53 Battle of the Coastroad

Mount trotting forward till its legs sloshed onto the first puddles of the wide river, Podrick beseeched frantically with his hands. "Move, move! Across the river!"

A wave of splashes filled the heated air as blocks of troops quick marched across the water. Despite only coming up to halfway to their knees, the mud and gravel riverbed slowed their pace, threatening to break their formation. Podrick and the other commanders had placed their best crossbowmen and half the northern hoplites in the rear - the most vulnerable part of their formation - and leaving them to the wolves by allowing a gap to form between them and the rest of the army would be a disaster.

Speaking of wolves… "Ser Payne!" The calls of panic were not needed, for Podrick heard it too. The chanting cries and drumbeat of hooves.

"Another raiding party! Form ranks!" He dismounted from his horse, eyes peeled to the first feathered heads of the arriving enemy poking from atop the rolling bluffs overlooking the river from the north. "Nock crossbows and forward!" Drawing his sword, Podrick leapt into the water and raced towards his men.

It had happened at least half a dozen times before. Whatever mercenary generals or slave raiders the Masters had at their disposal weren't fools. The main freeborn army refused to commit itself against the Imperials. Instead, sellsword horse raiders and Volantian slave soldiers - called Janissaries by the Ghiscari auxiliaries - bushwhacked and assaulted them in ambushes and rapid caracoles meant to draw blood or disrupt the ever steady march towards Yunkai.

Something the Emperor had given strict orders to prevent at all costs.

Bare chested and shouting the vilest obscenities, the irregulars and horse raiders sent a flurry of arrows and javelins from the north bank and the bluffs overlooking it. Men toppled into the water with loud splashes, some dead, many more wounded. Blood began to transform the river with streaks of crimson red, anger building. The jeers increased in intensity, some of the Janissaries flashing their genitals in an obscene taunt. Just daring the northerners to break ranks and fight them.

"Hold the line boys!" yelled Podrick. "Hold the line!"

None took the bait, continuing their plodding backwards march. Hoplites stood firm with their shields and spears pointed outward, doing their best to protect those deeper in the ranks from harm. Karstark longbowmen and the few cannon they had with them returned fire from the south bank. Wading into the river, the Stark crossbowmen hunkered behind the massive phalanx shields. Aimed bolts steadily picked off the enemy, forcing them to either fall further back or charge forth, easy pickings for the hoplite spears. But the flurry of arrows did not slacken, and worry broke out that they would soon take their toll.

It was then that an ear-splitting roar boomed over the landscape. Piercing the din of battle and onrushing water, out of the south flew the broad wings of the great dragon Rhaegal, low over the scruffy ground. Atop rode the Emperor Jon himself, Valyrian steel sword glinting in the sun. Cheers rang out among the men, but they did not charge. Instead they continued their steady march through the river. "Keep the march!" Podrick would not let his men falter, for the rest of the army would not wait for them.

To the surprise of many, instead of sortieing in devastating attack runs on the hills, Rhaegal slammed into the water in a hard landing. He roared at the enemy while Jon leapt off his back. A screaming Jassinary essentially nude charged him with a large axe, but was quickly cut down by the Emperor. Tongues of flame left Rhaegal's maw, incinerating clusters of horse archers.

But the sellswords had been ready. Lancing out from the bluffs were several hidden rockets, aimed over open sights at Rhaegal by individual irregulars. "Boy! Retreat!" Jon yelled, parrying a blow before grabbing a sellsword by his belt sash and ramming his head into the other man's nose, blood gushing. Howling in pain as a rocket hit his shoulder, Rhaegal obeyed and flapped into the air, hurrying out of range of the rockets.

Behind the Emperor roared the collective hooves of a two hundred Vale knights - a sixth of the entire Imperial cavalry contingent. Banners fluttered as they yelled at the top of their lungs. Lances lowering in fluid cohesion, the fresh mounts kicked up a torrent from the river, water churning into an angry white foam. Aiming for the gaps in the blocks of hoplites and crossbowmen, the knights wheeled around and slammed into the irregulars and mounted raiders on the far bank. Sheer momentum forced the horses through the gooey mud unscathed, bodies flying about as lances, blades, and flails ripped chunks from the enemy.

