Prince Viserys and his hand-picked guard cut straight through the heart of the Dothraki camp like a red-hot blade through fat, stopping before the largest felt pavilion.
A high-ranking Dothraki warrior waited there, mounted on a magnificent white mare. His braid hung to his shoulder blades, heavy gold rings gleaming in his ears.
The warrior's face was twisted with pure hatred. He ignored the total collapse of his camp, ignored every scream and dying horse, and charged straight at Viserys. His only thought was to take the head of the Silver Stallion and win eternal glory.
The two riders crashed together. Steel rang. The first exchange was even—neither man gave ground.
Viserys had never intended this to become some knightly duel. He had brought his guard for a reason.
Eleonora lunged instantly, her sword a silver blur. The Dothraki twisted aside in panic. A Westerosi knight from the Dragon Claw seized the opening and drove his spear deep into the white mare's neck.
The horse screamed and collapsed like a felled tree. The screaming warrior had no time to roll free. The dead mare pinned him to the ground, his agonized howls echoing across the camp.
Viserys felt the tension in his chest ease.
Even if the savage managed to drag himself out from under the carcass, he was finished as a fighter. They could leave him there and move on to the rest.
And the rest were dying fast.
While Viserys and his guard dealt with the champion, the other Black Knights tore through the camp like wolves in a sheepfold, spreading death and panic.
Crude hide tents were hacked down or trampled flat by panicked horses. Riderless steppe ponies bolted everywhere, crushing anything in their path.
Flames roared up in one corner of the camp. Supply wagons burned like torches, thick black smoke rolling skyward. No one knew whether the Dragon Claw had started the fires or whether the Dothraki had done it themselves in their terror.
Nowhere in the entire camp did anyone mount an organized defense. No one could. Their command structure had already shattered. Not a single warrior carried enough authority to rally the rest.
A lone arrow hissed out of nowhere.
Viserys barely registered the threat in time.
An anonymous screaming warrior had drawn and loosed straight at the prince's head. The arrow struck his helm with a deafening clang.
For one frozen heartbeat the memories of his first life flooded him—Redgrass Field, Bloodraven's black arrows, the white arrow that had punched through his own armor and ended Daemon Blackfyre.
Viserys surged forward like lightning, longsword slashing left and right, desperately confirming he was not cursed, that the steel had held, that he was still alive, still whole, still able to fight.
Only when his blade sheared off an entire Dothraki arm and the man's raw scream cut through the air did the blood-smell and pain drag him back to the present. He realized he was far from the Trident, his half-brother long turned to dust. An ordinary savage's arrow could never kill him the way that one had.
He also understood something else with brutal clarity: even caught by surprise and falling apart, the Dothraki were still terrifyingly dangerous in single combat.
As long as one man could still draw a bow, victory was not yet won. Let your guard down for a single heartbeat and triumph could turn to mourning.
From then on Viserys fought with every sense screaming. He fell back into the center of his guard, eyes sweeping every shadow, while his sword delivered cold, merciless death.
He gave no quarter to anyone in that camp, and the Black Knights obeyed without question—slaughter until nothing moved.
Half an hour later the fighting was over.
A few lucky Dothraki had found horses and galloped into the grass, vanishing like smoke.
Most of the once-terrifying screaming warriors lay in the dirt and blood, never to rise again.
The supply wagons that had once sheltered them were now only blackened frames. Captives were herded into the open by the soldiers.
The Dragon Claw began the familiar aftermath.
They separated any Volantene nobles or wealthy merchants among the slaves for high ransom. The rest were sent to Varyon Dortalos for the Triarchs to decide their fate.
The captured Dothraki warriors would go with them. The Triarchs had special plans for those men—plans they never spoke of outside the Black Wall.
One party searched the surviving tents and wagons for loot. Another rounded up the loose steppe horses to swell their own herds.
Viserys reined in, body aching, and surveyed the scene with quiet satisfaction at his own decision.
He lifted his eyes to the sky. A huge flock of ravens wheeled overhead—the true winners of every war.
These ravens had fed on battlefields along the Rhoyne for years. They were so fat and glossy that maesters in Westeros would have stared in disbelief.
The birds obeyed instinct alone, landing on bronze Dothraki corpses and tearing at the meat, ignoring the living men breathing only feet away.
One raven dropped right beside Viserys's horse and began ripping into a body without fear.
Viserys and his men had long grown used to the scavengers. After years of war the corpses they left behind were countless.
Every creature had to eat to live. Right now they were simply grateful it was not their own flesh being torn.
"Your Grace! Good news!"
A messenger's cheerful voice cut through the quiet. Viserys recognized him at once—the same Westerosi knight who had speared the white mare.
"What is it, Loren?"
"The savage pinned under the horse is one of Khal Drogo's bloodriders!" Loren Rayne, self-styled last heir of a fallen house, hurried forward. "The slaves recognized him! They also say the camp was on the edge of open revolt—or some kind of Dothraki trial by combat."
"Arguing over whether to keep obeying the khal's orders?" Viserys said calmly, already knowing the truth.
"Exactly as Your Grace and Ser Mormont predicted! Bloodriders are not supposed to betray their khal, but most men in that camp wanted to do what Vargo did—break away and ride west to raid for themselves."
The pieces snapped together.
A commander whose authority had been openly challenged could issue no orders. That was why the camp had been so utterly defenseless.
"Drag that bloodrider out from under the horse," Viserys ordered, a small, secret smile touching his lips. "Keep him alive. He still has great value. Loren, you performed brilliantly today. Continue to serve well and one day I will let you carry my dragon-claw banner."
"As you command, Your Grace!"
The self-styled heir of Castamere bowed and hurried away.
Viserys gave a soft laugh. No one could prove Loren Rayne was truly blood of the old Reynes, but the man's spear-work and horsemanship were better than most in the company, and his mind was quick.
Even if the castle he spoke of was only a memory, today's gold would not be short a single coin for him.
A moment later Eleonora rode up. Her sword was still wet with blood. Her eyes burned with the cruel satisfaction of vengeance fulfilled.
She had offered the gods of Valyria a fine sacrifice today. The Sword Saintess's deities could be proud.
"What happened to your helm?" she asked, voice carrying her usual cold edge and teasing. "Which blind fool gave you such a generous gift? Don't tell me you went soft in the fight."
A flicker of dark humor crossed Viserys's mind. "I nearly repeated Daemon Blackfyre's mistake on the Redgrass Field. It's nothing—just a scratch."
He tilted his head to show the shallow arrow gouge across the steel, smiling faintly. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper only she could hear.
"This time I was lucky. Not like the last."
The moment the words left his mouth, a heavy, malevolent gaze fell upon him.
It did not come from Eleonora.
A heartbeat later a raven's cry split the sky—shrill, almost hysterical.
The feeding scavengers exploded upward in a black cloud, wings beating frantically as they fled toward the horizon. Their calls grew sharper, wilder, more vicious with every wingbeat.
A thousand miles away, far from the banks of the Rhoyne, a man jerked as if struck by lightning. He froze where he stood, blood turning to ice in his veins.