Inside the manor's council hall, soft lamplight spilled across walls draped with exquisite Myrish tapestries. Scenes of plentiful harvests, cheerful festivals, and peaceful farmsteads decorated the chamber—an ironic contrast to the turmoil now flooding the Disputed Lands. The long oak table in the center held a detailed map, covered in fresh ink markings that charted recent victories and newly occupied territories.
Gendry, Qyburn, and The Handsome Man stood around the table, studying the map with grave concentration. Victory tasted sweet, but each triumph intensified the fear rippling through the Myrish elite. The more manors they seized, the more desperate and irrational the Magisters became.
At this rate, the Three Daughters—Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh—might even unite in fear.
Gendry's voice broke the silence. "After taking this manor, we follow the same distribution rules as before. Land and daily necessities go to the freed slaves. Anything of higher value—precious metals, rare crafts, medicines—goes to the internal treasury. All of it remains part of our military funds."
He spoke firmly, without a hint of guilt. These manors were the private estates of Myrish Magisters and wealthy merchants; he felt no remorse stripping wealth from those who had built their prosperity on slavery.
"All inventory has already been recorded," Qyburn replied, holding up a leather-bound register. "Redistribution can begin as soon as the area is safe."
The Handsome Man tapped the map with the back of a dagger. "Firegrass Manor, Purple Thistle Manor, Foxtail Manor… The more estates we seize, the deeper the panic among the Myrish."
"And most of these manors," Qyburn added, "belong either to Magisters or to Governor Joey's clique. With how quickly we're advancing, it won't be long before mercenaries hired by Myr come after us."
The air grew heavier. Their conflict had already escalated far beyond a few raids.
The former leader of the Wolf Pack Company and his allies had been killed by Governor Joey and the Sailing Guild. The hatred between Joey's faction and the newly liberated slaves ran deep—deep enough to drown the entire region in war. Revenge, territory, ideology—whatever the reasons, confrontation was inevitable.
Gendry crossed his arms. "The only good news for us is that the Myrish are just as disunited as the Three Daughters always have been. Their High Council is filled with Magisters pulling in different directions. They're like a dozen horses tied to the same cart, each trying to run their own way."
The Three Daughters' disunity was an ancient tradition—almost a cultural identity. In the days of the Triarchy, the High Council had held thirty-three Magisters: eleven each from Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Every Magister sought to elevate himself above his peers, and every decision required agonizingly long debates to pass.
The Handsome Man let out a soft laugh. "Honestly, many Myrish Magisters should be thanking us. We've stirred up the price of gunpowder herb so much that merchants who hoarded it are becoming richer by the day. Some of them probably want this chaos to continue just so they can keep profiting."
Gendry gave a sharp nod. "Let them argue and tear each other apart. The more chaos they have to deal with, the more time we gain to consolidate our gains."
But Qyburn's expression remained tense. "So far, the Myrish attacks have been small-scale—assassins, hired thugs, saboteurs. We've managed to eliminate them all. But next time, they might send proper mercenary companies. With Joey desperate, he might even hire Bandit Mercenaries."
The thought left a bitter taste in the air.
"We need to secure Firegrass Manor completely," Gendry said. "And fortify the surrounding regions before they send anyone significant."
"We also need to consider the coastline," The Handsome Man added. "If we plan to truly take control of the Disputed Lands, we need at least a small navy. Otherwise, the Stepstones could trap us in a layered encirclement."
He pointed to the islands on the map. "Ideally, we claim the Disputed Corner, then seize several nearby islands. Control the coast, and we control the entire region."
"Besides the smugglers from the Three Daughters," Gendry asked, "are any other forces contacting us?"
Qyburn leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Yes. According to my informants in the taverns, some Dornishmen and even people from The Reach are showing interest in our gunpowder herb."
Gendry raised an eyebrow. "Dorne and The Reach? Those two have nothing in common."
"Except," The Handsome Man interjected, "both are often neglected by the Baratheon dynasty. Neither holds much influence in the heart of the kingdom."
"That alone is enough to make them look for new power."
---
Far away, in Myrish Harbor, the High Council meeting aboard a luxurious yacht was reaching a boiling point. The ship rocked gently on the waves, its decks glittering with lanternlight. Inside the richly decorated hall, slender olive-skinned Magisters argued with raised voices. Their robes displayed emblems of various guilds—the Sailing Guild, the Craftsmen's Guild, the Gunpowder Herb Guild, and more.
The source of their panic was obvious: the "Butter-King," whose influence had exploded across the Disputed Lands. Tales of him had even spread through Myr's bustling markets:
"Divide the land! Give it to the common people! All men are born free!"
To the Magisters, these words were poison. To slaves and commoners, they were hope.
"Governor Joey!" one Magister snapped. "Your reckless decisions have brought us to disaster! Gunpowder herb prices keep rising. Firewine prices are out of control. Citizens complain, slaves grow restless—because of your incompetence!"
Joey's face reddened. "Me? You insist everything is my fault? A single Magister falling is expected in troubled times! But now these wolf cubs are running wild because all of you failed to react quickly!"
Another Magister from the Craftsmen's Guild slammed his fist on the table. "We cannot make firewine, mead, or tapestries without slave labor! And now the slaves are inspired by his propaganda! Do you have any idea what that means for Myr's economy?"
Insults flew. Accusations followed. The Magisters bickered like children before a storm.
"Silence!" a commanding voice finally thundered.
The room fell quiet.
An elderly Magister stood. His olive skin was weathered with age, his hair white, and his black eyes sharp as obsidian. He wore the sigil of the Craftsmen's Guild—Magister Rayword, one of Myr's most influential leaders.
"The Disputed Lands are fertile and essential to us," Rayword said. "And slaves are the foundation of Myr's prosperity. We cannot allow these Bandit Mercenaries and slave uprisings to continue."
"So what do you propose?" a Magister asked. "Appeasement? Negotiation?"
Rayword's face hardened. "No. Extermination. Just like Slaver's Bay dealt with uprisings in the past. Harshness is our only option."
His words cut like a blade.
"And Joey," Rayword continued, "since you benefitted the most from exploiting the Disputed Lands, the responsibility falls on you to clean up this mess."
Joey swallowed, his pride collapsing. He knew the High Council had already made up its mind. He would be forced to pay—whether in coin, influence, or blood.
"But many mercenary companies will refuse such a… risky contract," Joey argued weakly. "That boy—they call him a king, and slaves believe in him. His influence spreads like wildfire."
"There are plenty of Bandit Mercenaries in the Disputed Lands," Rayword replied coolly. "Some will always step forward. And as far as we know, there are currently two… enthusiastic companies willing to take the job."
Joey stiffened. "Which two?"
"The Brave Companions," Rayword said, "and the Second Sons."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Joey's expression twisted with dread. "Th-Their reputations are infamous!"
"Infamous or not," Rayword replied, "they are still mercenaries. And in times like this, we cannot afford to be picky. Unless you have the money to hire the Golden Company?"
Silence.
Of course he didn't.
The Brave Companions—criminals, exiles, and monsters from across the world. Their cruelty was legendary.
The Second Sons—one of the oldest mercenary companies in the East, founded during the Century of Blood. Though once respectable, their reputation had rotted under Mero's leadership. They were now barely distinguishable from bandits.
Yet they were still lethal.
Still efficient.
Still for hire.
And now, they were coming.
Not for land.
Not for gold.
But to kill the Butter-King—and everyone who dared to believe in him.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)