Gafas couldn't remember how he was dragged out of his tent like a dead dog.
He only knew one thing: it was cold—bone-bitingly cold.
For the half-naked Rhoynar soldiers shivering in thin clothes, Gafas even felt a fleeting envy.
At least they're wearing something, he thought bitterly.
Moments ago, he had strutted around with pride. Now, the "proud commander" curled in on himself, trembling in the wind.
He tried to crouch down—either to hide himself from the cold or out of shame—but two Targaryen soldiers held him firmly upright.
Arthur leaned close to his ear and spoke softly:
"Walk properly. Tell your people to put down their weapons. Tell them His Grace Viserys has already obtained the true Prince's Spear. No resistance."
His tone was the tone one used for scolding filth.
Gafas had the courage to send others to their deaths, but none to die with the Targaryens.
"Yes, yes, sir—I-I'll cooperate!
But could I—could I have some clothes? Otherwise they won't believe me…"
Arthur signaled with his eyes.
One soldier returned to the tent, pulled clothes out from beneath the woman Gafas had been with, and draped them over him.
Thus clothed—barely—Gafas was "escorted" by Targaryen soldiers as he began a tour of the defensive lines, giving one speech after another.
"Listen to me! Lothan deceived us!
He's the one unwilling to give up power—he's the one breaking the agreement!
His Grace Viserys has found the true Prince's Spear—he will restore the civilization of the Rhoyne!
Put down your weapons! His Grace has prepared food for us!"
Fortunately, Viserys had already sent Rhoynar who'd joined him to spread word of his policies.
Most Rhoynar did not want war.
They only knew that the Targaryen king demanded half the taxes the elders demanded— and he didn't sell people as slaves.
Yes, the Rhoynar had once built a glorious civilization. But that was more than a thousand years ago.
Their ancestors' pride had crumbled with their city-states.
Now they were only refugees with no place to belong.
Most of the Rhoynar soldiers, upon hearing Gafas' "confession," immediately dropped their weapons and prepared to move under Viserys' rule.
A few fled—out of fear, or the scraps of pride they still held. It hardly mattered.
Arthur returned.
"Good work, Ser Arthur," Viserys said.
"This is my duty, Your Grace." Arthur straightened proudly, then handed Viserys a small crossbow.
"Your Grace, look. A gift from the Braavosi."
Viserys took it and examined the weapon.
A sleek black crossbow—solid materials, fine craftsmanship, metal fittings. Definitely not something the Rhoynar of Gohor could produce.
Clearly, Freygo had intended for both sides to slaughter each other.
"Store it carefully," Viserys instructed.
"Yes, Your Grace. And… shall we kill Gafas?"
"No. After the war, we'll hold a tribunal. We'll execute him before the Rhoynar."
"As you command."
The battle at the Prince's Forest brought Viserys more than ten thousand captives—all strong, able-bodied adults.
And more than sixty percent of the Rhoynar's armor and weapons were concentrated there, all now in Viserys' hands.
The Rhoynar's ability to wage war had been crippled.
Under normal circumstances, they would have been considering surrender. But since Braavos was willing to act as the "big fool" footing the bill, Lothan would not yield.
The news of the Prince's Forest collapse reached Braavos quickly.
Freygo was stunned.
"So fast? Only a few days? Even if they were ten thousand pigs, Viserys couldn't have captured them so quickly!"
Instead of weakening both sides, he had lost a shipment of supplies.
His mood darkened.
Worse, Gafas had been captured alive—inside his own camp. Even the stupidest commander shouldn't fail that miserably.
"Your Majesty," Quairo announced, "Lothan has sent someone."
With Gafas captured, Freygo's years of infiltration among the Rhoynar seemed wasted.
But the Rhoynar had suffered tremendously in this battle. That meant Lothan would now rely even more heavily on Braavos.
From Freygo's point of view, once you rounded things off, only Lothan and the Rhoynar had really suffered losses.
When Lothan arrived, Freygo greeted him with a stern expression.
"Elder Lothan, I've heard what happened at the Prince's Forest. That little king is quite cunning.
I hoped he would coexist peacefully with your people once he reached Gohor.
But he is as greedy as his ancestors.
A dragon is a dragon—they never know when to stop."
Lothan did not argue. He knew perfectly well why Freygo had helped Viserys come to Gohor in the first place.
He only sighed and replied:
"Yes… the Targaryens are the last of Valyria's blood, and those who call themselves dragonlords have always been greedy.
I still cannot understand how Gafas was captured.
Lord Freygo, the Rhoynar stand at the brink of destruction. I beg you—help us.
Whether Braavos or the Rhoynar, our ancestors both suffered under the same conquerors."
The elder's plea carried sincerity—no trace of theatrics. Freygo couldn't find a flaw.
He even used subtle emotional appeal.
Still, Freygo knew that refusing first would make his help seem more valuable later.
He sighed heavily.
"You know as well as I do—winter approaches. Grain harvests are low. When food decreases, every other resource declines too.
I want to help the Rhoynar, I do… but I must care for all of Braavos."
Lothan knew what Freygo truly wanted:
control of the Upper Rhoyne—access for Braavosi ships.
It had always been a key Rhoynar revenue source. And Freygo had spent years infiltrating the elder council precisely for this.
In the past, Lothan would never have agreed.
But now…
"Your Majesty, I promise you this—in the future, all Braavosi caravans and ships will travel freely through the Upper Rhoyne. Only please, help us quickly."
He nearly bowed.
The younger Freygo hurried to stop him, "No, Elder Lothan, no need for that—very well, I'll help you."
Inside, he could barely contain his joy. Now he could plant even more of his own people within the elder council.
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