Ser Garth Hightower smiled gently at Dany and explained, "We originally had grain stored for the winter, but over the past few years, the Seven Kingdoms have been plagued by endless wars. The Riverlands have been completely ravaged, and even the Crownlands have suffered from marauding soldiers.
Earl Tarly is still rushing back and forth between the two regions, clearing out bandits and rebels!
As for the Stormlands, they were never a major grain-producing region, and Storm's End has yet to fall. This war is far from over. King's Landing, with its half a million inhabitants, relies entirely on the Reach for supplies."
Then, he turned to his nephew and said meaningfully, "So, do you understand now? The Reach will never run out of food, but every grain of wheat is crucial to maintaining the kingdom's normal operations."
"First, we need to ensure Oldtown isn't harassed by the Ironborn," Garlan understood his uncle's hint—grain was Highgarden's bargaining chip in the power struggles of King's Landing.
He sighed bitterly and said, "Even the Lannisters aren't in a hurry, so why should we worry? Just taking care of the Reach is hard enough."
"What is the maesters' estimate for the length of this winter?" Dany asked.
"Around three years," Garth replied, looking at her curiously. "My lady, you don't seem to be from around here. Why are you so concerned about this?"
"Heh, shouldn't everyone be concerned?"
"Hmm, that's true," Garth was momentarily stunned before praising her, "The noble ladies of the great houses only care about whether there's a banquet tonight or if a famous bard has arrived in town. You are quite different."
Dany, however, was unimpressed. She sneered and said, "If you allowed women to participate in tournaments and take part in governance, they wouldn't only care about idle pleasures."
Garlan glanced at the longsword at her waist and chuckled, "Regent Queen Cersei is also a woman, yet I believe even her father, Duke Tywin, would disapprove of what she's doing in King's Landing now."
"Enough with this nonsense," Dany cut them off impatiently. "Tell me, how many years' worth of grain does the Reach have?"
As soon as she spoke, silence fell over the area. The two noblemen studied the tall girl with bold and commanding airs, their gazes filled with curiosity and skepticism. "Who are you?"
"Uh—" Dany realized her mistake. These two weren't her subordinates—at least not yet.
She forced a smile and said, "Apologies, but this is a matter of life and death. I got a little anxious. I've heard that this winter is unlike any other. There's even a Red Temple in the dock district. Haven't you heard the priests speak of the prophecy of the Long Night? The second Long Night?"
"The prophecy of Azor Ahai reborn?"
"You don't believe it?"
Garth shook his head and explained, "You might not know this, but similar prophecies have circulated in King's Landing before every major winter, even the one before last. Many believed that Prince Rhaegar was the prophesied savior.
But decades have passed, several winters have come and gone, and even Prince Rhaegar is dead. Instead of a Long Night, we had an eleven-year summer. Prophecies are like the wind—always shifting, always unreliable."
So… it had become another "Boy Who Cried Wolf" story?
No, the one who first spread the prophecy of Azor Ahai reborn in Westeros was the dwarf witch, Jenny's friend from Stonedance. The Red Priests were professionals—they only became more active in recent years when the tides of magic began to rise again.
The problem was that hardly anyone in the Seven Kingdoms could sense the surge of magic.
"Even if the prophecy is false, an eleven-year summer will surely be followed by a long winter. That much is undeniable, right?" Dany argued.
"So, what are you trying to say?" Garlan shrugged.
"Stop wasting time. While the south still has some warmth left, go home and farm! Bring in cold-resistant winter wheat seeds from the North, scatter turnip seedlings across the hills, and work together to survive the Long Winter first!"
"It's not that we want to waste time," Garth sighed. "You've heard about the upcoming tournament, right? I sent the farmers home to harvest the crops, but the Ironborn threat is imminent. To recruit a force of unemployed hedge knights, I had to organize this grand event.
In fact, back when the Citadel first issued its autumn warning at the end of summer, our Hightower family had already started cutting back on cash crops in our lands, switching to wheat, soybeans, corn, turnips, and other food crops."
"This—" Dany was momentarily speechless.
"But, my lady, your suggestion is still a good one," Garth stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Northern crops are indeed more cold-resistant. We should buy a batch of seeds. This winter is extraordinary—the Seven Kingdoms are unstable, and the cold is expected to last even longer. Eleven years of summer!"
"That makes sense. I'll have a maester send a letter to White Harbor and order some seeds from Lord Manderly," Garlan nodded.
As they spoke, a burly man with seven or eight burn scars on his face walked over carrying a wooden chest. He bellowed in a deep voice, "My lord, your armor is ready. This time, you'll surely be the most dazzling warrior in the tournament."
"Thank you," Garlan stepped forward to receive the chest, then turned to his uncle with a wry smile. "Loras should have been the one doing this."
"He's a Kingsguard now—he can't leave the queen's side," Garth nodded to Dany, then left with his nephew.
"Those two are quite impressive," Dany remarked to the old knight beside her.
Throughout the conversation, the old knight had been standing in the shadows of a nearby shelf, eavesdropping while selecting armor.
"My lady, you're lucky," the old man said. "You just happened to meet two of the few truly noble and even-tempered knights in Westeros.
Had it been anyone else, unless you revealed your identity, you'd either be whipped or spark unnecessary trouble.
