Chapter 100

Tirion heard the blacksmith's loud shout, feeling as if his jaw were about to fall off.

He turned his head to look at Tuolemi, Tuolemi pulled at the corner of his mouth, a helpless expression.

"You say, are they doing it out of gratitude for the Andals' life-saving grace, or so they can hide under the dragon queen's skirt when fighting in Milin?" Tuolemi lowered his head to ask Tirion, speaking while clapping with the members.

"Damn, I think they just dislike you!" If Tuolemi can't even win the captaincy, his assistance to Tirion isn't worth mentioning, despite his high hopes for him.

He could only grit his teeth, quickly clapping his hands together with the other mercenaries, laughing at the solemn and steadily standing Moermeng, feeling as terrible as possible.

Besides, although Ser Qiaola is a Westerosi, he's just like most northerners, all of them are first men. Tirion said angrily.

"So you, this southerner, are an Andal?" Tuolemi teased.

No matter who he is, for me I'd have to create a separate race, damn it, the race's name would be dwarf! Damn, if my head were a bit smaller and my legs normal, I'd tell you I'm a child of the forest. You know, when I was little I specially learned to climb trees, thinking I could fool others into thinking I was a child of the forest!

He heard the blacksmith calling out the votes, old partner Cuebek actually won second place by a landslide, honorably obtaining the position of quartermaster!

Tuolemi was originally the treasurer, so in this situation there was no need for the blacksmith to call out third place.

This also means the three top leaders have been reselected: namely, captain Qiaola, quartermaster Cuebek, and treasurer Tuolemi. As for him, after spending so much time, putting in so much effort, flashing that smile so many times—he felt his face hurt from smiling—it was all wasted, of no use at all.

Besides, he had spent hundreds of thousands of gold dragons on paper, now it all went down the drain. He decided that if anyone ever came to him with such an IOU to collect, he would definitely break that person's legs and then spend the same amount of money to heal them.

Tirion looked at the imposing Jorah, who stood on a makeshift crude platform, delivering a declaration about leading the mercenary company toward honor, glory, and a great road filled with the sound of gold. Tirion thought, if he himself could stand there, he would definitely speak better than him.

Moermeng stood tall there, accepting everyone's cheers, with not a hint of joy at being elected, like a black bear standing steady, just like the one in his family crest, head held high (HereWeStand).

Tirion raised his head and let out a loud celebratory howl, clapping his hands, almost about to slap them swollen.

This bunch of cowardly mercenaries certainly wanted to hide under the dragon queen's skirt. Damn, if one day they discovered that the dragon queen's skirt also had teeth growing underneath, who knows if they'd regret today's choice.

When the celebration finally ended, the little devil almost ran straight to him first.

"Congratulations, Ser Jorah, oh, Captain Jorah!" Tirion said with a smile, "Hey, I thought I would be the one to get the captain position, sigh, this bunch of stupid hired mercenaries, they actually can't see the wisdom in my big head."

"Wisdom? What ordinary people see is just vanity and a laughingstock, neither of which contains any wisdom." After saying that, he strode off and ducked into the tent that belonged solely to the captain.

Tirion felt that his whole self was not well.

Vanity and a laughingstock? He's already this small, and besides, he was born to be others' laughingstock—if going along is what makes a laughingstock!

After leaving the bustling camp, he almost immediately went to check on his few slaves. This was both his property and his reliance, and perhaps even his conscience.

All three slaves had traumatic wounds; Tirion had already done his utmost to treat them. For several wounds that were too deep, he almost directly sutured them with a needle, paying no heed to the slaves' struggling and pain.

Before doing so, Tirion had imitated the motions of a scholar, applying strong alcohol around all the wounds, putting all the tools into boiling water to clean them, and even repeatedly washing his own hands with alcohol. He only hoped these simple measures would be effective.

The three slaves were called by their master Hemp Rope, Steel Saw, and Broken Axe. Hemp Rope and Broken Axe were somewhat better, their wounds presented no problems, but Steel Saw was a bit off, having had a high fever since last night.

