The Goldwine pulled away from the docks of Freeport, but the air in the cabin remained thick with the weight of revelation. Margaery Tyrell stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the receding iron-masked figure of the commander.
"Renly... but Renly would never admit to having a bastard this old," Margaery whispered, her mind racing through the portraits of the Baratheon lords. She remembered Renly's warmth, his elegant limbs, and the way his black hair fell perfectly across his brow.
"Renly is a creature of the court," Garlan added, his voice low and thoughtful. "He smells of perfume and speaks in riddles with Littlefinger. But the man behind that mask... he smells of smoke and salt. He has the build of a young King Robert—broad-shouldered, powerful, a storm in human form."
Garlan was not prone to the romantic delusions of his younger brother, Loras. He saw the cold, biological truth. The Baratheon seed was strong—the black hair, the blue eyes, the raw physical dominance. If this "Wolf King" was indeed Robert's eldest son, he was a more dangerous claimant to the throne than any other.
"Renly is a silk ribbon," Margaery murmured, repeating her earlier thought. "Gendry is the steel sword the ribbon is tied to. The people will follow Renly because he's pretty, but they will die for this man because he is strong."
"The game in King's Landing is about to change," Garlan said with a grim smile. "The Lannisters have a queen on the throne, but they don't have an army like the one we just saw. If the Rose is to survive, we must be sure we are planting ourselves in the right garden. Let the Golden Company chase their ghosts; we have found the living heart of the storm."
While the Tyrells sailed toward the Reach, Gendry's fleet turned its hunger toward the Stepstones.
The Stepstones were a chain of more than a dozen broken, storm-swept rocks bridging the sea between Dorne and Essos. Historically a haven for corsairs and the discarded men of the Free Cities, the islands were currently a vacuum of power following the Greyjoy Rebellion and the death of the last pirate kings.
Gendry's "Wolf Pack Fleet" was a motley but effective force of river-boats, cog-ships, and captured Myrish war-galleys. Led by Captain Harris and mentored by Jorah Mormont, the fleet navigated the treacherous channels with a familiarity that the larger Free City navies lacked.
They struck first at Bloodstone, the largest and most fortified island in the chain. The pirates there had built a sprawling network of defenses into the jagged rock, hiding in deep sea-caves and reinforced tunnels. But they had no answer for the Wolf's discipline.
Gendry led the landing parties personally. He traded his horse for a heavy shield and his hammer for the Valyrian steel arakh. He moved through the dark tunnels like a shadow, the black blade singing a song of death that the pirates could not parry.
By the time the sun set over Grey Gallows, the northernmost pirate strongholds were in ruins. The scent of smoke and ozone filled the air as Gendry stood on a cliffside overlooking the harbor.
A group of prisoners was led before him by a line of Unsullied guards. They were a diverse rabble: Tyroshi with dyed purple hair, pale-skinned Lysene, and even a grey-bearded Ironman who looked as though he had been carved from salt and driftwood.
"The Drowned God will take your soul for this!" the Ironman spat, his voice a gravelly curse. "You have no right to these rocks!"
Gendry didn't offer a debate. He signaled to the Unsullied. Two warriors stepped forward, silenced the man with a single blow, and executed him on the prow of the nearest ship as a grim offering to the sea he worshipped.
Gendry turned to the remaining pirates, his iron mask reflecting the orange glow of the burning docks.
"I have ships, and I have islands, but I need men who know how to bleed," Gendry said. "You have two choices. You can follow the Ironman into the depths, or you can swear fealty to the one who broke you. I am the King of the Narrow Sea. Join me, and you will never hunger again. Resist me, and you will find your own gallows on these grey rocks."
One by one, the pirates dropped to their knees. The cleverest among them was the first to shout, his voice echoing across the water.
"KING OF THE NARROW SEA!"
The cry was taken up by hundreds of throats, a roar that drowned out the crashing of the waves. Gendry looked out toward the horizon—toward Westeros. He was no longer just a blacksmith or a general. He was a sovereign.