Gendry set aside the salt-stained maps of the Stepstones and rose to greet his guests.
The room was a study in functional power. There were no golden ornaments or silk-draped divans. Instead, the walls were hung with Myrish tapestries depicting ancient battles, and the tables were cluttered with books, whetstones, and tactical ledgers. Gendry's own armor—a set of black scale mail—sat on a stand, scarred and meticulously mended, bearing the marks of a dozen skirmishes.
"It is a rare honor to have the Golden Rose of Highgarden grace such a humble forge," Gendry said, gesturing toward the heavy oak chairs by the hearth.
"I expected a representative of the Arbor," Garlan Tyrell said, his voice smooth but cautious. "I did not expect the 'Wolf King' to greet us in person. You are younger than the stories suggest, Commander."
"And you are more observant than the stories suggest, Ser Garlan," Gendry replied.
Margaery Tyrell stepped forward and removed her silk veil with a practiced, graceful motion. Her hair was a tumble of chestnut curls, and her eyes, large and brown, held a sweetness that Gendry knew masked a sharp, calculating mind.
"My father is a man of tradition," Margaery said, her smile soft but knowing. "But my brothers and I... we prefer to see the world as it is, not as we wish it to be."
Gendry introduced the man standing in the shadows behind him—an elderly man with a kind face and the steady hands of a surgeon. "This is Qyburn, my Master of Whispers. He is the reason I knew the Goldwine was carrying more than just pear brandy."
Qyburn bowed low to the Tyrells. Garlan watched the old man with a flicker of unease; he knew that a "kindly" man in such a position was often the most dangerous of all.
"Let us speak plainly," Garlan said, leaning forward. "The Reach has a hunger for the fireweed of the Disputed Lands. It is a crop we cannot grow, and the Magisters of Myr have made the prices... prohibitive."
"The Magisters no longer set the price," Gendry said. "The Wolf Pack does. I am happy to fill the granaries of Highgarden with fireweed and grain, but I require a different kind of currency in return."
"Gold?" Margaery asked.
"The Stepstones," Gendry corrected. "Those islands are a nest of vipers and pirates. They choke the trade between our worlds. I intend to clear them, and when I do, I want the Redwyne fleet to look the other way. I want your merchant ships to continue their trade, ignoring the screams of the pirate kings."
Garlan frowned. "The Stepstones are technically under the jurisdiction of the Iron Throne."
"The Iron Throne cannot even keep the Kingsroad safe from bandits," Gendry countered with a sharp laugh. "King Robert cares more for his wine than for a few god-forsaken rocks in the Narrow Sea. Stannis Baratheon is the only one who might care, and he is currently occupied with more... pressing matters in the capital."
Garlan considered the proposal. The Tyrells and Redwynes were bound by blood and marriage; a deal with the Wolf King would secure their dominance over the Narrow Sea trade routes without a single Tyrell soldier drawing blood.
"I will take your proposal to my father," Garlan promised. "But know this—the Golden Company also seeks the friendship of the Reach. Many of their officers are exiles from our lands."
"The Golden Company wants to go home to a world that has forgotten them," Gendry said. "I am building a new world here. Winter is coming, Ser Garlan. We of the North remember what that means. When the white winds blow, gold won't keep you warm, but fireweed and a strong wall will."
For the next few days, Garlan and Margaery remained in Freeport as guests of the Wolf Pack.
Garlan and Gendry spent hours on the training grounds. They sparred with blunted steel, and Garlan was surprised to find that the "Butter King" possessed a raw, explosive power that reminded him of the stories of a young Robert Baratheon. They played war games, moving carved wooden pieces across a map of Essos. Garlan realized that Gendry didn't just understand warfare; he understood the mechanics of it—how to break a man's spirit as well as his shield.
Margaery, meanwhile, watched Gendry from the sidelines. She rarely saw the man behind the iron mask, but she saw the way his soldiers looked at him. They didn't just follow him for gold; they followed him because he had given them a name and a purpose.
On the final day, as the Goldwine prepared to depart, Garlan looked back at the disciplined ranks of the Wolf Pack infantry.
"They are like a mountain of iron," Garlan mused. "Heavy plate, Northern grit, and the formations of the Unsullied. You've built something more dangerous than the Golden Company, Gendry. They have a limit to their numbers. You... you have every slave in Essos as a potential recruit."
"I don't want an army of slaves," Gendry said. "I want an army of men who chose to be free."
As the ship pulled away from the dock, Margaery stood by the rail, her eyes fixed on the receding figure of the masked commander.
"He reminds me of someone, Garlan," she whispered.
"Who?" Garlan asked. "Renly?"
"No," Margaery said, her voice barely audible over the wind. "Renly is a silk ribbon. This man... this man is the steel sword the ribbon is tied to."