Game of Thrones: I am Dothraki, not a barbarian

Chapter 97: The Trophy on the Flagpole

Robert stared at Ned, his chest heaving violently, as if he didn't understand the meaning of this sentence.

"Hurry! Falling into the sea in armor means death!"

Ned didn't say anything and started pulling at his armor.

"Ned! You bastard! How dare you blaspheme the king!"

Robert struggled to push Ned's hand away. It took him half a day to put on this shirt!

But Ned's movements were clean and efficient, much more skillful than Lancel's. He showed no mercy and roughly pulled off the helmet, breastplate, and gloves. Ned didn't care how valuable they were, he just wanted his best friend to survive.

Finally, Robert stood on the deck in nothing but his shorts, his black hair visible, looking like a wild boar from the Forest of Qohor.

"Ned! I'm going to kill you!"

Robert's face turned red and he waved his fists angrily, wanting to beat Ned into a meat pie!
The next moment, Ned kicked him on the butt!
"Pfft!"

Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, spun 180 degrees in the air and flew into the sea with a splash.

"I hope you haven't forgotten how to swim!"

Ned looked at the king floating in the water, took off his Valyrian steel sword "Ice" and threw it aside, put the Valyrian dagger used to murder Bran at his waist, and jumped into the sea.

At this moment, a small fleet on the sea quickly entered the battlefield.

Rahalo's fleet of canoes has arrived.

These light boats were long and narrow, and the rowers swung their long oars, quickly approaching the soldiers struggling in the water.

"Hold on to the rope! Or you'll drown!"

The soldiers struggling in the water almost instinctively grabbed the ropes, not caring at all whose boat it was.

"Cough, cough, cough!"

A soldier knelt on the deck, coughing violently and spitting out the salt water in his mouth. Just as he was about to raise his head, a soldier from the Shield of Pentos stepped on his head.

"Be honest with me!"

Finally, the prisoners were tied hands and feet and huddled together on the deck, looking at the morale-boosting defenders in horror.

The light boat team went back and forth dozens of times, and returned with a full load every time.

The captives were driven off the ship, whereupon a group of Dothraki armed with scimitars forced them into a heap, lying face down on the ground.

Someone tried to look up, but was immediately lashed across the face by a long whip, screaming in pain. Someone tried to struggle, but the sharp blade slashed through their neck, creating a cloud of blood that splattered on the face of the person next to them.

In the end, these people were like tamed sheep, with their faces pressed to the ground, trembling.

There were about three thousand prisoners. Laharo did not want to kill them, but he would not let them go either.

He said to Sir Harry Trisclan beside him: "Register these captives, find out the knights and lords among them, write letters to their families, and ask them to pay money to redeem them.

As for everyone else…

Send them to the Dothraki Sea, and let them spend the rest of their lives mining for me!"

The captives were in an uproar when they heard this, but the Dothraki did not tolerate their mistakes. They waved their scimitars and more than a dozen heads fell to the ground. The captives immediately decided to become miners.

"Take it away." Laharo waved his hand.

In this way, more than 3,000 prisoners of war and seven or eight warships that were not burned all became Laharo's spoils.

...

The streets of Pentos were bustling with people, cheers echoing one after another, and Arya followed the crowd. She followed Syrio Forel out of King's Landing and boarded a merchant ship to Pentos, expecting to witness a war with her own eyes, but unexpectedly heard the news of her father's defeat.

Civilians burned the Crown and Stag banners in the streets, and graffiti mocking Robert and Ned was painted on the walls.

Women banged on copper basins and shouted loudly, while children waved wooden sticks and pretended to defeat the invading army of Westeros.

"Poseidon, please be kind and don't let the bells ring all day long?" she heard an old woman complain.

On the second floor facing the street, a young woman in black lace opened the window and shouted downstairs:

"It's only been a few days and the fighting's already stopped?" Someone bumped into her from behind. She laughed. "These foreigners are all show and no substance. None of them can last long!"

"You idiot!" the old woman shouted upstairs, "I'll throw you into the military camp sooner or later, and then you'll be happy!"

Two boys about Arya's age ran by, splashing heavily. The old woman cursed at them, but they didn't stop.

Arya caught up with a slower boy, "Where are you going?"

The boy glanced back at her but didn't slow down. "The Shield of Pentos is taking them to the Temple of Poseidon, and everyone wants to see the fun!"

"Who are you taking?" she asked, following.

"Of course it's the King of Westeros and his Hand! Alai said the Captain of the Guards hung them on the flagpole of the Temple of Poseidon!"

A cart had left a deep ditch in the ground, and the boy jumped over it. Arya lost focus and tripped, scraping her knee and jabbing her fingernails on the stone so hard that half the nail broke.

She struggled to get up, holding her thumb to stop the bleeding, and felt unbearable pain all over her body.

"Make way!" someone shouted at the intersection. "Lord Rahalo has arrived! Make way!"

Arya barely managed to run away from the center of the road. A dozen riders in snake-scale armor roared past, surrounding the young man in the middle, and she was almost trampled to death.

Arya could only see his black riding boots and his horse, and his armor that looked like black silk.

People on the street moved towards the Temple of Poseidon, anxious to see what was going on.

Arya also joined the crowd. Her broken nail hurt a lot, but no pain was as great as the heartache she felt at this moment. She held back her cry, bit her lip, limped, and listened to the excited discussions around her.

"That's King Robert's armor and Hand Stark's sword! They brought it to Poseidon to show off their trophies!"

"I heard they were all dead."

"He's certainly dead! Would a king throw away his armor?"

"Serves you right! Foreign invaders." The man spat.

These words were like a sharp knife, piercing Arya's heart deeply.

She wanted to defend her father. She shouted, "He's not dead! He's not an aggressor. He's a good man!"

But she was just a child, and her voice was completely drowned out by the noise.

Arya squeezed left and right, weaving between countless legs and feet. She could only see other people's waists and the towering statue of Poseidon in the distance. She saw a loaded cart and wanted to climb up to see it more clearly, but others had the same idea. The driver cursed and whipped everyone away.

Arya was anxious and tried to squeeze forward, but was finally squeezed onto a stone base and saw the words "Poseidon, Ruler of the Water" written on it.

She looked up and saw a stone statue more than two people tall. She climbed up, stood on the fish's tail, and finally saw it.

On the flagpole at the top of the Temple of Poseidon hung King Robert's golden breastplate, and next to it was her father's Valyrian steel sword, Ice.

Tears suddenly blurred Arya's vision. She felt unbearable pain in her chest and difficulty breathing. Her fists clenched tightly, and her nails dug deep into her palms.

My father is dead...

(End of this chapter)