In the crisp morning light, Gendry sat inside his tent, studying the new armor set before him, a goodwill gift from the Qohorik.
The armor was golden, paired with a striking golden helmet shaped like a warhammer, like a heavy fist poised to strike. On one wing of the helmet was a proud stag, while the other bore a soaring dragon.
"These weapons from the Qohorik are truly impressive. They've put real thought into this," Gendry said. "I've heard they've mastered the secret of infusing color directly into fine steel. Compared to that, paint or enamel is just child's play."
"They're impressive, my lord, but on a battlefield that kind of armor makes you a perfect target," Anguy couldn't help remarking. Armor that flamboyant was bound to draw attention.
"True enough. This sort of golden armor is best reserved for ceremonies," Gendry said to him.
"Next, we'll be fighting the Dothraki, Anguy."
"The Dothraki have two arms and two legs like anyone else. I'm confident," Anguy replied in a low voice.
"Good. I'll take the warhammer, and you take the bow. In the end, we're only facing Dothraki Screamers."
"My lord, I have a request," Anguy said a little awkwardly.
"Speak."
"Khal Drogo is the greatest Dothraki horselord. He must have famous horses and fine bows among his possessions. When the time comes, I was hoping..." Anguy trailed off, embarrassed.
"You're quite greedy, aren't you? But fine. At least you're not asking for a Dothraki woman, that I can't give you." Gendry chuckled. "Granted. I'll arrange a fine Dothraki bow and a good horse for you when the time comes."
After all, most warriors had a collector's passion for exceptional weapons and warhorses.
"Thank you, my lord," Anguy said cheerfully before leaving the tent. Soon after, Maester Qyburn entered.
"Is this from Qohor?" Qyburn asked, immediately noticing the golden armor.
"That's right."
"Qohor may be steeped in the foul sorcery and the worship of the evil Black Goat, but their craftsmen are truly skilled," Qyburn said. Qohor was known as the "City of Sorcerers," a name reflecting the divination, blood magic, and necromancy practiced there.
"It's a pity the Qohorik didn't bring a Valyrian steel sword," Gendry said with regret.
"Valyrian steel is no ordinary thing. Even on the Eastern Continent, obtaining a Valyrian steel weapon depends greatly on luck. Besides, you've already obtained a scimitar," Maester Qyburn said with a smile. "If Tywin were to learn of this, he'd likely be furious."
Valyrian steel was already rare, and after the Doom of Valyria, only the Qohorik retained the knowledge to reforge it. As a result, Valyrian steel became a strictly finite resource, every blade lost was one fewer in the world.
In Westeros, most Valyrian steel swords belonged to ancient noble houses. Each carried its own name and history, treasured heirlooms passed down through generations. Even weak or impoverished houses refused to part with them. Great Lord Tywin had approached several destitute families across the realm, offering enormous sums for their Valyrian steel swords, but time and again he was turned away.
"The more, the better," Gendry said. Although he already possessed a scimitar, he still hadn't decided what he would reforge it into. Ideally, he could acquire another Valyrian weapon.
What Gendry wanted most, however, was armor. Unfortunately, such a thing likely existed only in the ruins of Valyria. Valyrian steel was exceedingly rare. Longswords were the most common form, while axes and arakh were far rarer, and Valyrian steel armor had never even been seen.
"There's another matter. Our relationship with Qohor is only temporary. They cannot be considered long-term allies," Qyburn said.
"You mean their black magic and slavery."
"Exactly," Qyburn replied calmly. "The Black Goat is an evil god, and the legends say that the masterful craftsmanship of Qohor's smiths depends on bloody sacrifices. That inevitably requires slaves."
Gendry had also heard the story of Maester Pol. While living in the Free Cities, Maester Pol wrote several treatises about Qohor's forging techniques. Because he asked too many questions, he was publicly flogged three times and expelled from the city.
The last time, he was accused of stealing a Valyrian steel weapon and had one of his hands cut off.
Maester Pol later claimed the punishment came because he had discovered the truth: Qohor's craftsmen secretly performed blood sacrifices. In order to forge weapons that rivaled those of the Freehold, they killed slaves during the process.
Some of those slaves were no more than infants.
