Bronze Against the Storm
The plain outside Pentos burned with fire and blood.
Drums pounded, horses screamed, and the endless sea of Drogo's khalasar stretched to the horizon. Tens of thousands of riders circled, their braids snapping in the wind, their cries rising in a storm of rage.
At the heart of it, three hundred Spartans stood shoulder to shoulder. Shields locked, spears braced, cloaks whipping in the smoke. Their formation was a wall of bronze, unyielding, unbreaking.
At their head stood Leonidas, his crimson plume catching the dawn. Daenerys was behind him, guarded in the center of the formation, her silver hair glowing like moonlight in the dark.
Drogo rode at the front of his horde, his stallion stamping the earth. His arakh gleamed, and his voice rolled like thunder as he raised it high.
The khalasar roared in answer.
The System flared in Leonidas' mind:
> [Engaged in Grand Battle: Spartans vs. Khalasar]
Enemy Numbers: 40,000+ riders.
Spartan Morale: Unbreakable.
Objective: Protect the Queen. Survive.]
Leonidas lifted his spear and roared.
"Spartans! Tonight, we dine in Elysium!"
The phalanx answered as one.
"A-oo! A-oo! A-oo!"
The Dothraki charged.
The earth shook under the weight of hooves. Dust clouds rose like storms. Arakhs flashed in the sun. It was not an army — it was a tide of chaos, a living wave meant to drown all.
The Spartans held.
Impact.
Spears thrust upward in perfect rhythm. Horses impaled, riders toppled, blood spraying like rain. Shields slammed into bone and steel, the wall absorbing the fury of the charge.
A hundred Dothraki fell in the first heartbeat.
But the khalasar was endless. The second wave came before the first had died, and the third after them, each crashing against the wall of bronze.
The Spartans did not yield. They pushed, step by step, shields forward, spears stabbing, a living machine of war. Every man fought as one, every strike part of a greater whole.
Leonidas fought at the front, his shield smashing riders from their saddles, his spear a serpent of death. His voice carried above the din.
"Push! Push!"
A rider leapt overhead, arakh flashing for Daenerys. Leonidas hurled his spear — thunk! — and the man fell, skewered through the chest. He ripped another from the saddle with his bare hands, snapping his neck with a twist.
The Spartans roared, their chant rolling like thunder across the battlefield.
"For Sparta! For our Queen!"
But still they came. For every rider that fell, ten more thundered forward. The ground was slick with blood, the air thick with dust and screams. The Spartans' arms ached, their breath came ragged, but their formation held.
Drogo watched from atop his stallion, eyes blazing. He had never seen his riders broken. Never seen discipline withstand the storm.
He spurred his horse.
The Khal himself would shatter the wall.
He thundered toward the phalanx, arakh raised high, braids whipping behind him. His bloodriders followed, a wedge of steel and fury.
Leonidas lifted his shield.
"Hold the line!"
The Spartans braced, bronze against steel, order against chaos.
Drogo's stallion crashed into the wall of shields. His arakh swept down, cleaving into bronze, sparks flying. Leonidas met him head-on, shield locked, spear driving forward.
The two titans collided, and the battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath.