Warm sunlight, a brisk autumn wind, and a blue sea lying calm and still. It was only early autumn, and fortunately the weather had not yet grown too abnormal.
Gendry and the others boarded the best and fastest ships in Gulltown. Before the storm came, he could still cross the Narrow Sea. The sight of the golden quartered banner and the blue-and-white crescent falcon flag unfurling in the wind still seemed to linger before his eyes.
"Smash the lion's arse, cut off the lion's head." The fleet from Gulltown was not only sending them off, but also carrying away Ser Boggs's contingent of Crackclaw cavalry, while another portion remained at The Twins. Once these riders returned to Crackclaw Point, they would launch an uprising and immediately cut off King's Landing's northern grain route.
As for Ser Brynden Tully the Blackfish, he would leave with Sansa Stark. Gendry had also warned him about the wildlings he had recruited along the High Road. The Blackfish was a clever old knight. He would know how to coax the wildlings along.
"My soldiers, my warriors." Gendry saw the Gold Cloak knights, along with a small number of blue-cloaked squires following Harry the Arse, and Jon's butcher boy squire.
Gendry saw the joy and longing on the soldiers' faces, and comforted them one by one. He was bringing back more than four hundred guard cavalry, with almost no losses. But a very few had died in battle or by accident, and their cold nameplates had been brought back with them. The names of the dead would be recorded one by one and placed in the Hall of Honor.
This was war. Casualties in war were never just numbers. If a war achieved nothing, then victory meant little. Gendry thought of those young faces, of their laughter and high spirits. They had set out from The Twins, only to die in some foreign place amid wild grass and lakes. Gendry gave his soldiers good supplies and equipment, drank and played finger-guessing games with them, and even slept beside them on rough grass and in army tents. But none of that could save every life. The best comfort the Storm could offer the fallen was to bring the war to a better, swifter end.
The Gold Cloak guards were willing to die for the Storm, but the endless fighting and constant travel had left even these bravest of soldiers looking somewhat weary. They too wanted to return to their nest, to the warmer, greener The Twins.
"Breaker!"
"Storm!"
The guard cavalry were proud as well. They had followed the Storm from victory to victory, defeating countless powerful enemies. Beneath the Storm came the call of triumph, and the wailing and weeping of foes.
Gendry waved to those beloved guards and walked toward the bow. His ravens had already taken flight. After this brief rest would come an even greater storm. Now the Storm had one guard, Barristan, and five squires: Anguy, Younghawk Harry the Arse, the bastard Jon Snow, the Bear Girl Dacey Mormont, and Lothor Bren. Ser Lyn had wanted to come as well, but Gendry had given him generous terms and asked him to protect Sweetrobin and Mya Baratheon.
"If the Vale sends troops, then our rear will be secure. Vale cavalry has always been reliable," Ser Barristan said. Although the Vale had never achieved the same extraordinary record as the historic direwolf army, its cavalry surpassed the Starks' in both numbers and equipment.
"Of course. Vale cavalry is famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms," Harry the Arse replied proudly.
"The Vale's condition is much better than The North's, and they have been resting while waiting for the right moment," Jon Snow agreed. As a bastard of The North, Jon knew that The North was somewhat thin in material resources.
"I have already allied the three northern kingdoms. The great cause is as good as done." Gendry looked out over the blue sea, pride rising in his heart. Once he took the Stormlands as well, the great alliance of The Twins, stag, wolf, fish, and falcon would be unmatched. The Westerlands certainly had strong soldiers and fine horses, but Tywin's greater advantage lay in banking on infighting within the alliance and defeating each faction in turn. The stag was divided, the wolf and fish had gone their own way, and the falcon had stayed idle. Without that advantage, and without the rose to restore his strength, the lion was in grave danger.
Many were urging a decisive battle with the Lannisters, but everyone's military edge had arrived a little late. Tywin, after all, had been the first to start the war. Now the Riverlands had been crippled, The North lacked enough cavalry, and by the time Gendry and the Vale replenished their forces, Tywin would have already fled with his army. The final battle might well be fought in the Westerlands.
"If only those two cowards, Lys and Volantis, would show up as well. Then I could seize the moment and fight three kings in succession," Gendry calculated inwardly, imagining a clash of four emperors.
"My lord, are you thinking of seeing the silver-haired Dragon Princess?" Anguy suddenly teased Gendry as he watched the gulls on the horizon.
"So what if I am? I'll have to find you a wife who can keep you under control too." Gendry smiled calmly.
"Spare me!" the red-haired Anguy cried.
The ships, handled by the finest sailors, came ashore. The knights landed in the northern region of Pentos and entered the Andalos Hills, while the ships from Gulltown turned back with practiced ease. Braavos claimed sovereignty over the Braavosian Coastland, but Andalos was more like a land without a master.
The cavalry raised the golden quartered banners and galloped across the Andalos Hills.
"So this is the homeland of the Andals." Gendry looked out over the gentle hills. The terrain changed little, making it well suited for cavalry charges.
