Gendry rode a black stallion from Dorne and took Anguy, Jorah, Longspear, and the others out for a ride beyond the East Gate of Myr. The land east of Myr was gentle and peaceful, fertile enough to grow grain, Fire Herb, and pears.
From a military perspective, however, the lands east of Myr and the Disputed Lands were mostly open plain, with few natural barriers.
And it was precisely because Essos had so much flatland that the terrain suited the Dothraki cavalry so well.
The Free folk working in the fields saw them coming and bowed one after another. Gendry stood about six feet four inches tall, already a tall man among most crowds, and he would grow taller still.
"Breaker!" "Breaker!" the Free folk cheered, and Gendry waved back to them. Myr's natural conditions were good, the climate at this latitude was favorable, and the land produced enough to sustain the Free folk. If fully developed, it would unleash enormous war potential.
"Such fertile land, and yet there are no strong passes or fortifications to keep out an enemy. They've been frightened out of their wits by the Dothraki," Jorah said worriedly, looking toward the distant east, where the horse lords were already gathering like a storm.
The Free Cities were far less militarized than Westeros. Westeros had famous fortresses like Casterly Rock and Storm's End, near-unassailable strongholds, not to mention castles large and small spread throughout the realm, with vassal lords bound to fulfill their military obligations.
But in the Free Cities, Pentos for example, there was little beyond the city's own defenses. The vast plains had few towns at all, because everyone feared Dothraki retaliation. Those plains held sprawling orchards, farms, and mineral wealth, yet because there was no terrain worth defending and because they feared the Dothraki, no towns or castles had been built there. Myr was much the same. Aside from the city itself, it had no other large military strongholds.
"Jorah, you understand the Dothraki Screamers better than anyone here. Tell us what you think," Gendry said. "What sets the Dothraki apart from traditional knights?"
"When I was first exiled, I also thought of the Dothraki as half-naked savages, as untamable as their horses," Jorah said after a moment's thought. "But now I think the Dothraki have strengths of their own. The Screamers' horsemanship surpasses that of any knight. They fear nothing, and their bows outrange those of ordinary knights. In the Seven Kingdoms, most archers fight on foot, sheltering behind shield walls or sharpened fieldworks. The Screamers, on the other hand, shoot from horseback and move freely whether charging or withdrawing."
"Well said," Gendry replied. "The horse lords field more cavalry than any of our other enemies, and they do not fear death. But we have advantages of our own. Better armor, and the benefit of the terrain."
"What my lord says is true. But if Drogo brings forty or fifty thousand Screamers, that would be a truly massive army," Jorah said. "Back at the Trident, Rhaegar brought only forty thousand men to battle. And fewer than a tenth of them were knights. The rest were free riders, archers, and infantry with spears and lances. Once Rhaegar died, many threw down their weapons and fled the field."
"But times are different now. Our standing army is more than capable of fighting them," Anguy said confidently. He did not know much about that war from the past. He simply felt that Ser Jorah was making the Dothraki sound too troublesome.
"Drogo may be fierce and battle-hardened, but that doesn't mean he is especially clever," Gendry said calmly. "Steppe riders are no good at sieges or storming fortified positions. What they crave is a head-on decisive battle."
"I'd wager Khal Drogo will come to Myr and fight me there," Gendry said with certainty. "Drogo sees himself as the Khal among Khals. He will not sit by and watch me shatter the Dothraki's prestige. He will come to Myr for a decisive battle. That is exactly what I want."
In war, everything depended on momentum and position. Gendry intended to create an advantage for himself by every means possible, not fall into the Dothraki's trap like those fools.
"You'll win," Anguy said confidently.
"Yes. I have to win. Only by defeating Drogo can I become the one true king."
The battlefield Gendry envisioned needed a strong defensive position first, something solid enough to wear down the Dothraki's morale, whether that meant Myr itself or the defensive lines outside the city. Only by first blunting the Dothraki's spirit could he make better use of a decapitation strategy. As it happened, the Dothraki were fond of such tactics themselves, so this would become a clash between two powers, between two young kings.
Gendry understood that victory alone was not the goal. His true objective was to destroy the enemy thoroughly and at the lowest possible cost.
"Blunt their edge, avoid their strength, then strike where they are forced to respond. I will shatter the myth of the Dothraki in a single battle."
A scorched-earth strategy had its difficulties, mainly because the eastern continent truly was fertile.
To the east of Myr, preparations were underway for a semicircular battlefield centered on the city itself. Trenches and earthen ramparts were being built, but the sea was the real key. Myr stood by the water, and at a moment like this, failing to make use of that advantage would be a waste.
