Gendry's private quarters overlooked the shimmering sea in Pentos, featuring seven soaring towers that pierced the sky, with pale ivy weaving up its sturdy brick facade.
The folk of Pentos delighted in bestowing lavish gifts upon influential visitors, much like an offering of respect.
They reckoned that parting with gold and treasures proved far wiser than risking the flames of conflict.
Earlier estates had gone to a mighty Khal, and now this grand courtyard fell to the surging Mercenary King of Myr.
Since the portly host footed the bill, Gendry accepted without a flicker of protest.
Within the spacious hall, the air hummed with the inviting aroma of exotic spices—fiery peppers, warm cinnamon, and zesty sweet lemons blending in a heady embrace.
Gendry, alongside Jorah and a cadre of his steadfast Unsullied guards, were guided into the welcoming chamber, where vibrant stained-glass mosaics captured the dramatic Fall of Valyria in vivid hues.
Beyond the hall's arches, vigilant Wolf Pack and Free Army foot soldiers stood watch, their presence a silent shield.
"These cheese mongers hoard nothing but coin!" Jorah muttered under his breath, his tone laced with bitterness.
Gendry grasped the root of his disdain; Jorah's former wife had once vanished with a sly trader from Lys, fueling his deep-seated grudge against the Free Cities' merchants.
"Though I've yet to lay eyes on the exiled princess of House Targaryen, she must radiate a beauty beyond mortal bounds," Jorah remarked, a spark of admiration lighting his words.
"To speak plainly, a fresh wardrobe might draw more admiring glances from the fairer sex!" Gendry teased lightly, aiming to ease the mood.
Jorah carried the weight of some forty years, his locks receding yet his frame still solid as oak.
He shunned silks and fine cottons, favoring rugged wool and supple leather, his dark green tunic bearing the bold stitch of a black bear rearing on hind legs.
"This garb suits me through and through, Commander-in-Chief. Can't a worthy lady peer beyond fabrics and facades to the heart within?" Jorah countered, a stubborn glint in his eye.
Gendry found himself at a loss for words; certain souls defied gentle nudges toward change.
A seasoned man, balding and unyieldingly direct like a true son of the North, rarely fared well in matters of romance.
The black lanterns lining the four walls flickered steadily with lamp oil's glow, and under an archway etched with twin stone leaves, a eunuch's voice rang out in proclamation.
He intoned in a shrill, melodic timbre, "The sole Magistrate of the Narrow Sea, the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands, and Myr, the Commander-in-Chief of the Wolf Pack Company and the Free Army, Lord Warhammer."
At the eunuch's flourish, a hush blanketed the assembly.
Every eye turned as one, fixing on the imposing, nimble warrior who commanded the space.
Gendry bore no warhammer at his side, but rather an exquisite Valyrian steel arakh of peerless craft.
"A torrent of stares!" Gendry noted silently, scanning the throng.
The gathering brimmed with Pentoshi and Tyroshi blades-for-hire and cutthroats, a Red Priest whose girth eclipsed even Illyrio's, shaggy oddities from Ibben, and a cluster of ebony-skinned dignitaries from the Summer Isles.
Gendry's gaze roamed freely; Pentos truly earned its stripes as a bustling trade nexus.
Sprinkled among the guests stood Dothraki Khals; Illyrio had wisely sidestepped the formidable Khal Drogo, opting for lesser warlords instead.
They loomed tall, their coppery skin gleaming, beards clasped by interlocking silver rings, and glossy black tresses woven into myriad braids, each chime of silver bells a whisper of their raids.
The Red Priest brimmed with intrigue, the Tyroshi simmered with dread and venom.
Myr and the Stepstones hugged Tyrosh too closely for comfort, placing the greatest peril at their doorstep.
The Dothraki, meanwhile, radiated a mix of challenge and wonder in their fierce gazes.
"There burns but one true fire across the world, the radiant light of R'hllor!" Conversation with Gendry proved sparse, save for the plump Red Priest who lumbered forward, eager to engage.
"We're here for the princess—spare us the sermons," Gendry waved dismissively, and Jorah shot the priest a glare sharp as Valyrian edge, sending him retreating into the shadows.
