Malaqo's eyes burned with fury.
He had never imagined that someone in this world could be so shameless. He swore that once he caught Viserys, he would sell him to Yunkai.
The slavers there were infamous for training bed slaves.
'Boy, I'll make you just like that Viserys the Third!'
"My lord, the Targaryen fleet is just ahead," Alios reminded him from his side.
In truth, Alios had never wanted to take part in this pursuit.
He had witnessed that escape with his own eyes, something that looked no different from a miracle.
It was as if the Rhoyne itself had lifted the Targaryen fleet upon its waters.
He feared that something equally unnatural might happen again along the way. After all, the fleet belonged to the city, but his life belonged to himself.
"Order the Tiger Cloaks to—" Malaqo had not finished speaking when a north wind suddenly rose.
It blew straight against their direction of travel.
Sails could harness the wind, but they were also bound by it.
Feeling as though even the heavens were aiding Viserys, Malaqo grew even more enraged.
He yanked a sword from a guard's belt and slashed through the ropes controlling the sails.
The dark sails fell like discarded garments, exposing bare masts.
"Row!" he roared. "If you can't catch the Targaryen fleet, I'll hang every last one of you when we return!"
Old and gaunt, Malaqo leapt about the deck like a maddened monkey, raging uncontrollably.
Aboard the fleeing ships, Viserys had also noticed the pursuing fleet. Under the push of the north wind, both sides were now evenly matched.
Driven by Malaqo's threats, the Volantene ships began to accelerate.
But soon their speed dropped sharply.
Their anchors had somehow become entangled with clusters of crabs and turtles, greatly slowing them down.
"What's happening? Why are we slowing?" Malaqo shouted.
"My lord, it's bone-crushers! Bone-crushers are ramming our ships!"
No matter how furious he was, the cold north wind forced Malaqo back to clarity.
Watching the Targaryen fleet grow more distant, he knew that Volantis had lost its title as Mistress of the Rhoyne.
Days earlier.
When Viserys's fleet was still stranded in the harbor of Volantis, the armies of Braavos and Pentos had already reached the banks of the Little Rhoyne.
Braavos's fifty thousand soldiers arrived by warship at the port of Pentos.
After joining forces, the combined army reached the Little Rhoyne in just two days.
A deep, resonant cry echoed across the plain, the call of war elephants. Through his spyglass, Oswell could see elephants wading into the river.
Their massive legs shattered the ice, long trunks plunging into the water. Hundreds of elephants drank at the river as if they meant to drain it dry.
He could also make out trebuchets and massive scorpions in the distance.
The enormous siege engines looked like a giant's clenched fists, poised to strike.
They were clearly the work of Braavos. Those machines were practically designed to counter Gohor's rammed-earth walls.
The battle formations stood at the front, supply trains stretching behind.
The Targaryen forces and the allied army faced each other across the river.
The dark mass of troops pressed down on Oswell's heart like a mountain. Never before had so many people gathered near the Little Rhoyne.
On the far bank stood the allied forces of Braavos and Pentos.
After rejecting Freygo's terms, Braavos had dispatched fleets to transport tens of thousands of soldiers, joining Pentos to apply pressure on Gohor.
Their camps stretched for more than ten leagues, disappearing beyond the horizon.
It placed enormous psychological strain on Oswell's side.
As the commander left behind, he had no choice but to ride along the riverbank, bolstering morale.
Since the two armies had taken positions, Oswell had been constantly moving between camps, coordinating deployments.
Aside from eating and sleeping, he spent nearly all his time on horseback.
After finishing another day of inspections, Oswell felt the inside of his thighs chafed raw.
The red sun sank low, as if it no longer had the strength to drive away the world's darkness and cold.
He glanced at the soldiers around him, their expressions stern but clearly exhausted, and prepared to return to camp.
Just as he was about to reach his command tent, Maester Faelor appeared seemingly from nowhere.
"Ser, this is our current supply situation."
Now that the Rhoynar had submitted to the Targaryens, all supplies were managed together.
Oswell took the list and first checked the most critical item: food.
Under the earlier coordination of Ser Adrian Celtigar, the Old Crab, their grain stores had barely been enough to last until the next harvest.
But with the sudden addition of more than a hundred thousand Rhoynar and the outbreak of war, shortages had clearly emerged.
If the war could not be resolved within three months, Gohor would be in grave danger.
Fortunately, food was not an immediate concern.
Oberyn had made a trip to Pentos and, taking advantage of timing, secured a large amount of grain.
Next came arms.
After mixing Targaryen troops with the Rhoynar, their army now numbered close to twenty thousand.
They had roughly the same number of suits of armor, with spears as their primary weapons.
But such equipment could not withstand heavy attrition.
They possessed only about a hundred thousand spears, which would be quickly consumed in several hard-fought battles.
"Ser," Faelor said cautiously, "if His Grace cannot return in time, we may need to consider withdrawing behind the walls of Vhagar.
At least then we can organize the women and children to help defend the city."
Oswell nodded. "Leave that to you and Maester Xavier."
"Yes, Ser."
Defending a city required massive quantities of arrows, logs, and other expendables.
Inside the walls of Vhagar, work continued day and night.
Some civilian buildings still under construction were torn down, their bricks and materials hauled up to the ramparts.
At that moment, Jorel arrived with several attendants.
She could clearly see that the knight from Westeros had grown noticeably thinner.
"Ser, envoys from Braavos and Pentos request an audience."
Oswell knew this was their final warning. If he continued to refuse, smoke and fire would soon follow.
He turned and glanced at the sun, now nearly vanished beyond the horizon, then looked south.
For an instant, he thought he saw Rhaegar's figure.
'When I return, I'll begin handling the affairs of state.' That was what Rhaegar had said when he left the Tower of Joy.
'When I return, Gohor will be safe.' That was what Viserys had said when he departed.
In a daze, time seemed to roll back two years.
"No. His Grace is a dream-walker. He will return safely with the fleet. And Arthur is with him."
Oswell steeled himself, nodded, and said firmly:
"Very well. Let's go meet them."
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