Seeing Seran Farman approaching him instead of going to Renly, Wright felt a bit surprised—after all, it was Renly who had handled the matter in the Westerlands back then. But after a moment's thought, he realized that no matter how clever she was, she was still a privileged young girl. There was only so much she could have figured out on her own. So, he gestured for her to sit beside him and had a maid pour her a glass of fruit juice.
Wright said, "Within a one-meter radius of me, sound won't travel outside. Say whatever you need to."
Seran held the cup with both hands, glanced at Robb—who was still focused on the opera—then turned back. "Lord Wright, may I ask you a hypothetical question?"
"Go ahead."
Seran hesitated before asking, "If things had never happened the way they did back then, what would things be like today?"
Wright shifted his gaze from the stage to her. Her features truly combined the best of Jaime and Cersei—it was hard not to think that Robb was quite lucky. "If things had never happened back then, I would have personally killed Joffrey the moment he came of age."
"Ah!" Seran's mouth fell open. This was not the answer she had expected.
Wright continued, "Don't act so shocked. The throne was never going to pass to someone who wasn't even a trueborn son. And even if he were Robert's legitimate child, if he ever crossed me, he'd still have been dead with just a single stroke of my blade."
Seran had assumed that if Joffrey had remained a prince, Wright might have negotiated or schemed something, but she hadn't anticipated such a direct response about outright killing him.
"I understand now." She reached into the cloth bundle in her lap and took out three stuffed toys, handing them to Wright. "These are gifts for your three children."
"Thanks. These three little whales are quite nice. Anything else?"
"I..." Seran hesitated, unsure how to continue.
Wright said, "As long as your brothers stay out of my sight, I truly have no time to go looking for them. But I will inform Robert. This is his personal matter—he can negotiate with Tywin himself if he wants to. Since you and Robb are already married, I'll simply consider you a lady of House Farman, and I'll remind Robert to take that into account."
"Thank you!" Seran finally realized that her little tricks and cleverness were entirely useless in the face of true power. She gave a polite thanks and returned to Robb's side.
Wright, meanwhile, reclined in his seat, resuming his nap. He only stirred awake when the performance ended and the audience broke into applause. Still half-asleep, he clapped along.
---
The strait between the two continents was a short distance across, but it was plagued by endless chaotic storms all year round. Merchant and cargo ships typically took the long way south, passing through the Stepstones. However, there were always those daring enough to make a direct crossing.
Smuggling ships, slaver vessels, and fugitives all chose this risky route to cross the strait.
Littlefinger and Ramsay had endured a harrowing journey at sea, barely surviving to arrive in Pentos.
By the time they reached the city, the two of them had a grand total of six silver coins between them. They found a low-end tavern to eat and discuss their next steps.
At a nearby table sat a group of local thugs. Noticing the two hooded figures, they sneered and walked up, yanking back their hoods—revealing the demon-brand scars on their foreheads and their mutilated ears.
By now, both Littlefinger and Ramsay had seen their fair share of hardship. The moment the thugs mocked them for being slaves daring to enter a tavern, the two men exchanged a glance, then immediately drew their daggers and stabbed. Chaos erupted in the small tavern.
Five men died, one was severely injured, and the two fugitives stripped their victims of all valuables. The crime was so brutal that it sent shockwaves through the city—Pentos hadn't seen such a heinous act in a long time.
Hunting down two men with such distinct features wasn't difficult. Before long, the city guards captured them and threw them into a dungeon.
"Trust me, it won't be long before we're out of here," Littlefinger said, lying back on the straw, completely at ease. He was no longer a noble of King's Landing—his experiences had taught him to sleep anywhere.
"I believe you," Ramsay replied. "But I'd still rather do something in the meantime."
The dungeon held many prisoners. In Pentos, trials were mostly for show—those caught were simply locked up until further notice. Ramsay kicked a burly man lying face-down on the ground. "Hey, are you still alive?"
The man groaned, lifting his battered face to reveal bruises and swelling.
"From now on, you work for me, got it?" Ramsay declared.
"Ugh..." The man could barely form a coherent sentence, his eyes vacant.
"Damn, looks like we beat the brains out of you," Ramsay muttered. "But at least you're big enough to look intimidating." He grudgingly accepted the man as his first underling and moved on to recruit others.
Meanwhile, in the Magisters's hall, the magisters of Pentos were leisurely sipping their drinks and chatting when a clerk hurried in with a thick stack of wanted posters, whispering something in their ears.
Just as Littlefinger had predicted, by nightfall, they were not only released but "invited" to the magister's palace. Servants brought them fine clothing and food, treating them with unexpected hospitality.
