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The Andal shield wall stood rock-solid in a tiger-mouth formation. Heavily armored knights stepped forward, then raised Viserys's banners—black field, red dragon.
Armor flashed under the sun. The heaviest troops formed the front rank, followed by the slightly lighter second line.
Andal spears bristled like a rose of steel thorns. Soldiers stood firm behind tall oak shields painted with the black-and-red dragon.
"Hold the line!"
"Hold the line!"
Count Donnel and Bloodworm barked the orders, commanding the entire heavy-infantry phalanx.
The Andal shield wall was different from the Unsullied. The Unsullied had been drugged from childhood and could shrug off pain far better than ordinary men; the knights relied on heavy plate, massive shields, and perfect coordination.
On the right, longbowmen and javelin throwers loosed volley after volley, dropping screaming warriors' horses by the dozen so the enemy could never reach the shields in one clean charge.
On the left, the Golden Company drew steel and crashed into the oncoming tide.
"Harry. Harry." Myles called for his second-in-command.
"What is it, Captain-General?" Harry asked.
"If anything happens to me… you take command. Remember—don't let my mistake cost the brothers their lives."
Harry felt dizzy. Was the Captain-General talking nonsense? But Myles didn't look mad.
Then Harry's blood ran cold. Myles couldn't be planning something else, could he? He couldn't have joined this fight without truly meaning to bring the company home.
Sweat slicked Harry's palms. How could the Captain-General take such a risk?
The dragon's earlier attack had already carved deep wounds through both armies, yet the two great hosts had slammed together anyway.
Steel rang, stones flew overhead, arrows fell like iron rain. Horses in their death frenzy still charged until lances punched through them, crushing shields and opening momentary gaps.
But the wall held. Reserves rushed in from every direction to plug the holes.
"Kill the milk men!" Khal Drogo roared, his arakh a silver blur.
He spotted the weak seam where two plates of Andal armor met and struck like lightning. The arakh bit deep. Drogo twisted, slipped past the knight's shield, and opened his throat in one clean stroke.
"Ahhh!" Drogo lifted the dying man's head by the hair and bellowed as he charged on.
Already he had killed several knights with raw speed and power.
But the Andal soldiers answered with equal fury. More spearmen closed around him.
"Kill! Kill them all!" Bloodbeard screamed. Once he had fought for gold and glory; now he fought for his life.
Arrows darkened the sky. Dust choked the air.
No one could see the dragon anymore. No silver-armored rider.
Drogo and Bloodbeard pushed forward. Farther back, Daario Naharis directed the dragon-slayers.
Blue-haired Daario's palms were slick with sweat. He had stared death in the face only moments ago.
If the golden dragon had made one more pass, he would have been nothing but ash.
He glanced at the scorpions and crossbowmen he had hidden behind the front lines. Some were already dead. The rest looked ready to bolt.
"Is he dead?" Daario grabbed the nearest archer by the collar.
"Yes, my lord! That many arrows—no one survives." The man's voice shook with mad hope. "We won! We killed the dragon!"
"He must be dead," Koso, Drogo's bloodrider, answered arrogantly. "A dragonbone bow has no equal."
"The dragon is dead?" Daario still sounded unsure.
No falling dragon. No broken body tumbling from the sky. Had the battle truly ended?
Everyone had only seen the arrows blot out Viserys. The next instant the dragon had surged upward, carrying its rider beyond sight.
The sky still echoed with dragon roars, but the golden speck and its silver rider were lost against the sun.
"Doesn't matter," Daario growled, pushing forward.
"The dragon is dead!"
"The dragon is dead!" The sellswords howled the lie, and the Andal ranks and Golden Company faltered for a heartbeat.
But the Andals had no time to look up. The fighting had reached its boiling point.
Viserys had planned everything perfectly. His soldiers stayed in formation, each man doing his duty.
High above, Sunblaze and Viserys circled. The dragon was now only a golden dot the size of a fly.
"Damn them," Viserys spat blood into the wind. His insides ached from the impact, but a few moments' rest would fix it.
He remembered the wall of arrows that had risen to meet him. It had been dangerously close.
When Daario shouted, every Dothraki and Tyroshi bow, every scorpion and dragonbone longbow, had swung toward him at once.
A storm of shafts whistled upward. The worst were the scorpions and dragonbone bows—their power was terrifying.
Normal longbows reached two hundred and fifty yards; dragonbone bows flew farther.
To breathe dragonfire, any rider had to dive low—even ancient beasts like Meraxes and Balerion. But young dragons were far more vulnerable at low altitude.
Viserys's riding was flawless and the Heart Spell bound him to Sunblaze, yet against such a sudden, concentrated volley caution was the only rule.
He had pre-charged the Ring of Fire and spent its power to burn the arrowheads out of the air. The sheer volume—especially the heavy scorpion bolts and dragonbone shafts—had drained him.
His own armor, the silver-plated Rhoynar plate, had held. The impacts still hurt like hammer blows.
Sunblaze's wings had taken a few blunt hits. Nothing pierced the scales, but the dragon felt every strike.
Sunblaze was gifted and growing fast, yet his hide was nowhere near the thickness of an old dragon's.
Right now the dragon's rage burned white-hot.
