The coastline of the Disputed Lands stretched like a jagged ribbon beneath the afternoon sun, its rocky edges shimmering where waves crashed in silver foam. Along one sheltered inlet, four long, narrow black ships eased into the shallows. Their sails were patched but sturdy, and high above them fluttered two banners: the grey-white sigil of the Wolf Pack and the broken-shackle emblem of the Free Army.
These were no ordinary vessels—they belonged to escaped slaves from Volantis. Once, they had been forced sailors, branded and broken by the city's slave masters. Now, they were river pirates and sea raiders by choice, preying on the very slaver fleets that had once commanded them. After months of living by the sword, they had finally turned toward the Disputed Lands after hearing whispers that a new "Butter-King" had risen there—a young warlord who freed slaves and defied the great powers of the Free Cities.
When their captains stepped onto the sand, they carried their long swords not as weapons, but as offerings. Their faces, marked by deep scars where slave tattoos once sat, looked stern but strangely hopeful. Sail tattoos—small warship sigils carved into the cheek—had been standard among Volantene naval slaves. When they fled, these men had gouged them out, carving their own flesh to reclaim their identity.
Now they knelt before Gendry, laying their swords at his feet.
"We will serve you," said Captain Harris, the eldest of the four, bowing his head. "For you break shackles, and you free the enslaved. Even if the Long Night is long, even if winter devours the world, we will stand beside you."
Around them stood commanders of the Wolf Pack, officers of the Free Army, and Unsullied clad in light armor. Not far off, lines of Free Army infantry practiced with longspears and reloaded crossbows with disciplined rhythm. In this place, order and freedom coexisted—an unlikely combination that made the captains marvel.
Gendry accepted their fealty with calm authority.
"From this moment on," he declared, "you are the Free Army's naval captains. All men are born free, and under my banner, none shall be slaves."
A roar of approval swept through the crowd. The escaped sailors—hardened men who had survived perils most could not imagine—found tears stinging their eyes.
Harris stepped closer. "The slaves of Volantis are awaiting you, Lord Gendry. Word of your victories spreads through the tiger city like wildfire."
Gendry placed a strong hand on his shoulder. "Then one day, we will return to Volantis—not as fugitives, but as liberators, followed by thousands of free brothers."
"Long live the Free Army!"
The sailors echoed him, voices hoarse but passionate.
Then Captain Harris added quietly, "Many of your messages reached Volantis through the Widow of the Waterfront. I believe the Commander-in-Chief should consider contacting her."
Gendry raised an eyebrow. "Widow of the Waterfront?"
Harris nodded. "A formidable woman. Famous in Volantis. She remembers her origins, though… she was once a bed slave."
She had been trained in Yunkai's famed pleasure houses—taught the "seven arts of love" to please any master. A Volantene Magister named Vaggaro had purchased her, fallen deeply in love, granted her freedom, and later married her.
Vaggaro had owned docks, warehouses, money-changing houses, and ship-insurance businesses. When he died, all passed to his widow. Despite her wealth and influence, she quietly aided escaped slaves, and it was through her network that stories of Gendry's rebellion spread like sparks on dry tinder.
Gendry stored the name carefully. A contact in Volantis—especially one with gold, ships, and spies—would be valuable in the future. But he also knew that assaulting Volantis would require far more strength than he currently possessed. The city was ancient, proud, and heavily defended.
For now, he had the Disputed Lands to secure.
As he escorted the captains toward Firegrass Manor, they passed through golden wheat fields, rows of drying gunpowder herbs, and willow groves swaying under the warm breeze. The captains observed that Free Folk and freed slaves walked with uplifted heads, not beaten down as they had been in the Free Cities. Merchants, former knights, and commoners alike obeyed the head wolf's laws.
A new nation was taking root.
"We came to the right place," Harris murmured, gazing at the thriving camp. "This army… this king… they will terrify the slavers."
The gates of Firegrass Manor had transformed into a fortress-like Wolf's Den. Walls had been reinforced, moats dug and filled with jagged stakes. Inside, tents and barracks lined neatly spaced paths. Horses were tethered to the north under the watch of disciplined sergeants. Among them stood a sleek black steed—an elegant gift from the Prince of Dorne.
Steward Luv welcomed the captains. Gentle by nature, loved by slaves and freefolk alike, Luv had managed the estate even before the Free Army's founding. His wife and child lived in the manor, and the men respected him as someone who treated all people with dignity.
