The Horselords

Since finding myself in the body of Young Griff, I had learned much of the world and everything in it. I was quick to learn that the greatest weapon in my arsenal was my wits. I wasn't strong compared to the battle-hardened veterans who surrounded me. I was fast, but puberty made me more than a little awkward which had only been improved by Syrio's training regime. I wasn't even physically imposing like Robert Baratheon or Maegor the Cruel – I had a face that looked like it should be placed on a teen magazine and was just as intimidating. But I wasn't stupid. Sheltered, sure. I'd been protected from most of the problems of a medieval society and that in turn made me cocky. But between intelligence and experience, I'd enough skills that, in a crisis, I should be able to hold my own.

This was perhaps the first heart pounding moment I've experienced.

The news we just received made me fear whether we could win this fight. Sure, the Golden Company held off against sellswords, but the free companies never enjoyed facing heavy casualties and would break before the true killing would start. The Dothraki, on the other hand, didn't comprehend the meaning of retreat. I mocked them constantly but that was because I never thought I would ride against them.

I was wrong and they were now galloping straight towards us. A massive host of forty to a hundred-thousand riders – depending on who you asked. Though inferior to our smaller force, their sheer numbers and ferocity would cost us dearly whether we win or lose.

"Are you most certain?" Myles asked Maar who stood before the officers inside the crowded tent.

The Lysene nodded. The spymaster of the Golden Company wore a steel breastplate emblazoned with the all-seeing eye, purple silks that matched his eyes and various pouches containing scrolls and other documents. Around his neck was a necklace of golden tiny skulls. Lysono Maar had many men and women in those pockets of his, all working to further the Golden Company's influence even before my arrival. A skilled man with a very specific skill set, one we'd been quick to take advantage of. He was the Golden Company's eyes, and one that was meant to inform us of any threat, but it seemed this time he had failed.

"I'm more than certain," he said with a drawl. "The Dothraki are coming from the north. They have crossed the Rhoyne and diverted south in the aim to pillage the Disputed Lands." His pale-lilac eyes surveyed the officers before him. "Peace has made the Disputed Lands rich and bloated, a perfect target for any horde. Our presence has scared off the smaller khalasars and those more cautious and craven. Khal Zekko never travels further west than Qohor, demanding tribute before returning to the Dothraki Sea. Motho is old and his khalasar near as much, getting smaller and smaller by the day. But there are a few more than willing to take their chances and aspiring khals love a challenge."

"Khal Drogo," Jon Connington grimaced.

Maar nodded with a shallow dip of a head. "We very much present a chance for loot and battle. Though it may not solely be that. My spies have brought forth rumours that a city may have hired the khal to ride against us. The most likely suspects are Volantis or even Braavos, though I can't be certain. Afraid to say it's not unknown for either to hire the horselords against those who pose a threat to their hegemony."

"Maybe they're even working together," Gorys Edoryen wondered aloud.

"What do we do?" Ser Flowers asked, wiping the wine running down his chin with the back of his hand. "We face the Dothraki in the field?"

Connington snapped to him, deep etches in his furrowed brow. "This is Khal Drogo we're talking about. One would be a fool to face him in battle. He leads the largest khalasar, numbering forty-thousand strong and has been reputed to be undefeated."

"We've beaten the Dothraki numerous times," Flowers grunted. "Why should this time be any different?"

Ser Marq Mandrake laughed. "Aye. We march off to crush him, shall we, Flowers? In the open field with more than double our number in cavalry?"

"Solely cavalry," Tristan Rivers interjected. "Light horse at that. We put ourselves in a strong position, fortify it and the Dothraki will be unable to displace us. They'll smash against our lines and fall."

I nodded. "One of the greatest Dothraki khalasars in history was beaten by three thousand Unsullied. The Golden Company beat three-thousand Unsullied when they stormed Qohor. That time, the Unsullied had the advantage of walls and archers."

"That's if they decide to fight us," growled Ser Brendel Byrne, a weathered veteran with a rugged scar running down his cheek from where he'd been attacked by a pirate in the Stepstones. "They're light cavalry, as you said. They can just outmanoeuvre us and raid the countryside. Attack our scouts and logistics. We'll starve and lose men by the day."

Flowers shook his head. "Have we ever known Dothraki to use tactics such as that when there's an army out to meet them? We'll be facing beasts, not men."

"Beasts that crushed the Kingdom of Sarnor ages past," countered Byrne. "Primitive, aye, but they know how to fight and fight with a fervour unlike anything else."

That only led to more shouting and chaos as each of the officers decided they needed to add something to the conversation. Roars of outrage and argument drowned out everyone's voices in a sea of clamour and bitterness coming to the surface. Pykewood Peake bellowed that Jon Lothston was a craven with milk in his veins and Caspor Hill declared Malo Jayn was not worth the golden rings on his person. I'd never seen such a thing happen here before.

It only ended when Blackheart's fist slammed against on the table; sending a cup of wine to the floor and silencing everyone. "Officers of the Company," he growled, standing up with that same face that sent fear into the hearts of recruits and veterans alike. "We are professionals, not amateurs. We're the Golden Company, not a chaotic rabble. I will not stand by and listen to you bicker like children who need a good hard smack to the rear. Now you listen to me, all of you. One will speak, and the rest will listen. Understood?"

We all nodded.

"Good. Now Jon, you will speak first. At least you didn't join in with this shameful display."

He returned to his seat and Jon Connington stood up, giving a quick nod of thanks to his lover. "It seems that the common opinions are that we either stand and face Khal Drogo or flee. Though I stress caution, must I remind you that we swore an oath to the ruling magisters and archons in protecting the Disputed Lands from any aggressor. We can't be seen to ignore that else we'll be declared oathbreakers and that'll only undermine our authority. Such a thing would also lower the reputation we're reliant upon and strengthen the factions in the cities who oppose our operations. They may get enough influence to bring down our hold on the Three Daughters and cease payments. Should such a thing happen, our host will collapse. Too many mouths and not enough coin will ensure we'll face desertion at best or a coup at worst."

Harry swallowed loudly and rubbed his thick neck. "I quite like my neck, ser. I don't desire to lose it because the men didn't get paid on time. The Father Above knows we're barely affording what we've got now."

"A similar thing would happen if they pillage the estates and plantations," Maar muttered. "Allowing them to be looted would, too, weaken our authority."

"But we can't go out against them in the open, now can we?" questioned Ser Jon Lothston. "As Mandrake said, double our number and much faster, especially with such a warlord leading them. The battle can only go one way."

