The wind across the Rhoyne plain drove a storm of arrows through the right wing. The ground was carpeted with the fallen of the Sons of Valyria—shattered armor glinting coldly beneath splashes of Dothraki blood. In the distance the Black Wall stood sealed tight; the city garrison cowered behind the battlements, not daring to loose a single arrow.
Weymond Dorya reined in hard, knuckles white around the haft of his morningstar. With a roar he swung the heavy spiked ball straight into the face of the charging Dothraki warrior.
Bone crunched wetly. The nomad pitched from the saddle, skull caved in, brains splattering across Weymond's breastplate.
The fool hadn't even been wearing a helmet—probably regretted it in the split second before his head exploded.
Before the body hit the dirt another screaming warrior took his place, arakh whistling down in a lethal arc.
Weymond met it with his morningstar, the impact jolting up his arm like a hammer blow.
Rage boiled in his chest. He wanted to rip Menys Taryar apart with his bare hands.
According to the Triarchs' plan, once Weymond's Sons of Valyria tore open the Dothraki right flank they were to link up with Menys's twenty-thousand-strong city garrison. The two forces would roll up the enemy wing together, then wheel back to relieve the infantry and sellswords dying in the center.
Varyon's tactics were simple and sound. All the garrison had to do was march out and fight.
Instead that elephant-party puppet had ruined everything.
Weymond prayed the coward was already dead, butchered alongside the men he had led to slaughter.
But he knew the gods rarely granted such mercy. The slug was probably already safe behind the Black Wall, trembling in some marble mansion with a cup of expensive wine, pretending the slaughter outside didn't exist.
Weymond swore a blood oath: if Menys still breathed, he would open the man's belly himself. No mercy for traitors.
"Keep formation!" he bellowed, voice raw. "No breaking! Rally on the main body—retreat!"
The retreat horns sounded, shrill and hateful. Weymond wished he could cut off his own ears.
He hated that sound. He hated the traitor who had forced it even more.
The battle had started perfectly.
The Sons of Valyria—old-blood heavy cavalry in fine plate, mounted on purebred warhorses—had smashed straight through the Dothraki right wing. Coordinating with the twins Melwan and Kelwan's infantry, they had ground the broken nomad bands into red paste.
Weymond had pushed forward, certain victory was moments away, certain he would soon link with the garrison.
Then the world collapsed.
Khal Drogo was no fool. He had hidden thousands of his finest screaming warriors on the right flank, backed by waves of slave cannon fodder. A death-line of veterans.
Menys's force outnumbered them five to one—yet the man commanded nothing but cooks, beggars, and city militia who had never seen open-field slaughter. The elephant party's lie stood naked: these men were only good for pushing ladders against walls. They refused to meet the savages blade to blade.
No training. No leadership. No courage.
Weymond had watched helplessly as the Dothraki wolves tore into the militia like sheep.
He had tried to fight through to help. A kos-band caught him mid-stride. By the time he hacked his way clear, it was too late.
Menys's entire command had been massacred. The survivors were hunted all the way to the Black Wall—only for the gates to slam shut in their faces.
Thousands of Volantene militiamen lay butchered beneath the walls, bodies broken, blood running in rivers.
Hunter and prey had switched places in a heartbeat.
The Sons of Valyria, who had come to encircle the enemy, were now the ones surrounded—lambs waiting for the knife.
Blood-mad Dothraki smelled easy meat and swarmed the splendidly equipped cavalry. They gave no ground, every blow meant to kill.
Weymond's heart bled.
These were the pride of Volantis's old blood—warriors he had personally recruited and trained. High-born men who had carried the dragonlord legacy in their veins, pushed aside by the elephant party their entire lives.
This war was supposed to be their chance to reclaim their honor.
He had watched them transform from soft young nobles into true knights of Valyria, fire in their eyes.
And now, because of Menys Taryar and the elephant traitors behind him, that fire was being stamped out in the mud.
They had done their duty. They had fought like lions.
No one was coming to save them.
Weymond swung again, smashing another nomad from the saddle, the man's chest collapsing with a wet crunch.
His friend and standard-bearer Aenys fought at his side, sword flashing, driving back the press.
Steel rang. Horses screamed. Curses and death-cries filled the air.
The Sons of Valyria's armor was superior, their horses stronger, but the Dothraki had numbers and their deadly short bows. Arrow after arrow slammed into unarmored horse bellies and legs. Once a rider fell, he lasted three heartbeats at most in the press.
The nomads kept their distance, bleeding the cavalry with arrows, sending only suicide squads in close. Numbers told.
Weymond saw the truth clearly: stay and die, or break out now.
No reinforcements were coming.
He looked to the old gods of Valyria—prayed to Balerion for strength, to Vhagar for vengeance. Not a plea. A blood vow.
By the blood of Old Valyria he swore: he would live. He would make Menys Taryar and every elephant pay. He would bathe the Dorya family altar in their traitorous blood and offer their skulls to the Two-Headed God.
"With me!" he roared. His warhorse reared, screaming. "Breakout charge!"
The dragon banner surged forward. Aenys raised it high. Every Son of Valyria still able to fight spurred after him.
Few units could launch a death-charge after such punishment, but their horses were the finest blood of the Freehold—stronger, faster, more enduring than steppe ponies.
They struck like a cold iron spear, punching straight through the loose Dothraki ring. Men and horses went down in sprays of blood.
The nomads had never expected their trapped prey to hit back so hard. The encirclement split open.
A proud commander might have ordered a counter-charge, dreaming of total annihilation.
Weymond was not proud. He was a survivor, and a man who had sworn revenge.
Pride bought nothing. Revenge required breathing.
He wheeled his horse, leading the shattered remnant at full gallop toward the mercenary infantry lines—never once looking back.
He would live.
He would have his vengeance.
That was the oath he had sworn to the gods and to every brother who had died this day. An oath he would never break.