First came the chevaux-de-frise, laid out in layer after layer. That was only the most basic measure. Beyond them were two lines of trenches and two earthen ramparts, forming killing grounds from higher ground.
The boiling oil, crossbows, and ballistae mounted on the ramparts were all deadly weapons against the Dothraki, not to mention the even more terrifying catapults.
Gendry had also prepared every kind of force for the Dothraki's arrival: the Myr fleet, heavy cavalry, light cavalry, infantry, longbowmen, Unsullied, the Holy Guard of Norvos, and even gladiators who had escaped from Meereen.
On both continents, east and west, the clouds of war were gathering.
...
In King's Landing, outside the walls and along the riverbank, more than a hundred tents had been raised, and crowds of smallfolk had come to watch.
The splendor of the tournament left Jon almost breathless: gleaming armor, towering warhorses draped in gold and silver, the roar of the crowd, bright banners streaming in the wind.
Jon stood packed in among the commoners, and hardly anyone paid any notice to the plainly dressed young man with the scarred face. Mycah stood beside him, just as excited.
But Jon was not there merely for the spectacle. He wanted to observe the knights from the different regions and see whether he could gather the information he needed. At last Jon understood why the common people loved tournaments so much. They were not only grand entertainments, they also gave plenty of people a chance to earn money. The people had to be kept happy. The people had to be given a way to earn.
In the crowd, Jon spotted a familiar figure. His sister Sansa was coming down from the bridge with a septa and her companion Jeyne beside her. The curtains of her litter were made of yellow silk, exquisitely crafted.
"How beautiful," Sansa said happily. She wore a green gown that set off her auburn hair perfectly, and she looked lovely. In the crowd, Sansa caught a familiar gaze. She saw Jon, but pretended not to, continuing on with her companions toward the places reserved for the highborn, where the noble lords and ladies sat.
That girl, Jon thought, shaking his head inwardly. It was normal for Sansa to be full of rosy dreams. Normal girls were like that, and Lady Catelyn had filled her head with dreams of becoming a perfect lady. But this was the wrong time. King's Landing was full of danger now. This was no time for pleasure.
The White Knights were the most popular of all. Though their name had been tarnished by the Kingslayer, they were still regarded as the greatest knights in the realm. The Kingsguard wore milk-white scale armor, their snowy cloaks like fresh-fallen snow. And the one drawing the most attention was, naturally, the Lannister Kingslayer himself, Ser Jaime, glittering from head to toe in gold, with a lion-headed helm and a golden sword at his side.
Jon paid the closest attention to the Lannisters. He had no choice but to watch them carefully and stay on his guard. He could already feel the Lannisters' malice clearly enough.
"The Mountain."
The moment Jon saw the Mountain appear, his heart began to pound.
The Mountain's bloody reputation was as famous as his monstrous size. Ser Gregor stood eight feet tall and rumbled past like a moving hill. He was the biggest, broadest man Jon had ever seen. King Robert and his two brothers were large men, and the Hound was huge as well. But the Mountain stood above them all. He was eight feet tall, with massive shoulders and arms as thick as young tree trunks.
Damn it, Jon cursed inwardly. The Kingslayer and the Hound were already hard enough to deal with. The Mountain was an even greater menace.
His size alone made him terrifying, and he was not even slow for a man that huge. A man like that was a horror on the battlefield.
We'll have to move slowly and carefully.
Jon could not help comparing the guards of the North to the Mountain in his mind, and a painful truth quickly became clear. Among the northern guards, there was not a single warrior who could match the Mountain.
Jon admired the men of the North and knew every one of his father Eddard's guards well, but he understood the gap was immense. Jory probably was not even a match for the Kingslayer, let alone the Mountain.
Jon watched the Mountain ride off, then turned his attention to the other knights entering the field. He spotted Lord Jason with his eagle-winged helm. The old lord was still formidable despite his age. At the Trident, he had slain three of Rhaegar's guards himself, and during the Greyjoy Rebellion he had also killed the older brother of that arrogant fool Theon.
Even when Jon did not recognize a knight by name, their sigils, banners, and even their looks often gave them away. He saw the twin brothers of House Redwyne, their shields bearing wine-red grape clusters on blue. He also saw a dark-skinned man, an exiled prince from the Summer Isles, wearing a cloak of red-and-green feathers.
"The Vale men."
The ones Jon had been waiting to see had finally appeared: knights of the Vale, Ser Andar, heir to Bronze Yohn, and Ser Robar. Their armor was silvered, and engraved with the same bronze protective runes their father wore. Bronze Yohn also had a younger son, Jon knew, one who had gone to join the Night's Watch.
