The situation in Myr was deteriorating, and Gendry could see it in the grim set of Handsome's jaw. The harassing attacks on the manor had dwindled to small, probing raids, but the captain took no comfort in the lull. Magister Karasso's troubles were not limited to this remote manor; they extended all the way back to the heart of the city, where the bloody game of politics was being played for the highest stakes.
"The Wolf Pack is tied too closely to Karasso," Handsome said quietly, standing beside Gendry on the high wall. They looked out over the vast, beautiful landscape, but neither saw the beauty. "We are more than just hired swords to him. We have a long contract, a history. Our fates are bound together."
Gendry understood. The Wolf Pack and the Magister's family supported each other. It was a bond of loyalty and blood, deeper than any simple contract. Karasso's enemies were their enemies.
"But it is no great matter," Handsome continued, a sad smile touching his lips. "To die in battle is a sellsword's destiny. We ride fine horses, fight in strange lands, enjoy the songs and women in the free cities, and die in some forgotten war. That is our life. But you are different, boy. You do not need to perish with the Wolf Pack." The captain's words were heavy with the weight of a veteran looking out for a promising youth. "You have a great future. You are handsome and fearless. The Wolf Pack is just your first stop. Most sellswords drift from company to company. But we are different. The blood of the North flows in our veins. We have put down roots."
"Has it truly come to that?" Gendry asked.
"Greybeard sent word. This election year is not an easy one. The merchants who once supported Karasso have turned their backs. The Bank of Myr has refused him loans. That is why he is so desperate for the gold this firegrass will bring. Without coin, he cannot bribe or please the voters."
Gendry knew something of the politics of the Free Cities. In Volantis, the ten-day election period was a city-wide festival of debauchery, where candidates paraded on elephants and used every trick imaginable to win votes. Myr was no different.
"Forget the games in the city," Handsome said, shaking his head. "We have our own troubles. The enemy we face here is powerful and mysterious. Karasso is sending reinforcements from the city, and another part of our company will go to Myr to protect him personally."
"I hope he wins," Gendry said, though he knew it was a fantasy. This was a game that could not be won by force of arms alone.
"As do I," Handsome said with a weary smile. "Now go. Train. Keep your skills sharp, Iron Hammer."
When he was not on watch, Gendry spent every spare moment in the training yard. He learned the elusive art of the longspear, its quick thrusts a constant threat. He wrestled with the strange, unpredictable flail, its chained head a whirlwind of pain. He was familiar with the construction of many weapons, but the warhammer remained his most trusted companion.
After a long day of brutal sparring, covered in bruises and welts, Gendry was resting when Qyburn found him, an urgent look on his face.
"Your Highness, two pieces of news," the maester said in a low voice. "First, the Beggar King grows desperate. He has sold his mother's crown and has nothing left but his sister. He hopes to trade her for an army, but few are willing to openly challenge the Iron Throne. Our own time grows short."
"It is," Gendry agreed. He knew the fat Magister of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis, held the Targaryen siblings in a gilded cage, seeking a powerful husband for Daenerys. Khal Drogo was eventually chosen. To steal her from under their noses would require perfect timing. "What is the second thing?"
"The Seafarers' Guild is planning to unite against our employer," Qyburn said, his voice grim.
"The Seafarers' Guild," Gendry scoffed. "Pirates, you mean."
"They are one and the same," Qyburn confirmed. "We must consider our own escape."
"Handsome has already told me. We can leave at any time. But I want to wait. The Wolf Pack is the first real army I have known." He looked at Qyburn, a hard glint in his eye. "There is no shortage of wealth in these manors. Or slaves."
Qyburn stared at him, understanding the unspoken threat. If necessary, Gendry would build his army from the ground up, with fire and blood.
"King Robert won his throne with a warhammer," Qyburn said, his voice full of a fervent belief. "There is no reason you cannot do the same. But you will need patrons. Even the exiled Targaryens have them. A man of your station will not lack for offers, once your identity is known and the truth of Joffrey's parentage is revealed."
"Patrons are insatiably greedy," Gendry countered. "And we have too few cards to play. Robert won his war but compromised his victory. He brought the Lannisters into his bed and left Dorne simmering with resentment." The division of the Baratheon lands between his brothers had been another foolish, sentimental move.
"Politics is always a game of compromise," Qyburn argued. "And Robert did not have the mind for it. Most of his strategies came from Jon Arryn."
"So the old falcon was the true king," Gendry mused.
"He held the alliance together," Qyburn agreed. "But he is an old man. He cannot clean up the king's messes forever. We are here, in Essos, and we cannot afford to be without allies of our own."
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