Gendry set aside the map of the Stone Steps Islands he had been studying and turned to greet his visitors — two distinguished guests from House Tyrell of Highgarden, the second son and the youngest daughter of the Duke himself. Rising from behind his desk, he descended the steps to the dining table where food and wine awaited.
"It is an honor," Gendry said warmly, "to have the Golden Rose of the Green Fields grace my humble quarters." He gestured toward the carved oak chairs at the long table, inviting them to sit. "I had assumed envoys from the Redwyns had come to negotiate, but it seems I am even more fortunate — I am receiving the children of the Lord of Highgarden himself."
Garland Tyrell smiled, both polite and curious. "It seems the Commander-in-Chief has already guessed our identities. I confess, I did not expect the famed Wolf Pack Commander to be so young... or so perceptive."
Though his tone was gracious, Garland's mind was elsewhere. Rumors said that the Wolf Pack had already surrounded Myr. If so, why were they delaying their attack? Was this meeting with Highgarden truly more urgent than the capture of a city?
"Thank you for your hospitality, Commander," said Margaery Tyrell with a musical laugh. "We should have greeted you in the traditional colors of Highgarden — green and gold — but time did not permit such courtesy." Her laughter faded as she removed her silk veil.
Gendry's eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat he forgot the war entirely. Margaery's long, chestnut curls framed a face as soft and radiant as spring sunlight. Her eyes were gentle, bright, and filled with quiet curiosity. Her smile was sweet but not without purpose. Beauty, intelligence, and influence — all in one woman. She was, indeed, the perfect Rose of Highgarden.
"I must thank my chief intelligence officer," Gendry said, turning toward the corner of the room. "He's the one who recognized your lineage before I did. Ser Qyburn — meet Ser Garland and Lady Margaery Tyrell."
Only now did the Tyrell siblings notice the elderly man standing near the shadows. Qyburn was gray-haired and unassuming, his expression mild, but his gaze sharp as a scalpel. Though he looked like a kindly old scholar, both visitors knew that men like him rarely survived so long without being dangerous.
Qyburn bowed with courtly grace. "An honor, my lady. Ser."
Gendry chuckled. "That good-for-nothing Mace Tyrell — he may lack wisdom, but at least he's raised his children well. The eldest is clever, the second both learned and brave, and even the youngest son has managed to tie himself to Renly. As for the lady before me," he added with a half-smile, "she understands her duties far better than most nobles twice her age."
Garland smiled faintly, unsure whether to take that as a compliment or a jest.
As they spoke, the siblings observed Gendry's quarters — a commander's study rather than a lord's chamber. The furnishings were practical and severe: a Myrish tapestry depicting some long-forgotten battle, shelves lined with weathered books and maps, and walls hung with weapons. The black-scaled plate armor standing in the corner bore scratches and dents, but no ornament of gold or jewels. Beside it lay an array of weapons: a spiked warhammer, a yew longbow, and, most striking of all, an unsheathed Valyrian steel arakh, its dark blade rippling faintly with smoky light.
"This is a disciplined man," Garland thought. "He could drape himself in gold if he wished — yet he does not. Such restraint is more dangerous than greed. It speaks of ambition."
"To business, then," Garland said at last, leaning forward. "Commander, we've come with a humble request. Highgarden wishes to purchase a quantity of gunpowder herbs."
He did not name a price — Highgarden's wealth was well known, and generosity was implied.
Gendry's eyes gleamed with interest. "Highgarden's gold and grain are welcome, of course," he said, "but I seek something else in return."
"Oh?" Margaery tilted her head slightly. "And what would that be, Commander?"
Gendry's tone hardened. "The Stepstone Islands have long been infested with pirates and slave traders. Their fleets raid honest merchants, their harbors shelter scum. I intend to bring order there — but for that, I'll need the cooperation of the Reach."
"You want the Stone Steps," Garland murmured, realization dawning. He paused, measuring his words. "That is... a bold move. If you control the Stepstones, you can choke both Tyrosh and Myr from sea and shore alike. It would make you master of every trade route from the Narrow Sea to Dorne."
Gendry's expression did not change. "Bold, perhaps. Necessary, certainly."
Garland hesitated. "But the Stepstones are Westerosi territory. They should fall under the jurisdiction of the Iron Throne."
"The Iron Throne?" Gendry laughed softly. "The king can scarcely hold King's Landing, let alone a few rocks in the sea. Let's not pretend otherwise."
His gaze sharpened. "Highgarden and the Redwyns are bound by marriage, are they not? I want the Redwyn fleet to continue its voyages — but under my agreement. The Stepstones will fall under my command."
