The feast in Wolf's Den City erupted with warmth and revelry. Roasted meat crackled over open flames, dripping fat onto the platters beneath. The fragrance of freshly baked bread mingled with the scents of spices, honeyed sauces, and steaming bowls of thick winter stew. All along the great hall, rows of candles flickered against stone walls, their light dancing on silver cups and polished armor. Barrels of wine stood opened, their contents flowing freely into goblets—Myrish fire wine, green wine, Tyroshi pear brandy, and the rich, dark summer reds of Dorne.
At the grand entrance, the herald raised his staff. "Lord Gendry, Magistrate of Myr, Tyrosh, the Narrow Sea, and the Stepstones—guardian of Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys."
A heartbeat later, the herald proclaimed, "The Magistrate's betrothed: Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone."
All eyes turned toward the doors as Gendry and Daenerys entered hand in hand, a pair radiant as though stars themselves had descended into the hall. They represented power—true power—across the Narrow Sea.
Gendry wore a long black velvet coat embroidered subtly with the sigil of the Wolf Pack. High leather boots and a silver-buckled belt completed his attire. He needed little ornamentation to appear formidable.
Daenerys had donned her finest princess gown: black velvet, soft as midnight, adorned with a ruby pendant resting against her throat. A crown set with red gemstones nestled atop her long silver-gold hair. Her violet eyes shimmered in the torchlight. She looked every inch the princess she was born to be.
Together, they ascended to the high table and took their seats.
Behind them entered Gendry's most trusted commanders and subordinates—The Handsome Man, Longspear, Ser Jorah, Dick the Arrow Maker with his snowy hair, and Moros, commander of the Myrish fleet. Their presence added an air of strength to the gathering.
Following them came the pitiable figure of Prince Viserys Targaryen—gaunt, wild-eyed, and already reeking of wine. He stumbled slightly, swaying as he attempted to lift his chin with royal dignity. The hall fell briefly quiet.
Everyone politely guided him toward a seat at the head table, though they kept him at the end, away from the center. Viserys saw it. His face tightened with resentment. I am the rightful King, he fumed silently. Yet the master of ceremonies had not announced him, had not honored him with a title or even a respectful gesture. Instead, they lumped him with the soldiers—as though he were nothing.
Once all were seated, cups rose across the room in a cascade of toasts. Wine splashed as congratulations were exchanged, laughter rippled, and the feast officially began.
Leaning close, Grey Wolf murmured into Gendry's ear, "The bankers of Myr and Tyrosh request an audience, my lord."
Gendry followed Grey Wolf's subtle nod toward the lower tables. There sat several bankers—olive-skinned Myrmen and Tyroshi men with brightly colored beards—watching him with eager eyes. Bankers, in any of the Free Cities, were never to be underestimated. Myr and Tyrosh relied heavily on fishing, handicrafts, and banking. Even during the chaos of slave emancipation, bankers were among the few who maintained their influence. And among Free Cities, Braavos's Iron Bank was the undisputed titan.
Still, Myrish and Tyroshi bankers held power of their own.
Gendry excused himself from Daenerys. She nodded nervously. She had lived most of her life in exile; banquets filled with political maneuvering were unfamiliar territory.
Gendry crossed the hall. The bankers swarmed toward him like flies drawn to sweetmeat—smiling, bowing, hands clasped in exaggerated politeness. But Gendry knew better. These were wolves, every one of them calculating profits down to the last copper.
He greeted them with courteous warmth.
A Myrish banker in a silk coat stepped forward first. "Magistrate, we, along with our colleagues from Tyrosh, have a small proposal."
Gendry raised a brow. "Go on."
"No one has truly controlled both cities before," the banker said. "But you, my lord—you rule Myr and Tyrosh. You command the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands. Therefore… you have the power to merge the banks of the Two Cities."
Gendry studied the group carefully. "One bank? This is what your industry desires?"
"Yes, Lord," the Myrman replied, summoning courage. "If you are to become King… there must be a unified bank. A unified currency."
