"King of the Narrow Sea?" Gendry let the proclamation linger on his tongue, tasting its weight. While the mantle of King of the Narrow Sea might dazzle others, his sights stretched further—to claim unchallenged rule over the Narrow Sea, the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands, and the shattered remnants of the Triarchy.
"King of the Narrow Sea carries no fresh ring!" Maester Qyburn observed with a knowing nod. "Throughout the ages, rulers have risen and fallen under that banner in the Stepstones and beyond!"
"This crown demands more than fleeting glory. It shines brightest once the Three Daughters kneel." Gendry's resolve hardened, eyes scanning the horizon.
"A golden chance unfolds!" Gendry reflected inwardly. The moment felt ripe, with the Triarchy of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh fracturing at the seams, the Ironborn nursing old war scars, and the Dornish holding back in watchful silence, blind to eastern tides. This sliver of time could not last; devouring the Stepstones whole would choke Myr and Tyrosh's vital sea paths, tightening his grip like a noose.
Gendry turned his gaze to the ragged pirates crowding the black ship's deck. Once they had sailed as Westerosi outcasts, Lyseni rogues, Tyroshi freebooters, or Myrish renegades, but now their sole mark was piracy. They groveled on the planks, pleading for clemency, meek as cornered beasts. Yet memories of their raids on innocents and seizures from wayfarers stirred no pity—forgiveness came hard for such wolves.
"Relay to Harris, divide our armada into twin prongs. One wing holds the Narrow Sea patrol, sealing Bloodstone and Grey Gallows Island tight while eyeing any Lyseni sails on the wind. The second surges straight for Myr Harbor. I've extended mercy to the Myrish long enough!" Gendry's orders rang clear and final.
Catapults could pulverize Myr's walls to dust, but such raw fury held little appeal for Gendry. Unbridled havoc would rally the Myrish—and stir dread in Magisters and folk of distant cities—against him in unholy union. No, he craved Myr intact, its artisan heart beating strong.
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
"And you lot!" Gendry fixed the kneeling pirates with a piercing stare. "The hour of oaths arrives—swear fealty now, or perish. My fleet strikes Myr by wave and wind; you'll lead the charge as spearhead! You thrive on these waters, so prove your salt. Plunder's share awaits the bold."
Slaughtering every last one would squander potential; better to unleash them on Myr, turning their savagery to his gain.
"We pledge to the Wolf Pack Fleet!"
"We stand ready for the Commander-in-Chief!"
The pirates met Gendry's intense, sapphire gaze, but defiance crumbled under his shadow. The boldest rebels had already met swift ends at the Butter-King's hand and his Unsullied blades.
The promise hit like a storm surge—salvation dangled, yet laced with fresh perils. Still, facing the noose or the deep's cold embrace, these sea hounds seized the gamble... Myr, the gleaming artisan haven of white marble spires and intricate carvings, now seethed in raw terror.
"Myr teeters on the brink!" Despairing cries echoed among the Magisters. Most of Myr's ruling elite—slavers and highborn alike—had barricaded themselves in the heart of the city. Distrust festered toward the outer wards' common folk and chained masses. Slave unrest swelled like a tide, eroding faith in the walls. The City Watch hung by threads, a hollow shell.
Many Magisters leaned on scratch militias of citizens and coin-hired sellswords. Wiser heads among them had already bolted to Pentos or Lys, families and fortunes in tow.
"Bloodbeard lies slain! The Bastard of the Titan breathes no more!"
"Cat's Company shattered, Spear Company turned cloaks! Windblown shuns our gold, Golden Company feigns sleep!"
Dire tidings poured in relentlessly. Since the grisly return of Bloodbeard's corpse, the Titan's fallen spawn, and the slain Magister's remains, Myr's leaders teetered between breakdown and numb surrender. Fear gnawed deep—fear of sharing such bloody ends. Panic gripped them—panic over vanished might. Coin flowed freely from Myrish purses, yet the Golden Company, sole hope against the storm, burrowed in silence, whispers hinting at pacts with the Wolf Pack.
From the battlements, Myrish eyes strained eastward to the daunting "Wolf Pack's Three Whores." Those colossal catapults, forged to batter the Wolf Pack, now menaced their own home. A stretch of the ancient Valyrian Road snaked from Myr's gates, cradling the engines in perfect siege range.
Encircling the "Wolf Pack's Three Whores" sprawled the Free Army's camp, a model of crisp discipline. Trenches ringed the perimeter, bristling with honed stakes, while tents stood in precise grids, broad lanes weaving between. Standards soared on tall staffs—Free Army colors snapping bold—amid armored patrols clutching longspear and crossbows. Free Army ranks scouted Myr's flanks as well, eyes unblinking.
"Myr faces siege on three fronts!" Every Myrish soul grasped the doom. The Wolf Pack and Free Army had devoured the Disputed Lands, Myr's outer holds and farms. Sea lanes to the city thinned to whispers, starving the harbors. Besieged and rationed, Myr's slavers beseeched Tyrosh, Lys, Pentos, even Volantis for salvation, but deliverance proved a cruel mirage.
"At sea!" "Fleets breach the waves!"
"Our saviors draw near!" Lookouts atop the towers spotted specks on the horizon, swelling into a armada's silhouette. These vessels rode low and varied, dwarfs beside true behemoths of war.
Joy erupted among the Myrish, tears streaming as they hailed answered prayers from days of desperate ravens. Aid had winged to Tyrosh, Lys, Volantis, even distant Pentos and Braavos.
Cheers swelled at first, but dread crept in like fog, chilling the slavers' blood as if wights haunted the bay. Banners unfurled wrong—no fiery Tyroshi trident, no Lysene love idol, no Volantene tiger stripes. Instead, grim gray-white Wolf Pack standards mingled with Free Army rags of shattered chains.
"Tyrosh betrays us—what madness grips Tyrosh!"
"The Wolf Pack slipped Tyrosh's nets. They must hold the Stepstones now, or Tyrosh bends knee already."
"Boom!" "Boom!" "Boom!" Horn blasts thundered anew from the Free Army's outer bastion. Catapults eased their stone barrages, instead hurling scrolls like judgments from the gods.
"Long live the Free Army!" "Long live the Free Army!" A deafening wave crashed from beyond the walls, as Steel Fist and Grey Wolf's warriors boiled from tents. Engines groaned to life, heralding Myr's reckoning.
The Wolf Pack Company's drilled ranks unleashed a furious storm on the Myrish, crashing from shore and surf in tandem fury.
Gendry's vessel glided into the harbor unopposed. In serene Myr Bay, scant warships ventured forth; those bold few shattered against the tide. Myr's fleets, crewed heavy with slaves, faltered in loyalty and fire. Save for vessels fleeing under false rescue flags, Gendry's Wolf Pack claimed the rest, prizes gleaming.
"Splendid prizes—these will forge my armada anew!" Gendry surveyed the docked Myrish fleet, now his by conquest. Myr's naval craft outclassed his patchwork force in craft and curve. At last, a true navy swelled under his command.
Myr erupted in chaos. Amid the uproar, slaves shattered chains, igniting a blaze of revolt. Some seized blades, turning on the City Watch, vengeance blazing against years of whips and wants.
Slave fury pried even city gates ajar from within.
"The inner walls crumble!"
"The inner walls crumble! Second Sons fling wide the portals."
Word exploded like wildfire: the Second Sons flipped once more, this time aiding the Wolf Pack in breaching Myr's core defenses.
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