Crossing a tributary of the Mander River, Samwell and his party finally caught sight of a towering gray stone castle.
The weathered city walls were covered in mottled moss and creeping vines, silently telling the tale of wind, frost, and the countless years this ancient fortress had endured. At the top of the castle tower, hundreds of feet high, a white banner fluttered in the wind. Upon it danced flocks of black and orange butterflies.
This was the sigil of the lord of Highland City—the coat of arms of House Mullendall.
Passing through this city and heading southwest, one would soon reach the Crimson Mountains.
If Samwell succeeded in establishing a territory there in the future, House Mullendall would become his neighbor.
For that reason, Samwell chose not to bypass the city. Instead, he sent Gavin ahead to Highland City with a formal letter of greeting.
"Samwell Caesar."
Inside the castle, Viscount Martin Mullendall held the letter Gavin had presented to him, a faintly amused smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
"Isn't that the pioneer knight who was conferred by a woman?"
Gavin inclined his upper body slightly and replied in a calm, neither servile nor arrogant tone,
"Honored Viscount, Lord Caesar was knighted by Lady Margaery, daughter of Duke Metz, acting on behalf of her father. He is a legitimate vassal of House Tyrell."
Viscount Martin curled his lips in disdain.
"So he is a knight conferred by a woman after all."
Gavin lowered his head and did not respond.
Viscount Martin snorted softly, then spoke lazily,
"Very well. Let him come in."
Gavin bowed in salute and withdrew in silence.
Turning his head, Viscount Martin instructed the steward beside him,
"Have the kitchen prepare dinner. It doesn't need to be extravagant—just respectable."
"Yes, my lord."
"Father, is this the useless eldest son of House Tarly?"
The speaker was Mark Mullendall, Viscount Martin's eldest son.
He was tall, bearded, and broad-shouldered. A black-and-white monkey sat casually on his shoulder, fully focused on cracking nuts in its hands.
"That's right," Viscount Martin replied. "Randyll Tarly is a capable man, but it's a pity he sired such a worthless son. Now he's finally made up his mind to strip Samwell of his inheritance, though I didn't expect him to use such a method. Sending him off to develop the Crimson Mountains… heh. It would've been better to throw him onto the Wall."
Mark shrugged.
"If I had to choose, I'd rather develop land than go to that ghostly place called the Wall."
Viscount Martin glanced at his son and smiled faintly.
"You think pioneering is easy?"
"Of course I know it's difficult," Mark said. "But the Wall is obviously worse. Freezing cold, and I've heard there are unkillable ghosts there."
"White Walkers?" Viscount Martin sneered. "Just legends used to scare children. Thousands of years have passed—has anyone actually seen them? As for the cold, it's summer now. The Wall isn't that cold."
"But winter will come sooner or later."
"Who knows?" Viscount Martin replied indifferently. "This summer has already lasted a long time. It might last even longer. Only those northern savages who worship trees keep nervously shouting that 'winter is coming.'"
Mark seemed to think of something and suddenly said,
"Father… do you think this is the eternal summer the Seven promised the world? That winter will never come again?"
"The Seven say that when the sins of the world are washed away, eternal summer will arrive," Viscount Martin replied calmly. "So tell me—do you think the sins of this world have already ended?"
Mark shook his head, propping his cheeks up with his hands, lost in thought.
The monkey on his shoulder imitated its master, tilting its head and contemplating the mysteries of monkey life.
Just then, the sound of orderly footsteps echoed from outside the castle.
Curious, Mark walked out onto the balcony and looked down. Through the drawbridge, a formation of nearly two hundred people was marching into the castle.
"Father! Come look!"
Hearing his son's shout, Viscount Martin walked over slowly.
"What is it?"
Mark pointed at the pioneering party below, his face filled with shock.
"Are you sure this Samwell is a waste abandoned by his family?"
Viscount Martin was stunned as well.
The sight before him—over two hundred soldiers standing in neat formation, fully equipped—was genuinely shocking.
It had to be said that Samwell's military training over the past two months had been quite effective. The more than one hundred newly recruited soldiers, at least on the surface, were hardly distinguishable from seasoned veterans.
Of course, once real blades were drawn and true combat began, these recruits would undoubtedly reveal their inexperience.
After all, they had yet to endure the baptism of blood and fire.
But because Samwell had spared no expense on equipment and meat, these soldiers already looked formidable enough to intimidate most people.
In Viscount Martin's eyes, the so-called "waste of the Riverlands" was now leading an elite force of over two hundred men.
This was already a military presence that could not be ignored.
After all, the standing army of Highland City numbered just over three hundred.
Granted, House Mullendall also had more than a dozen vassal knights. If he conscripted the farmers, Viscount Martin could raise an army of up to three thousand men.
He was certainly not afraid of the two hundred-man pioneering force before him.
However—
He was the dignified lord of Highland City.
And the man standing opposite him was merely a pioneer knight without even a single inch of territory.
Even if he won such a confrontation, it would still leave Viscount Martin feeling ashamed.
"Where did he get so many elite soldiers?" Viscount Martin ground his teeth.
The disdain and contempt he once held for Samwell rapidly transformed into a jealousy and resentment he himself couldn't clearly explain.
Mark steadied himself and guessed,
"Could they have been given to him by Earl Randyll?"
"How many regular troops does Horn Hill even have?" Viscount Martin scoffed. "Would he really spare that many for a waste expelled from the family?"
Mark scratched his head.
Though he had never been to Horn Hill, he knew well enough that even if House Tarly was stronger than House Mullendall, it would be impossible for them to hand over so many elite soldiers to someone sent off to pioneer.
If these troops were buried in the Crimson Mountains, House Tarly's strength would suffer a severe blow.
After thinking for a moment, Mark asked again,
"Then could they be soldiers given to him by House Tyrell?"
In his mind, only the wealthy and powerful Duke of Highgarden would be willing to hand such an elite force to a piece of trash.
Viscount Martin rolled his eyes.
"If Duke Metz couldn't even be bothered to knight this man personally, do you really think he'd send him such an army to pioneer land?"
Mark found the reasoning sound and immediately began scratching his head again.
The monkey on his shoulder seemed to sense its master's distress and started hopping around restlessly.
Viscount Martin stared at the pioneering force for a long time before finally turning away without a word and heading downstairs.
Mark hurried to follow.
Father and son arrived at the castle gates, where the steward had already brought bread and salt with his attendants.
This was a sacred contract passed down in Westeros for thousands of years—guest right.
Once a guest accepted the bread and salt offered beneath a host's roof, guest right took effect immediately, and neither side was permitted to harm the other.
Samwell took a small piece of bread, dipped it lightly in salt, and placed it into his mouth. Then he pressed a hand to his chest and bowed slightly toward Viscount Martin.
"Honored Lord Mullendall, thank you for your hospitality."
Viscount Martin wore an exceedingly sincere smile.
"Your Excellency Caesar, welcome to Highland City."
...
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(End Chapter)