Chapter 31: The General Battle

Year 291 AC.

Essos.

Near the Mountains of the Horn of Hazzat.

Black banners bearing the red three-headed dragon fluttered in the wind blowing from the sea, carrying with them the scent of salt and iodine. To the right, the forest rustled with thousands of leaves atop the crowns of towering forest giants, while somewhere in the distance, a fire was breaking out. Dark plumes of smoke rose even above the high mountains, adding a mixture of soot and the scorched flesh of burnt Dothraki to the surrounding aromas.

On either side of the field, two armies stood frozen, ready to plunge toward the enemy at any moment, the second the war-horns sounded and the sharp cries of commanders were heard.

The commanders themselves rode their horses to the center of the field to conduct traditional parley. Most knew this was merely a nod to an ancient custom established many hundreds of years before their birth, but none intended to flout the traditions of their ancestors.

Beneath the banner of the three-headed dragon rode only five men. Willem Darry, commander of the entire army, and four Praetorians, one of whom held the flag.

From the opposite side, the representation was far more diverse. Two men rode forward at once.

One was clad from head to toe in plate armor, his helm resting in the crook of his elbow to reveal a grim face with a pronounced receding hairline, a massive jaw, and a nose—oh, what a nose! Willem had heard such noses called an eagle’s beak, but by the Seven! An eagle with such a beak would have to be thicker than the fattest merchant in all of Essos! A black heart was etched upon the man’s breastplate, and a golden cloak draped his shoulders. Though Darry had never met this tall warrior, he did not doubt for a moment who stood before him. It was Myles Toyne, Captain-General of the Golden Company.  

The second man, riding shoulder-to-shoulder with Myles, was his polar opposite. Instead of knightly plate, he wore robes of the costliest silk and brocade. His clean-shaven cheeks glistened with scented oil, his small eyes were sunken deep into his face, and a mane of red hair fell below his shoulders, tied into a tight ponytail. For a weapon, the stout Ghiscari carried only a dagger with a ruby pommel the size of a pigeon’s egg, yet there was likely more gold upon his person than the iron worn by the knights.

Behind this colorful pair stood three knights in closed helms, gripping heavy lances. Their golden cloaks clearly marked them as part of the Golden Company's elite; they were likely serjeants or senior officers of the company.

"My name is Ghorezis mo Razzan, eldest son and heir to the head of the Great House of Razzan, Mirrazz mo Razzan!" the short, fat man began, his disdainful gaze sweeping over Darry, his height failing to improve even atop a tall stallion. "The Lords of Meereen and Yunkai have chosen me as the supreme commander of the great army of the sons of Ghiscari soil! I have been tasked with expelling the wretched spawn of those white-haired nobodies whose country drowned in ash four centuries ago. And I shall fulfill my mission with honor!"

Surveying the inscrutable faces of Darry and the Praetorians, the Ghiscari grimaced visibly and continued, "But I am merciful! I allow you, wretched worms, to lay down your arms! Your defeat is predestined, and the loss of a few savages will change nothing. If you surrender, stack your swords and spears, and fall prostrate, I shall not kill you. I shall allow you to live as slaves to the great sons of Ghis."

A dead silence hung for several moments, broken only by the boisterous laughter of Willem Darry. The old knight laughed with all his heart, and at the sight of Myles Toyne’s face twisting in annoyance, he grew even more amused.

"Worm! How dare you—" the fat Ghiscari began, but he was cut off by Darry, who suddenly turned grave.

"Silence! You fat boar, open your maw one more time and I swear by the Seven, your dull head will be lopped off by my sword." The knight leaned closer to his counterpart, causing his horse to snort nervously and step forward, allowing the bald, bearded warrior to literally loom over the fat man, who tucked his head into his shoulders. "My name is Willem Darry, and I am the commander of the forces of His Majesty, Viserys Targaryen. I have come here only to ask the Captain-General of the Golden Company: why do you stand opposite me, and not beneath the flags of the three-headed dragon, Lord Myles Toyne?"

"I am no lord," the Captain-General of the Golden Company rasped, silencing the Ghiscari with a single look. "My ancestors were exiled from Westeros before I was even born. Thrown out by the very Targaryens who were Viserys’s ancestors. And you ask why I have not stood beneath your suzerain’s banners?" Myles clarified ironically, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"Exiled with cause. They rose against their liege, for which they paid the price," Darry countered, remaining loyal to the young Targaryen even after defeat and flight to another continent. "Besides, were you not conspiring with another fat boar to support a different dragon? Why are you willing to swear fealty to a pretender, but refuse to bend the knee to the true Targaryen who has returned dragons to the skies? I think you’ve already seen that the rumors of the legendary monsters’ return were true." Darry chuckled into his beard, causing the mercenary captain to grimace. Unlike the dull merchant, he understood how catastrophic it was to lose a quarter of an army in an instant.

