The early morning sea breeze carried a hint of chill, but due to Myr's low latitude, the overall climate remained warm and pleasant. Fertile soil, a favorable climate, and the advantage of coastal proximity made the Three Daughters lush and prosperous.
As the sun climbed higher, the dew on the grass began to evaporate. Beyond the walls of Myr, the land was torn by the iron hooves of the Dothraki Screamers. Arakh scimitars glinted in the hands of the charging warriors as they surged toward the city.
Myr itself awoke to the roar of the Dothraki. The city's warriors readied their equipment, coldly watching the tide of Dothraki warriors advancing like waves. The horsemen were tall, with bronze skin, pale brown eyes, and black hair.
"It seems the Dothraki haven't lost many of their Lamb Men slaves; this time it's a cavalry force," Gendry observed.
"Only a few thousand," the Red Viper noted, "looks like a symbolic gesture from Khal Drogo."
As the trumpets on the walls of Myr sounded, their low, mournful notes sent shivers through the soul. Then Gendry heard the clamor of battle preparations: the creak of catapults being readied, the twang of bows drawn by foot archers, and the metallic clash of armor and weapons.
"Fire," Gendry commanded.
The catapults began hurling stones with a howl. Though the scorpion crossbows were powerful, their range was inferior to that of longbows and could only be employed once the enemy drew closer. Gendry had also prepared spears, stones, and arrows. If the Dothraki reached the gates of Myr, they would face boiling oil as well. Judging by the Dothraki attack formation, however, they wouldn't even reach the walls. Skilled as they were in open-field combat, they had no siege equipment.
Jorah pressed his dry lips together. As commander of the city, he had been directing the battle from this vantage point, the oppressive atmosphere leaving him parched and tense.
"Attack like waves, defend like rock," Gendry murmured, watching the roaring Dothraki crash against Myr like relentless tides. Yet the city's defenses held firm, unyielding and unchanged.
"The Dothraki are within range. Fire!" Gendry ordered. The horn sounded again, this time signaling the longbowmen. From their high positions, they aimed with precision at those Dothraki Screamers who had reached the edge of the trenches.
"As you command, Lord Commander." Black Billy nodded. The hundred-strong Summer Isles Guard was already ready.
The first to draw their bows were Gendry, Anguy, and Black Billy along with their guards—the elite among the archers—followed by the ordinary longbowmen. Over a thousand longbowmen were deployed atop the walls of Myr, more than enough to repel the Dothraki charge.
"The manpower here is far more generous than that of the Golden Company, perhaps even more lavish than the Westerlands' Army," the Red Viper thought, surveying the eager longbowmen. The Golden Company numbered ten thousand, including a thousand archers, five hundred knights with three horses each, five hundred attendants with one horse each, and the rest mostly infantry.
The Twin Cities Alliance fielded an even larger force, with more knights and longbowmen, not to mention the vassal Dothraki Screamers. Cavalry signified not only combat power but also wealth. The Red Viper found a more optimistic estimate of the Alliance's strength forming in his mind.
Gendry spotted a small group of unwary Dothraki straying into range, tall Screamers led by a strapping man, though fortunately not Khal Drogo.
"Shall we each take three arrows, my lord?" Anguy asked, standing beside Gendry, eyes tracking the prey. He wore black-scaled armor, high leather boots, and fingerless gloves, with a quiver on his back. His arrows were tipped with gray goose feathers, six planted in the ground before him like a small fence.
"Here." Gendry picked up the arrows. Anguy's arrows were tipped with spikes—enough to pierce plate armor—overkill for the Dothraki.
Gendry drew his double-curved Dragonbone longbow, taller than Daenerys herself. The bow was black as eternal night, the iron-rich Dragonbone giving it both weightless resilience and unmatched strength. A rare treasure.
