The political rot in Myr was deepening, and it was beginning to show on Pretty Boy's scarred face.
The immediate threat of Purplebeard's bandit-knights had faded; the stragglers who occasionally tested the perimeter were easily driven off. Thanks to the Wolf Pack's brutal defense, the fire-weed estate was recovering. The mercenaries and slaves had spent the last few weeks digging the trenches deeper and wider, but the infantry commander remained unsettled.
Standing atop the estate's high walls, looking out over the sprawling, rust-tinged fields, Pretty Boy finally voiced his fears.
"The Wolf Pack might be tied too tightly to Magister Calasso," he murmured, leaning on the stone parapet. He glanced sideways at Gendry. The boy was not just a brute; he was observant, quiet, and possessed a terrifying martial instinct. The entire company respected him now. Not many men could crush a Meereenese pit fighter's chest into paste.
"We are sellswords," Gendry replied evenly. "Are we actually tangled in the Myrish game of thrones?"
"Most free companies have no loyalty. A standard freerider fights for the highest bidder and runs when the gold dries up. But the Pack is different," Pretty Boy sighed. "We have a long, deep history with the Calasso family. A blood history. We are bound by long-term contracts and marriage."
Gendry understood immediately. The Wolf Pack and the Magister were mutually dependent. Because of their Northern roots, the Pack wouldn't simply abandon their employer at the first sign of trouble. And because of that stubborn loyalty, Calasso's political enemies would not hesitate to annihilate the Wolf Pack to get to the Magister.
"It's not the worst fate," Pretty Boy grunted, staring out at the horizon. "Dying in the dirt is a sellsword's destiny. We ride good horses, swing good steel, bleed for the Free Cities, whore in the pillow houses, and eventually catch a spear in the gut for a war we don't understand. That is the life."
The scarred man turned to fully face Gendry. "But you are different, lad. You have a terrifying future ahead of you. You don't need to die in the dirt with the Pack."
Gendry remained silent.
"You're a good lad. Handsome, fearless, and built like a siege engine. The Wolf Pack should only be your first stop," Pretty Boy continued, his voice taking on the heavy, solemn tone of a man passing on a final lesson. "Most mercenaries bounce between a dozen companies in their lifetime. We are the exception. We have Northern blood in our veins. We are too stubborn to run."
"Has it truly gotten that bad in the city?" Gendry asked, recognizing the tone. Pretty Boy was giving him permission to desert if the company fell.
"Greybeard sent a raven from the city compound," Pretty Boy muttered. "The election this year is a slaughterhouse. The merchants who usually back Calasso have suddenly grown deaf. The Bank of Myr refuses to extend his lines of credit. The Magister desperately needs this fire-weed to harvest so he can convert it to gold."
Pretty Boy spat over the wall. "Without gold, you cannot bribe the Magisters. And without bribes, you are a dead man walking."
Gendry knew enough about the Free Cities to understand. Gold was the only true law. The elections in Volantis were the most famous example—ten days of absolute madness where candidates threw fortunes into the streets, hired mummers and dancers, painted their names on the sides of elephants, and sent assassins to duel in the streets to eliminate rivals. The elections in the Three Daughters were smaller, but just as corrupt.
"Leave the politics to the Magisters," Pretty Boy finally said, shaking his head. "The fire-weed is almost ready. The enemy is wealthy and hiding in the shadows. Greybeard is keeping half the Pack in Myr to guard the Magister's manse, and sending the rest here to reinforce us."
"I hope the Magister wins," Gendry offered. There was nothing else he could do. If the election was rigged by the inner circle of Myrish elites, a warhammer couldn't fix it.
"I hope so too. Go drill, Hammer," Pretty Boy smiled faintly, waving him off.
Gendry walked down from the walls. The fields of fire-weed were beautiful, the edges of the green leaves now burning a vibrant rust-red. Slaves moved carefully through the rows, preparing for the harvest. Soon, the crop would be dried, roasted, and shipped to the apothecaries and vintners.
Red, Gendry thought grimly. The color of this world is red. It always ends in fire or blood.
