Inside a spacious estate, the master of the house was personally teaching a group of children how to shoot.
Among the children were both Andals and Rhoynar.
Their ages ranged from eight or nine to fourteen or fifteen.
At the far end of the courtyard stood a row of targets that had already been riddled with arrows. It was clear that martial skill was deeply valued in this household.
"Watch your breathing, boy!"
The man speaking was around forty years old.
He had been one of the first farmers to follow Viserys to Gohor years ago.
During the very first battle, he had received the transferred archer essence granted by Viserys.
His name was Jason.
He had retired from the army several years earlier.
Through the military achievements he earned on the battlefield, he had gained a baron's title and three hundred acres of land.
In recent years his wife had also given birth to a son and a daughter.
Unlike a traditional noble title, the land he held could be inherited by his descendants.
But the title of baron itself could not automatically pass to his son.
If his family wished to keep the title, they would have to earn it again through military service.
As a retired elite archer, Jason's main work these years had been teaching the people around him the art of archery.
"These foolish boys," he muttered. "Why doesn't any of them have the natural talent I had back then?"
Aside from his eldest son, Jason's second and fourth sons were already adults.
Even the youngest, his fifth son, had begun practicing with a smaller bow.
Jason had risen to nobility through military merit, and he naturally wanted his children to inherit his skill.
In truth, all his sons were decent archers. They simply had not experienced the sudden moment of mastery he once had.
Watching his youngest son carefully, Jason realized the boy resembled him the most.
Perhaps because he had grown up watching his father practice, the child showed remarkable talent with the bow.
Just as Jason prepared to correct the boys' technique again, a voice came from behind him.
"Father, a royal decree!"
Jason turned around.
His eldest son, Myer, held a thin sheet of paper.
On the back of the paper was the red three-headed dragon that symbolized the royal family.
Jason took the paper and read it.
The decree ordered all retired soldiers and all adult men to report for conscription.
As a military noble family, Jason's household had received the order among the first.
Seeing the deep worry on his eldest son's face, Jason spoke sternly.
"What's wrong? Are you afraid? Don't forget how we became nobles.
Military merit.
Without it, you would be nothing more than a knight, and your children would return to being commoners. Do you understand?"
Before Jason had joined Viserys's army, his eldest son had already been nearly ten years old and often worked with him in the fields.
That experience had made the boy cautious and conservative by nature.
His younger brothers, however, reacted quite differently.
Upon hearing that they would go to war, they became more excited than one another.
"Why are you still standing there? Prepare food supplies and go to the armory to collect armor. Tomorrow we report for duty!"
"Yes, Father!"
Within the household, Myer functioned almost like a steward.
Jason's wife soon heard the news.
Years ago she had simply watched her husband leave Dragonstone with Viserys.
She had believed he was only going to farm new land. Instead he had somehow ended up becoming a soldier.
Fortunately, he had returned alive and unharmed.
Now Jason was not only leaving again. He was taking three of their sons with him to war.
There was no way she could avoid worrying.
"Glen only just came of age," she said hesitantly. "Maybe he shouldn't go."
She wanted to keep at least one son close to her.
Jason shook his head.
"Have you forgotten? If the king had not taken us away, Robert's army would have captured Dragonstone. Whether our family survived at all would have been uncertain."
He looked at her firmly.
"Right now His Majesty must need us more than ever. How can we fear death?"
Faced with her husband's determination, she said nothing more.
When the eldest son returned with armor and weapons, she and her daughters, along with their daughters-in-law, personally helped the men put on their equipment.
They watched the four figures walk away until they disappeared from sight. Only then did they return home reluctantly.
Scenes like this unfolded in every corner of Gohor.
Wives bidding farewell to husbands.
Mothers sending their sons away.
Each moment seemed small and ordinary. Yet together they gathered like droplets of dew, forming tiny streams.
The streams merged into rivers. And eventually those rivers became an unstoppable flood.
Inside the Palace within the Balerion Wall—
"Your Majesty, all thirty-two thousand standing soldiers are fully prepared. Twenty thousand reserve troops have assembled.
We have also gathered twenty thousand qualified longbowmen ready for battle."
The alliance and plans between Pentos, Braavos, Volantis, and the Dothraki had quickly reached Viserys.
Knowing the enemy would attack in force, Viserys chose to prepare for the worst.
He ordered a full mobilization almost immediately.
Out of Gohor's population of nearly nine hundred thousand, more than half of the able-bodied men had been conscripted.
If this battle was lost, the kingdom might not recover for more than a decade.
But if they won, the vast Golden Plains would belong to House Targaryen.
He might even begin planning the future conquest of Pentos, placing pressure on Westeros itself and tightening the noose around the Fat Stag.
Most importantly, with the blood of the khal, the hatching of dragon eggs could finally be attempted.
Inside the war council chamber, the leaders of House Targaryen discussed their strategy.
Clinton had fully demonstrated his ability over the years.
[AN: Clinton debuts here, having previously stayed in the story's background.]
His personal combat skill might be weaker than the Kingsguard. But when it came to commanding the overall situation, no one surpassed him.
During the defense of Gohor years ago, for example, if he had commanded the strategy, Tormo likely would never have crossed the Little Rhoyne at all.
"Braavos and Volantis will try to tie down our fleet from the north and south," Clinton explained.
"They want to draw our ships toward the northern waters of the Upper Rhoyne, creating an opportunity for the Dothraki to cross the river."
He pointed to the map.
"The southern plains near the Little Rhoyne are ideal terrain for massive cavalry formations."
He paused.
"But that terrain is not ideal for us."
After considering all the intelligence reports, Clinton offered his conclusion.
"I agree with Ser Clinton," Viserys said. "For us, the best battlefield would be the Goose Mountains."
Clinton had been recommended by Jorel, and Viserys trusted his judgment.
Their objective was now clear.
They had to lure the Dothraki into committing their main attack in the north.
If the longbowmen were to unleash their full potential, they needed to fight on broken, uneven terrain.
"If only the Seven would bless us with heavy rain before the battle," Ock said suddenly.
Several people chuckled.
Some things were best not hoped for too strongly.
Clinton turned toward him.
"Ser Ock, even on the plains near Nasar we still have a chance to win. But the losses would be enormous."
He tapped the map again.
"And if the battle goes poorly, the Braavosi and Volantene forces that are currently distracting us will join the fight."
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