By the time the imp, Tyrion, was brought over, most of the gathered nobles recognized him. After all, just last year, he had made quite the spectacle in Tyrosh by purchasing that blue Valyrian steel sword for an exorbitant sum. His story had spread far and wide, with many a bard recounting the tale.
Back then, the castle had yet to be completed, and Wright had invited Tyrion and other high-ranking nobles to dine at his residence on multiple occasions. Nymeria, of course, recognized him.
"Untie them at once! They truly are Tyrion of the Westerlands and Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. Bring them some rations as well!"
Jorah and Tyrion finally let out a sigh of relief. Rubbing their reddened wrists, they sat down on the sand.
Nymeria handed Longclaw back to Jorah. "Lord Jorah, what were the two of you doing here?"
Jorah took back his sword and fastened it to his belt. "That's a long story."
The two then recounted their journey to those present.
"You two are quite fortunate!"
Jorah turned toward the voice and asked, "And you are?"
Harmen Uller and his brother, Ser Ulwyck Uller, were equally intrigued. This particular knight led a group of just over twenty men who served as Nymeria's personal guards. They almost never removed their helmets, even during meals, only briefly uncovering their mouths to eat. They were not ones for idle conversation.
Their armor was the most dazzling among the gathered knights, plated with silver, and while their leader wielded a Valyrian steel sword in battle, the longswords of the rest bore silver inlays along their blades. Their fighting style was distinct from the usual knights—rather than targeting the neck or other common weak points, they aimed for the heart with every thrust.
Nymeria introduced him. "This is Ser Dickon Tarly of Grey Gallows, Commander of the Dragon Guard."
The towering Dickon Tarly, despite being only fifteen years old, already had a face shadowed with stubble beneath his helm. He gave Jorah a polite nod. "Lord Jorah, well met."
"A son of House Tarly!" Jorah returned the gesture. "Ser Dickon, well met."
Yet, the gathered nobles remained perplexed. Of the nine high-ranking commanders under Lord Wright, this one was the most enigmatic. His unit consisted of merely twenty-some men, yet it was said that anyone who joined was immediately knighted. No one understood Wright's intentions, and inquiries were met with unyielding silence. They divulged nothing.
Meanwhile, Tyrion was counting aloud. "One, two, three, four… Why is it that the closer we get to Tyrosh, the more Valyrian steel seems to appear?"
Nymeria removed her helmet and fanned herself with her hand. "Later this year, Wright plans to auction off another sword. Tyrion, got any spare coin for another purchase?"
Tyrion waved his hands frantically. "Gods, no! I ran away from home this time—I'm living off Lord Wright's generosity! I haven't a penny to my name!"
Nymeria's expression turned serious. "The Tyroshi ships have already returned, and all of Dorne is under lockdown. There won't be any vessels taking you to Tyrosh anytime soon. You'll have to stay with us for now."
Jorah, who had been pondering his next steps, saw an opportunity. "May I join the battle?"
Nymeria considered this before nodding. "The king has forbidden nobles from other regions to participate in the Dornish war. However, you two were rescued as prisoners. That makes you exempt."
Tyrion grinned. "Exactly! We were prisoners first!"
Nymeria continued, "That said, given your particular status, you'll remain close to me. Lord Jorah, you may fight at my side. Tyrion, can you handle logistics?"
Tyrion laughed. "I was half-afraid you'd hand me a spear and send me charging the front lines. Logistics? No problem!"
Of course, Nymeria had no intention of actually entrusting him with overseeing supplies. The task remained in Dornish hands. Tyrion was simply given minor duties—handling documents and delivering reports—to keep him occupied.
With the battlefield cleared, stray horses recovered, and usable weapons packed away, the army settled for a brief rest before interrogating prisoners.
Rations were distributed among the troops.
Tyrion examined the food in his hands: a piece of chocolate in his left, a water-softened dried meat cake in his right, with a flatbread and a waterskin resting on his lap. "Do Dornish soldiers all eat like this?"
The dried meat cake was made from compressed, sun-dried, cooked meat. It had an exceptionally long shelf life, and once soaked in water, the taste was surprisingly decent. Jorah quickly finished his portion and savored the chocolate bit by bit. "The chocolate's from the Stormlands. The meat cake must be Dornish. This is better than what most in the North eat."
Tyrion nodded. "I know that. But if even common soldiers receive this level of rations… This stuff isn't cheap. How long must they have been preparing these supplies?"
Jorah raised an eyebrow. "Something troubling you?"
"Not at all. I just think, with rations this fine, sticking with Nymeria is bound to bring some opportunities." But he kept the rest of his thoughts to himself.
Jorah chuckled. "Eat up. We'll likely be marching again soon."
Once the troops had rested, they didn't move far but instead made camp near a water source. Scouts were dispatched north and east to survey the surroundings.