When he wasn't on watch, Gendry practically lived in the training yard. He sparred relentlessly, absorbing the painful lessons of the veterans. Longspear's thrusts were maddeningly elusive, leaving Gendry's padded training gambeson covered in bruises, but slowly, Gendry was learning the rhythm of the polearm. He also sparred against men wielding flails—vicious, unpredictable weapons consisting of a spiked iron head attached to a wooden shaft by a chain.
A true knight had to understand the mechanics of every weapon on the battlefield, even if his heart belonged to the hammer.
Later that evening, after a brutal, hours-long sparring session, Gendry retreated to his quarters to rest. Qyburn slipped into the room shortly after, his pale eyes alight with urgent intelligence.
"Your Grace, two matters of importance," Qyburn murmured, closing the heavy wooden door behind him. "First, the Beggar King and his patron have finally made a move in Pentos."
Gendry sat up, wiping sweat from his brow. "Tell me."
"Viserys Targaryen sold his mother's crown to survive. He has nothing left to barter... except his sister," Qyburn explained softly. "Trading a girl for a massive army is incredibly difficult. Few lords want to openly challenge the Iron Throne. But time is running out."
"Illyrio Mopatis," Gendry muttered. The fat Magister of Pentos was the spider spinning that particular web. "He's looking for a Dothraki Khal."
"Precisely," Qyburn nodded. "To steal the girl away, we must find the exact right moment to strike. We cannot simply march into a Pentoshi manse, nor can we afford to let Illyrio sell her to the horselords."
"And the second matter?"
"Our employer is doomed," Qyburn said flatly. "My contacts among the smugglers confirm it. The wealthy merchants of the Seafarer's Guild have united to push Magister Calasso out."
"The Seafarer's Guild? They are little more than sanctioned pirates," Gendry scoffed.
"Pirates with incredibly deep pockets," Qyburn corrected. "They are moving quickly. If the Magister falls, the Wolf Pack falls with him. We must prepare an exit strategy."
"Pretty Boy already gave me the warning today," Gendry said, his voice heavy. "We can leave whenever we want. But I want to wait and see how it plays out. The Pack was the first to take us in."
"Loyalty is an admirable trait, Your Grace. But if the worst comes to pass, we will not starve," Qyburn assured him. "There is immense wealth in the Disputed Lands. If we are forced into exile, we can always arm the slaves and raid the rival estates. The manpower is already here."
Gendry looked at the old maester. Qyburn was entirely serious. If backed into a corner, he was perfectly willing to ignite a slave rebellion just to secure their survival.
"If King Robert won a kingdom with a warhammer, why shouldn't you?" Qyburn continued, his voice taking on a persuasive, hypnotic cadence. "But brute courage is not enough. You need patrons. Even the exiled Targaryens have Illyrio. Once the truth of the Queen's incest is revealed, the bankers and merchants of Essos will flock to invest in Robert's trueborn son."
"Patrons are greedy. And right now, we hold no cards," Gendry replied, his mind drifting back to the history of Westeros. "Robert won the Rebellion, but he didn't enjoy the fruits of his victory. The Martells hate him, and the Lannisters bought their way into the throne room through marriage."
It was a suffocating political reality. The Iron Throne was deeply fractured, and Robert had never cared enough to fix it.
"You are correct. But that is the nature of politics. It is the art of terrible compromises," Qyburn noted. "Robert Baratheon did not build that alliance. Jon Arryn did."
Gendry paused. The old maester was right. The great alliance of the Stag, the Wolf, the Falcon, and the Trout hadn't been forged by Robert's hammer.
"Jon Arryn was the fulcrum," Gendry realized. "He was the lubricant that held the kingdoms together. He brokered the peace with Dorne and negotiated the Lannister marriage."
"Indeed, Your Grace," Qyburn bowed his head. "The realm rests on the shoulders of one tired old man. And when Jon Arryn finally dies, the Iron Throne will shatter. We cannot afford that kind of chaos when we make our move. We must secure our own patrons and our own alliances before the storm breaks."