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Not far from Ghoyan Drohe, Viserys didn't encounter Storm-Overlord and his Wind-Mane White Cloud Legion waiting to welcome him. Instead, his scouts reported that his main army had run headlong into a military encampment of about two thousand men.
"Who will ride forth and determine if they are friend or foe?"
Viserys sat atop his pure white warhorse, resplendent in ornate armor. His dragon-winged helm framed his flowing silver hair as he looked left and right at his commanders.
"Your Grace, I am willing to go!"
Strong Belwas, the burly eunuch who hadn't had a chance to earn any merit yet, eagerly stepped forward to volunteer.
"This is not a task for a Legion Commander."
Viserys shook his head, denying the request.
"Your Grace, allow me!"
Ser Jorah Mormont, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard (and honorary leader of the "White Cloaks"), and Roland, Guild Leader of the Royal Knights, stepped forward simultaneously, hands over their hearts.
"May the Gods praise your courage!"
The King nodded his assent.
Ser Jorah and Roland spurred their horses forward. Behind them rode twenty White Cloaks, carrying the Dragon Banner as they galloped toward the opposing camp.
The tents in the camp were mostly made of large blue canvas. The outer wooden palisades and spiked barricades were well-constructed. It was clear the commander was a professional.
Jorah looked up and saw the banner flying above the camp: blue and white streamers crisscrossing. Having spent years in the Free Cities as a sellsword, Jorah recognized the identity of this legion instantly.
The Windblown!
"They are the Windblown. It is said this sellsword company has around two thousand infantry and cavalry. They are a military force not to be underestimated," Jorah said to Roland as they approached.
"Whoever dares block the True Dragon, I will cut them down! The Gods bear witness!" Roland's eyes burned with a fervent light.
Riding alone into the enemy camp... possibly even slaying the enemy general... Just imagine! Averting a war single-handedly—that would be truly heroic!
"Halt! This is the camp of the Windblown!"
As they reached the camp entrance, rows of crossbowmen were already waiting behind the wooden fences and barricades.
"Beans" Baqq, squinting his lazy eye, aimed his crossbow at the flashy knights and shouted.
Behind the Myrman stood Lewis Lanster, the best archer in the Windblown. His bow was strung, ready to drop any of the white knights in front of him at a moment's command.
"The banner before you represents the son of Aerys II Targaryen, brother of Rhaegar Targaryen, the Blood of the Dragon.
Prince of Dragonstone, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Brother of Stormborn, the One True Heir to the Iron Throne.
King of Pentos, King of the Flatlands, King of Ghoyan Drohe and the Velvet Hills—His Grace, King Viserys III of House Targaryen!"
Baqq and Lewis Lanster looked at each other.
Of course they knew who it was. Their Commander had deliberately set up camp right in the middle of the road to block them. It seemed he wanted to talk.
But even though they were prepared, Ser Jorah's long list of titles still intimidated the two minor mercenary captains who hadn't seen much of the world.
"Let them in!"
A deep, commanding female voice came from behind them.
The two men shivered involuntarily. They quickly ordered their men to move the barricades, careful not to turn around and look at the person speaking.
"Pretty" Meris. A female sellsword nearly six feet tall whose appearance had absolutely nothing to do with beauty. She was the torturer of the Windblown.
This woman with long blonde hair had a torn nose. Hidden beneath her flowing locks were missing ears, and her face was crisscrossed with scars.
She was truly a terrifying woman.
Under her cold gaze, Jorah rode into the camp, with Commander Roland and the White Cloaks following closely behind.
The Windblown had been founded only about thirty years ago.
The current Commander—and also the first Commander—was the Tattered Prince. He was over sixty years old.
When Jorah saw him, his first impression was that the man was old.
A hero in his twilight years.
The Tattered Prince had long, silver-grey hair, and his armor was the same silver-grey color. When Jorah's group was brought into his tent, he opened his eyes, heavy with bags, revealing a sorrowful gaze.
He always looked like that.
Despite his age, the Tattered Prince sat upright and dignified.
Behind him stood two men. Huge, scarred-faced Caggo, known as "Corpsekiller"—a veteran who looked about the same age as the Prince but much more weathered.
And Denzo D'han, known as the Warrior Bard.
Both were the Prince's right-hand men.
"State your names!"
The Tattered Prince's voice was booming. It was clear he could still ride to war.
A White Cloak held the Dragon Banner behind Jorah as Ser Jorah the Andal began to recite his King's titles once again.
The Tattered Prince listened quietly out of respect, not interrupting with the usual quip about there not being enough room in the tent for so many people.
"I am His Grace's Kingsguard, Jorah of House Mormont from the North of Westeros."
"I am Roland, Commander of the Royal Knights!"
"We come to ask if you are friend or foe. Why have you camped in the middle of the road to block my King's army?"
Jorah rested his hand on his sword hilt and spoke sternly.
No one had asked him to disarm when he entered. Jorah scanned the mercenary captains in the tent. It seemed they were confident they could subdue his group even if violence broke out.
Hmph!
My King's Iron Guard is unmatched!
"What if we are friends? What if we are enemies?"
The Tattered Prince asked slowly.
"If you are friends, please clear the road. If you wish to fight for my King, wealth, status, and honor lie before you."
Jorah paused, then continued:
"If you insist on being enemies of my King, the ten thousand soldiers behind me will treat you as mortal foes. Your meager two thousand men will be but ash in the wind under the iron hooves of our army and the fury of our soldiers. You will vanish in an instant!"
As Jorah's words fell, hands on both sides drifted to sword hilts. The tension in the tent spiked; a chaotic melee could erupt at any moment.
"Hahahaha!"
The Tattered Prince, whose face had been serious, stared at Jorah for a moment before bursting into laughter.
"The Windblown has no intention of being enemies with King Viserys."
"Then please clear the road!" Jorah's expression didn't change as he nodded calmly.
Beside him, Roland, who had already drawn his sword halfway, cursed under his breath and shoved it back into the scabbard. Damn, no fight.
"Before we clear the road, I ask you, Ser, to return and explain to His Grace: The Windblown has refused the call of the Braavosi. I ask His Grace... would he be willing to pay a small sum to hire the Windblown?
The Windblown is willing to fight for His Grace!"
As the Tattered Prince finished speaking, the mercenary captains in the tent growled in unison:
"The Windblown! We shall be the vanguard!"