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The smoke slowly dissipated over the Tyroshi coalition camp, leaving the survivors looking utterly haggard and beaten.
The dragon did not return for a second pass. Slowly, the mercenary captains and Tyroshi commanders dragged themselves out of the chaos and steadied their nerves.
They were staring down a dead end. Their only option now was to huddle together and hold the line. The Tyroshi Commander-in-Chief had been roasted alive, and the survivors couldn't even scrape together a handful of warhorses, let alone mules.
Fleeing on foot in these conditions was a fool's errand. And the alternative—scattering like broken dogs only to be hunted down and burned by the dragon or slaughtered by Andalos guerrillas—was a miserable way to die.
"We can't run," Bloodbeard said, his panic finally giving way to cold, hard logic. "The Dothraki took a massive hit too. They are completely enraged. If they see us breaking camp first, those screamers will slaughter us before the enemy even gets a chance."
The horselords were terrible allies. They were arrogant, held legendary grudges, and never forgave betrayal.
"He'th... wight... The thavages are exactly like that. Pwus, we barely have any hortheth left. We'd be too thlow," the Goat stammered heavily.
"What about the men?" Bloodbeard asked, clearly dreading a mutiny.
Everyone had watched the supplies burn and the dragon wreak absolute havoc. It wouldn't be long before the sellswords, furious over their incinerated life savings, turned their wrath on the captains and the Tyroshi.
"We have to go all in. The Archon will double your rewards," a Tyroshi commander promised desperately. "If we retreat now, the mutiny will be completely unstoppable. Just hold the line a little longer. Once we breach Viserysfort, everything will be fine."
"Quick, go scavenge the burned animals. We eat the roasted meat... And salvage whatever rations are left," Bloodbeard ordered, taking a deep breath.
"Right," the Goat nodded.
They dug through the smoldering ash for anything edible, just trying to see how long they could hold out. A diet of pure, charred horse meat wasn't sustainable, but it would have to do for now.
"Let's hear your plan," Bloodbeard said, looking at the absurdly dressed Daario.
"Right now, our only hope is the scorpions and the longbows," Daario replied. "Everyone fears an ancient dragon, but we should count our blessings we aren't facing the Black Dread. It's a hatchling. Even if we can't hit the beast, a dragonrider can't dodge a wall of arrows."
Myrish crossbowmen had assassinated Prince Aemon in the past. The Triarchy's sailors had shot down Jacaerys and his dragon, Vermax, during a naval battle, as well as Aegon the Younger's young dragon, Stormcloud.
"We do it," the Tyroshi commanders agreed, gritting their teeth. "It's us or the beast. Only one walks away."
Tyrosh was a mercantile city where being a merchant was far more glorious than being a soldier. But it had originally been founded as a military outpost, leaving it with a much stronger martial tradition than either Lys or Myr.
---
"You've got balls, Daario. I'm putting you in charge of slaying the dragon. Whatever you need—men, weapons—name it," Bloodbeard declared.
"The cavalry is gone. I want the best crossbowmen, longbowmen, spearmen, and ballista crews you have. I command them directly," Daario demanded, a cold glint in his eyes.
The dragonslayers of old were lost to the dust of history. They were going to be the real thing.
"Done," Bloodbeard nodded.
The Tyroshi coalition's makeshift dragonslayers banded together, stepping into the deadliest game of all.
---
Sunblaze beat his leathery wings, the sound cracking like thunder. Viserys returned to the ramparts of Viserysfort. In the distance, the enemy camp was nothing but a devastated ruin of fire and smoke.
His soldiers erupted into wild cheers, pumping their steel-clad fists into the air. Viserys's black cloak was immaculate, completely untouched by the smoke and blood of the slaughter. The furious dragon had triumphed.
A thousand armies would shun that black cloak.
"Long live King Viserys!"
"Long live King Viserys!"
The rhythmic stomping and pounding of fists roared like thunder. The jubilant cheers from the walls stood in stark, brutal contrast to the crushing defeat of the Tyroshi and Dothraki below.
The Dothraki horde seemed to have fallen into a stunned silence. With their rear encampment continuously consumed by the inferno, their primal terror and frantic attempts to fight the fire eclipsed all thought of war.