"Whoosh!" Gendry released the arrow. The towering Dothraki Screamers toppled. The strapping man, leader of the vanguard, cursed as he swung his scimitar. But a mere painted vest offered no protection—the Dragonbone arrow pierced his heart, and he tumbled from his horse.
"My turn," Anguy said, red-haired and freckled, leaping with excitement. He drew his own longbow, taller than himself. His arrows flew true, felling Dothraki instantly.
"The Dragonbone bow is still the best. Even the reinforced longbow Fletcher gave me can't match it," Anguy muttered.
"I've heard Khal Drogo's khalasar also has Dragonbone bows. His Bloodriders apparently wield them," Gendry said.
"Then that makes them mine," Anguy said confidently.
Black Billy's archers sprang into action as well. Their Goldenheart longbows ranked second only to the Dragonbone bows in range.
Shouts, neighing horses, and jingling bells filled the wind, mingling with the clash of steel. The Dothraki roared, charging the walls of Myr like a swarm of furious ants, but death awaited them almost without exception. Catapults rumbled continuously, while archers calmly took aim at the approaching horde. These foolish Dothraki had no armor, mere moving targets.
Gendry watched the poor Screamers die in confusion. Those struck by stones became mangled flesh; arrows found unprotected throats, chests, and bellies, leaving only horses whinnying in despair.
"Excellent marksmanship, truly worthy of a master archer," the Red Viper couldn't help but praise. He watched the arrows scream through the air. In his mind's eye, the Stranger wielded his massive hand, reaping souls across the land repeatedly, while the ground before Myr ran red with Dothraki blood.
Once, like most knights, the Red Viper had looked down on archers. But over time, his views had changed. When employed skillfully, a bow could be just as lethal as a longsword.
The Dothraki left a trail of battered corpses across the land. The Dothraki Screamers fled farther than the Lamb Men slaves, yet met an even more brutal fate. Arrows and catapults snatched their lives mercilessly; they couldn't even reach the trenches.
"Long live the warhammer!"
"Long live the warhammer!" The warriors atop Myr's walls cheered at the retreating Dothraki. This was the battle cry of the Twin Cities Alliance; victory belonged to the Lord Commander.
"What will you do next, Drogo?" Gendry asked, eyes fixed on the larger force of Dothraki Screamers in the distance. This few-thousand-strong charge felt like a test; the main assault had yet to arrive.
The Dothraki attacked like waves crashing against Myr, only to dissipate again, leaving the fortress as solid as ever.
...
"Why the long face? A drink will help," the king said to Eddard. Wine and women were the king's enduring pleasures. The two men moved through the dense Kingswood, searching for the mysterious White Hart.
The forest felt deep and serene, yet Eddard found it difficult to relax. King's Landing was always a place riddled with intrigue, leaving him uneasy. And with war flaring near Riverrun, he had little heart to enjoy himself.
Eddard knew his brother-in-law Edmure's deployment was disastrous. Leaving four thousand men at the foot of Golden Tooth was practically a death sentence, a futile attempt at reinforcement. When Lannister cavalry charged from their high ground, defeat was inevitable. Even with messenger ravens, Edmure's fate might not be salvageable.
"Never mind," Eddard said, waving his hand, still dwelling on a scene from a few days past.
The knights and people of the Riverlands had brought complaints about The Mountain's raids—the pillaging, burning, and slaughter of villages. It was a vexing problem. Ordinary duties, hearing petitions, mediating town disputes, settling land boundaries, had never weighed on him like this. Dealing with The Mountain meant the roar of war.
Eddard looked at the drunken king and spoke. "Robert, The Mountain is a false knight and deserves punishment."
"Since you've already given the order, do as you've ordered. That fellow is large, you'll need to be careful," the king replied. "If possible, capture him alive and let Tywin deal with him."
Eddard studied the king with a sour look. The man constantly walked the line between peril and diplomacy. At least he hadn't sent Lord Tywin after The Mountain, sparing Eddard some measure of pride. But that was all. The king showed no appetite for harsher retribution.
