High atop the tower of Firegrass Manor, the air felt heavy enough to cut with a dagger. Gendry stood at the head of the war council table, surrounded by his trusted companions—The Handsome Man, Steel Fist, Longspear, Black Billy, Dick the Fletch, Qyburn, and several other captains of the Wolf Pack. Myrish tapestries fluttered faintly along the stone walls, showing scenes of golden harvests that felt painfully ironic on a day filled not with peace, but with the specter of war.
The council chamber buzzed with tension. Everyone understood that Governor Joey of Myr would retaliate soon. His absence of action thus far was not mercy—it was preparation.
Qyburn was the first to break the silence. "Governor Joey is truly serious this time," he said, his voice low but urgent. "According to our informants in Myr, he has hired the Brave Companions and is pulling adventurers and wandering mercenaries from every corner of the city. Every tavern, every dock, every mercenary board—they're gathering men openly. Their movements are so large that all of Myr is whispering about it."
Gendry gave a cold smile. "Good. What I fear most is not an attack—but a blockade. If the Myrish sealed off the coastline and cooperated with the bandits from Crown Town, we would be trapped. A siege is far more deadly than swords."
The Handsome Man nodded thoughtfully. "Myr's biggest weakness is that it has too many decision-makers. No unity. No central authority. They squabble among themselves for influence. That is our advantage."
"And we'll use it," Gendry said.
When the Brave Companions were mentioned, The Handsome Man let out a disgusted snort. "A band of criminals, rapists, pedophiles, and exiles," he muttered. "They're infamous throughout Essos."
Gendry grunted. He knew of their future infamy—even the Kingslayer Jaime Lannister would one day lose his sword hand to them. But that was the future, and these mercenaries would not live long enough to cross the Narrow Sea.
"The Brave Companions are clowns," said the Arrow Maker with a mocking grin, "clowns with sharp blades, but clowns nonetheless."
"Infamy is still fame," Qyburn argued. "They may be criminals, but criminals can fight. An army of scoundrels is still an army."
Steel Fist cracked his knuckles. "Then let's crush them. Once their line breaks, the scattered adventurers following behind them will lose heart immediately."
Gendry nodded in agreement. "We will kill every last one of the Brave Companions. The Wolf Pack does not harbor monsters like them. The other adventurers may go home or flee—we don't care. But the Brave Companions die."
He slammed his fist lightly against the table. The plan forming in his mind was clear: mobile warfare, quick ambushes, and striking the enemy before they could reach Firegrass Manor. Fighting inside their own lands might be safer, but it risked damage, starvation, panic—and loss of morale among the newly liberated slaves who formed much of the Free Army.
He looked across the table. "Is it going to be a feint or a frontal assault?"
Most kingdoms of Westeros favored decisive open battles, but the Dornish often used hit-and-run tactics, ambushes, and mobility. Yet the Disputed Lands were not Dorne—they were fertile, open, and lacked natural barriers. But mobility was still their strongest weapon.
"Ambush and mobile warfare," Gendry concluded. "That is our advantage."
The Handsome Man leaned over a large map, using his one remaining arm to draw circles and lines. "The Myrish fleet will approach from the coast. The roads are rugged—they cannot blockade us from there. Their mercenaries will likely march inland, following the main roads."
He pointed to the eastern coastline. "Scouts and Rangers will patrol here and along the southern route near Crown Town. We must intercept messengers and prevent a three-sided ambush."
Gendry walked around the table, studying the map from all angles as if committing every hill, creek, and path to memory. "War is more than slashing swords. It is intelligence, logistics, discipline, timing. We cannot afford mistakes."
He tapped a point north of Firegrass Manor. "We'll set the ambush here. The Handsome Man will fortify the rear. Steel Fist, Black Billy, and the Arrow Maker will lead the longbowmen and shield-bearers. You will command the Free Army. Longspear and I will lead the Wolf Pack in the frontal assault."
Steel Fist nodded firmly. "The infantry will hold as long as necessary. As long as a single man stands in my unit, we will not retreat."
Black Billy grinned wickedly. "Two hundred archers. Let's give Governor Joey a welcome he won't forget."
The archers—twenty from the Wolf Pack and the rest trained Free Army slaves—were equipped mainly with Myrish crossbows, easier to train and cheaper to maintain. Fine yew bows and goldenheart wood were rare luxuries. But the crossbows would serve.
"Shield-bearers, remember," Gendry warned, "your job isn't to break their line. It's to delay them long enough for us to strike."
"Understood," Steel Fist said.
---
The Myrish Expedition Sets Out
Meanwhile, the Myrish forces finally left Myr. The expedition was a mismatched collection of nearly a thousand fighters—Brave Companions leading the march, trailed by ragged adventurers, sellswords, and criminals drawn by empty promises of silver and plunder. Governor Joey's nephew, Commander Qobo, was tasked with overseeing the march, though he had little authority over the Brave Companions.
A bloody-horned black goat banner flapped at the head of the column. Beneath it rode Goat Varg Hoat, the captain of the Brave Companions—a tall, unnervingly thin man with a beard that hung from his chin to his waist. His face was gaunt, almost skeletal, and his restless chewing made his speech slurred and sloppy. A goat-shaped iron helmet hung from his saddle, swinging as he rode atop a black-and-white mottled horse.
Around his neck hung a long chain heavy with mismatched coins. "Trophies," he called them—each one representing a battlefield or village he had fought in, raided, or destroyed.
Behind him rode a bizarre assortment of mercenaries:
– men with braided bells in their hair
– lancers on mottled horses
– archers with powdered faces
– short, hairy men carrying furry shields
– black-faced warriors draped in bird-feather robes
– a clown in green and pink checkered cloth
– swordsmen with mustaches dyed in every unnatural color
– tattoo-covered pikemen
– a monk-like figure in brown robes
– and a sickly, pale man wrapped in golden-haired leather
Commander Qobo rode anxiously alongside Varg. "Lord Varg," he began carefully, "perhaps we should wait outside Firegrass Manor for the fleet to land. It would be better if our forces moved together. The Wolf Pack is dangerous, even if they are few."
Varg cackled wetly. "Afraid, afraid? No need! I've taken your coin, and I'll kill these wolf pups for you. I always deliver."
Qobo frowned. "The Wolf Pack should not be underestimated. Their leader is said to be brutal—merciless."
"Good," Varg replied with a grin that showed yellowing teeth. "Let him be strong. I like cutting down strong men. I'll take their hands and feet too."
That last line made Qobo grimace. The Crippler's reputation for mutilating prisoners sickened even hardened soldiers.
"And tell your monk," Qobo added reluctantly, "to stop harassing the boys in my unit. They are soldiers, not playthings."
Varg shrugged. "Qyburn likes what he likes. If someone willingly bends to him, what can I do? I cannot control such things."
Qobo swallowed his anger. He had no real power over the mercenaries—and that was the true danger.
These men were not an army. They were a plague.
And they were marching straight toward Firegrass Manor.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)