"Looks like the Tyroshi aren't complete idiots after all," Viserys muttered. Saturation fire like that was a real threat to a young dragon and its rider.
They had learned a few lessons from the past.
Pity they had met Viserys. He was a step above them all.
"Then I'll burn every last one of them." Viserys stroked the Ring of Fire, feeling fire and water essence flow back into him, restoring him to full strength.
Before the Red Comet, fire essence on ordinary soil was thin—nothing like the ruins of Valyria. After the comet, magic would surge again.
Sunblaze wheeled high overhead, a tiny golden speck no one below could read clearly.
Viserys even heard the first cork-popping cheers. The Tyroshi were already opening the victory wine.
He did not dive. Not yet.
…
Back at the Andal camp only a handful of men still stood guard—mostly Golden Company, a few Andal soldiers.
To show trust, the Golden Company had accepted rearguard duty.
Now those men felt like outsiders, waiting anxiously for news from the field.
At the entrance to Viserys's royal pavilion, skinny but newly healthy Dick Crabb paced like a caged animal.
He could hear the roar of battle ahead.
"No. I'm going to the front," Crabb said, hand already on his sword.
The Golden Company sentry looked stunned. "My lord, you're the king's personal attendant. You should stay here."
"The best place for an attendant is the battlefield. If the king falls, the attendant is a traitor. Guard this tent. No one enters."
Crabb stormed off with his own small escort, weapons ready, vanishing down the tent lane.
The Golden Company men could only stare, too surprised to stop him.
The pavilion fell silent.
Moments later new shadows appeared beside the royal tent.
They stepped out as if rising from the earth itself, but the guards obeyed Ser Myles's earlier order: listen to the Griffin.
Jon Connington once more wore the red-and-white cloak with twin griffins. He looked older, steadier than the hot-blooded friend who had once ridden at Rhaegar's side.
The boy at his side wore a longsword and dagger, black leather boots, and a black cloak edged in blood-red. His hair had been carefully washed and now shone silver; his eyes were pale violet.
Three huge square-cut rubies hung at his throat on a black-iron chain—Illyrio's gift.
Black and red. The colors of the dragon.
"You look every inch a king today," Jon told the boy. "Your father would be proud."
Young Griff touched the rubies. "I'm done dyeing my hair."
"You'll have your wish soon," Jon said. "You'll have your own dragon and your own army."
"My dragon and my army?" Aegon frowned. "I like the sound of an army. But will they truly be mine? They're all my uncle's men. People will say I stole Viserys's victory."
"A king is both lion and fox. Every man who stands at the top carries ghosts in his heart. As a prince you have every right to be wary—but great deeds are never done by the timid. Everything we do is for the cause." Jon Connington's voice dropped. "Sometimes you must bend a little."
The boy nodded. "I'll remember."
"You can still walk away," Jon said. "We have time. Or you can wait for King Viserys to return—alive or dead—and he will forgive you."
"No." The boy shook his head. "Viserys is only Rhaegar's younger brother. I am Rhaegar's trueborn son. The world needs only one true dragon."
"I'm tired of hiding," the boy said. "I want my honor. I want my crown. Everyone sings of Viserys's stories. I've thought it through—I am the dragon, not some rat in the gutter."
The Griffin did not know what to say. The boy had grown up on tales of restoration; he could not escape them now.
Jon laid a hand on Prince Aegon's shoulder. "Well spoken. But think before you speak."
"I've thought seven times over," the boy insisted. "Why should I crawl to my uncle like a beggar? My claim is stronger than his. I am the dragon. If I have a dragon, no one will dare question me."
"Good."
Jon drew back the tent flap. The royal pavilion's dragon-horn banner loomed like black teeth. It felt as if they had stepped into the dragon's own throat.
The king's tent was simple. Only the enormous horn hanging at the back glowed with strange light.
The curved horn gleamed coldly, taller than a man.
Lion and boy strode straight to it, ignoring everything else.
It had been almost too easy. The Griffin could only think the gods were smiling.
"This is it," he whispered. "Illyrio spoke of the Dragon Horn. The one that can command dragons."
"Then what are we waiting for?" the boy asked.
"Wait." Jon studied the runes. "There's writing. 'I am the Dragon Horn. No mortal may blow me.'"
As a Westerosi lord he could read enough Valyrian.
To sound this horn is to offer one's life.
"No," the Griffin said quickly. "This thing reeks of blood magic. Life itself is the price."
"Then what do we do?" Aegon asked, frantic. "We're already here."
"The dragon is dead!"
"The dragon is dead!"
"Lies!" the Andals roared back.
A thunderous roar rolled across the battlefield.
"My lord, something huge is happening up front! The Dothraki and Tyroshi loosed a storm of arrows at King Viserys. The dragon won't come down. The king's fate is unknown."
"I know."
Sweat beaded on the Griffin's palms. No more time. He was done waiting.
If the prince did not act today, he would forever be his uncle's servant.
"I'll do it," Jon said. "If it truly costs my life and nothing comes of it, you can still beg King Viserys for mercy. Blame everything on me."
"No." Aegon suddenly looked afraid. Rhaegar was a distant legend, a glory he had never known.
But the Griffin—the Griffin was the only father he had ever truly had.
The Griffin lifted the horn. It was taller than most men, so he had to cradle it with both hands.
He took a deep breath.
And blew.