When the tides swept in, thunder rumbled beneath the Hall of Heroes, as though echoing the unrest of the age.
Tyrosh, one of the nine Free Cities, lay not far from the coast of the Disputed Lands.
Tyrosh was a fortified city protected by high walls, situated at the northeasternmost end of the Stepstones. Its inner walls were made of fused black dragonstone.
With worry on his face, the Archon of Tyrosh stood atop a lofty watchtower in the black inner city, watching the Wolf Pack fleet patrol the sea. Those handsome Myrish warships had now lowered their Myrish flags and replaced them with banners bearing roaring wolves.
Beside the Archon stood a group of senior Tyroshi governors, nobles, several Tyroshi mercenary captains, and a handful of exiled Myrish nobles.
Without exception, extravagance marked them as Tyroshi. The Tyroshi loved bright colors, dyeing their hair and beards vivid shades of blue, green, chestnut, pink, purple, scarlet, and vermilion. Their hats were distinctive too.
"I am willing to offer my warships and half my fortune, so long as you help me fight my way back to Myr!" an exiled Myrish governor promised. He felt as though his heart were bleeding.
"Do it, Archon! Many things are not a question of whether we can, but whether we dare!" a Tyroshi governor urged. "The Wolf Pack fleet stretches from the Bay of Myr to the Stepstones. They have effectively blockaded the entire sea route. Our slave ships no longer dare sail out to capture slaves, and our merchant ships are also at the mercy of their blockade! If this continues, Tyrosh will collapse sooner or later!"
"How? With the Tyroshi alone?" The green-bearded Archon sighed. "Of course I know how dire our situation is. The slaves in the city are brewing a revolt, our estates and towns in the Disputed Lands have been seized, and now our sea routes are being sealed off! Yet reinforcements from Lys and Volantis still have not arrived. We can only struggle to hold on!"
"What about hiring the Unsullied?"
"Too expensive, and it would take too long. Besides, Braavos opposes slavery too. I do not think it would work!"
"Our strength alone is naturally no match for theirs, but we have allies! Lys and Volantis are both slaveholding cities, and there is Slaver's Bay as well. Would they allow this tide of slave emancipation to keep raging unchecked?"
"King Robert's bastard has now joined forces with the exiled Targaryen princess. They have plenty of enemies across the Narrow Sea too! The wealthy Lord Tywin is one!" The governors and nobles beside him all spoke at once, each presenting a seemingly sound analysis.
"Let me point out one disadvantage first! The old Hand whom the whoremonger king trusted is dead. I fear the Iron Throne has no interest in meddling across the Narrow Sea."
"Distant water cannot quench a fire here! My lords, our city is burning. How long must we wait for reinforcements?" the Archon asked. No one understood the workings of the Free Cities better than he did. Elections and democracy yoked together horses pulling in different directions, making decisions agonizingly difficult.
"If only your swords were as sharp as your tongues. Will you board the ships and fight?" the purple-haired Tyroshi admiral sneered.
"We have only around two hundred warships, while that mercenary king has two hundred assorted warships and another hundred and forty Myrish vessels. His army is well trained too!"
"The Pentoshi are weak, and the Braavosi are noncommittal. The reinforcements from Lys, our best hope, are hesitating. It is not yet an election year in Volantis, so the Elephant Party still holds power. As for the Golden Company, they too are cultivating ties with the mercenary king!"
"Then have we no way to survive?" Despair began to spread, and some governors wore mournful expressions.
"We are certainly not without hope!" The Archon waved a hand. "The khals. Those greedy khals will probably not appreciate Myr refusing to offer them wealth after gaining its independence."
"Now is the time for us to stand together and confront Tyrosh's crisis, one more terrifying than Silver Tongue. Contribute your wealth, my lords. We will hire swordsmen and knights while also sending envoys to entice the khals into marching!"
Chapter 68: The orphan of Dragonstone
Dragonstone was a lonely fortress in the sea, a cold, damp wasteland surrounded year-round by storms and treacherous waters. With the smoking shadow of a volcano behind it, its gloom needed no description.
