"Long live The Crag!" shouted one of the townsfolk.
In this world, when people wished to express their deepest respect and admiration for their lord, they would chant "Long live The Crag!" in a burst of emotion. On the battlefield, it was also a rallying cry used by generals to boost morale before a charge.
In mere moments, cries of "Long live The Crag!" echoed through the skies above the city, rising and falling like waves, loud, unending.
It was the first time in generations that House Westerling had seen such a display.
Never before had the people embraced The Crag with such genuine enthusiasm.
The crowd was in a fervor, emotions running high.
Being a professional soldier was now a desirable position.
Tax reductions, even full exemptions, were a blessing.
And with milk turning sour and unsafe in the hot season, the lord offering to buy it from the people at a fair price was seen as an act of extraordinary kindness.
No one stopped to ask the most obvious question: Where was all this money coming from?
House Westerling was a fallen house, broke and forgotten. So where did they find the money to raise an army? To buy up milk?
In their pursuit of reclaiming noble status, Lady Sybell and her brother, Rolph Spicer, had abandoned the profitable spice trade. Being a spice merchant was looked down upon by the nobility. To be accepted among them, the Spicers had given up their wealth-generating business in Lannisport, the very trade that had once made their ancestors rich.
But the common folk didn't concern themselves with such things. Already, young men, idle hands in overburdened households, were asking Ser Raynald Westerling when recruitment would begin.
Raynald's guards rushed upstairs to ask Ser Gregor, the Mountain, for instructions.
Yet Gregor didn't rush to capitalize on the momentum. Instead, he calmly said, "In five days, we'll begin recruiting the first batch, three hundred men. Ten days from now, the second batch. Fifteen days, the third. Also three hundred. Ages fifteen to forty. Those who are particularly strong, know the basics of swordsmanship or horsemanship, or have special skills, like blacksmiths, stonemasons, carpenters, horse handlers, scribes, and accountants, will be considered even if they fall outside the age range."
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By noon, the atmosphere in the dining hall was noticeably tense.
The knights and lords dined inside the hall, while the soldiers ate at long tables set up in the outer room. Each table sat two hundred, and there were seven in total, a relic of the Westerlings' past glory, when their household had numbered over a thousand.
"Ser Gregor, I'm curious," said Lord Damon with a casual smile. "You're recruiting nine hundred men. May I ask, where is the money coming from?"
He held a fork in his left hand, no longer using chopsticks. Since losing his right hand, he had sworn never to struggle with them again. When he tried with his left hand, he kept dropping them.
"The weapons and armor are manageable," muttered Lord Gawen.
The Westerlings still had an old armory, albeit one thick with dust. With repairs and polish, they could still outfit about a thousand men.
Gregor replied, "Lord Damon, are you not aware of Lord Tywin's decree to replace iron with wood? Now, even moderately wealthy commoners can afford decent blades and armor."
"Heh. Fair enough. Let's say you've dug up some rusted weapons and old suits of armor," Damon said with a smirk. "But what about food, clothing, training, and wages? How long can you sustain those?"
"Not even a month," Gregor said flatly.
Lord Damon raised an eyebrow and turned to Lord Leo. "Lord Leo, are you planning to lend Ser Gregor the money for this army?"
"Certainly. Two gold dragons," Leo replied with mock seriousness.
The whole room chuckled. He was, of course, referring to the two gold dragons Gregor had given earlier that day to a clumsy woman hauling timber, a move many thought foolish.
"Oh, in that case, I'll gladly match it," said Damon with a laugh. "Two gold dragons for Ser Gregor, no need to repay."
Lord Gawen's face turned a deep shade of purple.
Lady Sybell bit her lip and opened her mouth to speak but hesitated. She glanced at her daughter, Jeyne, then said nothing. There were too many unpleasant nobles at the table, better to keep silent than invite humiliation.
This only made Lord Gawen's mood worse… and the other two Lords' moods better.
Lord Leo said, "Lord Gawen, Lady Sybell, Lady Jeyne, don't you think Ser Gregor's decrees today were a bit… rash? Reckless, even? I feel like I'm dreaming."
Gregor chuckled. "Lord Damon, Lord Leo, you're right. I have no money. My in-laws have no money. But let me ask you something, do you know who does have money?"
Damon held a piece of beef on his fork. "Gregor… are you seriously saying Tywin Lannister is going to fund your army? Are you out of your bloody mind?"
"I don't know," Gregor replied coolly. "You're his cousin. Why don't you ask him yourself?"
Damon's face froze.
It was as if someone had slapped him across the face.
His right hand had been chopped off. Ser Addam Marbrand had already returned to Ashemark and likely wrote to Tywin long ago. Yet… There had been no raven from Casterly Rock. No condemnation. No outrage.
Why?
It was a delicate question.
Lord Leo, a shrewd man, immediately realized that Gregor's claim wasn't entirely baseless. Maybe Tywin wouldn't send him a chest of gold, but if Gregor dared say it aloud, it meant Tywin might support him, at least indirectly.
As for why… well, such matters were above Leo's station to question.
Leo laughed heartily. "Ser Gregor, forget what I said about the gold dragons. I was only joking. Lord Gawen, Lady Sybell, clearly, Ser Gregor wouldn't make such a bold move unless he had Lord Tywin's blessing in some form. Lord Gawen is his father, yes, but Tywin Lannister is also like a father to him. Gregor, you clever devil! You said nothing, then made your big announcement and waited to see our reactions. Ha! Brilliant!"
Lord Gawen and Lady Sybell both managed faint, awkward smiles. A bit of relief softened their expressions. Sybell gave her husband a questioning glance. Gawen's eyes answered: I don't know where the money is coming from either. As for Tywin giving Gregor anything out of fatherly affection, not a chance.
Lord Damon's mouth soured. He suddenly tossed his knife and fork down with a loud clang.
"Damn it. This food is disgusting. Lord Gawen, you should have your cook executed!"
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That afternoon, as the sun began to set,
On the northeast trade road outside The Crag, the Bull and Bernie walked side by side.
Seeing that no one from their village was nearby, only strangers walking the road, Bernie finally asked the question.
"Give me the gold dragon," he demanded.
But the Bull didn't hand it over. "Bernie, the lord is recruiting. Be a soldier. I'll stay and farm. I want to use the gold dragon to buy a pony, so I can visit you in The Crag whenever I want."
"They're not recruiting for another three days," Bernie growled. "Give me the coin. Now."
"I'll give it to you when you sign up," she said firmly. "That way, our family can raise dairy cows without worry. And since we won't have to pay taxes or grain levies this year, we'll finally have enough food and money."
Bernie glared, rage rising. But seeing there were still people around, he swallowed it down. "Hand it over, you stupid cow."
She met his eyes. "Ser Gregor said people with special skills will be treated favorably. You can mimic voices, you could be his personal guard."
"You idiot. He needs swordsmen, not mimics."
"He'll need you too. When he's tired, or when the knights and nobles hold feasts for birthdays and festivals, your performance will amaze him. You're one of a kind, Bernie. Sign up in three days. Show them your talent."
"…Fine…" Bernie finally held out his hand.
She reached into her coat and placed a single gold dragon into his palm.
Bernie dropped it into his coin pouch, then held his hand out again.
After all, she'd earned two gold dragons hauling that log, not one.
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