One of the magisters, Illyrio Mopatis, had been living in constant fear.
Most of the Golden Company's officers and elite forces had been poisoned to death in Meereen. Even Aegon himself had been personally killed by Wright, while Daenerys had been captured alive. From the moment Illyrio received the news, he had been plagued by nightmares—visions of Wright strangling him, of Wright advancing with a sword.
After much deliberation, the corpulent magister finally made a decision: he would flee.
He would abandon his power in Pentos and move inland to Norvos. As long as he had his wealth and his life, he believed he could regain influence again one day.
The three men talked deep into the night, and by the time dawn arrived, Illyrio was already calling Littlefinger and Ramsay his "brothers".
Since the two men planned to establish themselves as mercenaries, Illyrio provided them with weapons and funds. He even released a dozen prisoners from the dungeon—none of them good men, but with the right mix of coercion and persuasion, they could be made to follow.
A few days later, Illyrio finally sold his grand estate and resigned from his position. Under the farewell of the other Magisters, he departed eastward along the Valyrian Road, accompanied by over a hundred personal guards and several wagons loaded with wealth.
Upon reaching Qohor, the caravan was supposed to continue northeast. However, at that moment, Littlefinger approached Illyrio with a wide smile. "Magister—oh no, Illyrio, my friend. We truly appreciate your generosity, but this is where we part ways."
Illyrio frowned. "You're not coming with me?"
Littlefinger shook his head. "No, we've decided to sail south instead."
Panic crept into Illyrio's face. He had many matters that needed handling in the new city—things that couldn't be done openly. If these two left, all his arrangements would be wasted. "But we had a deal! How can you go back on your word?"
Littlefinger patted him reassuringly. "Plans change. We've reconsidered and decided mercenary work suits us better."
Meanwhile, Ramsay was already organizing their men. These rogues and cutthroats, after receiving Ramsay's "guidance" along the way, were now completely loyal to him. Half of Illyrio's guards and wagon drivers had also decided to defect.
"You traitors! None of you are leaving!" Illyrio ran to seize the reins of a wagon, desperate to hold onto his wealth.
Ramsay had always worn a smile, and he did now too—but the dagger in his hand was pressed against Illyrio's thick neck. Their faces were nearly touching. "I wanted to take everything from you," Ramsay whispered, "but my brother here said it wouldn't be right to be so ruthless. So, out of respect for him, I'm only taking half. But don't push your luck. If you so much as touch my property again, I'll slit your throat on the spot."
A notorious outlaw wanted across the continent was nothing like the desperate nobles Illyrio had encountered before. Realizing there was no point in struggling, he turned to his own men. "Why are you following them?"
One of the squad captains sneered. "A wealthy, desperate fat man on the run, or two of the most infamous figures in Westeros, ranked second and third on the list of most dangerous men… You tell me, who should we follow?"
Ramsay withdrew his dagger and climbed onto a wagon, where Littlefinger was already waving him off with a smirk.
"You can't do this! That's my money!" Illyrio shouted as the wagons rolled away into the distance.
"Give it back!"
His screams rang out over the plain. Then, suddenly, the distant caravan stopped.
Ramsay dismounted, exchanged places with one of the horsemen, and turned his steed back.
The horse's pace quickened, from a trot to a gallop, and then into a full charge.
"What are you doing?!" Illyrio's face twisted with fear. He staggered backward, then turned to run—only for his head to be severed by Ramsay's sword before he could take another step.
None of his remaining guards even reached for their blades.
After a brief pause, Littlefinger glanced back at the following troops and wagons, then smiled. The caravan resumed its journey.
---
During their brief stay in Pentos, the two had learned much from Illyrio about the power dynamics of the Nine Free Cities. The southern trio were allied, the northern cities operated independently, and the central region was a chaotic no-man's-land. They had already set their sights on Ny Sar.
Situated along the Rhoyne, the largest river cutting through the continent from north to south, Ny Sar was a crucial stop for merchant ships traveling in either direction. Dothraki raiders and brigands roamed freely, and no single power had yet established control over the region.
Upon arrival, Littlefinger and Ramsay wasted no time getting to work.
Littlefinger handled trade and transportation. Through a series of "friendly negotiations", local merchants agreed to hand over a portion of their profits in exchange for protection.
Ramsay dealt with the local gangs and raiders. After another round of "friendly negotiations"—which left dozens of corpses floating down the river—he and Littlefinger were formally acknowledged as the city's overlords.
Though resistance and discontent lingered, the two had effectively consolidated power in Ny Sar. Declaring themselves "Co-Governors" of the city, they established a loose governing structure.
