The Golden Company camp, main tent.
The heavy canvas door curtain was flung open, swirling with the hot and humid dust of the Disputed Lands.
Harry Strickland stepped inside, his pace heavy, the exhaustion on his face evident.
He casually placed his helmet, decorated with ornate golden feathers, on the long table where maps were spread out, making a dull thud.
"This job of Myles Toyne's is really no easy task," he grunted softly, sitting in a high-backed chair covered with animal skins and raising a hand toward his squire.
"Watkyn, help me with my feet."
"This rule is truly torturous, insisting that the Captain-General must personally inspect the camp. Don't my feet get tired?"
A dozen officers entered afterward and sat on both sides of the long table, long accustomed to the Captain-General's grumbling.
An officer with graying temples and a cold face frowned imperceptibly but remained silent.
Some of the Golden Company's century-old traditions sometimes carried more weight than the person sitting at the head of the table.
As everyone arrived, a simple military meeting began, with topics as scattered as the gravel on this land.
"...The Myrish are making bigger moves," the officer in charge of eastern reconnaissance unconsciously scratched the tabletop with the tip of a dagger. "The newly launched galleys in the harbor are lined up, and the shipyard fires aren't extinguished even at midnight."
"They clearly want us to hold the east firmly, so Tyrosh or anyone else doesn't disturb them before their fleet is ready."
"They're just having us watch the door for them." Harry waved his hand, signaling the squire to continue kneading his sore calves.
"We do this job often. As long as their gold coins are delivered on time, we'll watch it for as long as they like."
"However, that batch of so-called gifts... I heard they ran into trouble on the road?"
At the mention of this, Harry Strickland's expression grew serious. He withdrew his legs and sat up straight: "They were intercepted by a band of bandits not far from our camp."
"Although it wasn't any critical supplies, striking on the edge of our territory shows a lack of respect for the Golden Company."
"Mallos has already taken men there," another officer calmly chimed in. "By now, it should have been cleaned up."
"A group of bandits is insignificant, but the Magistrate of Myr's attitude this time... can be considered clever."
"Clever?" an officer said flatly. "Compared to that Beggar King who came with empty hands and ragged clothes to demand our loyalty to the Blood of the True Dragon, this Magister at least knows to bring gifts when he speaks."
A low chuckle echoed in the tent.
Harry Strickland's gaze swept across the tent. Those lingering chuckles sounded an alarm in his heart.
He understood the contempt in that laughter.
It wasn't just for the Beggar King who had become a joke; perhaps there was also some dismissal for the "Highness" who was about to arrive, yet had never personally been on a battlefield and remained hidden under the Griffin's wing.
He certainly wasn't stupid.
Being able to sit firmly in the position of Captain-General of the Golden Company wasn't because he was a better fighter than anyone present or understood management better.
He relied on the Strickland name's deep-rooted connections within the Blackfyre faction.
It was the loyalty of his great-grandfather, who bled to the last drop alongside Daemon Blackfyre on the Redgrass Field, and the obsession with restoration that had flowed through four generations of his family along with the Golden Company on this scorched earth, never extinguished.
More importantly, he relied on the agreement reached with Magister Illyrio of Pentos to support this "Young Griff," in exchange for a steady stream of gold coins to stabilize the army's morale and his own power as Harry Strickland.
"Viserys Targaryen was but an interlude, a poor wretch who reminded us what we fight for."
Harry's voice suppressed the whispers. He leaned forward slightly, elbows propped on the map-covered table, his gaze sharpening as it swept over the officers who had just chuckled.
"The real agenda is the person we are about to welcome, His Highness Aegon Targaryen."
He deliberately emphasized the words "His Highness."
"Lord Griffin's messenger has arrived," Harry continued, his tone returning to the steadiness of a Captain-General. "His Highness and Lord Griffin have departed from Lys. Their itinerary is secret, and they will arrive at our Golden Company camp in a few days."
"At that time, we will publicly swear our fealty."
The tent fell silent for a moment. The officers' expressions varied.
Some had a fervent glow in their eyes; the Blackfyre cause was finally about to take a crucial step.
Some showed contemplation, thinking about this prince's mettle and the changes he might bring.
Others, like the cold-faced, gray-haired officer, merely lowered their eyelids, showing no emotion.
Harry took it all in.
It was inevitable that minds would wander, after all, that Highness was young and had never been present.
