Gendry stood in the aftermath of the tournament, the cheers of the crowd still echoing across Wolf's Den. Only now, beside the Blue Knight, could he truly appreciate the scale of her strength. Their heights were nearly identical, yet the Blue Knight's frame was broader, sturdier, radiating a power that was almost unnatural for a woman. That she had matched him so closely, if only for a brief time, was a testament to her skill.
"Your Highness, what is this?" the Blue Knight asked softly, her voice carrying both curiosity and respect. Around them, the taxi soldiers, identifiable by the white strips on their uniforms, attended to her injuries. They moved with surprising precision, their gestures calm and professional, reminiscent not of ruthless mercenaries but of diligent old Maesters. Some were young and eager, others weathered and patient; none seemed bloodthirsty.
"These are Medics, a specialized unit within the legion," Gendry explained. "Their skills may not match those of the healers of the Citadel, but their attention to hygiene and sterilization keeps our forces alive far longer than any ordinary army. They prevent disease and ensure recovery is possible after every battle."
"Arrange a private room for my guest," Gendry instructed.
"Yes, Your Highness," the Medics replied, bowing slightly.
"Many thanks," the Blue Knight said sincerely. There was a quiet dignity in her tone, and she allowed the Medics to escort her to a secluded area for treatment, still keeping her visor lowered.
Gendry had already guessed her identity. Brienne of Tarth. The Evenstar's daughter, a woman of unmatched skill and unwavering honor. Few knights could match her strength, courage, and dedication to chivalry. Gendry admired her, and he knew instinctively that she would be invaluable in protecting Daenerys, though winning her loyalty would require delicate handling. Brienne was a dutiful daughter and would consider her aging father on Tarth before pledging allegiance to any outsider. That matter would have to wait.
Beneath the visor, Brienne concealed her face not only for modesty but out of a sense of propriety—she had no desire to be seen running Across the Narrow Sea simply to indulge in spectacle. She was aware that, by Westerosi standards, her features were plain. Her eyes, however, were striking: large, blue, unflinching, and imbued with a quiet, resolute confidence that reflected the warrior within. Gendry could see that strength of character in them alone.
As Brienne was led away, the crowd erupted into another round of applause. Her presence had been a revelation, a brief glimpse of extraordinary skill tempered by the humility and discipline of a true knight. Yet, in comparison to the Magistrate himself, even a warrior of Brienne's caliber was still dwarfed by Gendry's unparalleled battlefield prowess.
Gendry ascended the high platform, where Daenerys awaited. The Unsullied and high-ranking officials of the Two Cities saluted, their movements precise and solemn. One by one, Gendry acknowledged them, a courteous nod or a brief word. Then he walked to the center of the platform, standing tall and commanding.
Even without his mask, Gendry radiated authority. His black scale plate armor gleamed in the sun, short hair restrained by a steel band inlaid with red gems—a subtle homage to Aegon the Conqueror. Daenerys had chosen it herself, a symbol of trust, love, and the merging of power and symbolism.
"This game is too dangerous," Daenerys said softly, concern and admiration mingling in her voice.
"Future battlefield games will be far more dangerous," Gendry replied with a smile. "But we are already engaged, Dany. I am your shield, and your sword." He gently ruffled her hair.
Daenerys laughed, a sound filled with pride and warmth. "You are my knight. I will pray for your continued victories."
"I will not fail you," Gendry said confidently.
"By the way," she added, "our guest has been waiting for you."
Gendry followed her gaze and saw a figure standing slightly apart on the platform: a man whose presence was dignified despite the disheveled appearance. The Ragged Prince of Pentos, the runaway scion of a once-powerful merchant family, observed him carefully.
"Your Grace the Magistrate, Your Royal Highness the Princess, it is an honor to meet you," the Prince said, bowing with a grace that belied the raggedness of his appearance. His silver-grey hair and armor, and a cloak stitched together from various fabrics, marked years of exile. Deep sorrow rested in his eyes, and the bags beneath them suggested nights of worry and wandering.
The Prince scrutinized Gendry's walk, posture, and demeanor, clearly impressed. He had witnessed the recent duel with the Blue Knight and marveled at the young man's composure and skill. To overcome a foe as formidable as the Evenstar's heir and yet remain unscathed was no small feat. The Ragged Prince's keen eyes revealed both admiration and a tinge of envy.
"Your Highness," Ser Jorah interjected sharply, "when meeting Their Royal Highnesses, it is customary to kneel."
"I apologize, Ser Jorah, but from the day I fled Pentos, I learned one truth," the Prince replied firmly. "Mercenaries are not slaves. I cannot kneel."
"Enough, Jorah," Gendry said with a dismissive wave. "Old men have their ways."
"Welcome, Prince," Gendry said, offering a warm smile. The Prince of Pentos, in his declining years, was far removed from the powerful Princes of Dorne or the wealth of the Free Cities. Pentos had long been controlled by a fat, complacent Magistrate, leaving the exiled Prince little room for influence.
"I once intended to send you a gift, but time has likely rendered it worthless," Gendry said lightly.
"You mean Bloodbeard's head?" the Prince replied gently, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "For that, I am grateful, Your Highness." The Windblown mercenaries and the Cat's Company had a long history of enmity, and the gesture of respect did not go unnoticed.
"But my friend," Gendry continued, "you are late. Bloodbeard has been dead for years. Why do you come now?"
"Forgive my tardiness," the Prince replied apologetically. "I was detained in Volantis by matters of duty."
"It is no matter," Gendry said. "You are here now, and that is what counts. I still consider you a distinguished guest." Beyond Gendry's personal forces, only a few mercenary companies of note remained unconquered, and the Windblown was among the last with any significant strength.
"I would like to discuss a business venture with you," the Ragged Prince said quietly.
"Please, speak freely."
"Years ago, I was forced to flee my home after being wronged by those in power. I long to return, to settle old scores, and reclaim what was taken from me," the Prince explained, his voice carrying the weight of decades.
"Such endeavors are costly," Gendry said cautiously. "Can a company like the Windblown achieve it?"
The Prince's expression hardened with resolve. "My two thousand men may be few against a rising liberator, but they are disciplined, experienced, and loyal. Even in exile, I have maintained connections within Pentos that can be leveraged."
"You desire Pentos, then?" Gendry asked, reading his intentions clearly.
"Yes," the Prince nodded firmly.
"Achieving that will not be easy," Gendry replied. The challenges were many: the Magistrates, the hidden powers of Pentos, the influence of Braavos, and the Khals who yearly sought tribute. Any action must be measured.
"We'll discuss details later," Gendry said. "But tell me, Prince, do you truly wish to return at your age?"
"It is my home," the Prince answered solemnly. "If I can, I would die of old age on the shores of Pentos. And if power comes, I only hope to exact justice upon those who wronged me. History has shaped you into the man you are now; I, weary and aged, am no longer fit to be king."
Gendry listened silently, understanding both the weight of the man's past and the impossibility of his ambitions. The Ragged Prince painted a grand picture, but for Gendry, the dream of revenge was a tale of old wounds. He would need to navigate this cautiously, weighing both honor and strategy.
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