Yes, it's an Unsullied POV
The wind blew softly, bringing the stench of the dead and dying to the top of the wall as it passed over the besieger's encampment. Rotting Rat stood at his post, his black eyes locked dead ahead, focused on the enemy encampment and siege lines. His almond eyes and pale skin marked him as one of the Lhazareen, but under the pointed helm and the padded coat, it did not make any difference the ancestry of the man that stood, unflinching in the face of certain death.
All men must die, that was how it was said in Braavos of Old, Braavos of the Many Canals, but Rotting Rat did not know of Braavos, or care for it. All men must die, becayse sooner or later, fate catches up with them. His own people sang of such things as well, but neitjer did he know of the poems of his people.
He had no memory of life outside the Unsullied. He did not remember the day he was cut, nor did he remember the day he strangled his dog, nor the day he slew the infant. All of that had happened, but not to him, not to Rotting Rat. No longer did he have to forget every single thing that came to his head, and only focus on warcraft - some of the Unsullied even began to drink, a few began to visit brothels (in whatever capacity they were able), and select few began gambling away whatever money they could get their hands on for thrill. They were free now, and that meant that some of them immitated the ways of free men. Not Rotting Rat though, he was not a man, and would never be a man, he knew. His humanity had ceased the day he had slit the infant's throat and given the mother a coin, though he did not remember the day. He knew that there was nothing human in his past, but then why, if that was so, did he have such a human-like future?
It did not matter. He was an unsullied, and he would remain an unsullied, undefiled by the world about him. He would not engage in the gambling, whoring, and drinking, but would meditate and train for battle.
As he finished counting the seconds in his mind, he turned to his right and began to march to the rhythm of inaudible drums, making his way to his other sentry position atop the city wall, in the tower that overlooked the north-west of the city, and the south-east outside the city, where the enemy lay encamped. Up here, beneath a canopy to protect from both sun and rain, lay a chest with crossbows and bolts, to fire down on approaching enemies. Stones as well lay here in a mound, large stones easily able to smash a skull on impact, and heavy enough to disrupt a turtleback formation.
He watched the Yunkishmen loading the trebuchet closest to the wall, watched as they loaded another dying slave into its cup, and then flung him into the city, his living corpse leaving a trail of filth behind as it flew through the air to bounce against the ground inside the city, leaving gore and filth where it landed.
The bodies had been flying all afternoon, he recalled. For the past few days, bodies flew incessantly into the city, and the Unsullied were the ones who would deal with the messes that would result, removing the limbs and cleaning the paving stones, and then burning all of the material used to do such, before bathing themselves in salt water. Such was the life of the eunuch warriors; to be left with tasks that were unfitting to be done by any citizen, and to be willing to die for any reason, for any cause, at any moment. They did not fear disease, though it could decimate their ranks in a flash, they did not fear storms of arrows that fell like rain, though they were lightly armored against it. They could show no fear and win no glory for their own right, only death was their purpose in life, and then, and only then, would they meet their true mother face-to-face - not the mother of their birth, but Estara, as her name truly was, the Lady of Battle, the Maiden of War, the Mistress of Ten-Thousand Spears. On the day of the World's End, she would gather together all her sons, the Unsullied Ones, who remained pure from all vices, and she would lead the Battle against the dark to win one final thrust against the eternal enemy. For her sake the Unsullied bore no complaint and suffered all their indignities, to earn the pride of place at her side, to stand at her right hand and wear the Gilded Mail of her chosen, to win incalculable glory against a foe that outmatched a man in every way except one. For their foes, their true foes, were stronger, more fleet-of-foot, more cunning in their machinations and more cruel in their weaponry than all others, but there was one thing that they and their neverending hordes lacked.
Discipline.
Rotting Rat stood still atop the tower, unmoving except for the blinking of his dark eyes. The eunuch warriors below scrambled to wash away the blood and gore from the paving stones, as more Unsullied rushed to gather the rotting limbs that had flown away from the impact so that they could be be burned. They do not care for their own lives, he thought. Just like an Unsullied should.
I'd like to make a quick point of busting a bit of the mythology around the Unsullied here for a moment. They are not superhuman, but rather incredibly disciplined, resilient to pain, and unwavered by fear. This can be achieved by Fanaticism as well, without the castration being necessary, so I filled in a bit of lore on my own, namely, the Unsullied Faith.
Also, yes, if they hit with enough force (usually the same amount needed to kill), a body can bounce on impact. It's kind of horrific to behold.