"Pretender?!" barked one of the previously silent knights. "Aegon is the son of Crown Prince Rhaegar and rightful heir to the Iron Throne!"

"Ho, could it be Jon Connington himself?" Darry grunted, stroking his shiny bald head. "One of Rhaegar's most faithful companions... Yet you were nowhere to be seen while I was hiding the Prince and Princess from the dangers of Essos. You were likely spinning intrigues with Illyrio Mopatis, hoping to seat a petty pretender on the throne."

"How dare you!" The knight, his face still hidden behind his visor, gripped the hilt of his sword. "Do you wish to accuse me of cowardice and treachery?! Illyrio gave shelter to Aegon, miraculously saved, raised him until he was five, and then handed him to me, assuring full support for the claims of the rightful heir and Prince of the Seven Kingdoms!"

"Miraculously saved," Darry mimicked, then bellowed, "Aegon was murdered by Lannister curs! The pretender you call Young Griff is but the son of Mopatis and some Blackfyre girl! That merchant craved power and gold; he deceived you all, you dull fools, and wanted to pull the wool over the eyes of the entire Seven Kingdoms!"

Jon, wanting to continue the argument, was halted by the commanding shout of Myles Toyne: "Silence! I am speaking, not you."

"Understood," Connington ground out, exhaling as he backed his horse away, behind the two silent officers in golden cloaks.

"Your words will not sway me, Darry," the Captain-General of the Golden Company said coldly. "Is Aegon actually a Blackfyre? Let it be so. It changes nothing regarding the return of the Golden Company to Westeros. Young Griff will take the throne, we will be pardoned, and our ancestral lands returned."

Barely nodding in a parting gesture, the mercenary captain began to turn his horse, but he froze in place like a monument to himself.

"Mopatis is dead," Willem said flatly.

"What did you say?" Toyne turned his entire body back toward his interlocutor.

"The man who supplied the Golden Company with gold and gear for so many years is dead. Gutted in King's Landing like a pig," Darry sneered, watching his counterpart’s eyes widen in shock. "All your cravings and hopes for his connections and influence are now nothing but ash and dust. No one will help you return home. The knights and lords still loyal to House Targaryen will bend the knee to Viserys, who has already resurrected dragons, built his own army in exile, and, like Aegon the Conqueror, has begun his victory march. Astapor, then Meereen and Yunkai, and soon all of Slaver's Bay. Do not nurture false hopes, Toyne; the Golden Company cannot withstand this war," Willem said, shaking his head.

"As for Aegon..." Darry glanced at Jon Connington, who was still reeling from the news of his chief ally Illyrio’s death. "Young Griff will be supported only by the Golden Company, mercenaries, and exiles. Meanwhile, behind my suzerain stand a dragon and legions firmly planted on the earth, who have already taken up the spear. Who do you think the loyalists will choose?"

"Our swords will be enough!" one of the silent commanders shouted passionately.

"Ha!" Willem bared his teeth. "How many times have you supported the Blackfyres? Two, three, four times? I still remember the day Barristan Selmy slew Maelys the Monstrous, ending the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Not once have your swords been enough! And now, when presented with the only chance to atone for your ancestors' sins, to swear fealty to the Targaryens once more and return to Westeros... what will you choose?!"

The silence stretched. Toyne furrowed his bushy brows, thoughts racing through his head like a whirlwind. Dozens of options, hundreds of consequences, the pros and cons of various decisions... A man long accustomed to commanding one of Essos’s strongest armies, giving orders in battle when every second counts, focused on weighing the "for" and "against."

"What is this talk of baseborn spawn?! My father did not hire you for—" the Ghiscari exploded, having endured this outrageous spectacle only out of fear of Darry.

His angry speech was cut short by the ring of steel and a wet, squelching sound. The red-haired head rolled onto the dusty earth, and the stout body slumped sideways, dangling from the stirrups and drenching the road’s dust with blood pumping from the stump of the neck.

"Is that a yes?" Willem inquired lacunically, watching the spooked horse bolt toward the forest, dragging the body behind it.

"It is," Toyne answered hoarsely. Shaking the blood from his blade, he turned his horse and galloped back toward the Golden Company.

His three companions stared in shock at the head of their former employer for a good ten heartbeats before galloping after their commander, swearing filthily in every tongue they knew.

"Eric, ride as fast as you can to the western cavalry detachment. Tell Daeron that the Golden Company has come over to our side," Darry said calmly. One of the Praetorians immediately galloped toward the forest to carry out the order.

Turning his horse, Willem rode toward his army, unhooking a signaling horn from his belt. Soon, a powerful blast echoed over the battlefield—the command to advance.

The legionaries, in a single synchronized surge, took their first step toward the enemy lines...

******

Year 291 AC.

Essos.