An arrow whizzing by his head, Jon crouched and charged. The dismounted horse archer was struggling to notch another projectile onto his bow. It was too late. Longclaw spilled his intestines into the river with a splash before the man could even feel the pain. A quick whirl found the Valyrian steel decapitating the head off another irregular. "Se zokla ēza ātsio!" he bellowed at the low bluffs to the north - the wolf has fangs.

A deep trumpet blast found the battlefield broken. Vale charge petering out as the mud and exhaustion took their toll on the horses, the knights slowed to a trot as the irregulars pulled back in a jumbled mass. Their dead were left upon the field, either carried away on the current, strewn in the mud, or dissolving into fine ash in the gentle wind or flowing water. Wolf-howls pierced the air, the northerners celebrating yet another raiding party beaten off. Another laurel for the many battles they had fought and won since raising their banners for their Emperor outside Winterfell castle.

Dragging his tired legs to the southern bank, Jon crouched, catching his breath. "Here, sire." He looked up to see Ollie holding a waterskin, offering a tiny smile. Jon gladly took it, luxuriating in the refreshing liquid on his tongue - he had been only moments from drinking the muddy river water, red with blood. "We sure showed em!" The normally reserved Ollie let out a wolf-howl of his own.

Wiping the droplets and slobber off his mouth after handing the skin back to Ollie, Jon's attention as drawn to the literal dragon in the room. He strode along the floodplain to where his child rested. "Rhaegal boy, you alright?" His Northern brogue was tinged with concern.

Curled up on the ground, wings folded, the fatigue and pain of the day's fight was written in the green beast's behavior. Rhaegal, letting out the occasional grunt of discomfort, craned his neck to lick the rocket wound on his shoulder. As Jon reached out his arm, he gently nuzzled his father's palm with his snout. A soft purr left him at the contact.

"You'll be alright, boy. I promise," Jon whispered, scratching underneath his jaw - that earned a delighted growl as it always did. "Looks like he's out of the fight." Looking at Podrick and Barristan, the Emperor made sure his voice resonated across the floodplain.

Both - along with his northern battalion commanders - stared at him in shock. "But sire," Podrick stammered. "The wound doesn't look serious?!"

A withering glare directed itself toward the young knight. If looks could kill, Podrick would have roasted alive. "Who has the spiritual connection to this dragon?! Not I?! You have no experience to judge my child's pain!"

"But sire." Concerned as to the overprotectiveness Jon demonstrated regarding Rhaegal, such not surprising considering how Daenerys doted on Balerion, Barristan remembered how quickly they would heal in their youth. "From what I observed while watching them grow, the dragon's healing…"

Jon cut him off with a wolf-like snarl. "I WILL NOT LET THEM BE HURT IN BATTLE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

A subtle sparkle in Jon's eye piqued Barristan's interest. While they were clearly Stark in color, the mischievous glint was completely that of the Emperor's father - displayed whenever the dragon-like cunning was being deployed. 'Oh, you crafty bastard,' he thought with an inward chuckle. He bowed, looking crestfallen. "Forgive me, sire."

Already feeling Rheagal's pain lessening, Jon raised his voice even louder. "We will just have to fight on our own boys! Are you up to it?!" A chorus of wolf-howls left the hoplites and crossbowmen, apprehensive but filled with bloodlust. Their dander was up and could take anything the slavers sent their way.

Nodding, Jon turned back to his dragon. In the hills overlooking the river, the prying eyes of enemy scouts had heard his angered rant… just as he planned.

Gliding through the hallways of her childhood home, Catelyn Tully Stark could feel the shift in the mood of the inhabitants. Morale was up upon the knowledge of Daenerys and her dragons vanquishing a sizable Lannister force and rescuing the western army in retreat from the ruins of Casterly Rock. Granted, it was only a modest bounce from the absolute nadir of several weeks before, but it was up. Catelyn would take it, grateful that her brother was alive. After losing her uncle to the afterlife and losing her youngest daughter to Joffrey's dungeons, any good news was welcome.

Ravens had pegged Dany and the army only a day's march away. The Empress had insisted on shepherding the crack troops personally, and while it made many uneasy, Catelyn saw the logic in it. They needed all the troops they could after the massive defeats. She had seen the reports, largely taking over the managerial duties of the castle and preparations. There really was no one else to do so. Tyrion helped her out occasionally, but had imbibed the bottle too often to atone for his failure, seeking little contact outside of Shae. Varys and Olenna were smart but not tacticians. Sansa was in Winterfell while Robb was recovering from an infected abscess of his wound - Margaery not leaving his side. Davos was busy reconstituting the decimated grand army. No, it was just her for the most part, at least until Jon returned.

