Though the exterior walls of the fire-weed estate were built for brutal defense, the interior was a testament to elegant, decadent Myrish taste. The craftsmanship of the Three Daughters was undeniably exquisite, and even Gendry had to silently admire it.
Following Pretty Boy up a flight of shallow steps, the Wolf Pack detachment entered the estate's grand reception hall. The floors were polished marble, and the walls were draped with magnificent Myrish tapestries depicting vibrant hunting scenes. The sellswords crowded onto long wooden benches, while Steward Leff and Pretty Boy took the seats of honor at the high table.
The food was brought out not only by aged cooks but by lines of male and female slaves.
The estate was ringed by concentric defensive walls. A siege here would be far bloodier than a battle on the open plains, making the compound relatively secure. Still, the Myrish masters flatly refused to arm their slaves to defend the walls. In the Three Daughters, slaves outnumbered freeborn citizens three to one. The Magisters rode a tiger, and they knew they had to hold the reins with extreme caution.
Looking at the slaves pouring wine, Gendry noticed their eyes. They were dead. Empty. They moved like hollow wood stripped of its soul.
Rich aromas soon filled the hall. There were smoked capons, whole roasted sea fish, fried pork cutlets, and thick mushroom stews. The local delicacies were staggering: Tyroshi sausages bursting with garlic, and roasted Myrish snails dripping in herbed butter. The drinks were equally exotic. There was Tyroshi pear brandy, Myrish fire-wine, sweet green nectar, thick Pentoshi amber wine, and endless casks of red and white vintages from Lys.
"Drink deep, brothers!" Steward Leff called out, rising from his seat with a goblet. The slaves standing behind him remained perfectly still, as unmoving as furniture.
A cacophony of clashing goblets and roaring laughter echoed through the hall. Half the mercenaries drank heavy wine, while the other half drank watered juice, it was an iron rule of the Wolf Pack that half the detachment must remain sober at all times.
Gendry savored the feast. It was genuinely magnificent. Growing up in the stews of King's Landing, hunger had been a constant companion in his early years. Even as a well-fed apprentice at the forge, he had never tasted anything approaching this level of luxury.
"You've truly emptied the larder for us, old friend," Pretty Boy grinned, wiping grease from his scarred chin.
"Nothing is too good for the Pack!" Leff laughed, delighted to see the mercenaries gorging themselves.
"And brothers, we have a bevy of beautiful bed-slaves ready to attend to you tonight! Should you desire the company!" Leff announced, throwing out his grandest gesture yet.
A fresh wave of howling cheers erupted from the benches. The Wolf Pack's oath strictly forbade rape, but the brothers were entirely free to enjoy the willing, provided hospitality of their employers.
"You've spent a fortune on us tonight, Leff. I take it this contract isn't as simple as guarding against a few wandering cutpurses?" Pretty Boy murmured, leaning in close to the steward.
"You guess correctly, my friend," Leff replied, dropping his voice to a whisper. "With fire-weed commanding such an obscene price, the Magister fears more than just bandits. He fears sabotage. There are merchants currently hoarding old stock who would love nothing more than to see this estate burn to the ground. If our harvest turns to ash, the price of fire-weed will climb even higher."
"But what of the Magister's own reserves?" Pretty Boy asked.
"It is an election year. The Magister liquidated his aging reserves into gold to fund his campaign. This harvest is all he has left, and he must hold onto it."
The politics of the Three Daughters were a ruthless, bloody gladiatorial pit of coin and influence. In Tyrosh, for instance, the ruler was styled the Archon. The elections for Archon were entirely fueled by rampant bribery and violent extortion. In fact, the Tyroshi considered it a mark of competence: if a man wasn't ruthless or wealthy enough to buy an election, he was entirely unfit to rule the city.
"Well then. Let us hope the next few months pass quietly," Pretty Boy grunted.
When the feast finally wound down, the mercenaries dispersed. Some retired to the barracks to find the promised bed-slaves, while the sober half took up their weapons and headed out to relieve the estate's sentries.
"Your Grace, the Disputed Lands are undeniably fertile, but they are a terrible place to try and plant a banner," Qyburn murmured softly once he and Gendry were alone in their assigned quarters.