"We've faced the Dothraki numerous times before. We've detailed their tactics and strategies, or lack thereof," Gorys Edoryen of the dyed red hair said, twirling one of the curls around his finger. "We've beaten each one we've marched against. This Khal Drogo should be no different."

"Even if we do win, we don't know the cost," Harry declared. "Remember, we can't risk too much for our future ambitions. We lose enough men, our hold on the Disputed Lands and our client cities would weaken considerably. Each option guarantees risks. Should we hold up and—"

While that was going on, I sat in silence, slouching casually in my seat, dyed-hair draped before my eyes and covering the top of the world into a blue blur. I softly clicked my tongue and toyed with the empty cup I'd just recently drained.

I never expected the butterflies would be disturbed in such a way. I could almost laugh, but I felt like kicking the chair and send it flying across the tent. My plan was destroyed unless the reports were false and Drogo decided to return to the original route towards Pentos. I knew that wouldn't happen, so that left us with a difficult choice. Either shy away from the khal in the hope it'll leave canon unaffected so I could potentially get dragons at the cost of the army and whatever we created here – which was not something I wanted in the slightest. Me and the others had put too much effort to just lose it and I knew the cities, growing ever more resilient, would just love a chance to pry away the shackles of the Golden Company, especially if they were being aided by Braavos and Volantis. Fighting the Dothraki, however, would surely eliminate the possibilities of dragons that could end the war in Westeros quickly and allow the centralising of the crown I desired so much. I could suggest we fight and that may lead to all our deaths. The casualties promised to be nothing if not heavy. But that way we may retain our hold on the Triachy.

I took a deep, steady breath, then looked around at the men. Opinion was split. Be as it may, the Dothraki had already destroyed my plans. Even if we rode out and beat them, our army might lose in such a way that ensured it was in no position to attack Westeros, even amidst a civil war between four kings (I don't count Renly because screw him). Ser Brendel Byrne was right, however. Besides the occasional forest and shallow river, the Disputed Lands were remarkably flat with meadows and fields which was the perfect terrain for the Dothraki and their mounts. With lack of natural defensive terrain, the Golden Company could be surrounded and suffer death from a thousand cuts thanks to the Dothraki's superior mobility and greater numbers. We lacked archers and cavalry and . . . something ticked in my mind. The Dothraki hated infantry and looked down upon them, worthy only to be ridden down. I didn't know how cunning Khal Drogo was, but I doubted he was a revolutionary tactician. I would use their own cultural beliefs against them.

I looked up as the tent once more grew increasingly chaotic. "My lords."

No one responded.

"My lords!"

Once again, no one took notice.

Deciding words weren't going to cut it, I looked at the glass cup in hand and lobbed it at the wall. It hit, bounced off the canvas and smashed against the ground. Everyone turned to me and I smiled most innocently, tilting my head to the side. "Now I've got your attention, may I speak freely as a peer?"

Jon looked surprised and Myles looked somewhat amused, if only slightly and his voice carried a sarcastic drawl, "Seeing as you asked politely, you may."

I stood up and gave him a nod of thanks. My mouth went dry and I regretted throwing the glass just on the off chance there was still some drink there. I couldn't show that and strengthened my voice. "Officers of the Golden Company, you bicker and argue. You speak of fleeing or fighting, of remaining behind the walls of a fort and letting the Dothraki pillage and rape to their hearts content, to look weak when we're the greatest fighting force in the world. Here is what I say. I say we fight. Everyone calls the Dothraki monsters, beasts in human skin. I've never met one, so I cannot say. But there is one truth about monsters: in the end, they die. If they didn't, they'd be worthy of our fear and instead we'd call them gods. Why should we fear them? We're the men of Bittersteel, discipline is the mother's milk we've nursed upon. Why should we buckle and shy away from some barbarians in painted vests? The Others take them all!" I took a breath and paused for dramatic effect. Better to have an army of flesh and steel than dragons made of words and wishes. "I say we march forth and destroy this horde. Let us, the Golden Company, show these barbarians what we can do!"

Everyone looked at me like I was a fool, but I continued.

"You think I'm soft in the head? That I'm a simpleton? No. I am not. We know how Dothraki work, how they fight their battles. To let them march against us is nothing short of suicide. But sometimes the best defence is an offence. We shouldn't let them determine the rules of engagement. We should and I know because if Maar is right and the Braavosi or whoever else hired the Dothraki, that means we're the target to be destroyed and Khal Drogo, the bloodhound he is, will be coming after us whether you agree with me or not. Remember Qohor where they smashed against the Unsullied, again and again. Did they adapt? Did they outflank? Did they beat the Unsullied? No, they did not. They charged again and again. They lost. Later, we, the Golden Company, stormed Qohor, we beat the Unsullied holding the walls. We did what the Dothraki failed to do. Why, because we know how to fight like a proper army. Let them charge against us, see where it gets them."

I gazed at everyone who had grown silent and my throat was like I had swallowed a few buckets of sand.

There were a few mutterings, with Flowers praising the speech with a laugh and a gulp of his wine. Most, however, looked sceptical.

"Nice little speech, Young Griff," Myles said, not at all impressed. "But it seems you underestimate the opposition. Khal Drogo in undefeated and is heralded by many to be the greatest khal in living memory. While they would say that about many, I would put greater stock in this one. How do you propose we beat him?"

I paused for a moment. "We've faced the Dothraki before, we've documented how they fight and how we beat them." Just like the Byzantines. "But if you need to ask me, I say we find a defensive position right in their way, be it atop the hills or a river crossing. There are two lakes to the east and many rivers coming off them. One such is to the north, near Myr. We can make a stand there."

Myles didn't look happy but before he could say anything, Jon Connington spoke. "I agree with my lad, captain-general. If the khal was hired, we may very well be the target, so it'd be wise to prepare. The Dothraki are little more than dogs to kill and butcher and rape. There are advantages to my boy's plan."

Maar chuckled. "The Dothraki wouldn't expect us to make the first move, seeing as they're always on the offensive. Should we fight, we should take up defensive terrain. Going against the khal would also be a sign of strength and those against us would think twice."

Flowers nodded. "Aye. We are a free company, but the Disputed Lands are ours. We are paid to keep it like their precious watchmen. They pay us and I like this arrangement. If I need to kill a few horsefuckers, so be it." He grinned wickedly. "We're more powerful than we've ever been, and we've crushed khal's before and armies many times our number. Why fear this one?"

Myles stared, a flash of anger across his features as they turned against him. He muttered a curse but, with most of the officer corps now against him, he reluctantly agreed.

We were riding off.

...

