Game of Thrones: The Black Dragon King

A prisoner-of-war camp outside Meereen.

Mei Li's palms were calloused from years of wielding a sword, so he swung the stone hammer effortlessly. When the hammer struck the rammed earth mold, the muscles in his arms were taut like old cowhide. The dull thud of the hammer hitting the ground mingled with the shouts that rose and fell in the prisoner-of-war camp, and drifted far away in the wind of the wasteland.

Robert squatted on the earthen slope next to him, his trousers rolled up to his knees, his fingers covered in mud and mixed with straw mud. Every time Merri pounded the mud, Robert would add a handful of rammed earth to the mud mold, working as hard as a skilled old farmer.

This was the fourth day since their surrender. Their swords were taken away, their armor stripped down to their undergarments, and the last time they saw the warhorse that had followed Merry for five years, it was being led away by horse archers, without daring to neigh.

The main force of the allied army had long since become rats scurrying about in the wasteland. Most of them hadn't escaped, but they weren't beheaded or tied to posts to starve. Instead, they were given hammers and rammers to build their own cages, ramming earth walls, repairing fences, and constructing thatched huts. They had to do everything themselves, and as a result, they ended up with full bellies. However, for mercenaries who had tasted blood on the edge of a knife, without wine or women, they had nowhere to expend their energy and felt stifled.

Until the camp gate became the busiest area.

From dawn till dusk, the sound of cavalry archers' hooves would roll from the edge of the wasteland, accompanied by the clanging of chains and the dejected groans of prisoners. The remnants of the allied forces, their weapons and armor confiscated and bound to their warhorses, hung their heads; some had simply lost their horses, their clothes tattered, their boots worn through and stained with the mud of the rural roads, suggesting they had been hiding in the wilderness for days before being dragged out.

The horse archers pursued fiercely. After the main force was routed, they broke into squads of a hundred men, fifty men, and eventually even ten-man squads, spreading out like a dense net to search the surrounding villages and wastelands.

I heard that this was to prevent these remnants of the army from wandering around and committing atrocities, looting grain and burning houses. As a result, the number of people in the prisoner-of-war camp increased day by day, and it also provided Merri and Robert with the most entertaining thing to do.

After swinging their hammers each day, the two of them would take a bag of dry, hardened black bread that could be used as a hammer, slip away to the base of the rammed earth wall at the camp gate, and squat down, one to the east and the other to the west, looking just like two stone statues guarding the gate.

The first one to arrive today was a light cavalryman, who was pushed in by two horse archers, his arms held up. He kept cursing, and only deflated after being kicked.

Meili, biting into a black bread, mumbled, "Our regiment, look at that armor, he's a kid from the river bend. The insignia on his shoulder armor is all worn out, he's probably a squad leader who ran away from the defeated soldiers."

Robert glanced at him and spat the sawdust he had brought to his mouth onto the ground: "What a load of crap, squad leader. Look at his hand holding the reins, no calluses on his fingertips. He's probably some nobleman's son who snuck in. He can't even ride a horse properly. He'd be the first one to run away. He deserves to be caught."

"I bet a small piece of bread that he'll have to call me 'Mom' in three days."

"Two days."

No sooner had he finished speaking than another group of prisoners was brought in, about ten or so, all of them disheveled and dirty. Some of them weren't even wearing armor, just wrapped in rags that looked like peasant women's clothes. They must have been hiding in a farmer's house in the countryside when they were found.

Merri spotted the short man on the far right at a glance, dragging his injured leg but still sticking out his neck: "That's a spearman from Dorne, from the Longpole Regiment. Last time we fought, he hid behind the shield wall and fired a stray arrow, almost piercing my horse's eye. Heh heh, but he didn't escape either."

Robert laughed out loud: "Karma, pure karma. Look at his clothes, they're probably just stolen, he hadn't even put on the full outfit before he was caught by the horse archer scouts."

The midday sun was at its fiercest, and the two men, squatting against the wall, were drenched in sweat but showed no sign of discomfort. Then came another heavy cavalryman, his ankles chained, his shoes nearly worn through. His horse must have been exhausted from running, and he had walked for a long time, but unfortunately, he was still overtaken. The heavy cavalryman was large, his eyes blazing with fury as he stared at the archers at the camp gate.

"This guy's tough. Looks like he's run quite a distance on foot." Merri stroked his chin, staring at the heavy cavalryman's broad shoulders.

"It's no use," Robert said, scoffing. "Those horse archers are fast, and on the treacherous roads of the wasteland, without a horse, you could run your legs off and still not escape ten miles. I heard that yesterday a small squad chased a wounded soldier for three miles, and the soldier jumped into the river, but they still managed to pull him out."

