Game of Thrones: From a deserter to a high-ranking official

Chapter 83 Bloodstained Perfume Bay

"Go home! Go home!"

"Go home! Go home!"

"Go home! Go home!"

Hearing the shouts outside the tent, Mitristar turned pale and gripped his sword tightly.

The reason is simple: the confidant who just went out to try to reprimand the mutineers is now dead at his feet!

After taking a deep breath, he slowly walked out of the tent.

"Gentlemen, if you have any thoughts, you can speak them out. I will accept them all!" Mitristar said to the centurion leading the group, forcing a smile as he looked at the murderous crowd.

He almost immediately abandoned any thought of trying to explain or command, and directly chose the most humiliating compromise.

"Go home! We want to go home! We've had enough of this godforsaken place, Xiangshui Bay!" a soldier shouted. "We've suffered enough casualties!"

"If we still haven't breached Perfume Bay in three days, I swear on my honor that we will retreat immediately! What do you say?" He tried to evoke in them the desire for victory, the sense of responsibility to the city-state, and the honor of the soldiers.

"Look, we've given so much, sacrificed so much, and now victory is within reach! Think of the history and glory of Mil! Think of your families and the glory of your city-state. Return home victorious from Perfume Bay, your city-state..."

"Your city-state, my lord!" a soldier sneered. This remark garnered widespread agreement. "A city-state of the few, then let the few die."

"Well said!"

"It's 'your' city-state!"

"We're not going to our deaths! Let the big shots go through fire and water!"

"Respected General, since you crave honor so much, why don't you go to the battlefield with us?" the centurion mocked. "Where will you be when we're struck by arrows and hit by rolling stones? Will you be directing us from miles away through binoculars?"

Then, several soldiers proudly raised their spears, each bearing the heads of several guards and confidants. This action, far from being met with hostility from the other onlookers, instead drew rounds of applause.

Mitrista's face turned pale and then red. He realized one thing: his property, dignity, and life were now completely in the hands of these soldiers who longed to go home and were starving from the war!

The reality is that the soldiers no longer believe in any promises, no longer care about any glory or history; all they want is to leave this life-devouring graveyard alive.

Finally, Mitrista was forced to announce: "For the next three days, we will not attack or take any action. We will simply besiege the city. How about that?"

Ultimately, this requirement was reduced to the point that Mitrist could not restrict their actions for three days.

[Finally, they've been suppressed!] Mitrista saw the soldiers disperse, and her pounding heart was calmed down like a kitten being soothed by a large hand.

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The fifteenth day of the siege, which was also the last day of the siege of Perfume Bay, as agreed by Mitristar and his soldiers.

【ε=(´ο｀*))) Sigh, so they're withdrawing already?】 Mitristar was very unwilling. In his eyes, Perfume Bay was already in his grasp. All he needed to do was give it a good kick and launch another large-scale offensive, and this seemingly magnificent building would collapse.

However, after these few days, Mitrista discovered to the despair of one thing: her control over her soldiers had become utterly weak.

This means that Mitrista has no other option but to withdraw its troops.

"Still no response from within the city?" he asked his personal guard, clinging to his last glimmer of hope. "Not even a single word?"

The day after the mutiny, he shot an arrow into the city with a letter demanding the other side surrender.

Of course, in the letter, he made no mention of any mutiny, lack of supplies, or inability to continue the siege. Instead, he said, "...Considering that after several days of siege, our soldiers are exhausted, refugees are fleeing in droves, all industries are in ruins, and people are suffering, I cannot bear it. Therefore, I humbly request that you surrender the city to avoid further fighting. Our army will refrain from any offensive operations for the next three days as a sign of our sincerity..."

He spoke even better than the songstress of the Rhys, but in reality, even if Mithridates really wanted to launch an offensive, he couldn't! After all, the soldiers were thinking about going home, and his orders (aside from distributing food and ordering a retreat) couldn't even leave the tent!

The so-called "not launching any offensive" was not out of mercy, but rather stemmed from his utter inability to control the Mil army.

