Dark clouds pressed low over the borderlands between the Wolf Pack Company's rising territory and the city-state of Myr. For weeks, the Free Army had been making bold, deliberate appearances along the frontier—burning beacon fires, marching in tight formations, and letting their banners flutter high in the wind. Their presence alone caused unease to ripple across the region. Small manor lords, terrified by rumors of advancing slave-liberators, fled back to Myr with whatever slaves and valuables they could carry.
In the Disputed Lands, the scent of oncoming war thickened the air like smoke before a storm. The horns of battle—cold, sharp, and unforgiving—echoed day and night, pushing Myrish panic to its peak. Demand for mercenaries surged. Adventurers, sellswords, pirates, and opportunists alike poured into Myr's harbor, all hoping to sell their blades for gold.
But the eastern front was only a carefully crafted illusion.
The true strike was aimed elsewhere—far from Myr's walls, far from the burning borderlands. It began instead on two nameless islands scattered among the Stepstones, where pirates lounged lazily on their rickety piers… until they heard the thunder of unfamiliar sailors and the sound of disciplined boots.
The Stepstones were dotted with countless islands, most too small or too barren to hold any value. Only Bloodstone and Grey Gallows Island held any real reputation. The rest were plagued by storms, jagged shores, and a desolation that attracted only smugglers and pirates. But on this day, the sea carried black-hulled ships—swift, silent, armored like beasts.
When the longships scraped onto the rocky beach, warriors leaped out—escaped slaves from Volantis alongside the iron-blooded knights of the Wolf Pack Company. Their banners unfurled in the storm winds: the grey-white wolf sigil of the Wolf Pack beside the broken-shackle emblem of the Free Army.
"For the Wolf Pack!"
"For the Wolf Pack!" voices roared across the shore.
The pirates, drunk on cheap wine and arrogance, had never imagined the Wolf Pack or the Free Army would attack islands they considered worthless. Their defenses crumbled almost immediately. Men fled to their caves, others grabbed whatever loot they could carry, but few escaped the disciplined ranks advancing against them.
By dusk, the islands belonged to the Wolf Pack.
---
Firegrass Manor — A Tense Meeting
Far from the blood-stained beaches, the atmosphere inside Firegrass Manor was equally charged—though with politics rather than steel.
Inside a heavy canvas war tent, lit by lanterns and perfumed faintly with the scent of exotic wine, the Archon of Tyrosh's envoy stood before Gendry, the Commander-in-Chief of the Wolf Pack Company and the Free Army. Gendry sat casually on a folding chair draped in tiger skin, a gift from Volantene slaves who hailed him as the Liberator and the Abolitionist.
Behind him hung a Myrish tapestry depicting a lone knight mid-hunt. Gendry himself wore a crude iron mask—black and expressionless. At his sides stood two Unsullied guards, motionless, spears held like frozen lightning. A white-haired Maester, smiling faintly, watched everything with sharp, calculating eyes.
The Tyroshi envoy studied the so-called Butter-King with immediate confusion. Rumors had reached Tyrosh painting Gendry as a monstrous tyrant—an eight-foot giant with a tangled beard, bulging muscles, and a warhammer thirsty for blood. Whispers claimed he collected the skulls of slavers, drank the blood of his enemies, and performed dark rituals to gain supernatural battle frenzy.
The reality was different, yet no less unsettling.
Gendry was tall—well over six feet—but not a giant. His physique was powerful, athletic rather than brutish, and his black hair framed sharp blue eyes that carried both intellect and danger. He looked nothing like a barbarian. If anything, he resembled a deadly noble knight rather than a mercenary.
But some rumors held truth.
The black-iron warhammer resting near his chair radiated a cold, ominous aura. That very weapon had crushed skulls of slavers, bandits, and even Myrish soldiers. Its reputation alone made the envoy's palms sweat.
The Tyroshi envoy finally opened a jeweled box and presented it.
"First, please accept a gift from our honorable Archon of Tyrosh to the Commander-in-Chief of the Wolf Pack Company and the Free Army." Inside lay Tyroshi pear-brandy, renowned across the Free Cities, alongside ornate armor crafted in Tyrosh's flamboyant style.
