The Wolf's Den received the Tyroshi delegation under a sky the color of bruised plums. Leading them was Aquido, a young Magister whose vibrant red hair and beard were topped by a tall, pointed Tyroshi hat. He was flanked by thirty garish sellswords and a small retinue of nobles, their presence a splash of neon excess against the disciplined grey of Gendry's encampment.
After a tense screening by scouts, Aquido was led through the heart of the mobilization. He looked upon rows of pikemen and armored vanguard, their movements crisp and silent. There was no tavern-slur or camp-follower chaos here; this was a machine of war.
"The Magister Aquido of Tyrosh, seeking audience," Ser Jorah announced as he held the tent flap open.
Gendry sat behind a heavy oak table, his dark hair falling over eyes as blue and cold as a winter sea. He watched the young noble kneel. "Aquido?" Gendry's voice was a low rasp. "A fine name. I suspect your Archon is trembling if he sends a man of your lineage to plead for his neck."
Tyrosh and Myr stood on the precipice. The city of dyes was currently a sanctuary for exiled Myrish masters and was violently suppressing its own slave revolts while frantically hiring blades.
"I am indeed of that line, Commander," Aquido replied, his eyes darting to the Valyrian steel arakh resting on the table. "Aquido Adarys—though I am a far cry from my ancestor, the Silvertongue."
The tent was quiet. Beside Gendry sat Qyburn, his soft, paternal smile masking a mind of sharpened glass. A few Unsullied stood like statues in the shadows, their grip on their spears unyielding.
"I did not think any of the Silvertongue's blood still flowed," Qyburn remarked mildly.
"I serve as a minor magistrate," Aquido admitted, his voice steadying. "Before I speak of terms, allow me to present the tributes Tyrosh has prepared for your favor."
He gestured to his attendants. "One hundred thousand Tyrosh gold dishes. An hundred casks of pear brandy, the finest in the world. An hundred suits of ornate wolf-head plate, forged by our master smiths. And finally..." He paused, his voice dropping. "The heads of three Myrish Magisters who fled your justice."
Gendry leaned forward, the torchlight catching the stubble on his jaw. "Generous. Truly. Now, tell me what the Archon wants in return for these trinkets."
"Peace," Aquido declared. "Tyrosh will cede all claims to the estates in the Disputed Lands. We will formally recognize your Regency over Myr. Should a treaty be signed, the Archon promises ten times this tribute as a gift of brotherhood."
"And if I prefer to take Tyrosh?" Gendry asked. "If I take the city, I take everything. The gold, the brandy, and the heads of those who sent you."
Aquido swallowed hard, but he did not flinch. "Tyrosh is not Myr, Commander. Our walls are fused dragonstone, and our armories are full. We have a thousand sellswords within the gates and the favor of the Three-Headed God. Why choose a bloody, years-long siege when wealth is offered freely?"
"Tell me why I shouldn't," Gendry countered.
"Because the world is wide and your enemies are many," Aquido said, his voice gaining fervor. "You cannot free every slave from Lys to Meereen without drowning in blood. You protect a Targaryen princess while holding a Baratheon's claim. To strike everyone at once is a dream of Valyria, and we all know how that ended. Even Volantis, with all its tigers and elephants, fell when it overreached. Become our ally, or become the enemy of the known world."
Gendry drew his Valyrian arakh, the rippled dark metal singing as it left the scabbard. "My steel is sharper than your tongue, Magistrate."
"Valyrian steel is thirsty, this I know," Aquido replied, looking at the blade. "But killing me only makes the Archon's walls grow higher."
Gendry let out a short, dry laugh and sheathed the weapon. "You've been sidelined your whole life, haven't you? Too smart for the men who rule you."
"The Adarys name fell far after my ancestor's tyranny," Aquido confessed. "I am a ghost in the council chambers. A peace-seeker in a room full of hawks."
"I like you," Gendry said. "If Tyrosh burns and you find yourself without a home, come to me. I have use for men who speak the truth when it's dangerous." He waved a hand. "Go. Tell your Archon the gifts are noted, but I am not moved. Yet."
As soon as the envoy was led away, Gendry's expression shifted to iron. "Summon the commanders. We strike Tyrosh now."
The war council gathered in minutes: Qyburn, Ser Jorah, Grey Worm, and the captains of the Wolf Pack.
"They are stalling," the treasurer noted. "They wait for Lys or Volantis."
"Not Lys," Qyburn corrected, his voice like dry parchment. "The Lysene are indecisive, and Volantis is paralyzed by their election year. No, the Archon looks to the grass. He has stopped paying tribute to the Dothraki Khals, telling them instead that the wealth of Myr is now held by a 'Wolf King' who will not pay. He is luring a khalasar to our gates."
"The horselords," Grey Worm said, his face a mask of stone. "The Unsullied do not fear the grass-dwellers. We held them at Qohor; we will hold them again."
"I will not be caught in a three-front war," Gendry announced, stabbing a dagger into the map over Tyrosh. "The internal dissent in Myr, the Tyroshi walls, and the Dothraki at our backs. We accelerate. Harry Strickland's fleet will tighten the blockade. Grey Worm, you and the 'Iron Fist' will prepare the land defenses for the Khals. I will lead the vanguard against the Tyroshi gates myself."
"The 'Hammer King' does not wait for the storm," Jorah observed. "He becomes it."
"Let them bring their horses," Gendry muttered. "I have a city to take."