Fire Herb Manor was harvested clean. The Fire Herb was laid out to dry, then roasted. Once cured, it could serve as a medicinal herb or be mixed into wine. Everyone understood that the Magister needed this fortune.
"I'll wait for your news," the estate steward said to the Handsome Man. "Magister Casso's fate will roll like dice—either rising high or plunging into the abyss."
"You won't return to Myr with us, Steward Luff?" the Handsome Man asked quietly.
"This estate with its red-painted gates holds half my life. I was born here, and I'll die here. Besides, Myr is no safer than Fire Herb Manor now. Still, I pray the Magister wins this election. If he loses, I may well end up on the streets. The next Magister will prefer his own people."
"I'd forgotten," the Handsome Man said softly. "You're right. Myr isn't safe either."
The mood grew heavy. When a Magister fell, his entire estate was usually liquidated. Magister Casso's port, his manors, his shops, his wife and children, even his slaves—none would be spared.
In the later years of the Dance of the Dragons, a Magister of Lys named Bambarro had been killed by sellswords over unpaid wages. After his death, it was discovered he was buried in debt. His creditors seized his mansion, sold his wife and children into slavery, and confiscated all his property, including Prince Viserys, handing everything over to the powerful Lysandro Rogare.
"Take care, my old friend," the Handsome Man said in a low voice.
He ordered the mournful horn to be sounded. The Wolf Pack would escort the transport convoy at dawn. In recent days, the horn had been blown often; watchers lingered beyond the manor walls. But this time, they were truly leaving.
"Take care yourself," Steward Luff replied sincerely. "If things turn sour in Myr, Fire Herb Manor can still serve as a refuge. There are hills here, the estate, some slaves. Most importantly, it's not far from the coast."
He was a free man of Myr. He understood its politics all too well.
The desolate sound of the horn echoed through the manor.
In his chamber, Gendry stood before a mirror. His reflection shone like a newly forged blade. People said a man always looked better in his own mirror, but Gendry was handsome even without illusion. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid with muscle. Thick black hair and blue eyes—traits unmistakably of House Baratheon.
He looked over his polished black scale armor, his spiked warhammer, his Morningstar, his Arakh scimitar, and his yew longbow. These were nearly all his finest possessions. The road to Myr would be full of danger.
Knock. Knock.
Qyburn entered after rapping on the door. He wore a black chainmail shirt, which seemed a bit much for his aging frame. But the battlefield spared no one.
"Let's go, Prince. At our marching pace, we may still catch the Myrish election spectacle."
"Myr's election spectacle…" Gendry let out a breath. "Power has a strange magic. It pulls everyone along with it."
Magic glittered like distant stars in this era of fading sorcery. But the most dazzling force in the world was still power itself.
"There's no helping it," Qyburn said. "Unless we become as strong as the Golden Company, with numbers to rival a standing army, we'll always have to rely on a Magister. Only then would the Free Cities court us instead."
"There's one more possibility," Gendry said after a pause. "The worst one. Magister Casso falls completely."
If Casso and his house were destroyed, the Wolf Pack would not escape unscathed.
"Honestly, the best choice would've been to stay inside the manor. If things turn against us in Myr, we could've taken this batch of Fire Herb, withdrawn to Crown Town, or hired ships and headed for the Stepstones to turn pirates. Shame the Northmen have stone for brains."
"You're planning for the worst. The Wolf Pack isn't a band of robber knights."
"I heard from smugglers in Pentos that Viserys and Daenerys are having an even harder time lately," Qyburn said quietly to Gendry. "At first, the Magisters, Archons, and wealthy merchants of the Free Cities were happy to entertain those of true dragon blood. But as King Robert's rule grew more secure, fewer and fewer doors remained open to them. Over the years they've sold off all their jewels. Now they've even spent a good portion of the coin from their mother's crown. In Pentos, people call them the beggar siblings—the Beggar King and the Beggar Princess."
"Viserys wants too much," Gendry replied. "He's trying to sell his sister for a sky-high price, but even the greediest Archon wouldn't dare pay it."
Viserys wanted the throne. He wanted to hire a great army and cross the sea to reclaim the Sunset Continent. That was far beyond what any Free City was willing to fund. Without overwhelming profit, these cheese mongers and butter traders would never gamble on a full-scale invasion. As long as the grand alliance of fish, wolf, lion, eagle, and stag still held, the situation remained outwardly solid.
"The Beggar King is nearly maddened by waiting," Qyburn said. "He wants that throne too badly. Year after year he waits for the true dragon's return, yet no opportunity comes. He's a stumbling block to our cause. You only need the Princess."
"Poor man," Gendry sighed. "I've heard the Beggar King shows signs of madness. Whether it's in his blood or forced on him by fate, who can say?"
To endure more than a decade in exile, dreaming of restoration, was already remarkable. If Viserys had managed to hold out just a few more years, long enough to see chaos break out around the Iron Throne, he might have found a sliver of hope. Watching Westeros descend into disorder would have been some comfort at least. But the long years of humiliation and rage had already scorched his spirit. He could no longer endure.
"The beautiful dragon Princess is still just a dream," Gendry said. "Right now, we've got to deal with the infighting between cheese merchants and Fire Herb traders."
...
The banner of the Wolf Pack snapped in the wind. Because they were escorting a convoy of slaves transporting Fire Herb, their pace was slower than usual.
This time, the Wolf Pack chose a different route. They departed from Fire Herb Manor and made straight for the coastline, where a ship had been arranged to carry them to Myr.
But the stretch from the manor to the sea was the most dangerous part of the journey. The path was narrow and rugged, nothing like the broad roads of the Disputed Lands. Yet time was what the Wolf Pack lacked most. They could not afford delay.
Along the roadside, Gendry saw bodies nailed to wooden crosses. There were many of them. Crows had already stripped most of the flesh away. Empty eye sockets caught the light in a way that made it hard to look away. The wind tugged at their torn, tattered clothes. Some corpses still wore shackles.
"Those are the crucified," the Handsome Man said. "Some were runaway slaves. Some were smugglers trying to reach the coast. Once they're caught, that's their fate."
"The Captain took thirty men to Myr," Fletcher Dick said. He had brought twenty men to Fire Herb Manor himself. "We've got about sixty here now. The other sixty stayed behind at the Wolf's Den with their families and attendants."
"I don't have sixty left," the Handsome Man corrected. "Morningstar is dead, and three other brothers besides. To be precise, we're down to just over fifty."
"Same difference to me," Dick laughed. "Fifty wolves are still fierce enough. And we've got this lad here. I heard he killed a Meereenese and avenged Morningstar."
Gendry felt a little embarrassed, but pride warmed him all the same.
"I've had the feeling someone's been watching us," the Handsome Man said suddenly. "Looks like they've finally decided to make their move."
At once, the men tightened their grip on their weapons.