"Have you all prayed to the Warrior?"
Ser Franklyn Flowers roared the words, and Aegon had never heard the bastard of House Fossoway sound so close to madness.
"Ride with me! Straight into the Volantenes! In the name of the Blackfyre—offer your lives!"
"In the name of the Blackfyre!"
The young man joined the thunderous shout. Beneath the visor, the corner of his mouth curved upward with barely contained excitement.
The elite of the elite had finally broken from the lines.
Strickland had gathered the company's finest warriors, mounted them on the best warhorses, and armored every man in full plate.
Every rider knew exactly what was expected of him.
By committing his last reserve, Weymond Dorya had already lost.
Infantry alone could not hold once the elephants were gone and the first wave of fury had spent itself. Now they faced disciplined lances and shield walls. There would be no miracle for them.
His men would break soon. Without immediate reinforcement, defeat was certain.
Connington had been right.
Westerosi history had seen moments like this before.
When the Targaryen host was on the verge of collapse, a ragged mob of goat-herders and donkey-drivers had arrived and turned the tide…
Last time, the false dragons had been lucky.
This time, luck was not on their side.
Aegon knew exactly what he was riding into.
A Riverlands-style cavalry charge straight into the Volantene horsemen.
A clash against the finest warriors the First Daughter could field.
Strange how calm he felt now—calmer than he had been only minutes earlier.
He was spurring his horse toward the chaos, riding among brave knights…
He was about to win this battle!
And the Golden Company's war cries rose like thunder:
"For the Black Dragon!"
"Blood and vengeance!"
"Vengeance!"
"Blood!"
"Victory!"
From the rapidly closing Volantene ranks came answering shouts in high Valyrian.
The wind tore the words away. Aegon had neither time nor interest in deciphering them.
The clash he had waited for finally arrived.
The earth shook beneath a thousand thundering hooves.
Steel and armor formed a moving forest. Warhorses snorted white breath, iron shoes kicked up stones and dust, rolling waves of dirt straight toward the oncoming Volantene cavalry.
The two waves crashed together.
The sound was deafening—enough to rattle bone and soul.
Splintering lances. Screaming metal. Dying horses. Roaring men. Every noise fused into one explosion that shook the entire battlefield.
Aegon felt a savage force surge up through the saddle and into his bones. Even his skeleton vibrated.
He gripped his lance with both hands, arms locked like iron, eyes fixed on the enemy charging straight at him.
The Volantene rider wore purple-etched armor and a black-plumed helm. He raised a curved blade and screamed as he closed.
In the blink of an eye they were on each other.
Aegon drove every ounce of weight behind the lance. The steel point punched through the gap in the man's breastplate like a black dragon's fang.
Metal tore with a hideous screech.
The Volantene's body flew upward like a sack of broken bones, launched by the terrible force. He arced through the air and smashed into the dirt, never to move again.
Blood sprayed from the lance tip and splattered across Aegon's visor and shield.
He barely had time to register the kill before the next enemy was on him like a demon.
A heavy morningstar whistled down toward his head.
Aegon dropped his shoulder and slammed his oak-and-iron shield upward.
CLANG!
The impact rang like a bell.
The force traveled down his arm and into his shoulder. His entire limb went numb. Bones felt ready to shatter. Even his horse staggered half a step.
The shield buckled inward. Iron rim split. Wood splinters flew.
He gritted his teeth, absorbed the blow, and refused to give ground.
Behind the visor his breathing came in harsh gasps. His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted to break free.
The world had dissolved into blood-red chaos.
Broken lances spun through the air. Horses went down screaming. Warriors grappled, hacked, roared, and fell from their saddles.
Every breath tasted of rust and dust. Every blink showed death brushing past.
This was real battle.
No elegance from the books. No glory from the songs. Only raw, scalding, all-consuming violence.
Aegon Blackfyre stood in the heart of the storm.
He survived the first, most dangerous seconds.
His lance had already snapped and spun away into the dust.
Now it was time to draw steel and fight.
Pity it wasn't the true royal sword that should have been his by birthright…
All around him came the first groans, the first screams, the first sharp ring of steel on steel.
How many moments like this would he have in this life?
The Blackfyre heir remembered everything he had been taught since childhood.
The Sons of Valyria were worthy opponents.
Their only real weakness was their horses.
These animals had marched all the way from Volantis to the gates of Myr, most without armor.
Aegon made his decision in a heartbeat.
Cut the horses.
Keep cutting until both mount and rider lay in the blood.
He had no time to judge how the larger battle was going.
Everything narrowed to survival.
Dodge. Block. Strike.
Do not let the Volantenes smash his skull with those terrible morningstars.
Slash their horses instead.
Then wheel to face the next enemy.
Again and again.
The two cavalry lines had already tangled into one bloody knot.
Blocking and countering became brutally difficult.
Aegon's ears filled with the shrieks of dying horses, the scream of metal, the wails of wounded men.
Still he swung his sword, now slick with enemy blood.
He knew his fallen comrades and his ancestors above were watching.
He could not disappoint either.
So he kept driving forward, step by bloody step.
