Inside the Map Room of Wolf's Den, the high-ranking officers of the Army of the Two Cities had gathered.
Maps covered the stone table—rivers marked in blue ink, cities circled in red, supply routes traced with careful precision. The atmosphere was heavy, not with uncertainty, but with inevitability.
Khal Drogo was coming.
This was no mere border conflict or raid. It was a war between kings, a collision between civilization and barbarism, between stone walls and endless grasslands, between disciplined armies and the thunder of hooves.
"Master Qyburn," Gendry said, his voice calm but authoritative, "begin with the internal and external situation."
Qyburn stepped forward, hands folded behind his back, his pale eyes sharp with calculation.
"At present," he said slowly, "Myr and Tyrosh have formally submitted to Your Highness's authority. The newly established Council, City Hall, and Arbitration Court are operating efficiently. Military command and internal security are firmly under our control."
He paused briefly.
"The only lingering concern lies with the old noble families who fled to Lys and Volantis. However, they lack both the unity and resources to pose any immediate threat."
"And the wider situation?" Gendry prompted.
"Pentos, Qohor, Norvos, and the remaining Ghiscari city-states have all pledged varying degrees of support—gold, weapons, and auxiliary troops," Qyburn continued. "Braavos and Lorath remain neutral. As coastal powers, they fear no Dothraki cavalry. Lys and Volantis, however, may choose to back the horse lords."
"Braavos remaining neutral is already a favorable outcome," Gendry said evenly. "As for Volantis and Lys—war with them is inevitable, but not now."
He tapped the map with a finger.
"A multi-front war is the strategy of fools. For now, we deal with the Dothraki."
He straightened.
"We must shape the narrative. We are not conquerors—we are defenders. We stand against Dothraki brutality, against burning, slaughter, and enslavement. Let the people understand what awaits them if the horse lords breach the walls."
Qyburn nodded. "Fear is a powerful motivator."
"Exactly," Gendry replied. "Win the battlefield, yes—but also win the war of belief."
Power, after all, thrived on enemies.
If an enemy did not exist, one could always be created.
Only when people feared chaos would they willingly submit to order. Only when faced with annihilation would they accept strong rule without complaint.
"Now," Gendry said, "let's discuss tactics."
"Myr will be the bait," Ser Jorah said thoughtfully. "A rich city. The Dothraki will charge straight toward it."
"Yes—and no," Gendry replied.
He rose from his seat.
"Before they reach Myr, we will give them something to think about."
He pointed at the plains outside the city.
"Scorched fields. Destroyed supplies. Reinforced defenses. And when they arrive, we strike at night."
Gendry moved his hand again.
"Trenches and earthworks here—this will be the first line of defense. Myr itself is the second line."
Attrition.
Delay.
Then decisive engagement.
A layered fist instead of a reckless punch.
"The Dothraki rely on momentum," Gendry continued. "Break that, and their strength bleeds away."
He turned to one of his officers.
"Ensure the light cavalry consumes more sea fish and carrots."
The Handsome Man blinked, then nodded quickly as he wrote it down.
"Night vision matters," Gendry explained calmly. "Night raids will weaken them before the decisive battle."
Despite their ferocity, the Dothraki were bound by tradition. Their weapons and tactics had not evolved in generations.
A Khal could conquer half a continent—yet die from a festering wound.
"I've already assigned command," Gendry said, his voice firm.
"No soldier leaves their post before the battle."
"The First Wolf Pack Legion and the Second Free Legion will serve as the main force."
"Steel Fist, you command the Wolf Pack infantry."
"Grey Wolf, you command the Free Army infantry."
The two commanders stepped forward.
"Yes, Your Highness!"
"The Third Second Sons Legion will serve as reserves—supporting the battlefield and maintaining order within the city."
Brown Ben Plumm and Ser Jorah bowed.
"At your command."
"All cavalry remains under my direct control," Gendry added. "Longspear. Gilo Reha. Ser Jorah."
"What of the Qohor Unsullied and Ghiscari troops?" Jorah asked.
"They fall under Grey Wolf's command," Gendry replied.
"And the Norvos Holy Guardians," Gendry continued, "will be under my direct command."
Those monk-warriors were formidable. He would not waste them.
"I must emphasize this again," Gendry said, his gaze sweeping the room. "No war should ever be underestimated."
He paused.
"The Ghiscari envoy reminded me of this—the Kingdom of Sarnor was destroyed because of arrogance."
The room fell silent as he recounted the old disaster.
High King Mazorro Aleixo had gathered his armies along the Sarn River and marched west, confident in chariots and steel.
They shattered Khal Haro's forces in the opening charge.
But in pursuit, they fell into a trap.
Four Khalasars.
Eighty thousand riders.
Arrows fell like rain.
The chariots were surrounded.
Hundreds of thousands died beneath hooves and blades.
And Sarnor vanished from history.
"The Dothraki win when their enemies fight on Dothraki terms," Gendry said quietly. "We will not make that mistake."
He drew his longsword.
"Victory."
Steel rang as his commanders followed suit.
"Victory!"
---
The Inn at the Crossroads
"You are in serious trouble, Lady Catelyn."
Tyrion Lannister's voice was calm—but heavy.
Catelyn Stark's face was pale. She did not reply.
Lannisters always paid their debts.
And Lord Tywin Lannister would never tolerate an insult to his house. Not from a Stark. Not from anyone.
"If I leave," Tyrion continued, "nothing can be undone."
Catelyn felt her thoughts unraveling. She had failed to uncover the truth—and in the process, had provoked the most dangerous house in Westeros.
"These so-called wildlings…" Ser Rodrik muttered bitterly.
They had appeared out of nowhere and turned everything into chaos.
"Enough blood has been shed," Catelyn said finally. "Sheathe your swords. Release them."
A knight of House Harroway was already dead.
More blood would only make matters worse.
Tyrion smiled inwardly.
Fortune still favors me.
Catelyn had nearly succeeded.
But nearly was not enough.
The hall held sixty or seventy people.
She had swayed barely ten.
Most sat frozen—confused, fearful, or indifferent.
Even among the Freys, only two had stood—and quickly sat back down.
"I failed," Catelyn thought as Tyrion walked away.
"I did not plot against your son," Tyrion said calmly. "And I am very curious—who told you about the dagger?"
"You don't need to know."
"Oh, I think I do," Tyrion replied dryly. "Littlefinger, wasn't it?"
Catelyn's silence said everything.
"For Baelish, lying is instinct," Tyrion continued. "Giving my own dagger to an assassin? I'm not that foolish."
Her composure cracked.
"And Lady Catelyn," Tyrion added cruelly, "your past with Littlefinger is hardly a secret."
He turned away.
"I am Tyrion of House Lannister," he announced loudly. "If you escort me safely, I will reward you generously."
Two mercenaries stepped forward.
"Bronn."
"Chiggen."
Tyrion smiled.
Good. Very good.
As rain swallowed them, Catelyn collapsed back into her seat, exhausted and hollow.
She had made everything worse.
"The Eyrie," she whispered to herself. "I must go to the Eyrie."
War was coming.
And far to the north—
Winter was coming.
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