The autumn skies above Myr stretched endlessly, painted in shifting layers of gold and pale blue. Wisps of cloud drifted lazily over the rolling hills and thick forests surrounding the Free City. The leaves, now turning with the season, shimmered in shades of amber, copper, and deep crimson. Beneath this tranquil beauty, however, banners of many colors snapped and twisted in the brisk wind—symbols of tension gathering from across Essos.
Gendry stood at the forefront of the welcoming procession, his cloak fluttering behind him as he observed the arriving envoys from Qohor and Norvos. The two Free Cities, ancient allies since the brutal Century of Blood, approached with markedly different escorts, yet both radiated the same uneasy urgency.
"Welcome to Myr," Gendry said with measured warmth, lowering his head respectfully as the delegations halted before him.
The Qohorik envoy stepped forward first, draped in dark robes woven with silver thread, as grim and mysterious as the city he represented. Behind him marched a disciplined troop of Unsullied—bronze spiked helmets gleaming, shields held at identical angles, their spears motionless as if frozen in time.
Beside the Qohorik stood the envoy of Norvos, a tall man with a wild beard braided with iron rings. His guard, the legendary bearded axemen, looked like warriors carved from stone. Their chests bore the ritual brand of the long axe, and their iron-studded leather armor clinked heavily with every movement. Each man carried a massive six-foot axe, representing the lifelong vow made during their coming-of-age rituals—a sacred marriage to their weapon.
To Gendry, the contrast between the two city's guards was striking. Qohor's force was a precise formation of light, lethal spearmen; Norvos' was a grim phalanx of brute strength and hardened zeal. Both were valuable. Both could be useful allies.
Standing slightly behind Gendry, Qyburn watched the newcomers with undisguised suspicion. "Evil, distant Free Cities," he muttered to himself, though carefully low enough that no one would hear. He scanned the envoys' robes and faces, as if searching for traces of blood magic or sacrificial rites. The Qohorik priests, famous for their dark rituals, often drenched themselves in the scent of the black goat god—but today, at least, the delegation smelled neutral.
Once the greetings concluded, the Qohor envoy spoke first, wasting no time on courtesy. His voice was low, tense.
"The message has reached the far East. If the East has heard it, then certainly the West will soon feel its flames. Khal Drogo is furious. He considers Khal Jhaqo's death a deep humiliation—something no Khal will ignore."
Gendry raised an eyebrow, eyeing the vast line of Unsullied behind the envoy. "Drogo is gathering for a large-scale invasion, then?"
"I believe so, Lord Gendry," replied the Norvos envoy before his Qohorik counterpart could answer. His heavy beard trembled as he spoke. "Drogo wants to restore the feared prestige of the Dothraki. There is no better way to bend the Free Cities to fear than destroying one—or several—entirely."
The thought was not exaggerated. The Dothraki Sea had produced countless war bands, but Drogo was exceptional even among the Khals. His Khalasar, numbering over forty thousand, was a sweeping tide of horsemen—swift, merciless, devastating. If unleashed to the west, the destruction would be unimaginable.
Gendry studied the envoys, noting the mixture of dread and anticipation in their eyes. Though they feared the Dothraki, they also saw an opportunity—one that required a powerful leader to stand against Drogo. Myr, situated near the sea and guarded by strong walls, offered them hope. But hope came at a cost.
Gendry's silence stretched long enough that both envoys began to shift uneasily. Qohor and Norvos had no coastline—if war reached their walls, there would be no escape for their citizens. They needed allies. They needed him.
Finally, the Qohor envoy offered what Gendry expected. "To face Drogo, we are prepared to support you with five hundred Unsullied. In addition, we offer gold, weapons, tapestries, quality timber, furs, silver, tin, amber—anything you require."
The Norvos envoy bowed slightly. "Norvos will send two hundred long-axe slave soldiers. We also offer gold, oaks of high quality, and our finest textiles."
Seven hundred elite troops.
And chests full of gold.
War, Gendry knew well, was the quickest way to draw wealth from the Free Cities. Their fear was genuine, but fear was also profitable.
"I appreciate your generosity," Gendry said, allowing the faintest smile to show. "Come. Let us discuss matters in greater detail."
