When you command 500 cavalry, you're a local warlord in Rome. With 2,000, you become a noble of Rome's glory. But with 30,000 cavalry, you are a close ally of the Roman emperor himself.
Viserys surveyed the cavalry he had painstakingly assembled, numbering around 8,000. He imagined the near future when he would use them to intimidate much of the continent. Among them were 3,000 of his own cavalry, 2,000 Myr cavalry—most of whom were slaves—1,000 provided by the old commander, 1,000 from Lys, and another 1,000 sellswords riders of mixed quality. Many of these sellswords riders could barely ride a horse, let alone fight effectively.
In the past, before the Confederation was established, it would have been easy to hire thousands of sellswords riders from the Disputed Lands.
But with the Confederation's formation, most conflicts between the Free Cities had been resolved peacefully, forcing the sellswords to turn their attention eastward to Slaver's Bay.
If Viserys had 5,000 cavalry of the same quality as his own, he wouldn't have needed to go to such lengths to cobble together an army.
Drogo's cavalry, though poorly equipped, were numerous and of high quality. Without sufficient forces, Viserys's men could easily be overwhelmed by the Dothraki in a bloody battle. The vast battlefield would strip him of any ability to micromanage the fight.
While the profits from selling cigarettes had allowed Viserys to acquire sophisticated equipment in a short time, they couldn't buy him well-trained soldiers overnight. The sellswords riders, now puffing on the fragrant cigarettes Viserys had distributed, had all signed lucrative contracts.
Their pay was generous, and the cigarettes—normally an expensive luxury—were supplied without limit for the next month and a half.
However, as they began to indulge, some more shrewd mercenaries chose to hoard the cigarettes, planning to resell them later for a profit.
"Why have we suddenly stopped here instead of moving on?" asked one mercenary, holding up a cigarette.
"Yeah, this is a terrible place to stop. Why did we have to camp in this cursed spot called The Sorrows?"
"You don't think Viserys expects us to take on the Shrouded Lord, do you? Hahaha! Way to go, Viserys!" a group of freelance riders snickered.
At that moment, dozens of Unsullied cavalry arrived with large barrels of water and announced, "Everyone, come and drink some medicine to prevent grayscale. We're about to cross The Sorrows soon."
The Unsullied beat their gongs, repeating the call to drink the medicine, which quickly unsettled the sellswords.
"Wait, we really have to cross The Sorrows?!"
"No one said anything about crossing The Sorrows before! We're out!"
"Yeah, why go to The Sorrows?"
"Hell no! We're not going!"
It was as if they had ignored the words "prevent grayscale" and only heard the deadly order to "cross The Sorrows."
The Unsullied spoke coldly, "Fine, but if you back out, you'll have to pay triple the cancellation fee, and you'll also be charged the full price for the cigarettes you've received."
Those words hit hard. Triple the cancellation fee? The payment Viserys had offered was enough to let them live like lords for a year—if they managed their money wisely. It was enough to buy a house, get married, and even raise a couple of children. Losing that money to pay the triple fee meant they'd be selling themselves short.
And then there were the cigarettes. At first, they hadn't understood why they had to sign their names when collecting the cigarettes, but now it was clear. Retrieving payment would be all too easy.
"Damn that eunuch," one mercenary muttered, realizing the trap they'd walked into. "No wonder he was smiling when he handed out the cigarettes."
Some of them felt the weight of the bulging bags at their sides and began to seriously reconsider whether the medicine to prevent grayscale was worth a try. They quickly received a reassuring answer.
"Prince Viserys will be the first to cross The Sorrows," the Unsullied added. "So you should be relieved."
The group of mercenaries exchanged glances. Suddenly, the situation didn't seem so dire. After all, if Viserys himself was going to lead the way, the medicine had to be effective. In their experience, nobles were typically afraid of death and they weren't reckless. If the "Lord" was going to be at the front line, they figured it must be safe enough for them to follow.
"Okay, we'll drink it!" A young-looking sellsword stepped forward, filled his water bottle with the clear liquid, and noticed it tasted slightly sour.
Valsha had given Viserys a cloth strip less than a meter long, but it had to be soaked in a pool-sized area to produce enough drinking water for 10,000 people. The water was nearly tasteless, so to convince the sellswords that it was truly an antidote, Viserys added something to make it sour and astringent.
Among all the men in the army, the sellswords were the hardest to manage. Viserys's own cavalry knew what they were signing up for from the start. Most were made up of slaves, Unsullied, and former Windblown cavalry, so they didn't doubt Viserys's orders or the effectiveness of the antidote.
Both the self-assured cavalrymen and the skeptical sellswords drank the potion and rode into the grey, misty expanse of The Sorrows.
Seeing the others, the Myrish and Lysene cavalry, driven by herd instinct, also chose to trust the potion.
"Prince, are you sure you don't want to take more men with you?" Connington asked.
"No, this time I want to infiltrate, not assassinate," Viserys replied, as Dany tied his Dothraki braid behind his back. His silver hair had been dyed black.
Even Regis donned a Dothraki wig, covering his egg-shaped bald head, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Nearly all the cavalrymen wore Dothraki wigs with armor hidden beneath their clothes. The only thing distinguishing them was the black cloth tied around their arms.
Viserys gave the Dragon's Horn a final inspection, the weapon he had used to sow chaos in the Horselords' camp.
"For the last time, whatever happens in the Dothraki camp, Dany's orders are to be followed!" he commanded.
"Yes, Prince," Connington reassured him. He knew Viserys and Dany seemed to have a special way of communicating. During the month of practicing the 'Song of the Moonsingers,' though he hadn't mastered even the basics of fire magic, he had begun to sense the existence of magic.
"Prince, the Valyrian steel armor from the Palace of Sorrows has been collected—a total of 44 sets!" Young Connington reported.
"Send word to the entire army: anyone who cuts off the head of a Khal will be rewarded with a set of Valyrian steel armor. Cut off Drogo's head, and you'll receive three sets!" Viserys declared.