While Gendry integrated his new naval officers into the Free Army, somewhere far across the Disputed Lands another meeting was taking place—one cloaked in secrecy and tension.
---
The Golden Company's camp gleamed like a miniature kingdom. No dirt or disorder marred its symmetry. Rows of tents stood in perfect formation. Their lookouts scanned the horizon with the precision of veteran soldiers. Horses were brushed, fed, and lined up so neatly that even kings would envy the discipline. And behind the central tents, more than twenty elephants stamped the ground, their enormous bodies adorned with ornate armor plates.
The Commander-in-Chief's pavilion stood at the camp's heart. Woven with gold thread, it was encircled by tall longspear standards. Skulls—each dipped in gold—crowned the spears. One enormous skull, deformed and monstrous, belonged to the infamous Maelys the Monstrous. Beneath it, a tiny skull the size of a child's fist—believed to be that of Maelys's fused twin—hung like a grotesque ornament. Other skulls bore crushed craniums from battle or long rows of sharpened teeth.
It was Cold Iron's tradition: the skulls of fallen commanders and heroes were gilded and raised high until the company returned to Westeros.
Inside the pavilion, senior officers argued.
"This little bastard is truly mad," one growled, slamming a jeweled dagger onto the table. "He wants to tear the slavers' empire apart and turn the Free Cities into a funeral pyre."
The Golden Company, though called mercenaries, carried themselves like lords. Jewel-studded swords, silk cloaks, ornate armor, and heavy gold armbands adorned nearly every man. Each armband represented one year of service—a badge of pride and loyalty stronger than many crowns.
Tristan Rivers leaned back in his chair. "Mad or not, he's dangerous. To challenge all slavers at once? The Wolf Pack boy is either the bravest man alive or the most reckless."
Though bastards by name—Rivers, Flowers, Hill, Stone—the officers belonged to ancient Westerosi bloodlines. Some bore the surnames of the great houses: Strong, Peake, Roxton, even Mudd. Yet names meant little in the Golden Company. Here, glory mattered, not genealogy.
Another officer shook his head. "As long as the Wolf Pack banner flies, slaves will flee to him. People fight like demons when freedom is at stake. If we had such men, we could conquer half the world."
"But we," Tristan reminded them, "are mercenaries, not conquerors. Our purpose is simple: earn coin, protect our brothers, and return home."
At that, Commander Harry—dull-eyed, but carried along by the discipline of his men—cleared his throat. "The Magisters of Myr made an offer. Gold and slaves. They want us to attack the Wolf Pack."
"A foolish proposal," Tristan answered immediately. "The Wolf Pack's strength is no rumor. Their leader is cunning, fearless, and utterly unrelenting. Think of the Unsullied he crushed, the Brave Companions he scattered. Think of the direwolf hosts from the Dance of the Dragons. Even if we win… we would bleed for it."
"But we could take the gold," Harry insisted. "Provide 'armed protection' for Myr. We don't need to engage directly. We simply stand near their borders, and they pay us."
Tristan looked unconvinced. "Or… we reach out to the Wolf Pack. They want the Disputed Lands. We want Westeros. We could form an alliance like the Ninepenny Kings once did."
"Absolutely not!" Harry snapped. "We support a true dragon. We wait. And when the moment comes, we sail home under dragonfire."
Only a handful knew the secret—that young Aegon Targaryen lived.
Franklin scoffed. "A true dragon? You mean the ragged Beggar King and his sister? The same fool who invited us to dine, and we laughed him out of the room?"
Harry's face tightened.
"If not them," Franklin continued, "who do we wait for? Destiny? Maelys conquered the Stepstones with far less. We could do the same."
The tent fell silent.
Outside, the elephants grumbled and stomped, as if echoing the tension within.
---
At Firegrass Manor, Gendry sat with the four newly sworn captains, discussing future naval plans, possible raids, and the political landscape of the Free Cities. But even as he planned, a heavier truth lingered in his mind.
War was coming.
Whether from slavers, magisters, or mercenaries, the storm was gathering. And both the Widow of the Waterfront and the Golden Company were bound to play a part in shaping the future of the Disputed Lands.
Yet for now, Gendry stood resolute. Surrounded by freed men who believed in him, protected by armies built on hope rather than fear, he felt the rising heartbeat of a new nation.
And nations, once awakened, do not easily fall back asleep.
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