He needed a strong dose of medicine, a reassuring pill, both for these proud and fierce generals under him and for himself, and even more so for the arriving Highness.
He was silent for a moment, as if making a major decision, his fingers unconsciously tapping the table.
Then, he suddenly stood up.
"I know some of you are feeling uncertain," Harry's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a rare, almost solemn quality, a far cry from his earlier complaining about his sore feet.
"Doubt? Wait-and-see? Thinking this is another waste of years in waiting?"
He left his seat and slowly paced to one side of the tent, where stood a heavy oak chest with iron-bound corners, looking out of place in the rugged environment of the tent.
The chest was locked; the lock was dull but exceptionally sturdy.
"We Stricklands have followed the Blackfyres for four generations." Harry stood with his back to the crowd, his voice low, as if speaking to the chest, and as if speaking to everyone in the tent.
"Losing our lands, exiled overseas, following the Golden Company to live on the edge of a blade... for what?"
He turned around, an ancient-looking brass key appearing in his hand at some point. His gaze swept over the crowd, finally fixing on a point in the void, as if seeing the banners of his ancestors.
"For an oath, to ensure the true bloodline is not tarnished."
"Click."
The sound of the key turning and the lock spring snapping open was exceptionally clear in the silent tent.
Harry leaned over, his hands reaching into the wooden chest, his movements so careful they were almost reverent.
When he straightened up, he held something in his hands.
It was a sheathed longsword.
The scabbard looked quite ancient, covered in worn black leather.
It lay quietly in Harry's hands, yet it seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, drawing every gaze in the tent.
"People outside, the people of Westeros, even the vast majority of Soldiers in the company, think it was lost long ago, destroyed in some war, or buried in the dust of history."
Harry's voice carried a suppressed excitement as he gently stroked the scabbard, like stroking a lover's skin.
"But today, I tell you, it was not."
He looked up, a near-obsessive light shining in his eyes, announcing every word with absolute clarity:
"The Valyrian Steel sword... Blackfyre, has been kept in secret by my Strickland family since Aegor Bittersteel, guarded for generations, until this day!"
An uncontrollable, collective gasp echoed in the tent.
Everyone's eyes widened, staring intently at the seemingly ordinary ancient sword.
Blackfyre! The legendary Valyrian Steel sword, the symbol of Targaryen power!
It was actually here, in this inconspicuous chest, kept by this Captain-General who often complained about his sore feet!
"Now, I, Harry Strickland, Captain-General of the Golden Company, current head of House Strickland," Harry's voice suddenly rose, filled with unquestionable resolve, "hereby swear!"
He held the sword "Blackfyre" level in front of his chest with both hands, as if performing a sacred ritual.
"When His Highness Aegon Targaryen arrives to accept the fealty of the Golden Company, I shall, before all the officers and Soldiers of the army, personally present this sword to His Highness!"
"This sword returning to the hands of a Blackfyre is proof of destiny! It is also the unwavering determination of me, Harry Strickland, and all the Soldiers loyal to the Blackfyre cause!"
His words echoed in the tent, powerful and resonant.
At this moment, Harry Strickland's short and pudgy frame seemed to grow taller.
He saw the shock in his subordinates' eyes, saw the sudden restraint in the expressions of those wavering officers, and saw the flash of brilliance in the gray-haired officer's eyes.
The effect was achieved.
His heart settled slightly.
Presenting Blackfyre would not only intimidate the internal factions and show his unparalleled loyalty and determination to the Highness, but also bind this symbolic artifact to his own support.
When the Highness relied on this sword in the future, how could he forget the merit of the one who presented it?
However, just as he was feeling self-satisfied and prepared to receive the praise or reactions his subordinates might have—
"Report!"
A sudden, drawn-out, almost distorted shout came from outside the tent!
A Soldier rushed in frantically, panting, not even having time to salute before screaming:
"Cap—Captain-General! Urgent report from the camp gate! Lord Griffin... he, he has arrived! Right outside the camp gate! And... and His Highness Aegon Targaryen!"
"What?!" The solemnity and resolve on Harry Strickland's face froze instantly, turning into pure shock and disbelief.
His hands holding the sword Blackfyre tightened instinctively.
Arrived? Arrived now? Didn't they say in a few days? How could it be so fast?!
The atmosphere in the tent, which had just been awed by the sword Blackfyre, was suddenly torn to pieces by this unexpected news, replaced by a more complex confusion and commotion.
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