My time in Illyrio's manse in Pentos had made me forget what being on the march was like. Mounted atop a splendid mare with a coat as dark as sin, I pulled off my straw hat and waved it before my face, trying to make up for the lack of wind. A part of me wanted to give up, kick my horse into a gallop and leave this place if only to avoid the harsh Essosi sun. Grunting, I pulled out the bota bag and poured the the contents onto my face. It might be wasting water, but I didn't care as it ran down my neck and mail. I needed it and drained the last of the liquid like a hungry babe on its mother's breast. It only brought momentary relief.

Behind me matched the army numbering twenty-thousand. The column stretched back miles upon miles, of armoured men and horses, wagons that functioned both to carry baggage and fortifications, pack mules and donkeys and carts full of tents, cooking pots, food and wine, all things that were needed despite the men carrying much of their own equipment. Though the march was long and rigorous, Connington had assured me that we were making quick pace for such a host, using the stone roads linking the various settlements and abandoned cities that littered the Disputed Lands. Around us was a land both living and dead, a landscape of deserted towns made of pale stone, abandoned palaces and ancient forts, villages that laid empty as our foragers and scouts rode atop our fastest mounts. Our route also took us through the sweltering heat of the open plains and fields of vast latifundiums owned by the Essosi elite, rolling hills which was occasionally broken up with the small forest or farming towns inhabited by shy and anxious townsfolk. Streams and brooks snaked their way through deep hollows in the earth and the army drained whatever water source it passed.

Thanks to the heat, it was a relief whenever the sun set. The encampment sprawled outwards, the tents and pavilions forming a settlement with near as many inhabitants as a Westerosi city. Fires flickered as men sat around, laughing and drinking, enjoying the women who trailed along and overall causing a racket. Despite this, one would be a fool to miss the tense atmosphere. I had switched my thin cotton tunic with warmer garbs, with a woollen cloak to wrap around my shoulders. While the days were blisteringly hot, the nights were always ridiculously cold. Unlike the men, I didn't have the freedom to have fun and needed to do paperwork before I could even think of relaxing. Thankfully, Dalabhar had been a great help, speeding through them like an overclocked computer on crack. As always, he did the mother lode but not once did he complain, merely cracking his large knuckles and saying he was done, before asking whether I had any more for him to do. I didn't so when I finished my own duties, we rewarded ourselves to relax near the fire with what remained of Serpent Squad – only four now – as well as my other friends I formed in this strange, strange land called Essos.

Damon sat cross-legged, cradling a glass of cheap wine on his lap and excitedly told a story about the time one of Homeless Harry's elephants had been taken out for a joyride by some drunken sellsword who'd decided it was a wise idea to impress some of the more risqué camp followers. His face now featured its fair share of scars, but that only seemed to add to his handsome looks rather than detract from it, and his golden hair was artfully dishevelled in a way that would normally require gel and a couple of hours before the mirror, yet Damon could do it naturally in a most annoying fashion.

Vaquo sat beside him, looking like he was about to nod off any second. He didn't have a good day, but then again, none of us had. His expression was what one could expect after sucking their way through a basket of lemons. Vaquo didn't like riding nor being outside. He would regularly complain about sunburn and spending some time with the Company actually gave his skin some colour. So, he sat gloomy and drunk. Despite coming from a very aristocratic family that could make the Lannisters look working-class, he was terrible at holding his drink, which only made it hilarious.

When Lyra arrived, in an red and orange dress with a translucent veil covering the lower portion of her face, Rickard stood up and gave a salute, greeting her as 'milady.'

Lyra rolled her eyes. "I hope you don't expect me to return that," she drawled. "I've beliefs that makes that all but impossible."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are they the very same ones that make you think you're funny?"

"Ah, the cruel commander who leads us, my dearest friend," she told Dalabhar, dramatically laying a hand over her heart with a false look of hurt.

"Is that a fly I hear?" the Summer Islander asked, "buzzing around my ear?"

Lyra's neatly trimmed brows rose slightly in interest. "And Young Griff tells me you're the most skilled of listeners. Tis a shame I find out the truth."

"A most saddening thing, I'm sure. But I'm certain somewhere deep in your heart, you'll forgive me."

What heart? I wondered.

"For you, my love, I can forgive anything." She then wiggled her eyebrows.

Dalabhar grunted and turned away while Serpent Squad laughed, because of course they would. I rolled my eyes. "Lyra, could you please, please, stop verbally molesting my men."

"And why would I do that?" Humour flavoured her words.

"Because all you do is annoy me," the Summer Islander complained.

"Knowing Lady Lyra, that's half the reason she does it," Damon grinned, leaning back with a chuckle at his own joke. He then gave me a wink and I rolled my eyes once more. They'd been most surprised when I brought Lyra along and it didn't take long for the men to conclude that I was sleeping with her, which couldn't further from the truth.

"And you do fall for it a little too easily," I added, turning to my adjutant. "Besides being the largest man here and having the strength to rip the head off a horse, you really have thin skin when it comes to her."

Lyra chuckled, removing the veil to reveal her cheeky smile. "Please, he won't do that. You all know I could strangle him with his own shadow should he try to squeeze my neck like a banana."

"You don't squeeze bananas," the adjutant said.

And before Lyra could speak up, with what was obviously going to be lewd, I butted in, "You peel them and that's the end of that." I didn't want to know what my magic specialist was going to say, but I knew it was going to make Serpent Squad's day and I've already had enough rude imagery for a year. Besides, looking at Vaquo showed me how innocent the poor Volantene was. Him and his virgin ears had been spared once more.

Lyra pouted. "You're no fun."

"I'm not meant to be fun. I've got duties and most of those don't involve cracking jokes. Just like how my adjutant isn't meant to be the butt of them." Initially, it was Vaquo who'd been the one to suffer, until Lyra got bored from his lack of reaction and perhaps got tired of explaining the jokes meant to be at his expense.

"My young griffin, what duties may they be?"

"Payments to the soldiers, logistics and that sort of thing. Otherwise making sure I'm doing everything correct. Oh, and to find holes in my ideas."

She grinned at that. "Must be a hard duty to fulfil."

"I don't envy his position."

"Neither do I. He's dealing with you."

"And that makes it all the harder," I admitted, taking a sip of my waterskin, staring into the flames. Sometimes I could see images in it, but I considered that more a trick of the eyes than anything. The most annoying thing was that I didn't know whether it was magic relating to my heritage or just my mind playing tricks on me. Either way, I didn't like it.

Dalabhar shrugged his massive broad shoulders. "He's not that bad. Arrogant, sure, but what child in power isn't?"

