A shrill military whistle tore through the darkening sky.
The black-armored army moved swiftly, forming a wall of steel. Arms braced behind shields, long spears angled upward.
The Targaryen soldiers stared coldly at the roaring Dothraki host ahead of them.
The horse lords waved severed heads of civilians upon their curved blades, trying to provoke the soldiers into anger.
"This is already the fourth assault, Your Grace."
Jon Connington approached Rhaella and delivered his report.
Rhaella nodded. Her face remained expressionless, but the struggle inside her heart was unbearable.
Ogo had captured at least twenty to thirty thousand civilians along the way.
Even that number had been reduced because Viserys had already sent people ahead of time to gather and evacuate as many villagers as possible.
The cruel khal slaughtered civilians before every assault to stir the courage of his riders.
Then he drove another group forward as living shields.
At the beginning, Rhaella had discussed with Connington whether they could open small gaps in the formation to allow some civilians to escape.
But during the second assault, Ogo had hidden warriors among the civilians, trying to create and widen breaches in the Targaryen lines.
The result had been unnecessary casualties among their soldiers.
By the third assault, Rhaella had been forced to set aside her compassion.
She personally ordered the soldiers to treat everyone the same. Anyone who rushed the formation would be killed without exception.
Now Ogo still held nearly ten thousand civilians.
He planned to send them all forward in a single wave to crash against the Targaryen line.
This time the number was enormous.
Even Connington felt his resolve waver slightly.
At that moment, Gorys—who had been standing outside the tent—stepped forward and requested permission to act.
"Your Grace, perhaps we can send a cavalry unit between the civilians and the Dothraki army.
Let the women and children pass through while killing the men. It will not be perfect, but many people could survive."
After hearing his suggestion, Rhaella looked toward Connington.
In truth, Connington had thought of the same plan. The problem was deciding who would carry it out.
The Dothraki were terrifying horsemen.
The mission would be extremely dangerous and the results difficult to measure as military merit.
Seeing that Gorys had volunteered, Connington asked quietly, "Are you willing to lead the men yourself?"
"Yes. I am."
Gorys answered firmly.
During the fighting over the past two days, he thought he had seen people dressed like fishermen among the captives.
Worried about the village girl he had once met, he had come up with this idea.
Rhaella studied him for a moment. "You are from the Claw Isle Peninsula, correct?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Very well. I leave it to you. Withdraw the moment the situation becomes dangerous."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the battlefield, Ogo frowned at his curved blade.
"These Targaryen armors are too hard."
Tiny cracks had already appeared along the edge of his weapon.
In the past few days he had lost nearly three thousand warriors. Yet the iron wall of Targaryen soldiers had not moved an inch.
The frustration gnawed at him.
For the first time, he even felt a trace of regret that he had not followed Drogo north.
"Fogo," he ordered, "tell those sheep that if they want to live, they must push open the Targaryen line tomorrow."
"Yes, father."
Fogo rode with several riders to the civilian camp.
Calling it a camp was generous.
These people were treated as expendable tools. They received no supplies. They survived only by scavenging scraps of food.
Fogo wrinkled his nose as he entered. "This place smells worse than a sheep pen."
Then he noticed a few half-grown boys staring at him with burning hatred.
He walked toward them.
"What are you looking at?"
The boy lived close enough to the Dothraki quarters to understand some of their language.
He spat at Fogo and shouted defiantly. "King Viserys's army will crush you sooner or later! They will avenge us!"
"Yes! King Viserys has dragons! Dragonfire will burn you to ashes!"
"You're the ones who will die!"
When people fell into complete despair, they sometimes found the courage to resist.
Before today, Fogo had wandered through the camp as if strolling through his own sheepfold.
But now a group of "sheep" dared to challenge him.
For a moment he was startled.
Then he looked at the gleaming blade in his hand. His fear turned into furious rage.
With one swing, he slashed across the boy's face.
Blood sprayed across the air.
"Then I'll start by killing you!"
"Kill them!"
Fogo gestured with his blade.
Dozens of Dothraki warriors began slaughtering the civilians.
Cries, screams, curses, and wails filled the air. The smell of blood, sweat, filth, and fear blended into one suffocating stench.
After killing several hundred people, Fogo turned to the survivors.
His eyes burned red with fury. "If you want to live, then tomorrow you will break open Viserys's army."
"If you fail… all of you die."
Breathing heavily, Fogo left the camp behind him. The ground was covered with bodies and spreading pools of blood.
When he was gone, sobbing and bitter complaints filled the camp.
"Why… why must the wars of kings involve us?"
"I heard the Dothraki khal wanted to marry Viserys's sister, but the king refused. That's why this war started! It's all Viserys's fault!"
In despair, many people no longer cared what they said. They only wanted to release their anger.
For many of them, this night felt like their final one.
Ahead of them stood an iron wall of soldiers. Behind them waited the wolf-like Dothraki.
Those who still had family clung to each other for comfort.
Among the survivors was the fisherman's family that had once met Gorys.
The old village chief had smeared mud and dried blood over his son and daughter to make them look diseased.
Because of that disguise, the Dothraki had not bothered them.
Now the old man deeply regretted his decision.
He should have followed Gorys' advice and fled earlier. Instead, he had stayed behind to gather more fish.
"Viserys is actually a good king," the old man whispered to his children.
"If you survive… go to Gohor."
The brother and sister looked at their father helplessly. They had already shed too many tears on the road here.
Just then, a large group of Dothraki riders entered the camp.
The moment they arrived, they looked over the civilians like butchers examining livestock.
One of the riders grabbed a Rhoynar man wearing a brown shirt.
The man was hauled upright.
Everyone behind him scrambled away in terror.
The Dothraki punched the man and ripped the clothes from his body.
Soon the other riders followed his example. They stripped garments from the civilians and put them on themselves.
Watching everything unfold, the old village chief silently made a decision in his heart.
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