"Pentos is the closest Free City to King's Landing. Ships cross the Narrow Sea from Pentos to King's Landing every day. Moreover, Pentos is rich yet weak, taking Pentos would benefit your cause. Therefore, attacking Pentos is profitable," the Ragged Prince said softly.
The Ragged Prince's ambition wasn't too great; he didn't dare to demand Pentos in one go.
"No, Pentos betrayed me first, those damned Magisters wanted me dead. Since the Pentosi treat me this way, then I will repay them," the Ragged Prince mused to himself. Hatred is more enduring than anything else, hatred is deeply rooted.
"You are a good persuader," Gendry said, looking at the Ragged Prince. "Has the Prince ever considered those who depend on Pentos for their livelihood, the Khals, the Braavosi?"
The Ragged Prince described Pentos as wonderful, but behind Pentos's laid-back demeanor were its protectors. Most Khals loved to extort Pentos, and the Braavosi subtly regarded Pentos as their sphere of influence. Neither was easy to provoke.
"After leaving Pentos, how many years have you been fighting abroad, Prince?" Gendry asked the master of the Windblown, the Ragged Prince, who also went by the nickname 'Rag King'.
"More than thirty years," the Ragged Prince replied. Time had left its marks on him: wrinkles on his face, scars on his body. He was once as bright and clear as Gendry, but relentless time had turned him into an Old Man.
The Ragged Prince dared not accept the Magisters' invitation, choosing instead to travel far to the Disputed Lands, and had never returned to his homeland of Pentos since.
"Please forgive my eagerness, for I saw a glimmer of hope, so much so that I forgot myself. I have been waiting day and night for an opportunity to return to Pentos," the Ragged Prince said with an apologetic tone.
"Who would blame an Old Man for homesickness?" Gendry smiled.
The Ragged Prince's expression subtly changed; he detested being called old. By the standards of the Disputed Lands, he was indeed an Old Man. If by dothraki standards, he might have been driven away by a new Khal.
"I am indeed old, so much so that I can only beg for cooperation before new powers," the Rag King felt a pang of sadness in his heart, but he quickly recovered. This was his only chance.
The Ragged Prince quickly replied, "Your Highness, though I am old, these old bones can still fight on horseback, and my two thousand Mercenaries are all seasoned warriors. I also have some old connections in Pentos, if you need them."
"Sounds good, Prince. You know I am always generous to those loyal to me," Gendry repeated to the Rag King. "Talent and loyalty."
"I also emphasize loyalty," the Ragged Prince echoed. "I hate every one of the traitors. Every traitor has his own excuse, and those who swore allegiance to me and took my pay then fled. My punishment for their betrayal is also cruel."
The Ragged Prince despised traitors and would punish them severely. He would send pursuers after them. If the deserters were caught and lucky enough, he would cut off one of their feet to ensure they couldn't run again. If they were unlucky, they would be handed over to 'Pretty' Marys.
One deserter claimed that the Windblown's food disgusted him, so when the Ragged Prince caught him, he cut off his leg, cooked it, and made him eat it. Afterward, that man became the Windblown's cook, and the food greatly improved. When his contract expired, he signed another one.
"Your request is very persuasive, Prince," Gendry said, looking at the Ragged Prince. "Mercenaries and soldiers are not the same. But I only need one kind of person: those loyal to me. I presume you have heard about the Second Sons and the Spear Company; I incorporated them, but they must completely obey my commands. I don't need those self-important sly ones."
The Ragged Prince nodded, understanding Gendry's meaning. Mercenaries are just Mercenaries; Mercenaries crave slaughter and gold, but Mercenaries are also a cunning force. In other words, Mercenaries can only fight when the tide is in their favor.
The Ragged Prince understood the meaning of the banners below, the galloping knights, the cheering taxi soldiers. He suddenly realized another deeper meaning: his two thousand men had no bargaining power. In front of tens of thousands of troops, two thousand men were indeed humiliating.
The Ragged Prince understood that he needed to state his position. He had no conditions to be a partner, at most a subordinate. He could not control the right to speak on war and peace, advance and retreat.
"Ten, twenty years ago, I would have flatly refused such an order from you. But now it has been over thirty years, and of the six people who created the Windblown with me, only I am still alive. So I will consider your terms," the Ragged Prince said.
"I await your good news," Gendry told him. Only ghosts knew what the Ragged Prince was thinking.
"Hooray!"