Gendry nodded politely. "I appreciate the Archon's gift. But I doubt you traveled all this way merely to deliver fine wine."
The envoy forced a smile. Tyroshi diplomacy valued extravagance, and the envoy himself sported the city's signature purple-red dyed hair and beard. Yet beneath the colorful varnish, fear poured from him.
---
The Envoy's Warning
"You have gained much in the Disputed Lands," the envoy began cautiously. "But surely the Commander-in-Chief does not intend to make enemies of half the world? Beyond Myr, there are Lisene fleets, Tyrosh itself, Volantis, even Slaver's Bay…"
Gendry tilted his head. "Then what solution does the Archon offer to guide my apparently confused self?"
The envoy hesitated, then spoke plainly:
"Cease your slave-liberation propaganda. Withdraw your forces to your original manors. Tyrosh will not contest Firegrass Manor or the lands you initially took. But if you continue expanding, Tyrosh will consider it a provocation—one that may force us into war."
The tent grew colder. Even the lantern light seemed to dim.
Gendry smiled behind his mask. "Since the Three Daughters dissolved their old alliance, they've hated one another. Myr despises me. But will Tyrosh truly be disturbed if I strike Myr?"
"You wish for honesty, Commander-in-Chief?" the envoy snapped, unable to hide his frustration.
"The Disputed Lands belonged to all, yet the Wolf Pack continues to seize manor after manor. Countless Tyroshi slaves have escaped to join you. You are destabilizing the region—and provoking resentment everywhere."
Gendry said nothing.
"And though our Archon shows restraint," the envoy continued, "he has not yet demanded the return of those escaped slaves."
Gendry's voice lowered. "Is that a threat?"
"I would not dare!" the envoy said quickly. "But you must understand: your actions provoke collective anger. Myr is already negotiating with the Golden Company. You would not wish to add such a formidable foe to your list of enemies."
Gendry chuckled. "The Golden Company? Interesting. Because I am also negotiating cooperation with them."
The envoy's face fell. "What?"
"Indeed," Gendry continued lightly. "They desire Westeros. I desire stability and expansion in the Disputed Lands. A mutually beneficial arrangement."
The envoy's thoughts scattered. If true, it was catastrophic news. If false, it was masterful intimidation.
Either way, he had no answer.
"This negotiation seems to have reached an unhappy conclusion," the envoy said stiffly. "But I urge you to reconsider."
Gendry waved a hand dismissively. "Negotiations that benefit only one side are not negotiations. But do tell the Archon I will send him my… blessings."
Realizing the danger surrounding him—Unsullied soldiers standing like statues and Free Army warriors glaring like hunting wolves—the envoy bowed awkwardly and rushed out of the tent.
---
Aftermath — Calculations and Warnings
When the envoy had vanished from sight, Gendry leaned back in his chair.
"It seems Tyrosh may soon join the alliance forming against us," he said quietly.
Maester Qyburn, hands folded neatly in front of him, replied, "The Tyroshi are the greediest of the Three Daughters. Their slave trade thrives because they show no restraint. They even raid beyond the Wall to capture Free Folk. They cannot coexist with abolitionists like us."
The Handsome Man, standing near the tent entrance, scoffed. "False news about cooperation between us and the Golden Company must have frightened the envoy half to death."
"This news is not entirely false," Gendry corrected. "There is indeed room for cooperation."
Qyburn nodded thoughtfully. "The Golden Company is politically ambitious. They originated from Westerosi exiles who still dream of returning home. Their distaste for slavery makes them—surprisingly—potential allies."
"But they are dangerous friends," the Handsome Man reminded them. "Never forget why they were driven from Westeros to begin with. Their expectations are immense. They fought for the Ninepenny Kings, seized parts of the Disputed Lands, even occupied Tyrosh itself for a time. Yet they always abandoned those holdings to chase the next invasion of Westeros."
"True," Gendry said. "But many in their ranks come from noble houses of the Reach. Some still maintain old friendships—House Peake, for example. They have sympathizers in Dorne as well. If handled correctly, they may serve our goals."
He reached for his warhammer, lightly gripping the cold metal handle.
"The Disputed Lands are about to ignite," he murmured. "And every ally—dangerous or not—will matter."
Wind outside whipped the banners violently, as if echoing the coming storm.
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