Wildfire bought Oswell a brief moment to breathe.
For two full days, the far bank did not launch any large-scale assaults. But Oswell knew very well that Tormo was probing his remaining supply of wildfire.
Once the enemy confirmed that his stock was running low, a full-scale attack would follow.
It would not be long now—at the latest the day after tomorrow, perhaps as early as tomorrow.
Still, he had already held the line at the Little Rhoyne for five days. Every additional second was pure profit.
If the earlier probing attacks had ended in neither victory nor defeat, then this assault could only be described as a crushing loss for the enemy.
Out of ten thousand Pentoshi soldiers, nearly two thousand were gone in less than half a day.
The entire force scarcely had any wounded to speak of.
Those who fell were either burned alive or drowned.
Braavos and Pentos were, after all, allies, and such heavy losses cast a dark shadow over both camps.
What frightened them most was the wildfire used by the Targaryens—it was simply too terrifying.
Freygo and Illyrio had both seen wildfire before, but none of it could compare to the quality produced under Viserys.
"Lord Tormo, we're still unsure how much wildfire they have left. We can't attack recklessly again," Illyrio said, his tone carrying a hint of pleading.
In normal times, they barely considered common soldiers as people, but now they had to rely on them.
If losses grew too severe, then even after taking Gohor, they would not have a seat at the table.
Tormo nodded, acknowledging the suggestion.
"I'll send people to investigate," he said. "But within three days at most, I want to break through the Little Rhoyne and march into Gohor."
As he spoke, Tormo slammed his fist down on the table. It was obvious that he was furious at being played.
His method of investigation was brutal and direct.
He added fifteen more forced-crossing points, further leveraging his numerical advantage.
None of the crossings were assigned too many troops, keeping the intensity of each attack relatively low.
And in the following skirmishes, Oswell never used wildfire again.
From this, Tormo keenly realized that Oswell's wildfire supply had likely been exhausted during the previous defense.
So, in an assault launched before dawn one morning, the allied forces finally broke through the Little Rhoyne's defenses.
Oswell, who had been watching the lines closely, knew the position could no longer be held and withdrew his troops back to the Vaghahar Wall.
Less than a day later, the Braavosi–Pentoshi army stood before the rammed-earth fortifications.
Tormo rode forward in his war chariot, stopping before the wall faced with blue bricks.
"So this is the Targaryen wall?" he said, looking at the crude structure with open disdain.
"How long have they even been in Gohor? Having a wall like this for a little peace of mind is already impressive."
Illyrio voiced a similar opinion.
Because Pentos was weak in field battles, their city walls were taller and thicker—among the nine Free Cities, they were arguably the most formidable.
"Lord Illyrio," Tormo said bluntly as he stared at the blue-green wall in the distance, "handle the transport of supplies and weapons from the rear. I'll take unified command of the army."
Braavos made up more than half of the allied forces. They had greater numbers, stronger troops, and therefore more authority.
Tormo had no intention of sharing the glory of taking Gohor and capturing the Targaryens.
But Illyrio could not simply hand over his troops to someone else.
Just as he was about to refuse, Tormo added, "Don't worry. I won't launch the assault until our stone-throwers have smashed their wall to pieces.
And your troops and the sellswords won't be pushed to the front line."
Though Tormo's words mocked the poor fighting ability of Pentos, they also eased Illyrio's mind.
If victory came at too great a cost, it would not be worth it. With that assurance, Illyrio was content to remain in the rear as the quartermaster.
At dawn the next day, rows of torches lit up the plains outside Gohor.
They looked like chains locking the city in place.
More than a hundred stone-throwers were deployed beyond the Vhagar Wall, soldiers standing in the cold wind, waiting for their commander's order.
"Gohor?" Tormo muttered as he looked at the wall in the darkness. "You'd be better off returning to rubble."
As the pale sun rose behind the wall, the entire battlefield came into view.
The blue-green wall stood to the east, while armies bearing purple banners camped to the west.
This was the direction of Tormo's main assault.
Other sectors were left to Pentos and the sellswords.
The long line of stone-throwers stretched for miles, like clenched fists ready to strike.
In their slings rested projectiles the size of several human heads, lying quietly like a nest of eggs.
"Order the stone-throwers to fire," Tormo said with confidence. "Smash the Targaryens' ridiculous wall to pieces."
As the command was passed down the line, voices echoed from near to far.
"Prepare to fire!"
"Prepare to fire!"
"Prepare to fire!"
The messengers' shouts blended together, sounding like an endless echo across the plains.
It was as if the land itself were answering Tormo's will.
In that moment, he felt like a god.
Boom, boom, boom!
The bombardment began.
Dense volleys of stones slammed into the wall with dull, thunderous impacts.
The fired blue bricks shattered like sugar cubes on contact.
As the pale projectiles struck, clouds of blue dust and debris exploded outward, forcing the defenders atop the wall to keep their heads down.
Before long, Tormo's engines had left the Vhagar Wall scarred and pitted. From afar, it looked like flesh eaten away by acid, ugly and mangled.
Yet despite the relentless barrage, the wall still stood.
"Hmph. They actually made it this thick," Tormo sneered.
The only true advantage of a rammed-earth wall was its low cost. Its core was nothing more than common soil.
From the day Viserys anticipated war with Braavos and Pentos, he had ordered the wall thickened to twice its original size.
Repeated victories had left him with countless prisoners, further reducing construction costs.
Tormo changed tactics.
Instead of bombarding the entire wall, he concentrated all the engines on a single section.
Under a storm of stones many times denser than before, a breach more than ten meters wide was finally torn open.
Tormo grinned as he looked at the gap in the wall.
"Advance."
At his side, a bodyguard swung the purple war banner.
Behind them, the army surged forward like a roaring purple river, flooding toward the breach.
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