"That's a matter for the future. Qohor is far too distant from us. For now, they are our allies, since both city-states share the same hatred for Volantis," Gendry said. "First we finish off the Dothraki and deal with the enemies to the south. Qohor and Norvos can be discussed afterward."
"What's the situation in Westeros?" Gendry asked Qyburn.
"The situation has deteriorated to the brink of war. It could erupt at any moment," Qyburn replied gravely. "The conflict between the wolves and the lions is intensifying. Sooner or later, it will ignite everything."
"Should we give it a little push?" Qyburn asked.
"No need. Someone will steer things toward war on their own. Hoster's two daughters," Gendry said.
"That makes sense. If so, the fish will be drawn in as well," Qyburn nodded. "Hoster was a wise man, but the children he raised… well, that is another matter."
"Have our men sent any word back yet?" Gendry asked.
"Not yet, my lord. They are operating in the Riverlands disguised as wildlings from the Mountains of the Moon. They may already have crossed paths with Catelyn and the Imp. All we can do is wait for news."
"Very good, Master Qyburn. They only need to accomplish one thing: wait. Stay silent. Endure. Once I've dealt with Drogo, I will naturally have time to turn my attention to that ugly Iron Throne."
"The Crackclaw folk will carry out your orders faithfully. After all, they have waited many years for this moment."
"At present, I have four pieces placed in Westeros. One in the North, one on Crackclaw Point, one in King's Landing, and one in the Riverlands. Aside from that fool Ramsay, who for now is a dead piece, the others are all crucial. When they move, it must be unexpected," Gendry said, analyzing the board carefully.
"As for the coming war, the Riverlands will likely be the first battlefield. Hoster is old and dying, while his son Edmure is said to be young. Brave enough, perhaps, but lacking wisdom."
"That old devil Tywin is more than capable of bullying fools and the sick. He will send troops to ravage the Riverlands. First, it will lure Edmure into splitting his forces to defend his lands and people. Second, it will tempt the Stark in King's Landing to act, further stirring the situation. After all, Stark brought only a hundred guards with him."
"So Stark will fall for it?" Qyburn asked. When it came to warfare and strategy, he was more of a scholar than a soldier.
"Most likely. Right now, in King's Landing, he's already in a dead end."
"Wolves that run swift across the fields do poorly marching south," Qyburn said thoughtfully. He still remembered what had happened years ago, when the Mad King burned Eddard's father and his elder brother Brandon.
"Let them tear at each other. Once the situation worsens a little more, I'll set my own pieces in motion."
A fisherman needed patience and vision. Only then could he cast his net into turbulent waters and catch the largest fish.
"And about the Dothraki. Send in more wine merchants and informants. I want clear and constant reports on that Drogo."
In the art of war, the use of spies came first. One had to wield them well.
"As you command, Prince," Qyburn replied loudly. "As for the other two figures you asked about, they appear normal for the time being."
"The Old Prince of the Windblown Company, the fat Magister of Pentos, and the commander of the Golden Company."
"The Old Prince still seems undecided," Qyburn said. "I'm not confident he's ready to side with us. As for the Golden Company, their ten thousand men have moved to a position near Lys and Volantis. They are not only avoiding the Dothraki. They may also fear that we will attack them."
"Leave them be. The Old Prince simply believes we cannot face the Dothraki head-on. That's fine. If everyone could see an opportunity clearly, it would not be an opportunity at all."
"As for the Golden Company, they will come knocking on my door soon enough," Gendry snorted.
The Windblown Company had barely two thousand men. Yet that old man was still holding out for a higher price. But sellsword companies were always like that. They waited until the price was right.
"That fat man from Pentos is even more slippery. He's trying to offend no one. Pentos never had many sellswords to begin with. Illyrio organizes the Magisters to send us supplies, and he sends gifts to the Dothraki as well."
"As long as he doesn't stir up trouble, that's enough." Gendry had little fondness for the Illyrio, but given the current situation, he remained cautious and polite.
"What about the Great Lord of Dragonstone? Any recent movement from him?" Gendry asked.
"Lord Stannis is still confined to Dragonstone, keeping himself cut off from the outside world. At most, he's recruited a few fugitive sellswords from Lys."
