Freygo's "Smiling Ship" sat on the water like an island at the heart of a lake.
Although it floated, the vessel remained remarkably steady—a testament to Braavosi shipbuilding skill.
Even though it was just a sightseeing vessel, its construction cost was five times that of an ordinary warship.
A furnace burned in the cabin, keeping it warm enough that even out on the water, the chill couldn't be felt. The heat was so comfortable it made one drowsy.
It was practically a floating palace.
As Quairo delivered his report, Freygo was genuinely surprised.
He hadn't expected Viserys to break through the Rhoynar's water-mist sorcery. Nor had he imagined Lothan would end up coming to him for aid.
With the Rhoynar deprived of their proudest advantage, the balance in Gohor had been broken. Freygo needed to rethink his strategy toward Viserys.
"What do you suppose this little Targaryen king is planning? Does he intend to swallow the Rhoynar in one bite?" Freygo asked with some excitement, like a man enjoying a spectacle.
"I saw the ambition in him, Your Grace," Quairo said faithfully. "He wants to take Gohor as quickly as possible."
"And do you think he'll succeed?"
Quairo didn't answer immediately.
Reason told him that establishing a stable domain in Gohor would be extremely difficult.
Two peoples lived there side by side, and when summer came, they'd face threats from the horsemen as well. The situation was already complex.
On top of that, Braavos and Pentos were both competing for influence in the region.
It was a whirlpool of blood and power. Fixing one's sights there was, to most, an unwise move.
But Viserys didn't follow conventional patterns.
Take that meeting over half a year ago—no one would have imagined that the Dragonstone army, numbering barely over ten thousand, with even fewer archers, would disguise those archers as farmers and bring them to Essos.
That kind of burn-the-ships determination was rare.
"I think it will be very difficult," Quairo said at last, stating the plain truth.
"Whenever a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin. Greatness or madness.
Had the Targaryens not lost the Iron Throne, Viserys might have been a great king, or at least a capable prince. But now…"
As Freygo spoke, he picked up a pair of tongs and stoked the fire in the furnace, making the flames burn brighter.
"To me, Gohor is like a furnace. Viserys is the flame. He wants to burn—not just inside the furnace, but hot enough to set my ship alight.
But we can't extinguish him, because I need him to keep the room warm.
It seems like the fire is working for me, but in truth, I'm making a bargain with the flame."
Quairo thought about Freygo's words, then asked, "So Your Grace means we should ignore the Rhoynar's plea for help?"
Freygo set the tongs down lightly and looked at him.
"Viserys is deliberately creating famine among the Rhoynar. This little fellow is no ordinary man."
Freygo had ruled Braavos for more than a decade; he could easily see through Viserys's stratagem.
But as Quairo listened, a chill crept down his spine. Instinctively, he touched his sword hilt as if to regain a sense of security.
To use hunger as a weapon—what kind of mind conceived such a cruel plan?
He distinctly remembered that the second Targaryen king, Maegor the Cruel, had died without heirs. Viserys, as the Mad King's son, should have displayed madness, not the shadow of Maegor's cold calculation.
"Unfortunately for him, the boy underestimates the power of hunger. Had his original plan gone through, with the Rhoynar's inferior arms and armor, he might have conquered Gohor within a year.
But neither we nor Pentos would ever allow that to happen."
Freygo spoke of Viserys's strategy with clear appreciation for the young king's cunning.
"Then Your Grace intends to send troops?" Quairo asked cautiously.
"No. It's not that we can't accept Viserys controlling Gohor. But he must pay a higher price and take much longer to do it."
Freygo explained that he would send Lothan a shipment of better arms and armor—four thousand suits and twenty thousand spears—to increase Rhoynar resistance and make Viserys bleed more heavily.
In essence, he wanted Gohor in the hands of a weakened power dependent on Braavos. Whether that power was the Rhoynar or the Targaryens didn't matter to him.
After speaking, Freygo leaned back into a comfortable position again.
If not for Pentos's geographical advantage, he would never have chosen to support the Rhoynar. Their internal unity made them hard to control.
This was the perfect opportunity to let both sides consume each other.
After all, the total number of people Viserys could bring from Westeros was around seventy to eighty thousand, including his ten-thousand-strong army.
In Gohor, the Rhoynar numbered fourteen to fifteen thousand more than that.
Trying to subjugate a population twice his own with limited forces would take years. Freygo didn't believe Viserys could do it quickly.
After listening to Freygo's analysis, Quairo felt uneasy.
He and Arthur were alike—both pure warriors.
Though this wasn't the first time he'd witnessed the ruthless and filthy games of power, it still disturbed him.
A swordsman could only kill so many in his lifetime. But kings and lords killed without lifting a blade.
One gesture, and entire populations suffered.
The Rhoynar's plea for help reached Freygo, and his reply came more than half a month later.
During that time, Terno could neither eat nor sleep well. He was restless, constantly longing to reclaim his people from Viserys.
Especially since the other elders were living in his manor, yet as the host, he was completely ignored.
He knew it was because he'd lost his water sorcerers and the bulk of his army.
Freygo's reply offered four thousand suits of armor and twenty thousand spears—but nothing about grain.
Lothan, as the High Elder, immediately understood Freygo's intent: he wanted the Rhoynar to throw themselves against Viserys.
But after forty years as High Elder, Lothan refused to see his people's blood spilled for someone else's scheme.
Terno, however, desperately wanted those weapons to arrive so he could arm the Rhoynar and attack Viserys, forcing him to return the population.
But with only a hundred or two unarmed soldiers under his command, his voice carried no weight.
"The little Targaryen king wants to create famine to make us surrender, but Freygo wants us to fight to the death!"
Tina, the only female elder, saw through both sides' intentions. In comparison, Viserys seemed almost lenient.
At least the little Targaryen king didn't want their lives—at least, not yet.
"Not for now. But if we swear fealty to that little king, do you think he won't one day send us to fight for his Iron Throne?"
Gafas adjusted his purple robe and spoke.
"Yes," Terno quickly agreed, trying to catch Gafas's eye. But Gafas ignored him completely.
"That's for later. If we don't make a choice soon, our people will either starve or die in battle," Tina said sharply.
She and Gafas had always clashed, but in that moment, she dismissed Terno entirely, treating him as if he were invisible. That humiliation made Terno's anger boil inside.
He turned to Lothan. No matter how fiercely the others argued, in the end, the decision would be his.
After studying Freygo's letter, Lothan spoke calmly.
"To go to war with Viserys now would be a gamble with everything we have. His soldiers and weapons are superior.
And with our water-mist sorcery gone, a rash war would bring nothing but bloodshed."
Seeing that Lothan had no intention of fighting Viserys, Terno panicked. He suddenly seemed to remember something and leapt up, his face alight with excitement.
"We can send that little king to Nasar to find Prince's Spear!"
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