Not far from the eastern gate of Myr's outer city, the sounds of slaughter had already filled the air. Steel clashed against steel, and battle cries rose and fell without pause.
The gray-white banner of the Wolf Pack still snapped in the wind.
Gendry stood before the bodies of fallen Unsullied, his rough iron mask gleaming with a cold sheen. Sweat soaked his coal-black hair. Blood dripped steadily from his black spiked hammer.
The Unsullied were fearless—but they were not made of iron.
"Strike the head or the heart!" Gendry shouted. "Kill in one blow if you can. Wound them elsewhere and they won't even feel it!"
Two Unsullied lay at his feet, blood pooling beneath them.
Four more advanced on him in tight formation—shields raised, spears leveled, short swords at their hips. Most wore helmets crowned with a single iron spike. Their faces were blank, as if cast in bronze. They did not hesitate at the sight of their fallen comrades.
Gendry raised his oak shield and stepped back half a pace, hammer lifting in his other hand. Few men possessed his strength and speed. His footwork was light and fluid, like a shadowcat circling its prey.
Four spears thrust forward in perfect unison.
They had judged him the greatest threat. They meant to bring him down first.
Clang!
A spearhead struck his black scale armor. The Unsullied fought fiercely, but their weapons bore no poison. Compared to many Myrish fighters, they at least met their foes face to face.
The armor held—but the force of the thrust jarred through him. The Unsullied were trained light infantry, but their strength was formidable.
Gendry caught a glimpse of their unwavering eyes.
"Ha!"
His hammer came down hard against one man's faceplate. Metal crumpled. The cheek beneath shattered. The Unsullied dropped where he stood.
The remaining three withdrew their spears and thrust upward, aiming for Gendry's throat.
He sprang back with startling speed, light as a stag bounding through forest brush. The burning ache in his chest only fed his fury.
Thwip.
Fletcher Dick's long arrow shot past him and punched clean through an Unsullied's eye socket.
"Good!"
Gendry pressed forward, hammer slamming down again and again. The blows rang against bronze shields until cracks began to spider across them. Brutal force cut both ways—his arms burned with the strain.
One final smash shattered the shield. The next caved in the faceplate behind it.
"Move!" the Handsome Man roared, rallying the line.
His shout drew fire. A Myrish mercenary loosed two crossbow bolts in quick succession. The Handsome Man twisted aside from the first—but the second buried itself in his left arm.
A heartbeat later, Fletcher Dick's purpleheart longbow answered. The arrow struck the crossbowman dead.
"Thank you, Dick!" the Handsome Man gasped, his face draining of color.
"Save your breath," Dick replied with a faint grin. "Looks like these old bones still have work to do. I'll see you through."
"Your arm—" Dick glanced at the blood running down the Handsome Man's sleeve.
"It can wait. We get out of Myr first."
Gendry lowered his hammer, abandoning any thought of taking an Unsullied captive. They would have made unmatched guards—but the chaos around them left no room for such ambitions.
The Wolf Pack shifted their wedge. Even if they cut down every Unsullied before them, that iron wall would cost them precious time.
The only true path was back to the smugglers' tunnel.
"Move!"
They broke clear of the Unsullied's reach and veered instead toward the Myrish mercenaries.
That force was larger in number—but it was no iron wall. A loose mix of mercenaries, guards, and gladiators, not the disciplined shield line of the Unsullied.
The Wolf Pack fell back at a run, killing intent still thick around them. Under the Handsome Man's lead, they made for the smugglers' passage.
"Kill!"
The Wolf Pack riders surged like a gale. The older men and those too badly wounded to keep up took the outer edge of the formation without being asked, shielding their captain and brothers. Northern blood still ran in their veins. When the time came, they would give themselves for kin and comrades.
In the North, there was an old custom. When the first snow fell, the elderly, the orphaned, the unmarried, the childless, and those with no means to provide would leave their homes, so that their families might have a better chance of surviving to see spring.
The Wolf Pack had come to Myr—but they had not forgotten that tradition.
In the alleys of Myr, the bodies of old Wolf Pack sellswords lay strewn behind them. Riderless horses, some pierced with arrows, screamed in pain as they collapsed.
Through the dark, winding tunnel, the Handsome Man led what was left of them.
Before the second dawn broke, they finally reached the ship of the Lys pirate king.
They came aboard drenched in blood, sweat, and fury. Greybeard was not among them. By then, they all understood what that meant.
"Old friend, I thought you weren't coming back," the old Lys pirate Saan said. "But I'm glad to see you alive."
"Thank you for your kindness, Saan."
"You look worse for wear, my friend. Seems Myr has no love left for you. Have you made up your mind?" Saan continued. "Come back to Lys with me. I need men like you. Honest shipping or not, good blades are always in demand. I admire the Wolf Pack."
"We need time to think," the Handsome Man replied. "May I borrow your cabin? I've taken an arrow in the arm."
Qyburn stepped forward, his gaze falling on the wound. He peeled back the armor and examined the arrow injury. The blood around it had already turned a dark purplish black.
Without a word, Qyburn ushered the Handsome Man into the cabin and set to work with a knife.
After some time, Qyburn emerged and allowed the surviving Wolf Pack inside—Longspear, Fletcher, Steel Fist, Gendry.
The Handsome Man gave Qyburn a look, signaling him to speak.
"I regret to say," Qyburn began, his lined face heavy, "the Myrish arrow was poisoned. I have done everything I can. The arm is saved—but most sensation is gone. He will never wield a weapon properly again."
Silence filled the cabin.
"The Captain is gone," the Handsome Man said quietly. "Before he died, he gave me the wolf-head ring."
No one wept. There was only anger.
"The Wolf Pack never forgets."
"The Wolf Pack never forgets."
"There is one more thing," the Handsome Man said.
He slipped the wolf-head ring from his finger and turned to Gendry.
"This ring… give it to Gendry."
He placed it in the young man's palm.
"A head wolf needs his hands. I refuse to be the Wolf Pack's crippled limb. The position is yours now, boy. If you choose to leave the Wolf Pack, I won't hold it against you."
"This is too great a burden," Gendry said, shaking his head.
"Listen to me," the Handsome Man replied. "We are warriors. When men stand together, it is on honesty and brotherhood. We don't follow the Myrish way—no false elections, no hollow words. The Wolf Pack needs the bravest wolf. The sharpest one."
"The Wolf Pack is no easy post," Fletcher Dick added, stepping forward. "You're young—too young to bear a weight twice your years. But I've seen it in you. Strength. And sense. The Disputed Lands are chaos. Without both, a man doesn't last."
Gendry looked down at the ring. Black iron and bronze shaped into the proud head of a wolf, its lines fierce and alive.
"I will obey the new captain," the Handsome Man said.
He dropped to one knee first.
Then the others followed—every surviving member of the Wolf Pack.
From that moment on, Gendry was their captain.