and the kitchens are roaring!" The estate's steward hurried out of the gates, trailed by a dozen slaves, to welcome Pretty Boy and his men. The steward was a freeborn Myrish citizen with dark olive skin.
"Good to see you, Steward Leff," Pretty Boy grinned, swinging down from his saddle.
"I've been pacing the walls waiting for you! This time of year always turns my hair grey," Leff sighed.
"Rest easy, old friend. You worry too much. With the Pack on the walls, your fire-weed will reach the markets of Myr without a single leaf missing," Pretty Boy laughed, waving his men inside the compound.
"How is the harvest this year?" Pretty Boy asked as he walked with the steward at the head of the column.
"The yield here is the same as always. But the rot got into the crops at several competing estates. Their harvests were halved," Leff said, his voice dropping. "It means we stand to make an absolute fortune this season. That is exactly why the Magister sent for you. With the price of fire-weed skyrocketing, the bandit companies are going to grow bold. Desperate."
"Gold is the only true language in the Disputed Lands," Pretty Boy agreed. "But fire-weed and fire-wine speak loud enough."
"Precisely. And fire-weed isn't corn or wheat. Right now, it's practically gold sprouting from the dirt," Leff muttered.
Gendry listened quietly. Sellswords loved gold above all else. But when gold was scarce, stealing a fortune in high-value cash crops was the next best thing.
Steward Leff was highly efficient. Slaves immediately took the horses to the stables, while the mercenaries were ushered into the estate's grand hall, where steaming baths and a massive, roaring feast awaited them.