"Thanks," I said with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Good to know you've got my back."

"That's what I'm paid to do," the Summer Islander stated. "Your scribe and bodyguard."

And butler, I could have added, though I doubted anyone in this world knew what a butler was. They properly thought it was some kind of fruit. "I trust you have my back when we faced the Dothraki in the field. I don't want one of them to get behind me."

Lyra pursed her lips. "You are confident against the Dothraki. You've never faced them."

"Tis true," I agreed, smirking. From what I found, acting smug when you truly didn't know what to say or do was better. It made people think you were more competent then you truly were. Worked on earth as much as Essos, though it worked even better here. "The Dothraki have lost battles before. They win only because their enemy breaks first and they chase after the survivors. It's simple really, we hold our ground and they charge directly into our spears. If they won't, well, they'll get outranged by our archers and Vaquo's engines. Those machines of yours will be capable, won't they?"

The Volantene nodded. "Repeating scorpions should tear them apart. They range further than the summer archers, though can't fire as quickly. They lack the power of standard designs, tis true, but I doubt it'll make much difference. They'll still penetrate mail and padding from maximum distance just due to the weight of the projectiles. Dothraki don't wear armour. It'll go right through them."

"Indeed," Duck mused as he scratched his long ginger beard, as he tended to do when deep in thought and wanted everyone else to know. "Those machines would do wonders against the horselords. But what if they go around?"

"I spoke with Myles Toyne," I said softly. "A favoured tactic of the Dothraki is to outflank on the open ground and there is nowhere more open when the Disputed Lands . . . or the Dothraki Sea. From reading the past conflicts between the Dothraki, we'll fortify our position and wait for them to come to us. They may raid the surrounding countryside, but should we be the objective, the Dothraki would want to fight. And besides, our force is mostly infantry and they look down upon anyone who doesn't have a horse between their legs."

"But Khal Drogo is said to be among the best warriors the Dothraki have," Duck told me like I was too foolish to know.

"Warrior doesn't mean tactician. The Dothraki get leadership positions by being the best fighters. They respect only fighting and horsemanship. That is all. We'll use their culture against them. We'll crush them so hard they'll never rise again."

"You're right. He is confident," Vaquo said, cradling his wine on his lap.

"That or stupid," I grinned. "They both seem one and the same, don't you think?"

"I'd say stupid," laughed Damon but Rolly gave him a pointed look and the golden-haired boy went silent.

I only smiled, though internally I was worried. Not only for fighting against the Dothraki – which I did have a good feeling about – but what we'd do after. The plan with the Targaryens, the dragon eggs . . . Westeros. Chewing the inside of my lip, I sighed and looked into the flames. All this knowledge of things to come has been keeping me in a box, unable to look outside of it. Lyra, you are right, damn you. It has left me a slow thinker, unable to react to changing circumstances. This would be the thing that ended that. No more keeping with canon. Embrace the chaos you've caused, use it as a ladder.

And so I would.

...

The Twin Lakes were the closest thing to natural borders the Disputed Lands had in the east. The northern lake was called the Eye of Myr and from it to the sea flowed the Myrwater which provided Myr with a natural boundary that protected the city from most of the fighting. To the north was another river that reached as far up as the Rhoyne called the River Rynlos and from it sprouted smaller tributaries. With Khal Drogo's host coming south, the Rynlos provided the best location to hold our ground.

The river the Dothraki had to cross swelled more than waist deep at its shallowest point, with steep slopes and a current that made it tricky to wade through. That made defending it even more advantageous. Unless they decided to go around and press our backs to the river, we had the advantage. It was dangerous attacking a more mobile opponent, but Myles was a skilled commander and screened our movements with a large number of horse that'll delay them should the Khalasar launch a surprise attack. The Dothraki were heavy on cavalry – exclusively that – so they could move about a lot faster than we could.

But besides the natural boundary, it wasn't as I hoped. It was flat fields and plains that stretched out far and wide, a flat expanse that reached to the distant horizon, endless grasses and fields with tall blades of golden wheat rippling in the slight wind, and only broken up by small clusters of villages and the occasional fortified town. It was beautiful, but perfect for a mounted force. I only hoped Toyne knew what he was doing.

"The Khal is on our trail," Ser Rolly Duck grunted as he galloped towards me. He was sweltering under his plate and his orange hair had grown long and tangled. "They say he's sworn an oath to destroy us and pillage the Disputed Lands before once more turning to Pentos."

Seems like he wants to get the blood pumping before he meets his underage wife. Masking my concern with that same smirk I'd perfected, I replied with, "And we'll be waiting."

I looked towards the wagon fort being assembled. They formed a square with crossbowman mounted inside and the wagons were chained together. There wasn't enough war wagons or supply carriages to fully protect us, so other men were making fortifications to add to it. Jon Connington had assembled our heavy infantry on the riverbed should the enemy decide to pay us an unexpected visit. The last thing we needed was to be caught with our trousers down.

Rolly let out a noise of disapproval. "I don't like it here, Young Griff. Out in the open and not . . ."

"It's either this or flee. Should that happen, our authority in those cities will break like peasants before a charge of knights. Regardless whether we properly make a fort or leave ourselves in the open, they'll seek to destroy us."

"They want to destroy everything. They're a plague of locusts. They kill everything and leave, only to return when the next years yields are to be harvested."

"Best destroy those locusts then," I said without missing a beat. "You know what stops a swarm?"

"What?"

I grinned. "Wildfire. I've a plan and it should be a sight to see."

"Against few tens of thousands Dothraki? You sure we have enough?"

"We don't have to kill them all," I said with a wave of the hand. "We just have to break them. If their leader is dead, they break up. It's not only the khal keeping the Dothraki together for he has kos as well. We just have to target the commanders and horde will be a headless chicken unable to see."

It was a few days later, when we fortified our camp with ditches and sharpened stakes, that the Dothraki were getting increasingly reported by our scouts. The Dothraki's outriders kept an eye on our position from a distance but were always gone whenever a force was sent to deal with them. Say what you want, but they were fast. I stood with Myles Toyne as some light cavalrymen returned, battered and bleeding from a skirmish where only a handful of sellswords survived. Just the sight of them made my stomach drop.

One of their number – their officer – was a pasty-faced Loratheen by the name of Harrando H'arla, a small and weedy creature with pale narrow eyes and greasy dark hair. "The men managed to take a few of their scouting parties out," he said with pride in his voice, though everyone else looked too weak to stand. There was also a feverish look to him that unsettled me. "Showed them that they're not the biggest danger on the plains. So we've returned to bring you the good news of their arrival and now we're ready to wade in blood."

