In the Map Hall of Wolf's Den, the senior commanders of the Twin Cities' armies had gathered to discuss the coming war.
Khal Drogo was the enemy they were bound to face. This would be a war of kings, a clash between civilization and barbarism.
"Master Qyburn, give us a report on the situation, both internal and external," Gendry said, inviting Qyburn to speak first.
"Currently, Myr and Tyrosh have submitted beneath Your Grace's glory. Our new council, city hall, and court of arbitration are functioning smoothly. Most importantly, control of the military and public order has remained firmly in our hands," Qyburn replied slowly. "The only concern lies with the old nobles who fled to Lys and Volantis, but they are unlikely to become a serious threat."
"As for the broader situation, Pentos, Qohor, Norvos, and the Tall Men Free Cities have all provided us with assistance, whether gold, weapons, or troops. However, Braavos and Lorath have remained neutral, as the coastal cities do not fear the Dothraki. Lys and Volantis, on the other hand, may provide support to the horse lords."
"It is already a good outcome that Braavos has stayed out of it," Gendry said. "As for Volantis and Lys, war with them may be inevitable, but not now."
Fighting on multiple fronts was the thinking of fools. For now, the priority was to deal with the horse lords.
"We must shape our image. Present ourselves as heroes resisting the Dothraki's violent invasion, as soldiers fighting for justice. We must win not only on the battlefield but also in public opinion. Tell the citizens what the Dothraki do when they enter a city: burning, killing, and looting. Once they understand that, they'll know what choice to make."
"Yes, my lord."
That was how power worked. Against the backdrop of an enemy, the people came to depend even more on a dictator and a warrior. If there were no enemies, they could be created. Fear could be manufactured.
Make Myr and Tyrosh fear the enemy, and they would cling even more tightly to his rule. People always grew tired of chaos. In the end, they chose strong leaders.
"Now, let's discuss our tactics," Gendry said. "Myr will be our bait. A piece of fat meat. The Dothraki will head straight for it."
"So we proceed as before?" Ser Jorah asked. "Use the fortress as a shield, wear the Dothraki down, then counterattack?"
"Yes and no," Gendry said. "Before the Dothraki even arrive, I intend to give them a taste of trouble. First, we strip the land bare and fortify everything. When the Dothraki arrive, we'll also be ready for night raids."
Gendry stood and pointed toward the map.
"In front of Myr, prepare trenches and earthen forts. That will be the first defensive line I've prepared for Drogo. Myr itself will serve as the second line."
Wear them down. Delay them. Then strike head-on.
A combination of blows.
Charging blindly was not Gendry's style of war. Exploit strengths, avoid weaknesses. First shake the Dothraki's morale, then fight them to the end.
"Also, have our light cavalry eat more sea fish and carrots," Gendry told the Handsome Man. "A soldier's eyesight is critical. Before the decisive battle, night raids will be essential."
"Yes, my lord." The Handsome Man nodded and wrote the order down.
The Dothraki were formidable enemies, but their tactics and equipment had barely changed over the years. Even a mighty Khal, if he died from an infected wound, could cause an entire khalasar to fall apart.
"I have already arranged the command structure," Gendry said.
"Before the great battle, no soldier is to leave their post. The First Wolf Pack Legion and the Second Free Legion will serve as the main force. Steel Fist will command the Wolf Pack infantry, and Greywolf will command the Free Legion infantry. The Third Sub-Legion will serve as the reserve, ready to reinforce the battlefield while assisting the garrison in maintaining order."
Gendry's voice was firm and precise.
"All cavalry will remain under my command: Longspear, Gylo Rhegan, and Ser Jorah."
"As you command, my lord. The First Legion stands ready!" Steel Fist and Longspear answered.
"As you command, my lord. I will ensure the Second Legion is fully prepared," Greywolf replied together with Gylo Rehagen, commander of the Longspear Company.
Brown Ben and Jorah also received their orders.
