THE IRON THRONE OF ICE AND FIRE

Tyrion Lannister strode through the halls with his usual mix of purpose and irreverence, his short legs making a soft tap, tap against the stone floors. His curly hair, the color of tarnished gold, spilled over his forehead, and the fine leather doublet he wore bore the roaring lion of House Lannister. Though small in stature, his presence was impossible to ignore—especially when he wanted to be noticed.

"Brother, you wound me," Tyrion called out, his voice rich with amusement. "Did you not see me, or are you simply pretending not to? And what's this? Has our lovely sister appointed you her personal errand boy?"

Jaime Lannister slowed his steps but did not stop, his golden hair catching the light.

Tyrion fell in beside him, never one to be deterred. "Come now, Jaime, you should make more of an effort. My most vital role in this family, after all, is standing beside you to make your magnificence all the more dazzling."

Jaime sighed, a long-suffering sound. "Fine. You win. If it spares me more of your wit, I'll tell you—I am delivering a letter."

Tyrion's lips curved into a knowing smile. "How tragic. My lonely sister, left to steal company where she can. Go on, show me."

Jaime smirked and lifted the sealed envelope just out of reach. "Afraid not. Sealed with wax."

Undeterred, Tyrion made a playful lunge, but Jaime was quicker, twisting his wrist just enough to keep the letter out of reach.

"It's no great secret," Jaime said. "I can tell you what it says."

Tyrion withdrew, folding his hands behind his back. "Oh? Then it seems my assumption was misplaced."

Jaime gave him a measured look. "You'd do well to stop assuming the worst of Cersei. She is our sister."

Tyrion barked a laugh. "Ah, yes, and I suppose I should expect her to shower me with kisses and call me dear brother—unless the Seven decide to take an unexpected nap."

Jaime's expression hardened. "Tyrion, don't mock the gods."

"The gods don't seem to care what I say."

Tyrion clapped Jaime on the thigh and gave a conspiratorial grin. "Now, tell me—what's so important?"

Jaime exhaled. "It concerns a young baron from the Crab Claw Peninsula. Cersei is bringing him along on the Kingswood hunt."

Tyrion's brows lifted in surprise. "Well, now that is unexpected. Our sister must be in an agreeable mood."

"It was the baron who wrote first. A well-placed bit of flattery."

Tyrion chuckled. "You don't sound impressed. Do you fear this little baron will steal your sister's favor?"

Jaime shot him a look. "I'm not that petty. But young men should spend more time learning the sword than licking boots."

Tyrion shook his head. "Ah, dear brother, how easy it must be to say such things when you're a Lannister. Do you know what it's like to be desperate for coin? To wonder where your next meal is coming from? The Crab Claw Peninsula is a hard place. People there have learned to survive by loyalty. Flattery is their family trade."

Jaime frowned but said nothing.

Tyrion smirked. "But at least the boy isn't stupid. He knows where the gold is."

Jaime let out a weary sigh. "Gods, I truly have been reduced to running errands."

Three Days Later – Qingyu City, the Bowyer's Workshop

The air inside the workshop smelled of fresh wood shavings and boiled glue. Greene Kleb picked up a freshly crafted longbow from a wooden stand, running his fingers along its polished yew. He tested the draw—roughly 110 to 120 pounds. A respectable start.

In his land, survival meant farming and hunting. Most folk could handle a bow, and this draw weight was manageable for them. But it was only the beginning. With proper training, he aimed to introduce even stronger bows—150 pounds, 180 pounds, and beyond.

The design was inspired by memories of another life, a weapon drawn from a world long past. It was crude, by some standards, but effective. Simple to craft. Deadly in skilled hands.

A carpenter wiped his hands on his apron. "My lord, we're up to three bows a day now."

"Same here," another added.

"And me," a third chimed in.

Greene nodded. These were seasoned craftsmen, bowyers by trade. About ten in total.

His original plan had been to divide the work—create an assembly line of sorts, breaking production into distinct steps. But he'd discarded that idea. The lack of proper oversight meant quality and efficiency would only suffer. For now, tradition would have to do. Let the craftsmen see one another's work, push themselves to keep pace. Competition bred excellence.

Still, he reminded himself not to push too far, too fast. A step at a time. Rushing ahead blindly would only lead to ruin.

Satisfied, he picked up another bow, tested its tension, and gave a few final instructions before making his announcement.

"This shall be known as the Kleb Longbow."

Whispering City – The Survey Corps

Knight Pell had carried out his orders with speed, and the newly formed Survey Corps—one hundred strong—had begun their drills.

Most were hunters, skilled with bow and blade, and they'd brought their own weapons. That made things simpler. Short bows, short swords—quick, efficient tools for their trade.

Greene envisioned them as light infantry, mountain fighters clad in leather. Scouts, raiders. Masters of the ambush.

But there was much to do.

The arrows they carried were of poor quality, made by hand, with little uniformity. Lethality mattered, and so the blacksmith's shop had been given a new priority—crafting arrows fit for war.

And then there was armor.

Helmets were in short supply. The Kleb arsenal had barely enough to outfit the two hundred clan soldiers, let alone this new corps. Greene needed a solution.

He thought of pirates. Their headscarves.

A crude idea, but it would serve. The warehouse held plenty of gray linen. He had it cut into strips, tied in the fashion of a turban. Simple. Uniform.

One hundred men, gray scarves wrapped around their heads, suddenly felt less like a band of hunters and more like an army.

[Survey Corps cohesion +1]

Then came the matter of body armor.

The ideal? Chainmail beneath leather. The reality? Far from it.

The warehouses were stocked with leather, but most of it was soft. Only a small quantity of hardened leather—the true backbone of any good cuirass—was available.

A compromise, then.

He had every able hand in the city cutting and stitching, assembling crude breastplates. It wasn't pretty, but it was protection.

And as for the Thorn Corps, the standing force under Emparo's command? They couldn't be left wanting either.

With the available materials, Greene made the call. The new armor would be front-facing only. Breastplates, no backplates.

Some might call it madness. A half-measure. But to Greene, it was simple.

"Face the enemy," he muttered. "Never turn your back."

A new addition to the Kleb family motto, for now—Never turn back.