It looked like he had already done so. His padded garments were dark and wet, and his hair was matted. Harrando looked worse than the others, yet he was grinning from ear to ear. I may have found my own Mountain. That was an unsettling thought.

"They've finally arrived, faster when we hoped," Myles mused, scratching his chin, obviously pondering on what to do. He put a lot of faith in his scouts, did Myles Blackheart. "Serjeant. What are their numbers? Did you manage to get an account?"

"We're most likely fucked," Harrando said with a large shit eating grin, wiping the blood off his cheek. He then added a hasty "ser" at the end of the sentence when Myles' face tightened.

"It's good to see the loss of more than half of your men has left your usual good cheer unaffected," Blackheart said blandly. "We need more information than that. Numbers?"

"Thirty, forty thousand warriors, give or take," the man said more informatively. "We scouted their camp, leaving a little gift for the sentries. The Dothraki horde itself should number a hundred thousand, tearing the ground apart and draining lakes and rivers. The inland seas are where they needed to go for water. Logistics would require it. But most are women, children and the infirm, not to mention slaves. A lesser number would be warriors. The latter ones have been slowing them down."

"What gift did you leave them?" It was Jon Connington who asked, sounding more tired than anything.

"Ran into a group of outriders. We left their heads on display outside their camp with horse cocks stuffed down their throats," the man answered while his men loudly groaned. "They didn't approve."

"I wonder why?" I mused.

"Then we were chased away, with eight thousand horses coming after us, Captain-General Blackheart ser. Should be a few hours away, ser."

"Those eight thousand will be forming the vanguard," Myles said, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword. "The khal's finest most like."

"Only eight thousand?" Harry asked, confused.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. They're this close . . . I felt my hands numb at the thought.

"We've planned for this," Toyne declared, breaking the silence. "The Dothraki will charge when the rest of their force arrives and will attempt to overwhelm us. We still have time. Prepare the men and pray to whatever gods you believe in. Many of us here are not going to make it."

"If they do, they can outflank us and push us against the river," Jon Connington said bitterly. "Should that happen, we're dead." He shot me a death glare. Not that I could blame him. This entire thing was my idea, but they were the ones who agreed with it. Myles was still in charge after all.

"Go get yourself healed, serjeant," Myles said, turning to the scout. "We need everyone who can hold a sword for this battle."

The man grinned cheerfully. "They'll be sorry messing with us."

...

The next few hours passed too quickly for my tastes. We made our move on the gaming board and had to wait for our opponent to do likewise, then reap whatever spoils were to be had.

The men of the Golden Company had been busy digging extra ditches and planting rows of stakes to ward off cavalry – just the right height to slide right into a horse's belly . . . It was a horrible thought that upset my more modern – not to mention very British – sensibilities when it came to animals, but it was needed. This was how the English protected themselves from French knights and they were much more heavily armoured than Dothraki screamers. To where we couldn't dig, war wagons had been placed, manned by archers with guards stationed both beside and beneath to cut the legs of horses from out under them.

Due to our terrain and opposition, Myles thought it wise for the Golden Company to form a defensive square around the camp which provided a fortified position to withdraw to if needed. While we lacked mobility, we didn't need it. Our strategy was banking on the khal and his riders slamming into our lines. Various traps had been laid and while they wouldn't be enough to halt a cavalry charge, they would surely delay them and make the Dothraki great targets for archers. We'll bleed them severely before they even reach our lines and when they finally did so, it'll be a bloodbath unlike anything I had seen so far. A large portion of the army was placed in reserve, ready to break through once the Dothraki were engaged, encircle and isolate pockets to be destroyed. Light cavalry such as them were terrible in close quarters – especially against their more heavily armoured brethren. But we'd have to wait. The Dothraki were cavalry archers first and foremost so they'd love to fire upon us, but we'll pay them back in kind. Few battles were decided by arrow fire alone. We just had to whether the storm.

I only hoped Khal Drogo would act the fool.

The horde was milling in the distance, a near infinite line of horses. It had started as a trickle at first but soon became a flood. There were thousands, untold thousands, and behind them was a cloud of dust. The men cursed and muttered prayers to whichever gods they worshipped. Duck made a gesture with his hands that could only be the Seven's equivalent of the Christ symbol. I never took him for being religious, but people facing death had a tendency to find faith. I only watched, feeling slightly confident of the odds. I'd seen a few undisciplined armies in my time here: rabbles of sellswords that were without peer when it came to fleeing, pirates who were fierce and colourful in their language but no true warriors, but the Dothraki took the cake. None of the Golden Company needed much screaming and a few killing of subordinates to get the others to follow orders. It was a satisfying sight. Oh, the Dothraki may look terrifying with their long braids covered with bells, howling and shouting like demons, waving blades in the air and being painted with tattoos, but even if they manage to get past our archers, I had no doubt our armoured infantry would run them down with polearms.

From the reserve, I watched atop a hill. Their horde was split into four parts to attack each side of the formation. That left each part under the command of a ko and, by my estimates, each one would seek to outdo the others so rivalries would get in the way of collaboration. Fully encircling us would force our army into fight rather than flight which negated a major problem with morale, so I could thank them for that. The Dothraki didn't organise their force as much as cramp their cavalrymen into solid blocks, perhaps hoping to break the Golden Company through attrition. We planned for such a thing but there was only so much we could do at the end of the day. Many commanders would be squeamish about bloodying their forces that badly to win, but the Dothraki weren't most commanders.

Looking through the Myrish spyglass and taking note of what laid before me, Lyra groaned. I turned and her face was nothing short of a grimace. "We're all going to die. More importantly, I'm going to die, and that's all thanks to you. I hope you rot in the worst possible hell, Aegon . . . though knowing you, you may find a way to be its king."

I chuckled and slapped her playfully on the back. She looked venomous at me and I rolled my eyes. "We'll win and you'll get a lot of bodies to practise on." How many of these Dothraki are rapists? I wondered, but I knew most were. With similar views as the Ironborn, rape was a source of pride for these people. Using them for science was perhaps the only way they could be of use for humanity. I still had my restrictions for her though. Boundaries were always good things to have. She'll find to overstep them though, I'm sure of it.

She sighed bitterly. "Forgive my foolishness, Mother Rhoyne. I just hope this is worth it. Otherwise I'm going to curse you before I end it." By end it, she was referring to the poison she'd crafted for herself to consume. Lyra would rather kill herself than be taken alive.

I'm already cursed. That's why I'm here and standing next to you.