"As you command, my lord. The Third Legion will be ready to deploy at any time."
"And the Qohorik, the Tall Men, and the Sacred Guard of Norvos?" Jorah asked.
"The Qohorik Unsullied and the Tall Men will fall under your command, Greywolf."
"Yes, my lord," Greywolf replied.
"The Sacred Guard of Norvos will be commanded by me," Gendry said. Those monk-soldiers were powerful fighters, and they needed careful deployment.
"Let me emphasize this once again. In war, never underestimate the enemy or advance recklessly. The envoys of the Tall Men have warned me of this many times. The Kingdom of Sarnor was destroyed for exactly that reason."
In the final war between the Tall Men and the Dothraki, the High King of the Tall Men had fallen into a Dothraki ambush.
High King Mazor Alexi gathered an army along both the upper and lower reaches of the Sarne River and marched west to attack. In the deep grasslands, they encountered their enemies.
Four khalasars appeared, followed by eighty thousand cavalry.
The Sarnor war chariots led the charge, smashing through the center of the Dothraki horse horde. They cut down Khal Haro and sent his khalasar into retreat. For a time, their momentum seemed unstoppable.
Mazor Alexi led his cavalry in pursuit alongside the Sarnor chariots, pressing their advantage.
But they had walked straight into a trap.
Khal Qano and Khal Zhako led their khalasars in a pincer attack from north and south. The fleeing Dothraki suddenly turned back, loosing arrows like a storm. Khal Loso and his Howling Warriors swept around behind the Sallor warriors.
Mazor Alexi's army was completely surrounded.
Soon it was cut into countless fragments.
In the chaos of battle, hundreds of thousands were trampled beneath hooves. Mazor Alexi died together with his people.
In the end, the essence of war was simple: play to your strengths and avoid your weaknesses, seize the advantage. The Tall Men had foolishly offered their weaknesses to the enemy.
Their defeat was only natural.
"Victory is certain!" Gendry drew his longsword and swept his gaze over his men. Every victory he had ever achieved rested on military success. Military strength was the foundation of a nation.
The Unsullied, the knights, the Heavy Infantry, the freed slaves. These were his fists and his warhammers.
"Since Drogo has come to Myr, let him come."
"Victory!"
"Victory!" The other commanders drew their longswords as well, the blades flashing with dazzling light.
...
"You're in trouble, Lady Catelyn," Tyrion said gravely, glancing at her.
Catelyn's face looked terrible now, but Tyrion had little interest in studying it further.
The Lannisters always pay their debts. This foolish woman still didn't understand what it meant to provoke House Lannister. Tyrion almost felt sorry for her. Lord Tywin might not care much for his dwarf son, but he would never tolerate the honor of his house being tarnished. Tywin valued power far more than affection. Most likely he would raise an army and strike back, and when that day came, the Riverlands would be the ones to bear the fury and the bloodshed.
"If the Imp leaves, everything will be beyond repair." Catelyn felt as though her head were about to split apart. She had failed to uncover the truth and had already made an enemy of the Lannisters.
"These wildlings showing up out of nowhere," Ser Rodrik muttered in a low curse. This was about the worst possible outcome. These "wildlings" had burst in halfway through and thrown everything into chaos.
"Put away your swords. Let them go," Catelyn said.
A knight of House Whent was already dead. If more blood were spilled here, the matter would become even harder to resolve. With so many witnesses present, there was no way today would end cleanly.
"Well done," Tyrion thought, inwardly delighted. His luck had held after all.
Catelyn had acted cleverly. First she forced the vassals of House Tully to acknowledge their oath to Great Lord Hoster, then pressed them to draw their swords in support. She had come close to succeeding, but only close.
There were sixty or seventy people in the hall, yet Catelyn had persuaded only about ten. The "wildlings" numbered roughly the same. A large portion of the crowd remained unmoved. Some were confused, some frightened, others indifferent. Even the knights of House Frey, who were the most numerous, had only two men willing to stand up. But when they saw their leader remain seated, they quietly sat back down as well.