Near the Isle of Yaros.

"It looks like we'll have to handle this ourselves," Narvos muttered, pulling the Myrish Eye from his face.

From the cove where half of the Valyrian Empire’s war fleet lay hidden, it was clearly visible that the land battle had already begun. And quite unexpectedly, one must admit. The Golden Company had wheeled their lines and struck the flank of the Unsullied, who had been their allies only a minute ago. The First and Second Legions were already pelting the wave of twenty thousand militiamen with pilums, preparing to meet them shield-to-shield, while the finest mercenary cavalry in Essos was turning for a hammer blow into the rear of those fear-crazed rabble.

Seeing this, the mercenaries from Mantarys, Tolos, and Elyria, left to hold back the Valyrian Empire’s war-eunuchs, wanted to retreat, but they were pinned down by several hundred Golden Company men. Steel-clad infantry could not defeat five thousand light mercenaries with such numbers, but they could buy enough time for the Unsullied to close the distance and crash into the enemy ranks.

In short, a formal slaughter was unfolding on the battlefield, intensifying with every passing moment. Viserys had not reappeared in the sky on his dragon, and it was now entirely clear that the young Emperor would take no further part in this battle.

"May all the gods of the seas and storms protect us," Narvos grinned grimly, spotting the war galleys of Yunkai and Meereen. They had already passed the designated mark and were steering for the shore, hoping to land troops and save the land situation before it became critical.

"Full ahead! Prepare for battle!" the commander of the Valyrian Empire's fleet roared with all his might. "Today our blades shall be stained with the blood of enemies, and our names covered in eternal glory!"

"Yeeeaaah!" the sailors screamed in response, leaning into their oars. Soon the ships cleared the small cove surrounded by green thickets, and their predatory prows, tipped with rams, were spotted by the enemy galleys. The distance was short, only some fifteen hundred paces. The enemies simply didn't have time to restore their battle order or turn their galleys away from the shore toward the sudden arrivals. To the left, the sails of the other half of the fleet, commanded by Zirarro, came into view. The Myrmen and Yunkai’i were caught in a pincer.

After a few minutes of agonizing anticipation, there came the deafening crack of splintering wood and the screams of enemy sailors. The war galleys of the Valyrian Empire rammed home, biting into the unprotected sides of ships that were only just beginning to turn, shattering the hulls and locking into the enemy vessels.

Boarding parties leaped nimbly onto the enemy decks, sweeping away any resistance. The Praetorian reinforcements proved invaluable. Knights clad from head to toe in armor paid no mind to the boarding sabers raining down from all sides, simply smashing through the lines of sailors with their hammers and greatswords, crushing all opposition.

But the first surge began to fade. The Valyrian galleys lost all speed—some from ramming, others from locking hulls with the Ghiscari galleys using boarding hooks. Here, the enemy’s numerical advantage began to tell. At one point, the ships were so crowded that sailors could easily leap from deck to deck or lay bridges using pre-prepared planks. A general melee ensued.

"Not a step back! Push!" Narvos shouted as loud as he could, leaning into his shield. He and a dozen Praetorians were hemmed in by at least fifty Ghiscari; only a solid wall of shields and coordinated teamwork kept them alive.

Shoving a blood-crazed boarder with his round plank shield and iron umbo, Narvos split a snarling face in half with his favorite axe. The weapon stuck in the enemy’s skull, so the captain simply let go of the blood-slicked handle and covered himself with the wooden rim against a shot from a crossbowman.

"Raaah!" one of the Praetorians roared at his side.

The warrior had lost an ear and his cheek was slashed open, but as if oblivious to the horrific wound, he braced his feet on the blood-soaked deck and thrust his shortsword into a gap between shields, straight into the gut of an attacker.

"Push on!" Narvos commanded hoarsely, already drawing a boarding saber from its sheath and lopping off the arm of a Ghiscari wretch.

******

Year 291 AC.

Essos.

Near the Isle of Yaros.

"Ha ha ha! Sons of jackals, did you think you could kill Zirarro na Zakloz so easily?!" the young Ghiscari laughed.

Beside him quivered a bolt fired from a ship-mounted scorpion on the Yunkai’i flagship. At his feet lay the butchered bodies of the commanders and their inner circle who had led the fleet of Yunkai and Meereen. Hot blood dripped from his bared boarding saber, creating ripples in the crimson pool already spreading across the deck.

"Captain, there's a fresh squad," his first mate exhaled tiredly, gesturing toward a group of three dozen Ghiscari currently vaulting over the gunwale of the Storm of the Seas, the enemy flagship now captured.

"Form up!" Zirarro commanded, shaking off the surge of adrenaline. The twenty sea-wolves, who had known their captain for years, immediately huddled into a shield wall, bristling with spears.

"This day is only just beginning!" the young captain grinned.