The songs always ended the moment the hero cut down the villain.
Real battlefields were never so courteous.
Drogo's death did not break the Dothraki. These steppe savages had been swallowed whole by battle-madness. Half of them refused to believe their invincible khal was gone.
Even on the left wing, where hundreds had witnessed the duel with their own eyes, the fighting raged on for a full hour more.
One of Drogo's bloodriders seized command and hurled the screaming warriors forward again and again, desperate to reach Viserys and avenge their khal.
Only when that kos finally fell to Eleonora's blade did the surviving nomads waver and begin to retreat.
In the chaos after the Triarch's death, Viserys had somehow rallied the shattered left wing. Now he led them in a lightning charge straight into the rear of the main Dothraki horde.
Jorah Mormont's spearmen and Torrhen Snow's Company of the Rose had held the center like iron anvils, absorbing every hammer blow. Victory had been within reach.
But the gods were not done with their cruel jokes.
The second disastrous sally by the city garrison had spread like plague: the Triarch was dead. The entire allied line teetered on the edge of total collapse.
Thank the gods the surviving Dothraki kos finally sounded the retreat.
Whether they had learned of the left-wing disaster or simply recognized the fight was lost, the remnants abandoned their dead by the thousands and fled back the way they had come.
The bloodbath had devoured tens of thousands of lives, yet the backbone of the allied army still stood.
The banners of Volantis had never fallen. The formation had never completely broken. Catastrophe had been averted.
Survivors gathered beneath their own colors. Sergeants screamed, cursed, and used fists and boots to shove the exhausted men back into something resembling ranks.
Viserys rode slowly along the line, making a rough count: roughly forty-five thousand infantry and nearly five thousand cavalry still able to fight. The numbers gave him a flicker of relief.
That flicker died the instant he remembered Varyon Dortalos was gone.
The supreme commander of the allied army—his co-conspirator, the man who had welded every sellsword company and Volantene force into one weapon—had been killed by a single arrow through the throat on the very eve of victory.
Daario Naharis found him first. The flamboyant Tyroshi looked utterly dejected, furious at the gods' mockery.
He had survived, but the dream of unimaginable riches had died with the Triarch.
Viserys comforted him, saying it was too early to speak of the future. Yet that short conversation showed him the path forward with crystal clarity.
How many men in this army were exactly like Daario?
Men hungry for gold, hungry for glory, hungry to wring every possible reward from this bloodbath?
Men tired of risking their lives for a pittance?
If Viserys Targaryen—not the dead Varyon—were the one promising them that reward, what would they do?
He had to become the new leader of this army.
Not just the Dragon Claw, but the Company of the Rose, the Warrior Maids, the Storm Crows, the Freeborn infantry, even the Volantene militia.
He knew the only coin he possessed was the mountain of wealth waiting inside Drogo's undefended camp.
The greatest problem was convincing these exhausted, leaderless warriors to pick up their weapons once more and march back into hell.
Viserys mounted a fresh, strong warhorse. Flanked by Eleonora, Jorah Mormont, his standard-bearer, and the horn-blower, he rode out in front of the reformed army.
Dragon Claw. Storm Crows. Sons of Valyria. Militia. Company of the Rose. The battered Iron Shields… Never before had so many different banners gathered beneath the walls of Volantis.
Different peoples, different tongues, different lords, different grudges. It was less an army than a chaotic marketplace.
Yet Viserys had to set their blood on fire, steady the hesitant, inspire the fearful, and lead the brave forward.
Everything he had ever wanted—his entire life's ambition—hinged on this moment. There was no room for error.
"Sound the horn," he ordered quietly, gathering every ounce of strength. "I want every eye on me."
He had deliberately told none of the other captains or Volantene officers what he planned.
Success would give him undisputed command and authority no one could challenge.
Failure would mean total ruin.
Eleonora had been right—this speech would be brutal.
But Viserys possessed a weapon no one else did. Years ago he had convinced the lords of the Marches and the Stormlands to raise their banners against the false king Daeron. Men who lived and died by oaths and honor had followed him.
These far more practical warriors would be easier.
The horn blast rolled across the battlefield. Every head turned.
Viserys reined in, voice steady and powerful, carrying to every blood-soaked inch of ground:
"Warriors! Comrades! Sons of the First Daughter, Dragon Claw, Company of the Rose, Storm Crows, Iron Shields, all Freeborn!
I am Viserys Targaryen—the man who slew Khal Drogo, commander of the Dragon Claw, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms! I have words for you!"
