Within the Sea King's Palace in Braavos, there was a freshwater lake.
It glimmered like a jewel embedded in the lavish court.
A boat floated across the emerald waters, adorned with a dense array of smiling face masks.
It was Freygo's boat.
"Your Majesty, the Targaryen army has begun moving south along the Upper Rhoyne River," reported Quairo, Freygo's personal guard and secretary.
"Do you think Viserys will win his first battle?" Freygo asked with a smile.
Quairo considered the question for a moment.
"If not for the Cat Company, I think he would have little to worry about. That Arthur Dayne is a capable commander.
But with the Cat Company in play, the Targaryens are now outnumbered.
Even if they win, it won't come easily. And if they fail to secure a decisive victory, the guerrilla fighting afterward will give them a headache."
There was one more point Quairo didn't mention: Viserys had failed to reach Gohor early enough.
Even if he had moved the moment he landed, he still wouldn't have arrived in time.
After all, Pentos was only a third as far from Gohor as Braavos was. There had never really been much chance to begin with.
Freygo chuckled.
"Well, in that case, it's perfect. Whether Viserys wins or loses, he'll have to rely even more on Braavos.
Only then will our early investments bear fruit. The Targaryens are still too troublesome. If only they had just a few hundred men, that would have been ideal."
He smiled as he looked over the shimmering lake, as if seeing shiploads of Westerosi gold being hauled to the vaults of Braavos.
And that gold wouldn't just be from Viserys's pitiful treasury—but squeezed out of Westeros itself, across the Narrow Sea.
In Freygo's eyes, the ideal Viserys was one who could be manipulated like a puppet. That was the only way he could serve as a bargaining chip to extort Robert.
"Prepare a shipment of food and weapons," Freygo said suddenly, his tone shifting to something firm.
"Price it based on his casualties. If he loses over a thousand men, triple the price. If he loses over half, charge five times. And if he's defeated…"
He paused for a moment, a sharp glint in his eyes.
"How many soldiers did we allow him under our prior agreement?"
"Your Majesty, under the plan and territory we offered, the Targaryens weren't to exceed ten thousand troops."
"Make it five thousand," Freygo said, adjusting to a more comfortable position. "If he loses this first battle, we'll limit his forces to five thousand from now on."
As Freygo saw it, if Viserys lost here, he would have no chance of continuing his campaign for Gohor. Pentos wouldn't offer him anything of value, and Braavos would become his only remaining lifeline.
.....
After about two days of sailing, Viserys's army finally reached Gohor.
He had expected to find the enemy dug in, braced for battle. Perhaps they would try to ambush his troops before they even landed.
But Viserys had overestimated their military discipline.
They had camped far from the riverbank.
By the time the horns sounded their alarm, the Targaryen fleet had already reached the shore.
"Quick! Disembark! Move!" Arthur and Ock shouted commands to the soldiers.
Before the chaotic mix of bandits and mercenaries could even form ranks, Viserys's army had already lined up in full battle formation.
Arthur took command of the eight hundred cavalry, preparing for a direct assault.
Oberyn led Viserys's three thousand infantry.
Ock, meanwhile, oversaw the archers.
They stood at the front, ready and waiting. These peasant soldiers ranged in age from sixteen to forty.
They shared one thing in common—it was their first time in battle.
Though fear gripped many of them, thoughts of their wives and children back home, the promise of land, and the wages Viserys had already given them kept their legs rooted to the ground.
"Hold steady! Stand firm! His Majesty is behind us! Even the Sword of the Morning fights by our side! Hold the line!"
Ock shouted encouragement as he moved along the ranks.
Even now, he didn't believe in Viserys's so-called training method. But now that they were on the battlefield, he wouldn't say anything to shake morale.
Jason looked at the black Targaryen banner flapping beside him in the wind.
He realized they had the wind at their backs—their arrows would fly farther.
Lately, something strange had begun to happen to Jason. In the monotony of daily bow training, a strange familiarity had taken root.
It felt like he had wielded this bow for four or five years already.
His thoughts wandered—until he noticed a thin man on the enemy side step forward. He had a scruffy yellow goatee that made him look like a mountain goat.
"This is our land! Targaryens aren't welcome here! Get out!" the man shouted.
Though thin, his voice boomed across the battlefield.
Viserys gave a quick glance to one of his guards.
This was the same young man who had once claimed to have a thunderous voice back at the Claw Isle.
The guard stepped forward, lifting a bronze trumpet he'd prepared long ago.
"Before you stands Viserys Targaryen the Third, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! He is your king! Any who stand in his way shall die!"
The boy's voice, though still slightly youthful, carried across the field.
The yellow-bearded man scoffed, placed his hands on his hips, and thrust his hips at the Targaryen banner in an obscene gesture.
Behind him, the mercenaries and bandits erupted into laughter and whistles.
There would be no diplomacy.
The battle had begun.
"Mister Redbeard, I believe we may begin," the goateed man said, turning to speak.
But Redbeard remained silent.
He didn't even look at the man—just stared at him with bloodshot eyes that looked like dirty ice.
The stare made the man's hair stand on end. He shivered and quickly looked away.
Only then did Redbeard draw his longsword with a satisfied grin.
"Draw bows!"
Over three hundred archers raised their weapons and took aim at the Targaryen army.
"Loose!"
The first volley rained down—over three hundred arrows scattered across the no-man's land between the armies.
Only a handful even reached Viserys's formation.
These mercenaries and bandits were no real archers. Even the finest bows from Pentos couldn't make up for their lack of skill.
In truth, Redbeard never expected much from them. He had only ordered the volley to gauge the distance between the armies.
On Viserys's side, the wounded were quickly pulled from the lines.
Then Ock gave his orders to the Settler Legion archers. Even now, his heart was pounding with doubt.
"Draw!"
A wave of creaking bowstrings filled the air, sharp enough to make one's teeth ache.
But before he could shout the command to fire, the enemy horns blared once again.
"Rip them apart!"
"Loose!" Ock screamed with everything he had, his voice cracking. As if shouting louder could make their arrows fly farther.
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