Game of Thrones: The Red Dragon Lord

That night, Sir Edmund hosted another celebratory banquet in the camp to honor the Cotoin family's victory in the archery competition.

Gavin, attending the banquet, seemed distracted. His eyes kept drifting toward the door. When he finally saw Tommen lift the curtain and wave to him, Gavin quickly excused himself from Sir Edmund and hurried outside.

The two ran back to Gavin's tent, excitement written all over Tommen's face.

"Captain, we're rich," Tommen announced, barely able to contain himself. He bent down and pulled a heavy leather bag from under the bed.

Gavin hastily opened the bag. "How much is in here?"

"A total of 13,000 gold dragons. You bet 1,000, and the brothers pooled another 300," Tommen said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "We've really hit the jackpot!"

Gavin nodded thoughtfully. "Call the brothers over to collect their shares. Keep my portion separate, and divide the rest among everyone."

Noticing Tommen standing motionless, Gavin asked, "What's wrong?"

Tommen's expression turned serious. "There's some bad news. Your odds for the group competition have dropped."

"What are they now?" Gavin asked, his gut tightening with unease.

"For an independent championship, it's now 1:5. For winning the overall competition, it's 1:10," Tommen replied.

Gavin considered this for a moment before nodding. "Not bad—still acceptable. Take all my winnings and the bonus we just received and bet it all on me to win independently. You and the others can decide for yourselves whether to follow suit."

Tommen's face hardened with resolve. "Captain, there's no need to divide it. We've all decided to follow you and bet everything."

Gavin clapped Tommen on the shoulder and smiled. "Alright, go and take care of it. Trust me—we're all going to come out of this wealthy."

Tommen nodded firmly and left to handle the bets. Gavin watched him leave, his mind racing with calculations of just how much he stood to win.

His thoughts turned to his ultimate goal—the creation of the blood witch puppet. The funds were almost secured, but a new challenge loomed: sourcing the corpses needed for the process.

Gavin paced the tent, furrowing his brow. "The Reach has been peaceful for too long. Where can I get the necessary corpses without raising suspicion?"

His mind drifted to Essos and the Narrow Sea. The idea of becoming a mercenary seemed increasingly appealing. It could solve two problems:

The chaotic regions were abundant with opportunities to obtain corpses—whether from pirates in the Narrow Sea, conflicts between the city-states, or the predations of the Dothraki.Bringing back blood witch puppets from Essos would raise fewer suspicions, as they could easily be presented as loyal guards recruited abroad.

The more Gavin thought about it, the more feasible the plan seemed. He resolved to explore this option further, even though he understood the risks it would entail.

Suppressing his thoughts, Gavin returned to the banquet. After all, he was the star of the evening, and it wouldn't be appropriate for him to stay away too long.

Sir Edmund, perhaps too jubilant, was already drunk. He was laughing uproariously, holding Sir Ryan by the arm, though it was unclear what amusing story they were sharing.

When Gavin re-entered, Edmund waved him over enthusiastically, pulling him into another round of drinks.

By the end of the banquet, Edmund could barely walk. Gavin and a few servants helped him back to his tent. As Gavin was about to leave, Edmund suddenly gripped his forearm tightly.

Edmund's eyes, now clearer than before, met Gavin's. Using some effort, Edmund propped himself up and reached for a cup of water handed to him by a servant. After a sip, he gestured toward a large chest nearby.

"I was planning to give this to you when you came of age," Edmund said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "But now, I think you need it more. Open it."

Gavin, confused and curious, walked over to the chest. He hesitated before lifting the lid.

Inside was a set of finely crafted plate armor. Each piece was engraved with intricate designs, and the metal shone even in the dim light of the tent. Alongside the armor lay a slender, straight sword with a red gem embedded in its hilt. The blade was razor-sharp, emanating a subtle yet intimidating aura.

Gavin stared at the equipment in awe, his eyes wide with surprise.

"This was made for your father when he came of age," Edmund explained, stepping closer. "Now, it belongs to you."

Gavin quickly closed the chest. "My lord, this is too precious. I can't—"

Edmund raised a hand to silence him. "Take it. I hope it protects you in the future. That's all. I need to rest now, boy." With that, Edmund lay back on his bed, leaving Gavin speechless.

With Tommen's help, Gavin donned the armor the next day. It fit him surprisingly well, despite his young age of fifteen. The craftsmanship was impeccable, and the design practical, including a hook on one side for securing a spear. It was clearly a piece of extraordinary value.

As Gavin looked at himself in the mirror, a wave of warmth washed over him. In his heart, Sir Edmund was more than just a mentor; he was a beacon of kindness and guidance.

Despite Gavin's status as a bastard, Edmund had always treated him with care, never withholding his support. This profound bond filled Gavin with gratitude in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving.