Gendry's palace stood proudly upon the seashore of Pentos, a cluster of seven tall towers rising like weathered sentinels above the foaming tides. Their high brick walls were softened by pale green ivy, which crawled upward in lazy spirals, as though even plants in Pentos sought to impress visiting lords. The Pentoshi, after all, were fond of giving—lavishly, strategically, and always with purpose. To them, gifting was a more profitable form of diplomacy than waging war.
In the past, they had built courtyards for horse kings and merchant princes. Now, one of those courtyards had been presented to the newly crowned "Mercenary King of Myr." Since it was the corpulent Illyrio Mopatis footing the bill, Gendry had not refused.
Inside the palace hall, the air was heavy with fragrance—pepper, cinnamon, cloves, and lemon zest mingled with the salty wind from the sea. Flickering torches cast rippling light across tapestries woven with scenes of Valyria's Doom. A group of Unsullied, silent and stern, stood guard near the arched doors. Gendry entered with Ser Jorah Mormont at his side. Behind them trailed several officers of the Free Army and a few wolf-bannered drivers who had escorted their commander to this strange city of spice and silk.
"These cheese merchants have nothing but gold," Jorah muttered under his breath, his voice edged with Northern bitterness.
Gendry hid a faint smile. He knew well the reason behind the older man's disdain. Jorah's wife had run off years ago with a wealthy trader from Lys, leaving him bankrupt and dishonored. Ever since, Mormont had loathed merchant lords with the quiet fury of a man wronged by both love and coin.
"Although I've never met the Targaryen princess," Jorah said suddenly, "they say she's an inhuman beauty."
Gendry glanced sideways at him and smirked. "Maybe the girls would like you more if you changed your clothes, old bear."
Jorah raised an eyebrow. His thinning hair caught the torchlight, and though age had begun to etch lines into his broad face, his shoulders remained as square and solid as ever. He was dressed plainly—wool, leather, and a dark green cloak embroidered with a black bear standing upright on its hind legs.
"That's always been my style, Commander," Jorah replied gruffly. "If a woman cannot see beyond appearance, she's not worth my time."
Gendry laughed under his breath and shook his head. "Hopeless."
An old bear from the North—balding, brooding, and wrapped in wool—wasn't exactly the image of a Pentoshi heartthrob.
The hall's four black lanterns burned with oil-scented fire. Beneath the vaulted arches carved with twin stone leaves, a eunuch stepped forward. He had a powdered face and a shrill, syrupy voice that rang through the marble chamber.
"The Narrow Sea, the Stepstone Islands, the Disputed Lands, the sole ruler of Myr, commander of the Wolf Pack and Free Army, Lord Warhammer!"
The announcement echoed like the toll of a bronze bell.
All conversation ceased. Dozens of eyes turned toward Gendry—a tall, broad-shouldered warrior clad in black velvet and steel. Tonight he bore no warhammer, but a Valyrian steel scimitar, its dark edge glinting faintly in the lamplight.
All sorts of eyes, he thought.
Among the gathered crowd, he saw every type of man and monster Pentos could offer: assassins from Tyrosh, mercenaries from Volantis, a red-robed priest so fat he could have been Illyrio's twin, and a hulking brute from Ibben with arms like tree trunks. Several lords from the Summer Isles lounged nearby, their faces dark as polished ebony, rings of coral and gold glimmering on their hands.
Gendry's gaze swept over them like a blade. So this is the great crossroads of the East, he mused. A city that never fights, yet thrives on the wars of others.
Outside, the Dothraki waited—half a dozen Khals who had come out of curiosity or greed. Illyrio had not dared summon Khal Drogo himself, but these other horselords were impressive enough. They stood like bronze statues, with braided hair hung with silver bells and beards bound in iron rings, their eyes sharp as falcons.
The Tyroshi envoys watched Gendry with thinly veiled fear. The rise of his Wolf Pack on the Stepstones had cut too close to their trade routes. The red priests, meanwhile, regarded him with fanatic curiosity, murmuring prayers to their fire god.
"There is only one flame in this world—the fire of R'hllor!"
One of them, the obese monk, waddled up to Gendry, his breath reeking of incense.
"We came here to see the princess," Gendry said coldly. "Save your sermons."
At his gesture, Jorah stepped forward, scowling, and the red priest quickly withdrew, grumbling to himself.
Moments later, a commotion stirred near the gates. A small army of servants appeared, carrying a massive gilded palanquin across a makeshift bridge laid over the courtyard fountain. On it sat Illyrio Mopatis, bejeweled and glistening with sweat, his robe straining over his enormous belly. Beside him were two pale attendants—the Long siblings—fanning him lazily with peacock feathers.
Two servants entered first, holding ornate oil lamps whose blue glass shades shimmered like sapphire flame. Then the curtain of the palanquin parted, and the long-anticipated guests emerged.
First came a young woman. A soldier of the Free Army offered her his hand as she stepped down. Her movements were careful, almost reverent. Her brother followed—a lean, pale young man with silvery hair, clutching a borrowed sword far too large for him. Last came Illyrio himself, wheezing as he descended, supported by three sweating servants.
The eunuch's shrill voice rose again.
"Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of His Name! 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! Accompanied by His Magnificence, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos!"
