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The White City of Viserysfort stood secure behind its massive walls. Beyond the raised drawbridge and iron gates lay a broad stretch of flagstone ground between the outer defenses and the deep moat.
It had once been the harbor district—docks, warehouses, markets—but every scrap of timber, rope, and canvas had been stripped away before the war began. Not a single plank or barrel was left for the enemy to use as a bridge or ladder.
A few desperate souls still scrambled across the open stones, hoping to reach safety. They did not.
"Draw!" Hugo shouted. "Loose!"
The angle from the walls was steep, but the longbowmen had numbers on their side and the fleeing men had nowhere to hide. Arrows hissed down like iron rain. None survived.
The true horror unfolded on the Upper Rhoyne and in the moat itself.
The world had become pure chaos—horses screaming, men roaring, steel clashing. The makeshift floating bridges the Tyroshi sailors had built collapsed in moments, swallowed by green fire. Swimmers, riders, everything burned.
Emerald flames danced across the water like graceful courtesans, their long skirts of fire brushing against flesh and wood, leaving only ash and death behind.
The moat of Viserysfort, the channel of the Upper Rhoyne, the blazing green wildfire, the red-hot iron chains, the burning grass mats and planks—all of it formed a single, hellish painting.
This was the Gate of Hell.
Viserys watched the inferno from the battlements. The kiss of wildfire turned screaming sailors and flailing Dothraki into living torches. Wildfire was dragonflame's vicious cousin; it clung to skin and bone like molten fat. The only real defense was sand, and the enemy had none.
The flames were a shifting, beautiful green—pale as new leaves, deep as forest shadow—lighting the night sky with terrible beauty, like the dragonfire of old legends.
Viserys narrowed his eyes. "Still not enough," he muttered.
He only had a few hundred jars. King's Landing still held four or five thousand. But even this small amount was enough to turn the river into a furnace.
Screams rose without end. The Tyroshi reinforcements and the Dothraki vanguard broke completely. Their lead elements became nothing more than charred bones floating in the water—some drowned, some burned, many both.
The channel was choked with bodies. Explosions of green light swallowed them whole. They thrashed, they begged, they died.
Arrows followed, merciless, finding every gap.
Viserys watched the enemy forces stagger back in panic. The wildfire bursts bloomed like deadly flowers—beautiful, final, and utterly devastating.
"The moment has come," he said quietly. "After dawn, the final battle begins."
He didn't know if the enemy would still be there when morning arrived.
But he knew Khal Drogo. The man was too proud to run. In another life, that pride had cost him everything—death from an infected wound.
"Sunblaze!" Viserys called.
The golden dragon answered with a roar. Viserys vaulted into the saddle and they rose into the night sky.
The last screaming warriors and horseless sellswords left behind were the unluckiest of all. Their courage had already shattered. The few arrows they loosed at the high-flying dragon only enraged it further.
Sunblaze's dragonfire was hotter, brighter, and far more terrifying than wildfire. Where it touched, nothing remained but ash and silence. Viserys swept the rear lines clean, leaving a trail of corpses, then wheeled back toward the walls.
If Drogo still refused to leave at dawn, his only exit would be the grave.
The enemy host fled westward in disorder until they reached what they thought was safety.
On the watchtower in the Golden Company's camp, Myles Toyne and Griffin stood like stone gargoyles, staring at the distant inferno.
Their own campfires looked like tiny candles beside the wildfire.
"The war is almost over," Myles said softly. Even from here, the heat pressed against their faces.
"Cruel," Griffin muttered. He had seen the strange, beautiful green flames—the color of victory and death.
"You still hold to your plan?" Myles asked.
Griffin nodded. "My fight begins soon as well."
"I suspect the wildfire was only the opening act. The decisive battle comes at dawn—if that khal is still fool enough to stay." Myles turned. "The Golden Company will move closer to Viserysfort. But I'll leave you a few hundred men and some time. Use it wisely."
...
Dawn broke.
The gates of Viserysfort swung open. The drawbridge crashed down across the moat.