The high walls of Dragonstone's castle were covered in ancient Valyrian-style gargoyles, hellhounds, and winged dragons. These stone creatures numbered over a thousand.
When Stannis first arrived, the grotesque gargoyles crowding the castle had displeased him. Time passed, yet it had never washed away his resentment.
Stannis was in the Round Table Hall in the Stone Drum Tower, with only his confidant Ser Davos beside him.
The chamber was famed for the map table made by the Conqueror. It was fifty feet long, some twenty-five feet across at its widest point, and less than four at its narrowest.
Not one of its edges was straight. Its surface depicted the Seven Kingdoms of Aegon's day, with all their rivers and mountains, castles and cities, lakes and forests. Nearly three hundred years of varnish had built up its sheen.
A raised seat stood near the place marking Dragonstone on the Map Table, allowing its occupant to survey the entire tabletop. Stannis sat there.
"Has any letter come from King's Landing, Davos?" Stannis asked.
Stannis wore a close-fitting leather vest and trousers of coarse brown wool. He had broad shoulders, strong limbs, a taut face, and skin hardened like iron by years beneath the blazing sun. Though not yet thirty-five, he had only a thin fringe of black hair left, circling behind his ears like the shadow of a crown. His beard was trimmed short and neat, a blue shadow covering his square jaw and the hollows beneath his cheekbones.
"No." Davos shook his head.
"I knew it would be so. I spent fifteen years risking my life for my brother Robert, helping Jon govern the realm so Robert could eat, drink, whore, and gamble! By rights, old Jon should have retired to the Vale long ago, yet he kept clinging to his position.
"It was bad enough that my brother trusted no one else. Now old Jon is dead, and he still has not thought to name me Hand!" Stannis's words carried no emotion. They never did.
"I have thought it over. He will give this honor to Eddard Stark instead! The brother he cherishes is not me, but Ned Stark!"
"My lord, this is no time for anger," Ser Davos urged. "Besides, being in King's Landing is hardly a blessing. Hand Jon is dead, and King's Landing reeks of lions!"
"Indeed! King's Landing may be no pleasant place, but how is Dragonstone any better? Truth be told, I never wanted any of Dragonstone. This place is accursed! I took it because Robert's mortal enemies were entrenched here. I defeated them and fulfilled my duty as his younger brother. And how did Robert thank me? He named me Lord of Dragonstone, but gave Storm's End's lands and revenues to Renly!"
That old grievance had wounded Stannis deeply, and he could never escape its scars.
Dragonstone's past greatness had rested upon dragons. Without them, it was now barren and weak. Stannis commanded only a few minor nobles, and their outlying island holdings were rocky, rugged, and sparsely populated. There were scarcely any soldiers to squeeze out of them!
"Enough!" Stannis considered for a moment. "The point is that I have neither soldiers nor revenue. I cannot even defend myself!"
Davos sighed inwardly. Stannis was determination personified, but he lacked warmth and charm. Few people liked him. The lords of Storm's End were loyal to Renly, and the bolder among them might now be watching a bastard across the Narrow Sea.
"My lord, our true enemy is House Lannister. There is no doubt of that! Suppose you could fight alongside your brothers and kin!"
"I will never compromise unless they first acknowledge my place in the succession and fulfill their duties as younger brothers and younger kin."
"Renly is already beyond reach! In time, we will surely need to recruit mercenaries and sailors from across the Narrow Sea. But as you know, many of those mercenaries depend on Gendry's power! They have either fled to Tyrosh to earn a living or surrendered directly to the Free Army."
"He is only a callow boy, my brother's bastard!" Stannis said. "He has not usurped the title of king yet, but I doubt he is far from it. He treasures that girl, that remnant of the True Dragon's line. What does he want if not that crown? Compromising with him would only tear the kingdom apart!"
"Even so, Commander-in-Chief Gendry's forces are now busy governing Myr and preparing for war with the slaveholding cities! At least for now, we may still have time to negotiate."