The city, too insignificant for larger powers to claim and now unified under a single rule, finally provided them with a stable base of operations.
For the first time in a long while, life felt… comfortable.
---
One day, after hearing rumors about Wright's exploits in the area, Ramsay ordered his men to retrieve some driftwood from the river and construct a five-meter-tall statue of Wright in front of their dilapidated Governor's Palace.
Carving and assembling the statue took little time. By the time the workers began painting it, Littlefinger finally noticed what was happening.
His jaw clenched. "Ramsay, I know your business, and you know mine. Why in the hell are you putting up a statue of him?"
Ramsay shrugged. "Wright was my spiritual pillar of survival."
Littlefinger was too furious to respond.
Ramsay clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You made trouble in the Vale. If it hadn't been Wright, someone else would have stopped you. You were just unlucky it was him. At the time, he was acting Hand of the King. It was his duty."
Littlefinger thought for a moment, then sighed. "Fine. But the story you heard about his deeds here isn't accurate. I'll have the workers adjust the statue to reflect the real version. You don't object to that, do you?"
Littlefinger conceded, allowing the modification. Ramsay also made a slight compromise.
The five-meter-tall wooden statue of Wright, which originally depicted him standing with a sword, had its hands and weapon removed. A few days later, new arms were attached, altering the stance to one of both hands raised in an offering gesture. The statue now stood tall and solemn, its expression stern, holding a turtle high above its head.
---
Theon and Asha remained within the Golden Company, using their original identities to gather intelligence and rally the scattered remnants of the company. At the same time, they carried out Wright's orders, systematically eliminating the officers within.
At first, a few deaths went unnoticed, but as more officers fell, suspicion grew. Many believed the siblings were attempting to seize power.
The Golden Company adhered to strict seniority rules for promotions, and eventually, dissent erupted into open rebellion. Some members deserted, forming small groups of bandits, while others turned against Theon and Asha.
Abandoning pursuit wasn't an option. The siblings contacted their informants in Volantis, who provided covert support, allowing them to hire numerous small mercenary bands, each consisting of ten to twenty men. Over time, they gathered a force of around five hundred hunters.
Despite their advantage in numbers, they avoided direct confrontation. Instead, Theon and Asha waged a relentless campaign of guerrilla attacks. The Golden Company, forced into retreat, suffered nightly casualties. Step by step, the battle dragged on until they reached Qohor.
By then, nearly all the high-ranking officers in the company were dead. The remaining leaders had been either killed or gravely wounded. The once-mighty Golden Company, now reduced to less than two thousand soldiers, was a mere shadow of its former self. Yet, pride and past glories prevented them from surrendering.
After purchasing supplies in the city, they followed the Rhoyne River south, intending to travel by water back to Braavos. However, Theon and Asha's hired fleet shadowed them—sometimes disguised as merchant vessels, sometimes as fishing boats. Paranoia took hold of the company, forcing them into a constant state of high alert against any approaching ship.
This route to Braavos had one unavoidable stop: the ruined city of Na Sar, where both sides would arrive in a few days.
---
In Westeros, only Dorne remained embroiled in war; the rest of the continent was at peace.
Jaime, having attended his daughter's wedding at Winterfell, returned to Casterly Rock, only to discover that his wife—at least in name—had been starved to death. Enraged, he stormed into Tywin's chambers and shouted, "Whether she shared my bed or not, she was still my wife! How does someone living in our own home die of starvation?"
Tywin, calmly reading a book, responded without looking up, "She was ill."
"Don't take me for a fool! Where is Cersei?" Jaime had already received reports from within the castle.
Tywin finally set his book down. "She went to a banquet. She'll return soon."
Jaime stared at his father's impassive face and, for the first time, saw nothing but cold cruelty. His brother had fled this place long ago, and now Jaime himself had no desire to stay. He grabbed the sword from Tywin's desk and turned to leave.
Only then did Tywin lift his gaze. "Where are you going?"
"Riverrun," Jaime called back without turning around.
Running away again. Tywin waved his hand. "Guards, stop him! Lock him in his chambers."
"You dare? Let me go!"
The guards, loyal to House Lannister's true power, obeyed Tywin without hesitation. Jaime struggled, but within moments, his weapon was seized, and he was dragged away.
In the corridor, little Donnel, who had been playing with gemstones, froze in fear. His father had been imprisoned by his grandfather—was he next?
Dropping the gemstones, Donnel hunched his shoulders and slowly crept toward the exit, planning to slip away to Riverrun and find his mother, Cersei.