Jorah and Tyrion approached Nymeria's command tent, where the nobles and officers had already gathered, reporting casualties.
Nymeria's voice was steady. "Take the tokens of our fallen comrades. Bury them where they fell. How many prisoners?"
Ashara replied, "Another dozen or so of the gravely wounded died in the afternoon. That leaves 342 prisoners. Eighty-six of them are men; the rest are women."
Nymeria nodded. "Keep them for now. We'll need them to spread false information when we leave. Feed them well—I don't want any more dying."
"Understood!"
Jorah and Tyrion had only joined midway and were unfamiliar with many of the plans, so they listened carefully without speaking rashly. After the war council ended, they found Ashara to clarify the situation.
It turned out that this unit was not the main force. The entire cavalry had crossed the Dead Zone to launch a surprise attack, merely to spread false information and stall Yronwood's forces from marching north, buying time for the northern offensive on Blackmont. They would not remain here for long before retreating.
To ensure the deception worked, Nymeria had appeared in person with her dragon and numerous commanders. Additionally, she had assigned people to intentionally whisper near the prisoners, discussing an impending infantry arrival, so the captives would spread misinformation.
For now, the fighting here had reached a temporary standstill. In the north, Blackmont had been under siege for two days by the Daynes and the Manwoodys. The Manwoodys had plenty of siege equipment in reserve, and if no reinforcements arrived, the castle would soon fall.
House Fowler had poisoned the Yronwood river upstream. Fortunately, the water flow was strong enough to dilute the toxins, preventing casualties. However, the city was now overflowing with human waste. The garrison commander, Lord Wyl of Boneway, wrote to Old Hawk Franklyn Fowler, vowing to send every last pile of excrement in the city to the Fowlers for their meals.
But by the time Lord Wyl was writing that letter, most of the city's inhabitants were already severely weakened from diarrhea—his threats were nothing more than empty words.
On the Dornish Sea, Ghaston Grey had been seized by the fleeing House Jordayne. The island had originally been a prison and was easy to defend but difficult to attack. House Drinkwater, ordered to retake it, was unable to breach its defenses and remained locked in a stalemate, waiting for reinforcements.
Meanwhile, upon receiving reports that Nymeria and her dragon had appeared at the source of the Vaith River—but had not yet launched an attack—Lord Anders Yronwood immediately halted his advance. He ordered a retreat to Wells and dispatched cavalry south to scout. The two locations were only a few days' march apart, and he hoped to crush his foes in a decisive battle at the river.
---
With Tyene fully recovered, Wright had once again filled his schedule with work, even taking personal charge of matters like city sanitation—something he would never have concerned himself with before. As a result, Logistic Officer Garlan Tyrell found his own workload significantly lightened.
One evening, Renly noticed Wright still working despite the dark circles under his eyes. After dinner, he quietly slipped him two bottles of energy tonic.
The young dragon, Peytvahaaz, had grown even larger and, with Odahviing away, was now the undisputed ruler of Tyrosh's skies. With little else to do during the day, it enjoyed wrestling with the direwolves and occasionally dove into the sea to catch fish. Each time it returned with a catch, it would proudly dangle the fish in front of the wolves sitting onshore, watching them drool. At night, it liked to curl up in Wright's chambers, staring at the five dragon eggs still incubating.
Today, Wright visited the city's largest smithy, overseeing the education of Gendry, Robert's acknowledged bastard, in mechanical engineering.
Gendry bore a striking resemblance to a young Robert—meaning he looked quite like Wright and Renly as well. After the death of the old Hand, someone had arranged for his care. Though he had learned exceptional blacksmithing skills, he was illiterate. Only after arriving in Tyrosh had he begun to study.
With a good temperament and a strong sense of self-awareness, Gendry seemed more promising than Edric Storm at Storm's End. Since he was eager to learn, Wright took it upon himself to teach him. Though Wright spent most of his time researching magic, at least his college-level mechanical knowledge would not go to waste.
When Gendry had first arrived, he possessed nothing but a few tattered clothes, a warhammer of his own making, and a bull-headed helmet. Now, under Wright's patronage, he had risen to oversee Wright's personal weapons workshop. He had even used his wages to craft a full suit of armor, distinguished by two raised horns on each pauldron.
"This type of heavy-duty spring can't be manufactured with current machinery—the pressure isn't sufficient. You should use a leaf-spring design instead. With today's techniques, you can build something suitable for carriages," Wright said, sketching out the design and detailing its construction method.
"How much weight can this handle?" Gendry asked.
"I wrote the formula right here—calculate it yourself!" Wright insisted. He would teach, but he would not simply hand over the answers. Gendry had to work it out on his own if he wanted to truly learn.
In the room sat a half-assembled wagon, a long-bodied transport with eight large wheels, designed for hauling timber.