Garland frowned. "The royal fleet—"
"—is not your concern, Ser Garland," Qyburn interrupted smoothly. "The King has other matters demanding his attention. He won't notice the change in command... not yet."
Garland exchanged a wary glance with his sister, then nodded slowly. "Very well. I will convey your request to my father."
Gendry leaned back, satisfied. "There's no rush. The future offers many chances for us to cooperate — before the long winter ends."
"The long winter?" Garland repeated, surprised by the certainty in Gendry's voice. "You speak as though it were upon us already."
"Winter is always coming," Gendry said quietly. "We of the North remember it better than anyone. You'll remember too, soon enough."
Garland studied him in silence. The young commander's calm felt almost prophetic, as if he could already sense storms that the rest of Westeros had not yet glimpsed.
After a pause, Garland ventured, "And the Golden Company — what are your thoughts on them, Commander?"
Gendry considered for a moment. "They are a company of exiles," he said at last, "but no less a formidable army for it."
"Many of their officers," Garland added cautiously, "are men of the Reach — nobles who lost their lands generations ago. With your support, they might yet come home."
"I understand," Gendry replied with a knowing smile. "But understand this as well, Ser Garland — I intend to decide my own alliances. Let them court me if they wish, as you do. But in the end, it will be my choice."
Garland exhaled softly, relieved. The young commander's ambition was vast, but his reason still intact.
Under a gray and clouded sky, the Tyrell siblings remained in the disputed lands for several days. Gendry, in an unusual display of hospitality, took Garland hunting in the hills, shared wine by the fire, and sparred with him in the training yard. They found they shared a soldier's respect — both valuing discipline, endurance, and strategy over empty titles.
As for Margaery, she spent much of her time observing rather than speaking. She had met kings, knights, and courtiers aplenty, yet few men intrigued her like the masked Commander of the Wolf Pack. His voice was deep but not cold, his manner direct yet never crude. When she looked into his eyes — sharp, storm-colored, always alert — she imagined the man beneath the steel. Perhaps he was like the blade he wielded: newly forged, bright, and dangerous.
On the fifth day, Gendry invited them to the parade ground.
Under the twin banners — the grey wolf of the North and the white star of the Free Army — his troops drilled with brutal precision. Knights thundered past in wedge formations, their spears angled like fangs, while infantry advanced in steady, iron lines. Every shout, every step, every motion struck the air like a drumbeat.
Garland watched in silent admiration. "What a formidable army," he murmured.
At the head of the cavalry rode Ser Longspear, the commander of Gendry's horsemen. Eight hundred knights followed him, former mercenaries of the Long Spear Regiment who had bent the knee after Myr's fall. Now they wore the Wolf Pack's black and silver armor, their loyalty paid for not with coin but with cause.
The infantry was led by Ser Steelfist — burly, relentless, his soldiers armored in scales and steel. They trained like men who had already accepted death, moving with grim unity. No silk, no ornaments — only the chill gleam of disciplined war.
Even the Free Army, once a rabble of freed slaves and laborers, had become something greater. Their ranks moved with surprising coordination, blending Westerosi tactics with the rigid discipline of Essosi phalanxes. Spears, shields, bows — every motion drilled into muscle and bone.
Garland studied the spectacle, unease creeping into admiration. "This army," he thought, "might one day rival the Golden Company. The Wolf Pack has numbers, discipline, and purpose — three things that no sellsword host can ever buy."
He knew then that the Reach would need to tread carefully around this northern-born general. Gendry Baratheon might still speak like a man of the people — but he was building an empire.
Their days together passed quickly. When the time came for the Tyrells to return to Oldtown's coast, the parting was unexpectedly heavy. Gendry accompanied them to the harbor, his black cloak fluttering in the cold sea wind.
Margaery turned once more toward him before boarding. "You are unlike any commander I have ever met," she said softly. "If the North breeds such men, perhaps we have misjudged it."
Gendry smiled faintly beneath his mask. "Perhaps."
He watched their ship vanish beyond the waves, the golden rose of Highgarden fluttering at its stern. The scent of sea salt mixed with the faint fragrance of roses — fleeting and distant, like memory itself.
On the deck, as the wind tousled her curls, Margaery leaned toward her brother. "He reminds me of someone," she whispered. "Brother, don't you think so?"
Garland turned to her, puzzled. "Who?"
She gazed out toward the horizon, where Gendry's dark figure still stood at the pier. "Renly," she said at last. "He reminds me of Renly."
Garland said nothing. He only looked back at the fading shore — at the man who commanded armies, tamed mercenaries, and spoke of winter as if it were already upon them.
And for the first time, the heir of Highgarden felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind.
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