The mercenaries in the rear began shoving those in front of them, as if something terrifying were closing in from behind.
The pushing quickly turned into a stampede.
Standing atop a mound of earth, Oswell caught sight of a familiar figure.
White cloak. Silver armor.
Just like his own.
That man swung his unmistakable greatsword, tearing through the enemy formation as if plowing a field, advancing with frightening speed.
Arthur!
The moment Oswell realized Arthur had returned, he felt strength flood back into his body.
He shouted to the soldiers behind him,
"The king's reinforcements are here! All troops—advance!"
Hearing their commander's order and rallying cry, the soldiers' morale surged.
They had been trapped in Gohor for more than half a month, feeling as though they were being boiled alive in a cauldron of oil.
Every moment had been agony.
Worst of all, they could barely see any hope of victory.
Now, with the light of hope finally shining upon them, they were more than willing to expend their very last ounce of strength.
By contrast, the mercenaries had little capacity for prolonged fighting.
In front of them stood defenders who would not retreat even unto death.
Behind them came relentless pursuers.
Caught between hammer and anvil, the mercenaries quickly lost all desire to keep fighting.
Arthur, in particular, was like the Warrior of the Seven reborn—no one could survive even a single exchange against him.
His two-handed greatsword was scarcely inferior to the scythe of death itself.
A small number of men surrendered. Most fled.
At last, Oswell and Arthur were able to regroup.
When the two saw each other, it was as if brothers who had passed through life and death had reunited.
"Is His Grace safe?" Oswell immediately asked about Viserys.
"The king brought our fleet back. Look!"
The two men stood atop the battered battlements and gazed eastward, toward the Upper Rhoyne.
Dozens of warships lay anchored there, soldiers disembarking and forming up without pause.
Oswell counted roughly and estimated thirty to forty ships.
That seemed reasonable enough.
Thirty or forty ships meant perhaps six or seven thousand troops.
Though they were still at a numerical disadvantage, the city had not fallen, and with the fleet, Viserys could strike at the enemy.
"Arthur, why don't the ships have sails?" Oswell asked, puzzled by the bare masts.
"It's a long story. I'll explain later. Right now, His Grace has taken the remaining ships to the Little Rhoyne."
"The remaining ships?" Oswell could not hide his surprise. "You brought back more than these?"
"Ninety-six main warships. We brought them all back."
"Ninety-six!"
Oswell's eyes widened. He looked westward toward the Little Rhoyne.
With that fleet, the balance of victory had completely shifted.
They could sever the enemy's supply lines by water.
With warships controlling both the Little Rhoyne and the Upper Rhoyne, the Braavosi and Pentoshi would not even be able to drink the river's water.
Their defeat would come in at most a week.
With Viserys returning with the fleet, the outcome of this war was no longer in doubt.
On the walls, Targaryen soldiers who had been barely holding on saw the enemy withdraw like a receding tide, and disbelief spread across their faces.
Lyanna rushed to Jona's side and shouted,
"What's going on? Are they retreating?"
"I don't know," Jona replied.
From the banners, she could tell that those withdrawing were Pentoshi.
She desperately wanted to go see Oswell, but as long as the enemy had not fully withdrawn, leaving her post would be no different from desertion.
The same confusion spread along the other sections of the wall.
Ock drove his notched blade into the ground and leaned on the hilt, gasping for breath.
He had been on the verge of collapse himself.
He had even thought that at least he had enjoyed being a count for a month—worth the price—though it was a pity he had not married a noblewoman to continue his line.
But the enemy's sudden retreat gave him hope of survival.
Elisa felt the same.
She had already begun to miss the regular, quiet life on the Wall, but when she saw the enemy pull back, she silently cheered Viserys' name once more.
At that moment, a mounted messenger galloped along the wall, shouting at the top of his lungs,
"His Grace has returned with reinforcements! His Grace has returned with reinforcements!"
"Our fleet is back! Our fleet is back!"
Ock had the rider stopped and called him over.
"Is it true? Did His Grace bring the fleet back?"
"Yes!" the messenger replied. "More than a hundred warships! His Grace has already taken control of the Little Rhoyne. The Pentoshi and Braavosi are finished!"
The exaggeration was deliberate—at Oswell's instruction.
After all, nothing lifted morale like good news, and numbers could always grow a little larger in the telling.
Hearing this, the soldiers around them broke into grins.
They all understood what it meant for Viserys to control the Little Rhoyne.
The Braavosi–Pentoshi coalition had become fish in a jar.
They could shut the gates and beat the dogs.
Without supplies, even the strongest army could not keep fighting.
Those seventy or eighty thousand men were nothing more than lambs waiting for slaughter.
But what would Tormo do once his supply lines were cut? Lead his army in an attempt to retake them?
He would be facing the Little Rhoyne and a full fleet.
That would be a dead end—throwing sixty or seventy thousand men into it would still achieve nothing.
If he refused to accept defeat, he had only one option left.
Realizing this, Ock barked orders to his subordinates,
"Women, children, elders—anyone who can move, get them moving! Reinforce the walls and man the battlements! Now!"
In truth, Ock's judgment was somewhat off.
A seasoned commander would not launch an attack under such circumstances.
Once soldiers realized their supply line had been severed, morale would collapse.
The defenders' spirits would soar, making success unlikely and wasting precious resources.
Moreover, the defenders could still retreat to the Balerion Wall.
"Warships? Where did these warships come from?!"
Tormo, directing the siege from his chariot, felt as if someone had smashed the back of his head with a club when scouts reported a fleet on the Little Rhoyne.
"My lord, they're warships—not merchantmen, not fishing boats or rafts. Warships. With rams!"
At this point, even Quairo abandoned all pretense of etiquette.
Their real problem was that sixty to seventy thousand men were now trapped at Gohor by the Targaryens.
With the Little Rhoyne controlled, their supply line was severed. And a severed supply line meant their lives were in someone else's hands.
Perhaps the soldiers he had brought from Braavos could still fight.
But the mercenaries—and the Pentoshi troops who were worse than mercenaries—
Expecting them to keep fighting was less realistic than hoping the Targaryens would open the gates and surrender.
Tormo no longer cared about the siege.
He shouted at the attendants and guards around him,
"Withdraw! Full retreat!"
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