"We pray to the Father to judge us justly, for our cause is just…"
In the eyes of the world, ordinary sellswords had always been faithless.
Or, as Aegon had once heard a wandering preacher say, they worshipped only gold, steel, and blood with fanatical devotion.
These men sought to amass wealth as quickly as possible at any cost. Most came from the lowest classes or were outlaws fleeing punishment.
Perhaps they had once feared some god, but they had long since abandoned every belief in the endless cycle of killing and slaughter.
But the Golden Company had never been ordinary.
At this moment, the pre-battle prayer united every man—from the captain down to the lowest page.
"We pray to the Mother to watch over us with mercy, for our cause is just…"
Igor Rivers knew that bringing together a group of defeated, humiliated, and demoralized exiles was no simple task.
Yet the Blackfyre cause had endured for a hundred years, its flame never extinguished, thanks to the unparalleled strategy devised by Bittersteel.
The Golden Company had shown the Free Cities and Westeros a presence unlike any other.
The traditions of the ancient Valyrian legions and the spirit of Westerosi knightly brotherhood had merged in a way that had kept the Targaryen family awake at night for an entire century.
If the gods were kind, the false dragon, the arrogant stag, and the treacherous lion would all taste their righteous fury once more.
"We pray to the Warrior to grant us strength of arms, for our cause is just…"
Before Aegon the Conqueror came to Westeros, the Reach and the Stormlands had countless knightly brotherhoods.
They protected holy sites, monasteries, and pilgrims. They defended small towns and villages against bandits and enemies. They marched to the most dangerous battlefields.
These brotherhoods gathered all kinds of men—bastards, young squires, scarred veterans—but they shared a unity rare in those days.
They did not involve themselves in private feuds or inheritance disputes. They fought together, lived together, and died together.
What bound them was not just tents, banners, and blades, but shared prayers, shared vows, and the ties that made them sworn brothers.
The thousand-year glory of these ancient knightly orders ended with the cruel Maegor.
Brave knights refused to acknowledge his authority. Many died at God's Eye for the uncrowned Aegon. The rest were hunted down by the tyrant's executioners and hounds.
The last knight-brothers died forgotten, betrayed by the righteous, and unwanted even by the young King Jaehaerys.
Mighty Valyria possessed more than dragons. It had its feared legions.
As the great Triarch Daemon Velaryon once wrote, they were the product of Ghiscari military genius, refined and perfected by the dragonlords.
Iron discipline and faith in a grand cause worked miracles, turning yesterday's potters and farmers into an invincible iron army worthy of the dragon kings.
Igor Rivers and his successors had successfully fused the essence of both traditions and forged the unique Golden Company.
Every sellsword in the company knew that within the Golden Company there existed a separate order of high knights.
All officers, sergeants, and the finest warriors belonged to this brotherhood.
Knights had the right to choose the best loot first and received the largest share of gold.
Any brother could become a knight—if he proved his worth.
But few understood that a good sword alone could never earn that high honor.
Even Connington still did not understand why, despite his great achievements, he had once been rejected by the brotherhood.
The answer was simple.
Before a man was brought into the brotherhood, his older comrades poured every effort into instilling in him an unshakable faith in the Blackfyre cause.
They taught him the legends and stories of the company, taught him to hate the long-dead Bloodraven, to revere the noble Daemon, and revealed to him the true history of Westeros that had been buried in dust.
Only when three brothers vouched for the newcomer's steadfastness and loyalty would the captain accept him and make him one of the future lords of Westeros.
The world said the Blackfyre line had ended.
The descendants of the false dragon had also lost their throne and become exiles like them.
The hope of seizing lands in Westeros had long since become a joke…
But the discipline and rules laid down by that first generation of the desperate were still observed to this day.
"We pray to the Maiden to look upon us with compassion, for our cause is just…"
Because of this, Aegon Blackfyre listened with the others to the short pre-battle prayer.
Everyone was focused on listening to the voice of Hugor of Andalos—even the Myr militiamen, in the eyes of this pretender to the throne, seemed to be listening more intently than before.
