Blood stained the ground. The warhammer in Gendry's hand dripped crimson, and the air was thick with the coppery tang of death and the lingering wails of the dying. Clad in black scale armor, his oak shield splintered and battered, Gendry stood amidst the carnage, his clear blue eyes burning with an inner fire.
"Run!" Purple Beard shrieked, seeing the undefeated pit fighter from Meereen lying broken on the ground. The bandits broke, abandoning their dead and wounded as they melted back into the night. Purple Beard himself barely escaped, saved only by the desperate sacrifice of his remaining men. He glanced back one last time, his eyes locking on the fearsome, bull-horned warrior standing over the corpse of the gladiator. The boy stood like a harbinger of storms, a god of slaughter born from the chaos. *Where did the Wolf Pack find such a monster?* he wondered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The men of the Wolf Pack began the grim task of clearing the battlefield. They stripped weapons, armor, and coin from the fallen bandits and pulled the bodies of their own comrades from the piles of the dead. Of the ten men who had charged from the gates, three would not be returning.
As the adrenaline faded, a dull ache began to throb in Gendry's elbow. He knelt beside Morningstar's still form. The pit fighter's killing blow had been brutally efficient, the dagger slipping between the joints of his armor. Longspear and Handsome came to stand beside him.
"He's gone, boy," Longspear said, placing a heavy hand on Gendry's shoulder. "You did well. A man is lucky to be avenged by his brothers."
"I killed the man who did this," Gendry said, his voice low, "but I couldn't save him."
"Look at him one last time," Handsome said gently. "Remember him. Then put it away. New battles are always waiting. For a novice, you are the best I have ever seen. But we all must cross this threshold."
They carried the bodies of their fallen brothers back into the manor. Qyburn emerged to tend to the wounded while the others began the work of counting the enemy dead and collecting the spoils.
"Gods, the hammer is a brutal weapon," Handsome said, prying open the Meereenese gladiator's mail shirt. Gendry's final blow had caved in the man's chest, shattering his ribs and turning his heart to pulp. "But this stirs up a hornets' nest. A pit fighter of this caliber costs a thousand gold dragons. Where did these bandits get that kind of coin?"
"Whoever is backing them must be a powerful man in Myr," Longspear mused. "We must get word to the Magister."
"Aye," Handsome agreed. "Lucky for us Iron Hammer dealt with him. That curved blade of his is a tricky thing to face." He looked out into the darkness. "But who is behind this? A rival merchant? Another lord? It's impossible to know. But to spend so much coin, they must have much to gain."
"This one has a fine physique," Qyburn said softly, looking down at the corpse of the gladiator, Kalaz. "A pity. It would be better if he were taller."
"Now is not the time, Qyburn," Gendry said, knowing exactly what the old maester was thinking.
Later, back in his room, Gendry stripped off his dented armor. "You are fortunate, Your Highness," Qyburn said, inspecting a few minor cuts. "A shallow wound is nothing. It is the deep ones that fester and kill."
"What noble has ever lived in such a state?" Gendry chuckled grimly, a sellsword charging through blood and filth.
"A hero must await the storm," Qyburn replied, his eyes gleaming. "Orys Baratheon was a bastard from Dragonstone, yet by following the Conqueror, he founded the youngest of the Great Houses. The gods have given you courage, strength, and noble blood. You must seize your opportunity when it comes." The maester's voice grew more intense. "The appearance of a Meereenese gladiator means the stakes are higher than we knew. Magister Karasso is in grave danger, which means the Wolf Pack is in danger as well. We are tied to his fate."
"The power struggles in Myr are no less fierce than in Westeros," Gendry observed.
"They are more so," Qyburn corrected. "During the Myrish Blood War, rival factions tore the city apart with assassinations, riots, and poisonings. After the Lysene Spring, the newly elected Archon was poisoned at his own victory feast, along with his entire family. There are no rules here but power."
"But chaos is a ladder," Gendry countered. "The Ninepenny Kings once held Tyrosh and the Stepstones. The world is not immutable. If chaos comes to Myr, it may be our chance." He looked at Qyburn, a hard look in his eyes. "You were thinking of taking the gladiator's body, weren't you? To practice your arts."
An awkward expression crossed Qyburn's face, but he nodded. "The dead are sometimes more fearless than the living."
"That is a dangerous art, Qyburn," Gendry said, his tone commanding. "If you must practice it, do so in secret. And not here. Not now."
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