Tirion could do nothing about this situation, only continually giving him a little water from a waterskin through his mouth.

"Don't die, okay." He whispered to Steel Saw, "I've decided, if you stay alive, I'll set you free, so if you die, you can only die as a slave."

Steel Saw didn't speak, and the two slaves Hemp Rope and Broken Axe also didn't speak. They now looked merely a bit weak; after this night, they seemed to have no serious trouble.

By afternoon, Steel Saw's body grew hotter; Tirion could only have the two weak slaves help wipe his body with a towel to lower his temperature. By dusk, Steel Saw was on his last breath, beginning to utter words that Tirion couldn't understand at all.

"Damn, I regret it. I now decide, you're free. I've never seen a slave die before my eyes, so I don't want you to lose your virginity here!"

After he finished speaking, he saw Steel Saw's eyes slowly lose their luster, his heart beginning to stop beating. Tirion felt somewhat sad, placing his hand on his bare chest, feeling a slight chill.

"Ah damn, I forgot to have you give my father a message!" He used his hand to close Steel Saw's eyes, "I've always wanted a brother; hey, what do you think of giving you a name? How about Rolien? You know our Lannister family has many Roliens, I'll bless you with that name."

The two surviving slaves looked at him as if they'd seen a ghost.

Afterward, Tirion took a jug of red wine from Ser Jorah's tent and gave it to the blacksmith, asking him to dig a small grave for 'Rolien'.

"Damn, dig a grave for a slave?" The blacksmith was greatly displeased, but for the wine he didn't refuse, "Why don't you have your other two slaves do it?"

"I don't want to waste wine on useless people." Tirion gazed at the stream outside the dark woods, glinting with a flicker of light, making small talk off and on.

Three days later, when the two surviving slaves could finally walk slowly, Tirion felt that staying here had become unbearable, even though the Valyrian Road was a miracle.

He brought the two tall slaves into Captain Jorah's tent; at that moment, Moermeng was sitting on a small stool, his body curled up, repeatedly wiping his sword with a cloth.

The three of them entering the tent instantly made the originally bright interior dim.

Jorah stared at him discontentedly.

"'Gross, Theo, you two wait for me outside the tent.' He directly called them by their original names."

Upon hearing that, they turned and left the tent.

"Captain Jorah, look, two gold dragons for two strong guards—isn't that a great deal?" Tirion said with a smile.

"Are you not afraid they'll twist your neck in the night and run?" Jorah said contemptuously, "Moreover, our mercenary company does not allow slaves."

"Wow! Our captain is really a kind soul!" Tirion mocked in an exaggerated tone, "You didn't say that when you lent me money back then. But I know, the captain's orders can't be violated."

"You came here just to show off your slave entourage?" He glanced at Tirion, then continued polishing his already gleaming sword.

"Of course not. I'm here to remind you that we've already been here for three days! I really don't understand how much longer you intend to stay. If you don't move your butt soon, four hundred warhorses will eat this whole patch of grass bare. Our mercenary company may be silent and quiet, but that doesn't mean they have no ideas— the blacksmith has gotten so bored he forged a piece of armor into a sword, then hammered it back into armor. Damn, when he turns that armor into a dagger next, I bet the first thing he'll stab is you."

"We'll set out at dawn tomorrow." He stood up, sheathed his sword, looking taller and stronger than when they first met at Salhor's town, and lacking that savage, violent edge.

"You think you're bored because you do too little; you assume it's someone else who goes out every day to chop wood, haul water, and cook for over a hundred people?" He looked at Tirion and said.

"Let me think, could it be you, Captain?" The little devil laughed, saying, "Excuse me, Captain, I need to look after the two guards. And besides, have you seen my physique? Apart from being able to lift the box holding my friend's skull, I can hardly do any hard labor."

"The guards have been able to move freely since two days ago; why would they need your supervision?"

"Then I also need to change their dressings and check their wounds. Anyway, this is more fun than boringly polishing swords."

"Do you still need to change their dressings and check their wounds now?" Upon hearing Tirion's reply, Ser Jorah buckled his sword onto his belt, "Then you will be responsible for the army's drinking water today— you and your two guards. This is the captain's order."

