The flow of the upper Rhoyne River was more than twice that of the Little Rhoyne.
Even from far away, one could hear the rushing of the waters.
Shards of ice clung to the riverbank, frozen in place. On the plains beside the river, two walls of flesh wrapped in steel seemed to rise abruptly from the ground.
The black-bannered side was the Targaryen host—nearly ten thousand strong.
The yellow-bannered side was the joint army of the Rhoynar and the Brave Companions. The sun-burst sigil fluttered beside the mercenaries' banner of the "Blood-Horned Goat."
The coalition's formation was thicker, their numbers almost four times that of the Targaryens.
But the Targaryen army's armor rate reached nearly ninety percent, while the coalition barely had a quarter of that.
So when the situation was discussed, the heaviness inside the coalition's command tent was felt by everyone.
In an age of cold steel, sheer numbers were often the least important factor. Equipment, morale, terrain, and weather could matter far more than headcount.
"Elder Lothan, why did you place your able-bodied young men at the front? Why not push useless old and weak folk ahead to wear down the Targaryen soldiers first?"
To Vargo, the mercenary captain, these Rhoynar were nothing more than cattle or crops he would soon own.
If something had little worth—or none at all—it should be culled or torn out. But Lothan and Elder Tina did not think that way.
His question made a cold light flash through Tina's eyes.
Some sellsword companies liked driving local peasants ahead of them as meat shields.
It was precisely such troublemaking mercenaries the Rhoynar despised the most.
"Sir, they are people—and the families of our warriors! Not worthless beasts, and certainly not shields of flesh," Elder Tina said coldly.
Vargo apologized at once, realizing he had let his true thoughts slip out.
He apologized with his mouth, but not with his heart. The brief tension passed quickly, and Vargo continued:
"I'll divide my forces into two. One group will deal with Targaryen cavalry. The other I'll lead myself, looking for a chance to strike."
He tapped the map, then asked Lothan, "I heard the little king's bodyguards are all boys who have barely grown hair. Is that true?"
When Lothan confirmed it, Vargo's eyes lit with joy.
In this era, boys of twelve or thirteen joining armies and growing up in them were common.
Anyone who survived to adulthood in such a life was a hardened elite.
Vargo didn't know why Viserys chose to surround himself with youths, but it didn't matter. It was clearly an advantage for him.
The Brave Companions would soon discover that waiting ahead of them was not gold, but a trap.
According to Vargo's request, his sellswords received all the warhorses. He placed his troops on both wings, making both attack and retreat easier.
And they were not under Lothan's command—they could choose their own moment to enter the fight.
"We have more men, and more horses. We'll capture that little king for sure." One mercenary boasted loudly.
Missing a front tooth, his words whistled slightly.
The corner of his mouth twisted with a hunger he barely hid. His plump frame and shining bald head made others instinctively edge away.
This man was named Urt, a "brother" of the Brave Companions, though he wore armor instead of robes.
He liked to strip himself and have others whip him—though that taste was not the main issue. The real problem was his fondness for abusing young boys.
Because of that, the company had almost no boys among them, which irritated their captain.
Only those raised within a company from childhood developed true loyalty and belonging.
The Golden Company in Essos had even produced members who served for two or three generations.
But the Brave Companions were known for brutality; no proper septon would ever bless them or raise their morale. So Vargo simply turned a blind eye.
Urt's sudden interest in Viserys was easy to understand.
For over three centuries, the Targaryens had been famed for dragon-riding and beauty.
A Targaryen might be wise or mad, but beauty was always their birthright.
Upon hearing Viserys's age, Urt became restless—like a thirsty traveler spotting a dewy peach.
"We may have more men, but the Targaryens have better equipment and better training. And don't forget—they have the Sword of Morning!"
As captain, Vargo remained cautious. This battle concerned his future fortunes.
He dreamed of becoming a lord and understood Westerosi politics well.
And with Viserys deliberately elevating Arthur Dayne after the naval battle and Shipbreaker Bay, Vargo felt even more wary.
"Bah, Morning Sword, Evening sword—I heard he was beaten by Rhaegar, who was beaten by Robert.
Robert, back in the Vale, was beaten by a friend of a friend of someone I knew. And I could crush that friend with one hand. Leave him to me!
And these Braavosi horses are magnificent! I could take on two Sword's of Morning myself!"
A mercenary covered in black hair used a chain of bizarre comparisons to prove his invincibility.
He had once built a fighting pit in King's Landing using orphans.
This kind of absurd "strength logic" was his favorite.
And when he saw the horse given to him, he could hardly look away. Never in his mercenary life had he ridden such a fine beast.
A good horse could greatly increase a rider's fighting power.
That alone swelled his confidence.
"All right! What matters now is when we enter the battle.
You!" Vargo pointed at a sellsword with the look of a Dothraki. "Two situations. If the Rhoynar are about to break, we move to help them. Any other time, we preserve strength!"
"Understood," the Dothraki-looking man—Yigo—said with a nod.
"The rest follow me. Once the little king's guard shows a weakness, we charge straight in.
Two or three hundred boys without full beards can't be our match. Urt—you're with me!"
"Yes, captain."
Urt grinned, showing his stained black-yellow teeth.
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