The Stallion Who Mounts the World and the exiled prince spurred their horses at the exact same instant, charging straight at each other like thunderbolts.
Both men knew the weight of the first blow. Neither would yield the initiative.
This strike wouldn't decide the duel, but it would set the tone for everything that followed.
Drogo wore only supple leather, light and quick. He twisted aside, letting Viserys's straight thrust slide past.
Viserys raised his shield and took the arakh on the rim. The ringing impact jarred both arms to the bone.
From the corner of his eye Viserys saw the Dothraki riders ringed around them in a perfect circle. No one moved to interfere. Drogo had declared this a duel of honor, and his warriors would respect it.
Viserys hadn't expected help anyway. His Black Knights were locked in their own savage fights. Eleonora was somewhere close, but he would rather die alone than let the Sword Saintess stand between him and those curved blades.
This deathmatch belonged to the two of them alone.
Drogo changed direction instantly, arakh slashing for his opponent's horse's neck.
Viserys parried in time, saving the animal.
He counter-attacked at once, longsword sweeping in a flat arc. Only a man raised in the saddle like Drogo could keep perfect balance at full gallop and slip the blow.
The khal swept past Viserys's side. Viserys blocked the next lethal cut with his shield, the heavy steel already criss-crossed with fresh cracks and blood.
Drogo wasn't retreating. He was simply opening distance for the next charge.
In that instant Viserys clearly saw the savage smile curving the khal's stern mouth.
Viserys stayed calm, shifting from defense to offense, waiting for Drogo to commit first.
The khal charged again, body leaning dramatically left as if attacking from that side.
Viserys covered his left with the shield, seeing through the feint.
Drogo twisted mid-gallop and slashed for the horse's forelegs from the right. Viserys's sword slammed down, meeting the arakh in a shower of sparks.
If he still held Blackfyre, that single blow would have shattered the enemy blade and ended the fight.
But ordinary steel could not break steel of equal quality.
Drogo had a second move ready.
With impossible agility he straightened, leaned forward, and sliced the arakh across his enemy's horse's face.
The cut was vicious. The warhorse screamed in agony, legs buckling. It crashed down hard.
Viserys used years of training and raw strength to leap clear before the animal pinned him, landing steady in the bloody mud.
The balance of the duel flipped in a heartbeat.
Now he was on foot, facing a mounted Drogo—deadly disadvantage.
A Westerosi knight bound by honor would already be finished.
But Viserys Targaryen had never been that kind of knight.
Ignoring the mocking laughter from the Dothraki circle, he charged with shield raised and sword ready.
His longsword caught the arakh high. The spiked boss of his shield slammed into the black stallion's neck.
The horse reared in pain, thrashing wildly, trying to throw its rider or crush the man beneath its hooves.
Drogo's arm instinctively rose for balance. In that split second Viserys chopped down, severing the front leg at the knee, then leaped backward.
Drogo landed on his feet by pure instinct. Pure murderous rage burned in his eyes as he gripped his arakh, ready for the fight on foot.
Both men stood on level ground now—equals once more.
This time Viserys did not wait. He and Drogo hurled themselves at each other at the same instant.
Longsword and arakh clashed in a frenzy of ringing steel.
Drogo fought with raw power, blinding speed, and feral instinct. Viserys answered with the discipline of full plate, classical swordsmanship, and ice-cold patience.
They fought in silence, every blow meant to kill, each man determined to stand on the other's corpse.
Viserys opened several cuts on Drogo, none mortal.
Drogo's arakh hammered Viserys's breastplate, denting the steel inward.
After one final exchange Viserys's shield finally shattered, wood and iron splinters flying.
He hurled the broken remnant aside.
Drogo took it as the signal for the kill.
The bronze-skinned giant was now completely consumed by blood and rage. He threw himself at the last dragon with every ounce of strength, each cut carrying the full weight of his body.
Viserys parried and dodged desperately, strength draining fast. He could no longer match the khal's insane speed.
He suddenly lunged sideways, turning his back to the burning sunset so the low sun blazed straight into Drogo's eyes.
Blinded by fury, Drogo didn't care. He had won in worse conditions. All he wanted now was to finish it. He charged straight at Viserys.
That single step was his death.
Viserys twisted left, letting the blood-slick arakh whistle past his head by a finger's width. Then he raised his longsword high and brought it down with all his remaining power onto Drogo's right arm.
The khal had no time to pull back.
The razor edge sheared through leather, muscle, and bone.
Drogo's left hand shot out, clawing for Viserys's throat—exposing his own.
Viserys did not hesitate. His sword drove straight forward and punched through the khal's bare neck.
The full weight of heavy plate armor made the difference.
Khal Drogo—Stallion Who Mounts the World, conqueror of half of Essos, the man who would seed the earth—died with his eyes wide open. He toppled like a felled oak.
Viserys had no time to celebrate.
He had to wring every drop of value from this victory.
The Black Knights charged in at once, driving back the encircling Dothraki.
Viserys moved with practiced savagery. His sword severed Drogo's head in one clean stroke. He raised the bloody trophy high with one hand and roared with everything he had left, voice rising above the entire battlefield:
"I, Viserys Targaryen, have slain Khal Drogo! Drogo is dead! Form ranks and fight on! Drogo is dead!"
A thunderous cheer erupted.
"Drogo is dead!"
"The khal has been slain!"
"We've won! Kill these savages!"
A fresh horse was brought forward. The moment Viserys swung into the saddle, a Volantene soldier came running, face deathly pale, eyes wide with terror.
"Prince! The Triarch is dead! An arrow took him through the throat! What do we do?!"
The gods always chose the moment of greatest triumph to deliver the cruelest jest.
Deadly panic rippled through the allied ranks. Doubt, hesitation, fear spread like plague.
In another heartbeat the entire army would forget Drogo's death and break in full rout, becoming easy meat for the Dothraki.
Viserys didn't waste time verifying the news. He seized command on the spot.
"I, Prince Viserys Targaryen, take command of the army at once! Hold the line! Fight to the last! Black Knights—with me!"
He galloped to the center of the formation. Blood covered his face and armor; the red dragon on his breastplate seemed to come alive in the dying sunlight.
Eleonora reached his side, sword dripping, voice low enough for only him to hear.
"They won't listen to you." Her tone was ice. "Everyone is spent. No one wants to throw their life away again."
"Will you follow me?" Viserys asked, no energy left for arguing with his lover.
"Where exactly do you plan to charge alone?" Eleonora snorted. Even with blood and mud streaking her face she was still fiercely beautiful.
"At least you'll come with me. That means I'm not alone." Viserys's mouth quirked in a tired half-smile, but his eyes were deadly serious.
He had to convince thousands of exhausted sellswords and militia to pick up their weapons again and walk back into hell.
The wind carried the stench of blood. The first cracks of rout were already showing. The Dothraki, though leaderless, were still fighting like madmen.
If the army broke now, the victory they had just bought with so much blood would vanish like morning mist.
Viserys gripped his sword tighter and looked across the sea of exhausted, terrified, blood-stained faces.
He had no retreat.
The entire allied army had no retreat.