The setting sun bled crimson across the Rhoyne plain. The roar of battle was deafening. Corpses rose in bloody hills. Thick gore ran in streams, soaking every inch of cracked earth.
Viserys Targaryen stood with the reserves, silver hair plastered by blood-mist, the red dragon on his breastplate crusted dark. His fingers never left his sword hilt as he watched the left wing collapse.
Triarch Varyon Dortalos slammed his Myrish lens to the ground and unleashed a string of the foulest Volantene curses, veins bulging at his temples. The sight had finally snapped his patience.
"We have to move," Varyon said, voice iron-hard, no room for debate. "You were right, Prince. Drogo is on the left wing with his elite screaming warriors."
Viserys's prediction had been flawless.
Before the battle he had told them: Drogo would never waste himself on the Unsullied spear-wall. The Stallion Who Mounts the World was far smarter than the average Dothraki savage. He would never make a pointless sacrifice.
Facts proved him right.
Drogo had taken his hand-picked killers and slammed straight into the allied left flank—where the Storm Crows and Warrior Maids held the line with city militia support. Months of hard fighting had toughened them, but they were no match for the khalasar's core veterans.
The men riding with Drogo were the ones who had carved a bloody path across half of Essos—battle-hardened butchers who had climbed from mountains of corpses.
If the left wing broke completely, Drogo could slice straight into the rear of the main infantry, loot the allied camp, spark total panic, and maybe even reach the reserves and tear the entire line apart.
The fact that Varyon himself was ready to lead the counter-charge told Viserys everything: the left wing was already beyond saving by lesser men.
To make matters worse, Menys Taryar's garrison had routed completely. That had cost the reserves a full quarter of their strength. Weymond Dorya's Sons of Valyria were still trapped on the right wing, unable to break free.
Only three forces remained in the reserve: Varyon's personal guard, Viserys's Black Knights, and Torrhen Snow's Company of the Rose. The Northman's heavy infantry was too far away to help in time.
Varyon turned to the giant beside him—Torrhen Snow, the Winterfell bastard, standing like an iron tower, great-axe already dripping.
"Torrhen, you hold here. Commit only when the moment is perfect. Maegor—sound the charge! Prince Viserys, ride with me to the left wing!"
The horn-bearer (sharing a name with one of Viserys's own ancestors) lifted his instrument. The long, wailing note cut across the battlefield. Black Knights and the Triarch's guards spurred forward in tight formation.
Varyon drew his sword, blade flashing blood-red in the dying light. He would risk himself to steady the crumbling morale.
Viserys understood perfectly. In his place he might have stayed back, but in true crisis a commander sometimes had to gamble his own life to keep the army from breaking.
"For Volantis!" Varyon's roar shook the sky. Hundreds answered in a single thunderous shout.
"We're going home!" the Black Knights bellowed behind him, voices fierce with Targaryen pride and iron resolve.
Throwing the battered remnants of the reserve against Drogo's finest screaming warriors—and the khal himself—was suicide on paper.
But war in the real world never offered easy choices. When everything hung by a thread, the only answer was to fight to the death.
Viserys had chosen every warhorse for the Black Knights himself back in the early days—swift, strong, endless stamina. Even now the mounts were the finest money and blood could buy.
The column thundered after Varyon's guard, the gilded Dragon Claw banner snapping like a living flame at the head of the relief force.
They arrived at the exact right moment.
A few heartbeats later and the Storm Crows would have scattered, the Warrior Maids and militia slaughtered beneath the hooves.
The allied soldiers had already lost heart, falling back in panic. Seeing the Triarch and the Dragon Claw Prince riding to their rescue kindled a spark in their eyes. Courage didn't fully return, but at least they stopped running.
Still, showing up wasn't enough. To hold the line they needed something that would shock the enemy and steady their own men.
Viserys already had the answer in his mind, but he didn't rush it.
Daemon Blackfyre might have thrown half his life away for a single combat against the eastern giant. The man he was now would never make that reckless gamble.
He spurred straight into the press, Longclaw flashing in deadly arcs. Every swing dropped a screaming warrior.
One. Two. Three… He had never faced so many elite foes at once. Memories of Redgrass Field surged up—Blackfyre in his fist, carving through ranks. That rebellion had ended in failure. He would not repeat the mistake.
Drogo's finest showed no fear. The arrival of fresh enemies only fed their rage.
The Black Knights met equals in fury. Even Viserys—who considered himself one of the finest blades in the Free Cities—had to give everything. No room for error.
Seasoned commanders could smell the moment a line was about to break.
Men were already edging backward. Sword arms grew heavy. Fear spread like poison. One more heartbeat and the whole wing would shatter.
In that instant, voice, will, and identity had to drag dying morale back from the grave.
"Hold the line!" Viserys poured every ounce of strength into the roar, cutting through steel, screams, and hoofbeats. "I am Viserys Targaryen! I fight beside you! Dragon Claw Prince! Silver Stallion! We stand together!"
The cry tore across the entire left wing and hauled the faltering soldiers back into the fight.
Storm Crows, Warrior Maids, Black Knights, militia—every man turned and fought again. No one dared run.
But the ringing challenge also drew the deadliest enemy of all.
A single guttural Dothraki roar split the air. The encircling nomads parted like water, opening a path for the colossal figure at their center.
Viserys's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
There was no mistaking him.
Khal Drogo.
Towering like a mountain of muscle and gold, braids heavy with bells and trophies, arakh gleaming cold at his hip. His black stallion was a monster. Two bloodriders flanked him, equally huge. Everything about the man screamed: this was the Stallion Who Mounts the World.
Viserys recognized him for another, deeper reason.
In the dreams that had haunted him since his rebirth, he had already seen this figure—seated atop a hill of skulls, receiving the worship of thousands. In that vision the barbarians had won total victory.
Viserys tightened his grip until his knuckles bleached white.
Dreams were lies. Fate belonged only to the weak.
There was no unbeatable enemy in this world. Today he would cut this khal's braid at the root and shatter every so-called destiny.
For one frozen heartbeat, Volantene soldiers, sellswords, and Dothraki warriors all stepped back of their own accord, clearing space for the two legendary warriors who now faced each other across the blood-soaked field.
In Westeros such a duel might have halted the entire battle. Here on this crimson plain no one was that naïve.
Yet no one—not a single man on either side—dared interfere with the clash that would be remembered as long as songs were sung.