In the crisp light of early morning, Gendry stood inside the military tent, quietly examining his new armor.
It was a gift from the people of Qohor.
The armor shimmered faintly under the sun—golden plate chased with intricate patterns, paired with a heavy helmet shaped like the head of a warhammer. On one wing of the helmet was engraved a proud stag, antlers raised high; on the other, a flying dragon, wings spread as if ready to soar.
It looked less like armor and more like a declaration of power.
"These weapons from Qohor are truly impressive," Gendry said thoughtfully. "They clearly put real effort into them. I've heard they've mastered the technique of infusing color directly into steel. Compared to that, simple painting or glazing is child's play."
Anguy stood nearby, arms crossed, eyeing the armor with unconcealed skepticism.
"It looks good, my lord," he admitted, "but on the battlefield, that thing will shine like a beacon. You'll become the enemy's favorite target."
Gendry laughed softly.
"You're right. This golden armor is for ceremonies and intimidation, not for real combat."
He set the helmet aside and turned toward Anguy.
"Our next opponent will be the horse people."
"The horse people?" Anguy snorted. "They still have two arms and two legs. I'm confident."
"Good," Gendry replied calmly. "I'll take the warhammer. You take your bow. We'll be facing Dothraki screamers soon enough."
Anguy hesitated, scratching the back of his head.
"My lord… I have a small request."
"Speak."
"Khal Drogo is the greatest of the Dothraki khals. He must have famous horses and fine bows under his command. When the battle is over, I was hoping that—"
Gendry chuckled before Anguy could finish.
"You little rascal. Quite greedy, aren't you? Fine. But don't even think about taking a Dothraki woman—that's not allowed."
Anguy grinned widely.
"Granted," Gendry continued. "I'll make sure you get a famous Dothraki bow and a good horse."
For warriors, collecting weapons and warhorses was as natural as breathing.
"Thank you, Commander-in-Chief!"
Anguy left the tent in high spirits. Moments later, Maester Qyburn entered, his sharp eyes immediately drawn to the armor.
"A Qohorik artifact?" he asked.
"Indeed."
"Qohor may reek of the Black Goat and witchcraft," Qyburn said calmly, "but their craftsmanship is beyond reproach."
Qohor was known throughout Essos as the City of Sorcerers—a place steeped in divination, blood magic, and whispered necromancy.
"It's a shame they didn't send a Valyrian steel sword," Gendry said with mild regret.
Qyburn smiled thinly.
"Valyrian steel is no ordinary metal. Even in the east, acquiring such a weapon requires immense fortune. Besides, you already possess an arakh. If Tywin Lannister knew of this, he would likely go mad with rage."
Valyrian steel was vanishingly rare. After the Doom of Valyria, only Qohor retained the secret of reforging it. Every newly discovered Valyrian steel weapon meant the total number in the world diminished further.
Most Valyrian blades in Westeros rested in the hands of ancient houses, each with a name and legend attached. Even impoverished lords clung to them desperately.
Tywin Lannister had offered staggering sums to buy such swords.
He had been refused every time.
"The more, the merrier," Gendry said. Though he possessed an arakh, he had not yet decided what form to reforge it into. Another Valyrian weapon would be ideal.
What he wanted most, however, was armor.
Unfortunately, Valyrian steel armor was said to exist only in the ruins of Old Valyria—if it existed at all.
"We must remember," Qyburn added, "Qohor is only a temporary ally."
"You mean their black magic and slavery."
"Precisely. The Black Goat is no benign god. Legends claim Qohor's forging techniques rely on blood sacrifice—slaves, sometimes even infants."
Gendry had read Maester Pol's writings. The man had been flogged and expelled from Qohor three times for asking questions. The last time, accused of stealing Valyrian steel, he lost a hand.
Pol claimed Qohorik smiths sacrificed slaves to achieve craftsmanship rivaling the Freehold.
"That's a problem for the future," Gendry said. "Qohor is far away. For now, we share a common enemy in Volantis."
"First, we deal with the Dothraki. After that, we can discuss Qohor and Norvos."
He turned his gaze to Qyburn.
"How is Westeros?"
"The situation is deteriorating rapidly," Qyburn replied. "War is imminent. The wolf and the lion are circling each other. Once they clash, everything will burn."
"Should we add fuel to the fire?" Qyburn asked.
"No," Gendry replied. "Others will do that naturally. Lord Hoster's two daughters."
Qyburn nodded. "Then the trout will enter the game as well. Hoster was wise, but his children…"
"Difficult," Gendry finished.
"Any word from our people?"
"They're operating in the Riverlands, disguised as wildlings from the Mountains of the Moon. They may already have encountered Lady Stark and the Imp."
"Good. They need only wait, remain silent, and endure."
"Once Drogo is dealt with, I'll have time for the Iron Throne."
"The Crabfeeder's men are ready," Qyburn said. "They've waited years for this."
"I have four chess pieces in Westeros," Gendry said evenly. "One in the North. One on Crackclaw Point. One in King's Landing. One in the Riverlands."
"Ramsay is a dead piece for now," he added coldly. "The others must strike with surprise."
"The Riverlands will be the first battlefield," Gendry continued. "Hoster is dying. Edmure is brave—but foolish."
"Tywin excels at bullying the weak. He'll ravage the Riverlands to draw Edmure out and provoke Stark in King's Landing, who arrived with barely a hundred men."
"Will Stark take the bait?" Qyburn asked.
"He will," Gendry replied. "King's Landing is a dead end."
"A direwolf does not belong in the south," Qyburn murmured.
"Let them tear each other apart," Gendry said calmly. "When the time is right, my pieces will move."
"Send more wine merchants and informants to the Dothraki," he added. "I want precise information on Khal Drogo."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And the others?"
"The Prince of the Windblown wavers. The Golden Company keeps its distance. The Magister of Pentos plays both sides."
"They'll all come begging eventually," Gendry said coldly.
"And Stannis?"
"Still on Dragonstone. Isolated."
"Poor Stannis," Gendry said. "Without miracles, he's finished."
"You've done well, Maester Qyburn. One day, I'll found a new academy—free of religion. You'll lead it."
Qyburn bowed deeply.
---
After leaving the Crossroads Inn, Tyrion Lannister was carried south by "wildlings."
They wrapped him in goat furs, sparing him the cold rain.
"Stupid madwoman," Tyrion muttered, thinking of Catelyn Stark.
"Cheer up, dwarf," the wildling leader said. "Without us, you'd be freezing in Winterfell."
Tyrion snorted.
"My gratitude knows no bounds. House Lannister will repay you generously."
"We won't take you to King's Landing," the leader replied. "Only somewhere safe."
Tyrion noticed the man's rust-colored hair and scarred cheeks.
Not a wildling, he realized grimly.
They ignored Catelyn Stark completely.
Only a great lord could command such men.
When they parted, Tyrion felt a pang of envy.
Bronn spoke bluntly. "You can't tame men like that."
"No," Tyrion sighed. "Gold buys sellswords—not loyalty."
"Whose men were they?" Tyrion asked.
"Not wildlings. And not fools."
Tyrion's thoughts raced.
A knight is dangerous.
A brilliant knight with power and vision is terrifying.
"I must warn my father," Tyrion thought bleakly.
Even knowing Tywin would ignore him.
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