Game of Thrones: The Black Dragon King

If Reed knew what the enemy general in his extravagantly embroidered armor was thinking, he would surely praise his sixth sense for being as accurate as a woman's.

On a small hill three leagues away from the enemy's route of advance, in a quiet fortress, Reed was observing the surprise attacking Allied cavalry through a Mill lens.

The device we're using this time is even more sophisticated than the one we used last time to watch the fun at the Sweetwater Canal intake. It's the private collection of a certain great master in Meereen with a peculiar hobby. It's bulky, difficult to adjust, has severe chromatic aberration, and low light transmittance, making it unusable at night. But it also has its advantages: when properly adjusted, it can clearly show the expressions of people three miles away.

The 5,000 cavalrymen were of varying quality, with about 2,000 being elite, while the rest were undisciplined mercenaries with tattered equipment. Defeating them wouldn't be difficult, but annihilating them would be more troublesome. Reid currently only had 4,000 cavalry at his disposal: 1,200 heavy cavalry, 2,800 horse archers, and a whole unit. Infantry would be of little use in pursuing and eliminating cavalry.

Therefore, Wolf and the Caliph devised a tactic to lure and exhaust the enemy.

Using infantry composed of freed slaves to escort grain wagons, deliberately revealing their location to the allied cavalry, and sending similar infantry to their aid, this piecemeal tactic allowed the allied cavalry to become complacent and overconfident, gradually wearing down the enemy's horses. Meanwhile, the allied cavalry, rested and ready, joined the battle last. Then, with dragon flames clearing the way, the heavy cavalry routed, and the horse archers pursued and killed them.

"I guarantee their warhorses will be run to death before they even escape Meereen!" Wolf concluded with a cold laugh.

"Are you sure those light infantrymen, composed of newly freed slaves, can withstand a cavalry charge?" Reed asked doubtfully.

"Their relatives and friends are all starving, and I told them this was the last batch of food they had," Wolf said with a smile, revealing a row of small, white teeth.

Even so, flesh and blood cannot stop the charging cavalry.

"It's better if they can't hold on; that kind of defeat makes it seem real."

"Won't the rescue forces hesitate to move forward?"

"All they need to do is appear in the enemy's line of sight with weapons."

"This would result in heavy casualties."

"That's not how you calculate it. The cost of maintaining one cavalryman is equivalent to that of ten infantrymen. If we can trade several times more infantry for the enemy's cavalry, it's a worthwhile deal in the eyes of any commander. Besides, we're fighting on home ground. Compared to the destruction caused by the enemy roaming around, the loss of soldiers is acceptable," Wolf explained. "There's another advantage: the harsh fighting will quickly mature these soldiers, originally composed of slaves, into a capable elite force."

As the two were talking, the fortress door was violently opened, and the Caliph dragged in a traitor by the back of the collar and slammed him at Reid's feet.

"Have you finished the investigation?" Reed asked.

"The intelligence was leaked by carrier pigeons. When we made our move, they had just sent out their last batch of information. Astapur or Yunkai should have already received news of their spies being captured, but they didn't have time to inform these cavalrymen who were about to walk into our trap." The Caliph's voice carried a hint of anger; the task hadn't been done perfectly, which annoyed him. "These scoundrels planned to add special pigments to the beacon fires to indicate directions. They marked out five zones, each color representing one."

Flame test? Or some kind of colored smoke agent? Reed asked curiously, "So which color should we use to signal the enemy?"

"They didn't explain!"

Upon hearing this, Reed turned around and glanced at the former slave owner, who was not old, slumped on the ground, his face buried in the dust, his shoulders shaking like a leaf.

"A die-hard? Doesn't seem like it?"

"He was an outsider, but he managed to kill the person who knew the information. He was also the one who released the carrier pigeon."

"This kind of cowardly yet courageous style—is it driven by some unwavering ideal, or does it stem from some deep-seated grudge against us?"

The former slave owner, who was being held down, struggled violently upon hearing this. "You killed my father, you stole my family fortune, you gave my mother away to lowly slaves, you made me work with these talking tools, you insulted the great Yahzan family..."

"Nothing new," Reed shrugged.

"Tyrant! You will die a horrible death in a pool of blood under the watchful eyes of the harpy!" the young former slave owner said, spitting a mouthful of bloody phlegm at Reed's feet.

"Swish!" The offensive words caused the henchmen present to draw their blades.

The threat of death made the former slave owner shrink back, his eyelids twitching uncontrollably.

Reid sneered, "Since you're unwilling to associate with talking tools, then become a silent tool!"

"Where is the grain convoy?" Reed asked, glancing at the map.

"Here," Wolfe pointed on the map.

Reed quickly drew a hasty cross with his quill, then rolled up the map haphazardly and shoved it at the Caliph, "Put it in his arms and make it look like he was being hunted down and killed, so those headless flies can see it."

"Leave it to me, my lord." The Caliph smiled and withdrew.

······

Near the Scully Allied cavalry, the wind, carrying scorching sand, lashed Tim Yahzan's cheeks like countless tiny knives.