A Tyroshi banker with a bright red beard stepped in eagerly. "If the Magistrate considers our humble suggestion, we will fully support your policies, your armies, and—even—the crown you seek."
Gendry's mind sharpened. They're forcing my hand.
Braavos was a delicate ally. Creating a unified Two-Cities Bank large enough to rival the Iron Bank would provoke consequences—severe ones. He remembered the tragedy of the Rogare Bank in Lys. Once, they had outshone the Iron Bank, but the moment their tyrant patron Lysandro died, the Rogare family collapsed almost overnight.
A warning from history.
"We will discuss this another day," Gendry said smoothly. "I will consider your suggestion carefully."
The bankers exchanged delighted looks. Even a possibility was enough to stir their greed. The territories under Gendry's command were vast, and if he ever set foot in Westeros, the bank they envisioned could span two continents. Profit glittered in their eyes.
"To your glorious years ahead, my lord," said one banker.
"To your success," said another.
Gendry lifted his cup. Their goblets clinked with sharp clarity. It was rare to see Myrish and Tyroshi bankers united—ever since the dissolution of the Triarchy, the Three Daughters had become rivals once again.
But greed forged alliances that nothing else could.
Just as Gendry began exchanging politeness with them, a sudden commotion rippled across the hall.
"You're drunk, Prince," Ser Jorah said sternly, rising from his seat.
"I'm not drunk," Viserys slurred. He stood on unsteady feet, eyes wild. "When will your King send his army? Does he want to wait until he's bedded my sister and fathered a bastard cub?"
A shocked hush spread across the tables.
Viserys continued, voice rising, "I've been generous—haven't I? I let the Bastard sleep with my sister. All I ask—all I ask—is that he help me reclaim my throne!"
On the high platform, Daenerys froze. Tears welled in her eyes. She had endured her brother's cruelty her entire life… but seeing him like this—humiliated, unraveling—struck her with unexpected pain.
"It seems you truly are drunk," Grey Wolf muttered. He strode to Viserys, grabbed a cup, filled it to the brim, and pressed it to the prince's mouth.
Viserys sputtered. "I am the King! How dare you treat a King like this?!"
Wine dribbled down his chin onto his fine black tunic. His eyes streamed from the harsh burn. "Dead eunuch! You dare—! You dare treat a King this way?!"
Grey Wolf did not flinch. The Unsullied standing nearby watched with blank, impassive faces as more wine was pushed into Viserys's mouth.
"No! No more!" Viserys cried, thrashing. "It's poisoned! The wine is poisoned!"
He shrieked like a gutted fish, writhing on the ground. His panic was pitiful. Guests watched with strained expressions—some horrified, some struggling not to laugh.
Maester Qyburn stepped forward, voice calm. "Grey Wolf suggests you give him a few slaps to sober him."
"No!" Daenerys hurried down from the high table, panic rising. "Don't hurt him. Please—stop."
At her command, Grey Wolf and Ser Jorah stepped back.
Viserys lay sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath, face red, hair disheveled. He looked like a scolded child, not a prince. Not a king.
Daenerys stared down at him. "He's so pitiful," she whispered. She had always known her brother's weaknesses… but tonight, she saw them clearly for the first time. The fear she had carried for years began to dissolve.
Gendry approached, eyes soft but commanding. "You must be drunk," he said gently, helping Viserys sit upright. To Viserys, however, that calm smile felt terrifying.
"It's you!" Viserys hissed. "All you! Someone—someone help your King! Strike him! Strike his men!"
"If you don't retire and sleep it off," Gendry murmured, "you will become the true Beggar King you are so desperate to deny."
Viserys looked from Gendry to Daenerys, humiliation burning deep. He wanted to protest. To scream. But one glance at the Unsullied—steel-hard, unyielding—silenced him.
He staggered toward the exit.
As he left the hall, defeated, the last traces of regal pride slipping away, Daenerys watched him with a mixture of sorrow and clarity.
He is no dragon, she realized. Afraid of fire. Afraid of steel.
Afraid of everything.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)