"Negotiate? That seems a desperate course. The brat is as ambitious as Blackfyre. I can only rely on you. You have contacts in both Lys and Myr!" Stannis looked at Davos. "Celtigar, Velaryon, and Bar Emmon are hardly capable men either, but they are all my brother left me."
"I will do everything I can! I may be older, but my skill at handling the Black Ship has not faded!" the Onion Knight promised. Compared with the courtiers of Storm's End, he still felt that mercenaries motivated by money would prove more dependable. The vassals were unwilling to champion Stannis's rights because they did not love him.
Dragonstone's old maester, Cressen, entered the Round Table Hall then. He was so old that climbing the stairs was an ordeal.
"Old man, I knew you would come whether I summoned you or not," Stannis said, raising his head.
"Once, you would have woken me," the old man said.
"Once, you were younger. Now you are old and ill, and need your sleep." Stannis would never learn honeyed words. He knew nothing of dissembling or flattery. He said what he thought, without regard for anyone's feelings.
"As Master of Ships, was it not discourteous to return to Dragonstone without permission? Nor have you apologized or offered the king an explanation!"
"An explanation! Robert offered me none when he granted me Dragonstone, nor when he searched everywhere for a Hand of the King. By rights, once he became king, Storm's End should have been mine!"
"Robert certainly treated you unfairly," Maester Cressen replied cautiously, "but he had his reasons at the time. Dragonstone had always been the seat of House Targaryen. He needed a strong man to rule here, and Renly was only a child then."
"He is still a child!" Stannis said. "A vain, arrogant child who shows no respect for his elder brother! I have done my duty by Robert. What has Renly done?"
Cressen was far too old now, and Stannis no longer wished to hear his advice.
Yet Maester Cressen often felt like a father. Ever since the raging sea had taken Lord Steffon's life, Robert, Stannis, and Renly... had been like three sons to him, raised by his own hand.
"Come, old maester. Let us give his lordship some peace," Davos suggested.
Stannis stood alone before the table, his shadow covering the mouth of the Blackwater Rush and King's Landing.
Stannis, my child, you are not an orphan. There are still people who love you! the old maester thought. Whatever happened, he had to stop the strife between the brothers.
Davos and the old maester went downstairs, where they encountered Shireen and the fool Patchface in the forecourt.
Little Shireen was as shy as ever. Behind her, shuffling, hopping, and sidling strangely along, came her fool Patchface. He wore a toy helm fashioned from an old tin bucket, with two antlers lashed to its top. Cowbells hung from them, sounding with each stumbling step: clang-clang, bong, jingle-jingle, clatter-clatter.
Seeing the child made the old maester's heart ache even more. This was Stannis's second tragedy. My poor, melancholy son!
The little girl had contracted greyscale in infancy and nearly died. Though she had survived, it had left a terrible disfigurement: from one cheek down below her neck, her skin had hardened and died, its cracked surface peeling in layers, mottled with black and gray, and hard as stone to the touch.
"Have you seen my father, Maester?" Shireen asked.
"Yes," the old man replied. "His lordship has some matters to attend to!"
Just then, Patchface suddenly shouted. The fool shook his bells. "Under the sea, it is summer every day!" he chanted. "Mermaids wear seaweed in their hair, silver seaweed makes their gowns. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh!"
Chapter 69: Tyrosh seeks peace
An envoy from Tyrosh arrived at Wolf's Den. He was a young governor named Aquad, with red hair and a red beard, wearing a pointed Tyroshi hat.
The Tyroshi had sent thirty loud, extravagantly dressed mercenaries to escort him, along with three Tyroshi nobles and servants transporting supplies.
After being questioned by scouts, Governor Aquad finally entered the camp beside Wolf's Den. He saw soldiers, spearmen, swordsmen, attendants, armored men, and messengers carrying dispatches. Everything was orderly.
"Forgive the interruption, Archon. I have the honor of bringing you Governor Aquad, the envoy from Tyrosh!" Ser Jorah led Governor Aquad into the great tent.