He let the silence hang for a heartbeat, then nodded.
His guards lifted Drogo's severed head high on a spear so every man could see the khal's dead face.
"Listen to me!"
The field fell utterly silent.
The weak-hearted might have read hostility in that silence. Viserys saw the truth: they were listening. They were hesitating. That was the first crack through which persuasion could enter.
"Today we bled side by side and proved there is no enemy that cannot be defeated! We proved that even on open ground we can crush the steppe savages!"
"Our courage will be sung from Westeros to the Bone Mountains!"
He began with praise, steadying every heart.
"But as victors, do we simply let the enemy run?"
"Do we lie among our brothers' corpses licking our wounds while their camp—undefended, its gates wide open—sits there like a treasure house waiting for new owners?"
No one answered.
"We have repeated the feat of the Three Thousand of Qohor. The bronze tide of savages shattered against us."
"But we can do more. We can annihilate this khalasar and end the nomad threat forever!"
"Ten thousand murdered countrymen cry out for vengeance. History itself stands before us!"
"What the fuck does that have to do with us?" a Northern sellsword bellowed—the most practical question of all. "We came for coin, not to write history!"
Viserys had been waiting for exactly those words.
"I will speak plainly," he said, voice ringing. "The man who hired us—Varyon Dortalos—is dead!" He let the brutal truth sink in. "Our contract said we would be paid in full only after the khalasar was completely destroyed. Now the paymaster is gone. Who here believes the elephant nobles behind the Black Wall will honor a single copper of our blood money?"
"They hid behind the walls eating and drinking while you bled in the dirt!"
"Your families go hungry while they squander fortunes in their marble palaces!"
"Now that they hold power, do you truly believe you will see even one coin?"
The words struck every nerve.
Every sellsword and militiaman knew the greed and treachery of Volantene nobles. While Varyon lived there had been hope. With the elephant party in charge, their pay would vanish.
Even the Volantene militia looked furious. If the garrison could be thrown away so casually, what chance did common-born soldiers have?
Viserys gave them a moment to feel the anger, then delivered the killing blow:
"Drogo's camp lies just ahead!"
"That khalasar looted Meereen, Slaver's Bay, every city along the Rhoyne!"
"Governors' gold, jewels, silk, ivory, slaves—every fortune they stole is waiting for new masters!"
"Waiting for you!"
"Waiting for men with the courage to take it!"
"Tomorrow the fleeing savages will carry that wealth away forever."
"This is our one chance to grow rich!"
Viserys's voice had grown hoarse. He raised his sword to the sky and gave the final call:
"We will crush the remnants and we will grow rich beyond dreams!"
"We will make the elephant party understand our strength!"
"Only a rabble can be cheated. We are brothers who bled and fought together!"
"No one cheats victors!"
"Who will follow me for glory and gold?"
"Who will follow the true dragon?!"
He held his breath, terrified of silence.
The next heartbeat the roar shattered the sky. Every doubt burned away.
"Follow the true dragon!"
"Follow the true dragon!"
The militiamen took up the cry until the blood-soaked earth itself seemed to shake.
"We're going home!" Eleonora shouted. The Black Knights answered as one.
"Viserys! True Dragon Prince!"
"Viserys! True Dragon Prince!"
Northerners waved their axes, voices thundering.
"Red dragon claw!" Jorah's spearmen roared.
"Dragon! Glory and gold!"
"Western dragon! Follow the red dragon!" The Sons of Valyria finally joined in. In their eyes only a Targaryen heir of Old Valyria was worthy to lead them.
Exhausted, blood-stained warriors had fire in their eyes once more.
The Triarch's death was forgotten. The khal's severed head on the spear was all the proof they needed of their new leader.
Viserys caught one of the twin captains trying to restrain his men—only to be knocked flat by a mailed fist.
A small smile touched his lips. He turned to the waiting horn-blower.
"I, Viserys Targaryen the Third, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, Silver Stallion, slayer of Khal Drogo—" he repeated every title, pushing the moment to its peak, "—order: sound the charge! Forward!"
The roar behind him was like thunder, sweeping away the last traces of doubt.
"We're going home!"
"Balerion! Vhagar! Guide our blades!"
"Fuck them!"
"For the prince! For gold!"
"Charge! Annihilate the savages!"
Beneath the blood-red sunset the re-formed allied army surged forward in one final, unstoppable charge toward the Dothraki camp.