The drumbeats rolled like thunder across the sea—fierce, breathless, and relentless. The Honeywine surged forward, slicing through the waves as milk-white spray leapt up along its prow. The vessel flew over the open water with a sense of urgency, as though it were fleeing something behind or racing toward a fate that could not be delayed.
Gendry stood at the forward rail, the wind whipping at his black hair as he scanned the horizon. Ahead, the coastline curved like a crooked spine—the infamous Disputed Lands. Fertile, chaotic, unpredictable. A place where alliances shifted like sand and armies rose and fell with every change of season. It was far from ideal, but at this moment, it was one of the very few options left to him.
"My young friend," a rough but warm voice called. "The road ahead is difficult."
Gendry turned to see Old Pirate Salaan of Lys approaching, a steaming cup of warm wine in his hand. Salaan's weathered face, half-hidden behind a tangle of silver-streaked beard, carried the calm of a man who had survived storms far worse than this one.
"Decades ago," Salaan said, gesturing with the cup toward the jagged shoreline, "my ancestors raised their banners on that soil. Under the Crowned Tree, the Ninepenny Kings forged their alliance."
Gendry nodded. "Everyone knows that story. A grand alliance… but crushed in the Stepstones."
"It is always the Stepstones," Salaan muttered bitterly. "A graveyard for the ambitious."
Gendry offered a faint smile. "Yet here we are—headed toward ambition."
Salaan grunted. "Ambition… or necessity."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"If the Disputed Lands reject you—if the Governors turn against you—then know this: I will keep a place for you on my ship. Smuggler or not, I never forget a friend."
Gendry bowed his head in sincere gratitude. Fleet support was essential for survival in these waters. Without ships to move supplies, goods, and—eventually—loot, the Wolf Pack Company would be vulnerable. But even as he thanked the Lyseni pirate, doubts prickled at the back of his mind.
Salaan's network was vast—too vast. Trusting him blindly would be foolish.
Still, the old man's counsel carried weight.
"In the Disputed Lands," Salaan warned, "concentrate your strength. Strike one point at a time. Scatter yourself, and you'll make more enemies than you can ever hope to fight."
"I'll do my best," Gendry replied. But both men knew that the moment he began freeing slaves, the Three Daughters would come for him. Slave liberation wasn't just rebellion—it was a direct assault on the foundation of their wealth.
As Gendry watched the coastline draw nearer, the deck erupted into movement. The manor slaves—those who had transported gunpowder herb under the Wolf Pack Company—began pulling the wooden tags from their necks. One by one, they hurled them into the sea: small planks of identification, crude but powerful symbols of ownership.
"Eleven!"
"Twenty-two!"
Some slaves shouted the numbers carved into their tags before discarding them, as if purging the last remnants of a life of servitude.
A tag meant you belonged to someone.
Without a tag, you belonged to no one—which was far more dangerous. A runaway slave could be hunted, captured, beaten, or killed without consequence.
Gendry stepped before the newly liberated crowd, his expression grave.
"Have you thought this through?" he asked them. "Without those tags, you are free. But you are also prey."
One slave, a gaunt man with burn marks along his neck, spoke first.
"The worst that can happen is death," he said. "But if we return to Firegrass Manor…" His voice trembled. "Death would be a mercy compared to that."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Gendry raised his voice so all could hear. "I cannot promise riches. I cannot promise safety. I can only promise you freedom—and even that may be temporary."
He lifted the handful of discarded wooden tags, stared at them for a moment, then flung them into the water with all his strength.
"Freedom!" he shouted.
A roar answered him. "Freedom! Freedom!"
The slaves fell to one knee, tears streaking down their faces. "From today, freedom is our faith!"
Above them, the banner of the Wolf Pack Company snapped in the sea wind. The moment felt like the beginning of a revolution—raw, fragile, but powerful.
"Abolitionists!" someone cried.
"Abolitionists! Freedom for all!"
The chant spread like wildfire.
Salaan watched from a distance, his expression unreadable. He had seen dreams of freedom before. He had also seen how they burned.