Andalos was the homeland of the Andals. They had seized this land from the Hairy Men who had originally lived here, and later, most likely out of fear of the Dragonlords or some other powerful enemy, fled and invaded Westeros.
"Andalos is also excellent grain country, but much of it lies abandoned now," Lothor explained. The endless green was soothing to the eye, but unfortunately there were not many people farming it. Lothor had once worked as a Sellsword in Essos, and was now a good guide as well. The terrain here was not complicated, either. As long as they followed the river south, they would reach the end.
"It truly is a waste," Gendry said with a nod. An even greater waste, he feared, was the fertile land along the Rhoyne. After the Dragonlords had ravaged it, the Rhoynar civilization that relied on the great river had been destroyed. Those prosperous cities fell into ruin and brought plague with them, followed by the rise of the Dothraki.
"Once we reach Ghoyan Drohe, we continue south." The cavalry kept moving south along the river. The Little Rhoyne was not a great river. In truth, it was not that small, but even the smallest of The Trident's three branches was twice as wide, and each one flowed faster than it did.
Soon the cavalry came upon a ruined little city. Ghoyan Drohe appeared before them. It had once been a city of the Rhoynar. The city was not large, but it had been exceptionally beautiful, set among emerald greenery and blooming flowers, crisscrossed with canals and fountains. Until war swallowed it. Until the dragons descended.
"The decline of a civilization," Gendry thought. Everywhere he looked, he saw only ruin. The city's canals were abandoned, leaving nothing but reeds and silt. Its fountains had become stagnant pits, swarming with mosquitoes, while the palaces and temples were reduced to broken walls. Now only old willow trees grew ever more lush along the wasteland by the river.
Valyrian civilization was a civilization of Fire and Blood, while the Rhoyne civilization was one of great rivers, possessing its own unique water magic. The Rhoynar were elegant and artistic, and made excellent fishermen, merchants, teachers, scholars, carpenters, stonemasons, and smiths. Unfortunately, they had been utterly defeated in war.
"There are actually people here," Harry the Arse said in surprise. The locals had cleared a few small vegetable plots among the wild grass, but when they saw the knights and their warhorses, they fled back into the caves where they usually lived. These natives might have been descendants of the Rhoynar. Only a few stared at them as if in a daze, barely clothed, along with children who were completely naked, mud covering them below the knees.
"Cut down the reeds and deal with the stagnant water in the fountains. Mosquitoes breeding there will bring plague," Gendry ordered. Speaking of it, he might have a little Rhoynar blood himself. His great-grandmother's grandmother seemed to have been a Martell Princess.
"As you command!" The Gold Cloak riders dismounted, cut down the reeds along the riverbank, then lit fires with practiced skill to smoke out the mosquitoes. They covered the fountains and stagnant pits with stones.
Harry the Arse had been standing there in a daze, but when he saw Gendry leading Lothor and the Gold Cloaks in the work, he had no choice but to join in.
Flames burned brightly among the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe. The natives stared blankly at those knights on tall horses as they filled the fountains and ditches, smoked out the mosquitoes, and even left them a little food.
"Good people!"
"Good people!"
The natives did not know their names. They only knew these were good people.
"Not good people. The Breakers of the world," Lothor explained.
Gendry's party did not stay long at Ghoyan Drohe before continuing south. Gendry missed Balerion. If he had a dragon, clearing away this bit of foul water would be very quick.
The golden quartered banners flew high as they beheld an ancient, legendary craft: the Old Valyrian roads.
Gendry was astonished. He knew this, too, was the magic of dragons and flame, ancient fire magic that could destroy, but could also create. The road was not earth, brick, or cobblestone, but a long, vast ribbon laid from molten stone. It rose half a foot above the ground, allowing rainwater and melted snow to drain away. There were no cracks on its surface, no wheel ruts, only a strength built to endure.
"This road is truly wide," Jon said, deeply shaken.
"It is," Dacey and Anguy agreed. Compared with this road, the roads of the Seven Kingdoms were little more than muddy tracks. This was a real highway, wide enough for three carriages to travel side by side without interfering with one another or slowing the flow of traffic.
The golden war banners danced in the wind. Gendry was the first to gallop ahead, followed by his guards, squires, and Gold Cloak guards, all quickening their pace. The closer one came to home, the more uncertain the heart became.
It took Gendry's party quite some time to cross the Pentos Flatlands and skirt the city-state of Pentos. The flatlands were filled with orchards, farms, and mines, but there were no towns, all because of fear of the horselords. Continuing south, they passed through Myr and the Disputed Lands, where free folk and small merchants bowed and moved aside for their golden banners. But Gendry did not slow.
At Pear Tree Manor outside Wolf's Den, the Stag and the True Dragon were reunited. The fragrance of pears was still rich, covering the stink of sulfur and fire.
Gendry and Daenerys sat together on a soft cushion, Dany nestled in his arms, while the three dragons shrieked happily around them.
"I often imagined how sweet it would be if I could see you again. Every moment, every breath, I thought of you," Daenerys said, her fingers brushing across Gendry's cheek. A little weathering and resolve only made him more captivating.
