The Golden Wine, a large merchant ship from Qingting Island, sailed smoothly across the calm sea, its bow slicing through the waves like a giant's finger cutting through blue silk.
"The seas are much calmer now that the Greyjoy rebellion has been quelled!" said a Redwyn sailor cheerfully. "The Ironborn are behaving themselves, and there's no longer a powerful pirate king on the Stepstones."
"That foolish King Balon is a thing of the past! The Narrow Sea now belongs to King Gunpowder Grass and his slave whelps," another sailor said mockingly, uncorking another bottle of fiery liquor. "But none of that matters, as long as I still have fire liquor and pear brandy to drink."
Balon Greyjoy's rebellion had become a laughingstock. His attempt to restore the Ironborn's ancient glory ended in disgrace. His two elder sons perished in the war, and his youngest, Theon, was sent to the North as a hostage. As for Balon himself, he was forced once again to bend the knee to the Iron Throne.
"They always find something new across the Narrow Sea," said Garlan Tyrell, who had already removed his green robes and gold rose badge. Taller and stronger than most, with a neatly trimmed beard, he now wore a purple cloak and blue armor—the colors of House Redwyn. The Highgarden guards accompanying him had also changed their colors.
Garlan knew he had to pay close attention to the shifting power across the Narrow Sea. The reshuffling among the Three Daughters was bound to affect Westeros once again. The situation reminded him of the old wars between the Triarchy and the Targaryens, and the Ninepenny King's invasion of the Stepstones after taking the Disputed Lands.
"The Spider's spies are everywhere," Garlan thought. "There must be some even in the halls of Highgarden and Green Pavilion Island. But the Spider is unpredictable—there's no need to be overly nervous."
Varys the Spider was indeed a man of deep schemes, but not all of them were for the Iron Throne. He wisely never tried to dissuade the King from his friendship with Highgarden or Renly.
"Is the Gunpowder King a devil?" Margaery asked curiously. She, too, had changed into a beautiful blue dress and veiled her face. Even so, her slender figure and gentle eyes remained unmistakable.
"To the slave owners and governors, yes," Garlan replied. "But to the slaves, he is their savior."
She tilted her head slightly. "What kind of man is the Commander of the Wolf Pack?"
"I've heard his story," Garlan said, his tone thoughtful. "Vengeance drove them to fight in the Disputed Lands. He must be powerful—mercenaries only worship strength. And he must be ruthless; otherwise, he could never have crushed the slave masters' cities beneath his feet."
"Then shall we go and discuss cooperation with him now?"
"It's not about cooperation," Garlan said, his eyes sharp. "But I must meet the Gunpowder King and his army. Wherever the Wolf Pack marches, a meeting with them will give me confidence. The Disputed Lands are also a granary. The Gunpowder King controls plantations, gunpowder fields, orchards, and wheat farms—that's a fortune."
"But is that Highgarden's army?" Margaery asked.
"Highgarden's forces have the advantage in numbers and equipment," Garlan admitted. "But war isn't only about that. Highgarden has missed too many opportunities."
War, he knew, depended on many things: numbers, courage, command, logistics, and strategy. The Northern army might lack the Reach's armor or the Westerlands' gold, but the Winter Wolves had still been a formidable force during the Dance of the Dragons.
The Reach was rich and fertile—but also divided. House Tyrell had always been a latecomer in war. During the Dance of the Dragons, they stayed neutral. In the Blackfyre Rebellion, Longthorn missed the Battle of the Redgrass Field. And during Robert's Rebellion, they fixated on the siege of Storm's End, missing the larger picture.
Margaery began to understand. The Tyrells believed their true power did not match the crown they sought. That was why they were so eager to prove themselves.
"I want to meet this commander," Garlan said with ambition in his voice. "I want to see if he's a conqueror, a miser, or a pleasure-seeker."
The Wolf Pack now ruled a port they had seized in the Disputed Lands—a free port. Their grey-and-white wolf banner flew proudly above its towers. This was their domain.
Ships from across the world crowded its harbors. The docks, large and small, were packed with vessels loading and unloading cargo. Since the Wolf Pack had taken control, a new harbor had been built to handle the growing trade with their leader's Free Army.
Garlan saw all manner of ships—warships, whalers, trading galleons, vessels from Lys, Tyrosh, Pentos, even Qarth. Though the port could not match great cities like Volantis or Qarth in size, it thrived nonetheless. The Wolf Pack had already taken over many of the trading routes once held by Tyrosh and Myr.
Garlan Tyrell observed with fascination the Free Army's customs officers and garrison. The former slaves, now freed, were full of vigor and discipline—devoted soldiers of their liberator.
The Freeport garrison wore light chainmail and carried shields and short spears reminiscent of the Unsullied, but they wielded Myrish crossbows—a blend of Essosi craft and discipline. Despite their simplicity, they radiated spirit and purpose, perhaps even more so than the elite Wolf Pack knights.
Gendry had appointed Captain Harris, a runaway slave from Volantis, as head of customs and the navy in the Disputed Lands, while Jorah Mormont commanded the port guard.
"Please, come in, honored guests!" a clever but humble dockworker greeted them when the Redwyn fleet arrived. He led them to the House of Freedom, the grandest and most bustling inn in Freeport—though in truth, it was owned by the Free Army.
Highgarden's secret demand for gunpowder herbs soon drew Gendry's attention. He was more than willing to receive envoys from the Reach, though their meeting would remain hidden from prying eyes.
Garlan and Margaery entered the House of Freedom with curiosity, ascending to its highest floor. They wondered which of the Wolf Pack's officers would meet them.
Outside the chamber door stood Jorah Mormont and a silent gray-armored warrior.
The gray wolf soldier gestured for them to enter. Garlan, judging from his face and posture, guessed he was an Unsullied. If so, then the man inside must be no ordinary leader. His heart quickened—he might finally meet the one they called the Gunpowder King.
With Margaery beside him, he pushed open the door.
Jorah's eyes followed them silently. He recognized them immediately, though they did not recognize him. His expression was complicated. In a sense, he was family. When Jorah had first married, Garlan and Margaery had been too young to remember their impoverished uncle from Bear Island.
Jorah's wife and Lord Mace Tyrell's wife were sisters—both daughters of Lord Leyton Hightower of Oldtown. Lady Alerie Hightower, the second daughter, was Mace's wife. Jorah's second wife, Lynesse Hightower, was Leyton's youngest daughter.
Garlan and Margaery stepped into the sunlit chamber. There, standing by the window, was a young man bathed in golden light. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his hair short and black, his eyes a deep, stormy blue. He wore a greyish-white wool coat—the color of the wolves—but over his face was a dark iron mask that hid his features.
"Welcome, envoys of Highgarden," said Gendry, his voice cold and metallic, like steel drawn from the forge.
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