The Narrow Sea was a churning throat of grey water and white foam, driven by a gale that whipped the banners into frantic ribbons. Across the waves, the low, guttural moan of war-horns rolled like demonic thunder, signaling the convergence of the greatest armada the East had seen in a generation.
Gendry stood upon the deck of the Wolf's Howl, his flagship—formerly the Lady Lace of the Myrish navy. She was a beast of three hundred oars, her hull bristling with scorpions and her prow fitted with a heavy ram. On her shimmering sails, the roaring wolf of the North had replaced the intricate lace patterns of Myr.
Gendry himself went unarmored, dressed only in a grey-white leather vest and rough breeches, his blackened steel helm resting by his boots. As his captains had taught him, iron was a death sentence if the sea claimed the ship.
"I did not expect to find you in these waters, Ser Davos," Gendry said, his voice carrying over the wind.
The Onion Knight stood near the rail, his expression a mix of bewilderment and reluctant admiration. Sent by Stannis to scout the sellsword markets of Lys and Tyrosh, Davos had instead been intercepted by his old "friend" Morosh, who had traded his mercenary contract for a seat at Gendry's table.
Looking at Gendry, Davos felt a chill that had nothing to do with the spray. It is like seeing the King again, he thought. Gendry had Robert's height, his broad shoulders, and that same magnetic ferocity that could command a room—or a fleet—with a single glance. Renly had the looks, perhaps, but he lacked the "true steel" that now radiated from this bastard son. Yet where Robert had been a storm of wild impulses, Gendry seemed more contained, like a banked fire waiting for the bellows.
"The honor is mine, Commander," Davos replied, his voice raspy. He touched the leather pouch at his neck containing his shortened finger-bones. "Though I cannot say I enjoy being 'escorted' by a man who once shared my love for a quiet cove and a dark hull."
"I was a smuggler once, Davos. Now, I am an Admiral of the Wolf Pack and a member of the Myrish Council," Morosh interjected, his olive-skinned face splitting into a predatory grin. "In this new world, business is conducted in the light of day. You should tell Stannis to stop brooding on his volcano and join a winning side."
"I am a man of my word, Morosh," Davos said firmly. "My loyalty remains with the Lord of Dragonstone."
Gendry watched the exchange with a faint, knowing smile. He recognized the value of a man like Davos—a man who stayed true when the wind shifted. "Stannis must be desperate to send his most trusted man across the sea. The Rock is a cold home when the rest of the world is on fire."
Davos found no easy answer. The sudden death of Jon Arryn had left Stannis isolated, and the rise of this "Hammer King" only added to the pressure mounting against the Iron Throne.
"Stay and watch, Ser Davos," Gendry invited, turning back to the horizon. "Since you cannot leave my ship, you might as well see how a city is taken."
The armada was moving into a classic pincer. To the left, the "Narrow Sea Fleet" under Harry Strickland—composed of Stepstones pirates and liberated slaves—moved with the fluid, chaotic grace of wolves. To the right, the "Wolf Pack" fleet, the disciplined core of the former Myrish navy, formed the heavy hammer.
"Oars down!" Morosh roared. "Keep the rhythm!"
The drums began—a slow, bone-deep thrumming that synchronized three hundred oars into a single heartbeat. The first line of battle was led by the heavy galleys, followed by a second tier of century-oared warships manned by veteran river-runners and freedmen. Further back, the transport cogs and supply ships bobbed like corks, carrying the light infantry and the siege engines.
"The Narrow Sea Fleet is our left fist," Morosh explained to Gendry, pointing toward Strickland's banners. "And we are the right arm. We crush them in the center."
The war-horns sounded again, a high, piercing shriek that cut through the spray. On the decks, the infantry began the "shield-song," clashing swords against their bucklers in a rhythmic metal clangor.
Gendry raised a Myrish far-eye, leveling it at the looming walls of Tyrosh. The city of fused dragonstone was close now, its harbor bristling with the dyed sails of the Archon's defense. It would be a slaughter, he knew. But the tide was coming, and he was the one who had called it.
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