Inside the solar of the Fire-weed Estate, the walls were adorned with fine Myrish tapestries depicting scenes of idyllic harvests. The irony was not lost on Gendry.
Gendry, Qyburn, and Pretty Boy stood over a massive map of the Disputed Lands spread across the oak table. Success was a double-edged sword; the more estates they liberated, the more the Myrish Magisters felt the cold shadow of the hammer over their profits.
"Fear will eventually drive the Three Daughters to do something they hate," Gendry noted, tapping the map. "They will unite."
"Our distribution system is holding," Pretty Boy reported, leaning on his good arm. "Land and basic necessities go to the freedmen. All precious metals, artwork, and medicinal fire-weed are moved into the central war chest. Since this was all stolen from the backs of slaves, I feel no guilt in taking it."
"It has all been cataloged and secured," Qyburn added, his eyes scanning the ledgers. "Fire-weed, Purple Thistle, Foxtail... we hold seven estates now. The panic in Myr must be reaching a fever pitch."
"Most of these belonged to Magister Joios and his allies in the Seafarer's Guild," Qyburn continued. "The hatred between us is now personal. They will not stop with simple assassins or small-scale sabotage anymore."
"The best news we have is that the Myrmen are as divided as ever," Gendry said. "Their High Council has a dozen Magisters, all pulling in different directions like horses trying to run in twelve circles at once."
Myr's government was a mess of conflicting interests. Historically, the Conclave of the Three Daughters had thirty-three members—eleven from each city. Every Magister wanted to prove his own brilliance, and every guild wanted to ensure its rivals suffered while they prospered. A simple decision to move an army could take months of debate.
"The clever ones are likely thanking us in private," Pretty Boy chuckled. "By disrupting the harvest, we've made the fire-weed already stored in the city vaults worth ten times its weight in gold. The hoarders are getting rich off our rebellion."
"Let them get rich. We will take the land," Gendry said.
"Our scouts report that the Myrish are done with small-scale skirmishes," Qyburn noted, his voice turning grave. "They are moving beyond Myrish guards. They are looking to hire the true professionals."
"We need to secure our coastline," Gendry analyzed. "If we are to hold the Disputed Lands, we must eventually look to the Stepstones. Otherwise, we are just a target in an open field."
"Besides the smugglers, do we have any interest from the Great Houses?" Gendry asked.
Qyburn's thin lips curled into a smile. "My contacts in the waterfront taverns say that emissaries from Dorne and the Reach are asking about our prices. Both houses have been frozen out of King Robert's inner circle. They need resources, and they don't care where they get them."
In the harbor of Myr, aboard a gilded pleasure yacht, the High Council was in an uproar. The olive-skinned Magisters represented the city's power: the Seafarer's Guild, the Artificers, and the Fire-weed Guild.
The air was thick with the scent of expensive oils and the sound of screaming arguments. The "Butter King"—the mocking name the Council had given Gendry to diminish his abolitionist stance—was no longer a joke. His "Free Army" was spreading a dangerous heresy: Land to the people. Freedom to the slave.
"Magister Joios, it was your 'brilliant' decision to rely on the Wolf Pack that brought this monster into our fields!" a Magister from the Artificers' Guild roared. "The price of fire-weed is up, the price of spirits is up, and the slaves in our own city are whisperings in the dark!"
"Is it my fault the Northern dogs turned on us?" Joios shouted back, his face a mottled purple. "I know some of you are secretly funding this Hammer King! You're profiting from the scarcity!"
"Enough!"
An old Magister with olive skin, silver hair, and pitch-black eyes stood up. This was Magister Rayval of the Artificers, one of the most respected voices in the city.
"The Disputed Lands are the foundation of Myr's wealth. Our slaves are the stones upon which this city is built," Rayval said, his voice cold and steady. "We cannot allow this sellsword and his mob of runaways to continue. We must be as harsh as the masters of Slaver's Bay."
"And who will do the killing?" Joios asked. "Our own guards are terrified of the boy in the iron mask."
"The tasks of the city require men who do not know the meaning of the word 'terror'," Rayval said. "We will not send Myrmen to die. We will send the professionals. Two companies have already accepted our contract."
"Which ones?"
"The Brave Companions. And the Second Sons."
Joios went pale. "The Bloody Mummers? They are criminals and lunatics. Vargo Hoat will peel our own people as soon as he's done with the rebels."
"A sellsword is a sellsword," Rayval replied dismissively. "Do you have the gold to hire the Golden Company? No. Then we use what we can afford."
The Brave Companions were a collection of the world's most depraved criminals—exiles, rapists, and murderers led by the Qohorik Vargo Hoat. They were infamous for their cruelty, often dismembering prisoners for amusement.
The Second Sons were older, more established, but currently led by Mero, the "Titan's Bastard." Mero was a man of legendary height and legendary lack of character. Under his leadership, the company's reputation had plummeted to the point where even the Free Cities hesitated to hire them.
"Let the Mummers and the Sons bleed the Wolf Pack," Rayval concluded. "By the time the smoke clears, the 'Butter King' will be a memory, and we will have the fire-weed back."
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