In the crisp morning light, Gendry looked at his new armor in the military tent, a kind gift from the people of Qohor.
Golden armor and a beautiful golden helmet, shaped like a warhammer, looked like a heavy punch. On one wing of the helmet was a proud stag, and on the other, a flying dragon.
"These weapons sent by the Qohor people are really good, they put thought into it," Gendry said. "It is said that they have learned the secret of infusing color into steel, compared to which painting or glazing are just Child's play."
"It's good, my lord, but on the battlefield, it's definitely a target," Anguy couldn't help but complain, as the overly ornate armor was too eye-catching.
"Yes, this golden armor is still for ceremonial use," Gendry said to Anguy.
"Next, we are going to fight the horse people, Anguy."
"horse people are just two arms and two legs; I am confident," Anguy said in a deep voice.
"Very well, I will take the warhammer and you the bow and arrow, it's just facing Dothraki Screamers."
"My lord, I have a request," Anguy said awkwardly.
"Speak."
"Khal Drogo is the greatest Dothraki Khal; he must have famous horses and bows under him. At that time, I want..." Anguy said awkwardly.
"You little rascal, you're quite greedy. But that's fine, you don't want a dothraki woman, that's not allowed," Gendry chuckled. "Granted! I will arrange a set of famous dothraki bows and good horses for you then." Warriors often have a collecting habit for warhorses and weapons.
"Thank you, Commander-in-Chief," Anguy left the military tent cheerfully, and then Maester Qyburn entered.
"Is this a Qohor artifact?" Qyburn immediately saw the golden armor and asked.
"Indeed."
"Although Qohor is a place filled with the evil Black Goat god and the stench of witchcraft, its craftsmen are exquisite," Qyburn said. Qohor is known as the "City of Sorcerers," hinting at the prevalent divination, blood magic, and necromancy there.
"It's a pity the Qohor people didn't send a valyrian steel sword," Gendry said with regret.
"valyrian steel is not ordinary; even in the Eastern Continent, acquiring a valyrian steel weapon requires great fortune. Besides, you have already obtained an arakh," Maester Qyburn said with a smile. "If Tywin knew about this, he would probably go mad with anger."
valyrian steel was already scarce, and after the Doom of Valyria, only the Qohor people mastered the technique of reforging valyrian steel. valyrian steel then became a completely finite market; once one was found, there was one less.
Most of the valyrian steel swords in Westeros ended up in the hands of ancient noble families; each had its own name and story, regarded as precious heirlooms of old families. Even weak and poor families were unwilling to part with them. Lord Tywin had repeatedly approached impoverished families in the kingdom, offering large sums of money to buy their valyrian steel swords, but was repeatedly refused.
"The more, the merrier," Gendry said. Although he had an arakh, he hadn't decided what to reforge it into, and it would be best to get another valyrian steel weapon.
What Gendry wanted most was armor, but unfortunately, that might only exist in the Valyrian Ruins. valyrian steel is quite rare; longswords are more common, while axes, arakhs, and the never-before-seen valyrian steel armor are even rarer.
"Also, we are only temporary friends with Qohor, not long-term friends," Qyburn said.
"You're talking about Qohor's black magic and slavery."
"Precisely," Qyburn said calmly. "the black goat is an evil god, and legend has it that the exquisite craftsmanship of Qohor blacksmiths is inseparable from bloody sacrifices, which requires slaves."
Gendry had also heard the story of Maester Pol. Maester Pol, during his travels in the Free Cities, wrote some essays on Qohor's forging techniques. He was publicly flogged and expelled from the city three times for asking too many questions. In the last instance, he was accused of stealing a valyrian steel weapon and had a hand cut off.
Maester Pol stated this was because he discovered Qohor craftsmen secretly performing blood sacrifices, killing slaves, some of whom were just infants, to create weapons comparable to the craftsmanship of the Freehold.
"That's for the future; Qohor is too far from us. For now, they are our allies because both city-states equally hate Volantis," Gendry said. "Let's first deal with the Dothraki, clear out the enemies to the south, and then discuss Qohor and Norvos."