With the howls on the other side of the river, the Dothraki cantered forward, not yet in a gallop. Even as far away I was, the sounds of them were like the beat of a hundred thousand drums as they charged forward on the hard ground, edging closer and closer. Even I was getting worried at the sights of thousands of mounted killers decked out in crude tattoos and bells nearing the river. My hand was shaking, but I grabbed hold of it and brushed the worries aside. Myles wouldn't allow this if we couldn't win. I trusted him.

Soon enough, the first volley was raised from the foot archers and Vaquo's engines, throwing bolts and lobbing pots of wildfire. I watched them arc and hit their target with disciplined accuracy. Crossbow bolts and longbow shafts all found their targets, punching through thin painted vests, downing mounts and throwing riders from their saddles only to be trampled by their companions behind. The pots hit, bursting forth in a fiery explosion that set men alight and screaming.

Soon enough, the Dothraki returned in kind. Their cavalry archers, reputed to be undefeated on the Dothraki Sea, let loose in greater numbers at the small screening force of light cavalry we had before the main host. Commander Kojo, a former Dothraki ko of a Khalasar we defeated previously, had been most adamant of fighting his people on his own terms. But unlike the host before us, his men learned from their defeat. The Neo-Dothraki, as I called them, were armoured in suits of lamellar, thick padding and silken vests. They were heavier than Khal Drogo's horde and acted as a willing distraction for the foot archers. With horn-and-sinew bows, they went back and forth, performing a caracole circle and Parthian shot. Numbering only six hundred – barely even that – they were outnumbered and, despite giving as good as they got, were forced back.

At least you wasted their arrows . . .

With our few cavalry archers dealt with, the Dothraki brought their wraith against the army proper. A shower of arrows shattered against the armoured blocks of infantry who hunkered down. Men rose their shields and the pikemen's long spears helped deflect some of the arrows but many succumbed. Despite it all, they held strong and drummers drummed defiantly as the Dothraki roared across the battlefield.

They should have warned us we'd fight in the shade.

Sooner rather than later, it seemed Khal Drogo had enough, and his main force lurched forward. The first I saw was the force pushing through the river, chugging through with heavy splashes. It slowed them down and some even fell after slipping in the mud or tricky footing, while their comrades galloped carelessly, screaming at the top of their lungs with curved swords raised high above their heads.

"Over there!" Duck cried.

I turned away from the river to where the rest of the Dothraki pushed forward as one, each block going from one huge mass into what vaguely looked like a wedge formation. Some actual strategy. I was impressed if solely because my expectations were so low.

Calm as ever, and as if we weren't going to get penned in by cavalry, Dalabhar calmly said, "Should I give the order?" He stood beside me, ever the silent guardian. His face was a stoic mask, expressionless and the words spoken held zero emotion.

Turning back to the river, I saw most were halfway. "Let some of them cross first," I answered. I came up with the idea and it was me who had to decide when it was going to be done. Myles Toyne said it was needed. The other officers were busy in the battle and, being a Blackfyre, I needed to be kept alive. At least Serpent Squad and my own century was with the reserve so they wouldn't take the blunt of the fighting. Jon Connington and Blackheart and many others were on the front lines, making sure the men wouldn't run nor cower. For now, I'd a job where I could watch from relative safety. Truly was I one lucky git.

"Let's hope the stakes do their job then," he grunted.

The first Dothraki screamers got out the river, mounts soaking wet as their riders kicked the ill-tempered beasts forward. A volley of crossbow bolts was quick to hit them. It did little more than hinder. Many died, but not fast enough. The other riders galloped forward smoothly, jumping over their dead and dying. What I wouldn't give to have those horses, I thought airily, clicking my tongue. They were agile and faster than anything with a rider on its back had any right to be. As expected, it didn't take long to reach the infantry, well, they would have been if we didn't plant a little welcome gift.

They were many things I had experience since finding myself adventuring this world. The bells of Norvos, the Black Walls of Volantis, a Pentoshi sunset and the Titan of Braavos. There was nothing like those sights. But they paled in comparison to the fiery wall that met the Dothraki. They charged directly into a line of Pyromarines armed with our newly crafted flamethrowers. With the sound of a shrill horn, the flamethrowers burst forth their substance, bellowing wicked dark-green flames towards the coming riders. The horses screeched in pain, rising to stand atop their hindquarters and throwing off their riders only to be killed by spearmen or the Pyromarines who shot further but less concentrated blasts. Not only that, but in the corner of my eyes, a dozen green explosions bloomed into existence from the ground. They were bright enough to blind me for a few seconds. What remained were plumes of smoke and burning holes in the ground.

Thank you, Haldon, you bloody genius. Alongside caltrops scattered around were small wildfire landmines with long ropes coated in flammable chemicals ignited once the Dothraki got close enough. Some of them hadn't gone off, sadly, but those that did were more effective than expected.

Lyra hummed. "Not bad for such a reduction in firepower," she conceded when the shock wore off. I grinned at her words. While our wildfire would be weaker than the Westerosi equivalent, it was still deadly, especially when concentrated. This seemed to have been the tipping point for some Dothraki. They'd been riding through volleys of arrows, fell to traps and many had charged headfirst into explosions of green fire before even reaching our lines.

It wasn't enough.

While many turned their mounts around, others kicked their mounts forward. Whether this was a glimmer of hope before we got crushed or going to pave our way to victory was yet to be seen.

Besides the flaming bodies that smelled of burning flesh, the explosions had torn up the ground. At the riverbed, the Dothraki's mounts were almost knee-deep in mud. Even as lightly armoured as they were, they were struggling. Mounts stumbled on hidden rocks and collapsed, crying in pain as dismounted riders walked bowlegged before being thrown to the ground by their own team. It was nothing short of chaos as others took valuable moments to collect themselves. All the while, they were easy targets for archers.

On the other three sides, despite all our preparation and how demoralised they looked, headed by their elite, the Dothraki hit our frontlines like a battering ram. The caltrops had slowed them down, the ditches and stakes likewise. They took heavy casualties but treated them as minor nuisances and met trained pikemen head-on like a bunch of fools. Most of these men were of the Fourth Legion, commanded by Grazgan Khaza, though the men simply called him Commander Ironsides which was a very fitting name considering this setup. A former commander of New Ghis and an expert of the phalanx school of warfare, he was the most qualified person for the job. The sellswords met the cavalry with lines of pikes pointed forward, angled towards the horses chests.

