292 AC. The Battle of Viserysfort had officially begun.
After leaving the lands west of the river, Viserys crossed back to Viserysfort. He personally ascended the high walls at the foot of the mountain.
The entire Golden Company didn't need to be crammed into the city; Viserys had only brought four hundred archers with him.
The black banner of the red dragon fluttered atop the ramparts. The soldiers of the Golden Company eyed the flag with curiosity; to them, serving under this banner felt like a strange twist of fate.
"What a magnificent city," Black Balaq marveled.
"After this war, it will be even more magnificent," Viserys told Balaq with confidence.
Viserysfort now boasted double walls. The inner wall was tall, the outer slightly lower, but both were imposing, and beyond the outer wall lay a deep moat.
The massive stones from the Velvet Hills had been sacrificed to build the foundations of these outer ramparts.
From the ramparts, Viserys could see the captives dying not far from the walls—Lhazareen and runaway slaves.
They had been humiliated by the Dothraki, whipped and terrified into running, only to be cut down by arrows when they failed to reach safety.
Far from frightening the people of Andalos, the Dothraki atrocities only fueled their rage.
This was another chance for the citizens of Viserysfort to witness the brutality of the Horselords. They had to face this grim reality head-on.
The Dothraki launched their first charge. The ground trembled, looking as if it might crack open under the weight of the horde.
The Screamers swung their arakhs, the blades flashing cold in the sunlight.
No one doubted the martial prowess or ferocity of the Dothraki, but their defense was undeniably poor.
They wore their traditional garb: bare chests, painted leather vests, horsehair leggings, and bronze medallions on their belts.
"Trebuchets!"
"Loose!"
Inside Viserysfort, the arms of the massive trebuchets rose—one, two, three, four.
Hundreds of stones climbed into the azure sky, each the size of a man's head.
They crashed down, splashing into the river or smashing through the charging cavalry, crushing the Dothraki into a paste of bone, meat, and organs.
The soldiers affectionately called the trebuchets the "Four Goddesses of Viserysfort," blowing kisses of death to the Dothraki.
Some Dothraki riders managed to survive the rain of stones, but the city responded with a storm of angry arrows. The longbowmen guided a merciless rain of death.
"Lord Balaq, have your men hold for a moment. Our Andalos archers will take the lead," Hugo said to Black Balaq.
Black Balaq nodded. "No problem!"
Balaq had brought four hundred archers as reinforcements. One-third used crossbows, another third used double-curved horn-and-sinew bows from the East, and the remaining third—those of Westerosi blood—used yew longbows that were superior to the others.
Of course, the deadliest were the twenty Goldenheart bowmen Balaq brought with him. Thirty more remained with the main Golden Company force. These fifty Summer Islanders were his personal guard.
Only a dragonbone bow could rival a Goldenheart bow.
Black Balaq watched the Andalos longbow corps with interest; they seemed equally well-trained.
"Draw!"
"Loose!" Hugo commanded.
The Andalos longbowmen put their backs into it. The elite archers of the entire nation were gathered on these walls.
The effective range of a longbow was two hundred and fifty yards, though the height of the walls extended that reach.
The bare-chested horselords received the kiss of death. Wherever an arrow struck, it left a bleeding hole.
Black Balaq's expression grew solemn.
The walls were packed with Andalos longbowmen, outnumbering even the Golden Company's archers. Their eyes were sharp, their skills refined. Hugo, their commander, was clearly a master marksman himself.
Galloping horses collapsed, screaming in pain, while their riders were trampled into the dirt by the hooves of those following behind.
The corpses left on the field were a pitiful sight. Men and horses alike looked like hedgehogs.
The road to Viserysfort had become a highway to hell, filled with the stench of death.
"Do you see this, Drogo? This is my gift to you." Viserys leaned against the battlements, wondering if Khal Drogo would lead the charge himself.
"Cowards!"
"Milk men hiding behind stones!" the Dothraki cursed. The storm of attacks had cost them dearly.
Drogo's men relied on recurve bows and arakhs. It was like punching an iron wall; they were only breaking their own knuckles.
On the other side, Captain-General Myles Toyne stood atop a watchtower, using a Myrish lens to observe the stones raining down like steel fists.
"If they keep charging like this, Drogo is going to suffer," Myles mused.
"Hard to say for sure," Harry Strickland, the Paymaster, said cautiously.
Harry was always cautious. He was less of a warrior and more of a broker, a man who liked making friends.
"It's fine. Balaq has already gone up with the archers," Myles said.
"Marching is too hard; I get blisters so easily," Harry complained. "And was it necessary to take such a dangerous mission? We could have waited."
"Don't you want to go home?" Myles asked patiently.
His Paymaster wasn't much of a fighter—more like a nagging old woman—but Myles needed him.
The Strickland family had been core members of the Golden Company since its inception.
Harry's great-grandfather had fought for the Black Dragon in the First Blackfyre Rebellion and lost all his lands because of it.
"I want to go home, but we could be more careful," Harry said.
"What do the men think?" Myles asked.
"They think it's a risk. The Dothraki aren't to be trifled with. Choosing strange Andalos meant giving up easy contracts in the Disputed Lands. But for the chance to go home, they compromised," Harry explained.
The Tyroshi hadn't hired the Golden Company—their rates were too high—but the Company never lacked for clients.
Fighting in Andalos felt like an adventure to them.
"Home. I never forget that word. I swore an oath to the banner, and I haven't forgotten," Myles said. Harry fell silent.
"Hrak!"
The Dothraki began to spread out, trying to avoid the range of the trebuchets.
But the longbows, scorpions, and ballistae began to sing.
The Dothraki left heaps of bodies on the ground, yet they couldn't even reach the moat, let alone the city walls.
The Dothraki scouts rode forward again. Beside their tattered banner, their long blades were skewered with the heads of runaway slaves—Rhoynar and Andals among them.
"Cowards! Come out and fight!"
"Fight us!" the horselords demanded.
"Bring me my dragonbone bow," Viserys ordered.
The massive double-curved bow was brought to him.
The arrow flew smooth as silk, speeding forward, ever forward, until it pierced the horselord.