In the pitch-dark dungeons beneath Fire Herb Manor, the bound Myr assassin screamed in agony.
Fire Herb Manor had already been transformed into the headquarters of the Wolf Pack. The Wolf Pack's banner snapped above the estate, wolves emblazoned upon it as if howling to the sky. Sellswords of the Wolf Pack, the senior officers of the Free Company, and escaped slaves who had sought the protection of the Fire Herb King all gathered here.
Within the Myr estate, there was no shortage of tools once used to discipline slaves: barbed whips, iron restraints, spiked chairs—devices meant to prolong suffering and drag death out inch by inch.
"What a pitiful creature."
Amid blood and flame, Maester Qyburn studied the tortured Myr assassin, who was already on the verge of death. The mild, courteous old Maester now looked more like a deranged scholar consumed by his craft. The Myr slave masters had not yet dispatched a full force to wipe out the Wolf Pack, but their assassins had arrived first.
White-haired Qyburn calmly mixed Manticore venom with a coagulant, laying out a scalpel, syringe, rubber tubing, and cotton with practiced precision. After completing a dark magic ritual, he injected the mixture into the assassin's body.
"Ahhh!"
The Myr assassin shrieked. His heart thrashed violently for a few moments before stopping altogether. Blood flooded his eyes until they seemed ready to burst. His slight frame simply could not endure the combined ravaging of venom and coagulant.
"Prince, this is the second experiment this month. To be frank, these Myr specimens are far too frail," Qyburn said with regret. Defective assassins like this could only be burned after disposal.
"There's no help for it. These are the best samples we've managed to obtain." Gendry looked at the corpse without emotion. Harsh interrogation was nothing unusual for men like these.
"You must take greater care of your own safety. Power is like the Iron Throne—covered in barbs. Assassins are the hounds that cling to it."
"They're difficult to guard against. We can only strengthen our intelligence network and tighten security. Our numbers are growing, rolling larger by the day. But the Free Company is made up of freed slaves—they're still green. The veterans remain our most dependable men. I'll need you to shoulder more of the burden."
"To give what little strength I have to your cause is my greatest wish," Qyburn replied without hesitation. "I can hardly wait until we return to Westeros and see the look on the old lion's face."
Though advanced in years, his body remained surprisingly sturdy.
"And the assassin's employer?"
"Magister Joeyr. He already loathes us."
"A shame. This body truly isn't suitable. The quality of our samples must improve. From what I know, a physique like The Mountain's would be ideal—tall, massive, with a far greater resistance to drugs." Qyburn let out a soft sigh.
"The Mountain isn't someone we can simply lay hands on," Gendry said. "He's a good hound at Great Lord Tywin's side."
"You, too, require such capable men to safeguard your life. Once our strength increases, assassination attempts will come again and again."
"We'll make do with our current men for now," Gendry said.
The handsome young man arranged for several of the Wolf Pack's finest to guard him closely. From the Free Company, he also selected a number of young men who swore absolute loyalty to the Wolf Pack's commander to serve as his personal guards.
"War is likely upon us. I may have to suspend my experiments for a time," Qyburn said with a hint of reluctance. The Wolf Pack's rule in the Disputed Lands was still newly established, fragile at its roots.
"There will be other opportunities," Gendry said. "Adventurers, bandit Sellswords, Meereenese, Unsullied—they'd all make excellent samples."
"Prince, are you prepared?" Qyburn asked quietly. "For the war that is coming?"
"If war cannot be avoided, then I'll take up my weapon.
War is not entirely a curse for us. It brings supplies. It brings territory. More importantly, it forges morale. There are still many fugitive slaves scattered across the Disputed Lands. If we win, our army will only grow stronger. Let them see that we have the power to protect them."
Gendry's ambitions reached far beyond the lands they already held. He intended to draw in every fugitive slave willing to join them. Those escaped slaves, entrenched throughout the Disputed Lands, were themselves a formidable armed force.
...
Seagulls wheeled over the sea, crossing toward Westeros on the far side of the Narrow Sea.
"Make way! Make way! The King rides!"
King Robert's hunting party burst forth, a rolling tide of gold, silver, and white. Riders bearing the crowned stag thundered ahead, shouting at the top of their lungs.
Robert rode at the center, though his swollen bulk made the fine destrier beneath him seem perilously overburdened. Long lost was the towering hero who had once crushed his foes and seized a throne. Wine and women had taken that man's place.
Two white-cloaked knights rode close at his side. The most renowned among them was the aged Ser Barristan, still unyielding despite his years, his name spoken with respect throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Behind them came his eldest son and heir, Prince Joffrey. The boy's lips curled faintly, as if he wore permanent disdain. Like his Lannister kin, he was tall, golden-haired, and strikingly handsome, with bright green eyes and a proud tilt to his mouth. He wore crimson velvet, a lion embroidered on one side of his chest, a stag on the other, as if flaunting both legacies at once.
Near him rode a towering knight in a savage hound-shaped helm—the Hound, sworn to House Lannister.
Behind the king followed his squire, Lancel. Ser Kevan's son was young and broad-shouldered, with sandy-brown hair and pale green eyes. Many remarked on how closely he resembled Jaime Lannister.
...
"I must save this kingdom. There are far too many lions at the king's side."
From atop a high tower, Stannis stood alone, watching his brother's procession fade into the sunlit distance. In his mind, he counted the Lannister presence surrounding Robert. They seemed to engulf him entirely.
The king's squire. The Kingslayer among the white cloaks. The Hound sent by House Lannister. Lannister guards scattered throughout the retinue. Even the children's names carried more of Lannister pride than Baratheon tradition.
"Drowned in wine and women… where is the Robert of old?"
Bitterness stirred in Stannis's chest. He resented the slights he had endured at his brother's hands, yet he feared even more the swelling power of House Lannister.
Sunlight blazed across the Lannister banner—a roaring golden lion on a crimson field, glowing fiercely beneath the day's brilliance. His gaze shifted to Joffrey's golden hair. It shone almost unnaturally bright in the light.
No matter the mother's coloring—bronze, honey, chestnut, pale gold—the Baratheon seed always bred true. The children came out black-haired as ravens.
Yet Joffrey and his siblings… their hair gleamed like spun sunlight.
Stannis's thoughts turned to others. His own daughter. His three brothers. And Edric Storm, the bastard raised at Storm's End who had brought him such humiliation—yet who looked so strikingly like Robert in his youth.
"Why?"
"Why is that?"