Thankfully, as she entered the castle infirmary, Catelyn had some free time to check on her son.

As she expected, there was Margaery by his bedside. The Rose of Highgarden held her betrothed hand, Robb's chest rising and falling rhythmically in his peaceful sleep. "Is he doing better?" Catelyn asked. Shame coursed through her at not being in constant knowledge of her son's health.

'Speaking as if you care about a child's health,' a voice within hissed. The shame was only magnified.

Looking up with worn, tired eyes, Margaery smiled - a smile that didn't reach the rest of her face. "Yes. His fever broke this morning." The southern beauty looked completely exhausted, dark circles and pale skin. Written all over her, the love and worry she felt for the young man - Catelyn's eldest boy - was self evident. "The Maester said he would be walking again in a few days."

"Thank the gods." Resting her own hand on the younger woman's shoulder, Catelyn smiled a motherly smile. "You look like you need some sleep, Margaery." Shaking her head, Margaery nevertheless allowed Catelyn lower her to the bed. Soon, she was out like a lantern, snoring softly. A quiet laugh escaped Catelyn's mouth. It reminded her of herself next to Bran's bed all those years before.

Leaving the dozing couple be, the aging matron and dowager Lady of Winterfell heard a groaning from across the infirmary. Curiosity got the better of her. Stepping along the stone floor, she did a slight double take at the occupant of one of the beds.

"My lady," the wounded knight stated. "I would stand, but I am under maester's orders not to."

"Ser Jorah." Catelyn shifted on her feet awkwardly, looking over the once banished northern noble. She fought the blush that threatened to form on her cheek. Luckily for all parties, the little tryst they shared at the celebration of the victory at Riverrun - largely from contagious joy and significant amounts of wine and mead - had been kept a secret by him. Catelyn wasn't sure how much he remembered, so kept quiet as well. "Are you healing well?"

Rubbing his shoulder, Jorah shrugged. "I'll probably be out of the fight for a while. Fucking sellsword traitor…" he growled. Looking up at Catelyn, his face curled into a sheepish glance. "Pardon my language, my Lady."

"Are you speaking of the sellsword commander? Naharis?" She saw Jorah nod. "I would have likely used far worse language." The two chuckled, Catelyn enjoying the first airy banter she had had since… well since Ned. Pulling up a chair - a rather spartan one carved from local hardwood - Catelyn sat down beside the injured knight. "Do you mind?"

A wiry smile was sent her way. "Not at all. I could use a little intelligent company. Neither her Grace nor Barristan are here, and Tyrion doesn't seem to enjoy my company."

Matching his expression, Catelyn shifted on the hard chair for whatever comfort could be afforded. "My… my husband told me of the pact you made with him. Before the Empress' first wedding."

Lips pursing seriously, Jorah exhaled. "I didn't deserve his conditional pardon. Not after what I've done."

"You saved and protected our sovereign on numerous occasions. You've even come close to death, doing so. I feel that you've earned your pardon and forgiveness."

He snorted, chuckling. "My niece thinks the same, though that was only said after she smacked me on the head." The two shared a merry laugh.

Campfires flickering, the Imperial Army had halted for the night. Thousands of twinkling stars provided what little natural illumination upon the shrouded ground, moon invisible in the lunar cycle. Watered wine filled waterskins as whole hogs were roasted on spits for the troops by the noncombatants. Soldiers from various units bantered about, mingling in a multinational melting pot. A sense of impending dread filled the army, thousands drowning the oncoming battle as they approached Yunkai with hearty food and cheerful banter.

Within the command tent, such dread was being handled in a far different manner. Arms splayed over the map table, Jon banished back his pulsing headache. "So we're sure the enemy is gathered in the forests to the north?"

"Aye," replied Barristan. "Our scouts have estimated around fifteen thousand cavalry, ten thousand infantry." He sighed. "Double the numbers previously." They had assaulted their column every day since the fight at the river, although not in such strength. Jon had ordered the army to stay together and had done a masterful job of holding such cohesion.

And yet the sense of foreboding could not go away. "And our numbers?" In the stress of it all, mere statistics had a knack of escaping him.

