The King's entourage, like a river of gold, silver, and steel, moved along the road.
More than a dozen standard-bearers held high golden banners, embroidered with the crowned stag, the symbol of House Baratheon.
The procession consisted of about three hundred people, made up of proud vassals, Knights, sworn swords, and Free Riders.
The Queen's luxurious wheeled palace further slowed the pace of the entourage.
King Robert's procession arrived at a rugged and difficult section, the Neck.
The Knights slowly made their way along the winding causeway through endless black mud, a journey that would take more than ten days.
"What a terrible journey!" Joffrey said, looking at the unending black mud in his sight.
Joffrey was tall, fair-haired, and very handsome.
He had green eyes and upturned lips.
The environment of the Neck was indeed harsh, with dense thickets perpetually soaked in decaying swamps, and curtain-like fungi hanging from the branches.
Giant flowers bloomed in the muddy pits, floating on stagnant pools.
There were quicksands around the causeway, poisonous snakes in the dense forest, and half-submerged lizard-lions in the water.
"Although the environment here is harsh, this is the only way to Winterfell.
The causeway is the safest place; never leave it," said Tyrion, the deformed dwarf following Joffrey.
"I've only read descriptions of this place in books, so it's a rare opportunity to experience it."
"Why must we travel a thousand miles to this godforsaken place!
It's so cold and remote," Joffrey complained.
Beside him was a Knight with burn scars on his face, his "dog," Sandor.
"My good nephew, the King's territory knows no season; all are the King's subjects."
"It's probably about that Bastard again," Joffrey muttered.
"A powerful Bastard is no simple Bastard; Across the Narrow Sea, you'd have to call him a Khal!" Tyrion said mercilessly.
Tyrion indeed looked as ugly as his nickname suggested.
His head was disproportionately large, his forehead prominent, his face ugly, one eye black and the other green, his long, straight hair almost white-blonde, and his chin covered in a beard of brown and gold.
"A King is fearless and needs no verbose words.
I will execute him with my longsword, my Longspear," Joffrey pouted.
"What is that Bastard anyway?
I don't want to hear his whining."
"A battlefield is a battlefield; if you lose, you won't have a chance to cry to your mother.
As far as I know, your longsword isn't as hard as your mouth."
"Hmph!" Joffrey looked at Tyrion, then spurred his horse forward.
"One day, I will make you understand what it means to be a King."
"My lord, the Prince will not forget your mockery of him," Sandor said, looking down at The Imp.
His black armor seemed to cast a dark shadow; it was a sooty colored armor.
Sandor lowered the visor of his helmet, which was shaped like a snarling, roaring hound.
"He'd better remember; a King isn't made by words alone.
You, his dog, accompany him daily; you'd best remind him again," Tyrion replied.
Tyrion's brother, the White Knight Jaime, rode up beside him.
"Do you also believe the Khal Across the Narrow Sea is about to wage war?" Jaime asked.
Unlike the ruthless Tywin or Cersei, Jaime had a more amicable relationship with his brother.
"I was just teasing Joffrey; you didn't actually believe it, did you, brother!" Tyrion said with a laugh.
"I believe if the Mercenary King is still sane, he will calmly observe the situation and accumulate strength.
Would those slave traders and Mercenaries be so willing?"
"The sweet rule of Myr and Tyrosh is not so easy to maintain.
Once the King leaves his kingdom and fails in a war of expansion, his kingdom will crumble like sand through fingers, like Silver Tongue."
"Even so, the vast armies Across the Narrow Sea pose a threat to us," Jaime said.
"One bastard is already detestable, and then there's that brother and sister of the Targaryen family."
"Indeed, the Mercenary King is consolidating his power.
Once he finishes consolidating, the Triarchy will choose a point to land."
"We must be prepared!" Jaime said.
"If the enemy Across the Narrow Sea truly lands, then I, like Ser Duncan the Tall of old, will have to draw my longsword."
"However, the enemy Across the Narrow Sea is still a thousand miles away, and the King insists on traveling to Winterfell.
He still trusts Eddard Stark, and it's well known that House Lannister and Lord Eddard don't have a good relationship.
I'll say no more."
"Hmph! I'm not afraid of Eddard Stark.
The Mad King was a shameful tyrant, yet they heaped all the blame of the Kingslayer on me."
Years ago, Jaime killed the Mad King and the Pyromancer.
Jaime merely sat on the iron throne, his blood-stained longsword across his knees, quietly waiting for the next arrival.
At that moment, Eddard Stark rode in with his men, declaring that the throne belonged to Robert Baratheon.
Speaking of grudges, Jaime and Eddard already had an adversarial relationship...
Above the Black Walls of Tyrosh, the Archon of Tyrosh and the Governors looked at the outer trenches.
Tyrosh's inner city was besieged like an iron barrel.
Their green, purple, and red hair and beards shone brightly and strikingly on the city walls.
The besieging Free Riders had planted some Longspears in the trenches, topped with the heads of Khal Jhaqo and his son, along with some Dothraki Screamers and Myr rebels.
The Tyroshi awaited day and night in such fear.
The Tyroshi nobles had very high cheekbones; famine and fear easily made people gaunt.
They could endure for a while, waiting for possible reinforcements, but the reinforcements never came.
"The ratio of slaves to citizens in Tyrosh is about three to one, isn't it?" the Archon of Tyrosh said.
"Volantis has even more slaves than us, probably five to one.
In this situation, are the Volantenes still waiting?"
"Volantis and Lys are still hesitating!" The Governor next to the Archon of Tyrosh also looked very pained.
"If we hold out here, we'll just starve to death in the end!"
"Prepare, prepare our last men.
If Tyrosh is destined to fall, then we can only obey the will of the three-headed god," the Archon of Tyrosh sighed.
Tyrosh was never a city that could hold out.
They had obeyed Silver Tongue back then, and now they could obey a stronger warrior.
During the siege, with the suppression of the Myr rebellion and the demise of the Dothraki Khal, the sentiment for surrender within Tyrosh's inner city was also rising.
Now it was either starve to death or be taken by storm.
Although a direct assault was very difficult, if the opponent truly had a chance to break in, it would inevitably lead to greater retaliation.
They could only accumulate strength and play for time, the Archon of Tyrosh thought.
Without external help from Braavos, Lys, Volantis, or even Slaver's Bay, Tyrosh was doomed to fall.
"Archon, the city gate, the city gate has been opened."
"What!" The Archon of Tyrosh felt dizzy, sensing that the most terrifying scenario had already occurred.
"Some merchants could no longer endure the torment; the surrenderers opened one of Tyrosh's gates."
"Kill!" Ser Jorah shouted, his plate armor covered by a green cloak embroidered with a standing bear.
Jorah swung his longsword, rediscovering the feeling he had in the Greyjoy Rebellion, his bravery unmatched for a time.
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