"Your name is Aquad too?" Inside the tent, Gendry studied the young noble kneeling on one knee before him. The Tyroshi had indeed trembled under his pressure and sent an envoy to seek peace.
Tyrosh and Myr were already on the brink of war, for Tyrosh had sheltered some of the exiled Myrish governors and nobles, hired mercenaries to prepare for battle, and fought slave uprisings within the city.
"Yes, Commander-in-Chief!" Aquad replied, making no secret of his ancestry. "Silver Tongue, Aquad Adarys, was my forebear."
Aquad stole a glance at the handsome, athletic mercenary king seated behind the desk. The youth had black hair and blue eyes, and was as strong and powerful as a hunting leopard.
A white-haired old maester sat on a folding leather chair, with several Unsullied guards nearby. Jorah, who had brought them in, stood to one side as well.
"To think Silver Tongue's descendants still live!" Those inside the tent were somewhat surprised.
"I serve as one of Tyrosh's governors, but I fall far short of my ancestor!" Aquad answered honestly.
"Lord Aquad, you have come on behalf of Tyrosh to discuss an urgent matter."
"Yes!" Aquad's heart tightened. Every word that followed might determine Tyrosh's fate. "Before I state my purpose, allow me to describe the gifts Tyrosh has prepared for you!"
Governor Aquad continued in a clear voice. "One hundred thousand Tyroshi gold diamonds. One hundred casks of the finest Tyroshi pear brandy. One hundred suits of fine gold-and-silver wolf-head armor made by Tyroshi craftsmen. And one gift you will appreciate most of all: the heads of three fugitive Myrish governors!"
"My thanks for the Archon's generosity!" Gendry said. "Those gifts sound excellent! So what does the Archon want?"
The Tyroshi knew when to bend and when to stand firm. Though Tyrosh was a mercantile city-state, it had once been a forward military outpost of Valyria. The city had a stronger martial character than Lys or Myr. Silver Tongue's deeds were the greatest precedent: he had ruled Tyrosh as a tyrant for seven or eight years.
"Peace!" Governor Aquad declared. "If you bring peace to Tyrosh, we can cede our estates and towns in the Disputed Lands to the Wolf Pack and recognize your authority over Myr, Commander-in-Chief. To demonstrate our sincerity, once a formal treaty is signed, Tyrosh will send you gifts worth ten times these!"
"And if I refuse?" Gendry looked at Aquad. "If I take Tyrosh, all its wealth will be mine."
"Tyrosh is not Myr. It is not weak like Myr. Its streets are filled with mercenaries, its master armorers forge strange and extraordinary armor, and it has stout walls of black dragonstone! Most importantly, most importantly, the followers of the Three-Headed God are unyielding!" Aquad summoned the greatest courage of his life and struggled to keep his words flowing smoothly.
"Why choose a difficult siege over wealth already within your grasp, Commander-in-Chief?" Aquad asked.
"What if I say no?"
"Do not forget how many slaves there are in the world. Can you free them all? Liberating slaves and bringing the Targaryen orphan home are both immensely difficult tasks. To accomplish both at once is as much a fantasy as restoring Valyria. Why not choose to gain another friend? Once, Volantis had hundreds of thousands of soldiers and a mighty empire. Now all that has vanished like smoke. If you wage war on every front, sooner or later you will become the enemy of the entire known world!"
Gendry studied Aquad. Young though he was, his insight and ability were remarkable.
"Do you know what this is?" Gendry drew his Valyrian blade. "My army is as sharp as this sword!"
"Valyrian steel is sharp and bloodthirsty. One glance is enough to see that!" Aquad said. "Killing me would only make Tyrosh more resolute and impregnable, Commander-in-Chief Gendry!"
"What a sharp tongue!" Gendry put away his curved sword. "You were sent here because they wanted you out of the way, weren't you?"
"Yes!" Aquad answered truthfully. "House Adarys reached its height under my ancestor, then swiftly declined. My position in the council of governors is awkward. I am little more than someone to fill a seat, not someone they particularly trust!"
"Tyrosh has a faction for war and a faction for peace! Which one do you belong to?"
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