GOT: Molten Crown [ch 68]

[Chapter 68: The Smell of Blood]

In this battle where the two sides had nearly equal numbers, Viserys's forces achieved a remarkably favorable casualty ratio.

First was the Cat’s Company—their commander had been captured alive.

Out of more than two thousand mercenaries, one-fifth died in combat. Half of the remainder were wounded, and the rest were taken prisoner.

This effectively meant that the Cat’s Company had been erased from the map of Essos.

Every last one of them had blood on their hands—blood of innocents.

Viserys would use them as laborers until the day they died.

As for the bandits, they were slightly more fortunate. Fewer than a quarter were killed or wounded.

A good number of them hadn’t even swung a blade before they dropped their weapons and surrendered on the spot. Thanks to this, Viserys’s army acquired over three thousand sets of intact armor.

The rest, even if damaged, could still be repaired and used again.

In total, more than 1,300 enemies were killed outright, and over 3,000 captured. Out of the enemy’s five thousand troops, barely three hundred escaped.

Viserys's own side lost only seventy or eighty soldiers in battle, with just two hundred wounded.

Most of the wounded would survive—not only because many injuries were minor, but also thanks to the Braavosi healers sent before the battle, who treated the injured on the spot.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty! A perfect victory for your first campaign after crossing east!” said loyal Davos, offering timely praise.

Viserys smiled and replied, “It’s all thanks to our unity. Tell the soldiers—we’re roasting meat tonight! Everyone eats until they’re full!”

Once the order was passed down, the entire army erupted in celebration.

At the same time, Viserys received his reward from the golden finger system:

[Repelled the Gohor Bandit Coalition: Final participation rate—93%]

[Essence Gained: Elite (Cavalry) x188, Elite (Infantry) x288, Elite (Archers) x86, Veteran (Infantry) x376, Recruit (Infantry) x244, Recruit (Archers) x166]

Over a thousand essences added to his reserves—Viserys was in excellent spirits.

Though a closer look revealed that the quality of the essences this time was relatively low.

But that didn’t matter.

Wiping out this force of five thousand meant that the gates of Gohor were now wide open to him.

And looting the bandits’ hideouts would bring in a tidy profit as well.

That night, a victory banquet was held.

The farmer-archers—who had originally been treated as auxiliary troops—were warmly welcomed by the rest of the soldiers.

After all, in the army, strength spoke louder than anything else.

No one would turn away an archer who could shoot straight—no matter how awkward or antisocial they might be—so long as they were reliable on the battlefield.

“Hey, what did you do before this?”

Jason had already been asked the same question three times that evening. But he still answered honestly:

“I was a farmer.”

Jason really had been just a simple farmer—honest and wooden in demeanor. But even the slowest person had started to realize something by now.

Could it be that he really was some kind of archery prodigy?

Many farmer-archers like him were already considering signing up as full-time soldiers.

..................

Constructing a full prisoner-of-war camp would have been too troublesome, so Ock simply herded the captives into several deep pits.

He tossed a few pickaxes in and made them dig the sloped sides even steeper.

Then he assigned a hundred soldiers to watch over them. Anyone who resisted would be shot without warning.

Having witnessed the might of the Targaryen army firsthand, the mercenaries and bandits were all exceedingly obedient.

Ock even ordered his soldiers to urinate on them for amusement. Anyone who gave him a strange look would be shot dead on the spot.

Crude as it was, the method proved highly effective.

Take Old Punk, for example.

The grand boasts he’d once made—about capturing Viserys and forcing him to sire dragon children—had long since been cast to the wind.

Three of his four sons-in-law had died on the battlefield.

An arrow was still lodged in his own shoulder, buried deep in the flesh like a leech sucking away his life.

But Old Punk’s survival instinct was strong. He was still thinking hard about how he might escape from the Targaryen prison camp.

Cunning like an old fox, he had already discarded every identifiable item on his body the moment the tide of battle turned.

His cloak, his fine underclothes, even his leather boots—he tossed them all away.

He was certain the Targaryens wouldn’t recognize him.

So long as he behaved like any other prisoner and did his forced labor, he’d find a chance to escape eventually.

At dawn the next day, Old Punk suddenly felt something warm on his face.

He opened his eyes to see a Targaryen soldier pulling up his pants.

Because of his age and weakness, he had been pushed toward the edge of the pit by the other prisoners.

The muddy mix of urine and sweat made him look utterly filthy.

But that suited him just fine—now there was even less chance anyone would recognize him.

"I'm probably even filthier than Dirty Ben now," Old Punk thought to himself.

"Everyone up! On your feet!"

The Targaryen soldiers above the pit shouted.

The prisoners, after spending a night in fear, damp cold, and the stench of urine, slowly stumbled to their feet.

“Raise your heads! All of you, heads up!”

No one knew why, but they all complied.

Old Punk, hoping to breathe a bit of fresh air, did the same without giving it much thought.

That was when he saw the silver-armored knight from the battlefield.

The knight stood with the rising sun behind him, casting his figure in a divine glow—like some god from the heavens.

"Wasn’t he called the Sword of the Morning or something?"

Old Punk didn’t really understand Westerosi culture, but he knew enough to stay quiet and act obedient.

He squinted to get a better look—and suddenly noticed a “little dwarf” standing beside the knight.

The dwarf looked frail, but his clothes were fine and neat.

The silver knight stood behind him like a wall.

The dwarf seemed to be searching the pit for something. He pointed a finger, and a rope was tossed down.

As soon as someone was selected, the other prisoners scattered away from him like he reeked of death.

"Wait
 that guy came with the Cat’s Company, didn’t he? What’s he doing here?"

Old Punk knew that man must be someone from Pentos—but kept his mouth shut.

Once the man was taken away, the dwarf turned and left.

The prisoners rolled their sore necks and stretched.

Old Punk let out a breath of relief. Clearly, the dwarf had just been looking for someone, and his disguise had worked.

But before anyone could even sit back down, the man’s head was thrown back into the pit.

Gasps of horror spread among the prisoners.

Old Punk’s breathing grew heavy.

And this time, he wasn’t so lucky.

His half-squinted eyes met the dwarf’s gaze directly. And when the dwarf pointed at him, Old Punk felt all the blood in his body freeze.