And the people—the burned, slaughtered, plundered—they were left to accept such a fate for Tywin's sake. Eddard's heart ached. Justice in King's Landing was not what he had imagined.
"By the way, who did you send to deal with The Mountain?" the king asked.
"Thoros of Myr and Lothar, under the command of Beric Dondarrion," Eddard replied. He had dispatched quite a few men, though fewer than a hundred. He felt the force was still insufficiently secure; he didn't want the mission to go too badly.
Eddard recalled another face, filled with resentment—the young Knight of the Flowers, bitter at being passed over for this task despite his deep-seated blood feud with The Mountain.
"Perhaps I was wrong again," Eddard thought. Driven by his sense of justice, he had refused to ally with House Tyrell. But this was about fairness and law, not youthful valor or vengeance; perhaps he had acted rightly.
Still, Eddard had gained insight. The old Maester who had defended the Lannisters during the council was now, beyond doubt, nothing more than a Lannister lackey.
...
"Take a look at this, Eddard. That lad across the Narrow Sea, I heard from Varys that he's at war with the Dothraki," the king said. "If, and I mean if, we were to send troops now."
"Yes, Your Grace. If we were properly prepared, this would be a good time to attack. But look at the chaos we're in right now, it doesn't seem like we're in any shape to send troops," Eddard said after a moment's thought. Though he knew it was impossible, with Westeros in such turmoil, how could they possibly muster an army?
"Never mind, let him be. Come to think of it, he's younger than I am," the king hesitated, then added in a low voice. "Actually, back then I wanted to bring Mya into the castle to keep Joffrey company, but damn it, that foolish woman stopped me." Mya was the king's eldest child, a bastard daughter born in the Vale.
"The Queen… the Queen had her own reasons," Eddard said, unsure what else to add. The king's every need, food, clothing, shelter, depended on the Lannister golden dragons, and this political marriage was hardly a wise choice. But he could not fault Lord Arryn for that; after all, Lord Arryn could not have known the king would spend so freely.
"If it were your sister, she would never have disregarded my dignity like this." Though she was gone, the king still could not forget her.
"Even so, we must be prepared, Eddard," the king said suddenly. "Tyrosh, Myr, and the Stepstones, controlling these three places brings immense wealth, yet this lad hasn't grown complacent, he's still vying with the Dothraki for dominance over the East. His ambitions are grand, and his next move will surely be against us."
"Your Grace, I think it may not have come to that yet. What if the Dothraki and the Twin Cities Alliance destroy each other? Then they won't have the strength to attack Westeros," Eddard said thoughtfully.
"Come on," the king sighed. "It seems I really am getting old. Look at my figure, do you remember me when I was young? This is the price I pay for my debauchery. The gods mock my life, I am about to take up arms against my own son and be branded a Kinslayer."
"Your Grace, I will still fight for you," Eddard said.
"You?" The king smiled. "Yes, you're the only one left. In this battle, you, Stannis, and the Kingslayer are the few I must rely on. You will lead the army, Stannis the navy, and the Kingslayer the vanguard, this is our best lineup."
"Perhaps there is a better choice, the Old Knight would be more suitable," Eddard reminded him, for he truly detested the Kingslayer, especially now.
"Ser Barristan?" the king asked. "By a knight's standards, he's nearly ready for retirement. I don't want people saying I sent an old man to war. And Jaime, Jaime is in the prime of his life."
Eddard glanced at the king, hesitating over whether to continue speaking, about those "children" within the Red Keep, those bearing the Baratheon banner, who were in fact products of sin.
"Boy, pour me some more wine. Where's that damned stag?" the king cursed, unable to contain himself. His squire hurriedly presented a goblet of fine wine, the Blue Stag bearing the Lannister sigil.
Eddard felt once again that he should keep his mouth shut. The room was full of Lannisters, and perhaps it would be better to wait a little longer.