"I've ruined everything!" Catelyn stared at the dwarf's departing back, feeling as if something inside her had been hollowed out. Her desperate gamble had failed completely. Damn it.
"I did not murder your son. I'll say it again," Tyrion said to Catelyn as he prepared to leave. "And I would very much like to know who told you about this dagger and the assassination."
"That's none of your concern," Catelyn replied through clenched teeth.
"My dear Lady, you needn't say another word. It was most likely Littlefinger," Tyrion snorted coldly. "For Littlefinger, lying is as natural as breathing. You were probably fooled by him. Hand my own dagger to an assassin? I'm not that stupid."
"...What?" Panic flickered across Catelyn's face.
"Lady Catelyn, everyone in the court has heard that you gave your maidenhood to Littlefinger, haven't they?" Tyrion lifted his chin slightly, delivering the verbal blow with satisfaction. A Lannister always pays his debts. He didn't mind letting Catelyn hear a few uncomfortable truths.
Catelyn said nothing more. She only watched as the dwarf walked into the ranks of the "wildlings" with his two attendants.
"I am Tyrion of House Lannister. If someone would be so kind as to escort me, I would be deeply grateful and reward you handsomely," Tyrion called out loudly to the Free Men seated on the benches after retreating to a safer position.
He intended to leave with this band of wildlings, but he still wanted two knights of his own.
Sure enough, two sellswords came over to the Imp. For gold, they were willing to follow him.
"Very good. Fortune favors the bold," Tyrion said with a smile, then asked their names.
"Bronn."
Bronn had the lean, vicious look of a starving wolf, with black hair, black eyes, and a scruffy beard. There was a streak of dark humor about him. Tyrion judged him a pure pragmatist, the sort of man with no moral scruples to speak of.
"Chiggen," said Bronn's companion.
"So now I have four attendants," Tyrion thought to himself. Two retainers and two sellswords.
"You're a clever one, dwarf," the "wildling" leader said, eyeing Tyrion.
"I may be small, but I've got a fairly large brain. Lords of the Milk Snakes Tribe," Tyrion replied with a cheerful grin. He knew perfectly well that the large group in front of him were no wildlings. Even so, they were at least friendlier than the foolish woman of House Tully.
Tyrion studied these "wildlings." Their leather armor or chainmail might have looked worn, but it fit them well. They were nothing like true wildlings dressed in rags and tatters. Besides, wildlings rarely carried proper weapons. More often they fought with battered swords, sickles, or farm tools.
These "wildlings," however, carried the scent of blood and cold brutality. Even their speech sounded different, nothing like the rough accents of real wildlings.
"You're dangerous. I hope you're smart enough to keep that brain of yours working," the leader said with a cold snort toward Bronn.
"As you say," Bronn nodded.
There were more than a dozen capable fighters among these wildlings in disguise, crude and ruthless men. Bronn knew this was the moment to keep quiet.
"Let's go," the leader said to Tyrion. "Don't try anything clever. I'm not in the mood for games. But understand this, I just saved your life."
"Of course. For now, you're my lord," Tyrion said, nodding obediently. The Riverlands were still the territory of House Tully, and it was hardly a friendly place for him.
The group rushed out into the curtain of rain and did not look back.
...
"Damn it."
Catelyn sat in her seat, no longer able to swallow another bite of food. The whole affair had been ruined. Eddard had warned her, yet in the end she still couldn't restrain herself.
She looked at the more than fifty people still left in the hall and felt a surge of bitterness. Why couldn't they recognize a mother's courage?
Especially those of House Frey. More than twenty of them had been present, yet none dared step forward. The Freys had come late, as always.
"The Eyrie. Next, the Eyrie," Catelyn thought suddenly, as though waking from a dream.
War was coming. She needed Lysa's help. That was the most important thing.
The horns of war had already sounded, calling out for everyone.
Winter is coming.