—Nobles do not accept criticism from those they see as beneath them, even if the criticism is obviously correct!" the old man muttered with some reproach.
"I know," Dany said. "That's why I praised them."
"Under normal circumstances, the members of the Hightower family are well-behaved. Lady Lynesse is an exception."
Dany took a step forward, approaching the scar-faced blacksmith who was organizing iron ingots. She asked, "Master, did you personally forge armor for Earl Tyrell?"
Yes, Garlan Tyrell was an earl—the ruling earl of Brightwater Keep.
Brightwater Keep, located at the source of the Honeywine River, was a fertile and prosperous land that originally belonged to House Florent.
However, during the War of the Five Kings, House Florent sided with their son-in-law, Stannis Baratheon. Later, when House Tyrell allied with the Lannisters and defeated Stannis, House Florent was stripped of its noble title and lands.
"Of course! And I'm not just boasting—there's hardly a blacksmith in the Seven Kingdoms who can match old Londo's craftsmanship. 'Gallant' Garlan Tyrell is no exception; many knights who truly appreciate quality are my regular customers.
Take the well-known Knight of Flowers, for example. Now a member of the Kingsguard, he sought me out a few years ago before heading to King's Landing for the tourney. I crafted for him that dazzling silver armor that shone like a white star," the scar-faced blacksmith said proudly.
"Do you have any armor suitable for me?" Dany asked.
"Not satisfied with what's outside?"
"I want something better. Do you have any?"
"Of course." Old Londo nodded. "Do you need it today?"
"Yes."
The blacksmith frowned as he sized up Dany. "Luckily, your build is similar to that of a slender young boy, so we won't need to craft a custom breastplate."
What the hell, old man?! What nonsense are you spouting?
Dany shot him a glare and said, "If it's uncomfortable to wear, I won't buy it."
"Connor, bring the medium-sized blue-enameled armor," the scar-faced blacksmith instructed an apprentice who was adding charcoal to the forge. Then, turning back to Dany, he explained, "It weighs thirty-two pounds, made of refined iron—definitely battle-ready."
"A bit light. Wouldn't the plate be too thin?" Whitebeard asked.
"Definitely not thin. You'll see for yourself."
And indeed, one look was enough to understand—it was a set of partial plate armor with a smooth blue-enameled breastplate. The front plate was of normal thickness, protecting the chest and waist, but the back was only covered by a layer of light chainmail.
Simply put, this armor was only effective for frontal protection. If someone attacked from behind, a single armor-piercing arrow could potentially pierce straight through its wearer's back.
Of course, this wasn't due to the blacksmith cutting corners.
Such armor was common among cavalry. In a cavalry charge, comrades typically covered each other's backs, and reducing weight helped improve endurance in prolonged battles.
The old knight set the armor down and shook his head. "My lady knight has an extraordinary physique. Do you have full plate armor weighing over forty pounds?"
"Forty pounds?" Old Londo eyed Dany suspiciously. "This young lady has a slender waist and narrow shoulders—she looks a bit frail. Would she even be able to move in it?"
"Do you have it or not? Let me try, and we'll see," Dany replied.
"I do have one, but that set isn't enameled or inlaid with colored patterns." The old blacksmith patted the chest plate of Whitebeard's armor with a look of disdain. "It's as dull and worn-out as this old hunk of junk—black and unremarkable. The only unique part is the helmet, but the rest is too plain."
Hunk of junk?
Dany's mouth twitched, and she simply said, "Let me see it. I'm a true knight—I only care about defense, not aesthetics."
Before long, two apprentices carried over a wooden chest. When they opened it, Dany frowned and picked up the helmet. "This is the 'unique helmet' you were talking about?"
The scar-faced blacksmith replied seriously, "Look at it—ferocious tusks, blood-red crystal visor, a twisted expression. This wild boar helmet is so lifelike that any child who sees it will be scared to tears."
Barristan Selmy examined the breastplate and was surprised to find it heavy in his hands, its surface gleaming with a cold, metallic sheen. It was clearly made from the finest refined steel and forged using top-tier quenching techniques. He couldn't help but exclaim, "Who commissioned this? The quality is excellent, and the price must be steep. But as far as I remember, no noble near Oldtown bears a wild boar sigil."
"Oh? Old man, you have a keen eye!" The blacksmith gave him a puzzled look but didn't recognize him.
"This armor is called 'The King's Howl.' You know how King Robert died, right?"
He drank the wine Cersei had laced, got dizzy, and was gored to death by a ferocious wild boar.
"You've got guts—crafting this armor as a mockery of the king," Dany remarked with amusement.
"It's not my guts you should admire—it's the nerve of the one who commissioned it. Some young noble brat who didn't understand the consequences. Before I even got around to adding the enamel, his father showed up, furious, and took him away without even paying the deposit," the blacksmith lamented.
With Barristan's help, Dany tried on the armor and found that it fit well. She immediately said, "This 'King's Howl' is quite nice. How much?"
"Two gold dragons. A bargain."
Two gold dragons were a fair price. Dany happily paid.
Afterward, the two of them visited another blacksmith and bought a sturdier helmet. Dany wanted to keep a low profile—she planned to be a mysterious knight, not someone who'd scare children at first sight.
Before noon, they returned to the Quill and Tankard, only to be surprised by the sight of two familiar faces.
(End of Chapter)
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