In the council chamber, Oswell Whent sat at the center as the acting governor of Gohor.
To his left was the Master of Coin, Adrian Celtigar, the Old Crab himself.
To his right sat Elder Tina of the Rhoynar. Also present were Maester Faelor, Xavier, and two other scholars.
In addition to serving as the "Deputy Chancellor" appointed by Viserys, Maester Faelor also acted as chief secretary.
It was his responsibility to report on the current state of Gohor.
"Lord Whent," Faelor began, "after the recent reorganization, our standing forces now number twenty thousand. The reserve formations total thirty thousand."
In truth, the so-called reserve forces sounded far better than they actually were.
They were little more than farmers pressed into temporary service.
At present, Gohor's population could be divided into three groups: The Westerosi who had followed Viserys east, the local Andals, and the Rhoynar.
Although the recent executions had eased much of the hatred between Andals and Rhoynar, centuries of blood and grievance could not be erased overnight.
With the farming season still some time away, and in order to tighten control, Oswell followed Viserys's instructions and organized these thirty thousand men into a reserve force.
They were young men between fifteen and twenty-five, tasked primarily with heavy labor such as clearing canals and repairing city walls, with basic training as a secondary duty.
This both reduced social friction and provided a pool of future soldiers.
Faelor continued, "Our main army is now fully armored.
We have two thousand additional suits of armor in reserve. Weapons are primarily spears—currently just over forty thousand."
"Only forty thousand?" Oswell interrupted sharply.
Spears, swords, and axes were all consumables. A single hard-fought battle could see blades chipped and spear shafts shattered.
Forty thousand spears might be exhausted in only one or two major engagements—far too few for an army of this size.
"Lord," Adrian raised his hand. "Gohor does possess iron mines, but we lack skilled smiths. Purchasing from elsewhere also takes time.
And being inland, our options are limited. For now, this is all we have."
Oswell frowned.
He understood the Old Crab's difficulties. Before long, Pentos—the closest city—would turn hostile.
Braavos might well join in.
That left Norvos as the only option. But steel was strategic material in this age, far harder to obtain than timber, stone, or gems.
"Then suspend urban construction," Oswell said after a moment. "Focus on building trebuchets and producing arrows instead."
He had no choice but to compromise.
Faelor went on, "As for medicinal herbs, we currently have ten thousand bushels—"
"Ten thousand?" Oswell cut in again. "That's far too little."
Herbs were essential, both for healing and disease prevention.
"Our people are harvesting as much as they can," Elder Tina said in defense. "They've gone deeper into the Goose Down Mountains than ever before."
Viserys's policy of valuing lives above all else had won much goodwill—but the cost was enormous.
Oswell decided to skip the rest of the supply report and moved straight to the most critical issue.
"What about food stores? Can we last until the next harvest?"
Faelor frowned. "Lord Whent, our grain shortfall is severe."
"Even at the minimum ration of one pound per person per day, we still face a deficit of over three months before the next harvest.
And with war preparations underway, consumption will only increase."
Oswell rubbed his brow.
He knew this shortage was the result of Viserys's earlier strategy against the Rhoynar—but there was no blaming it now.
Without that pressure, Gohor could never have been unified so quickly.
As long as they could hold out until Viserys returned, grain could be purchased elsewhere.
Having gained a clear picture of the situation, Oswell dismissed the meeting.
Before anyone could leave, a guardsman stepped forward with troubling news.
"Lord Whent, a brawl involving over a hundred men broke out in the barracks."
"What?"
Barely finished with civil affairs, and the army was already in trouble.
An investigation revealed it was yet another mess born of lingering Andals–Rhoynar tensions.
Oswell punished both sides equally and barely managed to suppress the matter. Ensuring all parties accepted the ruling took until deep into the night.
By then, Oswell's head throbbed with fatigue.
Yet he could not rest. Pressure from Pentos and Braavos could return at any moment, and he needed to prepare.
Less than a week later, envoys from both cities arrived together.
Representing Braavos was Corren, nephew of Freygo. Representing Pentos was Illyrio.
Oswell received them in a private audience.
Corren made no effort to hide his disdain for Gohor's crude walls and buildings. After all, he had come to stir trouble.
"Why is King Viserys not present?" Corren asked, having met Viserys before.
"His Majesty is unwell," Oswell replied coolly. "You may address me instead."
Illyrio's eyes flickered. He knew Oswell was lying.
"I am here on behalf of the Sea Lord," Corren said smoothly. "To congratulate House Targaryen on acquiring new lands. We've brought fine wine as a gift."
"I thank the Sea Lord for his generosity," Oswell said carefully.
He knew the goodwill was a façade.
Corren leaned back, a wolfish smile on his face. "Along with congratulations, His Excellency has one small request."
"Speak," Oswell said.
"Elder Lothan owes the Iron Bank several million gold dragons. He is unable to repay them. We ask that King Viserys hand him over. You understand—the Iron Bank tolerates no default."
The moment the words were spoken, Illyrio sensed the surge of anger from Oswell.
"Elder Lothan is now a sworn subject of King Viserys," Oswell said coldly. "That condition cannot be accepted. But tell me the amount—perhaps His Majesty may repay it on his behalf."
He could not agree.
He had just quelled unrest born of ethnic tensions—handing over Lothan would ignite chaos.
"Five million four hundred thousand gold dragons," Corren replied lightly.
Any remaining illusion vanished.
Still, Oswell's orders were clear: hold Gohor, avoid war unless absolutely necessary.
"At present, Targaryen does not possess such sums," he said. "Perhaps another form of compensation?"
"Of course," Corren smiled. "The Iron Bank accepts many methods."
"And what would you suggest?"
"You may repay through Gohor's future tax revenues. We estimate annual income at one hundred fifty thousand gold dragons."
"So… thirty years?" Oswell asked, his voice turning icy.
"With interest, fifty-one," Corren corrected.
Oswell took a slow breath, mastering his temper. "Very well. Once His Majesty recovers, I will convey this to him."
"You misunderstand," Corren said softly. "This is only part of the repayment. You must also mortgage the Little Rhoyne to Braavos."
Oswell clenched his fists but forced himself to remain calm.
"Understood. I will relay your terms."
He was stalling—nothing more. Once Viserys returned with the fleet, Gohor would be secure. These demands would mean nothing.
But Oswell had underestimated Braavos's aggression.
"I wish His Majesty a swift recovery," Corren said as he rose. "Since you refuse to surrender Lothan, Braavos will soon send officials to take control of the Little Rhoyne."
"So," Oswell asked flatly, "is Braavos declaring war on House Targaryen?"
Corren no longer bothered to pretend. "You may see it that way. Surrender Lothan or the gold. There is no third choice."
At last, Illyrio spoke for Pentos.
They demanded immediate repayment of the one million gold dragons' worth of supplies previously taken on credit—
or Pentos, too, would send troops.
Oswell knew then that the newly unified Gohor was about to face its first true trial.
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