These devotees of R'hllor burned with zealotry, and Gendry harbored no patience for their fervent discourses.
Moments later, a throng of burly bearers hoisted a ornate palanquin into the courtyard, ferrying Illyrio alongside the Targaryen siblings.
Two attendants preceded it, bearing ornate lamps encased in delicate pale blue glass that cast ethereal glows.
As the curtains parted, the evening's stars emerged at last.
A Free Army soldier extended a hand to aid Daenerys from the litter, her brother Viserys close behind, clutching a loaned blade at his hip.
The rotund Illyrio clambered down as well, steadied by a half-dozen attendants.
"Viserys III of House Targaryen," the lead eunuch proclaimed in his lilting, piercing tone, "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
His sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone.
His host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magistrate of the Free City of Pentos."
The trio swept past the herald into the ivy-draped courtyard, its stone pillars bathed in moonlight that silvered the leaf shadows, evoking the pallor of ancient bone.
Daenerys entered with a flutter of nerves; she knew this night sealed a bargain, her brother and the Magistrate peddling her to a Mercenary King like prized silk.
She stood as the sole woman amid the assembly.
"By those pillars linger Khal Moro and his son Rogolo, while the green-bearded figure is the Archon of Tyrosh's own kin," Illyrio murmured, guiding her gaze.
"And far more crucially, little princess.
Behold the Mercenary King himself.
Such warriors claim titles aplenty; he wields 'Warhammer,' yet Magistrate and Commander-in-Chief suit him equally!" Illyrio elaborated, his voice a conspiratorial drawl.
"Flanking the King stands his sworn shield, Ser Jorah Mormont! A knight cast out from Westeros's shores!" Beyond Ser Jorah, the Mercenary King's rear guard consisted of Unsullied in sleek black leather armor, spears at rest.
Daenerys's curiosity piqued at Ser Jorah, a remnant of her ancestral Westeros.
Yet the Mercenary King captivated her most, and she stole timid glances at the figure her brother sought to sway—the one destined, by night's close, to claim her hand in marriage.
The tales swirling around him rang utterly true.
The Mercenary King towered impressively, his strides fluid and graceful, his lean form evoking a caged panther's coiled power.
His cropped hair gleamed like polished obsidian under the Long Night's veil, but his eyes held the boundless blue of summer seas, eyes forged in strength and unbowed spirit.
Alas, a rough-hewn iron mask veiled the King's features, denying her a complete portrait.
Still, Daenerys sensed youth lingered beneath, a subtle warmth flickering in that azure gaze, the spark of one not yet fully weathered by the world's cruelties.
"I'll lay bare our intent!" Illyrio declared, clapping his hands with finality.
"I'll summon him forthwith."
"A vision of unparalleled grace." Gendry, too, fixed his attention on Daenerys, captivated.
Daenerys proved slender and breathtakingly lovely, her tresses a cascade of silver-gold, eyes violet as twilight blooms.
She embodied House Targaryen's final heir, a living flame of the dragon's legacy.
Gendry bided his time for Illyrio's approach, the heavyset man huffing to his side, proffering fingers bedecked in glittering gems.
The pact between the portly schemer and Varys no doubt pierced his origins, yet Illyrio remained blind to Gendry's grasp of the grand tapestry—a edge he clutched tightly.
"Honored Magistrate, join me if you will; I'm thrilled to shepherd this promising union!"
"My deepest gratitude!" Gendry met Illyrio's eyes, the man's grin syrupy and wide, doubtless still savoring the twisted irony of pitting Robert's bastard against the Targaryen scion.
Yet Gendry owed the man a nod of thanks; Daenerys represented fate's intricate weave.
Gendry advanced toward Daenerys, clad in ebony velvet traced with the stark white Wolf Pack sigil.
His tresses mirrored the endless midnight, his gaze as mesmerizing as ocean depths.
No crown graced his brow, only the weight of his deeds as steadfast ally.
The stark black iron mask lent Gendry an air of enigma, stirring Daenerys's wonder—what lay hidden? A visage fair or rugged, etched by blades or blemished by trials, and why the veil of steel?
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