Blood painted the earth.
Gendry stood among the wreckage with his warhammer hanging low in his fist, its head slick and dark. The night air stank of iron and smoke, and the groans of the dying drifted between the horses like fog. Black scale armor. Spiked hammer. Oak shield split and scarred. Behind the bull-horned helm, his clear blue eyes burned—hotter than any forge.
"Run!" Purplebeard's voice cracked.
He had seen it with his own eyes: Rust—Khrazz, the Meereenese monster he had paid so dearly for—lying in the mud like a butchered dog. That pit fighter had been the spine of their assault: brutal, fast, fearless. And yet he had died here, humiliated, crushed by a boy in armor.
The bandit-knights broke.
They abandoned wounded comrades and scattered into the dark, leaving only the metallic taste of blood in their wake. Purplebeard escaped—barely—saved by men who died buying him seconds.
As he fled, he looked back one last time.
The horned warrior stood over the Meereenese corpse like the promise of a coming storm, like a god of slaughter carved from iron.
Where did the Wolf Pack find a fighter like that? Purplebeard thought, and the answer frightened him more than defeat. This had not merely been a raid gone wrong.
This was the beginning of something.
"Strip them," Pretty Boy ordered, voice hard with command. "Anything useful—armor, weapons, coin, food, tack. If a horse still breathes, it belongs to us now. Then burn the bodies. All of them."
Wolf Pack brothers moved at once, practiced as butchers.
They dragged their own dead from the corpse heap first. Of the ten riders who had sallied out, three would not ride home. Purplebeard's losses were several times that, and most of those were thrown-away men—runaway slaves driven forward to die.
Gendry walked to Morningstar.
Only then did he feel the dull ache in his elbow, the small warning from muscle and tendon. A warhammer did not forgive sloppy motion—not in practice, and not in battle. And the Meereenese pit fighter had struck like a viper: the armpit, that tiny seam where plates met and pride failed.
No armor was perfect. Only preparation was.
Morningstar's face had already gone pale, his mouth slack, as if he had been interrupted mid-laugh. The man had been larger than life in the yard—loud, fearless, always ready with a bruise and a lesson.
Now he was still.
Longspear came to stand beside him. Pretty Boy followed, his scar shining wetly with sweat and sprayed blood.
"Morningstar is gone, pup," Longspear said, and placed a hand on Gendry's shoulder. "You did well. A man who avenges his brother is luckier than most."
"I killed the enemy," Gendry whispered. "But I couldn't save him."
Longspear had no clean answer. After a moment, he simply fell silent. No matter how huge Gendry looked in battle, he was still a boy learning what war truly collected.
Pretty Boy's gaze stayed on Gendry a heartbeat longer. "Look at him," he said quietly, not unkindly. "Another fight will always be waiting. For a green hand, you're the best I've seen. But every one of us has to step through this door."
They waited for the estate's slaves to come out with carts and lanterns.
The bodies of their brothers were loaded first. Then they began counting the dead bandits and stripping the valuables. Qyburn finally emerged from the estate as well, moving briskly despite his age, tending to men with shallow cuts, twisted ankles, and bruises from falls—injuries that killed slowly, if ignored.
Pretty Boy prowled the field like a crow with a sword, prying loose buckles, pulling rings, stacking helmets. When he reached the Meereenese corpse, he whistled low.
"That hammer… gods," he muttered, half admiration, half discomfort.
He hooked fingers into the torn chain links and opened the dead man's mail enough to see the truth. The chest was caved in. Bone splinters. A heart turned to ruin. That was the cruelty of a blunt weapon: it didn't need to cut you open to end you.
Then Pretty Boy's expression tightened.
"But we've stepped into trouble," he said. He studied the man's build—tall, lean, fast—even in death it looked expensive. "A Meereen pit champion isn't cheap."
Longspear nodded slowly. "A fighter like that costs a fortune. Bandits don't hire them on copper. Someone paid—someone with coin and motive."
"Tell the steward," Pretty Boy said. "And send a rider to Myr. Tonight."
Because if this was politics, it wouldn't end at one burned field.
When the corpse piles were hauled inside the estate walls, the mood shifted from relief to dread. Even the slaves seemed quieter, as if they could smell that this was not a normal raid.
"Thirteen bandit mercenaries confirmed," the steward said, face bloodless in torchlight. "Three of your brothers dead. As for the runaway slaves who fled… we haven't counted."
"We've had theft before," he went on, voice trembling. "Small-scale. Nothing like this. Never this organized."
"Send word to the Magister," Pretty Boy replied, curt and decisive. "If these were his enemies, they'll strike in Myr and the Disputed Lands at the same time."
The yard stayed loud for hours—orders, carts, coughing, the crackle of fires as bodies were burned so they couldn't be recognized, counted, or claimed.
Only much later did Gendry return to his room.
He peeled off the black scale armor himself. In Westeros, a squire would do it. Here, he had no squire—only the weight of his own choices.
Qyburn watched him with undisguised satisfaction and something sharper underneath. "You are fortunate, Your Grace. Nearly untouched. Scrapes don't matter—deep wounds do. Infection kills more men than swords."
Gendry huffed a tired laugh. "Was I ever meant for some 'noble life'?"
"You were meant for a storm," Qyburn said softly. "Before the storm breaks, a hero rises. A bastard can climb higher than any lord if he chooses the right moment and the right ally."
Gendry didn't answer. He was still seeing Morningstar's smile die.
Qyburn continued, voice turning analytical. "Chaos is coming. A Meereenese pit fighter does not appear here by accident. Only magisters, guildmasters, and the powerful can afford such blades. Our employer is standing at the edge of something."
"I didn't expect Meereen to reach this far," Gendry murmured.
"It may not be Meereen," Qyburn corrected gently. "It may be a purse in Myr wearing a Meereen mask."
He tapped the air, as if pointing to invisible strings. "The Wolf Pack has kept faith with this Magister for years. One of the captains' daughters married into his family. If the Magister falls, we fall with him. That is what 'ties' mean in Essos. Blood, marriage, coin—different names for the same chain."
Gendry's eyes narrowed. "So we're trapped."
"We are placed," Qyburn said, and for a moment his old hunger showed. "In chaos, men rise. The Band of Nine once carved out the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands. The board can change."
Gendry stared at his warhammer resting against the wall. "Are you thinking about the Meereenese corpse?"
Qyburn's face did something almost shy. "A dead man is sometimes braver than a living one."
"Not now," Gendry said immediately, voice flat. "Too dangerous. If you do it, you do it quietly. Another time."
Qyburn bowed his head. "As you command."
Outside, the estate's walls still held—but the night had made one thing clear:
This wasn't just banditry anymore.
It was politics, sabotage, and the first real tremor of a wider war—one that would either swallow Gendry whole…
…or crown him in storm and iron.