Oberyn showed little interest in Viserys's cryptic posturing.
Inside the tent, only a few of Viserys's personal guards remained—young men he had brought with him from the Claw Isle. They were now his personal protectors.
The two captives quickly realized that they were being held by children barely out of boyhood. Naturally, they couldn't help but feel a bit of contempt.
"You must be the little Targaryen king," one of them said with a patronizing smile, as though coaxing a child. "Why don't you let me go and I'll become your Kingsguard? I'll help you take back the Iron Throne."
But Viserys didn't bother replying. He circled behind the man and drove his short sword straight into his back.
The brigand stared blankly at the blood-drenched blade protruding from his chest, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.
He still had plenty of useful information to bargain with. Why wouldn't this little brat follow the rules?
As for the other captive, Viserys didn't waste any words. He gave him the same treatment—one clean thrust through the heart—then instructed his guards to drag both bodies out.
[Essence Acquired: Veteran (Infantry) 1
Veteran (Cavalry) 1]
Viserys absorbed their essences directly.
Their short lives, spanning just over twenty years, held little of interest. What caught Viserys's attention was their most recent memories:
...
"Redbeard! Isn't that the leader of the Cat Company? What's he doing here?"
"No idea. I heard someone hired them. Said the Targaryens lost the Iron Throne and came to Essos looking for a foothold—chose this place to start."
"Redbeard's helping us drive the Targaryens out."
"Who hired them?"
"You'll have to ask Dirty Ben—I don't know!"
.....
After going through their memories, Viserys extracted the most valuable part for himself.
The next day, he went to Oberyn and asked about the Cat Company.
Seeing that Viserys was interested in the mercenary group, Oberyn immediately perked up.
"The Cat Company isn't small. They've got over two thousand mercenaries. And their leader, Redbeard, is a ruthless and greedy bastard—loves torturing prisoners. With a leader like that, the rest of them are probably even worse."
"Over two thousand?" Viserys mused aloud.
Seeing Viserys lost in thought, Oberyn suddenly asked, "Wait—don't tell me they're in Gohor too?"
Viserys nodded. "Yes. Seems like someone hired them to block our way."
"What? Who? Did you get that from those prisoners yesterday?" Oberyn asked urgently, clearly agitated.
"Yes, but they're dead now. Just minor officers—didn't know much."
"Could it be Robert?" Oberyn asked.
"Maybe. Doesn't matter. Whoever it is, we'll crush this obstacle first." Viserys's confident tone drew a faint sneer from Oberyn.
That mercenary company had a savage reputation—and over two thousand men! Combined with the forces already in Gohor, Viserys's odds didn't even seem to reach halfway.
"Forty-seven!"
"Heave!"
"Forty-eight!"
"Heave!"
The sounds of the peasant archers' awkward training echoed again, and Oberyn honestly didn't know what to make of it anymore.
.....
Gohor's location was strategically exceptional.
Mountains bordered the north, while the western side was flanked by the Little Rhoyne River, and the eastern side by the Upper Rhoyne. Both rivers flowed into the main Rhoyne to the south.
Yet for centuries, no single force had managed to fully control the region.
The Loenar held the east bank of the Upper Rhoyne, while the Andals controlled the west of the Little Rhoyne.
This fertile land—one that could have easily birthed a powerful realm—had become a battleground of blood and ruin.
In a worn old earth-and-wood fortress, a group of bandit leaders had gathered for a meeting. Each one commanded anywhere from a hundred to five hundred men.
The more troops they had, the louder their voices.
Especially since Pentos had recently delivered a shipment of fine weapons and armor. Some were beginning to speak with an even greater sense of entitlement.
"When we catch that Targaryen brat, I'll have him marry one of my daughters and give me a whole brood of dragon-blooded grandsons!"
The speaker was an old man in his fifties, his beard and temples streaked with white.
His name was Old Punk. In his lifetime, he had never managed to father a son—only seven daughters.
As for their looks? Best left unsaid. But in terms of size, each one was larger than the last.
He had married off the eldest three by offering a dowry in copper coins equal to each daughter's weight.
But with four still left at home, and little money to spare, the prospect of a former royal son-in-law seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
"Hahaha, Old Punk! You'd better make sure your fat girl doesn't crush the poor lad to death. I heard that little Targaryen king is barely ten. Might not even be able to use his... equipment!"
The group of bandit chiefs burst into crude laughter, clearly not taking Viserys seriously.
Among them, the most striking figure was a burly man with a flaming red beard—Redbeard himself.
He had only become the leader of the Cat Company two and a half years ago, but his cruelty and greed had already left a lasting impression on everyone who met him.
He had no interest in squabbling with these petty warlords.
Pentos had already filled his coffers with gold.
One fat merchant even promised an extra reward if he could capture Viserys alive.
Once everyone was gathered, a long-faced man with a thin brown mustache stood up beside Redbeard and began to speak.
"Gentlemen, to block the Targaryens, we've brought in Redbeard and the Cat Company.
Together, we number five thousand—and every man is armored. The Targaryen boy only has three thousand. Even one-for-one, we'll drive him back to that ruined island of his!"
"Exactly!"
"Well said!"
"As for the battle lines... Old Punk, Dirty Ben, and the rest of you—you've got the best armor from Pentos, so your men go up front!"
Several of them didn't look too happy at being put on the front line, but they had taken Pentos's gear, and so they had little choice but to obey.
"The flanks will be held by the Cat Company."
Everyone turned to Redbeard. Under his piercing gaze, no one dared meet his eyes for more than two seconds.
This was the proper way to use mercenaries. No one expected hired swords to lead the charge—they came for coin, not for glory.
But to everyone's surprise, Redbeard stood up and declared with a cold, dismissive tone:
"My men will take the center and the left flank. I'm not leaving the main line to you worthless trash."
________________
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