The battlefield was still thick with the iron scent of blood. All around, the Meereen warriors lay sprawled where they had fallen, their bodies twitching faintly as if their spirits were reluctant to depart. Smoke drifted slowly across the broken terrain, curling around the corpses like the last remnants of a dying storm.
"They're not trying to eliminate us," Gendry said, wiping blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. "They're trying to delay us—stall our journey."
Before the dying Meereen warrior on the ground could utter another groan, Gendry lifted his heavy iron hammer and brought it crashing down. The man's skull burst like a cracked melon, fragments spraying across the ground. Gendry's face showed no satisfaction—only grim practicality. The man was as good as dead already; no point in making him suffer longer.
Behind him, Qyburn hurried forward, his gaze gleaming unnaturally bright. The old maester had been muttering to himself the entire battle, obsessing over some experiment that only he fully understood.
"This is an excellent specimen," Qyburn exclaimed, crouching beside the wounded Meereen fighter—a towering gladiator named Badak, famous in Meereen's pits. Qyburn pulled out a long spear tipped with a dark, viscous substance that clung to the metal like tar. Even the air around it seemed to ripple.
"The venom of the black scorpion beast," Gendry murmured. He recognized the toxin instantly, having learned much of Qyburn's extensive—and disturbing—knowledge of poisons.
This venom was lethal on its own, capable of killing a man in moments. But Qyburn had altered it, adding coagulants and subjecting it to his strange black magic. The result was a cruel concoction meant to cause excruciating agony while delaying death—leaving a window of time for Qyburn's true purpose: the creation of an Undead warrior.
"I'll do it," Gendry said, taking the spear from Qyburn.
Qyburn stepped back eagerly, watching with the expression of a child about to witness fireworks.
Gendry drove the spear downward—once, twice, again and again—targeting the vital arteries and the heart. Badak screamed, the sound torn from deep within his chest. His blood turned from bright red to pitch black as it spilled across the grass. Wherever the blackened blood touched, the blades of grass shriveled instantly as though scorched.
But after a few tortured cries, the gladiator's chest stilled. His heart stopped. His eyes froze in lifeless glassiness.
"It failed…" Qyburn whispered, disappointment twisting his wrinkled features. "Even a body like this cannot withstand the transformation? Impossible…"
Gendry let the spear fall beside the corpse, watching Qyburn's reaction. He already knew the reason.
The magic is too weak right now, he thought. The red comet hasn't risen. Until the magic tide returns, true Undead creation is impossible.
But Qyburn did not know this. He believed he was merely failing through imperfection. And Gendry had no intention of correcting him—yet.
The Handsome Man, leader of the Wolf Pack Company, strode over, his expression tense.
"Throw the gunpowder herbs down," he ordered.
The slaves accompanying the mercenaries flinched at his voice but obeyed immediately. They pulled three heavy wooden chests from the wagon, grunting under the weight, and tossed them to the ground. The lids shattered upon impact, spilling heaps of rust-colored gunpowder herbs across the grass. The herbs glittered faintly in the sun—precious, volatile, and worth more than gold in Myr.
The Handsome Man lifted his chin toward the hill where the Bandit Knights watched.
"This is my gift, Purple Beard!" he called out. "If we fight, you will get nothing. I will burn every grain of these herbs before letting you have them!"
Purple Beard remained silent, observing from atop the hill. His men shuffled anxiously behind him. No one wanted to attack the Wolf Pack now—not when they were faced with a man willing to destroy his own goods just to spite them.
"You stubborn Northerners…" Purple Beard muttered under his breath.
He finally called out, "Listen, Wolf Pack! Go back to Myr if you want, but you'll die there. Why not follow me to Crown Town? With these gunpowder herbs, we could raise a whole new mercenary band!"
"Thank you for the offer," the Handsome Man replied. "But the Wolf Pack never forgets its duty."
He motioned for his people to continue forward. Only when the Wolf Pack Company had walked far across the plains did Purple Beard finally signal his own men.
"Pick up what's left," he said.
"Boss… we're just letting them go?" one of his subordinates whispered. "What about Governor Kasu's orders?"
