Highgarden City

Crossing a tributary of the Honeywine, Samwell and his party caught sight of a tall, grey-stone castle.

The mottled walls were covered in moss and ivy, silently recounting the weathering and storms this ancient fortress had endured. Atop the hundred-foot-tall tower, a white banner fluttered, depicting swarms of black and orange butterflies in flight.

This was the sigil of House Mullendore, lords of Highgarden City.

Not far to the southwest of this city lay the Red Mountains.

It was easy to foresee that if Samwell succeeded in establishing his domain in the Red Mountains in the future, House Mullendore would be his neighbors.

Therefore, to foster good relations with his neighbors in advance, Samwell chose not to bypass the city, but instead sent Gavin to Highgarden City with a formal letter of introduction.

"Samwell Caesar."

Inside the castle, Viscount Martin Mullendore pinched the letter Gavin had handed him, a playful smile appearing on his face. "Is that the pioneer knight knighted by a woman?"

Gavin bowed slightly, his tone neither servile nor overbearing:

"Respected Viscount, Lord Caesar is a pioneer knight dubbed by Lady Margaery, daughter of Lord Mace, on her father's behalf, and he is a formal vassal under House Tyrell."

Viscount Martin curled his lip in disdain. "So, he was indeed knighted by a woman."

Gavin kept his head low, offering no reply.

Viscount Martin gave a soft snort, then said lazily:

"Fine, show him in."

Gavin bowed and turned to leave in silence.

Viscount Martin instructed the steward beside him:

"Tell the kitchen to prepare a dinner. It doesn't need to be too lavish, just enough to be decent."

"As you wish, my lord."

"Father, is this that useless eldest son of House Tarly?" The speaker was Viscount Martin's eldest son, Mark Mullendore.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, sporting a thick beard, with a black-and-white monkey perched on his shoulder, busily cracking nuts.

"Indeed. Randyll Tarly is a man of substance, yet it is a pity he sired such a useless son. Now he has finally made up his mind to strip Samwell of his inheritance, though I never expected it would be in this manner. Pioneering in the Red Mountains... heh, he would have been better off being sent to the Wall."

Mark shrugged. "If it were me, I would certainly prefer pioneering over that godforsaken place, the Wall."

Viscount Martin glanced at his son and laughed. "Do you think pioneering is an easy task?"

"I know the hardships of pioneering, of course, but the Wall is clearly worse. It's freezing cold, and I've heard there are White Walkers that cannot be killed."

"White Walkers?" Viscount Martin scoffed. "Nothing but fairytales to scare children. Thousands of years have passed; has anyone actually seen a White Walker? As for the cold, it is Summer now, and the Wall isn't that cold."

"But Winter will come eventually."

"Who knows. This Summer has lasted so long and shows no sign of ending; perhaps it will last even longer. Only those Northern savages who worship wood would keep nervously shouting, 'Winter Is Coming'."

Mark seemed to recall something and suddenly asked:

"Father, do you think this might be the Eternal Summer promised to the world by the Seven, where Winter will never return?"

"The Seven say that when the sins of the world are purged, the Eternal Summer shall arrive. So, do you think the sins of the world have been purged?"

Mark shook his head, resting his chin on his palm as he fell into deep thought. The monkey on his shoulder mimicked its master, beginning to contemplate its own monkey life.

Just then, the sound of rhythmic marching echoed from outside the castle.

Curious, Mark walked to the balcony and looked out, only to see a party of over two hundred people crossing the drawbridge into the castle.

"Father! Come look at this!"

Hearing his son's cry, Viscount Martin strolled out. "What is it?"

Mark pointed at the pioneer party below, his face full of shock. "Are you certain this Samwell is a useless castoff?"

Viscount Martin was stunned as well.

The sight of more than two hundred soldiers, marching in perfect formation and well-equipped, truly startled him.

It had to be said that Samwell's two months of military training had been quite effective. The hundred or so newly recruited soldiers, at least on the surface, were indistinguishable from seasoned veterans.

Of course, if they were to engage in real combat, these recruits would surely falter.

After all, they had yet to be tested by blood and fire.

But because Samwell had spared no expense in outfitting them and feeding them meat, these recruits were enough to intimidate the vast majority of people.

Thus, in Viscount Martin's eyes, this famous wastrel of the Reach was leading an elite force of over two hundred men!

This was an armed force that could not be ignored.

One had to know that the standing army of Highgarden City consisted of only three hundred men.

Of course, House Mullendore had a dozen vassal knights, and if they conscripted a batch of peasants, Viscount Martin could muster an army of three thousand at most.

He certainly wasn't afraid of this two-hundred-man pioneer party.

However, he was a lord of Highgarden City, and the man across from him was merely a pioneer knight without even a fiefdom!

A comparison like this, even if he won, would leave Viscount Martin looking foolish.

"Where did he get so many elite soldiers!" Viscount Martin gritted his teeth.

His initial disdain and contempt for Samwell quickly curdled into a jealousy and hatred he couldn't even explain to himself.

Mark steadied his nerves and guessed, "Could Lord Randyll have given them to him?"

"How many regular soldiers does Horn Hill even have? Could he spare so many for a wastrel who has been disowned by the family to go pioneering?"

Mark scratched his head. While he had never been to Horn Hill, he knew that although House Tarly was stronger than House Mullendore, it was impossible for them to be so extravagant as to hand over so many elite soldiers to a wastrel.

If these soldiers were truly lost in the Red Mountains, House Tarly would suffer a severe blow to its strength.

After a moment's thought, Mark added, "Could the army have been provided by House Tyrell?"

In his view, only the wealthy Lord of Highgarden would be willing to hand such an elite force over to a wastrel to squander.

Viscount Martin rolled his eyes. "Lord Mace wouldn't even personally dub this fellow; would he be willing to gift such an army for him to go pioneering?"

Mark realized the logic in that and immediately began scratching his head again.

The monkey on his shoulder seemed to sense its master's frustration and began jumping about.

Viscount Martin stared at the pioneer party for a long while before finally heading downstairs without a word.

Mark hurriedly followed.

Father and son arrived at the castle gate, where the steward and servants had already brought bread and salt.

This was a sacred pact that had been passed down in Westeros for thousands of years—the Guest Right.

When a guest came under a host's roof and accepted the bread and salt provided by the host, the Guest Right took effect immediately. Neither side could harm the other, and those who violated it would be forsaken by the old gods and the new.

Samwell pinched a small piece of bread, dipped it in salt, and placed it in his mouth. He then placed a hand over his chest and bowed slightly to Viscount Martin, saying:

"Respected Lord Mullendore, thank you for your warm hospitality!"

A sincere smile beamed across Viscount Martin's face:

"Lord Caesar, welcome to Highgarden City!"