Across the Narrow Sea, the tides of change moved restlessly, as if a butterfly's wings had stirred a distant storm. Rumors, letters, and sailors' gossip carried whispers of a rising power—one that few in the Seven Kingdoms truly understood, yet none dared ignore.
Inside the shaded pavilion of Highgarden, the Queen of Thorns sat like an aging general, her eyes sharp as needles hidden beneath wrinkled lids. "The Ninepenny Kings," she said, tapping her cane against the polished floor. "They certainly brought years of excitement to the realm. Your grandsire Maegor died on those very shores. Nine sellsword pirates banding together—who would have imagined someone would copy them after so long?"
Mace Tyrell puffed his chest, clearly annoyed. "It's nothing but a game played by pirates, butter vendors, cheese merchants, and slavers," he scoffed. "No real threat."
Willas, quietly observant as always, pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "Father, the so-called 'Butter-King' has released several thousand slaves and is now seizing the estates of Myrish Magisters. His actions are shaking the Disputed Lands. The merchants of Myr are terrified."
He continued, "Gunpowder herb prices in Myr have skyrocketed because of the chaos, but the Butter-King seems to have an endless supply—and he sells it cheaper. Every army in Essos wants gunpowder herb. If this continues, we should consider establishing contact with him."
Mace frowned deeply. "Contact? With a slaver? Absurd logic! Lords don't do business with such filth."
The Queen of Thorns clicked her tongue in irritation. "Oh, stop blustering, boy. It's always wise to observe the world with clear eyes." She leaned forward, casting a shadow across Mace's face. "Willas, don't follow your father's footsteps in this matter. Sometimes I wish I were a farmwife again—so I could smack him with a wooden spoon until sense poured into that fat head."
"Mother!" Mace sputtered, his cheeks reddening like sun-ripe apples.
"Slaver or not, a man with resources becomes a different creature entirely," she continued. "Gunpowder herb has long been difficult to obtain. If he has it in abundance, then we must pay attention. This summer is too long—and the Long Winter will be cruel."
Willas nodded. "I'll continue monitoring the situation. Our sailors from Oldtown and the Redwyne fleet will relay messages. If necessary, I may even travel to meet this newly risen Butter-King myself."
Margaery, listening quietly, suddenly perked up. "Can I come with you, brother? The Disputed Lands… I've read about the war against the Ninepenny Kings. They sound dangerous, but fascinating."
"No," Mace declared instantly, as if struck by divine command. "Absolutely not. Pirates swarm the Stepstones, waiting to snatch noble daughters off ships."
"What if our little rose travels with Garlan?" came a deep, confident voice.
A tall knight, broad-shouldered and strong as a seasoned oak, stepped inside. He wore a dark green robe stitched with golden roses—Garlan Tyrell, second son of the house, wise as Willas and strong as Loras, possessing qualities of both without the arrogance of either.
Margaery's face brightened. "Brother! I knew you'd understand."
Garlan smiled warmly before turning serious. "I am intrigued by this Butter-King. Something about him feels… familiar. His Wolf Pack Company acts like men who once served Westerosi lords. Perhaps he is an exiled knight or bastard with noble upbringing."
Margaery clasped her hands. "He doesn't seek praise or fame—he simply does what must be done. Like you."
"That is exactly what makes him dangerous," Garlan replied quietly. "If a young man cares nothing for empty honors, then what drives him? Power? Legacy? Something greater?" His expression hardened. "Reports say he fought Unsullied and Meereenese soldiers to the death. That takes a rare kind of resolve."
The Queen of Thorns said nothing, but her eyes gleamed—it was the look of a woman who saw possibilities in chaos.
---
The Disputed Lands — The Seventh Manor
Far across the sea, the scene was far from the elegance of Highgarden. Smoke rose from the ruins of manors once owned by wealthy Myrish Magisters. The earth trembled beneath the march of thousands.
Black banners fluttered across the battlefield—each showing a slave breaking his shackles. The Free Army surrounded a grand Myrish manor like a tidal wave preparing to consume the shore.
"Freedom! Freedom!" the liberated slaves shouted, their voices hoarse from battle and smoke.
The crowd parted suddenly.
A black warhorse thundered forward.
And atop it rode Gendry.
No longer the humble smith's apprentice of King's Landing, he wore a rough iron mask shaped to hide his identity, black scale armor tough as dragonhide, and across his back hung a warhammer whose reputation had already spread across the Disputed Lands.
