The 'Golden Wine', a grand merchant vessel hailing from the Arbor and bearing the blue and purple grape banner, glided across the waves, its prow slicing the water like a titan's probing digit.
"Since the Greyjoy Rebellion got crushed, these waters have turned downright peaceful!" A sailor from House Redwyne remarked with a grin. "The Ironborn keep their heads down, and no bold pirate lord's stirring trouble in the Stepstones anymore."
"That reckless King Balon belongs to dusty history now! The Narrow Sea's playground for the Butter-King and his slaver whelps!" Another crewman scoffed, cracking open a fresh flask of firewine. "But who cares about the rest, so long as I've got firewine and pear brandy to quench the thirst."
The uprising sparked by Balon Greyjoy had twisted into a punchline across the seas. Balon had dreamed of reviving Ironborn splendor, yet he delivered only disgrace. His firstborn and second sons perished in the fray, while his youngest, Theon, ended up a ward in the North. Balon himself bent the knee once more to the Iron Throne, sealing his humbled fate.
"Over in Essos, they never run short of fresh schemes!" Garlan Tyrell had shed his green robe and unpinned his golden rose emblem. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a newly sprouted beard framing his jaw, Garlan now donned a flowing purple cloak over gleaming blue armor—the proud hues of House Redwyne. The Reach guards traveling with him mirrored the shift, cloaking themselves in the same vibrant shades.
Garlan couldn't ignore the ripples stirring across the Narrow Sea. The upheaval among the Three Daughters' powers promised to jolt Westeros once again. History echoed the pattern: the Triarchy had clashed with the dragonlords in their heyday, and the Ninepenny Kings had lunged at the Stepstones after gobbling up the Disputed Lands.
"The Spider's web of spies stretches into every shadow, even touching the halls of the Reach and the Arbor. Yet Varys remains an enigma, his mind a locked vault, so there's no call for outright alarm," Garlan mused inwardly, steadying his thoughts.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, pondered schemes in the depths, but not every thread served the Iron Throne alone. On the bond between the Reach and Renly, Varys had shrewdly held his tongue, offering neither counsel against nor cautions to the king.
"Is the Butter-King some kind of demon?" Margaery inquired, her tone laced with intrigue. She too had slipped into an elegant blue gown, a delicate mask veiling her features. Still, her graceful silhouette and soft, expressive eyes shone through, captivating as ever.
"To the slavers and their overlords, he might as well be. But for the chained souls he frees, he's nothing short of a divine rescuer!"
"What manner of leader shapes the Commander-in-Chief of the Wolf Pack Company?"
"I've followed his saga and that of the Wolf Pack; their thirst for vengeance fuels their rampage through the Disputed Lands. He has to be a force of nature—mercenaries bow only to the mightiest. Fierce beyond measure, too, or he couldn't grind those slaver strongholds into dust," Garlan replied, his words carrying a spark of respect.
"So, are we sailing to forge an alliance with him straightaway?"
"It's less about sealing a pact and more about facing the Butter-King and his legions eye to eye. Wherever the Wolf Pack treads, crossing paths with them arms us with sharper insight," Garlan explained, his voice steady with purpose. "The Disputed Lands double as a bountiful breadbasket. Under the Butter-King's grip lie those sprawling estates, fields of wildfire bloom, lush orchards, golden wheat expanses—all ripe with untapped riches."
"But what of the Reach's own formidable hosts?"
"Our forces from the Reach boast unmatched numbers and gleaming gear. Yet victory in war hinges on far more than steel and ranks alone," Garlan countered thoughtfully. "House Tyrell has let too many chances slip through our fingers."
Battles turn on a web of elements: arms and armor, troop counts, raw valor, supply lines, and the guiding hand of command. The North's warriors often lagged in fine equipment compared to the Reach or the Westerlands, but in the Dance of the Dragons, the direwolf banners still struck terror into hearts.
The Reach overflows with wealth and verdant fields, yet it carries a sense of scattered loyalties. In conflicts past, House Tyrell has often arrived fashionably late to the fray. They sat out the Dance of the Dragons in watchful neutrality. The Blackfyre Rebellion saw Longthorn's banners absent from the clash at Redgrass Field. Even in the War of the Usurper, they fixated on a fruitless siege of Storm's End, blind to the broader storm.
