Quairo Valentyn, representing Braavos, and Illyrio of Pentos arrived together at the Targaryen camp.
Along the way, they noticed that discipline within the camp was strict and orderly.
The soldiers all knew their roles.
Some of the Rhoynar soldiers, however, looked at them with open hostility, their gazes sharp enough to suggest they would gladly run them through with a spear.
Illyrio had once been an assassin, and Quairo was Freygo's chief swordsman. Targaryen soldiers were not enough to intimidate either of them.
"That little king really does have some ability," Illyrio remarked, perhaps to ease the atmosphere. "To absorb the Rhoynar so quickly and make them fight for him."
In Quairo's mind, the images of Freygo and Viserys appeared, locked in a silent contest across distance.
One sought to conquer the Rhoynar through hunger.
The other sought to weaken both Targaryens and Rhoynar by setting them against each other.
The games of kings were cruel and soaked in blood. For now, however, it seemed the stronger side—Freygo—held the advantage.
Together with Freygo's confidant Tormo, Quairo had brought fifty thousand troops from Braavos.
Added to Pentos's forces and three mercenary companies, their numbers reached seventy to eighty thousand men.
They were well supplied and well armed.
Crushing a small place like Gohor was only a matter of time.
What Quairo wanted most, though, was to see Arthur.
He had a premonition that the Targaryen king would not yield, and that this would be his only chance to cross blades with Arthur.
Before long, the two envoys were led by Targaryen soldiers into the command tent.
To their surprise, Viserys was not seated at the head of the tent, nor did Quairo see the Arthur he had been expecting.
Instead, a grim-faced commander sat in command, overseeing the entire defense of Gohor.
Both Quairo and Illyrio were puzzled. At such a critical moment, where had Viserys gone?
After announcing his identity, Quairo voiced Freygo's demand.
"Has Targaryen considered the conditions proposed by His Majesty the Sea Lord?"
His tone carried an edge of accusation. He spoke for Freygo and for Braavos, and he could not afford to lose ground in presence.
"Elder Lothan has sworn loyalty to King Viserys," Oswell replied. "As a king, how could His Majesty ever betray his own vassals?"
As he spoke, Oswell recalled the scene of Viserys's coronation on Dragonstone. 'When disaster falls, I will stand before you and bring you golden hope.'
He believed Viserys would return to Gohor with that hope.
Quairo felt little reaction to Oswell's refusal.
Illyrio, however, spoke up with a faintly mocking smile. "If a king will not sell out his vassals, then where is your king now?"
The provocation was obvious. It sounded as if Viserys had slipped away from Gohor under the excuse of self-preservation.
It was the same question Quairo wished to ask, so he remained silent.
"His Majesty trusts me and ordered me to hold Gohor," Oswell answered evenly. "And I trust His Majesty in return. If he has left, then he has his reasons."
Oswell would never reveal where Viserys had gone.
Doing so might prompt the enemy to launch an immediate attack.
Instead, he used these words to cover the truth, quietly demonstrating both loyalty and resolve.
Illyrio clicked his tongue.
Men like Oswell were beyond the understanding of someone who sold his blade for coin.
Still, they could guess that Viserys was absent because he was seeking outside help.
But where could that help come from?
The Golden Company?
Its founder, Bittersteel, had Targaryen blood—but that was generations ago.
Mercenaries fought for profit, and only when victory seemed possible. Gohor had no such odds.
And with the blood spilled between red and black, there was no chance the Golden Company would side with the Targaryens.
To apply further pressure, Illyrio looked coldly at Oswell.
"Ser Oswell, do you know how many men stand behind Pentos and Braavos?
Freygo has sent fifty thousand.
Pentos adds twenty thousand, and three mercenary companies besides. Gohor will face one hundred thousand soldiers.
Think carefully."
Oswell knew Braavos truly had fifty thousand men. But the cheese-monger was exaggerating.
Pentos had sent only eight thousand.
The three mercenary companies—the Maiden's Men, the Broken Banner, and the Windbreakers—brought the total to no more than seventy or eighty thousand.
Even so, it was terrifying.
A war of this scale would be remembered as an epic conflict.
Realizing his name would be written into the histories alongside it, Oswell felt far from confident.
Beside him, Elder Tina and Ock felt their hearts pound as they heard the numbers.
On the Targaryen side, they could field about twenty thousand trained soldiers, plus thirty to forty thousand hastily levied farmers—hardly reliable troops.
Braavos had even brought a thousand heavy cavalry and two thousand heavy infantry.
Siege engines, great crossbows, and stone-throwers accompanied them. And there were the war elephants they had seen not long ago.
Oswell knew those had been displayed deliberately, meant to intimidate.
"If His Majesty entrusted Gohor to me," Oswell said firmly, "then if you wish to take it, you will have to step over my corpse first."
"Hmph. Stubborn fool," Illyrio said, knowing the talks were over.
Whether the man who killed Varys was in Gohor or not would no longer matter. Once the army arrived and crushed the city, nothing would threaten him.
With negotiations broken, Illyrio turned to Quairo.
"Lord Valentyn, I believe it is time we leave."
Quairo did not move. Instead, he asked calmly, "Where is Ser Arthur? Did he leave together with King Viserys?"
Oswell neither confirmed nor denied it. He simply met Quairo's gaze in silence.
Arthur had lingered in Braavos for a time to protect Viserys, gaining fame for both his appearance and his skill.
Oswell would not say where Arthur was—whether he had gone with Viserys, or was hidden, waiting to strike when least expected.
Quairo knew he would get no answer. He inclined his head slightly and withdrew.
The moment Illyrio and Quairo left, Oswell began issuing orders.
"Elder Tina, the Goose-Down Hills to the northwest are yours. Do not let them slip around us."
"Yes."
"Understood."
"Ser Ock," Oswell continued, "you will take two thousand archers and one thousand cavalry. Guard the Upper Rhoyne approach."
"Understood, my lord!"
Though Oswell held no formal title, Viserys had declared his authority equal to that of a warden.
Rank and competence together gave him unquestioned command.
He personally took responsibility for the Lower Rhoyne. The river was wide and slow there—the most likely place for a brutal clash.
He trusted no one else with it.
"Listen well," Oswell said to all assembled. "Without my order, no one is to retreat into Gohor. Anyone who does will be treated as a deserter. I will execute him myself."
"Yes!"
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