Expansive skies stretched above, mirroring the deep blue waters below, while the stunning white city gleamed invitingly, its grand gates flung wide in surrender.
At sea, a formidable array of warships, diverse in stature yet united in purpose, sealed off Myr's shoreline with unyielding resolve.
Gray and white banners danced in the breeze, and the city's earlier frenzy hushed as the triumphant knights paraded through the thoroughfares, their spirits soaring high.
Steel Fist had surged ahead with a contingent of Free Army troops into Myr's heart to enforce calm, joined by the Second Sons under Brown Ben's steady command.
Gendry, astride a sleek Dornish mount, drank in the sight of this enchanting metropolis.
Myr stood as the crown jewel of craftsmanship among the Three Daughters, renowned for its artistry and ingenuity.
Trailing Gendry rode five hundred of the Wolf Pack's finest knights, their ranks clad in uniform black plate armor, forming a formidable wall of iron that evoked a shadowed woodland of steel.
Behind them came the Spear Company's knights, their gear and fervor a notch below the Wolf Pack's elite riders, yet still a force to reckon with.
The procession swelled with Wolf Pack and Free Army foot soldiers, marching in disciplined waves.
"Long live freedom! Long live the Commander-in-Chief!" Cheers erupted from the slaves, a joyous tide welcoming their savior, their numbers flooding Myr's winding streets like a river breaking its banks.
Yet scant few of Myr's highborn or Magisters ventured forth to offer homage; some had bolted in terror, while others cowered in hidden lairs.
In Myr, slaves outnumbered free souls by a margin of roughly one to three, sometimes stretching to one to four.
From any angle, the enslaved clearly held the greater sway in sheer volume.
"Preserve those exquisite workshops and bustling docks at all costs; destroying them would squander true treasure.
I expect no tales of pillage or assault amid the turmoil!" Gendry commanded Longspear at his side, his tone brooking no dissent.
"Yes, Commander-in-Chief!" Longspear acknowledged sharply, wheeling away with a squad of Free Army warriors to spread the word.
Throughout the siege's grueling days, Myr's fabric had unraveled, birthing outbreaks of thievery, holdups, and senseless killings.
Exiled sellswords and rampaging slaves had unleashed a savage undercurrent.
But as the army flooded the avenues, stability clawed its way back, and opportunists exploiting the bedlam faced swift retribution.
Upholding order towered above all; in this age, even seasoned troops often strayed from ironclad conduct.
Not even Tywin or the North's stern lords escaped such lapses, with Tywin reveling in unleashing his mountain men on foe territories.
Only the likes of Stannis and Randyll Tarly earned renown for their unyielding grip on troop behavior.
Order fell to Steel Fist's capable hands, whispers to Maester Qyburn's network, asset tallies to The Handsome Man's ledger, and sea dominance to Captain Harris's helm—this seamless split honed by relentless drills.
"My legions, my unbreakable steel! They must stand as paragons of resolve and restraint!" Gendry affirmed inwardly, pride swelling.
The Wolf Pack already embodied such rigor, and molding the Free Army—born from the crushed underbelly—proved far simpler than taming wild sellsword packs.
"Brown Ben, steering the Second Sons through such trials of endurance and deception speaks volumes of your cunning!" Gendry praised, his voice rich with respect as he regarded the kneeling captain.
The Second Sons had thrown in with the Myrish Magisters, only to pivot at the pivotal hour, unlocking the barriers and paving the Wolf Pack's path inside.
"I serve as your devoted follower, Commander-in-Chief; I claim no glory for myself!" Brown Ben stammered, fear etching his features.
Against such tidal might, his five hundred-odd turncoats in the Second Sons paled into insignificance.
Before unassailable force, all ploys and gambits withered to dust.
"You've excelled beyond measure.
I trust you'll lend your insight to safeguarding Myr; you know the tangled webs of the old Myrish elite!"
"Yes!" Brown Ben shivered, as if spectral chill claws grazed his back.