Now, any instruction (even a simple request to maintain basic order) is seen as "the scheming of the hook-selling general" or "an attempt to make us obey the orders of a hook-selling idiot."

"My lord, there has been no response from within the city."

The guard lowered his head, avoiding the commander's gaze, which was a mixture of expectation and fear, and gave the answer he had already anticipated.

Mitrista took a deep breath.

"Then let's withdraw the troops..." he said rather reluctantly.

"Tell our soldiers."

"We're withdrawing our troops!"

[But upon closer reflection, it wasn't really a loss.] As he had his slaves and guards tidy up his personal gilded goblets, cutlery, and carpets, a strange, self-comforting sense of satisfaction welled up inside him.

"At least I fought pretty well so far, didn't I?" he consoled himself. "Pebbles Slope, and Streidal! These are battle achievements! Real, tangible achievements! No one can erase them!"

Of course, he deliberately excluded some unreasonable factors, such as why there hadn't been a single large-scale field battle so far; and why the main force of the Valantis hadn't been encountered even once.

He recalled how, before the war, he had cleverly orchestrated a meeting of allied forces, using the pretext of "consolidating the rear" and "eliminating the enemy on the flanks" to keep the Tyrossi stationed in Stridal and send the Reiss south to the lower reaches of the disputed river to the sea. Thinking of this, he almost hummed aloud, a surge of smug satisfaction rising within him.

"These fools, the spice merchants of Tyrosi, the fishermen of Rhys, in the end, didn't they all have to obey me? We, the city-states of Myr, have proven in this battle who truly has the qualifications and authority to lead the Kingdom of the Three Daughters!" A slight smile played on his lips, seemingly proud of his political maneuvering in driving the Tyrosi and Rhys out of the battlefield where they could reap the rewards. He also saw in it the immortal glory he had brought to Myr.

[Once I return to the city-state, with these 'military achievements' and my 'political skills' in sidelining the other two families, I can not only obtain a large reward and become a tycoon... but perhaps even secure a governorship, a real governorship with real power! Even... the position of a standing general!]

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"Speak," Marcus said without looking up, his voice leaving no room for doubt, "there are no 'buts' to hide."

The sergeant swallowed hard and said clearly, "However, we found that only Mitristar's headquarters was active. The other units in the Mil army were mostly silent, with no one packing their gear or giving any orders to assemble. The entire camp was in a strange...disjointed and disorganized state. So..."

He paused, then made a judgment based on his observations: "Therefore, the staff officers of our Fifteenth Legion [Tower Guard] unanimously believe that the command structure within the Mil army has likely collapsed! General Mitristar has most likely lost effective control of the majority of the army!"

"Great!" Marcus stood up excitedly, his eyes looking like those of a bull that had foolishly walked into a trap.

"Fantastic! I never expected our strategy of wearing down our troops to be so effective. A grueling siege is indeed the best way to erode morale. Now they can't hold on any longer, and they're starting to crumble from within!"

"Get our lads ready for the attack, sharpen their weapons, and feed the horses and war elephants. The Kingdom of the Three Daughters has occupied our land for far too long; now it's time for us to collect some 'interest' from them."

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At midday, the scorching sun hung high, baking the parched land surrounding Perfume Bay; the steam rising from the Bitter Weeping River mingled with the heat, turning the entire Mil camp into a giant, suffocating oven. The soldiers, who had been numb and dazed from hunger and exhaustion, all raised their heads at once, a hint of instinctive fear reflected in their cloudy eyes.

The first thing you feel is the tremor of the earth. It's not the sound of war drums, but the deep, rhythmic rumble of thousands of feet and hooves striking the ground simultaneously, as if a giant beast is awakening on the other side of the horizon.

Then, in the faint morning light, one after another, banners symbolizing the Valantis Legion appeared atop the hill, followed by a second, a third, a fourth... quickly forming a breathtaking forest.

The first piece is a flag with a purple background and silver border, and its emblem is a lightning bolt encircling the claw of an eagle—the Third Legion [The Uncrowned Princes]. Most of the soldiers in their legion come from noble families in Valantis.

