Three fantasy warriors in purple-trimmed armor with swords on rocky terrain
The territory of the Wolf Pack now stretched from two unnamed crags in the Stepstones to a jagged peninsula in the Disputed Lands, encompassing a sprawling network of captured estates.
The land was fertile—a sea of swaying fire-weed and golden wheat—but it was also vulnerable. From a military perspective, Gendry's kingdom lacked the natural barriers of the Eyrie or the crannogs of the Neck. There were no mountains to hold, only flat, open plains that demanded a victory in every engagement. In the Disputed Lands, to lose once was to lose everything.
"Break the chains!"
The slogan of the Free Army had become a contagion, spreading through the slave quarters of Myr, Tyrosh, and even as far east as the Rhoyne. Runaway slaves emerged from the brush and the marshes every day, their eyes wide with the fever of the "Liberator." The Free Army was no longer a ragtag group; it was a movement.
While the Free Cities of the Three Daughters struggled with the sluggish gears of their councils, Gendry's commands were absolute. Inside the command tent at the Wolf's Den, the air was thick with the scent of blood oranges.
A crate of the fruit had arrived from the south, a gift from a Dornish merchant trading for fire-weed. Gendry sat on a tiger-pelt folding chair, peeling an orange with a small, sharp knife. The juice was dark, staining his fingers like fresh blood. Hidden within the hollowed-out center of one orange was a small slip of parchment—a warning from the Red Viper.
"Beware the Myrmen's gifts," the letter read.
It was a redundant warning—Qyburn's spies had already reported the frantic activity in the Myrish markets—but it was an act of goodwill from Oberyn. The Magisters were no longer just seeking revenge; they were terrified.
"The Myrmen are emptying their vaults," Pretty Boy said, pointing to the maps. "They've sent emissaries to every major company in Essos. The Golden Company, the Company of the Cat, the Windblown, the Stormcrows—even the Second Sons, despite Mero's declining reputation."
The mercenary landscape of the Disputed Lands was a hierarchy of steel. At the top sat the Golden Company, ten thousand strong and undefeated. Below them were the Cats, three thousand brutal infantry led by Bloodbeard; the Windblown, two thousand mixed horse and foot under the Tattered Prince; and the Spear Company with their eight hundred cavalry. The Second Sons and the Stormcrows were smaller, five hundred each, but still dangerous in a skirmish.
"They've even reached out to the Cats? They must be desperate," Fletcher Dick chuckled, leaning against a tent pole. "Bloodbeard's men are more likely to sack Myr than my estate."
"Don't underestimate them," Longspear cautioned. "A thousand murderers are still a thousand swords. And the Golden Company?"
"They are watching," Qyburn said, his fingers steepled. "They've demanded a sum so large the Myrish Magisters turned pale. For now, the Company has only agreed to defend the city itself. They won't march on us—yet. They are waiting to see which wolf has the sharper teeth."
Gendry dropped a segment of the blood orange into his mouth. "The Golden Company is playing both sides. If they support us, they get a path to Westeros. If they support Myr, they get a mountain of gold. We won't beg for their help. We'll make it the only logical choice."
Gendry stood, his shadow looming large against the canvas. "We have a problem of success. The Free Army is growing faster than we can arm it. But we cannot let them become a mob. We aren't here to burn the world; we're here to build a new