"Less than twelve thousand, two thousand of that cavalry," Podrick stated. Him and Barristan were the only ones sharing the Emperor's tent tonight. The others had their orders, and thus did not need to see their commander's pensive worry.

"Damn this war." Jon allowed his head to hang, eyes closing. "Damn it to all hells." Good at it as he was, Jon prayed that the fighting would cease. "Can our men hold ranks till Yunkai?"

"I believe so, but even with our ships hugging the coast with supplies, we could be overwhelmed."

Jon nodded. "Very well. This ends tomorrow one way or the other."

The harsh light of the late morning sun baked the desolate rocky plain. Ground baked in the sizzling heat, the Imperial army marched in steady formation as close to the gentle waves of Slaver's Bay washing onto the sand in swirls of white foam. Each infantryman - be they an ex-Bolton hoplite sworn to the direwolf, Stark crossbowman, Karstark archer, or freedman auxiliary - had been assembled in the specially designed "flying column." Stepping ploddingly slow and bristling with spearmen, they lined the outside of the box formation of the Imperial force. Inside rested the entire force of Vale cavalry as well as the army's baggage train - and the single dragon, wounded in a past day's skirmish.

Strewn across the entire plain from where the march had begun to where it was currently were the bodies of hundreds of the Slaver's Alliance army, not bothering to collect their dead as they finally deployed for battle. The front of the army, which had done most of the attacking, was composed of dense swarms of Volantian Jassinary skirmishers armed with javelins and light bows, sellsword horse archers, and a smattering of heavy cavalry. Behind these were the ordered squadrons of armoured heavy cavalry and infantry: the freedman footsoldiers of Yunkai and Astapor, along with the noble armored cataphracts - no noble master would ever walk into battle. Divided into left, right, and center wings, the generals and masters directed the army from the safety of the woods, surrounded by an elite bodyguard and accompanied by trumpet signallers.

For hours the caracoles had pounded the box since bursting out of the woods over a mile inland. Swarms of arrows and javelins streamed in, met by an ever steady counterbattery fire from the Imperial archers and crossbowmen. Inside the box, the Vale knights refused to budge, denying the masters what they wished. The breaking of the Imperial formation. Yunkai was fast approaching, and they needed the knights to charge forth and allow them to bring their numbers to bear.

Nearly stumbling over himself, one crossbowman had to be hauled back up by his comrades. The constant marching sideways and firing was taking its toll, tripping and enemy fire exhausting their morale and hurting their aim. Struggling not to slow down as he pulled back the firing pin and rested the iron-tipped bolt in its place, the young lad from a farm three miles outside the Dreadfort - the third of eight children - aimed and fired at an enemy javelineer. He smiled when the man toppled, but then the man next to him collapsed dead from one of the infernal slaver projectiles. The shields of the auxiliaries, guttural babble sounding completely alien to his ear, only did so much.

A hand on his shoulder nearly caused him to stumble again. Turning to shout an obscenity at the dumbass that broke his concentration, the young lad's jaw - and the jaws of everyone around him - dropped at the sight of the Emperor Jon himself. This close, the White Dragonwolf looked completely normal with a wry grin, close cropped beard, and dark, wavy hair pulled up in a bun. In his hands he held a longbow.

"You call yourselves soldiers of the Imperial Army? Fuck all! We can take this!" Using all the skills Ser Rodrick and Ygritte drilled into him, he notched an arrow. "Come on men! Stay strong!" Breathing slowly and deeply, cutting out all externalities except for his arms, the target, and the steady pace of the march, Jon released the bowstring. With a plunk-whoosh, the arrow flew and slammed into the chest of an enemy javelineer. "Fight with your Emperor!"

"With the White Wolf!" hollered one of the men, and soon a spontaneous wolf-howl broke out among them - joined by the auxiliaires, exultant for Vhrysa to fight alongside them as well.

Laughing and cheering with the men, stepping sideways while sending another arrow at the enemy, Jon's smile ceased as he pursed his lips. "Cavalry's coming men!" Out came Longclaw. "With me!"

It was to be a two pronged caracole. Both a mix of sellsword horse archers and armored Yunkai cataphracts for protection. With the nobility getting impatient, haranguing them at every available moment as to when victory would be achieved, the various generals and sellsword captains ordered a quarter of their cavalry into the fray. Hopefully with a massive fusillade of arrows and handheld light rockets - more designed for injury and terror value than actual death - they could coax the as yet uncommitted Vale knights to break their tight formation and charge haphazardly. Despite their men tiring in the hot sun, it was worth the risk.