"I bet a small piece of bread that he can adapt."

"I bet he won't be able to adapt."

"You lost. He's a tough guy. Last time we faced off, he chopped two of our brothers in half with an axe."

"You lost, you're wounded by an arrow and soaked in water." Robert gestured toward the man's back.

"Damn it!" Only then did Merri notice the bleeding wound on the burly man's back. He tore off a piece of bread and threw it to Robert in annoyance.

People came and went at the camp gate, and the sound of hammers pounding the earth gradually faded away. Many prisoners of war also followed the example of Merri and Robert, and after finishing their work, they would gather at the camp gate to listen to the two of them commenting and making bets. Occasionally, they would chime in with a few words, which brought a bit of life to this lifeless prisoner-of-war camp.

After finishing the last bite of bread, Merri wiped his mouth and watched as another group of dejected prisoners were brought in. The wind blew sand from the wasteland onto his face, stinging a little but also feeling a bit cool.

He glanced at Robert, who was staring at an Astapor prisoner being held captive. The prisoner, now in the hands of this guard force composed of freed slaves and commoners, was unlikely to meet a good end.

Merri looked towards the edge of the wasteland, where he could still see the dust kicked up by the hooves of the horse archers, suggesting that there were still many surviving soldiers being captured little by little.

He thought of his warhorse, his brother-in-law's dagger, and that crazy woman who would go mad at the drop of a hat. He also thought of the chaos when the main force was routed. He didn't feel much resentment, at least no one would stick a dagger next to his pillow when he slept in the prisoner-of-war camp.

Robert shoved him, pointed at a newly arrived prisoner at the camp gate, and grinned: "Look at that guy, his hair's all burned off. He must have been hiding in a haystack and got smoked out by the horse archers!"

Merri leaned closer, looked at the prisoner's charred hair and disheveled appearance, and laughed heartlessly.

Meanwhile, on the distant wasteland, a squad of ten horse archers galloped away, their hooves pounding the ground as they continued to pursue the remaining fleeing soldiers.

As the sun began to set, the sound of horses' hooves echoed again from the edge of the wasteland.

Just as Merri was wiping his sweat from his brow after pounding the ram on the earthen slope, his sharp eyes caught sight of a burly man being escorted in the middle of the archer cavalry column at the camp gate. A tuft of reddish-brown beard on his chin was covered in mud, yet it still stood out—it was Bloodbeard, the leader of the Cat Band.

The camp officer in charge of registration was a dark-skinned man who looked up while holding the parchment: "Name, affiliation, rank."

"Bloodbeard, from the Cat Clan." Although Bloodbeard looked rough and burly, his voice sounded weak, and his somewhat guilty eyes darted around as he looked about.

Just as Merri was about to launch into his usual critique, Robert strode forward. "Sir," he declared, "I accuse this man of arson, murder, looting, and all manner of evil!"

These words immediately attracted a lot of attention. Bloodbeard, who was desperately trying to avoid being noticed, screamed as if pricked by a needle. "You're talking nonsense! I've always been strict in disciplining my troops, and we never commit the slightest offense. This is slander! Sir, don't listen to his lies! Their Second Sons Group has a grudge against our Cat Group; he's deliberately using this opportunity for revenge!"

Robert stared straight into Bloodbeard's eyes and accused him in a cold voice: "You said 'resupply on the spot,' didn't you? You also said that slaughtering rebellious slaves would effectively deter the enemy, didn't you?"

Bloodbeard's face instantly turned a deep purplish-red, and Redbeard trembled: "Second Son Regiment, do you think you're clean? You didn't eat the food I stole! Or did you kill fewer people on the battlefield?"

"At least I didn't do anything despicable that harmed ordinary people!"

Bloodbeard suddenly yelled as if his tail had been stepped on: "Sir! Don't listen to him! This kid's second son regiment is employed by Astapor, and they've killed a lot of your men. They fought fiercely on the battlefield, while we didn't contribute much; we just ran away as soon as we got to the front lines!"

These words made the officer frown and glance at Robert.

Robert showed no sign of panic: "There should still be some of the light infantry who chased your Cat Crew back to find Daddy last time. They know better than anyone what you did. Sir, we can bring them here for a confrontation."

As soon as he finished speaking, Bloodbeard's face turned deathly pale. Redbeard trembled even more violently, opening his mouth to curse, but unable to utter a single word. He could only stare at Robert, his eyes bloodshot.

After hearing this, the military leader understood and said in a deep voice, "No need for further words, the evidence is conclusive, take him out and behead him."

No sooner had he finished speaking than two horse archers stepped forward and grabbed Bloodbeard's arms.

