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Game of Thrones: The Sword King
Game of Thrones: From Deserter to Power
Game of Thrones: King of Harrenhal— Garth Greenhand Stat Panel
Three days later the river crossing began exactly as planned.
Cold rain hammered the Rhoyne all night. Mist thick with the stench of charred wood and old blood drifted over the broken walls of Valon Therys.
Once a proud Volantene riverside stronghold, the fortress was now only blackened stumps of walls, collapsed towers, burned granaries, and flagstones crusted with dried blood. Even the grass struggled to take root in soil turned to mud by slaughter.
Triarch Varyon Dortalos stood on the high eastern ridge, silver-gray hair of old Valyrian blood bound beneath his iron helm. His lean frame was encased in heavy black plate, the breastplate etched with Volantis's black dragon, rain and blood droplets still clinging to the steel.
His gaze swept the army massed along the bank. The Unsullied stood like a wall of black stone, spears angled to the ground, utterly motionless.
The Dragon Claw, the Company of the Rose, and the Storm Crows waited on the flanks, men armored and armed, their campfires flickering through the downpour and stretching their shadows long as ghosts.
"Pass the word," Varyon said, voice low and cold, carrying no emotion. "All companies board."
His guards raised the command banners. Black silk snapped and twisted in the freezing rain. Ravens burst from the poles, wings beating over the river, carrying the order to every vessel.
Barges and small boats were shoved into the water one after another. Rain-slick planks were treacherous underfoot.
Viserys Targaryen led the Dragon Claw aboard first. Eleonora Darennis stood at the prow, sword in hand, bloodstains on her armor washed pale by the rain and dripping from her blade into the dark river.
Oars bit the water, breaking the silence as the fleet pushed west against the storm.
Inside the ruins of Valon Therys the Dothraki sentries finally noticed the movement. Hoarse shouts tore through the rain. The metallic rasp of arakhs leaving scabbards rang out.
But their defenses were pathetic—no ditches, no watchtowers, only scattered camps jammed into gaps between rubble. They had not even posted proper pickets.
"Shore!" Viserys hissed.
The lead barge ground onto the beach, mud spraying.
Dragon Claw knights spurred their horses straight off the ramps, hooves churning wet, blood-soaked earth. Longswords flashed toward the nearest Dothraki sentries.
The first sentry never had time to scream. His head flew from his shoulders, arterial spray painting the blackened stone wall.
Varyon himself rode ashore at the head of the Unsullied main body. The spear phalanx advanced in perfect lockstep, points level like a steel forest, grinding forward through the ruins.
The Dothraki scrambled to fight, riders lunging for their mounts, but the Dragon Claw had already sealed the horse pens. Arakhs clashed against longswords, sparks dying instantly in the cold rain.
"Advance. No survivors," Varyon called from behind the line, tone flat as if discussing the weather. "Retake Valon Therys. Clear every last enemy."
The Unsullied moved forward in silence. Spears punched through Dothraki chests, pinning struggling warriors to charred beams.
Screams and the wet sound of steel in flesh filled the ruins. Rain mixed with blood ran in red streams, seeping into cracked stone.
Dothraki were born for open raids and wild charges. In the tight, rubble-choked lanes of a ruined fortress they had no advantage—no command, no formation. They fought alone and died alone.
Jorah Mormont led the infantry through the wreckage, longsword splitting tents, cutting down every nomad hiding inside.
Corpses piled higher. Blood flowed thicker. The rain fell harder, yet it could not wash away the heavy copper reek that clung to the ruins.
Campfires hissed and died under the downpour, leaving only thin black smoke drifting into the gray-blue sky.
The assault was brutal. The Dragon Claw cut through their sector cleanly, but elsewhere the fighting met stiffer resistance.
Half an hour later the last Dothraki in front of the Dragon Claw fell against a broken wall.
Varyon rode into the heart of Valon Therys, hooves splashing through bodies and gore, stopping before the shattered stone marker of the old stronghold.
He wiped rain from his face, surveyed the smoking wreckage, and spoke in the same iron voice. "Order: repair the position. Prepare to march on Salmear."
The victory was carried by raven to the eastern camp, then on to Volantis itself.
Seven days later the Battle of Salmear began.
The Dragon Claw, Company of the Rose, and Storm Crows crossed the Rhoyne again—barges and small boats landing beyond the safe stretch downstream of Valon Therys—striking exactly on the Triarch's timetable and cutting the Dothraki retreat in a single blow.
At the same moment Varyon's main force pressed forward on the right bank, completing the encirclement.
These kos were natural raiders, tireless riders, but they understood nothing of basic defense—especially not inside the very ruins they had burned themselves.
From the first clash the fight became simple slaughter.
Viserys and his sellswords held the escape route like a locked gate. No savage slipped through.
The army then swung back to the left bank and crushed another Dothraki khas.
Yet the great victory brought no cheers inside Volantis.
The elephant nobles kept screeching, still demanding Varyon turn the entire army around at once and march straight at Drogo's main horde.
Crushing scattered kos meant nothing to these greedy cowards. They wanted an instant, total, song-worthy triumph.
Old-blood nobles and common citizens alike joined the chorus. Everyone longed for the war to end today—even if it meant lying to themselves.
But Varyon Dortalos held the city's full military power in his fist and would not be rushed.
He knew that by the time Volantis scraped together a second army the capital might already be ash. So he refused to gamble. He stuck to the plan: destroy Drogo's vassal bands one by one, cut every supply line and reinforcement.
In two or three months the siege would collapse on its own.
He also refused to let this khalasar ride away intact, even if it was now a broken force.
He needed a clear, legitimate victory. The sellswords needed gold. The citizens needed peace. The city needed to make sure the Dothraki never dared return.
Viserys nodded to himself in silent approval.
This was one of the rare competent commanders the Free Cities ever produced.
Without Varyon's caution and resolve the war would have been lost long ago.
The Volantene army had paid dearly. In the retaking of Valon Therys the Thunder Spears had been almost wiped out—thousands of men left to rot among the ruins.
Had some lesser fool been in command, the entire army might be lying there now instead.
Sadly, men who understood basic sense and timing were always in short supply.
The exiled prince found himself again and again defending Varyon's strategy in front of impatient sellswords and blood-hungry captains.
That stance earned him personal thanks from the Triarch himself—and heavy sacks of golden dragons that clinked satisfyingly with every step.
Varyon was richer than most cities. With the army under his control he commanded staggering war funds.
This temporary alliance was already paying Viserys far more than he had expected.
And now an even greater opportunity lay directly in front of the Dragon Claw commander.
One that would bring him another step closer to fulfilling the contract.
Half an hour earlier, forward scouts had brought back news that would make any sellsword's blood sing.
Right under the Dragon Claw's nose sat an entire, untouched Dothraki khas.