The Narrow Sea roared with churning waves, and the wind drove the fast ships forward. The deep, guttural blast of war horns rolled across the water—hoarse, unearthly cries echoing from vessel to vessel like the call of sea-born demons.
At the head of the fleet sailed the Wolfpack, Gendry's flagship—once known as Lady Lace—a proud relic of Myr's fleet, now reborn under his command. Its silver sails gleamed beneath the pale sun, each bearing the sigil of a howling grey wolf. Three hundred oars bit into the sea in perfect rhythm, while rows of heavy ballistae lined her decks. Catapults at both bow and stern waited, loaded with barrels of burning pitch. The ship was not only formidable—it was fast, fierce, and alive with the promise of battle.
"I didn't expect to see you here, Ser Davos," Gendry said, grinning. The young commander was dressed plainly in a grey leather vest, his helmet resting at his feet. Heavy armor had no place at sea—his admiral had warned him of that.
Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, bowed slightly. He had crossed the Narrow Sea under Stannis's orders to gauge the mercenary market and the state of foreign fleets. Finding Gendry here—already commanding a formidable armada—was not what he'd anticipated. To his greater surprise, the infamous Myrman Morosh had joined Gendry's ranks, bringing his mercenary fleet under the Wolfpack's banner.
"A king reborn," Davos thought as he studied the young man before him. Handsome and broad-shouldered, Gendry bore the same easy charm and raw strength that once marked Renly Baratheon in his youth—but there was something different about him. Where Renly's presence was princely and flamboyant, Gendry's was forged in hardship and tempered by steel. Both, however, possessed that unmistakable Baratheon fire—a magnetism that drew men to follow them.
Davos felt an ache of dissonance. For more than a decade he had served Duke Stannis faithfully, yet now he found himself standing beside the Duke's illegitimate kin—half by circumstance, half by choice.
"It's an honor to meet you, Commander," Davos said with a weary smile. "Though I never thought I'd be betrayed by an old friend."
Morosh laughed—a sharp, sardonic sound. He was a lean man with olive skin and calculating eyes, the very image of a Myrman rogue. "Ah, Davos. Always so serious. I used to command Myr's mercenary fleet, but now I serve as admiral of the Wolfpack. The pay is good, the wine is better, and the company—well, you see it yourself."
He gestured to the bustling deck, where sailors worked the ropes and the oarsmen chanted in unison to the beat of the drums. "It's business, old friend. Nothing more."
"This isn't like you, Morosh," Davos replied, frowning. "You used to take pride in smuggling, in living by your own rules. When did gold become your master?"
"Not everyone's like Salladhor Saan—content to be a pirate forever," Morosh said with a shrug. "You were the first to realize there's more to life, Onion Knight. That's why you took the risk that made you a knight of the realm. I've simply done the same. I've no taste for smuggling anymore. Stannis, gods bless him, is as dull as the rocks of Dragonstone. Better to follow a man who knows how to win—and how to spend."
Davos's brow tightened. "I've always been loyal to Lord Stannis," he said quietly.
Gendry regarded him with a thoughtful look. He had heard tales of the smuggler knight's courage and cunning—his unmatched skill at reading the wind, the tide, and the treacherous coastline. Among sailors, there was none better.
"So, Stannis sends you to the other side of the sea," Gendry mused. "Seems he's not doing well on Dragonstone. A lonely island, a dead Hand, and a dwindling court… The stormlord's power wanes."
Davos said nothing. He had no gift for words, and even less for deceit.
"Good," Gendry concluded. "Then you'll sail with me today, Ser Davos. See how the Wolfpack fights. Let's show Tyrosi what real steel looks like."
Davos sighed. He could not leave the ship now, even if he wished to. "Then I'll watch, Commander. The sea has its lessons for all of us."
---
At the edge of the horizon, the Tyrosi fleet glimmered like a wall of steel and canvas. Beyond it lay the rich harbor of Tyrosh, its towers pale against the dawn.
Morosh turned to his officers. "The Narrow Sea Fleet is under Commander Harris," he announced. "The Mil Fleet—ours—is under my command."
Davos's thoughts churned darker than the sea beneath them. So this is it, he realized. A show of force against Stannis himself. Gendry's influence now stretched across Lys, the Stepstones, and the Disputed Lands. Tyrosh was next. No wonder Morosh had sold his loyalty; his new master offered coin and command, not austerity and sermons.
What truly surprised Davos, though, was Gendry's restraint. Youth often breeds arrogance, but Gendry listened—to veterans, to sailors, even to smugglers. With the Wolfpack's warships and the Narrow Sea pirates allied, Tyrosh stood on the brink of ruin.
"Commander," Morosh cried, his eyes gleaming. "Our scouts are back. It's time to strike!"
The air grew taut with expectation. Davos's instincts whispered caution—on open water, victory belonged not to the rash but to the patient.
"Hold formation," he muttered under his breath. "Probe their lines before you bleed."
But the drums had already begun.
"Down oars!" Morosh bellowed. "Form ranks!"
Three hundred oars plunged as one, and the ships surged forward to the rhythm of thunderous drums. The beat was like a colossal heart—steady, relentless. Each strike drove the fleet closer to the waiting storm.
The Wolfpack and the Narrow Sea Fleet spread apart, curving into twin wings that would soon close around their prey. The Narrow Sea ships were a wild assortment—pirates from the Stepstones, escaped slaves, and raiders. They numbered over two hundred, smaller and lighter than war galleys, but swift as knives in the surf. The Wolfpack ships were their opposite—heavier, armored, purpose-built for war.
"Faster!" Morosh roared. "Push her hard!"
The Wolfpack led the charge, flanked by war galleys with two hundred oars each. Behind them came the second column—smaller ships crewed by hardened sailors and river pirates. Farther back followed the merchants and supply vessels, their decks laden with siege materials and pitch barrels.
The first two columns carried knights and infantry, but not in great number—too many armored men would sink a ship. The main force waited in the rear, ready to land once the sea battle was won.
"Remember," Morosh cried, turning to Gendry, "the Wolfpack Fleet is the King's Myr armada reborn—we are the right fist! The Narrow Sea Fleet, under Commander Harris, strikes from the left!"
The war horns blared once more—low, savage notes that shook the air.
"WOOO—WOOO—WOOO!"
The sound rolled across the water like thunder. On every deck, soldiers beat their swords against shields, a rhythm of defiance and bloodlust. Archers took their positions. Catapults groaned. Fire barrels hissed as pitch was lit.
Gendry stood at the prow, eyes fixed on the city rising from the mist. Tyrosh's bright harbor loomed ahead—beautiful, rich, and doomed. The salt wind carried the smell of oil and fear.
He gripped the railing, his jaw set.
"Ready the ballistae," he ordered quietly. "Let the wolves hunt."
The drums quickened. The oars dipped faster. The two fleets converged, closing like jaws upon their prey.
A new dawn rose over the Narrow Sea—red as blood, loud as war.
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