In the manor's council hall, fine Myrish tapestries hung along the walls, each depicting scenes of harvest and abundance.
Gendry, Qyburn, and Handsome Man stood over a long table where a map of the Disputed Lands lay spread open.
Victory was sweet. But the more estates they seized, the deeper the fear in Myr would grow. And fear, if it grew too great, might drive the Three Daughters to unite.
"After taking a manor, we divide it as before," Gendry said. "Land and daily necessities go to the freed slaves. Precious metals, fine crafts, medicines and the like go into the inner treasury. Same as always."
They were the private holdings of Myrish Magisters and wealthy merchants. He felt no regret stripping them. Gold, rare goods, medicine—those were soldier's pay. They belonged in the treasury.
"Everything has been registered," Qyburn said. "Redistribution will follow."
"Fire Herb Manor, Purple Thorn Manor, Wolf-Tail Grass Manor…" Handsome Man counted off. "The more estates we take, the greater the panic in Myr."
"Most of these belong to Magisters or rich merchants," Qyburn added. "Primarily Magister Joeyr. It won't be long before Myr hires mercenaries or adventurers to strike back."
The former commander of the Wolf Pack—and several of their allies—had died at the hands of Joeyr and the Navigators' Guild. The hatred ran deep. Whether for territory or vengeance, a reckoning with Joeyr was inevitable.
"The good news," Gendry said, "is that Myr is not of one mind. Just like the Three Daughters."
"The High Council has more than a dozen Magisters," he continued. "They pull in different directions like horses bolting different ways."
Division had always been the tradition of the Three Daughters. In the days of the Triarchy, the High Council held thirty-three Magisters—eleven each from Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Each one eager to prove his foresight, each one desperate to carve advantage for his own city. Every matter dragged through endless debate.
"Some Myrish Magisters may even thank us," Handsome Man said dryly. "We hold a great deal of Fire Herb. The merchants in Myr who've hoarded it are making a fortune off the chaos. They'd gladly see us stir the pot a while longer."
"Let Myr stew," Gendry said. "We use the time we've bought."
"So far, they've only sent small bands of assassins," Qyburn said. In addition to tending the wounded, he managed intelligence and spies. "We've dealt with them. Next will come hired raiders and mercenary companies."
"We fortify Fire Herb Manor and the surrounding estates. Then we secure the coastline."
"Land forces alone won't be enough," Handsome Man said. "If we're to hold the Disputed Lands, we must consider the Stepstones. Otherwise we risk being surrounded."
"The ideal," he added, "is to take the Disputed Horn and then seize a few nearby islands."
"Besides the smugglers of the Three Daughters, has anyone else reached out?" Gendry asked.
"Yes," Qyburn replied. "My tavern contacts report interest from Dornishmen and men of the Reach. They're watching our Fire Herb closely."
"Dorne and the Reach," Gendry repeated. "Interesting."
Dorne was barren. The Reach was rich. Yet both shared one thing: neither stood at the heart of Baratheon power. Both had been left to the edges of the realm's favor.
...
In Myr Harbor, aboard a lavish pleasure yacht, the High Council of Myr met in tense session.
Slender Magisters with olive skin sat in silks and jewels, each representing his faction—the Navigators' Guild, the Artisans' Guild, the Fire Herb Guild, and more. Their voices overlapped in sharp, urgent debate.
The Magisters were shouting over one another.
The storm stirred up by the Fire Herb King in the Disputed Lands was growing larger by the day. Even within Myr itself, stories were spreading.
"Divide the land! Give it to the common folk! Every man is born free!"
The slogans had reached the streets.
"Magister Joeyr, it is your foolish decision that has brought us to this!" one Magister snapped. "Fire Herb prices keep climbing. Firewine grows dearer by the day. Citizens complain, and the slaves are restless."
"Me?" Joeyr's face flushed red. "You would lay the wolves' rampage at my feet? I know some among you have ties to this Fire Herb King. The more chaotic the Disputed Lands become, the more profit you make off hoarded Fire Herb and liquor!"
"It was your incompetence!" the Magister of the Artisans' Guild shot back. "One Magister falling is nothing unusual. But your blunders let those mad wolf cubs loose across the Disputed Lands. Without slaves, who will distill our firewine and mead? Who will weave our fine tapestries?"
"Slander!"
The chamber dissolved into shouting. Before they could strike an enemy, they were already tearing at one another.
"Enough!"
An olive-skinned Magister with white hair and black eyes rose to his feet.
"Silence!"
It was Magister Revord of the Artisans' Guild, one of the most powerful and respected men in Myr.
"The Disputed Lands are fertile and rich," Revord said coldly. "Slaves are the foundation of Myr's prosperity. Neither can be abandoned. We cannot allow these bandit mercenaries and rebellious slaves to continue unchecked."
"And your solution?" someone demanded. "Appeasement or annihilation?"
"The wolf cubs' talk has already stirred ambition among the slaves," Revord said. "Every last one of them must be cut down. As was done in Slaver's Bay, so must we act—without mercy."
The room quieted.
"This responsibility falls to you, Magister Joeyr," Revord continued. "You stood to gain the most. It is time you contribute to Myr."
Joeyr lowered his head. He had no better answer. Judging from the mood of the council, the cost would fall squarely on him. Hiring adventurers and mercenary companies would demand a fortune.
"But many companies will refuse such madness," Joeyr protested weakly. "That boy knows how to fight. He knows how to win hearts. The slaves believe in him."
"There is no shortage of cutthroat companies in the Disputed Lands," Revord replied. "Some will accept. As it happens, two particularly ruthless companies have already expressed interest."
"Which two?"
"The Brave Companions. And the Second Sons."
Joeyr drew in a sharp breath.
"They are infamous."
"Infamous sellswords are still sellswords," Revord said flatly. "Or would you rather pay the Golden Company?"
The Brave Companions were a mercenary company of ill repute, filled with criminals and exiles from across the world.
The Second Sons were older and more established—one of the oldest companies in the eastern continent, founded in the Century of Blood. They lacked the Golden Company's prestige, but their record in battle was solid. In recent years, under Mero's leadership, their reputation had sunk so low that contracts in the Free Cities had grown scarce.
But in times like these, reputation mattered less than results.