"Tell me what you see, Master Qyburn."
"The Disputed Lands are the bloody crossroads of the Three Daughters and Volantis. None of those cities would ever permit an independent king to rise here," Qyburn reasoned. "And the sellswords and corsairs who infest this land are hopelessly arrogant. They bow to gold, not crowns."
"The Band of Nine managed it," Gendry countered quietly.
"With great difficulty. And the Ninepenny Kings commanded a massive coalition of wealthy merchants, pirate fleets, and the full might of the Golden Company," Qyburn said, shaking his head. "We have none of that."
"Man forges his own fate. The Ninepenny Kings failed because they didn't tap into the true power of this continent," Gendry said, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, freezing light.
"And what power is that?"
Gendry looked toward the door, where the hollow-eyed slaves had stood during the feast. "Breaking the chains."
Qyburn physically recoiled, staring at Gendry in genuine shock.
"That is madness. That is opening the gates to the Seven Hells!" Qyburn breathed. "Slavery is the absolute foundation of Essosi trade. Yes, for thousands of years, Westeros has outlawed the practice. The Old Gods and the New despise it. But no Westerosi king has ever dared to declare war on half the known world to end it! Even Braavos, the secret city of runaway slaves, only fought Pentos to a standstill. If you raise an anti-slavery banner, you will face the combined wrath of the Three Daughters, Volantis, and Slaver's Bay!"
"Chaos brings new life. We only have the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands as a foothold," Gendry said coldly. "And for now, it is merely a thought. The road is long."
Qyburn fell silent, his mind racing. Gendry's ambition was terrifying, apocalyptic, and entirely unprecedented.
Finally, the old maester bowed his head. "I will aid you with every ounce of my being. May the day come when the world bends to your will."
Qyburn paused, a cunning glint returning to his eyes. "Though, if that is your path, there is another option to consider. There is a pair of exiled siblings currently wandering Essos who still cause the great lords of King's Landing to lose sleep."
"The Beggar King and his sister?"
"Yes," Qyburn nodded. "The Targaryens lost the Iron Throne, true. But there are still many lords in Westeros who secretly curse Robert as the Usurper and drink secret toasts to the true blood of the Dragon."
"Let it rest for now," Gendry decided. "I must forge my own strength first."
It was an intoxicating, insane thought, the Bastard of the Stag and the exiled Princess of the Dragon joining forces. If they ever returned to Westeros together, the storm they unleashed would shatter the continent. But right now, Daenerys and Viserys were locked away in a Pentoshi Magister's manse. There was no opening to approach them.
"Come on, boy!"
Early the next morning, in the estate's dusty training yard, Pretty Boy leveled a blunted practice sword at Gendry. The scarred commander moved with a veteran's fluid, dangerous grace.
Gendry hoisted a heavy, blunted iron practice hammer. Every swing he took was imbued with terrifying, crushing force.
The two clashed in the center of the yard. It wasn't a battle to the death, but the sheer, thundering violence of their strikes displayed a breathtaking, brutal beauty.
CLANG! CLANG!
The sharp shriek of iron ringing on iron echoed across the compound. Gendry slipped into the familiar, raging rhythm of the forge, his strikes growing faster and heavier with every passing second, battering Pretty Boy backward.
"Again!" Gendry roared, his blood pumping hot, goading the commander to strike faster.
Pretty Boy was sweating profusely, his chest heaving as he desperately parried the crushing blows. Finally, with a sickening crack, the commander's blunted iron sword snapped clean in half under the weight of Gendry's hammer.
Gendry stood in the center of the yard, breathing heavily. The cheap ringmail he wore over his tunic was heavily dented from Pretty Boy's strikes, and his cloak hung in shredded ribbons.
"I yield!" Pretty Boy gasped, tossing the broken hilt into the dirt. He braced his hands on his knees, laughing through his exhaustion. "Gods... it won't be long before I have to hand my command over to you, lad!"
The mercenaries watching from the edges of the yard erupted into wild, piercing whistles and thunderous applause.
"The Hammer! The Hammer!"
"My turn!" Another mercenary stepped into the ring, spinning a blunted spear with dizzying, snake-like speed.