The last of the wildfire jars had been spent. Soldiers now dragged corpses and dead horses from the choked channel, piling them on the flagstones.
Burned planks and grass mats lay in blackened heaps.
Then the army marched out—rank after rank of gleaming armor, a steel forest bristling with spears.
Black-and-red Targaryen banners snapped everywhere: the three-headed dragon on every breast, every lance pennant, every shield.
Here and there other sigils appeared—House Donnel's black stone, Agos's seven-pointed star.
The royal pavilion had been raised on the open ground before the city, a deliberate insult to the enemy.
Beside it flew the greatest banner of all: a massive black field with the proud three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen, tall, fierce, and unconquered.
"Seven!" the Andal soldiers roared, painting the seven-pointed star on their faces with blood and ash, the mark of the Warrior's fury.
They formed a disciplined shield wall—not the perfect Unsullied crescent, but a knightly phalanx of overlapping steel.
Bloodworm and Count Donnel gripped their weapons, eyes hard.
On the open plain, Khal Drogo watched the milk men pour from their stone city and plant their king's pavilion in full view of his host.
Fight or flee—this was the choice that would decide everything.
Drogo's face was iron. That milk man, hiding behind walls, now dared to raise his tent on the battlefield like a conqueror. The shame burned hotter than any wildfire.
Hunger and heavy losses had left the horde dazed and uncertain.
"Drogo, we should leave," Jhaqo urged again. Last night he had watched the bravest screamers die like dogs in the flames.
The dragonrider's tricks and schemes were beyond them.
"Take up your blade!" Drogo snarled, whirling his arakh toward Jhaqo.
Jhaqo's face darkened. Among the Dothraki, this was no idle threat—it was a challenge that could not be refused.
He had thought they were allies. Drogo had treated him like a chamber pot.
In the blink of an eye, the two khals drew their long, razor-sharp arakhs and began the dance of death, circling, feinting, blades flashing.
"You'll lead your people to ruin!" Jhaqo roared. "That cursed tongue has poisoned your mind!"
"I do not fail. I will kill him myself."
Drogo's blade moved like lightning. Jhaqo was older, slower by half a heartbeat.
The arc was perfect—Drogo's arakh sliced through Jhaqo's waist, spilling guts and blood across the grass.
Drogo's bloodriders and Jhaqo's bloodriders exploded into violence at once. The entire plain became a storm of steel and screams.
The Tyroshi commanders watched in stunned silence, throats tight, too terrified to speak.
"Beneath the sky I swear it," Drogo panted, eyes wild. "I will kill Viserys with my own hands."
The Dothraki screamers and what remained of the Tyroshi coalition formed up behind him for one final charge.
Stone met wave.
The Andal shield wall—half-moon formation, bristling with spears like a rose of thorns—waited.
Agos's heavy cavalry and Oberyn's javelin throwers, supported by eight hundred loyal Dothraki screamers, waited on the flanks for the perfect moment.
Above them all, Sunblaze wheeled in the sky. Viserys sat tall in the saddle, the golden dragon diving again and again, golden-red fire raining down like the wrath of the gods.
The Golden Company had arrived to lend their final strength, forming their own disciplined half-moon to meet the horse lords.
"Dragonfire!" Viserys searched for Drogo through the chaos. The khal's banner had just slipped from view.
Sunblaze roared and unleashed another torrent of flame.
Drogo was thrown from his horse. He rose snarling, arakh flashing, cutting down the first spears that reached him. He was fast, brutal, deadly in the press of bodies.
In that same heartbeat, every scorpion, every dragonbone longbow, every crossbow in the coalition roared as one.
All eyes were fixed on Viserys.
The sky filled with death.
"Rise!" Viserys shouted.
Sunblaze surged upward.
A single arrow—thick as a spear, loosed from a dragonbone bow—followed them like a thunderbolt.
It slammed into Viserys's silver armor and burst apart in a shower of flame.
The dragon carried his rider higher into the morning sky, beyond the reach of mortal weapons.
The final battle had begun.