Bloodbeard finally panicked, roaring and struggling. The iron chains clanged, but he couldn't break free even a little. He was dragged to the newly cut tree stump next to the camp gate, and his head was slammed hard against the stump.

With a sharp crack, blood splattered onto the muddy ground, and the tuft of red beard remained motionless.

Merri stood on the earthen slope, looking at Redbeard, whose body was dismembered and carelessly rolled into the morgue, and sighed softly.

Robert was still standing there, about to turn around, when the officer shouted coldly, "You! What are you standing there for? Go back to work! One more word and you'll be punished too!"

Robert pursed his lips, said nothing, turned around, picked up the tamping hammer on the slope, and walked back to the team tamping the earth.

Merri leaned closer, nudged him with her elbow, and whispered, "You don't need to..."

"You sympathize with that scumbag?"

"The rabbit mourns the fox's death; our situation isn't much better."

Robert just grunted and swung the rammed hammer at the earth pile. The sound was even deeper than before, making the gravel on the ground jump.

……

On the lookout tower of the POW camp, Reed leaned against the rough wooden railing of the high platform, his fingernails slowly rubbing against the bark that hadn't been completely peeled off. His gaze swept over the prisoners of war working below, and finally landed on the distant battlefield where the smoke and embers of battle still lingered.

Wolf stood beside him, his eyes etched with a pale blue weariness. He raised his hand to smooth out the dusty parchment and reported to his superior, "The inventory of battle damage and results is almost complete."

"The light infantry of the freed slaves and the poor suffered losses of around four thousand; the heavy cavalry and horse archers lost more than three hundred men, mostly with minor injuries, which will not hinder subsequent deployment. Of the five thousand cavalry of the Giz, more than four thousand were annihilated on the spot, and more than seven hundred of the stragglers and horse archers have been recovered. We can capture some more who escaped later, and the remaining stragglers will be enough to be cleared out by the security patrols."

"What about the spoils?" Reed didn't turn around, his fingertips unconsciously picking at the bark on the rough railing.

"There are about 500 sets of usable plate armor and chainmail, the rest are just scrap metal, and more than 2,800 warhorses." Wolf glanced down at the writing on the parchment, his tone tinged with regret, "It's just that the strategy of exhausting the enemy has been too costly, and 70% of the warhorses are worn out and no longer suitable for battlefield use."

"These horses have been allocated to farms and workshops to fill the manpower shortage caused by the war." Reid paused, a somber look rising in his eyes. "Have the statistics on civilian casualties and property losses been compiled?"

Wolf put away the parchment, thinking as he organized his thoughts: "About thirty fortresses, farms, and workshops were destroyed. Assuming each location had about 200 people, the maximum loss is around six thousand, but I estimate it's less. You'll have to ask Saladin for details; internal affairs are his responsibility, I'm just the military commander."

Upon hearing this, Reed clicked his tongue against his teeth and clicked his tongue: "That's why I hate playing on home turf the most. Even if we win, we'll still lose a lot of money."

As soon as he finished speaking, dust rose in the distance, and a sedan chair carried by four people hurried toward the camp. A dozen or so clerks dressed in civil official robes and carrying files followed beside the sedan chair, walking in a hurry.

Saladin has arrived.

Reed glanced at the moving figure briefly before looking away, adjusting the hilt of his sword at his side. Without a word, he turned and walked up the steps of the high platform. His dark cloak swept lightly across the steps as he turned, his steps steady and quick, without the slightest hesitation.

"Where are you going, sir?" Wolf paused for a moment, the weariness in his eyes lessened, and a hint of surprise appeared in his eyes. He quickly followed.

"I just got up and have some official business to attend to." Reed didn't stop walking, nor did he turn his head; his voice was so flat that it revealed no emotion.

Wolf chased after him, calling out with a hint of exasperation, "Saladin looks so rushed; he must have some important business to discuss with you!"

Reed showed no sign of stopping: "Let him figure it out himself."

Wolf stood on the observation deck, watching Reed's retreating figure without looking back, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

This lord is enthusiastic about fighting wars, but when it comes to domestic affairs, finances, relief, and reconstruction, he acts as if he has seen a ghost, avoiding them as far away as possible.

Down in the camp, the muffled thud of ramming earth resumed, denser and deeper than before.

Robert hammered away, veins bulging on his forehead, as if he wanted to smash the blood that had splattered from the previous blow and the dying roar of Bloodbeard into the earth.

Merri silently added soil to the ground, ceasing his jokes and bets. Most of the prisoners of war who had been watching the commotion at the camp gate had also dispersed. The cheap amusement in the air vanished completely with the fall of a head.

The prisoners fell silent. On this wasteland, what happened to others today could be their own tomorrow.