"Liberator!"
"Father!"
The shouts rolled through the streets of Tyrosh like a breaking wave. Gendry rode his black destrier through the conquered outer city, the grey-and-white banners of the Wolf Pack and the Free Army snapping in the wind where the three-headed flags of Trios had once flown.
All around him, a sea of emancipated slaves pressed close. Men and women with tears streaking their ash-stained faces trampled their broken iron collars into the cobblestones. They reached out to brush the flanks of his horse, their voices thick with a frantic, desperate devotion. Gendry raised a gauntleted hand, his face a mask of solemn acknowledgment.
Riding half a length behind, Davos Seaworth watched the display. The Onion Knight felt a familiar, heavy ache in his chest. This was the true Baratheon gift: the raw, magnetic gravity that turned broken men into zealots and enemies into brothers. Stannis possessed the endurance of iron, but he had none of this fire. Beneath Gendry's rugged exterior, Davos recognized a mind that calculated every smile and measured every cheer.
The vanguard reached the grand plaza of the Temple of Trios. The massive stone deity loomed over the square, its first head gazing downward to devour the dead, while the third head looked upward, promising new life.
Beneath the towering statues, the mood shifted. Dozens of slaves hung from the archways, their bodies swaying gently in the sea breeze. They were the martyrs of the pre-dawn uprising, executed by the Archon's magistrates before the harbor fell.
Gendry dismounted. He walked to the nearest body, pulling his heavy cloak from his shoulders and draping it over the fallen man.
"They died for their own chains," Gendry's voice carried across the silent plaza. "Cut them down. Wash them, and shroud them. We will not leave them to the crows."
"It will be done, Commander," Grey Worm replied. The Unsullied formed a perimeter, their spiked helms gleaming like rows of iron teeth. From the temple steps, the silent sisters of Trios approached with bowed heads, ready to offer the final rites regardless of the dead's former station.
The quiet reverence was broken by the heavy footfalls of Ser Jorah and Raymun the Wildling.
"Commander," Jorah reported, his brow furrowed. "There is looting in the merchant quarters. Fires and rapes. Mostly the newly freed slaves taking their revenge, not our men."
Gendry turned, his blue eyes hardening into chips of ice. "I declared martial law the moment the gates fell. We are not here to replace one breed of butcher with another. Form the patrols. Anyone caught raping or burning hangs. Show them Northern justice."
Raymun gave a stiff nod, recognizing the cold authority of the King of Winter in the young man's voice.
Before Jorah could turn away, Grey Worm stepped forward, producing a sealed parchment. "A black bird from the Maester."
Gendry broke Qyburn's seal. As he read the cramped script, his jaw muscles feathered.
"Myr is rioting," Gendry announced softly, though the words carried the weight of a stone. "The old masters are funding chaos in the streets. Brown Ben Plumm is keeping the lid on it, but that is not the worst of it. A khalasar has crossed the Rhoyne. They bypass the Disputed Lands and ride straight for Myr."
He looked up, meeting Jorah's gaze. "It is not Drogo. The numbers are too small. But they are Dothraki all the same."
This was the crucible. To reform a society meant bleeding for it. Gendry knew the Tyroshi Archon and the exiled Myrish lords had pooled their gold to buy the horse lords. Sellswords would balk at fighting Dothraki on an open plain, which meant only his core army could face the screamers.
"Summon the captains to the Fountain of the Drunken God," Gendry commanded.
Within the hour, the council stood surrounded by a ring of Unsullied shields.
"The Myrish exiles have bought a khalasar," Gendry told his commanders, pointing to a hastily drawn map on a marble bench. "If Myr falls, Tyrosh is a trap. I am taking the vanguard back across the water to break the horse lords."
"You leave us?" Raymun asked, his massive hands tightening into fists. The fear of the Archon's return was palpable among the freedmen.
"I leave you a siege," Gendry corrected. "The Black City is a vault. Let them starve inside it. The Treasurer will take command of the blockade. Ser Jorah, Raymun, you will hold the outer walls and enforce the law. Do not storm the dragonstone. Wait for my return."
"And the fleet?" Jorah asked.
"Harry Strickland will consolidate the captured Tyroshi ships. Morosh will ferry my assault force across the strait tonight." Gendry turned to the Onion Knight. "Ser Davos. The Rhoyne is no place for a sailor. You will remain here and assist the Treasurer."
Davos recognized the dismissal. The young stag did not want Stannis's eyes watching his true strength deploy.
By dusk, a swift cutter slipped away from the Tyroshi harbor, cutting through the darkening waters. It made landfall on a secluded stretch of the mainland coast, far from the burning city.
As Gendry waded ashore, the torchlight caught the gleam of bronze scales and polished leather. A hundred light horsemen waited in the shadows. They wore silk turbans wrapped over steel helms, carrying round metal shields and recurved bows.
At their head sat a man with a face like a carved blade, his dark eyes sparkling with dangerous amusement.
"A magnificent victory, Commander," Prince Oberyn Martell called out, leaning casually on the pommel of his saddle. The Red Viper had watched the harbor burn, and he looked entirely entirely too pleased with the destruction.
Gendry walked up the shoreline, his hand resting casually near the hilt of his arakh. "You did not cross the world just to watch a Tyroshi bonfire, Prince Oberyn."
Oberyn chuckled, swinging down from his mount. The revelation of Gendry's Baratheon blood had complicated their dynamic, but the presence of the Targaryen girl and their mutual hatred for the Lannisters kept the Viper's fangs sheathed.
"I came for the blood, of course," Oberyn said, walking to meet him. "I hear whispers on the wind. Whispers of horse lords crossing the Rhoyne, and Myrish masters forgetting their place."
"And you have no interest in helping me take the Black City?" Gendry asked.
"Tyrosh is a neighbor to Dorne," Oberyn replied smoothly. "Many of these Archons fostered at the Water Gardens in their youth. It would be... impolite to openly breach their walls."
"But you do not fear the Iron Throne's wrath for riding with a rebel?"
Oberyn smiled, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. "Dorne is not here. Only Oberyn. I have not seen King's Landing in years." He gestured lazily to his bronze-clad riders. "Besides, Dornishmen and Myrishmen share a certain olive complexion. In the heat of battle, who is to say where these brave sellswords hail from? A man must have his hobbies, Hammer King. And slaughtering Dothraki screamers sounds like fine sport."