"You are not dreaming, Dany." Gendry smiled faintly. The black Balerion climbed onto Gendry's knee. The black-red dragon had grown quite a bit larger, and before it screeched, it breathed out a thin wisp of smoke.
Gendry tossed Balerion a piece of cooked meat. Balerion's black-red flame spun down over it, and only after the meat was charred even further did he swallow it.
Dragonflame. Gendry watched the firelight. It was the finest sword against the cold, provided the dragon grew to maturity. Gendry felt that the volcanic climate of Dragonstone suited a dragon's growth. There, dragons would become even stronger and swifter. It was the homeland of dragons.
"He is wilder than the other young dragons. He grows the fastest, and learned to hunt first," Dany said.
Gendry looked at the black dragon. He truly was extraordinary, the strongest of the three. People said he was the Black Dread reborn.
"The Mountain and Amory are dead. The Kingslayer has lost the hand that held his sword," Gendry said calmly, though behind his plain words, the flames of war had never stopped burning.
"You are the knight of my heart," Dany praised him. Her knight, her flame, her sun.
"And you are the Queen of love and beauty in my heart."
Daenerys gave him a kiss, light and moving.
"Then are we close to victory?" Dany asked.
"We will win, but we still have to face the terrible Long Winter."
"Winter." Daenerys felt a little afraid. She was, after all, a child of summer.
The dragons sensed her fear and spread their wings. Balerion flapped his wings and flew to the high point of the manor, while the other two swept across the sky, the tips of their wings scraping the branches.
"But we have dragons. They grow quickly."
"My good princess, dragons are not invincible." Gendry held Daenerys's hand. "The wars to come will be a mixture of cruelty and absurdity."
Dragonhorns, sorcery, the Drowned God, the Cold God, the Lord of Light. They would face every strange and uncanny thing in the known world.
Daenerys seemed to understand, yet not quite.
...
For the sake of fire, Tyrion and Hallyne were now deep beneath Rhaenys's Hill, directly below the guildhall of the Alchemists.
Tyrion Lannister had put on thick padded trousers, a wool coat, and a heavy velvet outer robe. Only then could he barely endure the cold.
Saltpeter covered the damp stone walls. The only light came from the sealed, iron-barred glass oil lamp that the pyromancer Hallyne carried with extreme care.
Jars of wildfire were stored along the stone walls, and the pyromancers had to be cautious to the point of terror. No flame, no light. The long cellar was damp, dark, and cold enough to seep into the bones.
"You may handle one jar, but you must be very, very careful," Hallyne said. Hallyne was a pale-faced man with soft, clammy hands and an extremely fawning manner. He wore a black-and-red striped robe trimmed with mink, though the fur looked thin and seemed to have been gnawed by moths.
Tyrion picked up a jar, a round, fiery-red vessel like a fat clay pomelo. It was a little too large for his palm, but he knew it would fit just right in the hands of an ordinary man.
"Do not squeeze it, and do not let it slip."
Tyrion felt it carefully. The clay was thin and brittle, rough to the touch, with grit mixed into it. He could see the wildfire inside, a thick green substance.
"It is rather viscous."
"My lord, that is because of the cold. Once the temperature rises, this substance will flow smoothly, just like lamp oil," Hallyne said.
"This substance" was what the pyromancers called wildfire. They addressed one another as "wise men" and constantly hinted at the breadth of their learning, hoping others would see them as men of vast knowledge. It irritated Tyrion greatly.
The pyromancers had once been all the rage, but their order had gradually declined, and now there were few of them left. When Hand of the King Tyrion came to their door, the pyromancer began speaking as if honey dripped from his tongue.
"I hear water cannot put this stuff out?" Tyrion asked.
"Indeed, my lord. Do not underestimate it. It is the most terrifying flame of all." Pride showed on Hallyne's face.
Tyrion had seen wildfire before. He thought of Thoros of Myr and his flaming sword. With a thin coating of wildfire, a longsword could burn for an hour. Thoros had to use a new sword in every tourney.
"How much do we have now?" Tyrion asked. The fact that the pyromancers had trapped wildfire in clay jars meant they had some skill after all.
"This morning, Wise Man Munciter gave me the latest count. At present, we have seven thousand eight hundred and forty jars, including four thousand left from the reign of King Aerys."
"And why does it not seep through the clay?"
"Oh, but it does," Hallyne said. "There is another cellar below this one, specially used to store the old jars. Those were all left from King Aerys's reign. It was his idea to make the jars in the shape of fruit. These fruits are very dangerous indeed, Lord Hand, and hehe, more 'ripe' than they were before, if you understand my meaning..."
Tyrion listened to the old man ramble on. Wildfire was easy to make and hard to destroy. When King's Landing fell all those years ago, many pyromancers had been killed, leaving only a few assistants, nowhere near enough to handle such work. More frightening still, because of the chaos at the time, many of the things the pyromancers had made for the Mad King had disappeared.
"So much wildfire, and some of it still missing." Tyrion felt a flicker of fear. It was enough to set all of King's Landing ablaze. But he had no choice. He needed fire.
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