Nearly a week had passed since Freygo arrived at the Palace of the Sea King, yet there was still no word of Viserys' army setting out.
Instead, what came was a messenger seeking aid.
"Your Majesty," the man addressed respectfully, "a number of our soldiers have come down with fever and diarrhea. Lord Viserys sent me to request supplies—fresh grain, herbs... and, if possible, some healers to assist us."
Freygo didn't doubt Davos' words too much.
From what he described, the symptoms sounded like a simple case of poor acclimatization—maybe also the result of eating spoiled grain.
"Don't worry, I'll have men gather what you need," Freygo said. "Is the situation very severe on your end?"
'Make it sound worse,' Davos recalled Viserys' instruction. 'We need more time.'
He quickly replied, "There are three to four hundred soldiers and farmers affected. Worst of all, several of our commanders have fallen ill too. It may take some time before we can march."
Freygo nodded. With such a delay, Gohor would no doubt be alerted and on guard.
So, he decided to give Viserys another push. After all, it would be a blow to morale for this to happen just as they arrived on Essos.
Along with the requested supplies, Freygo even sent ten catapults to Davos to take back. That was a delightful surprise for Davos.
Of course, the truth was nowhere near as dire.
Under the crescent moon, rhythmic chants echoed from Viserys' camp.
"Nine hundred ninety-seven!"
"Hup!"
"Nine hundred ninety-eight!"
"Hup!"
"Nine hundred ninety-nine!"
"Hup—!"
"One thousand!"
"Ugh—ah!"
A group of shirtless farmers dropped their massive longbows and began slapping their arms, which had gone completely numb.
Their arms ached and burned, but smiles tugged at the corners of their mouths.
Jason, for instance, could almost smell roasted meat already.
Soon, they'd be eating meat again.
Back on Dragonstone, as farmers, they might have eaten fish or meat a few times a year—at most. But Viserys was feeding them generous chunks of fatty meat, glistening with oil.
At first, these farmers had been wary of being drafted into what was called the "Settler Legion."
After all, they'd come to till the land—not fight.
But after joining the Legion, not only did they get meat regularly, they also received wages!
Though it was only a third of what regular soldiers earned, the seed of loyalty had already begun to sprout within them.
In stark contrast to the farmers' joy, their trainer, Ock, was growing more anxious by the day. From everything he knew, this was not how archers were trained.
You needed targets to build accuracy. A proper archer took at least two to three years to train.
Yet Viserys seemed to believe he could turn over two thousand farmers into archers within a month.
To Ock, it was utter fantasy.
He couldn't understand why his normally wise and capable young king had suddenly grown so naïve.
Oberyn felt the same way.
In his heart, he had already decided: if Viserys lost this war, he would return to Dorne and take Elia with him—no matter what.
But before that, he still wanted to confirm one thing—was Viserys truly a fool, or just pretending?
"You don't actually think this will produce real archers in a month, do you?" Oberyn said, his voice thick with mockery as he looked at Viserys scribbling by candlelight.
"You could feed them all the meat in the world, and it still wouldn't work."
Viserys set down his pen, tilted the candle beside him, and smiled.
"Then let's make a bet. In less than a month, they'll be competent—no, excellent archers. And I'll deploy them to the battlefield."
Seeing Viserys so resolute, Oberyn's last shred of hope died.
'Fine,' he thought, 'Once this ends in failure, I'll return and take Elia home.'
And if he could say he'd saved Viserys in the process, then Rhaella wouldn't have the heart to stop him from taking his sister.
Meanwhile, Arthur had returned to camp after a long absence.
True to Viserys' request, he'd brought back several captives—clearly leaders of some kind.
"Thank you, Ser Arthur," Viserys greeted him.
The journey had taken over two weeks, and it had been through unfamiliar territory. Arthur had grown visibly thinner, his cheeks sunken with fatigue.
Yet he still gave a detailed report on the state of Gohor.
First, there were historical concerns.
Gohor had once been the home of the Rhoynar. But after the Valyrians destroyed the Rhoynar civilization, the region had steadily declined.
So much so, that even the scattered Andals left on Essos could now fight them on equal footing.
There was something else too: the bandits in the region had grown organized.
A single band might claim several—sometimes even a dozen—villages as their "property" and levy taxes on the people!
Of course, they had their own logic for this behavior.
Many of these bandits were also of Andal descent.
"Have the local Andals not formed any sort of power structure?" Viserys asked.
Arthur shook his head.
"The commoners live hard lives. Though the Rhoyne River is nearby and could easily irrigate farmland, they can't even farm in peace because of the constant raids by pirates and bandits."
To Viserys, the answer was becoming clearer.
Gohor hadn't become this chaotic on its own. There had to be meddling from Braavos and Pentos.
How else could a place go for centuries without a stable regime?
Power hates a vacuum.
If there was no visible authority, then hidden rules had surely filled the void.
Determined to find the truth, Viserys decided to personally kill the captives Arthur had brought back—and use their essence to absorb their memories.
No method could be quicker.
"Ser Arthur, please go rest. We'll likely march on Gohor soon."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Oberyn glanced at Arthur, feeling a bit of pity.
Such a legendary man, bound to get himself killed by following Viserys.
After Arthur left, Viserys ordered the prisoners brought in. Two men, both around twenty-five or twenty-six years old, were dragged forward.
Their faces were swollen like pig heads, with half their teeth knocked out.
Their clothes were filthy, stained with grime, and their armpits and backs bore several long, split gashes.
They looked absolutely miserable.
Viserys turned to Oberyn and said,
"Your Highness, I'm afraid my interrogation techniques are best kept private. Would you mind resting for now? I'll share any useful information with you later."
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