More than ten days later, the armies of the Free Cities had already pushed deep into the Dothraki Sea.
At most, it would take another month before they completely surrounded Vaes Dothrak.
Although Harry Strickland had failed to secure formal allegiance to Viserys, he had successfully won the Golden Company a share in the lucrative book trade.
That alone had greatly strengthened his authority within the company.
No one spoke anymore about how "the Golden Company was founded by the Blackfyres and should not serve the Targaryens."
Cutting off someone's income was like killing their parents.
Viserys had given them profit.
To them, Viserys was now worth more than loyalty to old grudges.
To show sincerity, Strickland led seven thousand men to support Viserys' southern flank, positioning his forces between Viserys and the armies of the Three Daughters.
At dawn, just as they were preparing to march again, Strickland gathered his captains for another briefing.
The message was the same as always.
Serve Viserys well, and one day they might return home.
The captains agreed, though most had already heard it too many times.
"No matter how you look at it, we outnumber them ten to one," Strickland said confidently.
"Once the Dothraki are dealt with, His Majesty will lead us back to reclaim the Iron Throne.
Ser Ledwell, didn't you once say House Peake nearly married into the dragonlords?
You'll take the vanguard this time. Any objections?"
"Yes, Commander!"
The captains laughed.
They all agreed with Strickland's assessment. This campaign looked like an easy opportunity to earn merit.
Their mood was relaxed.
"Commander—"
A sudden shout came from outside the tent.
Strickland immediately recognized the voice of his attendant.
His expression tightened. Urgent news, without question.
The attendant, Vigen, rushed in. He was a bastard from the Westerlands, with golden hair that might have tied him to the Lannisters.
Behind him were two men—one with purple hair, the other with green.
The captains instantly recognized them as Tyroshi.
The army of the Three Daughters was supposed to be nearby. But these men looked half-dead.
One had lost his boots. The other still had an arrow lodged in his arm.
They had clearly just escaped a crushing defeat.
But the Three Daughters fielded thirty thousand men. Who could have reduced them to this state?
Even if the Golden Company looked down on them, seeing an army of that size broken like this made everyone uneasy.
Strickland stepped forward.
"What happened?"
"It was the Dothraki! They attacked us!"
"The Dothraki?" one of the captains interrupted. "You had thirty thousand men. How did it come to this?"
"Drogo... Drogo surrounded us," the purple-haired soldier collapsed to his knees, sobbing like a man who had crawled out of hell.
"Out of thirty thousand... fewer than three thousand remain."
The tent fell silent.
Surrounded?
How could twenty thousand surround thirty thousand?
After questioning them further, Strickland realized something far worse.
Drogo's forces were not just twenty thousand.
To encircle thirty thousand troops, he would need at least fifty or sixty thousand.
The entire campaign plan had been based on the assumption that each army would field no fewer than twenty thousand men, preventing them from being defeated in detail.
Now that assumption was shattered.
Something had changed. Drogo had gained reinforcements. The plan was no longer viable.
They had to inform Viserys before the next attack came.
Strickland turned to the captain he had just appointed. "Ride to His Majesty. Tell him everything."
"Yes, Commander."
Ledwell nodded seriously and left at once.
.....
Under a pale sky, vultures circled endlessly.
They had been drawn by the overwhelming scent of blood.
Beneath them, a low hill had become something like a sacrificial altar.
Khal Drogo stood at its center, overseeing the execution of soldiers from the Three Daughters.
He accepted no surrender.
A heavy axe rose and fell.
Each swing struck the back of a soldier's neck, sending hot blood spraying into the air.
The ground drank deeply.
Blood soaked into the grass, ran down the stems, and seeped into the roots.
At first, the earth absorbed it.
But soon there was too much.
It gathered into a flowing stream of red.
Most of the executioners were young Dothraki boys. Corpses and living prisoners were beheaded together.
The defeated soldiers could no longer tell whether they were alive or already dead.
Drogo believed they needed to see blood. Only through this could they prove their loyalty to the Horse God.
"Pile the heads on that slope."
Drogo pointed into the distance, his expression filled with satisfaction.
This was the first true battle since receiving the Horse God's blessing. Their morale was far higher than when they had marched on Gohor.
Before any campaign, every army in this world made sacrifices to their gods.
But most of the time, nothing happened.
It was little more than ritual.
This time was different. The Dothraki had witnessed a miracle. They had felt it within themselves.
The earlier attack on Ogo's khalasar had not been a true victory.
Drogo needed a real one. And so he had chosen the army of the Three Daughters.
"Khal," one of his bloodriders said fiercely, "we should strike Ogo next. That traitor must die."
Killing enemies was satisfying.
But nothing was more gratifying than executing a traitor.
Drogo now commanded eighty thousand riders. He could crush Ogo's forces without difficulty.
But he shook his head.
"No. Our scouts report that Ogo's army includes that longbow unit."
His eyes narrowed. "The warriors blessed by the Horse God are many, but we cannot waste them."
He gestured toward the slaughtered field.
"We strike as we did today. Find the enemy's weakest point, and tear it apart."
He turned his horse.
"Take everything. The other armies will react soon. We withdraw now."
___________
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