The results were self-explanatory, but one had to respect their courage. They kept charging into the meat grinder without flinching. The Dothraki were nowhere as disciplined as the Golden Company, but damn they were stubborn. I put aside the reluctant admiration I felt for those poor sods. They were the enemy and I shouldn't admire an enemy in the midst of battle. Despite all their effort, the horsemen couldn't breakthrough. They halted as soon as they reached the line and their mobility, mass and numbers turned against them. Those behind pushed forward and any Dothraki that'd been halted were forced into the waiting spears, creating a wall of corpses to climb over. The horde was so compact, so tightly packed together that the dead didn't even have a place to fall so I couldn't tell if they were dead or not. I wouldn't be surprised if a few of them were crushed to death.

As impressive in the devastatingly brutal way it was, I once more turned to the river where I should solely be looking. Due to the natural defences, the line required less men who'd been focused elsewhere, but still took a heavy beating then and there. Some of the men were even being pushed back.

"Now it is time. They shall pass no further."

Dalabhar nodded, took out his goldenheart bow and ignited the tip on the brazier. The fires licked the oiled rags, burning bright and fierce. He lifted it up and let loose. The arrow shot into the air, visible even against the bright blue sky.

A signal.

A heartbeat later, one of the artillery crews shot a pot of wildfire into the now-red-river. The very river we had spilled our reserves of wildfire just before the Dothraki appeared.

I read about the Battle of the Blackwater in the books and watched the scene from the series. It had been impressive to look at but compared to the explosion before me – the deafening raw and the blinding green light, the scorching heat and the howls in the aftermath – neither was worthy of notice. This would be the tipping point. Fires licked the water as bodies of horses and men floated or sank, blackened and smoking. The Dothraki that remained on the other side of the river refused to proceed further, their horses neighing as they recoiled or tried to escape the flames in blind panic.

"So this was why you kept her around?" Duck asked with both fear and disgust in his voice, covering his eyes from the bright green flames raging beneath the water. He spoke about Lyra with more respect and much more fear than he usually did.

"What you did was little more than overkill," Lyra critiqued. "You didn't need that much."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"It did," she agreed. "But—"

"But it worked. Leave it at that." It was something that took near all our wildfire to accomplish and the results were devastating. Just the sight of the flaming river made many Dothraki rout.

This was only the first part of the battle, however. Some of the reserve under the command of Tristan Rivers, the bastard of Darry, marched forward to reinforce the line at the river. On the banks, all the corpses made it hard to tell how many Dothraki were still alive. A few hundred? A few thousand? Somewhere in-between? The Dothraki weren't even trying to fight in a proper formation which just made the whole thing messy as they kicked their mounts and hacked their way through the stakes. One Dothraki was rallying his riders, shouting obscenities I could hear but didn't last long when Balaq's archers unleashed a barrage at him and his protectors. The fires had held back reinforcements but many Dothraki had made it across the river and soon enough, the archers would run out of ammo.

"Lyra, wait here. Dalabhar, Duck, we're going to clear the riverbank. We're to join Ser Tristan."

"At your command," he gravelled at me.

"You don't seem scared," Lyra turned to him.

"Fear is the sign of a degenerate mind," the Summer Islander simply replied.

Taking charge of my century, with Damon loudly congratulating me to the cheers of the men, we followed the thousand in good order as they marched at a steady pace. I joined with Ser Rivers at the front, his mane of dark-red hair exposed beneath an open-helm and arms snaked with multiple golden bands of gold showing him as a veteran of the Company.

"MEN OF THE GOLDEN COMPANY!" he roared at the top of his lungs. "BENEATH THE GOLD!"

"THE BITTERSTEEL!" I added my voice to the chorus of men behind me.

"GUT THOSE DOTHRAKI DOGS!"

Our march hastened and the line of men holding the line opened up. Surefooted in the mud, we smashed into the Dothraki. Growling, I rammed straight into one still mounted. Polehammer in hand, I smashed the axehead right into his arm. The copper-skinned rider screamed in pain and toppled from his horse only to be stabbed by the spearman he'd been duelling.

I heard a scream and turned around to a young boy charging me, all bowlegged from being afoot, curved arakh high above his head. He couldn't be no older than, what? Fourteen, fifteen, or young enough to make no difference. I didn't care. He was no more than an amateur playing at war. I parried with my pole, threw my weight to the side and smashed him in the face with a steel fist, breaking his nose and spraying blood everywhere. Following up, my hammer broke through his skull, splitting his face in two, sending chunks of brain and bone everywhere.

I'd expected a fight but with the men behind me, our momentum forced the Dothraki into the fiery river. Before this, I'd been fighting people who knew what they were doing, who could stand on their own and were protected by mail and boiled leather and shields. I had never fought against people so outclassed, warriors who threw themselves into battle recklessly but unable to actually stand a chance when not on horseback. The experience was more enlightening than anything. It was both shocking easy and completely horrifying for just how easy it was. Like felling wheat. An old man tried to swipe his blade at me, but the sword didn't even dent my mail. Painful yes, but wouldn't even produce a bruise at the end of the day. I pulled out a knife and pushed it through his ribs, stepped back and brought my hammer down on his head. Crimson rained down on me as I stepped over his corpse to the next target.

It reminded me of those movies where the heroes scythe their way through an army of mooks and, for me, it certainly seemed like it. Everywhere I looked, the Dothraki were being cut down. The lot of them almost in shock that their bladed weaponry wasn't cutting through solid plate and good mail. This was not a fight so much as a massacre. Where looking from afar brought a sense of satisfaction, I could only see the horror standing in the midst of it. The true horror was, however, was that I didn't feel guilty in the slightest. I was purely apathetic as I cut them down with the khalasar unable to stop us. This wasn't a fight, this was butchers work and I felt bile rise in my throat not from killing them, but how easy it was. If there were anyone else, I was sure I'd fell guilty and be collecting prisoners instead of ensuring their deaths, but they were Dothraki, a culture based around rape and slavery and destruction. A swarm of locusts to destroy a continent and leading them is the man who threatened that to Westeros.

Pushing ever further, we forced what remained of the Dothraki to balance on the riverbank. The wicked green flames burnt bright and looked ready to engulf them. What have I unleashed with the wildfire? Despite the terror and the horror, it was oddly beautiful with the colours of the flames and black smoke. Destruction could be very beautiful if one detached themselves from it.

Pulling myself from the surreal trance, I noted a well-built Dothraki cut down a sellsword. He was covered in scars and bells rang in his long, oiled braid. His arakh, long and curved and made for deliver deep slicing cuts, was slick with blood. He turned to me, growling what could only be a curse in his native tongue. At some point, our formation broke apart as we spread out. With Duck and Dalabhar dealing with others, I knew I would need to take him on my own.