The crowd murmured. Titles cost nothing in Pentos, and Illyrio scattered them like confetti.
The three newcomers stepped into the moonlit courtyard. Tall white pillars surrounded them, each wrapped in ivy that shimmered silver beneath the moon. The air was thick with anticipation and the faint hiss of torches.
Daenerys Targaryen walked nervously beside her brother. She knew full well that this night was not her choice—it was a transaction. Her brother and Illyrio had arranged her marriage to a warlord from the west, a "mercenary king" who would trade armies for a bride.
She was the only woman in the courtyard.
Illyrio began his introductions with oily enthusiasm.
"The men by the pillar are Lord Morrocho and his son Logolo. The gentleman with the green beard is the brother of the Grand Magister of Tyrosh," he said, his fat fingers gesturing in every direction.
Then his small eyes gleamed as he turned toward Daenerys.
"And more importantly, my little princess—there stands the Mercenary King himself. You may call him Warhammer, or Archon, or Commander-in-Chief. Behind him, the exiled knight of Westeros, Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island!"
Daenerys's gaze flickered from the Northern knight to the tall man beside him. Jorah bowed stiffly, his expression unreadable. She felt a strange comfort at seeing a man from her homeland, though his presence was shadowed by exile. But it was the man beside him—the so-called Mercenary King—who drew her full attention.
He stood motionless, watching her. Even across the courtyard, Daenerys felt the weight of his gaze, heavy as a tide.
The stories she had heard were true. He was tall—taller than most Dothraki, built like a predator from some ancient world. Despite his size, there was a fluid grace to his stance, a restrained energy like a storm waiting to break. His hair was black as midnight, his eyes a deep, unwavering blue—eyes of tempered steel, eyes of men who had seen war and lived.
But his face was hidden behind a mask of rough-forged iron. The featureless plate concealed everything but those piercing eyes.
Why a mask? Daenerys wondered. Is he scarred beneath it? Or simply hiding?
"Truly worthy of being called the First Beauty," Gendry murmured under his breath.
Her beauty was indeed otherworldly—silver-gold hair that shimmered like liquid moonlight, skin as pale as fresh snow, and eyes the color of polished amethyst. She was the last scion of a dying house, the final ember of dragons long extinguished.
Illyrio approached Gendry, waddling like a great pink seal. He extended his ring-encrusted hand, the gems glittering like drops of blood.
"Your Excellency," he said with his practiced sweetness, "please follow me. I would be delighted to help conclude this most splendid alliance."
Gendry studied him silently. He knew Illyrio's type—scheming, self-satisfied, and always playing both sides. The magister's friend in King's Landing, the whisperer Varys, surely knew of Gendry's birth. Illyrio might even find it amusing to arrange a marriage between Robert Baratheon's bastard and the last Targaryen.
Still, Gendry inclined his head. "I will thank you, Magister."
Let Illyrio think this was his jest; fate, perhaps, was playing its own.
Gendry crossed the courtyard, his black cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. The white wolf embroidered on his chest caught the torchlight, its eyes gleaming faintly silver. He wore no crown, carried no scepter, yet his presence alone commanded silence. Power clung to him like a second skin.
Daenerys's breath quickened as he approached. The air between them seemed to hum.
He stopped a few paces away and inclined his head—not a bow, not yet, but a gesture of respect.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice deep and resonant.
Daenerys lowered her gaze, uncertain. "My lord."
Gendry's blue eyes studied her carefully, almost gently. Beneath the iron mask, a faint warmth stirred—a memory of another silver-haired princess he had never met but whose blood once ruled the realm that had scorned him.
In that moment, Daenerys saw the man behind the title. Beneath the armor and mask, there was something more—strength, yes, but also restraint, loneliness, and perhaps even sorrow.
Why does he hide his face? she wondered again. Is he beautiful… or broken?
Around them, the banquet began. Servants brought forth platters of roasted duck, honeyed almonds, and fragrant wine. Laughter returned to the hall, though now every word felt sharper, every glance more watchful. Viserys hovered nearby, his pale eyes gleaming with greed as he measured the man who might win him his throne.
Illyrio whispered in his ear, fanning the flames of ambition. "He commands ten thousand. With his fleet, Westeros is but a crossing away."
But Viserys's pride clouded reason. He saw not an ally, but a tool.
Gendry, for his part, ignored him. His attention lingered only on Daenerys—on the way her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted her goblet, the way she tried to appear regal though her heart raced.
When the musicians began to play, Illyrio leaned close and whispered, "Would you care to dance with the princess, my lord? It would please the crowd."
Gendry's eyes glinted through the mask. "A king does not dance," he said softly. "But perhaps… a soldier may."
He extended a gloved hand toward Daenerys. For a heartbeat, she hesitated—then placed her small, pale hand into his.
The hall fell silent again as they stepped onto the marble floor. The music swelled, slow and haunting, echoing through the sea-swept palace.
For the first time that night, Gendry removed his gauntlet, and his bare hand met hers—warm, rough, real.
And though neither spoke, both knew something had shifted.
The mask remained, but Daenerys thought she saw a flicker behind it—a faint smile, or perhaps the ghost of one.
Fate, cruel and vast as the sea outside, had brought them together. Whether it meant salvation or ruin, neither could yet tell.
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