The shifts in the Narrow Sea were like the beat of a butterfly's wing bringing a hurricane.
"The Ninepenny Kings... they certainly gave the world a few years of excitement. King Robert's own grandfather, Ormund, died in that miserable war," Lady Olenna remarked, her voice dry as old parchment. "Nine ghoul-pirates and a two-headed monster. I didn't think anyone would be foolish enough to follow in their footsteps after all these years."
"It's just a game of pirates and cheesemongers," Mace Tyrell huffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Slaves and spice-sellers playing at war."
"It is more than a game, Father," Willas said, his voice calm and analytical. "The 'Butter King'—as the Myrmen are mockingly calling him—is setting the Disputed Lands on fire. He isn't just raiding; he is seizing. He has broken with Myr entirely, liberated their labor force, and is systematically taking the Magisters' estates. Tyrosh and Lys are both watching with their hands on their sword-hilts, terrified the fire will spread to their own fields."
"The Myrish merchants have driven the price of fire-weed to the moon to cover their losses," Willas continued. "But the 'Butter King' holds more of the crop than they do now, and he's offering it at a fair price to anyone with a ship. Our own armies need fire-weed for medicine. I believe we should reach out to him."
"Preposterous!" Mace sputtered. "A Lord of Highgarden doing business with a slave-thief?"
"Observation is never a sin, Mace. Only stupidity is," Olenna cut in sharply. She looked at her son with weary eyes. "Sometimes I wish I were a simple farm woman. Then I could take a big wooden spoon and crack that fat head of yours until some sense leaked in."
"Mother!" Mace's face turned a violent shade of red.
"If this 'Butter King' controls the fire-weed, he controls the health of every army in the East," Olenna said, her tone turning serious. "The clouds of war are gathering. This summer has been long—far too long—and the winter that follows will be a monster. We need every resource we can find."
"I will keep our informants in Oldtown and the Arbor alert," Willas promised. "The Redwyne sailors will bring us more news. If this man continues to rise, we may eventually have to meet him. But I wonder... is the Spider already weaving a web around him?"
"Varys?" Olenna snorted. "That eunuch is more slippery than a greased eel. He won't destroy a new power until he knows which way the wind is blowing. For now, he is likely just watching. But we must be ready. King's Landing is full of lions, and we have a bitter, stubborn stag sitting on the throne who sees enemies in every shadow."
"Can I go to the Disputed Lands?" Margaery asked suddenly, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I've read about the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It sounds like a land of chaos and riches."
"Absolutely not!" Mace barked. "The Stepstones are crawling with pirates who would ransom a Tyrell for half the Reach."
"And if she went with me?"
A tall, powerfully built knight stepped into the gazebo. He wore a green tunic embroidered with two golden roses—the sigil of a second son. He looked like Loras, the Knight of Flowers, but he was broader, stronger, and lacked his younger brother's vanity. This was Garlan the Gallant.
"Brother!" Margaery beamed. "I would feel safe anywhere with you."
Garlan sat down, his hand resting on the hilt of his longsword. He wore a short, neat beard and had the calloused hands of a man who spent four hours a day training against three or four opponents at once.
"I find myself interested in this 'Butter King' as well," Garlan admitted. "I suspect he is an exile from Westeros. The Wolf Pack has always been a refuge for our cast-offs. But a knight of that caliber would have made a name for himself in the tourneys by now."
"Perhaps he doesn't care for glory," Margaery suggested. "Perhaps, like you, Garlan, he is a practical man."
"Then he is far more dangerous," Garlan mused. "A young man who disdains vanity usually wants something much larger than a trophy. He wants power. And a man who can hammer through Unsullied is someone I would very much like to meet."
Thousands of leagues to the east, the "Free Army" was moving like a tide.
Their banner was a stark, black field with a silver chain being shattered by a falling hammer. Behind it marched thousands of liberated slaves, their voices a low, rhythmic chant: "Freedom! Freedom!"
A black stallion crested a hill, and the crowd parted like the sea. Gendry sat in the saddle, looking every bit the "storm" Qyburn had promised. The war had changed him. He was broader now, his presence more imposing, his blue eyes hard behind the slits of his crude iron mask. He wore his black scale mail and his heavy warhammer hung at his side, its iron head dark and hungry.
"Victory! Victory!" the Free Army cheered.
Behind Gendry rode the veterans of the Wolf Pack. They were the steel core of the rebellion—Longspear, Iron Fist, and Fletcher Dick—all encased in heavy plate and mail. They looked like gods of war compared to the ragged slaves.
The Free Army's equipment was still a patchwork of captured gear: rusted breastplates, boiled leather, and sharpened farm tools. But they had gold now—stolen from the Magisters' vaults—and they had fire-weed to trade for Braavosi steel. Iron Fist and Longspear worked them relentlessly, turning the former slaves into disciplined squads of spear and shield.
"The Liberator! The Breaker of Chains!"
Gendry ignored the titles. He was focused on the stone walls of the estate ahead. This was the seventh Myrish estate to fall in as many weeks.
Inside the walls, the Myrish overseers didn't even wait for the gates to be breached. They had heard what happened at the other six. The slaves inside had already risen, butchering the guards and the Myrish steward before throwing the gates open to the man in the iron mask.
"The seventh," Qyburn said, riding up beside Gendry. The old man looked rejuvenated, his mind racing with the logistics of their new territory. "Seven estates mean seven thousand mouths to feed, Commander. But it also means seven thousand soldiers for your cause."
"Count the people, the gold, and the grain," Gendry ordered. "And Maester—ensure the land is surveyed. We aren't just taking this; we're holding it."
"And the discipline?" Longspear asked.
"Keep them in line," Gendry said, his voice cold. "The freedmen are our brothers, but we are an army, not a mob. If I catch any man raping or looting beyond the spoils of war, he hangs."
"As you command, Lord Commander."
Gendry spurred his horse forward, riding through the open gates of the estate. The sea breeze caught his dark hair as he removed his helm. In that moment, with the sun behind him and the broken chains of a thousand men at his back, he looked less like a blacksmith's bastard and more like a leaping stag—wild, powerful, and unstoppable.
The slaves of the estate scrambled to the tops of the towers, tearing down the Lyseni merchant flag and treading it into the dirt.
"Freedom!" they screamed into the salt air.
Gendry watched the flag fall and felt the Storm's Blood in his veins surge. The Disputed Lands were burning, and he was the one holding the torch.
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