The Meereenese gladiator was still twitching in the dirt.
"They weren't trying to destroy us," Gendry noted, eyeing the ridge where Purplebeard's armored knights still sat their horses without moving. "They were delaying us. Running out the clock."
He looked down at Bardak. The man's skull had been caved in—a gaping, catastrophic wound where the warhammer's iron beak had broken through bone. He was dying, not yet dead, but there was no saving him.
Qyburn materialized from between the horses with the eager, precise speed of a man who had been waiting for exactly this moment. He carried a thin iron lance, its tip coated in a thick, viscous black substance that clung like tar.
"A magnificent specimen," Qyburn breathed, crouching beside the giant gladiator. He leaned in carefully, utterly fascinated by the ruins of the man's physique. Bardak was nearly seven feet of dense, scarred muscle—precisely the kind of vessel the old maester needed for his most ambitious experiment.
The black substance on the lance tip was manticore venom, harvested from a specimen Qyburn had quietly acquired in Myr's apothecary district. The venom of a manticore was instantaneously lethal the moment it reached the heart—but Qyburn had spent weeks thickening it with dark sorcery, adding coagulants and arcane compounds in the hope of suspending the body at the threshold between death and undeath, trapping it in a state of terrible, weaponized oblivion.
"I'll do it," Gendry said quietly. He took the lance from Qyburn.
He drove the tip into Bardak's chest four times in rapid succession, targeting the heart, the aorta, and the great blood vessels beneath the collarbone. Bardak let out a series of low, animal groans. The blood oozing from his wounds turned black, and where it soaked the sparse grass around him, the blades withered and browned as if touched by frost. A long, shuddering rattle passed through the massive body.
Then, silence. The heart stopped.
The silence stretched on. Nothing happened. Bardak's dead eyes stared at the pale sky.
"It failed," Qyburn said, barely above a whisper. His face crumpled into deep, frustrated sorrow. "Even a body this powerful is not enough."
Gendry dropped the lance and stepped back. Qyburn stared at his own hands.
The Red Comet, Gendry thought privately, careful to keep his face neutral. That is why it failed. The magic tide had not yet returned to the world. The glass candles were dark. The weirwoods were half-blind. Qyburn didn't know this, but Gendry did—when the comet finally crossed the sky, everything would change. The dead would wake. Dragons would hatch from stone. But that tide was still years away. Until then, even the finest corpse was just meat.
"Another time," Gendry said softly to Qyburn.
Then, a sharp whistle from the front of the column.
"Now!" Pretty Boy's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
Three massive wooden crates were wrestled off the rear wagon, their ropes cut. They crashed to the ground and burst open, spilling great heaps of dried rust-red fire-weed across the road. In the morning light, the scattered herb looked like scattered rubies, obscenely valuable, shimmering against the dark earth.
Pretty Boy turned his horse to face the ridge, making sure Purplebeard could see every handful.
"This is my gift to you, Purplebeard!" the scarred commander bellowed, his voice carrying up the hillside. "If you force us to fight, I will burn every last box. You will have nothing. Your men will have died for empty wagons. Or you take what I'm offering, turn around, and walk away with something to show for this miserable day."
The hillside was dead silent.
"Stubborn Northern bastards," Purplebeard muttered to no one. He sat for a long moment, watching the glittering pile of fire-weed in the road. Then he looked at his surviving armored knights—fewer than before, many favoring wounds. He thought of the two Meereenese pit fighters now cooling in the dirt. He thought of the Magister's gold and what it was worth against another pitched battle with these madmen.
"Leave it," Purplebeard finally said to his paymaster. "We take the fire-weed from the road and we go. Let the Myrish Magisters gut each other."
"But the Magister's contract—"
"Do I look like I care about contracts?" Purplebeard interrupted. "I am a bandit. Nobody should be surprised when a bandit isn't trustworthy. Take the fire-weed and go."
The coastline appeared less than an hour later, the Narrow Sea glittering grey-green below the cliffs. Riding down through a hidden ravine to a wide, flat shingle beach, the Wolf Pack found a ship already anchored in the shallow cove, its ramp lowered.
It was flying a plain Myrish merchant pennant, looking entirely unremarkable—a fat-bellied grain transport called the Mede, built low and broad for heavy cargo. But Pretty Boy smiled the moment he saw it, recognizing the man standing at the rail.
