While the Free Army made loud, bloody demonstrations along the Myrish border, the true strike came from the sea. Two unnamed islands in the Stepstones, jagged rocks that had long served as havens for minor pirate dens, woke to the sound of black-hulled ships grinding against the shingle.
These were the desolate reaches of the archipelago, far from the larger hubs of Bloodstone or Grey Gallows. Under a sky heavy with salt spray, the Volantene escapees and a detachment of Wolf Pack knights went ashore.
"For the Pack!"
The dual banners—the grey wolf and the shattered chain—rose over the rocky crags. The pirates, caught between their cups and the sudden iron of a disciplined landing force, broke before the first volley of arrows. The Stepstones, the throat of the world's trade, had a new master.
In the solar of the Wolf's Den, the Tyroshi envoy sat on the edge of a tiger-pelt folding chair. The pelt was a gift from the Volantene freedmen, its orange-and-black fur a stark contrast to the Myrish tapestries on the walls.
Gendry sat across from him, his face hidden behind the crude black iron mask. To his left and right stood two Unsullied, their bronze spears polished to a mirror finish. Maester Qyburn stood in the shadows, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips.
The envoy's eyes darted around the room, settling on the warhammer that leaned against Gendry's chair. The iron was dark, save for the faint, cold shimmer of its wicked spike.
The rumors were wrong, the envoy thought. In Tyrosh, the "Butter King" was described as an eight-foot monster who drank blood and sacrificed slaves to dark gods. The man before him was tall—well over six feet—but he moved with a dangerous, predatory grace that was far more unsettling than a giant's clumsiness. He was not a butcher; he was a king.
"Tyrosh brings gifts," the envoy said, his voice trembling slightly. He gestured to a small chest containing bottles of Tyroshi pear brandy and a suit of ornate, enameled armor.
"I appreciate the Archon's taste in wine," Gendry said, his voice muffled by the iron mask. "But you didn't sail through the Stepstones just to stock my cellar."
The envoy adjusted his purple-red beard, which had been meticulously curled and dyed. Tyrosh had not forgotten the War of the Ninepenny Kings, when their city was occupied by an alliance of sellswords and exiles. The rise of the Wolf Pack felt like a ghost returning to haunt them.
"The Archon is concerned, Commander," the envoy stated, trying to regain his posture. "You have taken seven estates. You have liberated thousands of slaves. You are disrupting the very lifeblood of the Three Daughters. Do you truly wish to make enemies of Myr, Lys, Tyrosh, and Volantis all at once?"
"The Myrmen have already made their choice," Gendry replied. "And I don't see Lys or Volantis marching on my gates yet."
"They will," the envoy warned. "If you do not cease your 'liberation' propaganda and withdraw to your original borders, Tyrosh will view your expansion as a provocation of war. Return the slaves you have taken, and perhaps we can discuss a peaceful co-existence."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you will find that a wolf's pelt is easily turned into a rug," the envoy said, though his hand shook as he reached for his cup. "The Myrmen are already speaking with the Golden Company. You are a small fish in a very large pond, Warhammer."
Gendry let out a low, dry laugh. "The Golden Company? I find that interesting. I've been speaking with them as well."
The envoy went pale. The purple-red beard seemed to drain of color. "Negotiating? With the Company?"
"They want Westeros. I want the Disputed Lands," Gendry lied, his voice cold and convincing. "It's a win-win scenario. They get their homecoming, and I get the Three Daughters. Tell me, Archon's man... if the Golden Company lands in Tyrosh to 'liberate' the city for me, who will you call then?"
The envoy stood up so quickly his chair nearly toppled. The thought of ten thousand veteran sellswords and twenty war elephants backed by the Hammer King was a nightmare that would keep the Archon awake for months.
"I... I will relay your message," the envoy stammered, backing toward the door. "But do not think this is over."
"It's only just beginning," Gendry said.
Once the Tyroshi had scurried away, Qyburn stepped forward. "That was a masterful bluff, Commander. The Tyroshi will be paralyzed for weeks trying to confirm if you've truly made a pact with Harry Strickland."
"It's not entirely a bluff," Gendry said, removing his mask and rubbing his face. "The Golden Company and the Wolf Pack share a common ancestor—the exiles of Westeros. They hate slavery as much as any man from the North or the Reach. We have a basis for cooperation."
"They are a dangerous friend," Pretty Boy warned, joining them. "They have spent a hundred years trying to go home. Their price will be steep."
"They have the Peakes and the Flowers among them," Gendry noted. "Exiles who still have friends in the Reach and Dorne. If we can convince them that our hammer is the key to their front door, they'll fight for us better than any Myrish coin could buy."
Gendry looked toward the window. The sun was setting over the Stepstones, where his black ships were already digging in.
"Let the Magisters panic. Let the Archon sweat. We have the islands, and soon, we will have the company."
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