Across the Narrow Sea, the shifting balance of power was like a butterfly's wings stirring up a storm.
"The Ninepenny Kings gave the world a few lively years, at least," the Queen of Thorns said. "King Robert's grandfather, Ormund, died in that very war. Nine slippery pirates… who would've thought that, all these years later, someone would try to follow in their footsteps?"
"They were nothing but pirates, butter peddlers, cheese peddlers, and the playthings of slaveholders," Mace said, still unimpressed.
"This time the Fire Herb King is freeing slaves in the Disputed Lands," Willas said. "That alone may raise waves. He's torn completely with Myr. He's freeing slaves and seizing the estates of Myr's slaveholders on a large scale. The other two daughters are likely sitting on needles, afraid this storm will roll their way."
"The merchants of Myr are using the chaos to drive Fire Herb to absurd prices," Willas went on. "But the Fire Herb King has even more Fire Herb, and he sells it cheaper. Armies need it desperately. I think we must find a way to contact him."
"What sort of sense is that?" Mace pulled a face. "A lord doing business with a slave ringleader?"
"It never hurts to watch the world more closely," the Queen of Thorns cut in. "Carefully, and with open eyes. Willas, don't take after your father. Some days I wish I were a peasant woman, so I could thump him with a big wooden spoon until a few thoughts finally sank into that fat head of his."
"Mother!" Mace's face went red.
"A slave leader with resources is an entirely different thing," the Queen of Thorns said. "Fire Herb has always been dear. And this is for the future of our house, for the chaos that may be coming. The shadow of war still hangs over us. This summer has run so long… which means the long winter nights to come will be cruel indeed."
"I'll keep watch on the Narrow Sea," Willas said. "Sailors from Oldtown and Redwyne will bring us word. If need be, we may have to meet this newly risen Fire Herb King ourselves."
He paused.
"But our movements… will the Spider add his own seasoning?"
"The Eunuch is slipperier than you think," the Queen of Thorns said. "For now, he won't spoil our affairs. Prepare for what's ahead, child. King's Landing is full of lions, and there's a stubborn stag there too, simmering with resentment."
She clicked her tongue.
"The Eunuch's thoughts run deeper than ours. He looks like everyone's friend, but what he truly wants… who can say?"
"Can I go to the Disputed Lands too?" Margaery blurted out. "I've read about the Ninepenny Kings' war. The Disputed Lands sound rich and chaotic!"
"Absolutely not," Mace snapped at once. "The Stepstones are crawling with pirates who make a sport of snatching Westerosi lords and ladies."
"And what if bold Garlan went with our little flower?" a voice asked.
A tall, powerfully built Ser in a green cloak had approached. He looked much like the Knight of Flowers, only taller and broader through the shoulders.
"Brother!" Margaery said brightly. "I'd be very glad to have your protection."
Garlan stepped into the pavilion. With his beard and his build, he looked more like a hard-bitten warrior than some delicate young lord. His personal arms showed two golden roses on a green field, marking him as a second son.
Garlan had more courage than Willas and more sense than Loras, and he carried the best of both.
"I'm interested in the Fire Herb King as well," Garlan said. "I suspect he may be an exiled knight from Westeros. The Wolf Pack has always drawn that sort. Still, a knight that brave ought to have made a name for himself in tourneys long ago."
"Maybe he doesn't care for honors or fame," Margaery said. "Like you, brother. Practical, and modest."
"Then he's even more dangerous," Garlan said after a moment's thought. "If a young man doesn't chase empty glory, he's after something larger. And the Fire Herb King sounds like a man who lives for real fighting, not show. He's been battling the Myrish to the death, crossing blades with Unsullied."
Garlan wanted to meet an opponent like that. He was skilled with a sword himself, and often trained against three or four men at once to mimic the press of a real fight, preparing for the day it mattered.
...
An estate in the Disputed Lands, not far from Fire Herb Manor. It belonged to another Magister of Myr.
The Free Company surged around it like a rising tide. Their banner was black, emblazoned with a slave shattering his own chains. The newly freed shouted as one:
"Freedom! Freedom!"
The crowd parted.
Gendry rode out on a black warhorse, appearing like a storm breaking over the field. Longspear and the others followed close behind. The Wolf Pack mercenaries were the elite—fully armed and armored. Double-bladed axes, sharp daggers, longswords, spiked warhammers, morningstars, studded leather, chainmail, greaves on their legs, gorgets at their throats.
"Victory! Victory!"
The Free Company roared back.
Their equipment was far more modest—patched mail, leather jerkins, crude spears and blades. The slave estates had never stocked fine arms. They had scraped together what they could to arm the freedmen. Still, for now, the Wolf Pack was not short of coin. Fire Herb could be traded for steel.
Steel Fist and Longspear drilled the new soldiers relentlessly—short sword and shield, heavy spear in tight ranks.
Gendry wore his rough iron mask, black scale armor covering his body, and in his hand the black warhammer that had already earned a name across the Disputed Lands. It gleamed coldly in the sun.
War had shaped him. Hardened him.
He seemed broader now, stronger. He lifted the spiked hammer high and rode back and forth before the Free Company. Each pass sent the cheers rising higher.
War had only one truth: victory.
Outside the estate walls, the air was filled with shouting and screams. There were no cheers from the defenders. Only silence and fear.
"Liberator! Breaker of Chains!"
"Liberator!"
The Free Company shouted until their throats were raw.
The newly freed were thin, sallow, many of them small and worn down by years of toil. But something had changed. They carried themselves differently now. There was confidence in them—bright and hard as gold.
Perhaps I can do more, Gendry thought. Seize the shining moment. Win cleanly. Shine like a star.
The estate gates swung open.
There had been no resistance from the slaveholders. The rebelling slaves inside had killed the Myrish steward and offered up the estate.
"The seventh manor," Qyburn said behind him.
A manor meant people. Wealth. And responsibility.
"Master Qyburn, continue to count the population and inventory the wealth. Survey the land."
"Yes."
"Longspear, keep discipline tight. The freedmen are our brothers. We are not a pack of beasts."
"Yes, Commander!"
"Forward."
Gendry spurred his black horse and rode through the gates. The wind stirred his black hair. In that moment he was like a charging stag.
The slaves rushed out to greet them, faces alight.
"Freedom! Freedom!"
Some climbed the estate tower, scrambling over one another to reach the top. They tore down the banner bearing the ship of Lys—its symbol also stamped upon Lysene coin—and cast it down.