The Ten-Day Festival had been a tradition of Braavos for hundreds of years.
As its name implied, the grand celebration lasted for ten full days.
And at every festival, the Sealord of Braavos was required to appear in person.
Freygo would ride upon his famed Smiling Ship, sailing in a magnificent procession across the lagoon.
Of course, the preparations were endlessly troublesome. Freygo disliked them, yet he had no choice.
It was part of his duty as Sealord.
Inside the dressing chamber, two newly assigned handmaidens were helping him change clothes.
According to their strict training, a handmaiden assisting the Sealord must never exhale toward him.
A single breath accidentally touching the Sealord could have them expelled from the palace instantly.
Thus the girls moved with extreme caution.
These days, Freygo was clearly distracted.
Though their intelligence suggested Viserys's forces could not exceed ten thousand at most, Freygo had spent a fortune arming the Rhoynar.
Their numbers exceeded thirty thousand even in the worst estimates.
Add the mercenaries of the Courage Company, and it was impossible for Viserys to achieve another sweeping victory like before.
Freygo fully expected a brutal battle at Gohor.
Viserys and Lothan together would surely lose thousands.
So he had been waiting anxiously for news from Gohor.
Suddenly, Freygo felt something wrong with the fit of his clothes, as if a measurement had been done incorrectly.
He shifted slightly and looked down, meeting the eyes of the handmaiden fastening his buttons.
"I am sorry, Your Grace, I fastened the button wrong—"
Freygo raised his head impatiently, signaling her to fix it quickly.
But the girl, nervous over her mistake, fumbled.
Her hands trembled, and she even forgot to control her breathing. The sharp, uneven sound of her breaths irritated Freygo.
At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded from outside.
"Your Grace, a letter from Gohor."
Quairo entered, holding a sealed message.
"Read it," Freygo said flatly.
Quairo opened it, but the contents left him speechless for a moment.
"Your Grace… Lothan has been defeated. Viserys has won."
Freygo frowned. He had expected Viserys and the Rhoynar to maul each other. Still, he accepted the outcome swiftly enough.
Viserys's troops were more formidable than he had assumed.
But the situation was far from hopeless.
The Rhoynar had scattered resistance forces everywhere—over forty thousand people. Even if they were pigs, Viserys would need half a month to catch them all.
Especially Lothan. Freygo knew him well.
A man devoted to restoring Rhoynar civilization would never accept defeat—least of all at the hands of a Valyrian.
As long as the Rhoynar continued resisting, Freygo could arrange for them to join forces with pirates along the Rhoyne, continually harassing Viserys.
At the very least, they could keep Gohor from producing enough grain to feed itself.
And if Viserys could not bring his fleet into the Rhoyne, Freygo could seize control of the upper river routes.
The process was troublesome, yes, but it still aligned with his original plan—weakening both the Targaryens and the Rhoynar.
"What are their casualties?" Freygo asked.
Quairo hesitated. "The letter does not say, but… it states that Lothan not only lost, he surrendered."
"What!"
"Ah!"
The sudden fury in Freygo's voice startled the handmaiden fastening his buttons. He kicked her aside and strode toward Quairo, snatching the letter from his hands.
His breathing grew rough as he scanned the contents—an unmistakable sign of his rage.
"The Brave Companions were annihilated!"
Even a slow-witted man would sense something amiss at that point.
Viserys had fought with fewer troops. Achieving a rout was already impressive.
Annihilating an entire mercenary army was something only superior numbers could do.
Viserys could not have destroyed the Courage Company alone. Lothan lacked cavalry; he could not have done it alone either.
But together?
And then there was the statement that Lothan had surrendered, and that Viserys still recognized him as High Elder.
No idiot could fail to understand.
Viserys and Lothan had tricked him.
For a moment, dizziness washed over Freygo. The heat of the hearth felt suffocating.
Since Viserys arrived in Gohor, Freygo had sent him hundreds of thousands of gold dragons in support.
He had even persuaded the nobles to provide Viserys with cheap supplies.
He had purchased piles of broken ships at outrageous prices.
What had been a clever ploy—setting tiger against wolf—had ended with wolf and tiger joining forces to deceive him.
Freygo could already picture a unified Gohor dominating the Valyrian Road, the Upper Rhoyne, Little Rhoyne, and the upper tributaries—while Viserys sat behind his earthen walls, getting fat from river tolls.
"No. Absolutely not!"
He turned to Quairo.
"Bring me Tormo and the others!"
Anyone else might have swallowed the humiliation.
After all, when he sent Viserys off to begin his campaign, he had said, "May you bring peace and prosperity to the people of Gohor."
And now that Viserys had done exactly that, Freygo was furious.
He refused to accept such a loss.
Once his confidants arrived, he spoke bluntly—he wanted Viserys to return everything he had gained.
"But on what grounds? If we push the Targaryen too hard and he allies with Pentos, what then?"
Someone immediately objected.
To some, attacking Gohor was entirely unprofitable. They felt it was time to reassess their relationship with the Targaryen king.
"Is it so hard to find a reason?" Tormo said calmly. "Say that Lothan owes the Iron Bank a vast sum. He must hand over Lothan or pay the debt."
It was a vicious move—pressing Viserys from both sides.
By acknowledging Lothan as High Elder, Viserys had shown his intention to ally with the Rhoynar and secure their loyalty.
Now they would force him into a dilemma.
Pay the debt, and he would suffer a heavy financial blow. Hand over Lothan, and his rule would be shaken.
Refuse both, and there would be war.
And Braavos's military strength surpassed that of the Targaryens. Tormo believed Viserys would have to choose between the first two options.
Freygo nodded and turned to Quairo.
"Write to the little Targaryen king and let him decide for himself. And inform Pentos as well. Tell them to prepare for war.
Gohor will be ours sooner or later."
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