Still… perhaps this boy, this black-haired bastard-smith turned commander, might carry the flame farther than most.
---
Firegrass Manor
The smuggler's ship eventually deposited Gendry and his company onto the rocky shore. From there, they marched back toward Firegrass Manor—their first conquered territory—hauling crates of precious gunpowder herb.
Governor Kasu's influence had collapsed overnight. Like an iceberg melting under warm sun, everything he had once controlled—his taxes, his soldiers, his manors—crumbled into dust.
Firegrass Manor now belonged entirely to the Wolf Pack Company.
Inside the newly captured hall, Qyburn unfolded a ledger.
"First," he said, "we must discuss our assets. Every property belonging to the Wolf Pack Company within Myr—every warehouse, every tavern, every rented barracks—has already been seized by the Governors."
Gendry's jaw tightened.
"But," Qyburn continued, "some gold remains hidden in the Wolf's Den, and we have deposits in the Iron Bank."
"At least something remains," Gendry muttered. Mercenaries earned well, but most spent recklessly. Fortunately, the Northmen among them were frugal, saving coins that now kept them afloat.
Qyburn tapped the ledger again. "The Disputed Lands are dangerous. But they are the only place left where you can build a foundation."
He paused, lowering his voice.
"And there is precedent."
"The Ninepenny Kings," Gendry said.
"Exactly," Qyburn replied. "Pirates, merchants, exiled knights, mercenaries. A chaotic alliance—but they nearly changed the world. If not for Barristan Selmy…"
"The Fearless Knight," Gendry finished. "He turned the tide. Ended the Stepstones threat."
"And burned their dreams to ash," Qyburn said. "Still, their strategy was sound. Occupy the Disputed Lands. Control Tyrosh. Seize the Stepstones. Eventually, threaten Westeros itself."
The Wolf Pack commander looked thoughtful.
"The Disputed Lands, the Three Daughters, the Stepstones, Dorne…" he murmured. "All connected."
"And you will inevitably offend the Three Daughters if you attack their manors here," Qyburn added. "They rely on these estates for slaves, crops, silver, spices. They will strike back."
"And Dorne?" Gendry asked, already dreading the answer.
Qyburn let out a long sigh.
"The Dornish sided with the Iron Throne during the last Stepstones war. Their loyalty—however strained—helped defeat the Ninepenny Kings."
"Dancing with the Dornish is like dancing with scorpions," Gendry muttered. "And they hate the Iron Throne and the Lannisters for… what happened in King's Landing."
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then Qyburn said softly, "Your identity complicates matters further."
He recounted, in a low and somber tone, the horrors committed during the sack of King's Landing—by Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch. The murder of the infant prince Aegon. The rape and killing of Princess Elia Martell.
The stain on the Baratheon name. The Martell hatred.
Hatred that would make any alliance with Dorne… fragile at best. Impossible at worst.
Gendry's expression darkened. "I am my own man," he said quietly. "But the world will not see it that way."
"No," Qyburn agreed. "They rarely do."
---
A New Army
Outside, the liberated slaves gathered in the courtyard—men and women of all shapes, all ages, all kinds of suffering. But they were united by a single truth:
They had nowhere else to go.
"This is my army," Gendry said, gazing out at them. "Untrained. Unprepared. But loyal."
Qyburn nodded. "Mercenaries betray for silver. Slaves, once freed, rarely betray the hand that broke their chains."
"They'll fight for freedom," Gendry said. "And for a future they were never allowed to dream of."
He turned back to Qyburn.
"This is the beginning."
"Of what?" Qyburn asked.
Gendry's eyes hardened.
"Of the Free Army."
And somewhere beyond the horizon, in the courts of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, men who built their wealth on slavery would soon learn the name of the young commander who dared challenge their world.
A black-haired bastard with a hammer.
A leader who shouted "Freedom!" against an empire built on chains.
Gendry.
Commander of the Wolf Pack.
Founder of the Free Army.
And breaker of the old order.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)