Atop the highest tower of the Fire-weed Estate, the war council of the Wolf Pack stood silhouetted against a bruising twilight sky. Gendry, Pretty Boy, Iron Fist, Longspear, Black Billy, Fletcher Dick, and Maester Qyburn looked out over the fields.
The air was heavy with the scent of approaching rain and the distant, metallic tang of an army on the move. Magister Joios's vengeance was no longer a rumor; it was a cloud of dust on the horizon.
"The Magister is not playing at politics this time," Qyburn said, his eyes scanning a series of intercepted ravens. "He has dipped deep into the fire-weed guild's vaults. He has hired the Brave Companions and supplemented them with every gutter-born sellsword and 'adventurer' currently drinking in Myr. It is a formidable host for a single estate to face."
"I don't fear a frontal assault," Gendry said, a grim smile touching his lips beneath the shadow of his hood. "What I fear is a Myrish naval blockade. If they cut off Salladhor Saan and pin us against the coast, we starve."
"Fortunately, the Myrish can never agree on who owns the boats," Pretty Boy noted, leaning on his good arm. "But if they march overland, we can force the engagement on our terms."
"The Brave Companions," Iron Fist spat the name like a curse. "A collection of rapists, oath-breakers, and outcasts from every corner of the world. They call themselves sellswords, but they are just murderers with a charter."
Gendry knew the name. In another life, these men would one day cross the sea and maim the Kingslayer, but for now, they were the nightmare of the Free Cities.
"They are 'Bloody Mummers'," Fletcher Dick laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Colorful, loud, and entirely without honor. They make the Second Sons look like the Kingsguard."
"Infamy is still a weapon," Qyburn corrected. "They are cruel, yes, but they are seasoned killers. A mob of monsters is still an army."
"Then we will show them what happens to monsters," Gendry said, his hand tightening into a fist. "I want every man of the Brave Companions dead. No ransoms. No quarters. The Disputed Lands have no room for pedophiles and butchers. The other sellswords and Myrish levies can run—but the Mummers stay in the dirt."
The council nodded. The Wolf Pack had its own code, and it did not include harboring the likes of Vargo Hoat.
"If we stay behind these walls, we lose the initiative," Gendry analyzed, looking at the map. "We will meet them in the marshes south of the estate. The terrain is treacherous, perfect for an ambush. We don't need a siege; we need a slaughter."
The strategy was set: the "Hammer and the Anvil." Iron Fist and the heavy infantry would hold the center in the marshy bottleneck, while Gendry led the heavy cavalry and the elite veterans of the Wolf Pack in a flanking maneuver.
"Two hundred archers," Black Billy reported. "The Wolf Pack veterans will lead the Free Army recruits. We'll be using Myrish crossbows for the new men—they're easier to point and pull—but my veterans will keep their longbows. A Myrish bolt is a mosquito bite compared to a cloth-yard shaft."
"Stand your ground," Gendry commanded the officers. "I need you to be the rock they break against. Hold them just long enough for me to find their heart."
"As you command, Lord Commander," Iron Fist promised. "If they want this estate, they'll have to walk over our bones."
The Myrish expeditionary force marched like a gaudy, rusted snake through the tall grass.
Nearly a thousand men made up the column, a chaotic mix of city guards, harbor thugs, and the nightmare men of the Brave Companions. At the head of the Myrish contingent was Commander Qobo, the Magister's nephew. He was a professional officer of the city guard, used to order and discipline, and the men he was currently leading made his skin crawl.
He looked toward the front of the column, where the black goat banner of Qohor fluttered.
Riding a black-and-white striped zorse was the leader of the Mummers: Vargo Hoat. He was a tall, unnervingly thin man with a beard that reached his belt, decorated with small bells and grisly trophies. Around his neck hung a heavy chain of coins from a dozen different nations—the price of his many betrayals.
"Lord Vargo," Qobo said, riding up beside the Qohorik. "Perhaps we should halt and wait for the fleet to land. We are ahead of schedule, and the Wolf Pack is known for their traps."
Vargo Hoat turned his long, gaunt face toward the Myrman. He appeared to be chewing on something, and when he spoke, his voice was wet and distorted by a heavy lisp.
"Trapth?" Vargo sneered. "I do not fear puppy-dogth. We will take their thilver and their thalt, and I will have the 'Hammer King'th' handth for my necklace."
"They are Northern veterans, my lord. Their ferocity is well-documented."
"Ferothity meanth nothing to a goat," Vargo laughed, his bells jingling.
Behind him, the rest of the Mummers followed—a surreal collection of horrors. There were Dothraki with bells in their hair, Ibbenese with shaggy shields, a fat Septon with a predatory glint in his eye, and mummers in green-and-pink motley. It looked more like a circus from hell than a military unit.
Qobo's eyes strayed to the "Monk," Septon Utt, who was currently eyeing a young Myrish camp follower with a look that made Qobo want to draw his sword.
"I have heard their leader is a demon in a horned mask," Qobo tried again.
"Let him come," Vargo rasped, spitting a stream of red juice into the dirt. "I will make him lthp better than I do before I'm done with him."
Qobo fell back, his heart sinking. He was leading an army of lunatics against a man who had already crushed two Meereenese champions. He looked at the tall grass swaying in the wind and realized with a sudden, cold dread that the Wolf Pack wouldn't be waiting at the estate.
They were already here.