---
Inside the map room, Gendry unrolled the enormous tapestry map of Essos across the table, pinning the corners with iron candleholders. The envoys gathered around, their brows furrowed, their fingers anxiously curling around their robes.
Gendry traced a line from the Dothraki Sea toward the west.
"This river is the Rhoyne. Here runs the ancient Valyrian Road. And here—this is the endless stretch of the Dothraki Sea." His finger circled Vaes Dothrak. "Drogo will go here first."
"To the Dosh Khaleen," murmured Ser Jorah, who had been quietly leaning against the far wall. The exiled knight stepped forward. "The Dosh Khaleen are the wise old women of the Dothraki—the widows of all the Khals who ever lived. They are highly revered. No Khal ventures to war without first seeking their approval."
The Norvos envoy gulped. "So Drogo truly intends to unite the horse lords?"
"He intends to avenge humiliation," Gendry replied. "Which makes him more dangerous."
He began marking the paths likely to be taken by the Khalasar.
"He'll pray in the sacred city. Then he will ride south, gathering every Screamer loyal to him, crushing other Khalasars on the way. By the time he reaches the edge of the Disputed Lands, he could lead fifty to sixty thousand warriors."
The envoys blanched, their faces draining of color.
The story of the ancient assault on Qohor still haunted them. Long ago, three Khalasars had united and nearly razed the city to the ground—stopped only by the sacrifice of thousands of Unsullied. Even today, the Qohorik called that battle the "Day of a Thousand Tears."
And now Drogo wanted to surpass that.
Ser Jorah spoke again, voice grim. "There is a prophecy among the Dothraki. Perhaps you've heard it—the Stallion Who Mounts the World."
Both envoys shuddered. They knew the tale. Everyone did.
The Stallion, born to unite all Khalasars, would lead a wave of horsemen that would drown entire civilizations. The earth would tremble under his hooves. Bell braids would ring like thunder. Cities of stone—'milk men,' as the Dothraki called them—would burn like dry leaves.
Gendry nodded. "Drogo may believe the prophecy applies to himself—or to his unborn son."
He let the silence settle, then spoke firmly.
"We are civilized peoples. We build, we trade, we worship. Drogo wants to shatter all of that. If he wins, our cities will become graveyards."
"Then we must form a pact," the Qohor envoy urged. "A contract of mutual defense. If one is invaded, all must respond."
"In time," Gendry said calmly. "For now, we are not forming an evil cabal of desperation. We are forming a front of civilization."
"But…" The Norvos envoy's voice trembled. "If Drogo truly brings sixty thousand Screaming Warriors to Myr—how do you intend to stop him, Your Highness?"
Gendry did not flinch.
"Myr's walls are strong. Stronger than most in the Free Cities. If the Dothraki choose to raid our countryside and avoid our armies, yes, that is the clever strategy. But if they, blinded by rage, force a direct assault on our walls?" A sharp, confident grin appeared. "Then I will make Drogo lose more tragically than the Dothraki did at the walls of Qohor centuries ago."
The envoys exchanged uncertain looks.
"And how many troops do you command?" the Qohor envoy asked skeptically.
"I have three Legions," Gendry replied, his tone steady. "The Wolf Pack, the Free Legion, and the Second Sons Legion. I also command loyal Dothraki riders under my banner."
"That is… impressive," Norvos admitted. "But it may still be insufficient. Your Highness, for safety, we strongly advise purchasing a large batch of Unsullied from Slaver's Bay. You have gold, and your need is clear. If it burdens you, Qohor will help pay."
Gendry only chuckled. "I do not need Unsullied to defeat the Dothraki."
To the envoys, this sounded like the arrogance of youth.
To Gendry, it was truth.
He had plans they could not yet imagine.
---
The discussions dragged on late into the afternoon, but by the end of the meeting, both Qohor and Norvos had pledged substantial support. They left the map room visibly calmer, reassured—at least partially—by Gendry's confidence.
As the doors shut behind them, Ser Jorah stepped closer to Gendry.
"You handled them well," he said. "But Drogo is not a foe to underestimate."
"I never underestimate my enemies," Gendry replied quietly, eyes returning to the map. "But they underestimate me."
He rested a hand over the Dothraki Sea symbol.
A storm was coming.
But he would be ready.
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