Deep beneath Firegrass Manor, the air was thick with dampness and the lingering stench of blood. The once-grand estate—now converted into the headquarters of the Wolf Pack Company—housed a dungeon that breathed misery from every brick. Myrish chains clinked softly in the shadows, and a single torch threw wavering light on the stone walls.
A guttural cry tore through the silence.
The bound assassin from Myr twisted in pain, his limbs trembling violently against the restraints. His frail body shuddered like a dying animal, sweat mixing with blood as it dripped onto the icy floor. Instruments of cruelty—whips, rusted irons, spiked chairs crafted to prolong death—were scattered around him. The Myrish slavers had always excelled at pain.
Qyburn, usually soft-spoken and superficially amiable, now looked nothing like his kindly façade. The torchlight illuminated his pale, wrinkled face, making him resemble a mad scholar lost in dark obsessions. His eyes gleamed with a mix of curiosity and hunger.
"What a pathetic human being," Qyburn muttered as he examined the near-lifeless killer. "Barely any strength left. They really do breed them poorly."
Gendry—known now as the Handsome Man, the de-facto leader of the Wolf Pack Company—stood beside him, watching without emotion. The dungeon echoed with the quiet murmurs of torchfire and the faint groans of dying men.
Around the manor above them, banners of the Wolf Pack Company snapped in the night wind. The roaring wolf emblem represented the freed slaves, mercenaries, and loyal fighters who rallied under Gendry's banner. Their numbers had swelled like a rolling snowball, yet still lacked the discipline of seasoned soldiers.
"Any sign of resistance?" Gendry asked.
"None strong enough," Qyburn replied. He sorted his tools with eerie elegance—small knives, thin tubing, sharpened syringes, cotton soaked in strange oils. A wooden tray beside him held vials of venom and coagulant. "But although Myr hasn't sent armies after us, their assassins have already begun to appear."
Without waiting for a response, Qyburn pricked the killer's arm. The man's breath hitched.
The old maester whispered a few words—dark, archaic, belonging to no maester's chain—before injecting the mixture. The reaction was immediate.
The killer screamed. His back arched grotesquely, muscles twisting as if tearing themselves apart. For a moment, his heart thundered violently, beating hard enough that even Gendry could see the pulse hammering in his chest.
Then, suddenly, silence.
The man collapsed, his eyes bulging and flooded with blood. A crimson film spread across his pupils. A final twitch. Then nothing.
His small frame simply couldn't withstand the ravages of Qyburn's concoctions.
Qyburn sighed deeply. "Your Highness, this is the second failed experiment this month. Their bodies… far too weak. Such a shame."
He wiped the syringe on the cloth, almost affectionately.
"These defective creatures are of no use. They'll need to be burned."
"We already knew the risks," Gendry answered calmly. "Myrish killers die easily. They're not built for pain."
"But surely we can find better subjects," Qyburn insisted, his eyes glimmering. "A body like Ser Gregor Clegane's—the Mountain—now that would be ideal. Tall, powerful, incredibly resilient. A man like that could survive anything."
"The Mountain is Tywin Lannister's pet monster," Gendry replied. "Impossible to obtain."
Qyburn shrugged. "In time, perhaps."
Gendry ignored the remark. "Regardless, you must be careful. Power is a thorned throne. The more we rise, the more assassins will come."
He glanced at the dead assassin. "We must improve our intelligence network. Our freed slaves lack training, and although their loyalty is strong, loyalty alone cannot stop knives in the dark."
Qyburn bowed his head slightly. "To serve your cause is my life's greatest honor. One day, we shall return to Westeros… and I long to see the face of the Old Lion when that day comes."
Despite his age, Qyburn showed no weakness—only fervor.
"Now," Gendry said, "who hired this one?"
"Governor Joey," Qyburn replied. "He nearly hates us to death. I suspect he'll keep sending more unless we handle him first."
Gendry sighed. "Then it seems war will come sooner than expected."
The two shared a moment of silence.
Qyburn spoke again, his tone almost mournful. "War will interrupt my experiments."
"War is unavoidable," Gendry answered. "So I'll grasp my weapon, and we'll face it head-on. After all, war isn't entirely a curse. Victory brings territory, resources, men…"
"And samples," Qyburn added helpfully.
Gendry rolled his eyes. "Also morale. And once runaway slaves in the Disputed Lands see our strength, they'll join us willingly. Many already resist Myr on their own—they just need leadership."
Qyburn nodded. "You have grown much, Your Highness."
Gendry didn't respond. Above them, faint vibrations moved through the floor—training drills, weapons clashing, men shouting. The Wolf Pack Company was preparing.
---
Far across the Narrow Sea, where seagulls circled above the waves and the sun glimmered on steel armor, King Robert Baratheon rode through the Kingswood.
"Clear the way! Clear the way! The King is passing!"
The royal hunting party thundered across the forest path like a river of gold and white. Soldiers on horseback carried banners of the crowned stag—bold, proud, unmistakably Baratheon. But among them, lions of red and gold fluttered too frequently for comfort.
Robert himself rode at the center, though it was a marvel the horse didn't collapse under him. Once a war-hammering titan, now he had become swollen with wine, women, and gluttony. His armor strained around his belly, and sweat already dampened his brow though the hunt had barely begun.
Two Kingsguard rode beside him, white cloaks flowing behind them. The most renowned was Ser Barristan Selmy—old, but steel-hard, still the most respected knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
Just behind Robert rode Prince Joffrey, jaw set in perpetual arrogance. Golden hair gleamed like polished metal in the sunlight, and a smirk lingered on his lips. His tunic—crimson velvet stitched with a lion on one side and a stag on the other—made his dual identity clear.
Too clear.
Near him rode Sandor Clegane, the Hound, towering and grim in his monstrous hound-shaped helm.
Trailing them was young Lancel Lannister, Ser Kevan's son, fussing nervously over wine skins and saddlebags.
In a tall tower overlooking the path, Stannis Baratheon stood rigidly, watching the procession fade into the distance.
His eyes narrowed.
Too many lions. Far too many.
Lannisters in the Kingsguard. Lannisters serving as attendants. Lannister soldiers mixed among Robert's sworn men. Even the names Robert chose for his children seemed to echo the Lion's Pride instead of the Stormlands' tradition.
"It is drowning him," Stannis thought grimly. "The lions are drowning my brother."
The sun illuminated the Lannister banners, making the golden lions seem almost alive as they roared on the crimson cloth. But the sunlight revealed something else—Joffrey's shining blond hair.
So bright. So golden.
Stannis's jaw tightened into a granite line.
"No matter the mother's color—bronze, brown, honey, cream—Baratheon children are always black-haired. Always." His thoughts sharpened like a blade. "Yet all three of Robert's… golden from root to tip."
He remembered his own daughter. His brothers. And above all, he remembered Edric Storm—Robert's bastard raised at Storm's End.
Edric, with his unmistakable black hair and Baratheon features.
Edric, who looked more like Robert than Robert's own heir.
"Why?" Stannis demanded under his breath. "Why is this so?"
The question gnawed at him like rot within wood.
Something was wrong in the royal family. Terribly wrong. And Stannis, rigid and unbending, could not ignore it.
Not anymore.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)