Inside the command tent, the air was thick with the bitter scent of herbs.
A Rhoynar physician was preparing to treat Oswell's arrow wound.
"My lord, drink some milk of the poppy," the healer urged.
"No. There's no need. Be quick," Oswell replied.
The fighting was growing fiercer by the hour, and Oswell knew he had to keep his mind clear.
Seeing his resolve, the Rhoynar physician said nothing more, though a quiet respect rose in his heart.
A cold, narrow blade cut into Oswell's flesh. The muscle beneath twitched violently, proof of how much pain the commander was enduring.
Beside him, Jona's eyes reddened.
Oswell had been wounded while covering her.
At the time, dozens of arrows had rained down. If not for this taciturn commander stepping in front of her, she would likely have died atop the wall.
Oswell believed it had been worth it.
During the siege, Tormo once again displayed his talent for exploiting human weakness.
Along the Vhagar Wall, the distribution of troops had not been even. Some sections were manned entirely by Rhoynar soldiers, others only by Westerosi.
Tormo deliberately intensified attacks against the Rhoynar-held sections, attempting to fracture the defenders from within.
His plan had nearly worked.
Despite receiving orders, the original Targaryen troops were often slow to respond when their Rhoynar allies called for aid. This inevitably bred resentment.
More than once, Braavosi and Pentoshi forces had nearly broken through the Vhagar Wall.
But Oswell's near-fatal act of protecting Jona quickly spread through the army.
Both sides set aside their grievances, thwarted Tormo's scheme, and once again repelled the assault.
"We've held for seven days now," Oswell said to the officers around him. "Trust His Grace. He'll return soon."
Ock, Elder Tina, Jona, and Lyanna merely nodded. Their responses were subdued.
For nearly half a month, Oswell had repeated these words countless times to steady morale.
Yet the journey from Gohor to Volantis and back by ship should have taken no more than ten days.
Now more than a month had passed, and there was still no word from Viserys. Even Oswell himself had begun to worry whether the king would truly return.
'When I come back, I'll take charge of the realm.'
'When I return with the fleet, Gohor will be safe.'
Once again, Oswell saw the brothers' final words before their departure.
Just as the physician reached for bandages, a mud-streaked messenger burst into the tent.
"My lord! The enemy is attacking again!"
Oswell shot to his feet, licking the blood from his lips.
"Armor me."
"My lord, your wound isn't bandaged yet!"
"Armor me."
Oswell didn't even look at the physician. The attendants rushed forward with his armor.
Jona stepped in at once, snatching the silk bandages from the healer's hands.
"It'll be quick, very quick," she said softly, her slender fingers moving with surprising speed.
In the blink of an eye, the wound was tightly wrapped.
Oswell looked at the young woman tending him, something stirring briefly in his heart.
But such thoughts were forbidden to a Kingsguard.
He forced them away.
Two more days, he thought. Just two more days. Then everyone would withdraw behind the Balerion Wall.
The Balerion Wall was not yet complete, but it could still hold.
Perhaps four or five more days.
Once they retreated there, there would be no further escape—only a fight to the death.
The attendants finished fastening his armor. Oswell clenched his teeth and rolled his injured shoulder, then forced a light tone into his voice.
"Arrows from the Free Cities don't have much bite."
With that, he stepped out of the tent.
The physician glanced at the arrowhead on the tray, bits of torn flesh still clinging to it, and said nothing.
The moment Oswell emerged, he saw a signal fire blazing to the south.
The reserve force that had once numbered two thousand was now reduced to fewer than twelve hundred.
With no choice left, he led them toward the southern wall.
The commander's reappearance lifted spirits along the battlements.
Below, Braavosi stone-throwers and heavy crossbows were unleashing a relentless barrage.
The brick facing of the wall was shattered, exposing the yellow earth beneath.
A massive stone slammed into the wall with a dull boom, carving out a deep crater.
For days now, the Braavosi had been attacking like this. Nearly a hundred meters of the eastern wall had already been destroyed.
After almost an hour of bombardment, a large breach opened not far from Oswell.
The Pentoshi sent the Maiden's Company charging through.
Oswell led the reserves to plug the gap, driving them back after brutal fighting.
"Seal it! Block the breach now!" he roared.
But before the order could be fully carried out, smoke rose again to the north—another call for aid.
Oswell turned to move, only for Lyanna to appear at his side.
"My lord! The enemy has broken through in the east!"
"What?!"
Oswell's eyes widened.
Two fronts now demanded his attention. Exhaustion clawed at him as he weighed the choices.
Ock held the northern sector. He should be able to hold a little longer.
Oswell made his decision and rushed east.
But when he arrived, two sellsword companies were already pouring through the breach.
Oswell drew his notched sword, ready to fight, when a messenger ran up beside him.
"My lord! Ser Ock requests immediate reinforcements!"
"Tell him to hold!" Oswell snapped. "His Grace made him a count to fight, not to beg for help!"
For once, the usually silent Oswell could no longer keep his voice down.
He was already considering a full withdrawal to the unfinished Balerion Wall.
The only reason he had delayed the retreat was to give the troops hope—to let them believe there was still somewhere to fall back to, so they would not surrender.
Now the enemy sellswords had formed ranks, preparing for a head-on clash.
Behind Oswell, his soldiers were on the edge of complete exhaustion.
"All of you, listen!" Oswell shouted. "Push them back! Push them back, and then we fall back to the Balerion Wall!"
The words steadied the men. Their eyes hardened as they faced the enemy.
Just as both sides braced for a brutal fight, a sudden disturbance rippled through the sellsword ranks ahead.
The unrest spread quickly, turning into shoving and panic—as if something monstrous had appeared behind them, something that devoured men whole.
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