The Goldwine was a massive galley out of the Arbor, her hull heavy with the scent of fermented grapes and old oak. Her prow, carved in the shape of a cluster of grapes, cut through the waves like a giant's finger tracing a path across the Narrow Sea.
"The waters are quieter since the Greyjoy's folly was put to rest," a Redwyne sailor noted, leaning against the rail. "The Ironborn have their heads tucked in, and the pirate kings of the Stepstones are too busy looking over their shoulders for the Wolf's fleet."
"Balon Greyjoy was a fool who brought shame to his name," his companion replied, uncorking a bottle of fire-wine. "Now the Narrow Sea belongs to the 'Butter King' and his fireweed merchants. As long as the pear brandy keeps flowing, I don't care who wears the crown."
Deep within the ship's cabin, Garlan Tyrell adjusted his purple cloak. He had discarded his green silks and the golden rose of Highgarden, adopting the burgundy and blue of the Redwynes. Beside him, Margaery Tyrell sat in a simple blue gown, her face partially obscured by a delicate silk mask.
Garlan was a man of quiet, martial ambition. He knew the history of House Tyrell—a house that always seemed to arrive a moment too late to the feast of power. They had been neutral during the Dance of the Dragons and delayed at the Redgrass Field. During Robert's Rebellion, they had spent the war fruitlessly besieging Storm's End while the throne was decided at the Trident.
"The Spider has eyes in every cellar of the Reach," Garlan mused, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "But Varys is busy with his own games. He won't look twice at a Redwyne merchant ship seeking fireweed."
"Is the Butter King truly a savior, or just another tyrant?" Margaery asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.
"To the masters, he is a demon," Garlan replied. "To the slaves, he is a god. I want to see which one he is to us."
Freeport was a miracle of rapid construction and martial order. Under the grey-and-white banners of the Wolf Pack, the once-barren coastline of the Disputed Lands had been transformed into a bustling hub of trade.
Garlan watched with fascination as the port authorities—many of them former slaves—directed traffic with the efficiency of seasoned soldiers. The garrison wore light chainmail and carried Myrish crossbows, their discipline a far cry from the drunken brawling typical of most mercenary ports.
Gendry had appointed Harris, a former Volantene slave, to oversee the customs, while Ser Jorah Mormont managed the garrison.
As the Tyrells stepped onto the docks, they were met by a burly man with a coarse black beard and the weary eyes of a man who had seen too much of the world. Jorah Mormont stood like a stone wall at the entrance to the "House of Freedom," the harbor's premier inn.
Jorah's breath hitched for a heartbeat. He recognized the tilt of Garlan's chin and the graceful curve of Margaery's neck. They were his kin—the nephew and niece of his second wife, Lynesse Hightower. For a second, he considered speaking, but the shame of his exile weighed heavier than the iron of his armor. He remained a silent sentinel, a ghost of a life they had likely already forgotten.
Grey Wolf, the Unsullied commander, stepped forward and made a gesture of invitation. Garlan, sensing the gravity of the escort, led Margaery inside.
They were ushered to the highest room of the inn, where the afternoon sun flooded the chamber through open shutters. Standing by the window was a tall, lean figure in a grey wool tunic—the signature color of the Wolf Pack. He wore a heavy, black iron mask that covered his entire face, leaving only two piercing blue eyes visible through the slits.
"Welcome, messengers of the Rose," Gendry said, his voice as cold and resonant as a hammer hitting an anvil.
Garlan bowed, his eyes never leaving the iron mask. "We come seeking fireweed and friendship, Commander. Highgarden has heard the roar of the Wolf across the water."
"The Wolf does not roar," Gendry replied, turning to face them. "He eats. Tell me, Ser Garlan—does the Rose come to offer sun, or to see if I am a weed that needs pulling?"
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