"I thought you weren't coming," Pretty Boy called up from the beach.
"I thought you were dead," the man on the rail called back cheerfully.
Salladhor Saan descended the boarding ramp. He was unmistakable. The notorious Lyseni pirate was a tall, elegantly built man with a full head of brilliantly white curled hair beneath a magnificent wide-brimmed hat decorated with peacock feathers dyed vivid green. His outer coat was woven from silver thread, with sleeves that brushed the planking and buttons carved from jade in the shape of monkeys. Two old eunuchs—grey-haired and solemn—flanked him like statues.
He threw his arms wide and embraced Pretty Boy, kissing both his scarred cheeks.
"You look terrible, my handsome friend! I see your face has acquired new character," Saan said cheerfully, touching the fresh gash on Pretty Boy's cheek. Then his dark eyes traveled to the wagons. "Ah. But not as much fire-weed as there should be. I expected four wagons. I count two and a half."
"Bandits," Pretty Boy said curtly. "We dropped some cargo to buy our escape."
"And Greybeard?"
"Still in Myr. The city is a snake pit right now. That is partly why I need you."
Saan made a sympathetic noise, then lifted a finger and sent his Unsullied attendants down the ramp to begin counting and loading the cargo. One of them pulled a bundle of fire-weed from the crate, held it to his nose, and nodded gravely.
"Old Myrish fire-weed. The proper stuff. Magister Calasso grows good medicine," Saan murmured. "Pity his seat is surrounded by wolves. Not your kind of wolves, my friend."
He signaled to the ship. "Count carefully! The Wolf Pack are my oldest friends, but a tenth is a tenth."
Saan put his arm around Pretty Boy's shoulders and guided him up the ramp toward the captain's quarters. He paused when he noticed Gendry, who had followed without being told—a towering boy in black scale, short black hair, and a crude iron half-mask.
"And this formidable young man?" Saan asked.
"The Hammer," Pretty Boy introduced him. "Our newest brother. He is young, but he has more courage and strength than any man in the Pack. He has personally beaten two Meereenese pit fighters to death this past month."
Salladhor Saan's white eyebrows shot upward. He turned fully to Gendry, extending a jeweled hand with genuine enthusiasm. "I am deeply honored to meet a new legend! Two Meereenese? In one month?"
"It wasn't complicated," Gendry replied, shaking the offered hand.
Saan laughed delightedly and swept them both into his captain's quarters. Within minutes, the steward had produced spiced Pentoshi red wine, white goat cheese, and dried strips of salted beef.
"Tolerate the vintage," Saan apologized, filling goblets. "This ship is a disguise, and Myrish wine is neither expensive nor drinkable."
Pretty Boy raised his cup. "It tastes like horse piss. I love it."
Saan looked at Gendry. "The young hero does not drink?"
"He is shy," Pretty Boy answered. "Until you give him a weapon."
"Ha!" Saan slapped the table. He rarely saw Pretty Boy compliment a young fighter. If this man said the boy was exceptional, the boy was exceptional.
Saan leaned back in his carved chair and laced his fingers together. "My friend, I have said this before and I will say it again. Being a sellsword is a dangerous and deeply moral profession. Men with consciences die young. Come and work for me."
"Not this again," Pretty Boy groaned.
"I am serious! I have thirty ships and an abundance of loyal, profitable problems," Saan insisted. "A great man to guard my convoys and arrange accidents for my competitors would make us both wealthy beyond dreams. I can have you and your brothers slipping silk and spice into Braavos by midnight, the inspectors none the wiser."
"You're asking us to become pirates," Pretty Boy said dryly.
"I prefer independent maritime entrepreneurs," Saan corrected, with great dignity. "My rates are extremely reasonable. I ask only that you protect my ships. In return, I will ensure you live long enough to spend the gold."
"We have a contract to finish," Pretty Boy said firmly. "Greybeard is still in Myr. We don't leave brothers behind. The fire-weed reaches the Magister, we recover the Captain, and then we reassess."
Saan sighed theatrically. "Always the same answer. I said the same thing to the Onion Knight once, and he chose to become a lord." He shook his head with fond exasperation. "It seems honest men taste power and never look back. I hope you at least enjoy the wine, my stubborn Northern friend."
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