Poor Lord Stannis. If the Red Comet had not appeared and the shadow assassins could not be born, he would be completely trapped. In such a situation, and he still doesn't seek help everywhere?
"You've done very well, Master Qyburn," Gendry said to him. "In the future, I intend to establish a new kind of educational institution, one free from religious influence. You are the man I've chosen to lay its foundation."
"All my achievements exist under the light of the Prince," Qyburn replied respectfully. A clever man knew how to answer, how to show humility and yield when needed.
...
After leaving the inn at the crossroads, Tyrion was carried south by the "wildlings."
Fortunately, the wildlings gave them goatskins, sparing him from the misery of the cold, rainy night.
"Stupid woman," the Imp muttered as he wrapped himself in the goatskin and held an umbrella over his head. He truly felt like crying. Among the Lannisters he had always been one of the more friendly toward the Starks, yet that madwoman Catelyn had treated him like this.
"Cheer up, dwarf. Without us, you'd already be on your way to Winterfell, spending a few days in that frozen hell where your manhood might fall off," the wildling leader said.
"Your kindness is beyond repayment, my lord. But as far as I know, the Snake Tribe hasn't grown this powerful yet," the Imp said quickly. "The Lannisters will reward you generously. Once I reach King's Landing, I will certainly give you a great many golden dragons."
"Enough, dwarf. Don't ask questions you shouldn't ask. Thanks for the gold, but we won't escort you all the way to King's Landing. Only to somewhere relatively safe," the "leader" replied.
Tyrion fumbled through his belongings and handed over what little gold he had left. All he could see of the man was his rust-colored hair and the scars covering his cheeks.
A mysterious knight, Tyrion thought gloomily. Hard to say which house's sworn killer he belongs to.
Even if he had guessed the truth, this was not the time to say it aloud.
The fact that these men did not care about Catelyn or the Starks at all could only mean their master was no ordinary figure. Only someone of Great Lord rank could train such deadly retainers.
"From here, keep heading south. Ride hard. With your two attendants and two sellsword masters, returning to King's Landing shouldn't be too difficult," the wildling leader said after escorting Tyrion along the Kingsroad for quite some distance before finally parting with him.
"Then we part here, my dear wildling friends. If you ever come to King's Landing in need, I will gladly show my generosity," Tyrion said regretfully. What a fine group of wildlings. He lacked warriors like them. Unfortunately, that thought was pointless.
"All right, dwarf. We only spared your life because we couldn't stand seeing you suffer at the hands of that madwoman. We also hate the Arryns and the Tullys. But if we meet again next time, we may not treat you so kindly."
The wildling leader waved and led his men away, disappearing once again into the rainy night.
Tyrion watched them go with envy. As a dwarf, he could never become a knight, much less have a band of brothers-in-arms of his own. A sharp mind was useful, but strength and steel were indispensable as well, Tyrion reflected calmly.
"Stop staring, Lord Tyrion. You can't tame men like that," Bronn said coldly as he looked at him. "They don't care about your gold. Someone else can offer them something worth more than gold."
"Yes. I could never have men like that," Tyrion sighed.
Gold was important, but gold could only buy sellswords. Things like loyalty and honor, ridiculous as they sounded, sometimes outweighed gold.
"Bronn, whose men do you think they belong to?" Tyrion asked.
"No idea. But they definitely aren't wildlings. Wildlings aren't that well fed, and their weapons are nowhere near that good."
"Yes, not the Arryns, not the Tullys. Is there another force nearby capable of opposing them, and familiar with the terrain of the Riverlands?" Tyrion pondered.
A vast shadow seemed to press upon his mind.
Only a cold and ruthless schemer could have arranged matters so precisely.
Could it be him?
The thought flashed through Tyrion's mind, but he quickly doubted it. If someone could manipulate events from afar and push the situation along like this, that mind would be terrifying indeed.
A knight alone was not frightening. What was frightening was a knight who could fight, scheme, and inspire others. That would be a true enemy.
No. I must advise Father to proceed carefully. Under no circumstances can he raise an army in anger.
Though Tyrion already knew his advice would likely be useless.
Tywin would still unleash his hounds.