But simply killing horses or dropping a couple of Volantene nobles would not win him honor.
It would not earn him the respect of the brotherhood.
No—he needed something far more spectacular.
As he blocked yet another strike—his hundredth? His thousandth?—Aegon spotted a rider who stood out sharply from the rest.
The man rode an expensive warhorse and carried a red dragon banner. His armor was richly decorated, practically shouting his rank and wealth.
The young man reached one certain conclusion.
That was the enemy commander.
Weymond Dorya himself.
The Triarch of the Sons of Valyria.
"Charge!" Aegon screamed with every ounce of strength, voice muffled by the visor yet somehow carrying over the din.
"Straight for their Triarch! With me!"
Only one Volantene stood in his path.
The man had no intention of stepping aside for the future king of Westeros.
His sword whistled past Aegon's visor by a hair's breadth, then dropped to protect his horse.
What followed was a savage exchange.
Aegon silently thanked the smith who had forged his armor. The enemy was dangerous—many of Aegon's strikes came too late to block.
But the Volantene was no coward either.
Even after a heavy blow to the helm, he fought on without pause.
The duel might have lasted much longer…
If not for the Golden Company warrior who had been unhorsed. The man rose on one knee and smashed his morningstar into the Volantene's leg.
The sudden blow threw the enemy off balance.
Aegon only needed to deliver the killing stroke.
In the end, the fighting style of Essos did not cling to knightly rules.
That was a good thing.
Blind obedience to those stale customs had once cost the Blackfyres the decisive battle of the first war.
While Aegon's guardian was still locked in combat with the Triarch's protector,
Connington had already closed on the enemy commander.
The mentor had either heard Aegon's shout or guessed his intent. He came to help.
Unfortunately, Aegon was delayed a few precious seconds and could not break free in time to join him.
So the exiled knight had to face Weymond Dorya alone.
A battle-hardened knight against a very young commander—they traded lethal blows.
Even from a distance, Young Griff could see his mentor was in terrible danger.
All of Connington's experience and skill looked weak against the storm of Weymond's attacks.
Ser Tristan Rivers—the man who had swaggered through the war council—would never have wanted to stand where Connington now stood.
The moment Aegon finished his own opponent, he spurred straight toward Connington.
But he was too late.
Weymond landed a crushing blow that knocked Jon's sword from his hand.
A second strike left a deep dent in the knight's breastplate, deep enough to show bone.
Connington staggered, lost his balance, and crashed from the saddle.
What had begun as a fight for honor and recognition had become a desperate struggle to save Jon's life.
Aegon could not afford to fail now.
He had to act fast.
The Triarch, about to finish the Westerosi knight, turned at the last moment toward the new threat.
In the next heartbeat, Weymond and Young Griff's swords clashed.
Aegon's arms burned from the pressure.
He was forced into a tight defense, only occasionally finding room to counter.
Dorya seemed to have the strength of three men. Every swing of that curved blade came down with terrible force.
But from the corner of his eye Aegon saw other Golden Company knights pushing the Volantenes away from their commander, who had lost himself in battle-rage and noticed nothing around him.
Just hold a little longer…
Young Griff clenched his teeth. His arms were numb from the punishment. Every block felt like smashing into a hurricane. But at last those Blackfyre eyes caught the opening he needed.
It lasted only a heartbeat.
Weymond Dorya swung too hard. His center of gravity dipped. His battle-worn horse tossed its head in pain, exposing the soft underside of its jaw with no protection.
Aegon did not hesitate.
He drove every ounce of remaining strength into the strike.
The blade sheared into the horse's lower jaw.
Bone cracked with a sickening snap.
The horse screamed in agony, reared violently, then lost all balance and crashed to the ground, taking its armored rider with it.
Weymond Dorya, weighed down by fine plate, was too heavy for the wounded animal.
The impact shook the earth.
From what felt like another world, Aegon heard strangers shouting:
"The Triarch is down!"
"Down!"
"Down!"
"…!"
The future king wasted no time.
Once he saw that Connington had freed himself from the stirrups and was already charging another Volantene, Aegon swung down from his own horse.
His hands shook with excitement and the certainty of victory as he drew a specially crafted dagger.
Long, slender, and perfectly balanced for punching through armor.
Aegon kicked Weymond's sword away, then crouched over the fallen man so he could clearly see the blade.
"Weymond Dorya, Triarch!"
Aegon spoke with relish, savoring his first true victory.
"You are my prisoner now."
Dorya lay on his back, groping with his uninjured hand for his sword, his dagger, or even a rock—anything he could use to fight back.
His violet eyes burned with fury as he stared at the man who had captured him, clearly weighing whether one last gamble was worth it.
Seeing the look, Aegon yanked off Weymond's helm and pressed the dagger against his face.
For several long seconds the Triarch hesitated.
Then he understood the odds were hopeless and stopped struggling.
Realizing his enemy had surrendered, Aegon lifted his gaze and scanned the field.
He saw his allies falling on the broken Volantenes with redoubled fury.
He heard the Golden Company's charge horns sound once more.
For the first time in his life,
Aegon Blackfyre
truly tasted the flavor of victory.