Inside the carriage, Illyrio was going on and on, pouring out his grievances over young Aegon's situation.
He considered Viserys and his mother to be shameless and greedy.
After all, Aegon was Rhaegar's son—a trueborn Targaryen. What was Viserys in comparison? Did he even deserve to wear Aegon's crown?
Under normal circumstances, he should be content just being granted a princely title.
Meanwhile, Oberyn wasn't listening at all.
He was still caught up in shock over Viserys' astonishing foresight.
'Why? Why is this happening?'
'Viserys grew up in the Red Keep. How does he know so much about what's going on across the Narrow Sea?'
'He's still so young. How is this possible?'
'That's right! He killed Varys! Varys came from Essos… but why would he kill Varys?'
'How did he even know Varys was a problem?'
In a daze, Oberyn imagined Viserys standing before him—his youthful face still bearing traces of innocence, but with a mysterious smile, like a man hidden in mist.
For a moment, Oberyn even had the urge to abandon Gohor and return to Dorne.
That boy… he was far too unnerving.
"Prince Oberyn! Prince Oberyn!"
"Hm? I'm listening."
Illyrio didn't think Oberyn had spaced out. In his mind, the prince was simply considering the proposal and likely ready to agree.
"I'm willing to offer you a sum of gold. Use it to win over those lords still loyal to Viserys. When the time is right, we'll place young Aegon on the throne!"
Illyrio's voice carried a seductive undertone.
He knew perfectly well—if he couldn't uncover the one who killed Varys, he would never truly be safe.
Oberyn stared at Illyrio and asked:
"Lord Governor, may I ask why? Why are you so invested in Aegon's claim to the throne?"
Illyrio didn't flinch at the question. With a smile he had clearly rehearsed many times, he replied:
"Prince, even a man like me has principles he stands by.
"But of course, you can also view my actions as an 'investment.' If it all works out, I only ask for the post of Master of Coin."
Hopefully Viserys doesn't figure out that Illyrio wants to be Master of Coin, Oberyn thought. Otherwise, I truly might have to leave Gohor.
Feeling somewhat relieved, he began to analyze Illyrio's words, only to find them deliberately vague and unconvincing.
That first reason? Totally unpersuasive.
And as for the Master of Coin angle… wouldn't it be easier to get close to Viserys directly?
Given the current state of things, backing a Targaryen claimant was like betting on a dying fire.
And supporting Aegon? That was like warming yourself with ashes—utterly pointless.
But gold was gold, and Oberyn had no reason to refuse.
Viserys had promised him a seventy-thirty split!
What's more, Illyrio was nothing if not generous—three full carriages, six massive chests of gold accompanied Oberyn back to Gohor.
When he'd first arrived, he brought only a few dozen men. Now, including the guards escorting the treasure, he returned with over three thousand troops.
As the heavily guarded convoy rode away, Oberyn glanced back at Pentos.
Its towering city walls were three times higher than those of Sunspear, yet they no longer felt oppressive.
To him, this city now seemed like one enormous treasure chest.
'Not a bad place at all. I'll be coming back.'
With two lovely courtesans gifted by the merchant governor in his arms, Oberyn smiled with satisfaction.
...
Back in Gohor, however, Viserys had no such good fortune.
Although Gohor lay mostly in ruins, it was still home to some people—roughly 1,800.
They were a mix of Andals and Rhoynar, intermarried over centuries into something of a new people.
Whenever war or bandits threatened, they would retreat into the northern mountain caves to hide. They even cultivated some grain in the crevices of those hills.
These people were like weeds growing from cracks in stone—resilient and stubborn.
Viserys gathered them together, distributed land, and encouraged them to build their own homes.
The caves they had used for hiding varied in size.
The larger ones were now being used as storage for supplies. Viserys had also brought some dragonglass from Dragonstone—enough to begin the production of wildfire.
The smaller caves were designated as experimental laboratories for that very purpose.
Before the next battle arrived, Viserys took the opportunity to gather his royal guards in a tent for a lesson.
These young men were obedient enough, but not particularly bright. Even though he was only teaching basic reading and writing, it seemed to drain the life from them.
After a week, some still struggled to write their own names.
That killed Viserys' plan of developing a secret military code language. And with it, the idea of leading a full army literacy campaign also died.
It was just too ambitious a task—one that would have to wait until only Targaryen banners flew over Gohor.
More importantly, textbooks were in desperately short supply. Even those with a will to learn had no means.
Still, Viserys understood the value of encouragement and reward.
Noticing that enthusiasm was flagging, he said:
"You must work hard to learn reading and writing. Only those who are literate will be eligible to become officers in the future. And once you know how to write, you can send letters to your families."
He turned to one of the guards.
"Gorys, your first time on the battlefield you killed two enemies. Don't you want your grandmother to know?"
The young man's face lit up with excitement.
"Kaedys, you shot a cavalryman's horse and made him fall and break his neck. Wouldn't you like your elder brother, who raised you, to hear about that?"
The young guards were thrilled that their king remembered their battlefield accomplishments so clearly.
The idea of "wearing honor, even in the dark" was just as enticing in this world. Fueled by hormones and pride, these boys couldn't help but be stirred.
Viserys pointed to a stone slab behind him, roughly the size of a door.
"From now on, each week we will study this many new words. The first one to write a complete letter, I will personally revise and polish it for them."
Energized by this promise, the young guards became restless with excitement. Just then, Gorys raised his hand toward Viserys.
"Speak," Viserys said with a smile.
"Your Grace… what does 'polish' mean?"
Looking at the eager face before him, Viserys' smile froze slightly.
At that moment, Arthur stepped into the tent, "Your Grace, Oberyn has returned."
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