Viserys knew that if Varyon hadn't given the strict order—every camp had to be dug with trenches, planted with sharpened stakes, and reinforced with earthworks—Khal Drogo's riders would have already slammed into them weeks ago, carving the slow-moving army apart along the Rhoyne.
These past months, sellswords, slaves, and even the pampered Volantene citizens had spent every evening bent over shovels, hacking ditches, sharpening stakes, and setting cheval-de-frise. At night they stood rotating watches while bonfires burned from dusk till dawn.
The army moved slower than the soft-bellied nobles inside the city walls wanted, but every step was solid. The starving nomads had never been given a single opening.
"Tomorrow at first light," Varyon said, finger tracing the open ground on the map, "we will face the Dothraki camp on this wide, treeless plain." His Valyrian-steel rod flicked the wooden markers with crisp precision. "The ground is perfect for us to deploy our full battle line… and it also gives Drogo room for the sweeping encirclement his people love. But I have a way to force the khal to fight on our terms."
"Why are you so sure Drogo will strike first?" Melwan asked, his voice identical to his twin's. "He knows that the moment his horde charges, his back will be wide open to the city garrison."
"Because, Melwan, we have a way to ignite the rage that lives in every Dothraki's blood," Varyon answered with a cold little smile. "These nomads never forgive an insult. Once fury takes them, they forget every scrap of strategy they ever knew."
His words were vague, but Viserys understood the plan instantly.
"The first Dothraki charge will be their fiercest and deadliest," Varyon continued. "So we need our hardest troops to take that first blow."
Viserys remembered the condition he had demanded when he and Varyon sealed their secret pact: the Dragon Claw would never be thrown forward as cannon fodder.
"Therefore the first line will be your Unsullied, Weymond." Varyon tapped the gray markers at the front. "Pick your best sub-commanders—men who can not only obey orders but hold the formation together in the chaos and keep issuing commands."
Weymond Dorya gave a single nod. A faint, cunning glint flashed in his pale violet eyes.
Watching him, Viserys suddenly recalled something Varyon had mentioned earlier: among the old-blood nobles, he had already planted one of their own.
Could it be Weymond Dorya?
"The Unsullied can blunt the first charge," Varyon said, a trace of regret in his voice—the long siege had cost the eunuch soldiers dearly. "But they don't have the numbers to carry the whole fight. So, Hoth, your Iron Shields will stand right behind them. The moment the savages' momentum breaks, you move up and support."
"I don't have many men left either," Torio Hoth grumbled.
"That's why I'm giving you command of three full companies of city militia spearmen," Varyon answered at once. "They may not be the finest spearmen alive, but they can hold a line and plug holes."
Torio Hoth shut his mouth and nodded. He knew arguing was pointless—and besides, having the militia as a meat-shield suited him just fine.
"Once Drogo and his kos realize they haven't shattered our line on the first try," Varyon went on, moving the markers slowly, "they'll try to pull back, reform, and charge again. That is when the Freeborn, the Warrior Maids, and the rest of the militia will push forward. Cavalry without speed, trapped in a sea of infantry, are far less terrifying."
"I'll send my Dragon Claw spearmen and the remaining Unsullied to advance with them," Viserys put in, voice calm. He needed to support his co-conspirator without sounding too eager and raising suspicion.
"But the Dothraki often split off and swing around our flanks," Corban Pyre objected, frowning. His Warrior Maids were all infantry and feared nothing more than being taken in the rear. "If they get behind us, those militia who've barely seen a battlefield will break in seconds."
"That's why we have the Storm Crows' riders," Varyon answered smoothly, "and our own light cavalry. Their job is to hold both flanks, chase down any who try to slip past, and make sure no Dothraki gets behind our lines."
"Don't worry, Corban," Daario Naharis drawled, the usual lazy smirk in his voice. "I'll do you the favor of watching your back."
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Pyre muttered without turning his head.
Varyon raised the Valyrian-steel rod. The tent fell instantly silent; the budding argument died before it could ignite.
"The general reserve will be the Company of the Rose, the Sons of Valyria, and Prince Viserys's Black Knights." The rod tapped the black markers at the rear of the map, tone iron-hard. "Your task is to deliver the decisive charge at the exact moment the battle hangs in the balance and shatter whatever Dothraki remain. If the line wavers, you will plug every breach instantly. Under no circumstances can Drogo break through and shatter our army's morale."
The sellsword captains exchanged quick glances. Every man had his orders. Every man understood exactly what his brothers would face when the sun rose tomorrow.
Viserys scanned their faces, trying to read something beneath the masks, but these men had spent lifetimes licking blood off blades; their expressions gave away nothing.
"The city garrison also has a part to play," Varyon said, pointing his rod at a Volantene messenger Viserys recognized. "Altarys brings fresh orders from the Triarchs. Repeat what you told me."
Altarys stepped forward and bowed stiffly. "The Triarchs have commanded that, at the signal, twenty thousand men will sally from the city under the command of Menys Taryar. He is a capable officer—brave in battle. It was he who rallied the militia and launched the counter-attack that broke the last Dothraki assault on the walls."
Viserys looked at the oily little envoy and barely kept the contempt from his lips. He knew exactly what sort of man Altarys was. If the elephant party had to push someone like him forward, they were clearly running out of competent commanders.
"The garrison's task is to strike the Dothraki camp from behind," Varyon said, sliding several blue markers into position behind the enemy lines. "They will pin down every Dothraki reserve and keep them from reinforcing the main battle. With luck, that stab in the back will break the nerve of the kos still fighting at the front and cause them to collapse without another blow."
"Those dogs who've been hiding behind the walls for months," Torio Hoth growled, not bothering to hide his hatred, "they won't just come running out at the end and steal all the loot, will they? I know these nobles. We do the dirty work, bleed for it, and they still want the lion's share when it's time to divide the gold."
His Iron Shields would be holding the second line tomorrow—the most dangerous spot. He had to make damn sure his men got every copper they had earned.
"Volantene citizens have always respected the honorable service of—" Altarys began, but Hoth cut him off.
"I wasn't asking you, you little governor's lapdog," the Pentoshi snarled, eyes like daggers. "I don't know you and I don't want to."
Varyon stepped in quickly to smooth things over.
"No one will touch what is yours, Torio," he said, voice steady and final. "I will personally oversee the division of all spoils. Every clause of every contract Volantis signed with you will be honored. Do you trust my word?"
A short, tense silence filled the tent.
Finally Torio Hoth gave a single nod.
"Night is falling," Varyon said, glancing at the sunset bleeding across the tent flaps. He swallowed a sigh. "Return to your companies. Tell your men exactly what they must do tomorrow. Then… make your peace with whatever gods you follow—whether the Seven, the Lord of Light, or anything else. When the first light of dawn touches the plain, we march to battle, and there will be no more time for such things. Dismissed."
Viserys Targaryen was the first to leave the command pavilion.
The meeting had been less a discussion and more Varyon issuing final marching orders.
Outside, the last sliver of sunset was fading. Wind off the Rhoyne plain carried the smell of smoke, sweat, and horseflesh. Campfires crackled everywhere; warhorses stamped and snorted in the gathering dark.
A heavy, smothering weight settled over Viserys's chest—the thick, iron certainty of what tomorrow would bring.