Perhaps because the militiamen felt that this devout follower of the Seven was different from the pretentious priests of the Free Cities.
Or perhaps the men of Myr simply sensed the cold breath of the stranger.
When death draws near, men always listen to sermons and prayers more carefully than usual.
The repeated cavalry sweeps of the Golden Company had made the Triarch realize he had to abandon his relatively safe position.
Otherwise he would be trapped deep in enemy territory, on a bare plain, with no supplies and no hope of returning home.
Dorya had led his army into a trap.
He was at a disadvantage. He had no choice but to attack first.
"We pray to the Smith to strengthen our bodies, for our cause is just…"
Aegon knew it was nothing more than the desperate struggle of a cornered beast.
A beast driven to the brink would throw every ounce of its wildness at the hunter.
He could only pray in his heart that the plan Strickland and the others had laid out days ago was as solid as it had seemed.
Because on the dawn of this first great battle, the last heir of the noble Daemon felt doubt for the first time.
"We pray to the Crone to grant our leaders wisdom, for our cause is just…"
At that, the young man could not help but chuckle softly.
The thing covering his face right now was proof of what Strickland called wisdom—or perhaps the symbol of Connington's endless fear.
It was a great helm with a visor, specially chosen from the Golden Company's stores, that completely hid his entire face.
This way, his own knights could easily find him on the battlefield, while no enemy could possibly recognize the relative of Viserys Targaryen in this young sellsword.
The captain naturally knew that his young ward had no blood relation to the Triarch of Volantis.
But he said nothing.
"We pray to the Stranger to take our enemies, for our cause is just!"
Seven save them, Hugor's voice was loud!
"Just!"
Thousands of voices answered in unison, merging into a thunderous roar that shook the sky.
But after finishing the prayer to the Seven, Hugor did not stop.
On the contrary, the truly important oath was only beginning.
At his signal the novice septons moved the seven-pointed star aside and handed the warlike septon his battle-axe.
The burly septon easily raised the axe toward the sky, his voice even louder than before.
"In the name of the Father and the Mother, in the name of the Warrior and the Maiden, in the name of the Smith and the Crone, in the name of the Stranger—I…"
This time the Golden Company did not wait for him to finish.
From the knights standing beside Aegon, every man began reciting together the oath that every descendant of Igor Rivers knew by heart.
He joined them.
"I, Young Griff!
Join the brotherhood of the Golden Company and swear on my honor and my life to do everything in my power to advance the cause of the noble Daemon and his descendants!
My life, my honor, my sword belong to the glory of the Blackfyre and his house!
I will not rest until the true king returns from across the sea and reclaims his throne!
I swear this to my gods, to my brothers, and to my people!"
If the gods grant the chance, may this oath become more than just brave words.
Finally, Aegon noticed something.
In this thunderous chorus, only Jon Connington, standing to the right of the son of Prince Rhaegar, remained silent.
He had not sworn fealty to the Blackfyre.
Not long after the prayer ended, the battle began in earnest.
The Volantenes had barely finished praying to their own gods when Weymond the Triarch ordered the attack.
He sent forward the ten remaining war elephants first, with infantry following close behind the massive beasts.
Balaq's archers rained arrows as best they could, bringing down several elephant handlers and one entire elephant, scattering many soldiers.
But the remaining elephants still crashed into the front lines, into the trembling Myr militiamen and the steadfast Golden Company ranks behind them.
The elephants tore gaps in the formation. Volantene soldiers poured through.
The melee exploded.
Aegon did not take part.
He remained with Strickland's main reserve—five hundred elite cavalry—able only to watch from a distance with all his strength.
He could not make out any details.
There was no Myrish lens at hand. The lines of militiamen, Volantenes, and Golden Company had already dissolved into chaos under the elephants' charge.
For the first time in his life Aegon felt a completely unfamiliar emotion.
He wanted to spur his horse forward, charge into danger, charge into the enemy.
He wanted to cut down Volantenes with his loyal sword and step onto a real battlefield for the first time.
He wanted to prove to everyone that he was worthy of the name of the noble Daemon's descendant.
His ancestors' courage had once cost them their lives.
