As acting lord of the city, Oswell put an end to the argument between the two factions.
The king had granted him a status equivalent to that of a Warden, giving him absolute authority in both voice and decision.
Considering that the northern threat had already been eliminated, he made a final decision.
All available transport ships would be mobilized to urgently deliver five thousand longbowmen to reinforce the front.
....
After receiving news of Viserys's victory, Rhaella finally let out a long breath.
"Your Grace, His Majesty has defeated Drogo. Gohor is safe!"
"Yes. It is the result of the combined efforts of our knights and soldiers."
Rhaella responded with modesty on behalf of her son.
The accompanying maester, Faelor, was stunned when he read the report.
Such a victory was simply too exaggerated.
They had believed that driving Drogo back would already be the best possible outcome.
Yet the result was far beyond that.
Jon Connington took the report from Faelor and read it again and again, hardly believing his eyes.
It was not that he doubted Viserys. After all, tens of thousands of slain enemies could not be fabricated.
What truly stirred in his heart was something else.
If Rhaegar had possessed such a longbow force back then... The usurper would never have succeeded.
And he himself would not have made that fatal mistake.
Perhaps some men were simply more favored by the gods.
Connington could not help but recall how Viserys had obtained the longbow.
There was no way such a thing had come without fortune.
"Gods... when Balerion's fury burned across the land, it only slew four thousand," muttered Lothan's nephew, still unable to believe it.
Everyone present had seen the power of the longbow before... But now that it had truly revealed its fangs, it felt terrifying.
Fortunately, it was in their hands.
Even if other Free Cities managed to replicate the weapon, they would not be able to field it effectively anytime soon.
Training a proper longbowman required at least five to seven years.
That window of time would belong entirely to Gohor.
With it, they could sweep across Westeros and reclaim the Iron Throne.
At this moment, Ser Arthur suddenly spoke.
"Your Grace, His Majesty intends to personally lead the army to encircle Ogo's forces. Perhaps you could send me to take command in his place."
Rhaella almost agreed immediately.
But she stopped herself.
As a mother, she did not want her son to take such risks. But as Queen Mother, she understood something even more important.
Such a powerful army had to be commanded by Viserys himself.
"Ser Arthur, your loyalty shines like moonlight. But we must trust His Majesty. He has never acted without certainty."
"Since he has chosen to lead the army himself, we should respect his decision."
Arthur was not particularly skilled in political matters.
Hearing this, he quietly abandoned the idea.
"Lords and soldiers, we must stand here as the iron wall of Gohor and our king!"
"We will annihilate these Dothraki and ensure they never dare to invade our lands again!"
"Yes, Your Grace!"
The great victory had dramatically lifted morale.
The responses of the commanders were firm and powerful.
...
The weather was humid and oppressive, like a sticky film clinging to the skin.
It made Ogo increasingly irritable.
"Get out!"
He snapped at the trembling slave girl in the corner.
After days of fighting, even killing had begun to lose its appeal.
The Targaryen heavy infantry blocking the Golden Plains felt like an iron chain wrapped around his throat.
And behind him, the Volantenes were still watching.
That only made things worse.
War was already stressful. Having an audience turned that stress into humiliation.
He could not help but think of Drogo.
How was the battle in the north going?
For the first time, Ogo felt a trace of regret. If he had followed Drogo and attacked from the direction of the Velvet Hills...
Perhaps he would already be inside Gohor now.
Drinking. Feasting.
Perhaps even taking a Targaryen woman to his bed.
But reality was different.
These Targaryen soldiers were unlike anything he had ever faced. They did not retreat.
Even when he managed to tear open a gap, more soldiers would immediately fill it.
More armor. Thicker armor.
Their faces showed no fear when facing his blade. It was as natural to them as falling stones or drifting leaves.
Even when death stood before them.
That calm acceptance of death shook the Dothraki deeply. They did not know how to defeat such an army.
Even his bloodriders had been replaced more than once.
"Father."
The voice of his son, Fogo, came from outside the tent, carrying the scent of blood.
"Some warriors fought over a woman. I killed them all."
"Good. You did well."
Ogo nodded. At the same time, he realized something troubling.
Morale was dropping.
Fine.
One more assault. If it failed, they would withdraw.
That was his conclusion.
There had been no word from Drogo. And the Targaryen forces showed no sign of disorder.
It was not hard to guess.
The situation in the north was likely unfavorable. Continuing here would only waste lives.
Ogo stepped out of the tent with his newly chosen bloodriders.
The moment he emerged, he felt it.
The camp was quiet.
Too quiet.
Some men lay lazily on the ground. Others gathered in small groups, telling crude jokes.
Many simply sharpened their arakhs in silence. Their faces carried impatience.
Frustration.
After so many attacks with no result, even these battle-hardened warriors were growing weary.
As a khal who had fought and plundered for years, Ogo recognized the signs.
This was how an army looked before defeat.
He mounted his horse and rode forward, his retinue following behind him.
Soon, the soldiers noticed him.
"It's Khal Ogo."
"The khal!"
"The khal is here!"
They gathered around him.
One man stepped forward toward his horse—
Crack!
Ogo lashed out with his whip and roared:
"Look at yourselves! Are you still the proud warriors of the Great Stallion?!"
___________
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