War cries bellowing and banners flowing, the prongs separated. One galloped off to wheel in a u turn and hit the rear of the Imperial flying column while the other moved for the more direct center. Just as the second caracole moved to turn, a sellsword lieutenant that had fought at the river days before spotted the black/grey outline mixed with the northern crossbowmen and swarthy Meereenese freedmen. Dragonwolf emblazoned on the front of the cuirass, he would recognize the Targaryen Emperor anywhere. He may not have been riding his great dragon, but there he was at the front of the line. 'The Wise Masters would pay me hills of gold for his head,' thought the lieutenant.

"It's their Emperor, boys!" he yelled in Valyrian. "Let's fuck his corpse!" Hooting, those around him broke formation and charged. Cataphracts around them, eager for glory and tired of being out of the fight, joined in. Soon the few became a torrent as the entire caracole shattered into a mass cavalry charge. Spotting it, the more level-headed commanders of the first prong assumed new orders had been given. At the blare of a trumpet they broke out into a charge as well, gunning for the hoplite rear guard.

Jon could not believe his eyes. The caracole had turned into a general charge right at their organized lines - completely against what he had assumed they would do. 'Perhaps they spotted me?' In any case, irrelevant. "Hold firm! Lets send those slaver cunts to hell!" Yet another wolf-howl shrieked across the landscape as the crossbowmen filled the air with bolts. Many enemy horsemen fell but more kept coming. Twenty yards became ten yards. Ten became five.

"LEFT TURN, HALT!" The freedmen had just planted their spears into the dusty soil when the onrushing horde slammed into them.

As men and horse melted together in a blend of bloody carnage, Jon hacked at a cataphract that had been thrown from his mount. The colored, silk finery underneath his armor soaked with blood as Longclaw sliced through flesh and bone. All around the Emperor, flashes of red and screams of terror brought him memories of the Winterfell plain, but unlike then the maelstrom of steel and flesh hadn't broken his line. He looked up to find a light raider charging towards him with an arkh, only for a volley of bolts from the indefatigable crossbowmen felling him. Snarling, Jon darted forward and literally dragged a man from his horse, the Wise Master becoming a corpse as Valyrian steel struck home.

The charge of the enemy cavalry had caused the entire army to halt, if only temporarily. Milling about, horses chewing on hay and drinking from buckets provided by noncombatants, the brave knights of the Vale had more injuries from the heat and saddle sores than from actual combat. Tempers were flaring. "What the fuck are we doing here?!" Ser Gilbert Morley yelled, glaring at the great Barristan the Bold. "Our army's getting fucked up by those bastards!"

Barristan glared at the brash youngster, eyes narrowing. "We will do what our Emperor commands. I know you wish to fight the enemy, but be patient."

"Patient?!" Ser Garnier de Cloud, master of the Second Order of Arryn, looked as if he was about to blow his top. "We're just sitting here with our thumbs up our asses!" Further arguments with Barristan devolved into the status quo being upheld, but tension among the inactive cavalry only growing.

Gliding along the gentle seas as close to the coast as their narrow draughts allowed, the Imperial ships leant what little firepower they had into the fight. Old catapults, aimed scorpions, and cannon broadsides let loose on the assaulting caracoles. Aim was shoddy in most cases, but an occasional direct hit turned clusters of cavalry or raiders into gory messes. Heads left bodies, limbs or chunks of torsos ripped off, or the occasional direct hit to the chest decapitating an unarmored raider in a cloud of blood and bone. It wasn't much, but the ship captains kept their fire steady.

Peering through the spyglass, the generals couldn't believe their eyes. Instead of wheeling around as planned, both caracoles had charged into the fray. The swirling dust concealed much of what was happening, but all present knew that none would succeed unless supported. "Should we go in?" one asked.

"Our men are getting hot and exhausted," said another. Water rations were running low, the nobles hogging the lion's share for themselves. "Perhaps we should."

"But they haven't broken…"

Their train of thought was broken by Razdal mo Eraz, stepping underneath the tarp which housed the forward observation post. Behind him were the other senior masters. "What in the name of the Harpy is going on?" He snatched a spyglass from a sellsword captain. "Ahh, there's some actual action going on. Excellent. Full assault."