The soldiers of the "Uncrowned Prince" arrogantly command their private army brought from within the family: archers, spearmen, swordsmen, and elite private slave warriors... They are required to line up in neat rows, ready to go into battle.

Each soldier from the "Uncrowned Prince" rode a tall horse, his armor ornate and flamboyant, inlaid with silver thread, plated with gold, and adorned with gemstones.

In reality, each member of the "Uncrowned Prince" is a miniature command center. They wear purple battle robes or have attendants hold up long spears with small purple flags. The fluttering purple symbolizes their noble lineage and unquestionable authority.

Then the Mil people heard the sound of weapons striking shields. At first, the sound was chaotic and disorderly, but gradually it became uniform, like thousands of axes striking shields, or like waves crashing against rocks.

Grey background with red trim, its emblem a helmet, and blood flowing from its left eye—this is the insignia of the Twelfth Legion, the Gladiators. Most members of this legion are former gladiators or hardened criminals from prison. The Valantis tell them that by joining the legion, they can gain freedom, even honor and status, through battle!

Accompanying them was the Sixth Legion, the Executioners. Their legionary banner was an iron-white battle flag depicting a blood-stained greatsword. Compared to the disorganized Gladiator Legion, their discipline was far more rigorous. Furthermore, the Executioner officers would discipline the Gladiator soldiers, their relationship more like that of master and hound than comrade. However, the bloodlust and fanaticism in their eyes were no less intense than that of the Gladiators.

Then came the neighing of a horse, and from the woods on the left, a pale-faced, jet-black knight raised aloft a somber, pure black banner, its emblem a perfect silver scale—the Eighth Legion [The Just], the gendarmes of Valantis. They were the most outstanding military judges, their skills and tactics as superb as their legal expertise.

Beside the Righteous Ones are the members of the Tower Guard. The soldiers of this legion are not merely war machines, but a legion composed of strategists, geographers, scribes, diplomats, historians, religious teachers, and jurists. They are responsible for negotiation, diplomacy, geographical surveying, recording wars, meticulously designing treaty contents, and bringing "legal justification" to war.

In the south, a cloud of dust rose from the horizon, obscuring the sky. The first thing to appear was the super-heavy cavalry of the Death Order, like a moving steel wall. Each rider wore three layers of heavy armor, and even their horses were clad in cotton or leather armor. The horses panted heavily from the weight they carried, while their riders pulled down their visors, raised their lances, and prepared to charge at any moment.

But the most terrifying sight was the colossal beast slowly pressing in from the northwest. That was the pride of Valantis—the war elephant legion.

They carried aloft banners embroidered with red dragons and towers; their war elephants were clad in heavy metal chainmail, their trunks studded with sharp bronze spikes and iron nails; archers and javelin throwers on their backs drew arrows and javelins from their packs, while mahouts controlled these behemoths. These terrifying war elephants demonstrated the formidable military power of Valantis, especially when their mere march was enough to make the earth tremble, making it difficult for anyone to even consider resistance.

This is not over yet.

Just as the Mil people were gripped by a great panic by the devastating display of legions from three sides, the tightly closed gates of Perfume Bay were suddenly flung open amidst the piercing sound of winches!

Three well-rested and heavily armed Tiger Robe Army units, their armor gleaming, surged out of the city like a torrent poised to unleash its power.

The left wing features the Fourth Legion, whose banners depict iron helmets and shields, and the "Iron Totem."

On the right flank is the Ninth Legion, the Fist of Valantis, whose fists are wreathed in lightning and thorns.

And right behind them, on which stood the banner of the Seventeenth Legion, the Zealots, with their burning eyes.

Instead of surrendering or being trapped as Mitristar had hoped, they became the most elite force, delivering the fatal blow to the back of the Mil people!

Seven legions in total! Including the most elite Tiger Robe Army, the powerful standing army, the devastating heavy cavalry and war elephants, they completely surrounded Mil's army, which was short of food and pay, exhausted from long battles, and on the verge of collapse in morale, from four directions.

The morning light now fully illuminated the earth, and also the endless fear and despair on the faces of the Mir soldiers. The previous commotion and complaints were replaced by a deathly silence. General Mitrista stood in the center of the army, gazing at the endless enemy ranks, his face ashen, his body swaying slightly, as if he might collapse at any moment.

