Gendry's bedchamber stood by the sea at Pentos, seven tall towers rising above it, their brick walls overgrown with pale ivy. The Pentoshi were fond of presenting lavish gifts to powerful guests, a kind of "tribute." In their eyes, paying in gold and treasures was far cheaper than waging war.
The courtyard had once been given to a Horselord. Now it belonged to the newly risen sellsword king of Myr. Since that fat man was footing the bill, Gendry saw no reason to refuse.
Inside the hall, the air was heavy with the fragrance of fire pepper, cinnamon, and sweet lemon. Gendry, Jorah, and several Unsullied guards were escorted into the reception chamber. Colored stained glass windows depicted the Doom of Valyria. Outside, many Wolf Pack and soldiers of the Free Company stood watch.
"These cheesemongers have nothing but money," Jorah muttered bitterly.
Gendry understood his resentment. Jorah's wife had run off with a wealthy merchant from Lys, and ever since, he had despised the traders of the Free Cities.
"Though I've never met the exiled Targaryen princess," Jorah went on, "she must be a rare beauty."
"No offense," Gendry said quietly, "but if you changed your clothes, the ladies might take more notice."
Jorah was around forty. His hair had begun to thin, though his body remained strong. He favored wool and leather over silk and fine linen, wearing a dark green cloak embroidered with a black bear rearing on its hind legs.
"This has always been my style, Lord Commander. Can't a good woman see past appearances and material things?"
Gendry had no answer. Hopeless. An aging, balding man with the blunt temperament of the North was never going to have much luck with women.
Black lanterns burned steadily along the four walls. Beneath arches carved with twin stone leaves, a eunuch announced their arrival in a high, syrup-sweet voice:
"Lord Warhammer, sole Triarch of the Narrow Sea, the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands, and Myr; Lord Commander of the Wolf Pack and the Free Company."
When the proclamation ended, the hall fell silent. All eyes turned to a tall, powerfully built warrior. Gendry carried no warhammer today, but a peerless Valyrian steel arakh.
All kinds of looks, he thought.
Among the guests were assassins and sellswords from Pentos and Tyrosh; a red priest even fatter than Illyrio; a shaggy oddity from the Port of Ibben; and several Lords from the Summer Isles, their skin dark as ebony. Pentos truly deserved its name as a great harbor of trade.
There were Dothraki khals in the courtyard as well. Illyrio had not invited the most powerful, Khal Drogo, but several others instead. They were tall and broad-shouldered, their skin a deep reddish brown. Long braids hung from their heads, glossy black hair bound with silver rings, tiny bells chiming softly as they moved. Their mustaches drooped low, also threaded with metal rings.
The red priests watched with curiosity. The Tyroshi were full of fear and hatred. Myr and the Stepstones lay too close to Tyrosh; they had the most to lose. As for the Dothraki, there was eagerness in their eyes, and the promise of violence.
"There is only one true flame in this world—the fire of R'hllor!"
No one else approached Gendry. Only a plump red priest came forward to speak with him.
"We're here to see the Princess. Why all the preaching?" Gendry gave a small signal. Jorah shot the red priest a hard look, and the man retreated, disgruntled. The red priests of R'hllor were zealots. Gendry had no desire to trade words with them.
Not long after, dozens of strong men carried in a great palanquin, bearing Illyrio and the Targaryen siblings into the courtyard. Two servants walked ahead, holding ornate oil lamps with pale blue glass shades.
When the curtains were drawn back, the principals finally appeared. A Free Company soldier helped Daenerys from the litter. Her brother Viserys followed, gripping a borrowed sword. The fat Illyrio was assisted down as well, supported on either side.
"Viserys the Third of House Targaryen," the chief eunuch proclaimed in his high, syrupy voice, "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Princess Daenerys Stormborn of Dragonstone. Their patron, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos."
The three passed the eunuch and entered the courtyard, where stone pillars rose among climbing pale ivy, its leaf-shadows silvered by the moon like bleached bone.
Daenerys stepped forward uneasily. She knew what this night meant. It was a bargain. Her brother and Magister Illyrio Mopatis were selling her to a sellsword king.
She was the only woman present.
"By the pillar stand Khal Moro and his son Rhogoro. The one with the green beard is the elder brother of the Archon of Tyrosh," Illyrio said in introduction.
"And more importantly, little princess—that is the sellsword king. Sellswords go by many names. He is the Warhammer. You may also call him the Triarch and the Lord Commander." Illyrio lowered his voice slightly as he continued, "Behind the king stands his guard, Ser Jorah Mormont, an exiled knight from Westeros."
Aside from Ser Jorah, the sellsword king was flanked only by Unsullied clad in black leather armor.
Daenerys found herself intrigued by Ser Jorah, a knight from her homeland of Westeros. But her attention lingered far more on the sellsword king himself. Shy and uneasy, she studied the man Viserys hoped to win over—the man who, before the feast was done, would ask for her hand in marriage.
The stories she had heard were true.
The sellsword king was tall, yet his movements were light and fluid, as swift and controlled as a hunting cat in the game pits. His short, charcoal-black hair was dark as the longest night, and his eyes were a clear sea-blue—steady, unyielding eyes. His face, however, was concealed behind a rough iron mask, hiding his full features from view. Even so, Daenerys sensed he was not old. There was something in his gaze—a faint warmth, restrained but unmistakable—that seemed to belong to youth.
"I'll make our intentions known," Illyrio said. "I'll bring him over."
"Truly the fairest of beauties," Gendry murmured, his eyes fixed on Daenerys.
She was slight of build and breathtakingly lovely, with silver-gold hair and violet eyes. The last Targaryen, blood of the true dragon.
Gendry waited as Illyrio approached. The fat man shuffled toward him, jeweled fingers heavy with rings extended in greeting. The alliance between Illyrio and Varys surely knew the truth of his birth. What Illyrio did not realize was that Gendry understood the broader game. That was his advantage.
"Honorable Triarch, please, come with me," Illyrio said warmly. "It would be my great pleasure to see this match accomplished."
"You'll have my thanks," Gendry replied, studying Illyrio's syrup-sweet smile. The fat man likely still believed pairing Robert's bastard with the last Targaryen was some elaborate, cruel jest.
But Gendry would thank him all the same.
Daenerys was a kind of destiny.
He walked toward her, dressed in black velvet embroidered with the white sigil of the Wolf Pack. His hair was black as endless night, his eyes as deep as the sea. He wore no crown. He had no need of one—honor stood with him.
Seeing the coarse black iron mask that covered his face, Daenerys could not help but wonder what lay beneath it.
Was he handsome, or harsh-featured? Scarred, or pitted with old marks?
And why did he choose to hide it at all?