The generals looked amongst each other. "But my Lord, one stammered. "It would be a bloodbath if their formation is holding…"

"Pish," Belicho Paenymion snorted, waving off any concerns. "They are Westerosi backcountry savages. The sun alone must be killing them. One mass charge and they're done."

"MY LORDS!" A lookout seemed frantic. "I see sails on the horizon!"

Elation filled mo Eraz. "Our fleet has arrived from Astapor." Finally their trap had been set. "You have your orders. Full charge."

Sighing, the chief general motioned to the lead trumpeter. "Sound assembly, full charge."

"AGGGGHHHH!" The primal war cry was cut short into a sputtering gurgle as Jon rammed Longclaw through the stomach. Drawing it back, the sellsword collapsed into a bloody heap of meat and bone. Around him, the charging caracole had descended into a chaotic melee as all the slaver infantry threw itself into the flank columns. A flurry of crossbow bolts and the enraged fighting zeal exhibited by the Imperial lines kept the formation holding - if only just.

A Jassinary's head imploding from a different blade, Jon watched as Podrick appeared by his side and hauled him through the line. "Emperor to the rear!" chanted the line, exultant at his presence for the heat of the battle but eager to get their beloved Vhrysa out of harm's way.

"Sire, the enemy fleet has arrived." Podrick noticed a glint of triumph flash in the Emperor's eye. "It seems the entire enemy ground force is moving from the woods to commit itself."

"Excellent." 'Ready yourself, boy,' he called to Rhaegal, hearing the growl leave the dragon's throat. The enemy fleet would be vulnerable from the air, and it would take precious minutes for the exhausted and thirsty enemy ground forces to cross miles of barren ground into a position to attack. "Hold the cavalry assault until I am airborne."

Among the Vale knights, the situation was reaching the breaking point. Heat and thirst taking their toll, the repeated provocations and suffering inflicted on their brothers on foot created a tinderbox just waiting to ignite into the wildfire coated waves of Blackwater Bay. With another hail of arrows coming from the immense slaver host as the entire army moved to bear, a number of them wounding the precious horses - imports from the Vale and beloved by their owners - the match had been lit. "MEN OF THE VALE!" Unable to take it anymore, Master Garnier de Cloud marshalled his standard-bearer and raised his blade high in the air, joined by the fluttering white dove of House Arryn. "For Mountains and Emperor!"

It took only one match to set the entire tinderbox ablaze. "FOR MOUNTAINS AND EMPEROR!" Two hundred strong, the Second Order of Arryn turned in one massive formation and made for the beach. A wide arc found them wheeling around the infantry lines and slam into the remnants of the rear caracole. Lances, maces, and swords swept it aside in a bloody, one sided maelstrom that found the knights galloping forth out into the plain. An unstoppable force meeting vastly movable objects.

The sudden break in ranks wasn't unseen by the Emperor. As he mounted Rhaegal, Barristan rode up, Ser Gilbert Morley beside him. "Sire, the second order broke formation!"

"Let us ride!" Morley's eyes blazed with bloodlust. "Now is the perfect time! Our lancers can hit them while they are still getting into formation!"

Jon was not about to let his entire army fall apart at the cusp of victory. While his first reaction to the overzealous knights charging forth was of a profane nature only suitable for the dingiest taverns of Flea Bottom or with the most disgusting vermin atop the Wall, upon seeing the near annihilation of the enemy caracole he realized the entirety of the situation. The initiative was in the balance, and all restraint needed to be abandoned. With that in his mind, the Emperor swung onto Rhaegal's back.

"Barristan, Podrick, full attack! Smash them but do not tire the horses. The infantry can mop up the shattered formations!" The two nodded in understanding, while Morley gave a whoop of excitement. A hidden command angled Rhaegal to the heat of the fighting, where he had previously been fighting. "Dracarys!"

World stilling for a mere moment, an imperceptible lull in the fighting, the air rippled around the great maw of the dragon as an almost mystic force superheated all around it. With a near crack the tongue of flame shot out from Rhaegal, incinerating the center and rear of the assaulting caracole. Seen from nearly all engaged or watching from afar, the ruse of the wounded dragon evaporated to wild wolf howls from the northerners. Trumpets blaring, swords and lances held ready, the vast horde of armored knights surged forward. Infantry parted ways upon blared orders, letting the cavalry pass through on their valiant charge, foot following at a quick step to engage whatever detritus remained in their path.

