Based on the attacks of the past two days, the weak points in the Targaryen defenses are mainly here, here, and here.
Because Pentos was the weaker party within the allied army, Illyrio took on the role of "explainer."
He turned to look at Tormo, who was leaning back in his chair deep in thought, and asked, "Lord Tormo, how do you think we should arrange the next phase of the attack?"
Tormo did not even glance at him before replying, "Our army has been attacking for three days now, yet Viserys has still not shown himself.
He may have left Gohor even earlier than we thought. Where exactly did this little king go?"
Tormo enjoyed studying people.
As commander of the allied forces, he liked to analyze his opponents as much as his own troops.
Back in Braavos, he had already begun researching Viserys through various channels.
This young king had shown nothing particularly remarkable in his earlier years.
On the contrary, his brother Rhaegar had seemed the more popular heir.
What truly baffled people was that, before leaving the Red Keep, Viserys had exposed Pycelle as a spy.
After that, he had personally gone to Braavos to negotiate with Freygo. Upon arriving in Gohor, he had then played a clever game of misdirection.
The so-called two thousand farmers had turned out to be two thousand elite archers.
As for how he had won the loyalty of the Rhoynar, and more importantly how he had persuaded Elder Lothan, there were still no clear answers.
But one thing was certain: this was an opponent whose methods were almost frighteningly seasoned.
Tormo could not allow him to grow any further.
Otherwise, he would become a tremendous threat to Braavos.
That said, with fifty thousand troops of his own, plus the forces of Pentos and several sellsword companies, Gohor was nothing more than a tiny speck.
Illyrio seemed to sense his concern and bared his thick lips in a grin. "Lord Tormo, I don't think this is something we need to worry about.
We've already identified the best landing sites. Once we take Gohor in a single decisive blow, it won't matter where that little king has gone."
Tormo nodded slightly. In truth, he agreed with Illyrio.
Yet his instincts told him that Viserys had not left Gohor without reason.
He was certainly plotting something.
"Tomorrow we increase the intensity of the assault," Tormo said calmly. "The Pentoshi troops will lead the first wave."
Illyrio froze for a moment when he heard this arrangement.
If the attack was to intensify, the fighting would inevitably become far more brutal. Heavy losses on their side were almost guaranteed.
But command was in Tormo's hands now, and Illyrio could only accept it.
Moreover, during the probing attacks so far, it had largely been the Braavosi troops bearing the brunt of the fighting.
Now it was Pentos's turn to contribute, and Illyrio could hardly object.
After Illyrio left, Quairo stepped forward and said, "Lord Tormo, the combat effectiveness of the Pentoshi troops is extremely poor. They may not achieve any real breakthrough tomorrow."
Quairo's concern was well founded.
The Pentoshi army was made up largely of "debtors."
The merchant princes provided them with only the most basic rations, and even that was often insufficient.
Corruption was rampant. Some soldiers' armor was barely half as thick as standard issue, and in some cases so thin it could be bent by hand.
It offered little protection and even less real combat value.
As Freygo's chief swordsman, Quairo commanded respect wherever he went in Braavos.
Tormo replied evenly, "I know. I'm not expecting the Pentoshi to achieve any meaningful results.
They're just there to wear down the Targaryen arrows and stone ammunition.
Once they've been sufficiently bled, our own troops will move in."
Quairo once again felt the cold ruthlessness of those who played the game of thrones.
But he said nothing. After all, Tormo was acting in the interest of his own army.
As for the Pentoshi soldiers who would die, they could curse their greedy magistrates in the afterlife.
The next day, more than ten thousand Pentoshi troops launched an assault on seven predetermined landing points.
Dense clusters of bamboo rafts filled the river, as if they meant to choke the waterway entirely.
The moment Oswell saw this formation, he understood that the enemy had begun their true offensive.
Standing on high ground, he raised his spyglass to observe the attackers, only to find that this army's bearing was remarkably poor.
"Ser, the arrows and stone ammunition are ready. We can counterattack at any moment," Jorel reported.
Oswell lowered the spyglass and fell into deep thought.
He remembered Oberyn's constant complaints whenever he returned from Pentos, saying their soldiers were nothing but beggars and scoundrels.
Their overall quality was even worse than that of sellswords.
Oswell realized that the troops attacking him today were indeed Pentoshi.
"Braavos is the real driving force in this war," he thought. "They know very well how weak the Pentoshi are."
Watching the Pentoshi army draw closer, Oswell reached a decision.
"Go," he ordered. "Bring up the wildfire His Majesty left behind. The other sectors can simply drive the enemy back. Use the wildfire to focus on one main attack route."
"Yes, sir!"
Clay-sealed jars of wildfire, prepared long ago, were hauled forward.
Soldiers poured the green liquid over stones and arrowheads.
Dozens of catapults and a thousand archers aimed at the most densely packed column of Pentoshi troops.
"Catapults, fire!"
"Archers, fire!"
Countless green fireballs arced through the sky.
Burning arrows struck the Pentoshi rafts. Some soldiers tried desperately to extinguish the green flames clinging to the shafts.
They quickly discovered that the fire could not be put out and instead spread onto their own bodies.
Ignited soldiers screamed and leapt into the water, while others could only watch helplessly as the rafts burned beneath their feet.
Soon, walls of green and orange flame blocked their advance.
The Pentoshi troops caught in the wildfire frantically tried to row their rafts back.
If they drifted into the deepest, fastest part of the river, death was certain.
Seeing the attackers retreat in defiance of orders, Tormo immediately commanded his archers to fire and drive them forward again.
Advance, and they might live. Retreat, and they would surely die.
Forced to turn back, the Pentoshi soldiers suddenly noticed that the other assault groups were retreating as well.
Targaryen troops armed with wildfire were already waiting on the far bank.
With the fate of the others clear before their eyes, none of the Pentoshi soldiers were willing to continue. They turned back without ever setting foot on the opposite shore.
Even after Freygo personally ordered the execution of two or three hundred men, he could not stop the rout.
He knew the day's assault was a complete failure. More importantly, he had no idea how much wildfire the Targaryens still possessed.
That uncertainty would cast a long shadow over every attack to come.
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