Do not take risks. Do not ruin the plan.
He could only repeat the words in his heart, fighting against the rising tide of impatience.
In the distance men bled, steel roared, enraged elephants trumpeted.
Here the knights stood silent and tense, the atmosphere enough to drive anyone mad.
Aegon looked out at the scene with a heavy heart.
That was his future army.
The men fighting for Myr were his last hope—the men he had lived with for weeks, come to know, even grown close to.
That was his future army.
The men fighting for Myr were his last hope—the men he had lived with for weeks, come to know, even grown close to.
Even if the Father himself descended, no one could say how long the fighting had lasted.
Aegon realized how pale and useless all the knowledge he had read in books truly was.
He could have read every chronicle of the Rhoynish Wars, studied the Dance of the Dragons and every uprising of his ancestors, analyzed every detail of the Usurper's War.
But no words could let him instantly understand a real battlefield.
No words could let him catch the rhythm of the fighting or see the details that untrained eyes could not perceive.
How was he supposed to judge who held the advantage from the chaos of banners, men, horses, and giant beasts?
True, the Volantene elephants were falling.
True, Strickland had already committed his own gray giants.
But the Myr banners were still going down, and the line seemed to be slowly retreating toward the alliance camp…
"How is it going over there?"
"They're fighting, boy," Connington sighed. "I can't see much more than you."
"But you must understand something. You really must."
There was hunger for truth in Aegon's voice.
A future commander should grow used to the truth early, no matter how bitter.
"Our center held the first wave. Dorya's elephants are spent. The men of Myr didn't break after all. Letting Strickland's men steady them was the right call."
The mentor paused, then continued. "But the center formation is still broken and falling back. Look—another banner just went down. I have to admit, the soldiers under the Triarch are extremely elite. That desperate courage is worth respect."
"What is Strickland still waiting for? Why doesn't he send us in?"
"The captain still has cards left," an older knight Aegon didn't recognize called out. "Watch closely, lad."
Sure enough, at the captain's command the rear rank of veteran Golden Company soldiers entered the fight.
The arrival of fresh troops let the Golden Company officers stabilize the situation, heartened the Myr men, and gave yesterday's new recruits new strength.
To Aegon it looked as if the Volantene attack was weakening. The momentum was gone.
In this melee of infantry and a few elephants, what would decide everything was equipment, training, and morale.
At least, that was what the books said.
And he hoped countless books would one day record it that way.
This would be the place where the Blackfyre cause began again.
Or ended forever.
Aegon still longed to charge into the fray, shifting restlessly in the saddle.
Waiting here in this relatively safe spot was pure torture.
How could a descendant of a great warrior hide behind everyone else?
He felt his blood surging, his breath quickening, as if he could hear the battlefield calling.
But for now he could still control himself.
His family had never lacked courage.
What had always been the problem was reason and caution.
Right now patience and clarity demanded he stay under the banner and not let a young man's hunger for glory ruin the plan that had already been set.
So the young man decided to pray for his comrades.
Nothing could stop him from doing that.
May the Father grant them victory. May the Mother have mercy on them…
The exile did not know whether the gods were watching the slaughter beneath this sky.
But he truly believed that doing something was better than standing idle.
Effort was better than waiting helplessly for an unknown end.
Just then Aegon's eyes caught a cloud of dust rising in the distance.
The wind quickly scattered it…
"Enemy cavalry is coming!"
The knights around him muttered low.
"They're trying to swing around our flank…"
"That looks like the Sons of Valyria," Jon said, turning to the young man. "Dorya's last elite reserve. He wants one decisive charge to hit our already disordered formation from the side. Exhausted, blood-soaked infantry can't stop heavy cavalry like that."
"Years ago, Daeron the Second's sons did almost exactly the same thing on the Redgrass Field when they wiped out the last of the Blackfyres."
Let the Dornish bastards and murderers burn in all seven hells.
But before Aegon could finish cursing in his heart, real thunder exploded in his ears.
Three long horn blasts, loud enough to drown out every sound of battle.
The signal.
Strickland was ordering them to attack!