Chapter 98

The so-called ghost cavalry are completely monsters.

Their whole bodies are larger than the biggest horse he has ever seen; if a horse normally has one head, this monster is as if it grew a ridiculous knight on its back, except that this knight has only an upright head and two hands that can wield weapons; from afar it looks like cavalry riding a horse.

The "cavalry" has a black goat's head on top, with short goat horns on either side of the skull and blood-red eyes. As for the thing serving as the horse's head, it is even more horrifying: a soy‑colored human face, the whole head nothing but skin stretched over bone, gaunt and frail.

Since it has two heads, which one does the thinking?

"I don't know." Ser Jorah poked the ghost cavalry's corpse with his sword and said dully, "Probably neither of them needs to think."

Under the sword's touch, black blood trickled from the corpse. A few mercenaries kicked it, and the body still twitched with the force, looking no different from normal flesh—except it reeked even more foully.

"Do you have any leads, Ser Jorah?" Tyrion thought this constructed ghost cavalry was nothing but a witch's prank—it looked ugly and seemed not to match its fearsome combat power; perhaps it relied solely on its bizarre appearance to intimidate in battle.

Tyrion could see that its fatal wound was on the "horse's" neck. A huge gash had been cut there, and black blood flowed from the wound across the ground.

If the monster can be wounded by ordinary blades, then there's nothing particularly special about it.

On the battlefield, the ghost cavalry numbered a dozen or so, while far more Valyrian soldiers lay fallen; but if compared by weight, Tyrion thought the Valyrian soldiers would win.

"No clues. Perhaps they're just monsters we've never seen before." Ser Jorah scraped the sword against the "goat head's" ear, shaking out some droplets. He held the blade to the light to examine the splashed water and said, "They definitely came running out of the black lake ahead."

"Well, look at you, Ser Jorah—acting like a legal officer with a talent for investigation!" Tyrion couldn't help sneering, "I recall the chief banner‑bearer just announced this very news."

"Do you expect me to blather on like you, or do you already know how they came here?" Jorah stared at him, somewhat displeased.

"No need to say it, damn it—some bastards call me a little demon, but I too came out of my mother's womb. They're the same!" If we liken the black lake to a womb, the statement makes sense. "They fled when they saw us coming, obviously knowing they weren't a match for us, which shows their numbers are limited—or that they've already seized the gold."

"Maybe all this is the Dragon Queen's plot." Jogo interjected, "This isn't something I'm saying—Valyrian slaves of the Red Temple aside, everyone knows the queen needs thirty strong men each night to satisfy her lust, must bathe in human blood daily to stay youthful, and without infant flesh she can never be sated."

Tyrion was amused by his seriousness, so he turned a smile toward Jorah, the only one here willing to defend the Dragon Queen's honor.

"Only fools believe foolish talk." Jorah gave him a contemptuous glance and walked away.

"Only fools speak foolish talk." Tyrion laughed, shook his head, and followed Mormont.

"Ser Jorah, in Valyria, how much does a slave warrior sell for?" Tyrion hurried after him to ask.

"You want to buy a slave?" Ser Jorah glanced back at him, "A slave's price depends on the slave himself; it can't be known precisely."

"What about a slave who's about to die?" Tyrion asked with a smile, gazing at the slave warrior still moaning softly beside the stone wall.

"Then it's worth nothing." Ser Jorah told him.

"Heh, that's fine then." Tyrion chuckled, "Ser Jorah, I'm preparing to buy those few slave warriors."

"What madness are you spouting?" Ser Jorah pulled his gaze from those slaves, turned back, and looked at him again.

"What madness?" Tyrion laughed, saying, "Maybe I really am mad—my kindness has gone mad. If I watch them just groan and die slowly, my little conscience would ache!"

"You have a conscience?" Mormont sneered, "You killed your own father."

Mormont's words were like a blade; Tyrion felt his smile turn unnatural, yet he still curled his lips deeply and faced the great bear.

"You don't get it—when I shot through him, my whole conscience was laughing." For my Tysha, for my good wife, "Damn, I've never felt more relieved in my life."

"Hmph!" He gave a cold, disdainful snort and strode away.

Tyrion felt resentful inside, but he immediately gave chase.

"Ser Jorah, when I was on the Wall I heard Commander Mormont mention you," Tyrion hoped he would slow his steps, "I have to admit I once envied and resented you—your father gave up his earldom to go serve on the Wall so you could early take up the family's 'burden' or honor; I've never seen a father who loved his son this much."

Mormont snapped his head around, clamped his right hand fiercely around his throat, and lifted him with one hand.

He could neither breathe nor speak; his legs could only kick feebly at Mormont's arm in plea.

Damn, it turns out his father is also his weak spot.

The whole mercenary company witnessed the scene; under their gaze, Mormont hurled him down hard.

Tyrion hit the ground and coughed violently.

"Next time, if I hear you mention my father again, I'll break your neck." Mormont said angrily.

"Whoa," Tyrion didn't know what to say, "What did I say?" I was just speaking out of jealousy.

"I don't care what you said." He turned and left.

Tyrion's task wasn't finished, so he had to keep following him.

"Ser Jorah," he shouted, "let me continue talking about conscience, okay?"

He felt truly exhausted.

