Morning broke cool and crisp as the Wolf Pack Company set out from the Wolf's Den. Gendry rode near the middle of the column, adjusting the fit of the black scale armor that still felt new to him. Beside him, Qyburn sat atop a placid old horse, the gentle creature much like the Maester himself—calm, unhurried, and utterly unconcerned about the day ahead.
At their head rode the Handsome Man, the officer who had taken charge of the mission. "Keep up, lads!" he shouted cheerfully over the wind. The grey banner of the Wolf Pack—wolves charging across a field of cloth patched through generations—fluttered proudly at his side.
They were bound for the manor of their employer, a Myrish Magister, deep within the Disputed Lands. Gendry had never ridden so far from a city. As the company crossed gentle plains, low hills, and winding streams, he took in the vastness around him. Slaves worked the fields, pulling plows or gathering crops under the watchful eyes of overseers. Tall brick towers marked wealthy estates, while small villages with thatched roofs dotted the landscape.
The Wolf Pack numbered around forty men today—forty armed, disciplined veterans, plus two new recruits: Gendry and Qyburn. The boy from King's Landing and the ex-Maester made an unusual pair among hardened sellswords. Even so, the others had begun warming to them after days on the road.
Occasionally they passed other mercenary groups, identifiable by mismatched armor and banners. These meetings were quick. Greetings were exchanged, nods given, and within moments the two groups parted. In the Disputed Lands, sellswords did not trust each other; a friendly wave today might become an arrow tomorrow.
Gendry's horse carried an impressive arsenal. Dick the Fletch had gifted him a yew longbow, proudly hanging beside his spiked warhammer. The young man also carried a Myrish crossbow and a pair of daggers. His equipment felt heavy, but reassuring.
Ahead of the main force rode four mounted scouts. The Lookouts of the Wolf Pack were always vigilant, scanning for bandits, rival mercenaries, or worse—opportunistic slavers.
The Handsome Man raised his riding crop and began explaining the region to the newcomers.
"The Disputed Lands sit in southwestern Essos," he said. "Always shifting, always soaked in blood. Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh have fought over this stretch of earth for centuries, and Volantis sticks its nose in whenever it fancies."
Gendry listened silently as he rode.
"There are two parts to this region," the Handsome Man continued. "Closer to the cities—the Three Daughters—you'll find order. Manors, villages, and farmlands governed by Magisters and merchants. Mercenaries are expected to behave there."
Gendry glanced at the fields rolling by. They seemed peaceful enough.
"The Myrish grow gunpowder herb—raw material for their wine and medicines. The Tyroshi plant pear trees and keep pigs. The Lyseni cultivate grapes and lavender for perfumes."
"And the middle?" Qyburn asked politely.
The Handsome Man snorted. "Chaos. Pure chaos. That middle ground is where the Three Daughters fight each other. Mercenaries kill each other. Adventurers die for fun. If you want to survive, avoid that circle unless someone pays you half a fortune."
Gendry nodded. He imagined the region like a boiling stew pot—the deeper you went, the more dangerous it became.
The officer's voice lowered. "These lands have been drenched in blood since Valyria fell. When the old empire collapsed, everything that kept order in Essos crumbled. The result is what you see today—endless fighting, endless greed."
As they rode, the scenery changed slowly. Rolling plains gave way to gentle slopes covered in rich, dark soil. The Disputed Lands were fertile, capable of feeding half the Free Cities, yet war ensured the fields blossomed with corpses as often as crops.
"Even the great cities fight over this place," the Handsome Man continued. "Pentos and Braavos clashed not long ago. Braavos crushed them. Wars always have the same cause—slaves, land, and gold."
Gendry had heard some of this from tavern tales, but hearing it here—while passing the very lands in question—made the stories feel heavier.
"And then," the Handsome Man said, "there are the Dothraki."
Gendry listened with wide eyes as the officer recounted history.
"Four hundred years ago, the Dothraki swept across Essos like wildfire. They burned towns, villages, whole kingdoms. Sarrabi, the quartesi people, the ibbenese settlements—they all fell. The only thing that stopped Khal Temo and his fifty thousand riders was the Unsullied of Qohor. If not for them, the Free Cities might have fallen."
Qyburn sighed. "Civilizations rise and fall. That is the nature of things."
"Indeed," the Handsome Man said.
After some time, he pointed ahead. "This is the place we're to protect—Firegrass Manor."
Gendry's gaze followed the direction of the gesture. A Myrish-style manor overlooked the slope of a large hillside. Terraced fields blanketed the land in lush green, the plants waist-high and gently rustling in the wind. The edges of the plants had turned a rusty iron-brown.
"Gunpowder herb," the Handsome Man said proudly. "Worth a small fortune."
Gendry had never seen so much of one crop in his life.
Qyburn was visibly impressed. "My first time seeing such a grove… Truly magnificent. And so valuable."
Gunpowder herb was used in Myrish firewine, healing salves, and the dangerous paste some called "firepowder." Gendry had heard several sellswords say that protecting such a manor during the harvest was a job good mercenaries fought over. Bandits, too.
The Wolf Pack slowed as they neared the gate. Upon seeing the company banner, the Lookouts at the manor walls blew a long horn blast—one of welcome, not alarm.
A moment later the steward appeared with several slaves behind him, all dressed neatly. The steward was Myrish—dark hair, olive skin, neatly trimmed beard—and clearly not a slave himself.
"They're here! My old friends!" he called warmly. "Hot water and food are prepared. Come in, come in!"
"Thank you, Steward Luv!" the Handsome Man replied, stepping forward to embrace him.
"I've been anxious for days," Luv admitted. "This time of year always sets my nerves on edge."
The Handsome Man laughed deeply. "Still the same old worrier. With us here, your gunpowder herb will reach Myr safely."
Luv exhaled. "Let us hope so. The yield is good, similar to previous years. But other manors have been devastated by insects. Their harvests were halved. Prices will skyrocket—meaning bandits will start prowling more than ever."
"Gold rules these lands," the Handsome Man said knowingly. "But gunpowder herb comes close."
"Yes," Luv agreed. "One handful is worth more than some farmers earn in a season. It is no mere crop—it is coin made leaf."
The Wolf Pack dismounted as slaves rushed forward to take the horses. Gendry slid off his saddle, stretching his stiff legs. The smell of herbs and rich soil filled the air.
Steward Luv led the sellswords toward the manor's great hall.
"Come in! Hot water and warm food wait inside."
For a young man who had grown up in King's Landing's filth, the sight of a clean hall, polished floors, and servants carrying steaming bowls was almost overwhelming. Yet Gendry reminded himself that Firegrass Manor was more than a wealthy estate.
It was a target.
And he was no longer a blacksmith's apprentice.
He was a sellsword. A warrior in the making.
And his first true mission had just begun.