Quelling unrest in Myr and rooting out lingering noble threats marked a thankless grind.
Yet he had scorched bridges with the Myrish beyond repair, leaving no path but forward march.
"Forward into the city!" Gendry lifted his riding crop high, a signal that rippled through the ranks.
Myr marked his inaugural conquest, a milestone etched in triumph.
Yet breaching the walls heralded no final peace; shadowy Myrish lords schemed to reclaim their faded glory from the fringes.
Truth be told, Myr lay in tatters; droves of ancient Magisters had scattered like chaff, leaving governance adrift like leaves tossed in an autumn gale.
With the exodus of Myr's displaced nobility came a bounty of empty manors and sprawling grounds dotting the cityscape.
Gendry claimed the Wolf Pack Company's nerve center in a lavish white manor once held by the Magisters, its elegance a fitting throne.
Within the opulent council chamber of the Myrish Magisters, Gendry conferred with the silver-maned Maester Qyburn on charting Myr's future governance.
Myr stood as Gendry's premiere stronghold, and the blueprint forged here would ripple to cities yet to fall.
"Seizing Myr opens the door; the true challenge lies in sustaining dominion over its pulse," Gendry confided to Maester Qyburn, his mind alight with strategy.
"Fleeting triumphs ring hollow; enduring command forges legacy!" The silver-maned Maester Qyburn mused, lost in contemplation.
The Three Daughters had bowed to conquerors post-Century of Blood, only to claw back sovereignty in time.
Lys and Myr endured Volantis's yoke across two eras, while Tyrosh chafed under Alequo Silver Tongue's thumb for seven or eight turns of the seasons amid the Ninepenny Kings' strife.
"From ruin springs renewal.
Since yielding to the Myrish Magisters yields no harmony, forge a fresh dawn instead.
Lean on liberated thralls, the humble folk, and dismantle the slaver lords and Magisters!" This vision ignited Gendry's core.
With slavery's chains sundered, legions would flock to his banner naturally.
"My deepest worry circles the shifting winds abroad," Maester Qyburn voiced, concern creasing his brow.
"Any bid to claim the Three Daughters draws rivals like moths to flame.
Braavos, Pentos, even the Stormlands once checked Volantis's hunger.
And as we shatter bondage, Volantis looms as our fiercest foe, with Tyrosh and Lys perilously near."
"Rebuild Myr's strength while steeling for conflict," Gendry outlined his vision with clarity.
"I aim to reshape Myr's pillars of power, dissolve the Magisters' enclave, empower a broader assembly, and weave in freed slaves, Myrish craftsmen, and merchants bound in true allegiance.
Myr shall know no Magisters henceforth; I step as interim Regent to guide its course!"
"Regent!" Maester Qyburn echoed, turning the title over thoughtfully.
"A fitting echo; its weight lands clear from the first breath!"
Gendry eyed a regency now, with a crowning to chase; Lys and Tyrosh's defiance lingered as thorns in the path.
"A staggering bounty, Commander-in-Chief!" As their dialogue deepened, Harris, the Wolf Pack's sea lord, strode in, his face alight with glee. "One hundred and forty vessels of Myr's armada remain moored; they fly our colors now.
Merely seventy slipped away with the fleeing Magisters!"
"Then we command the Narrow Sea's tides!" Gendry declared, satisfaction blooming.
"Indeed, Commander-in-Chief! Our combined hulls form a navy to fear!" Harris elaborated eagerly.
"Westeros's rebuilt Iron Fleet tallies around a hundred strong, and the Ironborn's warrior blood ensures they muster more with ease.
The Redwyne Fleet boasts two hundred sails, the Royal Fleet tips past two hundred and ten."
Myr's one hundred and forty mighty warships, bolstered by two hundred varied craft seized from the Stepstones, not to mention the teeming transports, freighters, and traders under Myr's banner.
In naval might, the Wolf Pack's watery realm swelled to daunting heights.