To Ser Jorah Mormont, breaching the Black City of Tyrosh felt like stepping through the veil of a past life. This was not his first dealing with the men of the dyed beards.
Years ago, on the bleak, frozen shores of Bear Island, he had tried to buy the love of his highborn wife, Lynesse Hightower. To satisfy her expensive Riverreach tastes, he had bankrupted his house. In his desperation, he had broken the oldest laws of the Seven Kingdoms, selling poachers to Tyroshi slavers.
When the truth emerged, Lord Eddard Stark had ridden north with Ice to take his head. Jorah had chosen exile over the Night's Watch, fleeing across the Narrow Sea with Lynesse—only for her to abandon him when the gold finally ran dry.
Perhaps it was my own folly, Jorah thought, the memory tasting of ash. I brought a creature of the sun to a land of ice and stone.
"Let the past die with the Archon," Jorah muttered aloud. He raised his broadsword, leading the elite vanguard of the Wolf Pack through the heavy bronze gates.
The Inner City of Tyrosh, an impenetrable fortress of Valyrian design, had fallen without a battering ram. Its starving merchants had traded their Archon for a crust of bread.
Gendry stood in the outer siege lines, watching the grey-and-white banners of the Wolf Pack rise over the fused black dragonstone. The walls were a marvel of the old Freehold, smooth and seamless, though not quite as magnificent as the famed Black Wall of Volantis, which was thick enough for six chariots to race abreast along its parapets.
"It was wise to send Ser Jorah into the Black City," Qyburn remarked, his hands folded neatly into the sleeves of his robe. "Had you sent the freedmen, the slaughter would have lasted a fortnight. The slaves of Tyrosh hold a deep thirst for the blood of their old masters."
"I know his story," the Treasurer said, adjusting the sling that held his mangled sword-hand. "The bear loved a woman of the Reach too deeply and ruined himself for it. He should have married a stout Northern girl. It saves a man a great deal of trouble."
"He loved until it broke him," Gendry replied. He considered Jorah one of the truest men in his service. The disgraced lord had found his honor again in the fires of the Disputed Lands.
"Now that Tyrosh is pacified, we must restructure the armies," Gendry announced, shifting his gaze from the black walls to his council.
"A standing army," the Treasurer mused, a spark of genuine interest in his eyes. With his sword hand ruined, he had embraced his role as a strategist and quartermaster. "With the combined wealth of Myr and Tyrosh, we have the gold to sustain one."
Gendry had been turning the idea over in his mind for weeks. The Triarchy was a wealthy prize, surrounded by hungry wolves. To the east lay the remaining Dothraki; to the south, Lys and Volantis plotted; and to the west, the Iron Throne loomed.
"Three distinct forces," Gendry outlined. "The heavy cavalry of the Wolf Pack, the infantry of the Free Army, and a specialized division built from the Second Sons. The surrendered Dothraki will serve as our outriders and scouts."
He also desired a true legion of Unsullied, but Slaver's Bay was half a world away. Until Daenerys's dragons hatched, he could not afford to march on Astapor.
"Lys and Volantis are brewing a storm," Captain Spear noted. "And if the lords across the Narrow Sea decide to cross the water, we will need more than raw numbers."
"We will not use the Westerosi system of levies and lords," Gendry declared. "Our army will be bound by rank, merit, and coin. We establish a clear path of promotion: from footman to sergeant, from lieutenant to field commander, straight to the rank of general. Birthright means nothing in my ranks. Only competence."
"A revolutionary thought," Qyburn smiled thinly. "In the Seven Kingdoms, only one house possesses the wealth to field a standing, professional force similar to what you propose. House Lannister of the Westerlands. They are our most likely adversary."
Gendry nodded. The Westerlands and the Reach were the wealthiest regions of Westeros. But where the Reach was politically fractured among powerful bannermen, Tywin Lannister had brutally centralized power in the West by exterminating the Reynes and Tarbecks.
"How strong is the Lion?" Spear asked.
"Immensely so," Qyburn answered. "Lord Tywin is ruthless. If war breaks out, he can field thirty thousand men without straining his coffers. That includes ten thousand seasoned knights and heavy horse. They are well-armed, well-fed, and terrified of their lord."
When the time comes, we will see if gold can crack iron, Gendry thought. His hatred for the Lannisters was twofold: the personal disgust for the butchers of Aegon's children, and the political reality that Tywin propped up the regime that wanted him dead. But for now, they were a distant problem.
"Has Stannis Baratheon sent any ravens?" Gendry asked Qyburn.
"Silence from Dragonstone, Commander."
Gendry scoffed inwardly. Stannis was isolating himself on a rock. Unless the Red Woman arrived to whisper of fire and destiny, Stannis would simply brood himself into irrelevance.
A short time later, Ser Jorah emerged from the Black City gates, flanked by a contingent of prisoners.
"Tyrosh is yours, Commander," Jorah reported, saluting with his bloodied sword.
"The Archon?" Gendry asked.
"Poisoned by his own merchants before we breached the keep. As for the men on the traitor's list, those who did not fall on their swords are in irons."
"And the High Priest of Trios?"
"Escorted back to his temple unharmed. The clergy remains docile."
Gendry stepped forward, his eyes landing on a familiar face among the chained nobles. Magistrate Aquido looked haggard, his vibrant red hair matted with grime from his time in the Archon's dungeons.
"I told you we would meet again, Aquido," Gendry said softly.
"I should have heeded your warning, Hammer King," Aquido rasped, dropping to his knees. "I brought back your terms, and the Archon rewarded me with the dark cells."
"Wash your hair and swear your oath. I have need of men who know the ledgers of Tyrosh," Gendry commanded, motioning for a guard to strike the man's chains.
Jorah gestured to a knight standing nearby. "Commander, this man fought with the fury of a bear in the lower wards. He slew three captains of the Tyroshi guard single-handedly to secure the breach."
Gendry studied the man. He was utterly unremarkable to look at—squat, powerfully built, with a flat nose, a square jaw, and greying hair. He wore battered, unadorned plate.
"Your name, Ser?" Gendry asked.
"Lothor Brune, Commander," the man grunted, his voice like grinding stones.
Gendry recognized the name from Qyburn's dossiers of notable freeriders. The Apple-Eater. He was a hedge knight of little renown now, but Gendry knew a master of butchery when he saw one.
"A fine day's work, Lothor Brune," Gendry said. "You have found a home in the Wolf Pack."