"How is the situation in Westeros?" Gendry asked Qyburn.
"The situation has deteriorated to the point where war is imminent; it could break out very soon," Qyburn replied in a deep voice. "The conflict between the wolf and the lion is escalating and will eventually ignite everything."
"So, should we add fuel to their fire?" Qyburn asked.
"No need, someone will naturally steer the situation towards war, Lord Hoster's two daughters," Gendry said.
"Indeed, in that case, the fish will also enter the game," Qyburn nodded. "Lord Hoster was wise throughout his life, but the children he raised are truly difficult to describe."
"Have our people sent back any messages?" Gendry asked Qyburn.
"Not yet, Your Highness, but they are operating in The Three Rivers pretending to be wildlings from the Mountains of the Moon. They might have already encountered Catelyn and The Imp; we just need to wait for news."
"Very good, Maester Qyburn. They only need to accomplish this one thing: wait, be silent, endure. Once I've dealt with Drogo, I'll naturally have time to focus on that ugly iron throne."
"The crabfeeder's men will obey your commands, for they have waited many years for this moment."
"Right now, I have left four chess pieces in Westeros: one in the North, one on the Claw Peninsula, one in King's Landing, and one in the Riverlands. Except for that idiot Ramsay, who is temporarily a dead piece, the other pieces are very important and must achieve surprise," Gendry analyzed meticulously.
"Also about the war, I think the Riverlands will be the first battlefield. Hoster is old and dying, and his son Edmure is said to be young, brave but lacking in wisdom," Gendry analyzed. "That old scoundrel Tywin is quite capable of bullying fools and the sick. Tywin will send troops to ravage the Riverlands, firstly to tempt Edmure to divide his forces to guard and protect his people. Secondly, it will tempt Stark in King's Landing to act and stir up the situation, as Stark only brought a mere hundred guards."
"So, will Stark fall for it?" Qyburn asked. Regarding military matters and strategy, he was a scholar.
"Stark will most likely fall for it; right now in King's Landing, it's a complete dead end."
"A direwolf is not suited for going south," Qyburn replied thoughtfully. He still remembered what happened back then, when the Mad King killed Eddard's father and elder brother Brandon.
"Let them tear at each other. When the situation deteriorates further, I will make my chess pieces move," As a fisherman, one must have patience and foresight to net big fish in turbulent rivers.
"Also, regarding the Dothraki, send more wine merchants and informants. I want clear information about Khal Drogo," In military strategy, espionage comes first; one must be adept at using it.
"Yes, Your Highness," Qyburn said loudly. "And the other two characters you wanted to know about seem to be normal for now."
"The old Prince of the Windblown, the fat Magister of Pentos, the captain of the Golden Company."
"The old Prince still seems to be wavering, but he doesn't have the confidence to join us," Qyburn said. "As for the Golden Company, their ten thousand men have now reached a position near Lys and Volantis, not only to avoid the Dothraki but probably also fearing our attack."
"Don't mind them. The old Prince still thinks we can't confront the Dothraki head-on. But that's fine; if everyone could see and seize the opportunity, it wouldn't be an opportunity. As for the Golden Company, they will come begging me," Gendry snorted coldly. The Windblown only had two thousand men; how much longer did this old man want to hold out for a better price? But mercenary companies are always like this; they need a good price.
"The fat man from Pentos is even more cunning; he seems to want to offend neither side. Pentos originally didn't have many Mercenaries. The fat man organizes the magisters to provide us with supplies and also gives gifts to the Dothraki."
"As long as he doesn't cause trouble, it's fine," Gendry had no good feelings for the fat Illyrio, but given the current situation, he maintained a cautious and polite attitude.
"What about the Lord of Dragonstone? Any recent movements?" Gendry asked.
"Lord Stannis is still holed up on Dragonstone, not contacting the outside world, at most recruiting some refugee Mercenaries from Lys."
