Jorah Mormont felt as though he were walking through a dream.
As he led his men into the Black City of Tyrosh, a surreal sense of dislocation washed over him. The shouts of soldiers, the clatter of boots on ancient stone, the smell of smoke and salt from the harbor—everything blended into a haze. This was not the first time he had dealt with the Tyroshi, and every step he took stirred memories he wished he could forget.
Years ago, on the cold and isolated Bear Island, Jorah had desperately tried to give his wife, Lynesse Hightower, a life worthy of her noble upbringing. She came from the wealthy and luxurious lands of the Reach, while Bear Island had little to offer beyond fish, timber, and stubborn northerners. To please her, Jorah bought silks, perfumes, jewels—luxuries he could not afford. He emptied his coffers, then emptied them again, and before long he found himself drowning in debt.
In his desperation, he broke the laws of the Seven Kingdoms. He sold poachers into slavery to the Tyroshi. When the truth came out, Eddard Stark, his liege lord, condemned him to death. Faced with execution, Jorah fled with Lynesse to the Free Cities. But she eventually left him as well, seeking comfort in the luxurious courts of Lys while he wandered as an exile.
Now, riding through the gates of Tyrosh once more, Jorah felt that old wound ache in his chest.
Perhaps I was the fool, he thought bitterly. Bringing her unprepared to the cold and hunger of Bear Island… I pushed her into a life she wasn't made for.
But he shook his head sharply.
"The past is the past."
He lifted his longsword in a decisive arc, as if slicing through the ghosts haunting him. Then he inhaled deeply and looked up at the looming towers of the Black City. Tyrosh, which had once stood proud and defiant, was now weakened, its gates thrown open, its defenders defeated.
The nobles of Tyrosh no longer had the courage to fight to the bitter end. The Myrmen had fallen. The Dothraki screamers had failed. Their reinforcements were nowhere in sight.
Now, all that remained was surrender.
Jorah tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and moved forward, guiding the elite soldiers of the Wolf Pack through the gates. Tyrosh had once looked down on him. Today, he entered as a conqueror.
---
The Black City's Ancient Walls
Gendry stood before the towering black walls of Tyrosh, eyes lifted in admiration. The walls—constructed with Valyrian techniques long lost to the world—rose into the sky like dark mountains.
Most Valyrian strongholds were built using molten black stone, forming impossibly smooth, perfectly fused structures. It was said that the walls of Volantis were the grandest of all—two hundred feet tall, with six great carriages able to race side-by-side along the ramparts. Tyrosh's walls were smaller, but still formidable.
Maester Qyburn adjusted his robes and said quietly, "Ser Jorah was the right choice to lead the assault. If we had sent the freed slaves in their rage, they would have torn this city to pieces. The slaughter would have been endless."
The Handsome Man—his injured sword arm wrapped tightly—snorted. "I've heard his story. The man is devoted, perhaps to the point of foolishness. A Northerner marrying a woman of the Reach… it always sounded doomed. He should have wed someone from his own land."
"He loved too deeply," Gendry murmured.
And love had cost Jorah everything.
But the man who now marched through Tyrosh was no longer the broken exile of old. He had regained dignity, regained purpose.
Gendry thought briefly of Oberyn Martell—the Red Viper—whose worldly experiences in romance far exceeded Jorah's painful lessons. Perhaps the Dornish prince would understand him better than anyone.
---
A New Army for a New Realm
"Once Tyrosh is pacified," Gendry said, his gaze sweeping over the defeated city, "we'll need to reorganize our armies."
The Tyroshi flags were already being torn down from the walls, tossed into the dirt by celebrating soldiers.
The Handsome Man raised an eyebrow. "A standing army?" His tone brightened with interest. Swordsmanship was no longer his strength—his right arm had yet to fully recover—so strategy had become his refuge. "With the wealth of the Twin Cities Alliance, we could manage it."
Gendry nodded. Tyrosh and Myr, positioned between rival powers on all sides, were battlegrounds waiting to ignite. Weak Pentos to the north, Dothraki on the plains, Lys and Volantis to the south, and Westeros across the Narrow Sea.
"We can't rely on mercenaries alone," Gendry said. "We need stability. Discipline. An army that is loyal to us."
His plan was straightforward yet ambitious:
— One standing army built around the Wolf Pack.
— One army formed from the freed slaves.
— One army based on the reorganized Second Sons.
— And the Dothraki screamers serving as cavalry auxiliaries.
He also desired an Unsullied force—but Slaver's Bay was too far, and purchasing them was impossible without immense wealth. Taking them for free would require dragons… dragons he did not yet possess.
"We must also consider Lys and Volantis," Longspear added. "They're stirring. And if the lords across the Narrow Sea decide to intervene, we'll need to be ready."
"An army alone isn't enough," Gendry agreed. "We need a proper ranking system."
He had no intention of using Westerosi feudal ranks. His army would rise through merit—soldier, sergeant, junior officer, field officer, general. Skill over birth. Competence over blood.
"Only House Lannister has ever had the wealth to build a true standing army," Qyburn observed. "And they may become our enemy."
The Westerlands were rich—immensely rich. And after Tywin crushed the rebellious Reynes and Tarbecks, he established control with ruthless efficiency. Their rivals had been eliminated, their lands centralized. The Reach might be wealthier in theory, but too disorganized.
"How strong is the Lannister army?" Longspear asked.
"Very," Qyburn replied. "Wealthy and well-trained. With Tywin ruling Casterly Rock, they can muster at least thirty thousand soldiers. Ten thousand knights. Fifteen thousand infantry. At least five thousand heavy cavalry."
Gendry absorbed the numbers.
He had two reasons to hate the Lannisters—one personal, one political. Their feud would one day come to the forefront.
But not yet.
Right now, other enemies demanded more urgent attention.
---
Tensions in Westeros
"Any word from Lord Stannis?" Gendry asked.
"None so far," Qyburn replied.
Gendry exhaled, unimpressed. Stannis remained isolated on Dragonstone, waiting for fate to crush him. Without the Red Witch, he was simply a stubborn lord with diminishing power.
But soon enough, the tides of war would reach him too.
---
Jorah Returns
A clatter of armor and boots reached Gendry's ears. He looked up just as Ser Jorah approached.
"Tyrosh has submitted, Commander," Jorah said, kneeling slightly.
"What of the Archon?" Gendry asked. "And the traitors?"
"The Archon was poisoned—punishment for recklessness," Jorah replied. "Those named as traitors are being rounded up. Most still live."
"And the High Priest of the Three-Headed God temple?"
"He has been escorted back to his temple. He's stable."
Gendry nodded.
Then he noticed Aquido in the crowd—a shadow of his former self, disheveled and gaunt from imprisonment.
"We meet again," Gendry said.
Aquido bowed his head, ashamed.
"I lacked good judgment. I was fooled and paid the price."
"Stand tall," Gendry said. "And swear your loyalty."
Jorah stepped forward. "Commander-in-Chief, this knight fought bravely. He killed several captains of the Tyroshi City Watch."
Gendry's eyes shifted to the man beside Jorah: broad-shouldered, gray-haired, square jawed. Ordinary in appearance—yet solid, dependable.
"Rosso Brenn, Commander," the knight said.
Gendry smiled.
"A good man. And one I will remember."
Rosso, the Apple Eater—who one day would carve out a modest but respected place in the world.
And another piece of the future army began to fall into place.
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