The situation in Myr was growing worse by the day, and it showed on the Handsome Man's face. Each time Gendry looked at him, his expression seemed a shade darker.
The sellsword bandits who came to harass them only showed up in small groups now, nothing like the Bandit Knights with their numbers. And with the Wolf Pack working together with the slaves, Fire Herb Manor had dug trenches deeper and wider than before. Even so, the Handsome Man had no reason to smile.
The Magister's troubles weren't confined to this manor. The real storm was in the city of Myr. Competition for the Magister's seat in the Free Cities was barely orderly at the best of times, and every so often it turned bloody. Assassinations. Poisonings.
"The Wolf Pack may be tied too tightly to Magister Casso," the Handsome Man said quietly.
He stood high on the manor wall, looking out over distant mountains and broad waters. The view was beautiful, almost peaceful. He leaned closer and spoke in a low voice to Gendry, who, among the sellswords, was considered one of the "literate ones," brave and sharp besides. Gendry's strength had earned him real respect. After all, not just anyone could hammer a Meereen gladiator to death.
"We're just sellswords," Gendry said. "So why are we getting dragged into the Myrish game?"
"Hired swords have no loyalty, and free knights have no discipline. But the Wolf Pack isn't like that. We've worked with House Casso for a long time. We have a contract that's close and enduring."
Gendry understood at once. Magister Casso and the Wolf Pack propped each other up. Bound by blood ties and old loyalties, the Wolf Pack would not abandon the Magister lightly. And with such a long partnership, anyone moving against the Magister would also move against the Wolf Pack.
"But it's nothing to be surprised about," the Handsome Man went on. "Dying in battle is a sellsword's fate. You ride a fine horse, carry steel at your hip, fight and gamble your life in the Free Cities, drink and chase women in the singing houses, and in the end you die in some senseless war you barely understood. That's our life."
He looked at Gendry. "But you're different, lad. You don't have to go down with the Wolf Pack."
"You're a good kid. Bright future. Handsome, fearless. The Wolf Pack is only your first stop. Most sellswords serve in one Company after another. But we're not like that. Northern blood runs in our veins, and we're done wandering."
"Has it really come to that?" Gendry murmured. There was something in the Handsome Man's tone that felt like putting affairs in order.
"Greybeard sent word," the Handsome Man said. "This election year will be hard. The merchants who usually back the Magister seem to have gotten some kind of warning. They won't lend. The Bank of Myr won't help either. That's why the Magister is desperate to trade Fire Herb for gold."
He paused, as if weighing each word. "No coin means no way to bribe voters, no way to keep them sweet."
Gendry knew how the Free Cities worked. Money was the chain that bound power. The most famous elections were in Volantis, but the Triarchy followed much the same pattern.
In Volantis, the election lasted ten days, and those ten days were a festival for the voters. Candidates used every trick they had to win favor. There were torchlit parades everywhere, speeches in the streets, mummers, singers, dancers. Assassins dueled for the sake of the candidates they served. Elephants were painted with a contender's name. Some candidates even sent their slaves to bed with voters, willing to do anything for a vote.
"Forget Myr," the Handsome Man said at last. "Don't worry about what's beyond our reach. Fire Herb Manor has already taken a hit, and our enemy is strong and shadowed. And since it's an election year, the Magister needs tighter security. The Wolf Pack will send a group to protect him, and another group will come here as reinforcements."
"Let's hope the Magister wins this time," Gendry said. It was all he could do. Myr's election farce was a game only local freeborn men truly understood. It wasn't something you could solve with brute strength.
"I hope so too. Now go train, young Gendry," the Handsome Man said with a faint smile, sending him off.
Gendry climbed down from the manor wall. Below, the Fire Herb spread in fields of rust-red, so vivid it looked like flames licking at the earth. Slaves hurried back and forth among the rows. The crop was nearly ripe. Soon it would be dried and cured, then shipped to Myr.
Red. The world was red.
The world would end in fire, or it would end in ice. And in the mess that was Myr, they were already involved, whether they liked it or not.
