Late October on the southern shore of the God's Eye, autumn had deepened. The air carried the lake's crisp freshness and the faint, earthy tang of mud.
On the newly opened temporary training field, a small-scale "tournant" was underway.
This event had been organized by Luke to boost the new recruits' morale and identify talent. Two guard soldiers in training leather armor were clashing fiercely with wooden weapons; the surrounding soldiers and so civilians cheered from ti to ti.
Luke sat on the hastily built viewing platform, flanked by Syrio and Lucas. He watched the bouts with keen interest.
Emma and Annie stood beside him, holding hot tea.
At that mont, the rapid drum of hooves shattered the lively atmosphere.
Bronn ca galloping in on a lathered warhorse, almost tumbling from the saddle as he reined in hard, kicking up a cloud of dust.
His face was grim, eyes blazing with fury and urgency. Before the horse had fully stopped he leaped down and rushed to the base of the viewing platform in a few long strides.
"My lord! Trouble!" Bronn's voice was hoarse and frantic; he skipped all formalities.
"From the north! A cavalry force—around two hundred riders—hit the road-building camp without warning!"
The easy expression vanished from Luke's face, replaced by icy severity. He shot to his feet. "Who are they? What are our casualties?"
"More than a dozen civilians and workers dead, even more wounded. The bastards cut down anyone in sight and stole tools and grain!" Bronn spat through clenched teeth.
"I happened to be nearby with a rcenary patrol. We heard the noise and charged in, drove them off, killed over thirty, and took a few prisoners. But that was only the vanguard! Scouts just reported a larger infantry column behind them—at least a thousand n—pushing along the lakeshore straight toward us!"
"Whose n?" Luke's voice dropped to a dangerous low.
Bronn spat again. "Count Harroway! The prisoners talked. The cavalry belongs to Count Harroway! And it's not just him. Our scouts say Baron Loren, Ser Tyra, Viscount Patu from the Crownlands, Baron Willow from the Vale, plus several other minor Riverlands lords—they've all banded together!"
"They've sealed the eastern mountain road and the northern lakeshore approaches. This is aid straight at us!"
He paused, his face twisting with mockery and rage. "Their banner is 'Punishing illegal population seizure and disruption of local order'! They claim you're massively recruiting refugees and stealing their people and labor!"
Luke's lips curled—not in anger, but in a cold, mirthless laugh. "Hah. 'Illegal seizure of population resources'? What a splendid, righteous excuse!"
His gaze swept across the training field, the distant outlines of the rising Draco construction site, and the craftsn and migrant representatives who had rushed over with frightened faces.
Everything beca crystal clear.
This day had finally arrived.
Back in King's Landing, Petyr Baelish's position as Master of Coin and the vague royal interest behind him had provided protection. His identity as the "magic rchant" and his daily gold-rush profits had made people envious, but no one had dared to reach out openly.
Now, however, he had left the relatively ordered power center of King's Landing for the southern shore of the God's Eye—a recognized "lawless land," a true "power vacuum."
To the greedy neighbors, he looked like a fat sheep that had wandered away from the wolf pack's protection, clutching a sack of gold, and strayed into the wilderness.
Population seizure? A shabby fig leaf, nothing more.
What they truly coveted was the "magic" secrets represented by Luke Jaqenion himself—the endless stream of Mithril Salt, Velvet Snow, Celestial Dragon wines, the novel magic lamps, the seemingly inexhaustible flood of gold dragons he spent every day yet never ran out of.
And perhaps most of all, the land beneath his feet: once dismissed as worthless wilderness, it was now revealing astonishing potential.
The great houses—Lannister, Tyrell, Stark, Arryn, Tully—might still be restrained by face, mutual checks, or sheer distance, and would not act personally yet.
But the greedy, short-sighted minor lords, lacking both strength and foresight, had already been driven mad by the "fat at" right under their noses.
Count Harroway, a minor lord whose lands lay not far northwest of the God's Eye, was almost certainly the ringleader and most eager plunderer.
The others were rely hyenas drawn by the scent of blood, hoping for a share.
Luke had been waiting for this day.
He knew that in Westeros, a world of the strong devouring the weak, peaceful developnt had limits. Wealth without ard protection was simply a death warrant.
The near-mad expansion, stockpiling, and construction he had pursued for the past month had not been only for the blueprint—it had also been preparation for the inevitable covetous eyes and attacks.
"So they finally couldn't hold back?" Luke murmured, eyes flashing with cold light.
He felt no panic—only the relief of "the other shoe finally dropping" and a towering rage at the violation of his land and people.
He turned and looked at the young Guard Captain Lucas beside him. Lucas was already gripping his fists, eyes burning with battle lust.
"Lucas!"
"Present, my lord!" Lucas snapped to attention, voice ringing.
"End the tournant imdiately! Assemble all forces—Level One combat readiness!"
Luke's orders were iron.
"Everyone into our best armor! Check weapons! Prepare for battle!"
"Yes!" Lucas answered loudly, spun on his heel, and ran toward the field, shouting crisp commands in the style Luke had taught as he organized the troops.
Luke turned to Bronn. "Bronn, gather your foreign legion! Triple the bounty for every rcenary willing to fight this battle! I want a combat-ready force outside White Stone Town within half a day!"
At the words "triple the bounty," Bronn's eyes lit up instantly. His earlier fury gave way to the rcenary's instinctive excitent. "Leave it to , my lord! Gold makes the dead walk, let alone these bloodthirsty bastards. Half a day—guaranteed!"
"Good."