The Disputed Lands were gradually developing, with vast amounts of lumber being transported to the shipyards. Three large towns had already sprung up along the coast. However, as the coastal forests were steadily depleted, moving timber from the interior to the shore became increasingly difficult.
Traditional wagons, with their narrow wheels, were ill-suited for the swamp-ridden terrain of the Disputed Lands, making transport costly in terms of manpower and horsepower. Specialized vehicles were urgently needed.
"If you successfully manufacture this wagon and leave behind complete schematics, I'll grant you one-tenth of the sales profits. Plus, as a reward for this contribution, I'll formally knight you," Wright declared.
"Really? Thank you, Lord Wright!" Gendry exclaimed, overjoyed. With his hair nearly worn away from constant thinking, he suddenly found new motivation.
Wright could have built it himself, but considering Gendry was half his apprentice and Robert's son, he was willing to give him a break.
Observing the half-finished wagon, Wright remarked, "It won't be long before you become a landed knight. You should start thinking about your sigil."
"A shield is necessary… but what should I add to it?" Gendry mused, struggling with the decision.
"You're tanned—use a black background. And your armor features a bull motif, right? Put a bull on the shield. To emphasize your status, outline the shield in gold, and make the bull gold as well!" Wright suggested.
Gendry listened as Wright spoke, sketching on the paper. Once he finished drawing as instructed, he picked up the sheet and said, "Then I'll use this!"
Wright responded, "This sigil will follow you for life, so you must choose carefully! The master craftsmen of Westeros now engrave their names or sigils on their works. From now on, any carriage you personally craft will bear this emblem."
"Haha!" Gendry laughed absentmindedly as he pondered his decision.
The other craftsmen in the workshop began congratulating him. While they couldn't match his smithing skills, nor keep up with his studies, he was still the king's bastard—and now, he was about to become a noble through his craft. It was best to get on his good side while they had the chance.
After wrapping up matters at the forge, Wright leisurely made his way to the southern city square, where a grand indoor theater had just been completed.
Opera and dance dramas were ancient entertainment in Westeros, typically enjoyed by common folk. Nobles preferred dancing at their own gatherings, and the few existing theaters were open-air amphitheaters.
The food, drink, and entertainment industries were cornerstones of Outer Tyrosh's economy, and Wright spared no effort in developing them. His goal now was to elevate and formalize these industries.
The theater, named the Wright Grand Theatre, was situated behind the temple district, with one side facing the sea and the other bordering the main thoroughfare. It was one of Wright's personal ventures.
Since no such building existed in this world, Wright had drawn all the blueprints himself before having professional builders refine them. The entrance led into a high-ceilinged hall with three levels, where visitors could disperse via separate staircases. The first floor housed the main stage and a vast audience seating area, while the second and third floors contained balcony-style private boxes. Behind the stage, there were designated rooms for performers to rest and prepare. The structure was impressively spacious.
Though the building had been completed some time ago, neither Wright nor the craftsmen had understood proper acoustic design, which had led to poor sound projection. Only after multiple modifications was it finally ready for its grand opening.
In terms of size, the theater was second only to the main castle within Tyrosh, though its construction costs were far lower. Wright's personal residence had been built with many additional features, making it significantly more expensive.
The Wright Grand Theatre had officially opened yesterday. This novel form of entertainment was extremely popular, though the limited number of plays was an issue. Currently, only The Feeble King Aegon and His Nine Mistresses and Wright's Battle Against the Venomous Dragon of Meereen were being performed in rotation. Even so, the Tyroshi's enthusiasm remained undeterred, and every show played to a full house.
The theater operated from the afternoon until late at night. Matinee tickets were cheaper, while evening performances—when most people were free—were the most expensive. However, Wright had his own private box in the best spot on the third floor.
No one was allowed entry if they were improperly dressed!
Guards were stationed throughout the venue, checking guests to ensure they were presentable. Even with a ticket, those in unclean attire were denied entry. Yet, despite arriving straight from the forge, covered in soot and grease, Wright was not stopped. He went straight to his third-floor box.
Inside, several people were already present. Only those authorized by Wright were allowed in, as the guards would not admit anyone else.
Renly, Loras, and Margaery sat in the front row of the luxurious box, with Margaery cradling a baby in her arms. The three were engaged in a passionate debate over which mistress the feeble king loved most. Robb and Seran sat behind them, listening intently to their discussion. Meanwhile, Tyene, Quaithe, and a few handmaidens were tending to three children while enjoying refreshments.
Wright greeted everyone and moved to a corner seat, intending to steal a quick nap.
"Serenei of Lys was the most beautiful!"
Margaery and Tyene's sudden shouts startled Wright just as he had closed his eyes. He had forgotten to activate his silence spell.
Just as he was about to cast it, Seran Farman approached him.
"Lord Wright, do you have a moment? There's something I'd like to discuss."