"Hooray!" Cheers suddenly erupted from the tourney ground below the high platform, indicating a new star had emerged in the competition.
A moment later, Dick the Fletch excitedly ascended the high platform.
"I found a Marksman," the Arrow Maker told Gendry.
"Is that so?" Gendry became interested. The Arrow Maker was considered by some to be the most outstanding archer in history, so naturally, anyone he favored would be brimming with archery talent.
"Black Billy didn't win either? Those from the Summer Isles?" Gendry pressed.
"No, goldenheart Longspears weren't allowed in the competition. Although those lads were good archers, they met a master. That Marksman has already won the championship."
Gendry, the Arrow Maker, Jorah, and the Rag King went to the archery range. He saw the Marksman the Arrow Maker spoke of.
He was tall and slender, with freckles and red hair, and very young. He was a commoner from The Marches of Dorne, but now he stood proudly in the center of the crowd.
"What is your name?" Gendry asked him. Tall and slender, indeed good conditions for an archer.
"Anguy, my lord," the archery champion replied, then looked at Gendry warily. Even in the distant Marches of Dorne, Anguy had heard the name of the liberator.
An archer's eyes are usually keen. Anguy saw Gendry's black scale plate armor, the beautiful quartered banner emblem, the warhammer, the three red dragons, the Wolf Pack, and the slaves smashing their shackles. Surrounded by people, young and handsome, he was the King of the Two Cities. Those Dothraki Unsullied in black cloaks were cold and powerful.
"Those gold dragons, I've already won this competition, they won't not give them to me, will they?" Anguy muttered softly.
"Are you questioning His Highness's credibility?" Ser Jorah looked at Anguy.
"Those gold dragons can be yours now, but I want to make a bet with you," Gendry said.
"What bet?" Anguy gritted his teeth. What he wanted most were the gold dragons. With them, whether he went to Lys or King's Landing, he could always spend well, go to those places of pleasure, and find the most beautiful women.
"Are you confident in your archery?" Gendry asked Anguy.
Anguy looked at his bow and arrow and said proudly, "I trust my bow and arrow; I have no opponent for now."
"Let me see your masterpiece?" Gendry said.
"Here," Anguy pointed to the distant targets, smiling smugly. Five targets stood in the distance, and Anguy's arrows had all, without exception, hit the bullseye.
"I'll play a round with you," Gendry smiled.
"My lord, isn't that inappropriate?" Anguy said cautiously. He was only here for the gold dragons, and he was already the champion.
"We'll just have one match. I won't shortchange you on any of your gold dragons, and if I lose to you, I'll give you another set of gold dragons," Gendry came to Anguy's side.
Anguy understood that this bet was certain; the King's dignity was incomparable, and his word was his bond.
"Shall I bring your bow and arrow?" Ser Jorah whispered. Gendry had a yew bow and a dragonglass bow, both renowned Longspears.
'No need, I'll use his bow and arrow,' Gendry pointed to Anguy. Anguy immediately relaxed a lot. Using his own bow was much better than taking advantage of a dragonglass bow.
Gendry took Anguy's Longspear but did not take off his black scale plate armor, nor did he have anyone change the targets. The arrows were still in the bullseyes, firmly lodged there.
"You're not taking off your armor?" Anguy asked, eyes wide. He himself wasn't wearing heavy armor; an archer wearing too much armor would only affect his accuracy and power. Was this person so confident? Or rather, arrogant.
Gendry ignored Anguy's surprise. He quickly adapted to Anguy's Longspear. This bow was also made of wood; The Marches were not lacking in precious timber.
Gendry felt the breath of the wind, the dazzling sunlight. He had to grasp the speed of the wind, the distance of the light, to make the arrow pierce through the target.
Gendry felt his heart had sunk to the bottom of the sea at this moment. Even the clamor of outsiders and the expectations of others were cast aside. Anguy watched Gendry nervously. For some reason, at this very moment, he also felt a little bit of self-doubt. Catching the shining moment, every arrow was the best result.
"Whoosh!"
"Whoosh"
"Whoosh!"
Gendry's arrows followed Anguy's arrows, directly piercing through the bullseyes. Anguy's arrows fell to the ground one after another.
Anguy rubbed his eyes. Power, speed, and his opponent was wearing heavier plate armor. Anguy sighed in frustration. "There are still masters out there."
"How about it, young man, wasn't I right?" the Arrow Maker said proudly. "I told you there was an even better archer."
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