The Valantis did not attack immediately; they simply stood in silent formation, like a steel jungle, spreading the scent of death without a sound. This moment of silence was more suffocating than any war drums or shouts.

But the silence was soon broken.

Mitristar's pupils suddenly contracted, his gaze fixed on a banner slowly unfurling behind the Legion of the Righteous—a black banner with an emblem of six wings solemnly encircling a sword piercing the sky.

"First Legion, Six-Winged Celestial Army..." Mitristar gritted his teeth, looking at the black banner with a three-pronged sword encircling its emblem. His last thought of resistance was completely extinguished.

The First Legion, the Six-Winged Celestial Army. The eldest son of the legions of Valanthi, the oldest, most decorated, and most prestigious legion. This legion witnessed how the city-state of Valanthi transformed from an ancient colony of the Valyrian Freehold into a superpower dominating the entire continent of Essos after the Cataclysm.

They are the true backbone of Valantis, walking history itself.

Before the solemn array of the Six-Winged Celestial Army, Commander-in-Chief Marcus Varos Villeleman rode a docile steed slowly through the ranks. His relaxed demeanor, like that of a farmer strolling through his own wheat field, created an eerie contrast with the extremely tense atmosphere before him.

Looking down at the Mir army, which was like a trapped beast, he casually gave the order.

"attack."

Then, after a pause, he gave more specific instructions, as if he were issuing a trivial command.

"Crush them!"

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We must acknowledge that the Mil were not a weak opponent: the Valanthi had their own legions, and the Mil also had equally ancient and well-equipped centurions and chiliarchies.

In terms of weaponry, thanks to the coal and iron mines of the Mil Hills and the ingenuity of Mil artisans, the Mil people possessed equally sophisticated weapons. Moreover, they had mastered the only crossbow that could fire three arrows in succession, a unique and advanced technology unmatched by Essos.

In terms of military experience, the Myrs had considerable experience in the repeated protracted wars with the Tyrothians, Rhys, and Dothraki. Among the three city-states, Myrs faced the most battles due to its location in the center of Siessos. Their tactical and technical skills were undeniably superior.

However, reality was cruel. The futile siege of Perfume Bay for fifteen days had exhausted the strength and morale of the Mil soldiers. Hunger, illness, and a complete distrust of their commander had hollowed out the army like termites. Their leader, Mitristar, proved to be mediocre and even incompetent; at the crucial moment, he failed to organize any effective resistance or retreat, instead ordering his personal guard to protect himself and escape.

Thus, the seemingly powerful Mil army began to be torn apart from within by Marcus Villeleman's precise and ruthless strategic planning.

When the war elephants and super-heavy cavalry trampled the last thousand-man unit and their banners fell, the remaining discipline of the Mil people completely collapsed. The instinct for survival overwhelmed all orders and honor. The soldiers, like a frightened herd of beasts, abandoned their heavy equipment and wounded, with only one thought in their minds—escape! Escape back to the south bank of the Bitter Weeping River!

They fled frantically along the path they had come from, the sounds of Valantine war elephants and the thunder of heavy cavalry hooves seemingly echoing behind them. But when the murky River of Bitter Tears and the only pontoon bridge they had built, which had never been destroyed, came into view, a faint hope was rekindled.

Once you cross the river, you'll be safe!

Soldiers surged onto the narrow, swaying pontoon bridge like a flood bursting its banks. Shouts, cries, and the splashing of soldiers filled the air; order was utterly lost. They jostled each other, even pushing comrades and officers into the river in their haste to get ahead. The pontoon bridge groaned under the weight of the chaos, its surface slippery, covered in mud and discarded debris.

Just as about half of the routed soldiers, like frightened birds, hurriedly crossed the pontoon bridge and stepped onto the soft soil of the south bank, hoping to catch their breath and temporarily escape death—

"Ugh—!"

A deep and penetrating horn sound, like the sigh of death, suddenly rang out from behind the hills on both sides of the south bank!