"Poor Lord Stannis. If the red comet hadn't come, and the shadow assassins couldn't be hatched, it would be a complete deadlock. In such a situation, wouldn't he seek help from all sides?"
"You've done very well, Maester Qyburn," Gendry said to him. "In the future, I will establish a new type of educational institution, untainted by religious factors, and you are the founder I have chosen."
"All my achievements are under Your Highness's glory," Qyburn replied respectfully. A smart person knows how to answer, how to be humble and yield... After leaving the Crossroads Inn, Tyrion was carried south by the "wildlings."
Fortunately, these wildlings gave them Goat furs, saving him from the cold and rainy night.
"Stupid Madwoman," The Imp grumbled, wrapping himself in Goat fur and protecting himself with an umbrella. He really wanted to cry; he considered himself somewhat friendly to the Stark family within House Lannister, yet he was treated like this by that lunatic Catelyn.
"Cheer up, dwarf. Without us, you would have been taken to Winterfell, to stay a few more days in that godforsaken, freezing place," the "wildling" leader said to Tyrion.
"Your kindness, leader, I can never repay. But as far as I know, the Snake people tribe has not yet been so strong," The Imp promised. "House Lannister will surely repay you handsomely. When I reach King's Landing, I will give you a large amount of gold dragons."
"Alright, dwarf, don't ask what you shouldn't ask. Thank you for your gold, but we won't take you to King's Landing, only to a relatively safe location," the "leader" replied. Tyrion fumbled around on himself; the little gold he had left was given to the wildlings. Tyrion only saw his Rust-colored hair and scarred cheeks.
"A mysterious knight, it's unclear whose sworn sword he is," Tyrion thought gloomily, but even if he guessed the truth, it wasn't the time to speak it.
These people didn't even care about Catelyn Stark, which could only mean their master was extraordinary; only a Duke-level figure could train such sworn swords.
"From here, continue south. Ride hard, you have two attendants and two mercenary lords; returning to King's Landing won't be difficult," The "wildling" leader accompanied Tyrion for a considerable distance on the Kingsroad before parting ways with him.
"Farewell, my dear wildling friends. If you ever come to King's Landing in need, I would be happy to show my generosity," Tyrion said sadly. What a good group of wildlings; he lacked such warriors among his own men. But unfortunately, it was of no use.
"Alright, dwarf. We just spared your life, couldn't bear to see you suffer at the hands of that Madwoman, and we men also hate Arryn and Tully. But next time we meet, we might not be so polite to you," the "wildling" leader led his subordinates away gracefully, disappearing into the rainy night again.
Tyrion watched them go with envy. As a dwarf, he could not become a knight, let alone have his own military brothers. His mind was useful, but strength and weapons were also indispensable, Tyrion reflected calmly.
"Stop looking, Lord Tyrion, you can't tame subordinates like that," Bronn looked at Tyrion and replied coldly. "They don't love your gold; someone can give them something more than gold."
"Yes, I can never have such subordinates," Tyrion sighed. Gold is important, but gold can only bring Mercenaries. Friendship and honor, these seemingly ridiculous things, sometimes outweigh gold.
"Bronn, whose men do you think they are?" Tyrion asked.
"I don't know, but they're definitely not wildlings. Wildlings don't have such nourishment, and their weapons are far inferior."
"Yes, not Arryn, not Tully. Are there any other forces opposing them nearby, and familiar with the Riverlands terrain?" Tyrion pondered, a huge shadow seemingly looming over his heart.
Only a ruthless schemer could have arranged the situation so clearly.
"Could it be him?" Tyrion's thoughts raced, but he also felt it was unlikely. If someone could remotely control and also fan the flames, such a mind would be too terrifying.
A knight is not terrifying; a terrifying knight who is both skilled in combat, cunning, and charismatic, that would definitely be their great enemy.
"No, I must advise my father to proceed slowly, and absolutely not to rage into war," Tyrion thought, though he knew his advice would likely be ineffective, and Tywin would still send out his hounds.
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