Margaery grasped the undercurrent; House Tyrell chafed at the mismatch between their might and their seat on the council, driving them to seize every shot at glory.
"I yearn to stand before this Commander-in-Chief, to gauge if he's cut from the cloth of the Conqueror, a fleeting Ninepenny King, or merely a soul chasing fleeting delights," Garlan declared, ambition flickering in his gaze like a hidden flame.
In the Disputed Lands, the Wolf Pack held sway over their newly carved haven, Free Port. The stark gray-white Wolf Pack standard snapped proudly in the breeze, proclaiming the domain as theirs alone.
Vessels from distant shores crowded the harbors, great and small, a hive of activity as cargoes heaved to and fro. With the Wolf Pack's dominance over the Disputed Lands, this fresh port bloomed to channel trade straight to the Commander-in-Chief's coffers.
Garlan's eyes danced over the eclectic fleet: sleek warships, hardy whalers, plump merchant tubs from Lys, Tyrosh, Pentos, and even exotic hulls out of Qarth. Though it couldn't rival the teeming giants like Volantis or Qarth in sheer volume, the bustle hummed with promise, and the Wolf Pack had chipped away at Tyrosh and Myr's once-unrivaled port supremacy.
Garlan Tyrell observed with keen fascination the Free Army's customs enforcers and their steadfast garrison. These once-enslaved fighters, now unbound, pulsed with renewed energy, standing as devoted sentinels to their great liberator.
The Free Port watch donned lighter chainmail suits, tasked with safeguarding the docks from chaos. Their broad shields and stout short spears evoked the Unsullied's disciplined poise, while the Myr-forged crossbows added a sharp, mercantile edge. All the same, the troops brimmed with zeal and focus—if this was the garrison's fire, the Wolf Pack's elite core must burn even brighter.
Gendry had placed Captain Harris, a Volantene runaway slave, at the helm of customs and naval defenses across the Disputed Lands, while Jorah oversaw the port's watchful guard.
"Noble visitors, this way please!" As the Redwyne Fleet's merchant ship eased into berth, a quick-witted yet deferential dockhand ushered them toward a prime lodging, the House of Freedom. This establishment thrummed as Free Port's liveliest hub, its true stewards the Free Army itself.
Word of the Reach folk's craving for wildfire herb raced to Gendry's ears, and he welcomed the overture from the Reach with open arms. Naturally, every step unfolded in utmost secrecy.
Garlan and Margaery stepped into the House of Freedom brimming with anticipation, ascending to its loftiest chambers. Eager curiosity gripped them—who among the Wolf Pack's top brass would step forward to receive them?
Beyond the chamber door, Jorah and Gray Wolf mounted their vigilant post.
Gray Wolf signaled them in with a courteous nod. Garlan read the Unsullied poise in his stance and bearing. In the realm of the Wolf Pack Company, only one figure warranted an Unsullied's shadow. Thrill coursed through Garlan; he took Margaery's hand and eased the door wide.
The stoic Jorah caught sight of Garlan and Margaery, a pang of sorrow stirring as they passed him unrecognized. Regret mingled in his gaze with tangled feelings. In a way, Jorah shared distant ties with House Tyrell's blood. Luckily, when Jorah wed, these two young ones had been mere children, too innocent to mark him as their fallen kin.
Jorah's wife and Lord Mace's wife sprang from the same Hightower root. Lady Alerie, second daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower, Earl of Oldtown, had wed Lord Mace Tyrell, master of Highgarden. Jorah's second bride, Lynesse Hightower, stood as the earl's youngest daughter.
Garlan swung the door open to reveal the young figure aglow in the streaming sunlight. Tall and lithe, with cropped raven hair and piercing blue eyes, he wore a simple gray-white wool tunic—the Wolf Pack's signature shade. Yet a hefty, shadowed iron mask cloaked his features, lending an air of mystery.
"Welcome, envoys from the Reach!" Gendry's voice rang out, firm and unyielding as tempered steel.