The late Archon of Tyrosh had possessed exquisite taste. The sprawling manse at the heart of the Black City was a palace of cool marble and shaded courtyards. In the central pavilion, a massive round table of polished ebony had been arranged for the high command of the Twin City Alliance.
The table groaned under the weight of silver platters piled high with fruit: Myrish blood melons, Tyroshi fire plums, and pale, sweet peaches imported from the Reach.
Gendry sat at the head of the table. Around him were the architects of his new empire: Qyburn, the Treasurer, Dick Fletch, Spear, Iron Fist, Grey Worm, Ser Jorah, Admiral Harry Strickland of the Narrow Sea Fleet, and Admiral Morosh of the Wolf Pack Fleet.
Myr and Tyrosh were pacified. The immediate threat of the horse lords was broken. Now came the quiet, grueling work of governance. Gendry had no intention of marching his armies further just yet. Whether he struck south toward Lys or west across the Narrow Sea, unchecked expansion would stretch his supply lines until they snapped.
"Eat," Gendry commanded, gesturing to the platters. "The fruits of the Reach are unparalleled. They taste of the long summer."
"It is the summer that gives us such a bounty," the Treasurer noted, clumsily peeling a peach with his left hand. "Since leaving the North, the men of the Wolf Pack have almost forgotten the bite of winter."
Qyburn took a small slice of melon, his mild eyes thoughtful. "You will feel the Long Winter when it comes. This summer began in the year 289. We are approaching a decade of warmth—the longest in living memory. The smallfolk whisper that it is the eternal summer, that winter has been banished from the world. But the texts of the Citadel suggest a grim symmetry. A long summer invariably breeds an equally long, brutal winter. I pray I am wrong, for the sake of Westeros."
"Even if a Long Winter comes, Essos will feel but a fraction of its teeth," Morosh of Myr chuckled, taking a deep draft of pear brandy.
The smuggler-turned-admiral was right, geographically speaking. Westeros was tethered to the Lands of Always Winter, allowing the ice to bleed downward. The northernmost coasts of Essos sat on the same latitude as the Neck; they rarely saw snow, only harsh winds and cold rains.
"Do not grow complacent, Admiral," Qyburn warned gently. "If the winter lasts a decade, the frost will creep across the Narrow Sea. Crops will fail even in the Disputed Lands."
"Then we prepare," Gendry stated, his voice cutting through the quiet chatter. "Grain, salted meat, timber. We fill the vaults and the silos. Treasurer, this is your mandate. Leave no warehouse empty."
"It will be done, Commander," the Treasurer nodded.
Gendry leaned back in his heavy chair. The lords of Westeros played their game of thrones, blind to the true shadows gathering in the North. The White Walkers were stirring, and the Night's Watch was little more than a skeleton crew of thieves and old men.
I cannot fight the dead with just a hammer, Gendry thought. I need food, steel, and dragons. The world was caught in three massive currents: the creeping return of magic and the Long Night; the imminent collapse of the Baratheon dynasty; and the bloody, fiery road of slave liberation. He intended to ride all three.
"Master Qyburn," Gendry said. "Give me the eyes of the world."
Qyburn stood, smoothing his robes. "To the north, Braavos and Pentos remain aloof. Pentos is too weak to challenge us, and the Sealord of Braavos is deathly ill. Their bankers prefer to watch the chaos and calculate the interest. My whispers will continue to monitor them."
"And our immediate neighbors?" Jorah asked.
"Lys is a city of bed-slaves and poisoners," Morosh scoffed dismissively. "Their sailors are fair enough, but they have no standing army. They rely entirely on sellswords, and no mercenary company will take a contract against the Hammer King now. They lack the stomach for it."
"They lack the stomach, but not the gold," Qyburn corrected smoothly. "The Magisters of Lys have already sent heavily guarded coffers eastward, to Volantis."
A tense silence fell over the table. Volantis was the First Daughter of Valyria. Even in its faded glory, it remained the most populous and powerful of the Free Cities. Furthermore, its economy was entirely built on human suffering; for every freeborn Volantene, there were five slaves. Gendry's Twin City Alliance was an existential threat to their way of life.
"The Elephants hold the power in Volantis," the Treasurer observed. "Triarch Malaquo Maegyr of the Tiger faction beats the war drums daily. What of the other two?"
"Triarch Nyessos Vhassar is an Elephant, but his fortune is built on the flesh trade. He will align with the Tigers on this matter," Qyburn explained. "The only voice of caution is Triarch Doniphos Paenymion. He argues against war, but if he loses his seat in the coming elections, Volantis will march."
"They are a terrifying prospect," Ser Jorah rumbled. "I have seen their strength. The Volantene fleet is massive, and they maintain a formidable standing army in the Tiger Cloaks."
"Forgive me, my lords," Grey Worm spoke up, his voice calm and flat. "But I know of these Tiger Cloaks. They are slaves, marked by green stripes tattooed across their cheeks. The oarsmen of their great fleet are chained to their benches. If the Volantenes march on us, they march with an army of men who wish to see them dead. If we offer them the broken chain... Volantis will learn what true cruelty looks like."
A grim smile touched Gendry's lips. "A brilliant observation, Grey Worm. We will break Volantis from the inside when the time comes. But not yet. The men need rest, and the cities need governance. We must stall them."
"Misinformation," Qyburn suggested, his eyes glinting. "I will seed rumors in their taverns and manses. Tales of Dothraki massing to attack their vassal towns. Whispers that our fleet is sailing West to invade Westeros, leaving Essos behind. We will feed their spies enough contradictory intelligence to paralyze the Triarchs until the elections."
"Do it," Gendry commanded. "And fortify the eastern watchtowers. Jhezkahn is dead, but the grass is wide. Other Khals may seek to test us."
Gendry stood, resting his hands on the polished ebony table. The time for mercenaries was over.
"The Twin City Alliance is forged. Now, we structure the armies. Captain Spear and Iron Fist, you will command the Wolf Pack—our heavy cavalry and armored infantry."
"It is our honor, Commander," Spear replied, bowing his head.
"Grey Worm, you take the Free Army. You will drill the freedmen in the ways of the spear and the shield until they are as immovable as the walls of Tyrosh."
"Yes, Liberator."
"Brown Ben Plumm, with Ser Jorah to assist you, will command the Second Sons. You are our irregulars. You will fold the new adventurers, exiled knights, and hedge riders like Lothor Brune into a cohesive force."
Ben grinned. "We'll make them sharp, Commander."
"Admiral Harry Strickland retains control of the Narrow Sea Fleet, securing the Stepstones. Admiral Morosh, you take the Wolf Pack Fleet to guard the shores of Myr and Tyrosh."
Gendry looked around the table, the weight of a kingdom resting comfortably on his shoulders. "We have the steel. We have the gold. Now, let us build a world."