Storms Gathered: The Prerequisite for Playing the Game Is Staying Alive, Three Assassinations, Depart Now

Upon the Narrow Sea, the waves roiled.

Waves and sea wind battered the deck of the Reclamation.

As the Golden Company's flagship, the massive vessel cleaved through layer upon layer of black waves, sailing toward Westeros.

Inside the cabin.

Two men sat facing each other in silence.

Jon Connington stared fixedly at the intelligence report in his hands.

The thin sheet of parchment was nearly crushed in his grip.

Every word upon it was crystal clear.

Yet they also seemed utterly blurred, as if every blot of ink mocked his understanding and challenged his military common sense as a commander.

It was too absurd.

This was simply too... absurd...

Jon Connington suddenly raised his head. His red hair looked somewhat dull beneath the candlelight, while his gray-blue eyes were bloodshot.

"Varys."

He looked at the bald eunuch seated across from him, his tone unable to suppress his shock and doubt.

"A hundred thousand troops."

"That was a full hundred thousand troops."

"The Westerlands, The Reach, the Vale, the Stormlands, the Crownlands, the West Riverlands."

"Even if they were nothing but grunting pigs, left there to be slaughtered, victory could not have come so easily."

"In the thousand-year history of the Seven Kingdoms, other than the dragon-riding Targaryens, who had ever won such a military victory..."

Jon Connington slammed the parchment heavily onto the table.

"What the hell have I been doing all these years..."

"Starting with twenty thousand men, a single battle decided the fate of the Seven Kingdoms and the Targaryen restoration."

He could not accept it.

The Golden Company had fought across Essos for many years.

Even their most glorious victories had merely been outnumbered triumphs over mercenary companies with several thousand more men.

But in Westeros, those were proper armies of knights.

That was precisely why he