Longspear and the Wolf Pack Company followed close behind—elite mercenaries armored in studded leather, chainmail, greaves, and reinforced gorgets. They carried double-headed axes, maces, longswords, spike-studded clubs, and massive shields bearing the snarling wolf emblem.
Compared to them, the newly freed slaves were poorly equipped—rusty swords, mismatched armor, makeshift spears. Yet their eyes burned with something rarer than steel.
Hope.
Gendry raised his warhammer high, his silhouette framed by dust and sunlight. Each time his black warhorse trotted past, the cheers grew louder.
There is one truth in war:
victory creates faith.
Outside the manor walls, screams echoed from the last pockets of resistance. No defenders cheered—only the hollow cries of collapsing tyranny.
"The Liberator!"
"The one who breaks chains!"
The titles spread through the crowd like wildfire.
Gendry did not bask in it. War had hardened him, shaped him, carved away the hesitant boy he once was. He felt taller, heavier, filled with a strength he had not possessed before.
Perhaps… I can do even better.
Perhaps I can seize every opportunity the battlefield offers—and rise like a blazing star.
The manor gates swung open from the inside. The slaves, already rioting, had killed the Myrish steward before surrendering the property to their liberators.
Qyburn, riding behind Gendry, adjusted his dusty robe. "The seventh manor, Your Excellency," he observed. "More land, more people… and more responsibility."
"Count everything," Gendry ordered. "Population, stores, livestock, weapons. I need to know exactly what we have."
He turned to Longspear. "Maintain discipline. The Free Army are our brothers now. No slaughter, no plundering. We are not beasts."
"Yes, Commander!" Longspear bellowed.
Gendry kicked his heels gently, and his black stallion surged forward, carrying him through the manor gates. Wind brushed through his dark hair as if greeting him like an old friend.
At that moment, watching the liberated slaves cheering atop the towers—tearing down the banners of Lys and tossing coins etched with ships—he truly looked like what the Free Army had begun calling him.
A galloping stag.
A warrior who never stopped running.
A force that could not be chained.
---
Flames of Freedom
As Gendry rode deeper into the manor, children peeked out from behind broken carts, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. Women dropped to their knees, thanking him in languages he did not understand. A grey-haired man wept openly, clutching a chain he had torn from his own wrists.
For them, Gendry was not just a commander.
He was proof that a slave could rise.
Proof that a commoner could lead armies.
Proof that tyranny could bleed.
Qyburn's quill scratched rapidly as he made notes. "We can fortify this estate. The vineyards are intact. The workshops can be converted to armories. And the cellars… my lord, the cellars are filled with wine, salt meat, and preserved fruits."
"Good," Gendry replied. "Our soldiers must eat. And morale must stay high."
Longspear approached with a group of newly freed men. "Commander, many slaves want to join the ranks. Some wish to fight. Some want to serve in other ways."
Gendry scanned their faces—thin, malnourished, but determined. "Let them choose. In this army, no man is forced."
His voice carried across the courtyard, and whispers spread:
"This leader… he lets us decide?"
"He doesn't treat us like slaves?"
"He rides with us, fights with us…"
Hope grew like wildfire.
Gendry dismounted, removed his iron mask, and faced them directly. "Today, you stand free," he declared. "But freedom must be defended. If you wish to stay, fight alongside us. If you wish to farm, rebuild these lands. If you wish to leave, no one will stop you."
Silence fell.
Then—
A roar of applause.
Cries of gratitude.
Tears.
Qyburn whispered, "You inspire them, commander. You may not realize it, but you have become a symbol larger than yourself."
Gendry didn't reply. Instead, he walked toward the highest tower, climbed its stone staircase, and stepped out onto the balcony. From here he could see miles of conquered land—roads, fields, burned manors, and liberated villages.
Seven manors… soon eight, then nine…
The Disputed Lands were shifting, trembling beneath his footsteps.
But this was only the beginning.
---
A Stag Rising
The sun dipped into the horizon, painting the sky in crimson and gold. The Free Army lit torches, chanting for freedom, victory, and the man who led them.
Gendry stood tall, warhammer resting against his shoulder.
A bastard once unknown…
A smith once ignored…
A warrior now unstoppable.
Wind tugged at his cloak, making it flutter like a banner of its own.
In that moment, he felt it—the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders.
He would not run from it.
He would gallop toward it.
Like a stag breaking through the forest, powerful and fearless.
Tonight, the Disputed Lands belonged not to slavers, not to Magisters, not to pirates—
But to a black-armored warrior forging a new world.
To Gendry Baratheon.
To the Galloping Stag.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)