Purple Beard scoffed. "Orders? Those two Meereen brutes he sent us were useless. And now the governor wants us to chase after fools? Forget it. These herbs are worth a fortune—we'll recruit our own soldiers."
"But what if Governor Kasu demands answers?"
"Let him demand," Purple Beard said, sneering. "He wasn't paying enough for the lives of my men anyway. Let the Myr factions kill each other. We'll profit."
---
As the Wolf Pack Company reached the coastline, the Handsome Man spotted a squat Myrish merchant ship anchored nearby. Its name, Mead, was painted in curling script along the hull.
"This isn't the Pirate King's flagship," he muttered, confused for a moment—until he saw a man stepping onto the deck.
Salador Saan.
The infamous Lysene pirate emerged wearing robes woven with silver thread, sleeves so long they swept the deck. His jade monkey-shaped buttons gleamed, and atop his white curly hair sat a green fan-shaped hat decorated with peacock feathers. Two elderly eunuch Unsullied stood behind him, still as statues.
"I thought you weren't coming!" Salador called, spreading his arms dramatically.
The Handsome Man's group boarded the ship. Salador greeted him with a warm hug before kissing both cheeks.
"You're wounded!" the pirate exclaimed. "The Handsome Man I know never looks this battered. What about Greybeard? Don't tell me he's become a ghost."
The Handsome Man's face darkened. "Greybeard is still in Myr—and alive, I hope. Myr is chaos now. None of us know whether our commander breathes."
"I see…" Salador said, suddenly quiet.
"But have you brought my gift?"
The Handsome Man offered him a Meereen gladiator's spear. "We ran into trouble. Two Meereen gladiators, to be exact. Seems Governor Kasu has been entertaining dangerous friends."
Salador chuckled. "The Meereen people… brutal, uncivilized, but very good killers."
He looked around conspiratorially. "You noticed this ship isn't my flagship, yes? Too flashy. Too noticeable. I borrowed this from an old friend. Easier to move quietly."
"You're pirating again?" the Handsome Man teased.
Salador gasped in mock offense. "I am confiscating unpaid debts. A noble profession!"
His eunuch Unsullied began counting the gunpowder herbs. Salador picked up a bundle, sniffing it carefully.
"Ah, Myr's finest. Governor Kasu was planning to get rich this year… shame his enemies also wish to get rich."
He slung an arm around the Handsome Man's shoulders. "You're old friends, yes, but I must take my tenth. Business is business."
Then he turned to the crew. "Bring hot mulled wine! And give my guests white cheese and beef jerky."
As they walked toward the captain's cabin, the Old Pirate finally noticed Gendry.
"And who is this large wall of muscle following us?"
"Iron Hammer," the Handsome Man said proudly. "Our company's new hero—stronger and braver than I am."
Salador's eyes glowed with interest. "A pleasure to meet you, young hero."
Gendry only nodded, silent as steel.
"He's shy," the Handsome Man said, "but on the battlefield? Fierce. He crushed two Meereen fighters with his hammer."
"Incredible!" Salador said, raising his cup. "A boy who kills like a grown giant. I approve."
They drank, though Gendry barely touched his cup.
"Does this child not drink?" Salador asked.
"He drinks when he must," the Handsome Man replied with a grin. "But your wines aren't easy on a warrior's throat."
Salador shook his head. "Pentos and Myr wines—cheap, sour, and yet people still buy them."
After another round of drinks, Salador leaned forward, his voice low.
"My old friend… why remain a mercenary? There's no glory in it. No peace. Why not sail with me? I need good men—men who can protect my ships when we slip into Braavos, Myr, or Volantis at night. You guard my cargo, and in return you get spices, silk, gold—freedom. Wealth."
The Handsome Man sighed. "You tempt me every time, old pirate. But our mission isn't complete. Greybeard still needs us. And these supplies must reach Myr."
Salador clicked his tongue. "Mercenaries and their honor. I tried convincing the Onion Knight too, but he actually thinks he is becoming a real lord."
He took another sip of wine, shaking his head fondly.
"Ah, well. Perhaps someday you'll tire of duty and choose the sea instead. The sea doesn't judge. The sea only pays."
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)