Luke nodded, then spoke to Syrio. "Syrio, take your best n and form a fast reconnaissance team. Leave at once. Track the enemy's every move—especially the surviving cavalry and the main infantry column. I want exact positions, formation, and equipnt. I want to know their every twitch."
"As you command, my lord." Syrio bowed elegantly, then slipped away like a ghost, vanishing into the crowd.
Orders flew out one after another. The entire Draco and White Stone Town area erupted like a poked hornet's nest, switching instantly from feverish construction to full war mobilization.
Urgent horns blared. Craftsn and migrants were herded to safer zones under organized escort. Supplies were consolidated. Won, children, the elderly, and weak were moved into reinforced buildings or hastily dug shelters.
Half a day later, on the relatively open wasteland outside White Stone Town, two very different forces had assembled.
Autumn wind howled, whipping up dust and dry grass.
The air slled of rust, leather, horses, and a faint, taut tension.
On the left stood Bronn's "Foreign rcenary Legion"—roughly six hundred n in a sowhat loose formation.
At the front were about two hundred cavalry in mismatched leather or brigandine armor, horses of every size, ard mainly with lances, curved blades, and horsebows. Water skins and ration bags hung from saddles; their faces showed the usual reckless eagerness.
Behind them were four hundred infantry in even more varied gear—mail, leather, even thick cloth—wielding spears, halberds, greatswords, war axes, and maces. Every man wore a crude gray-white surcoat with a simple red emblem of crossed shield and sword on chest and back—the bare-minimum uniform Luke had demanded for identification.
Discipline was clearly minimal. The ranks were sloppy, n chatted loudly, and the air rang with crude jokes.
"Hey, Dog-Egg! See those iron cans over there? The baron's precious darlings!"
A burly man with a double-headed axe elbowed his neighbor, voice loud enough to carry.
"Look impressive, all shiny. Wonder if they're any good in a fight?" the tall, skinny "Dog-Egg" sneered. "Dressed that heavy, can they even run? They'll make perfect targets later."
An old bowman with a scarred face snorted. "You idiots know nothing! That full plate—ordinary blades bounce right off. Only maces or heavy crossbows can hurt them. But the price… one suit costs more than dozens of our lives. Lord Jaqenion is filthy rich!"
"Rich ans shit in a fight," a scarred rider spat. "War's about experience and guts! We've licked blood off our blades for years. Them? A bunch of whelps trained for a few months! Fancy armor or not, they're just pretty dolls!"
"Not so fast," a more experienced squad leader muttered. "I've watched their drills. That formation, that discipline—it's different. And the baron pays like a king… triple bounty this ti. Worth the risk."
"Yeah, yeah! Who cares if they're iron cans or dolls? As long as we follow Boss Bronn, there's coin to be made!"
Laughter and agreent rose; the noise swelled with greed for gold and battle excitent, mixed with curiosity, disdain, and a trace of envy toward the "regulars" next to them.
On the right stood Lucas's "Jaqenion Family Guard"—exactly five hundred n ford into five crisp hundred-man squares.
The ranks were ruler-straight, perfectly aligned.
They stood in utter silence, a stark contrast to the raucous rcenaries.
Every man wore Blue Star–made "standard full plate armor."
The silver-white plates reflected a cold, steely gleam under the slanting autumn sun. The finish was matte, not blinding, yet unmistakably thick and solid.
Joints were articulated for perfect mobility without sacrificing protection.
Breastplates, vambraces, and greaves were etched or inlaid with House Jaqenion's purple-and-gold flying-dragon crest, vivid and lifelike.
Full-face helms completely hid their features, leaving only T-shaped vision slits through which steady, deep eyes watched.
In their left hands they held large kite shields of matching design, emblazoned with dragon motifs. In their right they gripped silver-bright steel-headed pikes over a yard long, points glittering coldly and angled skyward.
Longswords hung at their waists.
The entire formation stood like a silent forest of steel, radiating killing intent.
The guard was not completely silent—low, disciplined murmurs typical of professional troops drifted through the ranks.
"Third rank, fifth from the left—your shield angle is off. Keep it steady."
"Check the spear shaft joint. Make sure it's secure."
"Breathe easy. Don't get tense. Rember the drills. Trust your armor. Trust the man beside you."
"For Jaqenion!" soone whispered.
"Rule with virtue!" ca the quiet, firm reply from several voices.
Most eyes, seen through helt slits, turned toward the noisy rcenary band nearby. Their gazes were complex—disapproval of the lax discipline, pride in their own "magic armor," and a mix of tension and anticipation for their first true battle.
They had received entirely different training, been instilled with the ideals of "discipline, honor, family," and equipped with weapons and armor far beyond this era.
Full plate was the pinnacle of cold-weapon warfare…
Today they would show these natives what it ant to be ard to the teeth—a true steel tide.
They burned to prove their worth in victory, to defend the new ho they were building, and to repay the lord who had given them everything.
At the front of both forces, dozens of "crimson-and-black dragon banners" were held steady by tall standard-bearers, snapping loudly in the strengthening autumn wind.
Black flying dragons roared across blood-red fields, aggressive and majestic, silently declaring sovereignty over this land and issuing a clear warning—and battle intent—to any invaders.
Luke sat astride a magnificent black warhorse, wearing his custom golden titanium-alloy plate armor like a holy knight stepped out of a ga cinematic.
He positioned himself slightly ahead between the two forces. To his left rear was Bronn, fully ard and grim-faced. To his right rear stood Lucas in gleaming silver plate, pike held at the ready.
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