When there were no combat assignments, Gendry spent his time in the training yard, drilling against every sort of weapon he might face.
The spearmen's long weapons struck out of nowhere. In the past, they had left his breastplate scraped and dented, but he was learning their rhythm now. And then there were the strange flails, which had made him suffer more than once. A flail was usually a stick linked to a length of chain, not unlike a Morningstar. At the chain's end hung a metal head, sometimes blunt like a hammer, sometimes studded with spikes like a morningstar.
"Longspears. Morningstars. Flails. I've learned the workings of many weapons, but the one I handle best is still the warhammer."
A knight had to master all kinds of arms. The battlefield never offered the luxury of choice.
After half a day of fierce sparring, Gendry finally found a moment to breathe. He trained until late each night, pushing himself to exhaustion. His strength and endurance earned the admiration of every sellsword in the Company. Before he had fully recovered, Maester Qyburn came looking for him again. The look on his face suggested something urgent.
"Prince, two matters," Qyburn said in a low voice. "First, the Beggar King and his guardian have made some movements. They're hiding in Pentos. Since he sold his mother's crown to survive, the Beggar King has little left to barter. What remains is likely his sister. Trading her for an army is no simple thing. Few are willing to openly challenge the Iron Throne. But our time is short."
"It is," Gendry agreed. "But we need the right moment to step in. Snatching prey from a shrewd merchant's hands won't be easy. And the second matter?"
He knew the Magister of Pentos kept the exiled dragon siblings under both protection and control. The fat Magister was searching for a husband for Daenerys, someone with a powerful army and the will to cross the Narrow Sea. That kind of candidate was rare. In the end, he would settle on the horselord. If Gendry wanted to intercept that move, he would need timing. He had no intention of letting the fat Magister profit unchallenged.
"There's more," Qyburn continued. "According to the smugglers, our employer's situation is worsening. The wealthy men of the Navigators' Guild are planning to unite and push him out."
"The Navigators' Guild?" Gendry let out a short laugh. "Call them what they are. Pirates."
"Pirates, navigators… it makes little difference to them," Qyburn said calmly. "We should also start considering how to extract ourselves."
"The captain has already told me," Gendry replied. "We can withdraw at any time. But I'd like to wait a bit longer. The Wolf Pack is the first true army we've served with."
"So you've already thought it through." Qyburn seemed reassured. "In truth, the Fire Herb estates nearby, the mineral veins, the wealth of the Disputed Lands… there's no shortage of opportunity."
Gendry glanced at him. If it came to the worst, they might truly incite the slaves and carry out a raid in the Disputed Lands. The manpower was already there.
"Prince," Qyburn went on, "King Robert won his crown with a warhammer. There's no reason we cannot do the same. But courage alone won't suffice. We may need patrons. The exiled dragon heirs all had backers. With your identity, you won't lack for them."
Qyburn had seen the stag's fearlessness in battle. The path from bastard to king was steep and dangerous, but not impossible. Once word spread that the king's legitimate heirs were born of adultery, wealthy merchants and bankers would scent opportunity and come seeking profit.
"Patrons are insatiably greedy," Gendry said quietly. "And the cards in our hand are too few. The king won the Usurper's War, yet he failed to claim the full fruit of victory. Dorne remains resentful. House Lannister was brought in through marriage."
He did not like half-won victories. Royal authority had never been firmly centralized to begin with, and King Robert's heart had never truly been on the throne. Splitting House Baratheon into three branches had only made matters more suffocating.
"You're not wrong," Qyburn admitted. "But politics has always been about compromise and calculation. King Robert disliked thinking through such matters. Most of those alliances and concessions came from Great Lord Jon."
The grand alliance of eagle, fish, wolf, and stag had held because the eagle bound it together, smoothing over friction and forging agreements. Even the later reconciliation with Dorne and the marriage alliance with House Lannister bore his hand.
"Exactly, Prince. The burden rests on his shoulders. But how old is Great Lord Jon now? He cannot spend his life cleaning up after the king. And we are in Essos. We cannot afford disorder. We, too, will need allies. And supporters."