The sea howled, and the Narrow Sea threw great, salt-heavy swells against the hull of the Honeywine Hall.
Amidst the rhythmic creak of the oars and the snap of the sails, the Myrish merchantman—a prize ship of the Lyseni pirate Salladhor Saan—fled the harbor of Myr under the cover of the pre-dawn mist. Inside the flickering warmth of the main cabin, the grey wolf banner of the Wolf Pack hung against the timber.
"Winter is coming! The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives!"
The cry echoed through the wooden ribs of the ship. One by one, the survivors of the company repeated the oath, their voices rough with exhaustion and iron resolve. They looked to Gendry, the black iron wolf-ring gleaming on his finger, and swore their lives to their new Commander.
Pretty Boy was the first to rise from his knee. He moved stiffly, his poisoned left arm tucked into a sling against his chest, but his eyes were clear. He took his longsword with his right hand and laid it at Gendry's feet. Then came Iron Fist, Longspear, and Fletcher Dick.
In the North, obedience was not a matter of law, but of survival. The Starks had ruled for eight thousand years not because of gold, but because they were the ones who sat at the fire with their men and faced the winter head-on. Gendry might be a Baratheon by blood, but his soul had been forged in the hard, pragmatic fires of the forge and the company. In terms of sheer presence, he had already surpassed the men who had raised him.
Gendry looked around the circle: the ancient, calculating Qyburn; the weary but lethal Fletcher Dick; the crippled but wise Pretty Boy; and the battle-hardened Iron Fist. This was his council. This was the foundation of his house.
"Rise, brothers," Gendry commanded.
"I have lost the use of my sword arm," Pretty Boy said, his voice steady. "I cannot lead a charge anymore. I volunteer to serve as the Commander's advisor and treasurer."
Gendry nodded. He knew the value of the man's mind. "The hierarchy remains. Pretty Boy is my primary advisor and treasurer. Iron Fist retains command of the cavalry. Longspear leads the infantry. Fletcher Dick remains our master-of-arms and instructor. And Maester Qyburn is our healer and scholar."
Stability was the first requirement of any army. By keeping the veterans in their places, Gendry ensured that the transition of power was seamless.
"Agreed!" the officers shouted in unison.
"Our next move must be decisive," Gendry said, his voice dropping an octave as he looked at the maps spread across the table. "We are no longer just sellswords. We are a pack. And a pack needs a den."
"The old Wolf's Den is compromised," Pretty Boy noted. "It's too close to Myr. Without Magister Calasso's protection, the city guard will burn it to the ground within the week."
"Then we take the fire-weed estate," Gendry said, his finger tapping the coastal location. "It was Calasso's property. Now, it will be auctioned or seized by Magister Joios. We will take it first."
"It's a strong position," Iron Fist mused. "Further from the city, closer to the coast, and easier to defend with Saan's help."
"But we need more than walls. We need a cause," Gendry proposed, looking each man in the eye. "Until now, we have played the game of the Magisters. We have protected their property and their slaves. I say we flip the board. We liberate the slaves of the fire-weed guild. We burn the contracts and offer them a choice: serve the Pack as free men, or stay in chains for the Myrmen."
The cabin went silent.
In Essos, slavery was the engine of existence. To liberate slaves was to invite the wrath of every Magister from Pentos to Volantis. But for Westerosi men, the "peculiar institution" was a filth that had always sat poorly in their stomachs. Both the Old Gods of the North and the Seven of the South viewed slavery as an abomination.
"If we ignite a slave revolt, the Disputed Lands will burn," Qyburn noted, his eyes shining with cold interest.
"Let it burn," Gendry replied. "Magister Joios and the Seafarer's Guild stole our brothers' lives. We will steal their wealth. Every slave we free is a soldier they lose and a man we gain."
"We are wolves," Gendry roared. "And wolves do not wear collars!"
"For the Pack!" the mercenaries bellowed, their anti-slavery sentiment surfacing with violent enthusiasm.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Salladhor Saan sauntered into the cabin, his peacock-feathered hat bobbing. Gendry instinctively adjusted his iron mask.
"A young hero! A liberator! A king in the making!" Saan laughed, his rings flashing in the torchlight. "The winds of the Narrow Sea are changing, and I find a new genius at the helm!"
Saan offered a theatrical bow. "My greetings to the new Commander-in-Chief of the Wolf Pack. You have the fire, boy. Bloodraven was a soldier at eleven, Tywin a Hand at twenty, and Robert a usurper at twenty. History is written by the young and the foolishly brave."
"We are grateful for the rescue, Captain Saan," Gendry said, his voice neutral. He knew the pirate was as dangerous as a viper.
"I am not here to praise you, my stubborn Northern friends. I am here to offer a partnership," Saan said, pouring himself a cup of wine. "I have always wanted a land-based force that I could trust. The Golden Company is too expensive, and the Unsullied are as exciting to talk to as a brick wall. But you? You have blood in your veins."
"What kind of partnership?" Gendry asked.
"Simple. I have the ships, the secret routes, and the ears of every whore and smuggler from Braavos to the Jade Sea. You have the steel. We work together. You hold the land, I hold the sea."
"That sounds like piracy," Longspear noted.
Gendry held up a hand. "Let him finish."
"My family has been in the 'maritime acquisition' business for three hundred years," Saan said proudly. "My ancestor Samarro Saan was one of the Ninepenny Kings. We have always wanted a kingdom of our own. We aren't your masters, Gendry. We are your partners."
"I accept," Gendry said, surprising his officers. "We need a fleet to secure the coast of the fire-weed estate. If you protect our waters, we will provide the ground support for your 'acquisitions'."
"A wise choice! The Commander is a man of vision," Saan beamed. "The fire-weed estate is a perfect staging ground. It sits just outside the Myrish reach but within my fleet's protection. When the Myrmen inevitably come for you, we can evacuate you to the Stepstones or vanish into the Narrow Sea."
"And what is the first target?" Gendry asked.
Saan's eyes glittered. "A ship of the Seafarer's Guild. It belongs to Magister Raychel—the very man who architected your Magister's downfall. The ship is currently anchored in Volantis, fresh from Qarth. It is carrying a king's ransom in spices, jade, and a fresh shipment of one hundred Unsullied."
Gendry's grip on his warhammer tightened. "One hundred more weapons for the Pack."
"To the hunt!" Saan cheered, raising his glass.
"To the hunt," Gendry replied.
The stage was set. Gendry was no longer just running from his past—he was building a future that would make the world tremble.
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