The boy's arms were tightly bound behind his back with thick hemp rope. The rough rope chafed his skin, and the blood that seeped out mingled with the dust, causing him to grit his teeth in pain. His cloak was already torn to shreds, and sweat mixed with mud scabbed over his neck. With each jolt, the rope tightened around his muscles like a venomous snake, making him almost faint from the pain.

The chestnut warhorse beneath him galloped through the red dust, its hooves kicking up clouds of smoke. The sound of hooves and arrows whistling through the air behind him was like a death knell, never ceasing for a moment.

Tim caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye that the horse archers on their sturdy warhorses were spreading out, fanning out to encircle him. Their bowstrings vibrated incessantly, arrows whizzing past his ears and his horses' bellies, some embedding themselves in the sand ahead, their fletching buzzing.

An arrow struck the chestnut horse in the hindquarters, and the horse let out a mournful neigh, its speed suddenly slowing down.

Tim's heart sank. He struggled to twist his bound arms, rubbing the damned ropes back and forth against the saddle rings. The ropes dug into his flesh, the pain making his vision blur, but he dared not stop. Under his left collar, there was an oilcloth package that the sinister-looking intelligence chief had forced into his hand, marked with false intelligence from the Evil Dragon King—a trap specifically set for the Giscali coalition.

At this moment, he struggled desperately to get rid of this hot "invitation to hell." He struggled incessantly, and the skin on his wrists was rubbed raw and bleeding. Finally, after another hard impact, the end of the rope loosened a little.

"Run! Run faster!" He kept pounding the horse's belly with his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs. His voice was so hoarse that it was almost incoherent. With the help of the horse's swaying back, he pulled hard on the rope knot in front of his chest with his right hand.

On the horizon ahead, a surging black shadow finally appeared, with two harpy banners fluttering in the wind.

It's the Allied cavalry!

Tim's eyes suddenly lit up, and a surge of joy rushed to his head.

"Help! I'm here!" he shouted desperately at the dark figure while urging his horse forward with his feet.

The warhorse, in pain, spurred itself to gallop again, but the blood from its hind legs had stained the sand red, and every step it took was a frighteningly unsteady gait.

Closer, closer still. The vanguard of the allied cavalry had already crossed the dunes and was no more than a hundred paces away. The knights' lances gleamed coldly; they had spotted the boy being pursued and were charging towards him at full speed. The deafening sound of their iron hooves crushing the sand was enough to drown out the shouts of the pursuers behind them.

Cover was right in front of him. If he could just hold out for ten more steps, he could break into the Allied lines and be rescued safely.

As the horse leaped up, Varam suddenly pulled his arms outward, and the rope, which had been worn down, finally snapped. The broken ends of the rope struck his wound, causing him to gasp in pain.

He didn't even have time to rub his bloodied wrist; he immediately pulled out the oilcloth bag from his pocket and threw it out violently.

A trembling smile appeared on Varam's lips, and his tense shoulders relaxed slightly.

But just then, a sharp whistling sound pierced the air, more intense than ever before.

Varam felt a sharp pain in his back, like a red-hot iron being branded deep into his internal organs. His body stiffened abruptly, a metallic taste rose in his throat, and a mouthful of blood spurted out.

He looked down and saw the tip of an arrow protruding from his chest, stained with dark red blood.

The chestnut horse, having lost its master's control, buckled at the ground and collapsed to its knees.

Varam's body was thrown out by inertia and crashed heavily onto the scorching sand.

The horse archers behind him were still firing arrows, which landed around him, raising clouds of dust.

Not far away, a coalition cavalryman bent down on his horse with a graceful movement and picked up the oilcloth bag that Varam was trying to get rid of.

"The intelligence was false..." He struggled to reach out towards the allied forces, but his limbs felt as heavy as lead. His vision blurred, and the sounds of horses' hooves and battle cries faded into the distance. He could see the allied knights charging towards him, their faces filled with shock, anger, and regret. He could see the general in his magnificent armor dismount and gallop towards him. Then he could see nothing more... His arm fell limp, and his chest ceased to rise and fall.

"What did he say?"

"Didn't you hear me? We're told to fight bravely and avenge him?"

Vepras knelt beside the boy, carefully taking the blood-stained oilcloth bag from his subordinate. He opened it; the parchment map inside was intact, and on it, a large cross was marked in charcoal on one of the roads leading from Gaelic Pass to Meereen.

The boy's face was buried in the sand, his eyes still wide open. His face, which should have been tender, was etched with a determination, anxiety, and... a death without peace.

Vepras slowly stood up, clutching the map tightly in his palm. He raised his head, looking at the fleeing horse archers in the distance, and at the direction where the slave rebels were entrenched, his eyes burning with fury.

The knights of the allied forces surrounded him, the clanging of their armor solemn and heavy.

Vipras abruptly drew his longsword from his waist, its blade pointing skyward, and a hoarse roar echoed across the desert: "Avenge this warrior!"

His voice was filled with indescribable emotion and excitement—moved by the intelligence the boy had obtained with his life, and excited about the turning point that was about to arrive in this war.

"Slay those lowly, rebellious slaves!" His roar was filled with chilling murderous intent. "Burn their food, cut off their water! Plunge Meereen into famine, let fear devour the soul of every rebel! I swear!"

The longsword fell, pointing precisely in the direction the grain convoy was traveling.