The palace of Magister Illyrio Mopatis sat on the Pentosi coast like a sprawling monument to excess. Seven high towers pierced the sky, their brick walls choked with pale, ghostly ivy. The Pentosi were a people who preferred to buy their safety with gold rather than steel; to them, Gendry was not just a conqueror, but a new, expensive reality they had to appease with "gifts."
The courtyard, which had once hosted the savage Khals of the Great Grass Sea, now belonged to the mercenary king of Myr. Gendry accepted the hospitality without a word, though his eyes remained fixed on the tactical layout of the manse.
Inside, the air was a thick perfume of cinnamon, nutmeg, and sweet oranges. Gendry walked through the reception hall, his boots echoing on the polished stone. He was flanked by Ser Jorah Mormont and a small detachment of Unsullied guards. On the stained-glass windows above, the Doom of Valyria was depicted in vibrant, tragic reds and oranges—a reminder of the fragility of empires.
"A city of cheese-mongers and liars," Jorah grumbled, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword. His bitterness toward the merchants of the Free Cities was a raw wound, a remnant of the life he had lost to a Lysene trader.
"Adjust your collar, Jorah," Gendry said quietly, his voice muffled by the iron mask. "The women might actually like you if you stopped looking like you were ready to execute the caterers."
"I am a man of the North, Commander," Jorah replied, adjusting his dark green surcoat, which bore the black bear of House Mormont. "A good woman should look past the wool and see the steel beneath."
Black lanterns hung from the stone arches as the party approached the main hall. A eunuch with a high, melodic voice stepped forward to announce their arrival.
"Lord of the Narrow Sea, the Stepstones, and the Disputed Lands! Governor of Myr! Commander of the Wolf Pack and the Free Army! The Warhammer King!"
The chatter in the room died instantly. The guests turned to see a tall, powerful warrior whose every movement suggested the lethality of a caged leopard. Gendry wore black velvet embroidered with a white wolf, and the Valyrian steel arakh he had taken from Bloodbeard hung at his hip.
The crowd was a tapestry of Essosi power: Tyroshis with green-dyed beards, Ibbenese whalers with thick, matted fur, and Dothraki Khals with bells chiming in their long, oiled braids. Illyrio Mopatis stood at the center, his immense bulk supported by a pair of servants. He smiled, his jewel-encrusted fingers glinting in the lantern light.
"Our guest of honor has arrived," Illyrio purred. "The man who has turned the 'Three Daughters' into his own personal playground."
Gendry ignored the flattery. He scanned the room, his blue eyes finally settling on a group standing beneath a moonlit pillar.
The curtains of a silken litter were pulled back, and the moment arrived.
Daenerys Targaryen stepped forward, her silver-gold hair shimmering like spun moonlight against the dark stone. She was petite, with violet eyes that held a mixture of fear and quiet strength. Beside her stood her brother, Viserys, looking lean and hungry, his hand resting arrogantly on a borrowed sword.
"Viserys Targaryen, the Third of His Name," the eunuch intoned. "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. And his sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone."
Daenerys looked at the man in the iron mask. She had been told she was being sold to a "Hammer King," a man of blood and iron who commanded an army of freed slaves. She had expected a monster, but the man before her possessed a terrifying grace.
"He is a bastard of the Usurper," Viserys whispered to her, his voice full of venom. "But his army is real. If I have to sell you to a blacksmith to get my crown, I will."
Gendry stepped toward them. To Daenerys, he seemed like the personification of the storm—his hair as black as the night, his eyes as deep as the sea. He wore no crown, yet the room bowed to him anyway.
"A beauty beyond words," Gendry said softly, his gaze lingering on the Princess.
Illyrio Mopatis chuckled, a wet, oily sound. He saw the irony that no one else in the room could see—the bastard son of the man who destroyed the Targaryens, now standing before the last daughter of that same house.
"A fair match, is it not, Governor?" Illyrio asked, his smile sweet and poisonous. "The Dragon and the Wolf, together at last."
Daenerys stared at the iron mask, wondering what lay beneath—brutality or beauty, scars or a face she could learn to love.
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