"Wow, how can you do that?" Tirion shouted in Valyrian, "They've only just started to recover, if—"

"Then you alone will be responsible."

"Ah, Captain Jorah, can't you see I'm just useless…" Seeing Jorah's eyes, he abruptly swallowed the last two words, "Ha, Ser Jorah, I know what you're trying to do, and I won't let you have your way."

"When have you ever had that?"

"Damn, at least right now!"

After Tirion finished speaking and stepped out of the tent, the two brown-skinned guards looked at him.

"Damn, what on earth have I done?" Then he spoke in Valyrian to the two guards, "I've taken on a big task for both of you! Let's go!"

He brought the guards to Cook Korji and asked about the so-called "army-wide drinking water" matter.

He could only secretly thank the kind Jorah, because Cook Korji told him that the army's drinking water for today had already been settled; otherwise, with just the three of them, providing water for over a hundred people would have exhausted them to death.

"He must be wanting to see my joke," truly a cunning and evil Jorah, "but I certainly won't let him have his way!" Tyrion casually pulled the stopper from a large waterskin, gulped it down, then used the remaining water to wash his face well.

Cook Korji laughed heartily.

"Damn, we're still a bit short of meeting the army's drinking water needs for today, but since Commander-in-Chief Mormont has given an order, the little devil has no choice but to make do!"

He didn't know how he could have done such a childish act.

Besides, after staying here for so many days, it wouldn't be bad to take a walk outside the camp, especially now that we have two capable guards.

So he tossed the waterskin to Gross and headed toward the creek outside the Black Tree Forest.

The creek lay north of the Valyrian Road, winding along the feet of the dark brownish-black mountain range, its banks thickly lined with unnamed strange trees, layered and looming dark, only revealing a corner toward the camp entrance; from afar, it could make the mountain range look as if inked.

Black Mountain, Black Lake, and the Demon Ghost Cavalry—truly a matching set.

According to the soldiers, Black Lake lies beyond the foothills ahead—that's where the Ghost Cavalry first appeared—and this creek, along with other waters flowing at the mountain base, will converge there; after Black Lake accumulates these mountain streams, it turns and carries the water northward all the way into the Dothraki Plains.

Tyrion and the two guards passed through the small path cleared by the mercenaries and easily reached the creek—though calling it a creek is generous; it's more like a ditch.

"Ah, what a misfortune; normally, freed slaves would need to pick a wider river and a taller mountain to have commemorative significance. But today there's nothing to say—having water is enough." They didn't understand at all; Tyrion curled his lips, feeling like he was talking to himself: "Damn, may you be as free as water from now on."

The two of them stared at each other.

Tyrion only hoped they wouldn't do that again when he was in danger.

"You are free!" Tyrion said to the two in Valyrian, "with the water before you as witness."

The two looked seriously at Tyrion, exchanged a glance, then bowed respectfully to him.

"I don't have any gold now, only a modest mercenary's pay." He expressed slowly in Valyrian, "I have plenty of gold, all on paper; if you're willing, I can hire you, and when I someday obtain what is rightfully mine, I'll pay you then—I've always been generous. How about that?"

The two remained silent.

"Wow. If you don't want to, forget it!" Tyrion said, then jumped over the creek and went downstream along it.

The banks of the creek were full of ejected gravel; he stepped on a small stone and found it quite amusing, casually picking two that looked clear and translucent and putting them in his pocket.

"Damn, if you believe it, this could also be a precious stone of great significance picked up by the great Duke Tyrion beside an unnamed creek."

The two guards stood by the creek watching him.

The creek water flowed gently; against the backlight it looked even deeper. Tyrion picked up a flat stone nearby and skipped it along the direction of the current.

"One, two, three..." he counted, then froze.

Ahead of the skipping stone, a woman in splendid attire, wearing a noblewoman's gold hairpin, suddenly appeared standing in the middle of the creek, smiling seductively at him; Tyrion felt his whole body turn cold, as if his breath had stopped.