In the cold, damp depths of the Fire-weed Estate's dungeon, a Myrish assassin let out a final, shuddering groan.
The estate had been transformed into the fortified headquarters of the Wolf Pack. Above the stone ramparts, the grey wolf banner snapped in the wind, its silhouette a sharp warning to the Magisters in Myr. But beneath the stone, in the dark, the work was less noble.
Maester Qyburn moved through the gloom with the detached focus of a man tending to a garden. He was surrounded by the tools of his trade: vials of thickened manticore venom, jars of coagulants, and strange, archaic instruments that hummed with a dark energy. The Myrish Council had sent dozens of assassins to claim the "Butter King's" head, but they had only succeeded in providing Qyburn with fresh material.
"A tragic specimen," Qyburn mused, looking down at the Myrmen who lay in a pool of blackened blood. He had just injected a mixture of manticore venom and sorcerous binders into the man's heart, attempting to catch the soul before it fled.
The assassin's eyes were blood-red, the vessels having burst under the strain of the concoction. His heart had beat like a drum for ten seconds, then stopped forever. His small, wiry frame was simply too fragile to contain the power Qyburn was trying to anchor.
"Your Grace, that is the second failure this month," Qyburn sighed, wiping his hands on a blood-stained rag. "The Myrmen have poor constitutions. They are like cheap glass—they shatter the moment you apply heat."
"Torturing these men is a necessity, but it is a grim one," Gendry said, watching from the shadows. "Power is like the Iron Throne, Qyburn. It is covered in thorns. If you want to sit on it, you have to be willing to bleed."
"I am honored to serve your cause, Commander," Qyburn replied, his voice devoid of regret. "I only wish for better samples. A man with the physique of Gregor Clegane, the 'Mountain that Rides,' would be perfect. A man that large, that dense, could survive the transformation and become an invincible shield."
"We aren't catching the Mountain today," Gendry said flatly. "He is Tywin Lannister's favorite hound, and he stays close to his master's side. For now, we rely on the men we have."
Gendry had reinforced his personal guard with veterans from the Wolf Pack and the most loyal youths from the Free Army. He knew that as his power grew, the Myrish would stop sending lone assassins and start sending armies.
"The war is coming, Maester. Put your experiments aside for a moment and focus on the logistics. We need to recruit every runaway slave in the Disputed Lands. We need a wall of men to protect this sprout before it grows."
"I am ready, Your Grace," Qyburn bowed. "For the war to come."
Thousands of leagues to the west, sea gulls cried over the Blackwater.
"Make way! Make way for the King!"
The royal hunting party emerged from the gates of the Red Keep in a river of gold, silver, and crimson. At the head of the procession rode King Robert Baratheon. He sat his massive warhorse heavily, his once-legendary frame now buried under layers of fat and velvet. He looked less like the hero of the Trident and more like a man being slowly drowned by his own appetites.
Surrounding him were the white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard, led by the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy. Beside the King rode Prince Joffrey, the heir to the throne. The boy wore a smirk of practiced contempt, his golden hair shimmering in the sun. He wore a doublet of crimson velvet, divided between the golden lion of Lannister and the crowned stag of Baratheon.
Behind them rode Sandor Clegane, the Hound, his grotesque dog-headed helm strapped to his saddle. And following closely was Lancel Lannister, the King's squire, whose sandy-brown hair and green eyes made him look like a younger, softer version of Jaime Lannister.
Stannis Baratheon stood alone on one of the high towers of the Red Keep, watching the procession vanish into the Kingswood. He counted the Lannisters as they passed—Lancel, the Hound, the Queen's brothers, the Prince. It was a sea of crimson.
"I must save this kingdom," Stannis murmured to the wind. "The King is drowning in lions."
Stannis felt a bitter resentment toward Robert for the slights he had endured—the loss of Storm's End, the burden of Dragonstone—but his concern went deeper than pride. He looked at Joffrey's golden hair, then thought of Robert's bastard, Edric Storm, who lived at Storm's End. Edric had the black hair and blue eyes of a true Baratheon.
"No matter the color of the mother's hair—honey, chestnut, gold, or cream—the Baratheon seed is always strong. The children are always black as crows," Stannis thought, his mind racing through the lineage of his house.
He thought of his brothers, his daughter, and his own reflection. They were all the same. Yet the three royal children were as golden as the Lannister hills.
"Why?" Stannis asked the empty air. "Why are they the only ones?"
The sun hit the Lannister banner, making the golden lion seem to roar as it fluttered in the breeze. Stannis watched it, and for the first time, he saw not a royal house, but a parasitic one—and he knew what he had to do.