Although Firegrass Manor appeared plain from the outside, its interior was another world entirely—elegant, polished, and unmistakably Myrish. The craftsmanship of the Three Daughters showed itself in every brick and carving. Gendry, who had grown up surrounded by the grime of King's Landing, paused for a moment in wonder as he entered the reception hall.
The Wolf Pack sellswords followed their officer, the Handsome Man, up the stone steps. A cool breeze swept through the open archways, carrying the faint scent of grapes, herbs, and the sea. Inside, the marble floor gleamed like still water, reflecting the flicker of lanterns hanging overhead. Myrish tapestries—intricate depictions of hunts, forests, and mythical beasts—lined the walls.
The mercenaries took their seats on long benches, arranged neatly along the sides of the hall. At the center, near the raised platform, Steward Luv and the Handsome Man sat beside one another, speaking in hushed tones.
Servants moved up and down the hall—an old cook with a bent back, and several young male and female slaves whose eyes were hollow and devoid of emotion. Their movements were precise, practiced, and lifeless. Gendry had seen slaves in King's Landing before, but never so many, nor so openly used. The walls surrounding Firegrass Manor were tall and layered, built with defense in mind. In a siege, slaves were liabilities; but for daily labor, the Myrish preferred them to free men.
The Three Daughters thrived on slavery. In these cities, three slaves existed for every free citizen. Gendry could feel the tension in the air, the way the slaves avoided eye contact, the way the free men watched them with casual suspicion.
The feast was laid out across long tables—smoked chicken seasoned with herbs, sea fish baked with lemon, fried pork chops, mushroom soup, and delicacies from the Three Daughters: Tyroshi garlic sausages and Myr-style roast snails. The drinks were even more varied: Tyroshi pear brandy, Myr firewine, Lyseni red and white wines, green wine from Qohor, and Pentos amber wine. For someone raised on ale and cheap stew, the sheer abundance made Gendry's head spin.
"Let us drink!" Steward Luv cried, lifting a glass.
A wave of laughter and cheer filled the hall as men raised cups. Half drank wine, half drank juice—an unspoken rule of the Wolf Pack. Half the company was always required to stay sober, in case danger struck without warning.
Gendry tasted roast snails for the first time. The texture was strange, but the spices were rich and warm. He ate in silence, savoring each bite. His stomach remembered hunger—hunger from childhood, hunger from long days at the smithy when apprentices ate last. Compared to that life, this feast felt almost unreal.
"You've really outdone yourself," the Handsome Man said with a hearty laugh.
"It's nothing," Steward Luv replied modestly, though pride twinkled in his eyes.
Then, with a casual gesture, he dropped a bombshell.
"Gentlemen, if any of you wish for company tonight, we also have beautiful female slaves who can serve your needs."
A roar of approval erupted around the room. The Wolf Pack Company did not allow its men to rape or harm women—but what happened between consenting adults, or slaves whose owners allowed such acts, was not forbidden. Many sellswords immediately exchanged knowing grins.
The Handsome Man leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You must have more on your mind than hospitality, old friend. This mission won't be simple, will it?"
Steward Luv's expression tightened. "You are correct," he whispered. "With gunpowder herb so expensive this year, we fear not only raiders, but something worse."
"Worse?" the Handsome Man murmured.
"Yes," Luv said. "The Archon fears that rival merchants might attempt sabotage—burning the manor, destroying the crops, and sending prices soaring even higher."
"And the Archon's own hoarded supply?" the Handsome Man asked quietly.
"He has already converted most of it into gold for the election year. He cannot afford to lose the rest."
The elections of the Three Daughters were notorious—an elegant word for a brutal contest fought with bribes, assassinations, threats, and sometimes open warfare. In Tyrosh, the Archon was chosen by how effectively he bribed, threatened, or outwitted his opponents. Steward Luv spoke of the system like it was the most normal thing in the world.
When the feast ended, the sellswords drifted away—some returning to their rooms, others to the arms of slaves, and many to the walls and towers to stand guard.
Gendry walked with Qyburn toward their quarters.
"Your Highness," Qyburn began softly, "these lands may be fertile, but they are no place to build a kingdom."
"Why not?" Gendry asked quietly.
"The Three Daughters surround the Disputed Lands. Volantis lurks to the east. None of them would tolerate an independent king rising here. And then we have the pirates, bandits, and mercenary companies—each man believes himself the master of these lands. They obey no one."
"The Ninepenny Kings managed it," Gendry reminded him.
"They had wealth, powerful sponsors, sellswords, pirates, and the Golden Company at their side," Qyburn replied. "We are but two men and a handful of mercenaries."
Gendry's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then we need a weapon no one has ever dared use."
Qyburn raised a brow. "And what weapon is that?"
"Liberation," Gendry said softly. "Freeing slaves."
Qyburn stopped walking.
"That idea is madness," he whispered. "Like releasing wildfire into the world. Slavery forms the backbone of half the world's economy. Dorne stands against it. The Seven Kingdoms reject it. But the Free Cities? Slaver's Bay? Volantis? Lys? Tyrosh? Myr? They would unite to crush anyone who threatened their wealth."
Gendry gazed out into the night, watching torchlight flicker on the walls of Firegrass Manor.
"Chaos brings new life," he said calmly. "The Stepstones and the Disputed Lands are our only footholds. If change must come, it will come from places like this."
Qyburn studied him for a long moment, then bowed his head.
"If this is the path you choose, I will follow you," the Maester said. "Even if it leads us into the jaws of the world."
After a moment of silence, Qyburn's voice softened. "But… there is another possibility. A path others fear even more than rebellion."
Gendry looked at him. "Speak."
"There exists a pair of exiled siblings across the Narrow Sea," Qyburn whispered. "A Beggar King and his younger sister."
Gendry nodded. "Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen."
"Their blood still carries power," Qyburn said. "Many in Westeros curse King Robert quietly and still whisper loyalty to dragon kings."
Gendry's expression hardened. "Later. For now, I need strength."
Qyburn nodded slowly. "Very well."
The next morning, the sound of clashing metal echoed across the training yard.
"Raise your weapon, lad!" the Handsome Man laughed as he lunged forward.
Gendry swung his iron hammer—dented, blunted, but heavy as ever. Each strike carried the force of a young man who had spent his childhood forging metal.
The two circled, exchanged blows, advanced and retreated. Sparks flew from the hammer as it struck the blunted longsword. The Handsome Man was quick and agile; Gendry was strong and relentless. Soon he felt something awaken inside him—an instinct, a rhythm of violence and power.
"Again!" Gendry shouted.
The Handsome Man obliged, swinging faster. Gendry met every strike, hammer crashing into steel. Sweat poured down the officer's face, soaking his shirt.
At last, the blunted sword snapped in half with a sharp crack.
Breathing heavily, the Handsome Man lifted his hand. "Enough! I surrender!"
Gendry stood in the center of the ring, armor dented, cloak shredded, chest heaving like a bellows. He looked almost wild—yet the cheers that erupted around the courtyard were full of admiration.
"Iron Hammer! Iron Hammer!"
The Handsome Man clapped him on the shoulder. "Keep this up, lad, and my position may soon belong to you."
Before Gendry could respond, another sellsword stepped forward. He was tall and thin, but his spear-hand was steady as stone.
"I'm next," he said with a grin. His name was Longspear.
Gendry tightened his grip on the hammer.
His real training had only just begun.