"What conscience do you want to talk about?" Ser Jorah had no patience; Tyrion knew that in his heart he was probably just a buzzing green-headed fly.

"Ah, good ser, of course it's the conscience of buying slave warriors." He answered quickly, afraid that if the man strode off he'd lose him.

"I don't buy slaves." Ser Jorah said in a low voice.

Damn, you've caught one.

"Ah, good ser, of course I'm buying." My conscience is mine, "but I have no money—not even a copper."

"I don't have any either." Ser Jorah said.

Lying isn't good.

"Ser Jorah, you said you still have some money to buy horses from the sheep‑people," Tyrion felt he was begging, "could you lend me some?"

He turned his head to scrutinize him, as if checking whether he was serious enough.

"A Lannister always pays his debts." He said to Jorah.

"You're not a Lannister." Jorah said silently.

"Damn it, if not a Lannister, what are you?" He cursed loudly.

"Xishan."

"Ser Jorah, why are you teasing me?" Tyrion feigned complaint, "Why bother bringing a Xishan to see the Dragon Queen?"

"You killed your father; you have no right to keep that name." He said solemnly.

I killed my enemy. "Come on! Which law says that?" Tyrion couldn't fathom how borrowing a little money could be so hard, "I admit that killing an heir's heir forfeits the inheritance—damn, the law at least stipulates that. But I've also never again claimed Casterly Rock!"

Mormont finally stopped making a sound, perhaps annoyed by his harassment, and pulled two gold coins from his pocket, tossing them to him like alms to a beggar.

He had no choice but to pick them up, like picking up the silver stag copper coins that Emperor Joffrey tossed to the dwarf jesters.

"That's all there is!" he said, then walked away.

"Hey hey hey, Ser Jorah," he caught up again, trailing behind him, "slow down a bit."

Mormont impatiently turned his head to look at him.

"What is it now?"

"I know your Dothraki is passable, I don't know if your Valyrian is any better," Tyrion said, seeing him about to turn and leave, he hurriedly sped up his speech, "hey hey, the tiger-faced folk of Valyria, none of them speak the Common Tongue, but I can only utter a few Valyrian curses—communication impossible..."

Jorah was utterly speechless.

Tyrion could only beg again, knowing this knight would not refuse.

"If you buy them, they might also die," Jorah reminded.

"They might not die, who knows?" Regardless of whether they'd die, but if someone like a scholar were nearby overseeing them, the chance of survival would be higher—"at least, the little one's conscience won't ache."

"But I don't see your conscience aching for the team members," Mormont sneered.

"Back then my conscience was wholly on my horse!" Tyrion laughed, unbothered, "My lord, please, help me negotiate?"

Ser Jorah scrutinized him seriously, then walked toward the tiger-faced leader.

The Imp followed behind, flicking a gold coin, quickly catching up, inwardly pleased.

Tyrion watched Mormont negotiate with the tiger-faced leader, seeing the tiger-faced leader continually glance at Tyrion, Tyrion returned a smile. When Tyrion flicked two golden dragons at the leader, the leader then walked up to the three still-living wounded soldiers, muttered something, then reached out and pulled the felt tops off their helmets.

"The slave is yours! Dwarf!" the tiger-faced leader said in Valyrian to Tyrion.

"The slave is mine! Stinking cat!" Tyrion replied in the Common Tongue.

After treating the wounds of the three wounded soldiers, Tyrion was in high spirits, not only because he had gained "assets," but also because of the joy of saving lives; he didn't know which factor weighed more.

They set up camp behind the stone wall, pitching all the tents before evening.

Because of the matter with the death knight, Tyrion had missed communicating with all the squad leaders; now, aiming for the position of chief financial officer, he had to first talk with Ptolemy, the prospective regiment commander.

At that moment, Ptolemy was in his own tent, sitting behind a simple table, fully armored with his longsword leaning nearby. Seeing Tyrion enter, he curled the corner of his mouth, revealing a faint smile.

"I heard you bought three wounded slaves?"

He began with what everyone knows.

"My lord, I only wanted to save three slaves," Tyrion laughed, "and I owe it to Ser Jorah lending me two golden dragons."

"The picnic band does not allow slaves to join," Ptolemy said with a light smile.

"My lord, these three are merely wounded now; once they recover, they'll be qualified fighters. My lord, you need only pay me—though his head is worth ten thousand soldiers—anyway, now you not only gain a clever mind but also reap the combat strength of three seasoned soldiers. Know that our regiment now numbers only one hundred thirty!"

"One hundred thirty-two, you missed two. As I see it, you bought three slaves, we'd have to add three mouths to feed," he said, "but before the main force arrives, we aren't preparing to press forward, so at this stage, your purchasing slaves to bolster strength isn't foolish—or rather, you already knew our choice?"

"Damn it, it's your choice, right?" "Of course not. I just sympathize with the wounded, eh, especially those wounded who were made slaves!"

"How can you sympathize with slaves?" Ptolemy asked boredly.

"Ha, it's naturally this period's experience that lets me empathize with their plight!" Tyrion laughed, "I've always been a good guy!"

"Heh, a good person. Let me see, is someone who killed his father also a good person?" Ptolemy wore a teasing smile.

Tyrion chuckled hehe, finally feeling he could lay his cards on the table.