"Should we sortie now?" Count Donnel asked.
The enemy's morale had been bleeding out for days. Now, with their rear in ashes, it was the perfect time to strike.
Viserys raised a hand, his gaze fixed on the distant, smoldering battlefield. "Hold the walls. Let them bleed for a few more days."
Viserys had it all calculated. The enemy's surviving rations would only last them a handful of days. It was all about relentless attrition.
He planned to launch a series of night raids, constantly setting their camps ablaze. Once the enemy's spirit was completely and utterly crushed, then he would unleash a full-scale war of annihilation.
Ser Agos and Count Donnel stood like immovable rocks behind him. Viserys stared at the horizon. Soon, it would be time for the heavy infantry to shine.
Donnel's heavily armored foot soldiers, Agos's heavy cavalry, and the spear-throwers commanded by the Red Viper and Garin. And, of course, the wildfire hidden in the shadows.
---
Far away, atop a watchtower in the Golden Company's camp, Myles Toyne and his blue-haired companion watched the distant smoke and flames in complete silence.
The inferno had consumed the Tyroshi camp and the Dothraki tents. It was a spectacular blaze, far more intense than the fires of the Battle of the Redgrass Field.
"It's a juvenile dragon, but it's already battle-ready. A beast like that isn't hatched overnight; it takes years of growth. No secret can be kept from the Braavosi. There's only one logical explanation: Viserys went to the Ruins of Valyria." The blue-haired Griffin clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"No wonder. No wonder he was so incredibly confident," Myles Toyne realized, the pieces finally falling into place. "He has a dragon. Without a single sword from the Golden Company, he just incinerated the supply lines of both the Dothraki savages and the Tyroshi."
"Tactically speaking, severing the supply lines is a vicious move, but it strikes directly at the heart."
In his youth, the Griffin, like most proud knights, had openly despised archers and schemes, believing solely in raw strength and valor. But his long years in exile had taught him a bitter wisdom. Tactics and arrows, when deployed correctly, were every bit as lethal as a longsword.
"But he is not the king I want. The true throne belongs to Rhaegar's son," the Griffin stated coldly.
After the Battle of the Bells, Aerys Targaryen's paranoia had spiraled completely out of control. Driven by blind, maddening fury, the Mad King had stripped the Griffin of all his titles and exiled him.
The Griffin felt absolutely no loyalty or nostalgia for the Mad King. He didn't love House Targaryen; he only loved the one bright, shining star of his life.
"Rhaegar's son doesn't have a dragon. He hasn't been to the Ruins of Valyria, he has no other True Dragons backing him, and he commands zero prestige. He literally cannot compare to his uncle in any way," Myles countered ruthlessly. "Your prince is an eleven-year-old boy. His uncle is already one of the most dangerous warriors alive."
The Griffin had no energy left for arguments. He was completely sick of hiding, sick of waiting, and sick of playing it safe. Besides, there was no time left for caution.
The Battle of the Bells was years in the past, but the ringing of those bells still haunted the Griffin, festering like a chronic disease.
"We will have dragons," the Griffin said, looking directly at Myles. "The secret the Magister revealed."
"The fat man's words," Myles said, meeting the Griffin's gaze. "This game is far too dangerous, my friend. The fat man is sitting safely in Pentos, while King Viserys is standing right in front of us. If we bend the knee now, we'll have a very different, very bright future ahead of us."
The Griffin stared at Myles, his mind flashing back to his utter failure at the Battle of the Bells. He had refused to burn the town down, and that refusal had cost him everything.
He had desperately craved the glory of slaying Robert Baratheon in single combat, but he hadn't been willing to bear the infamy of becoming a butcher. Because of his pride, Robert slipped through his fingers, ultimately killing Rhaegar on the Trident.
"I failed the father," the Griffin whispered. "I will absolutely not fail the son."
"Rhaegar's son..." Myles desperately wanted to ask the Griffin about the truth behind the boy—the tiny sliver of truth he himself knew.
But the truth was far too cruel. He chose to stay silent.
Myles looked at the Griffin. We are playing the Game of Thrones, not two bitches fighting over a bone. I am truly sorry, my friend. I've lied to you about so much.