"My old friend, I'm telling you from the heart. Don't go back to that hellhole of Myr! The winds and seas there are too vicious—you could drown in them. Take your Fire Herbs, and let Saan escort you and your men somewhere safer. An island, or one of Lys's vassal territories. Go join the excitement there! Fire Herbs are fetching a sky-high price this year. With what you've got, you could make a fortune!" the old pirate urged.
"Thank you, Saan." The Handsome Man smiled. "You love your purse. I still love my oaths. And besides, Greybeard is your friend too."
"Greybeard? I knew him back when you were still a servant. But it doesn't matter, old friend. I can't just watch you march off to your death. The situation in Myr is murky as black water. Magister Casso is likely to be utterly crushed this time." The old pirate poured himself a cup of wine.
"I'll be fine. I'm going to Myr."
"Good. That's what I like about you northerners—stubborn as stone, unlike the folk of the Free Cities. But you can't live on stubbornness forever."
"Can you wait for us along the coast? If things fall apart in Myr, we'll need a way out."
"Then loyal Saan will require another payment. A small one. I'll take another tenth of the Fire Herbs."
"Fine." The Handsome Man clenched his jaw.
"Good. But I won't wait too long. We'll reach Myr later tonight, and I can't linger. I don't intend to expose my smuggling ship. If I'm still there by the next dawn, it'll be dangerous."
"Good luck, my old friend," Salladhor told the Handsome Man.
As the night turned pitch-black, the Mead slipped quietly along Myr's coast and put in at a small inlet not far from the city. The cove itself was unremarkable. What mattered was the stone hill behind it—smugglers had carved a hidden passage there, a tunnel that ran straight into Myr.
Most smugglers worked in the dark, arranging small boats, then climbing over some low stretch of wall—or a section that had collapsed—to trade inside the city. But the old Lysene pirate had methods far finer than that. He had even had a tunnel dug.
"Handsome Man" led a strike party of several dozen capable men: Fletcher Dick, Longspear, Gendry, and others. The rest stayed aboard the old pirate's ship. If the strike party didn't come back, the old pirate would take those left behind somewhere safe.
"You two don't have to go," the Handsome Man tried to persuade them. Fletcher Dick was too old, and Gendry too young.
"My soul died more than ten years ago," Fletcher Dick said, laughing as he swung his purpleheart longbow. "The Sword of the Morning and the White Ox killed it. I died that day—the day the Kingswood Brotherhood was wiped out in the Kingswood. I've regretted not being there ever since. It's made me feel like a coward. The Seven already gave me these extra years. I've had enough."
"The Company needs a young man," Gendry said, lifting his spiked hammer.
The Handsome Man's face still bore a cut left by the "Lion." When it came to raw power, they needed a proper warhammer at their side.
"Boy, keep those eyes sharp," Fletcher Dick warned him. "I've taught you everything I can. I don't want to see good timber felled while it's still green."
"Myr is divided into an inner city and an outer city," the Handsome Man said, laying out the plan. "The outer city is the slums—where the poor live. The inner city is where the Magister and the highborn reside. Magister Casso's place, and likely his enemies as well, should be in estates within the inner city. The outer city's watch is lax, but the inner city is tightly guarded. Breaking in won't be easy."
Torch in hand, the Handsome Man led the assault team through the low tunnel. It was narrow enough that only two people could walk abreast, and for anyone too tall or too broad, the smugglers' passage was pure misery. Horses, of course, had no chance of fitting through.
Getting the Fire Herbs through mattered. But what mattered even more was the state of Myr—whether the situation was truly beyond saving.
Gendry carried two weapons: an Arakh scimitar and his spiked hammer. Over his black scale armor, he wore a richly embroidered outer cloak, better at turning aside arrows.
At the corner of a narrow alley in Myr's outer city, the Handsome Man and the others finally saw light again. They levered up a section of paving stones at the end of a dead-end lane and climbed out into the open.
"Casso, Betrayer of the People!"
"Casso, Betrayer of the People!"
"Casso is dead!"
"Casso is dead!"
The city of Myr had descended into uproar and chaos as Magister Casso fell from power. The wealth and status of House Casso vanished overnight. Torches flared across the streets as the Myr garrison swept through the city, busy confiscating the family's property—cargo, docks, warehouses, even slaves.
When a Magister falls, the victors descend like jackals to strip the corpse clean.
The Handsome Man listened carefully, sorting through the shouts and rumors as he searched for his companions.
He and Gendry's group had already covered the wolf sigil on their chests, keeping their heads down while gauging the shifting tide of noise around them. Fortunately, Myr was crawling with Sellswords and adventurers. They were just another band drifting in the crowd, too insignificant to draw notice. Fletcher quietly wrapped up his longbow. Its Westerosi make was far too distinctive—enough to invite suspicion.
The situation had already gone badly wrong.
It wasn't the Fire Herbs. Their enemies had struck before the shipment ever reached Myr. They had uncovered Casso's wealth and moved first, dealing a decisive blow before he could secure the profits from this batch.
And Greybeard?
The Handsome Man's heart tightened. Greybeard had been responsible for Casso's protection. If Casso had fallen so cleanly, Greybeard's fate was likely grim.
"Kill them!"
"Kill them!"
The roar cracked like thunder as more than a dozen blood-soaked riders burst toward Myr's gates.
Most of the Wolf Pack men were wounded, their bodies slick with blood. It must have taken everything they had to fight their way here. Judging from their direction, they had ridden out from the inner city.
Behind them came the Myr garrison, the Magister's personal guards, and hired Sellswords in pursuit, crossbows raised. Yet the Myrish did not dare close in recklessly. Northerners were unmatched in brutal close combat, and the Wolf Pack carried northern blood in their veins.
"Thwip!"
Dick freed his longbow from its wrapping. His arrow flew as smoothly as silk sliding through a loom and struck a pursuer dead without fail.
"Kill them! The Wolf Pack is here!"
The Wolf Pack answered with a thunderous shout of their own, deliberately making their numbers sound larger than they were.
Gendry led one group. The Handsome Man took another.
Fletcher drew and loosed with calm precision, each arrow landing true. A longbow could not match a crossbow's reload speed, but its range was far greater. And Fletcher was no ordinary archer—he was among the finest ever to draw a bow in Westeros.
"The wolves are coming!"
Gendry fastened his iron mask and surged forward like a storm. Warhammer in hand, he led several men straight toward their trapped comrades.