In the dark, oppressive dungeon beneath Firegrass Manor, a bound Myrish assassin let out a pained wail. The manor had been converted into the headquarters of the Wolf Pack Company, its banner now flying high above the walls. In the face of their growing power, the magisters of Myr had resorted to sending killers in the night.
"What a pathetic creature," Qyburn said, looking down at the tortured assassin. The old maester, who usually appeared so amiable, now resembled a mad scientist in the flickering torchlight, his eyes alight with a feverish intensity. He prepared a mixture of scorpion venom and coagulant, his instruments laid out with practiced care: a small knife, a syringe, and cotton balls. After performing a brief, dark ritual, he injected the concoction into the assassin's body.
The man screamed, a sound of pure agony, as his heart beat violently for a few moments before stopping altogether. His eyeballs were filled with blood, as if they had burst from the strain.
"A failure," Qyburn sighed, a regretful look on his old face. "This is the second experiment this month. Honestly, the physical condition of these Myrmen is far too poor." He gestured for the body to be burned. "It is normal to subject these men to torture, but a good sample is so hard to find."
"Pay attention to your own safety, Your Highness," Qyburn warned Gendry, who had been watching from the shadows. "Power is like the Iron Throne, full of thorns. These assassins will not stop coming."
"They are hard to guard against," Gendry agreed. "We can only improve our intelligence and security. Our numbers are growing, but the Free Army is still made of novices. The veterans are our most reliable soldiers. You will have to work hard to train them."
"To contribute to your cause is my greatest desire," Qyburn said, a strange fervor in his voice. "I cannot wait to return to Westeros and see the look on the Old Lion's face." He paused. "The assassin's employer was Magister Joey. He hates us to the very bone." He sighed again. "A pity this body is so unsuitable. A physique like the Mountain's would be more perfect. Tall, and with a high resistance to drugs."
"Gregor Clegane is Lord Tywin's dog," Gendry said. "He is well beyond our reach. For now, we must make do with the men we have." He had already assigned several of the most skilled members of the Wolf Pack to his personal guard, along with a cadre of fiercely loyal youths from the Free Army.
"War is coming soon," Qyburn said with a touch of regret. "My experiments will have to wait."
"There will always be opportunities," Gendry consoled him. "Bandits, Meereenese, Unsullied—all are excellent samples." He looked at the old maester, his face grim. "Are you ready?"
"For the coming war," Gendry said, "I can only grasp my weapon and fight. War is not entirely a bad thing. We can acquire resources and territory. More importantly, we can boost morale. If we win, the escaped slaves hiding in the Disputed Lands will see we have the power to protect them, and they will flock to our banner."
***
Across the Narrow Sea, in the kingswood near the capital, King Robert's hunting party was a river of gold and silver. Riders carrying the crowned stag banner of House Baratheon shouted for the common folk to clear the way. The king himself rode a great warhorse, though he had grown so corpulent it was a wonder the beast did not collapse beneath him. He was no longer the imposing hero of his youth.
Beside him rode two of the Kingsguard, including the legendary Ser Barristan the Bold, old but still unyielding. Then came his eldest son, Prince Joffrey, a scornful smile on his handsome, Lannister face. He wore a crimson tunic, embroidered with a lion on one side and a stag on the other. Behind them rode the king's monstrous, dog-helmed guard, Sandor Clegane, and his squire, Lancel Lannister, a handsome youth who was said to resemble his cousin Jaime.
From a high tower in the Red Keep, Stannis Baratheon watched his brother's procession disappear into the trees. *I must save this country,* he thought, his jaw tight. *There are too many lions around the king.* The king's squire, the Kingslayer, the Hound—even the king's children had the look of Lannisters, not Baratheons.
"Indulging in wine and women," Stannis muttered. "Where is the young Robert?" He was filled with a bitter resentment for the slights he had suffered at his brother's hand, and a deep concern for the growing influence of the Lannisters. The sun glinted off the golden lion on their crimson banners, making it seem to roar with a life of its own. He looked at Joffrey's golden hair, so bright and brilliant.
*No matter the mother's hair,* Stannis thought, a strange suspicion taking root in his mind, *all of Robert's children are born with hair as black as a crow's wing.* He thought of his own daughter, of the king's other bastards, of Edric Storm at Storm's End, who was the very image of a young Robert. *Yet Joffrey and his siblings all have hair like the sun.*
*Why?* Stannis wondered. *Why is this?*
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