Like I'd done countless times today, I got into a stance, though I wagered this fight would be harder for whatever reason. Regardless, he's a half-naked foe, with a weapon to kill other half-naked foes. I was clad in plate and mail and he'd a painted shirt. He was older than me, standing more than a head taller and heavier with muscle and fat. Should it come to strength, he had the advantage, but I'd been taught to fight people who were stronger and larger. He shouted at me in his savage tongue, but I only stared into the nakedness of his eyes.

"Come," I told him.

I doubted he understood my words, but he followed the command regardless.

My lessons with Syrio had taught me many a things about the dance that was the storm of swords. Has there ever been such a dangerous dance? The Dothraki fighter was fast, as fast as any man could possibly be. In those hands of his, the arakh was little more than a blur that attacked me from three directions at once. Unrestricted by plate, he was shockingly light on his feet and circled around me. But as fierce as the attack, there was nothing precise about it.

With measured breath, I blocked the blows, the polearm darting forward and turning them aside as I stepped back, ensuring I used the longer reach of my poleaxe to my advantage. Deciding retreating wouldn't cut it, I pressed forward. The Dothraki cursed and turned a high cut into the low one. I moved to block but it was a feint. Slipping past my weapon, his blade came at my throat, but the blow scraped harmlessly off my bevor. I grinned and smashed him in the face with a plated fist.

His head was thrown back, spraying blood and teeth everywhere. Not wasting a moment, my axe found the man's arm, but the Dothraki moved out the way soon enough for it to only be a flesh wound, parting the flesh and biting mildly into the muscle underneath.

The Dothraki cursed loud and hard, circling and swinging as hard as he could. It was clear he had no idea on how to fight a man in armour, I could see it in those dark pits he called eyes: the doubt, confusion, what could even be fear. He lashed against me again and again, screaming as if sound could kill me where steel could not. The arakh slashed low, high and low again. Each failed attempt on my life only made him wilder.

I parried further cuts to my face and legs and arms, armour stopping what I couldn't block. The spike at the tip of my polearm pieced his thigh, going in deep. The Dothraki roared in pain, blood gashing down his leg when I pulled out. But where I thought he would go down, his leg unable to support his weight, it only seemed to make him fiercer. Before I could withdraw, he seized the polearm and wrestled it from my grasp. I danced back as he lunged forward once more, swinging his arakh in a bloody arc. He came in high, ready to strike at my head. Grabbing my dirk, I sprung forward. He missed my helm, but I was on him. A quick thrust to the heart and the man staggered. Pulling out my sword, I finished him. A slash across the abdomen and his entrails slid out like fat, slimy worms.

Thus ended our duel.

Turning around, I saw Duck grinning at me, with a sword resting on his shoulder and next to him was Dalabhar, looking stoic as always. "Killed your fist ko, it seems," Rolly told me with nothing short of naked pride.

"A ko?"

"A ko," the Summer Islander repeated. "The more bells, the more accomplished and he had more bells than anyone here." He walked over, and with the Dothraki still alive and struggling, adjutant stomped on his face, putting an end to him.

"Cold," I muttered.

"Such a feat cannot be understated," the admin continued unabated.

"Aye, not the boy I threw against the deck of the Shy Maid," Rolly said with nostalgia. "Did you make a witty comment when you slashed him?"

I just blinked dumbly at him. "I was in the middle of a fight, for my life. I wasn't in the right state of mind to pull out a one-liner."

"A shame."

I rolled my eyes and turned to the battle which was still raging. We had pushed the Dothraki back and now the Golden Company was on the offensive throughout the entire front, opening the lines and letting the reserve cut through the horselords and encircle them. The Dothraki, being stubborn as they were, threw themselves forward. There was no formation to the Dothraki, but then again, there wouldn't be. They were meant to run over infantry who in turn were meant to panic and flee and be ridden down after being weakened by arrows. Instead we held our ground and the Dothraki soon found themselves facing the best infantry in Essos and bled badly for it.

"No doubt those siege engines have caused massive casualties by now," Dalabhar muttered. "The captain-general should really congratulate him."

"And myself by extension," I grunted. "We can't stand around chattering; we've still got a battle to fight. Those Dothraki aren't going to kill themselves, you know."

"Trust me, they're doing their best."

We joined once more in the slaughter. The men by the river swept around the flanks, shattered the Dothraki host and sending many to rout. That sadly didn't end the battle, however. They rallied and charged against our lines seven times, and three times sought to weaken us with storms of arrows. We held our ground, refusing to be goaded from our hollow square. Between every attack, we extracted our exhausted men from the front and switched them with the reserves. All the while, the river continued to burn. After their seventh attempt to break our lines, it was clear we won. The battle finally concluded when the remaining Dothraki proceeded forward only for each man to cut off his braid and throw it down at our feet.

I removed my helm and watched them gallop away. Foolish but brave, I thought. Foolish but brave. When it was all over, I found Blackheart and his officers in the command tent.

Toyne was sipping choice wine from a jewelled cup and his squire undid the fastenings of his armour. Homeless Harry turned to me, dressed in gilded mail and a breastplate inlaid with precious jewels. "You're alive, Griffin," the paymaster said to me. "It seems you managed to not get yourself killed."

"I'm touched by your faith in my abilities," I replied drily. "Are you sure you want to gush this much before the other officers? People may talk."

"They may very well say you're Daemon the Black Dragon come again," the captain-general told me with that smile that was so Blackheart. "This is a great day. Your men fought well, and this was a most decisive victory against Khal Drogo."

A victory that has stopped my chance to get dragons, I thought bitterly. "If you keep this praise coming, I may faint."

"Like a girl during a tourney?" Haldon asked me with a wicked smirk.

"My seduction skills are second to none," Myles agreed, where some of his officers chuckled. Then the general's face went serious, as did the rest of the men. "Still, I must congratulate you and offer my apologises for doubting this wildfire of yours. Burning the river was a cunning idea. It put the pressure off that flank and allowed me to send men where they were needed. I have much to thank you for."

"Not to mention the greatest prize of all," Maar said, fiddling with one of his drooping earrings.

"And what is that?" I asked.

Connington grinned. Rarely did I see him grin or smile, but this seemed to be one of those times. "Many ko's have been killed, I heard you yourself had killed Ko Jhaqo and then there is the khal himself."

"Dead?"

"No. Captured. Khal Drogo is utterly at our mercy."

The king of the Dothraki. A Khal in Chains. I could have laughed, if it didn't hurt so much.