The great merchant vessel Golden Vintage of the Arbor sailed across the sea, blue-purple grape banners snapping in the wind, its prow cutting the waves like a giant's finger drawn across the water.
"The seas have been much calmer since the Greyjoy Rebellion was put down," a sailor of House Redwyne said. "The ironborn are behaving themselves, and there's no strong pirate king in the Stepstones."
"That fool Balon is history!" another sailor laughed, uncorking a bottle of strongwine. "Now the Narrow Sea belongs to the Fire Herb King and his little slave whelps! Still, none of that matters to me. As long as I've got strongwine and pear brandy, I'm content."
Balon Greyjoy's rebellion had become a joke. He had meant to restore the glory of the ironborn, only to end in humiliation. His eldest and second sons died in the war, his youngest, Theon, was sent to the North as a hostage, and Balon himself bent the knee to the Iron Throne once again.
"Across the Narrow Sea, they're always stirring up something new."
Garlan Tyrell had shed his green robes and removed the golden rose from his breast. Taller now, broader in the shoulders, and wearing a beard, he was dressed in a purple cloak and blue armor, the colors of House Redwyne. The Highgarden guards who accompanied him had likewise changed their colors.
The shifting balance among the Three Daughters could not be ignored. Whatever happened there would ripple back to Westeros. Once, the three cities had formed an alliance to fight the true dragon. Later, the Ninepenny Kings seized the Disputed Lands before moving against the Stepstones.
"The Spider's spies are everywhere," Garlan thought. "There are surely his men in the halls of Highgarden and the Arbor. But the Spider is unreadable. There's no need to grow overly anxious."
Varys was a deep and subtle man, but fortunately not all his schemes were devoted to the Iron Throne. When it came to the friendship between Highgarden and Renly, he had wisely chosen not to warn or dissuade the king.
"Is this Fire Herb King truly a devil?" Margaery asked curiously.
She wore a beautiful blue gown, her face hidden behind a veil. Even so, her slender figure and gentle eyes were impossible to conceal.
"To slaveholders and Magisters, yes," Garlan replied. "To the slaves, he's a savior."
"What kind of man is the Wolf Pack's Lord Commander?"
"I know the tale of him and his wolves. It's vengeance that drives them in the Disputed Lands. He must be strong. Sellswords admire strength. And he must be ruthless. Otherwise, he could never have crushed cities of slave masters beneath his heel."
"Then we're going to negotiate with him?"
"Not quite negotiate. But I must see this Fire Herb King and his army with my own eyes. Wherever the Wolf Pack turns next, we'll be better prepared if we've met him first." Garlan's gaze was steady. "The Disputed Lands are a fine granary. He now controls the estates—fire herb fields, orchards, wheat farms. That is wealth."
"But what of Highgarden's own army?"
"In numbers and equipment, Highgarden holds the advantage," Garlan said. "But wars are not decided by numbers and armor alone. Highgarden has missed too many chances."
War depended on many things: arms, numbers, courage, supply, command. The North's armies had been poorly equipped compared to the Reach and the Westerlands, yet during the Dance of the Dragons, the Winter Wolves had carved out a fearsome reputation.
The Reach was rich and fertile, but it lacked cohesion. In war after war, House Tyrell had found itself arriving too late. During the Dance of the Dragons, they remained neutral. In the Blackfyre Rebellion, Longthorn failed to reach the Redgrass Field in time. In the War of the Usurper, they missed the greater game, fixating instead on the siege of Storm's End.
Margaery seemed to understand. House Tyrell believed their strength and their standing at court did not match. They were determined to prove themselves.
"I want to see this Lord Commander for myself," Garlan said, ambition burning in his chest. "To judge whether he is a conqueror, another Penny King, or merely a man content with comfort."
...
In the Disputed Lands, the Wolf Pack controlled the port they had carved out for themselves: Freeport.
Grey-white wolf banners flew high above it. This was Wolf Pack territory.
Ships from all corners of the world lay at anchor. Vessels crowded the piers, large and small alike, busy with loading and unloading cargo. After the Wolf Pack took control of the Disputed Lands, this new port rose quickly into being, built to ease trade with the Lord Commander.
Garlan saw ships of every kind—warships, whalers, merchant vessels from Lys, Tyrosh, Pentos, even Qarth. The harbor was not yet on the scale of great ports like Volantis or Qarth, but it was thriving. The Wolf Pack had already eaten into part of Tyrosh and Myr's maritime trade.
Garlan Tyrell watched the Free Company's customs officials and harbor guards with interest. Former slaves, now freed and full of life, moved about with purpose. They were loyal soldiers of the Breaker.
The garrison at Freeport wore lighter mail, tasked with maintaining order along the docks. Their shields and short spears called to mind the Unsullied, yet the Myr crossbows slung at their backs bore the distinct stamp of the Free Cities. Whatever their origins, the garrison looked disciplined and sharp. If even the port guards were like this, one could only imagine the elite Wolf Pack.
Gendry had appointed Captain Hallis, an escaped slave from Volantis, to oversee customs and naval affairs in the Disputed Lands, while Jorah commanded the port garrison.
"This way, my lords!"
When the merchant ships of the Redwyne fleet docked, alert but plainly dressed dockworkers guided them to a special inn known as the House of Freedom. It was the busiest and liveliest establishment in Freeport, though in truth it was backed by the Free Company.
Highgarden's interest in purchasing Fire Herb quickly drew Gendry's attention. He was more than willing to receive the envoys of the Reach, though everything was conducted in strict secrecy.
Garlan and Margaery entered the House of Freedom, curiosity plain on their faces. They were led to the uppermost floor. Both wondered which high-ranking officer of the Wolf Pack would greet them.
Outside the chamber, Jorah and Greywolf stood guard.
Greywolf made a gesture of invitation. From the man's bearing and features, Garlan guessed he was Unsullied. In the Wolf Pack's realm, only one man would be important enough to warrant Unsullied protection. Garlan felt a flicker of anticipation and stepped forward, Margaery at his side, pushing open the door.
Jorah watched them silently. A complicated look crossed his face. They had not recognized him. In a way, he and the Tyrells were kin.
Jorah's wife and Lord Mace Tyrell's wife were sisters, both of House Hightower. Lady Alerie, the second daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower of Oldtown, had wed Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden. Jorah's second wife, Lynesse Hightower, was Lord Leyton's youngest daughter.
When Jorah had married, Garlan and Margaery had still been children. It was no surprise they failed to recognize the fallen uncle by marriage standing before them.
Garlan stepped inside and saw a young man standing in the sunlight. He was tall and well built, with short black hair like polished jade and deep blue eyes. He wore a grey-white woolen tunic, the colors of the Wolf Pack.
Yet over his face he wore a heavy, dark iron mask, hiding his features from view.
"Welcome, envoys of Highgarden," Gendry said, his voice hard as steel.