Game of Thrones: Joffrey the Chosen

Chapter 102 The Smooth Road of Pingchuan

The Mande is the longest river in Westeros.

Without boats, the horses cannot cross.

Then let's go around it.

Fifteen thousand cavalry and infantrymen from the valley marched arrogantly southward through the East River Bend; after all, with so many men, it was impossible to hide them.

The sun made their armor scorching hot, but they were deep in enemy territory and had to be fully armed for safety.

James instinctively raised his hand and touched his helmet.

There was no gilding, nor the terrifying jaws of a lion.

Behind it lies a twisted scar, the marks of rolled-up flesh resembling a centipede crawling on his left cheek, which itch terribly whenever he sweats.

"If I ever wear that lion helmet again, I'll be the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms!"

That helmet has already caused him harm twice.

The first time was at a martial arts tournament. When the hunting dogs knocked him off his horse, he fell off and couldn't pull himself off.

The audience watched him struggle on the ground like an overturned turtle, mocking him as if he were a child.

The second time was not long ago.

In an attempt to prove himself, he charged too far once again, and was struck on the back of the head by a meteor hammer amidst the chaos of battle.

Because of the lining and chainmail hood inside, his head was fine, but the helmet was tilted, obscuring half of his vision.

Being blind is more dangerous than not having a helmet, so James had to take it off.

then.

Then the sword in his right hand flew away.

James remembered the man clearly; he had no coat of arms, no cloak, and even his armor was pieced together.

A freelance rider, the lowest of the low, works for money, and if he dies, no one will even collect his body.

In the past, it would have taken at most three moves.

With a flick of the wrist and a flick of the sword tip, the man's weapon would be thrown from his hand, and he would kneel on the ground begging for mercy, calling him "Sir," "I surrender," and "Spare my life."

But now.

James couldn't withstand any of the three moves.

Although the sword was clearly aimed at the throat, the tip of the sword grazed past the ear instead.

The opponent's sword thrust at him, and he dodged the first, second, and third strikes.

The fourth stroke was on his face.

The sword's edge sliced ​​into his cheekbone, tearing all the way down to his jaw; in that instant, he could almost hear the sound of flesh ripping apart.

James moved his lips and softly uttered those two words.

"surrender----"

His voice was so soft it was like a mosquito's buzz; even he himself couldn't hear it.

The man grinned maliciously as he stepped forward, intending to take him prisoner.

Then Royce arrived from behind and blew a big hole in the guy's head with a single shot.

Blood splattered all over James's face.

He licked it.

It was fishy and salty, with a rusty taste.

It wasn't the sweet, victorious taste of the past at all; instead, it was a taste filled with fear.

It wasn't the tension of facing a powerful enemy on the battlefield, nor the anxiety of being surrounded, but rather a fear that seeped from the very marrow of one's bones, making one want to drop the sword and turn to run away.

His right hand will never heal.

He can never go back to the way things were before.

Since then, James has always felt that everyone's way of looking at him has changed.

Those valley knights, those soldiers, those squires who fed the horses, even his cousin Lancel.

"This is the King Killer? The future greatest swordsman of the Seven Kingdoms? Haha!"

"Just a cripple whose right hand can't use a sword."

"And now she has a scar on her face, tsk tsk, she's lost all her beauty."

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No one said it to their faces; they didn't dare.

But James could see it, he could feel it.

When the light fell on him, it was like tiny needles piercing his skin, impossible to pull out.

He lifted his helmet and touched his face.

You can clearly feel the temperature difference between the raised scar and the surrounding skin.

If he had chosen to go to Casterly Rock, he could certainly have found the best scholars and received the best treatment.

But that would be tantamount to abandoning the army for one's own sake.

James had lost his right hand and his face; he didn't want to lose his dignity as well.

So he only had the accompanying scholar handle it simply.

Without poppy milk, they simply scalded the wound with boiled liquor to stop the bleeding, and then haphazardly stitched it up with needle and thread.

The stitching is ugly.

So he didn't want to tell anyone.

But whenever an acquaintance sees him, they will ask him that question.

"Sir James, what happened to your face?" Sir Barristan asked with concern.

James' left cheek twitched.

"I just got kissed by a girl." He forced a smile, trying to keep his voice casual.

The old knight, suffering from dementia, nodded, stroked his neat, short, gray beard, and rode away.

This happened two weeks ago.

They had just received supplies from King's Landing and were marching south towards Highgarden.

As the saying goes, when the king eats the feast, the prime minister has to deal with the excrement.

These lowly soldiers couldn't find anything to wipe themselves with, so they could only swallow their bitterness.

Large-scale flanking maneuvers, large-scale penetrations, and mobile warfare.

Xiao Qiao's orders always used strange wording, leaving people scratching their heads, yet their meaning was so simple that there was no way to refute them.

Abandon your baggage and head east from the Bridge of Bitterness; the troops of Barristan will come to your aid.

You only need to cross the Bluebourne River and the Boatsway River, and pass through the three castles of Green Valley, Long Table Hall, and Poplar Beach to rendezvous with the Northern army.

If we also capture the two small castles of Nightsong and Hornhill, we can completely surround Highgarden.

That's easy!

James chewed hard on the salted beef that had been soaked in water, feeling as if his teeth were about to break.

The meat was as hard as a rock; you could only hold it in your mouth, moisten it with saliva, and then grind it little by little.

Several knights nearby were also gnawing on the same thing, their cheeks bulging out and their expressions contorted as if they were being tortured.

"I'd rather gnaw on my own boots," a young knight muttered.

James agreed with him, but Barristan only sent these things.

It would taste much better with ale, but the scholar said that drinking alcohol was bad for the wound, and besides, they didn't have any alcohol at all; the little they had plundered along the way had long been divided up.

This area is full of shy Reach residents.

When they saw the army coming, they all hid themselves, refusing to share their bread and salt.

The scouts sent out also failed to find anything; of the seven sent out, only four returned.

Then James discovered that they had encountered a very serious problem.

They got lost.

"Which river is this?"

Bronze Yorn, mounted on his horse, held the crumpled map up to the sun, examining it closely while muttering to himself.

James couldn't answer either.

The inhabitants of the West Frontier and the Valley were accustomed to the rugged mountains and the narrow paths.

But now, they suddenly found themselves in a vast plain, surrounded by golden wheat fields and rolling hills. Every road looked much the same, every village looked much the same, and every river looked much the same.

Let's arrest one of the guides then.

Finally, they found an old farmer in a village who couldn't bear to leave his wheat field.

Which way do we go to Gaoting?

The old farmer raised his head, his cloudy eyes sweeping across James's face.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with a gurgling sound.

"left."

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