If only more of House Royce were here, Jon thought. Lord Eddard ought to meet with them and learn what they know. House Royce wielded tremendous influence in the Vale, second only to the greatest lords there, and Bronze Yohn was known as an upright and old-fashioned man. House Royce was also tied to House Stark by marriage.
Handsome knights appeared one after another. Jon spotted Lord Beric, his black shield marked with a lightning bolt, with striking red-gold hair. The king's younger brother was even more handsome, and the cheers that greeted him were louder still. The king's little brother had won the love of the people with his grace and charm.
"Our men are here."
Jon saw the representatives from the North and Winterfell, who had come to join in the excitement as well. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin had called for Jon to come earlier, but Jon disliked occasions like this and had more important matters on his mind.
"Compared to the others, Jory looks like a beggar."
When Jory appeared, Septa Mordane gave a disdainful sniff, and Sansa had to admit the judgment was fair. Jory wore plain grey-blue armor without any sigil or ornament. The thin grey cloak over his shoulders looked like nothing more than a dirty rag.
Even so, Jory performed well. In his first tilt, he unhorsed Horas Redwyne. In the second, he knocked down a Frey knight. In the third, he faced a hedge knight named Lothor Brune, whose armor was every bit as plain as his own. The two met three times without either one unhorsing the other, but Brune held his lance steadier and struck more cleanly, so the king awarded him the victory. Alyn and Harwin were far less impressive. Harwin was knocked from the saddle in his very first pass by Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard, while Alyn lost to Ser Balon Swann.
The jousting would go on all day until dusk. The thunder of hooves rolled on without pause, churning the tiltyard into a battered wasteland. Knights crashed into one another, lances splintered and burst apart, and the crowd roared louder with every contest. All in all, it was a thrilling and dangerous spectacle.
Things are not looking good, Jon thought. The Lannisters were not to be underestimated. To defeat an enemy, you first had to understand him.
Jon realized that several of the Lannisters' chief men were truly dangerous. The Kingslayer's record was impressive, and the Hound and his brother were just as hard to deal with.
Compared to that, the North looked rather grim. A joust could not tell the whole story, but it did show that these knights were skilled riders with excellent balance.
Jon stared at the field without blinking. There was one man he cared about most of all: Ser Hugh, the Knight of the Vale who had refused him, Lord Arryn's former squire. And when Ser Hugh entered the field, Jon saw a tragedy unfold before his eyes.
"Damn it, no."
The moment Jon saw the Knight of the Vale matched against the Mountain, he knew something was wrong. His face went pale. The gap between them was too great. The Knight of the Vale was only a young man hungry for fame. He could never have been the Mountain's equal.
And events unfolded just as Jon feared. The Mountain's lance rose and struck beneath the young knight's gorget. The force was so great that it punched straight through his throat, killing him on the spot.
The Mountain did not even pretend to be sorry. He only looked coldly at the result. He was a cruel man.
The Knight of the Vale fell less than ten feet from Sansa's seat, the lance tip jutting through his neck as blood began to pour out. Such a vivid red it was. His cloak had been the sky-blue of a summer day, embroidered with crescents, but as the blood spread, the color darkened, and the moons themselves seemed to turn red.
Was it deliberate, or an accident? Damn it, that bastard Mountain did it on purpose.
Jon stood frozen where he was while the crowd broke into a confused uproar, many crying out in grief.
Jon had gotten no words from Hugh, and Lord Eddard had been preparing to meet the young man. Someone had silenced him, Jon thought instinctively, because Lord Arryn's former squire knew certain secrets. Poor fool. He had died because of his own arrogance and greed.
Jon heard a girl crying her heart out. The poor Knight of the Vale would never cry again. Jeyne had started sobbing. Sansa, however, shed no tears. Jon felt a coldness creep over him, as though an Other's hand had brushed down his spine.
Is this what power is? Everyone bleeds for it.
Jon no longer had the heart to watch the rest of the tournament. Death had soured his mood, especially with the loss of such an important lead. He only learned the final result afterward.
Of the final four, aside from the Knight of Flowers, the young Loras, the other three were all Lannister men: the Kingslayer, the Mountain, and the Hound.
The Knight of Flowers was the most beloved of them all, because he truly was that handsome. The boy seemed one with his horse, and that very morning he had defeated three members of the Kingsguard. His armor was exquisitely worked, the enamel filled with a thousand blossoms, while his snow-white mount wore a red caparison adorned with white roses.
Such beauty and luxury could belong only to the youngest son of the wealthy House Tyrell.
After the tournament ended, Jon grew even more uneasy about Eddard's position. The Lannisters' presence in the lists was as frightening as their influence in King's Landing. And by Jon's reckoning, there were probably several among the White Knights who were Lannister loyalists as well.