The Emperor surveyed the field of battle, gaze soon drawn to the sparkling waters to his west. "Sōvegon." The single word sent the once thought crippled dragon into the heavens above, wings beating without a single twinge of pain. Higher and higher, Jon felt the winds whipping through his curls. Saw the vast expanse of sea… and where the tiny specks of wood and sail began hurling flaming projectiles at additional specks closer to shore. His lips grinned in a vicious smile, one not dissimilar to that worn by Aegon the Conqueror those many centuries before. Come hells or high water, regardless of how far his spirit would be sapped in the hated fighting, Jon would win this war and return to his family.

Onward rode the knights of the Vale, armor glinting in the sun as they brought the glory and decisiveness of the final charge on the plains of Winterfell to the dusty scrubland of Essos. The right wing of the Masters' army was in compact formation and too self-absorbed by preparing for the coming assault to even notice the charge before it was too late. Many nobles scoffed at the idea of preparing for an enemy attack, believing them too weak before their great power. As a result, the elite formations slammed into a disorganized, scurrying host with the force of a herd of stampeding mammoth. The knights took a bloody revenge for all they had had to endure earlier in the battle.

Sweating from exertion, the sailors aboard the ships of Yunkai and Astapor - ships once offered to the Empress Daenerys as she had arrived with her unsullied at the gates of the Wise Masters - labored to move projectiles into place. The target was the few galleys and carracks of the Imperial fleet. Their goal, send them to the bottom. Out of nowhere came a tongue of flame, spreading the inferno over the lead ship. Screams left dozens of throats as Jon brought Rhaegal to a close hover, breaking the back of the enemy carrack.

Ship after ship burned, other striking their colors and hoisting the white flag atop their masts. Prayers went to every deity as could be found for the mercy from the Dragonwolf - and they were heeded. Far from the monster propaganda portrayed him as, Jon spared every ship with a white flag fluttering atop them.

All across the field, cries of anguish and terrified screams echoed from the throats of the once grand army of slavers as the onrushing knights swept through their broken ranks. Some of the nobility rallied and charged in, while most fled for their lives. Any that stood firm were overwhelmed.

Trembling hands obscuring the line of sight through the spyglass, Razdal mo Eraz looked the carbon copy of a flopping fish. "It can't be?" The spyglass dropped to the ground. "They can't have won."

"Turns out the army used to crushing slave rebellions and skirmish with Dothraki savages isn't prepared to fight actual soldiers," Yezzan zo Qaggaz replied acidly.

The other masters ignored him. "We can get to the walls of Yunkai," Belicho Paenymion babbled, in the midst of a panic. "We shall be safe there!"

"With all do respect, my Lord." The general wiped his brow. "Those walls failed to stop the Targaryens from getting in previously, and they did not have a fully grown dragon…" A backhanded slap sent him to the ground.

Clutching his aching hand, mo Eraz locked eyes with Paenymion. "We shall go to Astapor, and find transport to King's Landing. Joffrey's forces have defeated the Targaryen navy, and we shall return once the bitch is…" Suddenly a knife sliced through the delicate skin of his throat, severing the neck. Blood poured into his open windpipe, and in mere seconds he collapsed in a lifeless heap on the ground. Paenymion stared at zo Qaggaz, mouth agape before the sellsword captain ran a short sword through the back of his skull.

Wiping the blood off the gold-encrusted knife on a rag, the former slaver turned grand Master of Astapor turned to the general. "Sound the surrender." A sigh left him. "I shall offer all our territory to the Emperor Jon personally." Nursing his cheek, the general nodded.

Out of the trumpets blared the unheard of command, only uttered three times in Ghiscari history - twice against the armies of the Empire of Valyria and once outside Yunkai to the Unsullied army of Daenerys Targaryen - but recognizable to all. Once again it would be used for defeat at the hands of one of Valyrian blood. As it resonated across the field of battle, all fighting and movement sputtered out to listen to it's sweet tone of salvation. All from Essos knew the tune. The Westerosi of the North and the Vale stood confused, but the meaning became apparent as the Slaver Army laid down their arms in surrender.

The general glanced at Yezzan, face pale. Overhead, the terrifying and yet majestic sight of the great dragon flew, roar piercing the sudden silence and joining the cheers from the Imperials. "Well, let us hope he no longer feels the motto of his House." Not bothering to respond, Yezzan zo Qaggaz could only agree.