Chapter 32: Aftermath of the Battle

Year 291 AC.

Essos.

Near the Mountains of the Horns of Hazzat.

"Losses totaled seven thousand, three hundred and eighty-two men," Willem reported, swaying in his saddle. "Three thousand from New Ghis, two thousand eight hundred Unsullied. Both Legions suffered combined losses of just over fifteen hundred men."

"How many of the wounded can we have back on their feet within a month?" I asked, not turning my head toward him.

Our definition of "losses" included both the dead and the wounded. Thanks to the Golden Company defecting to our side, the lives of many warriors were spared. Three thousand dead on our side compared to over forty thousand on the enemy’s. It was an excellent trade, no matter how you looked at it.

"We have a good four thousand of them. About a thousand are relatively lightly wounded; they’ll recover in two or three weeks. The issue lies elsewhere. The baggage train will be stretched too thin. Prisoners, spoils, the wounded... we’ll take an impermissibly long time to reach Yunkai, and we’ll be vulnerable to sudden raids from Dothraki horselords."

By this time, we had reached the crest of a hill, and before us stretched a field carpeted with human bodies. Despite only a day having passed since the battle, the stench was hellish. Swarms of hundreds of ravens and other scavengers were tearing at the cold corpses. Amidst this shroud of death, men could be seen here and there, stripping valuables from the bodies and dragging remains to great pits, heaving the dead into a mass grave.

"Then we leave all the wounded, prisoners, and spoils here," I said, gesturing behind me toward where three castrums stood. "We’ll leave a guard of two or three hundred warriors and move on. That’s enough to keep unarmed prisoners in check. Let those of the enemy whose lives we spared continue burying their fallen; our boys will watch them. Besides, the thousand lightly wounded will be fit soon enough. Once they finish gathering the spoils, have them march back to Astapor. We, however, will push for Yunkai in a forced march, traveling light."

"You want to take the city by storm?"

"Unlikely to work. By the time we arrive, even the last mangy dog will know that the armies of Yunkai and Meereen have been crushed. Many Ghiscari managed to flee, after all." I shook my head and looked toward the sea, where the war galleys of my fleet, as well as captured vessels, were moored near the shore. "The city will be in a panic. Some Masters will flee; others will risk staying, hoping to hide behind high walls and the broad backs of their Unsullied. They’ll all prepare for a long siege... and they’ll be very surprised when the city gates are opened from within."

"You think that pair of families from the impoverished Wise Masters will actually go through with the betrayal?"

"Where else would they turn?" I smirked, turning my horse and leading it at a walk toward the coastline. "The allied army of Yunkai and Meereen is shattered, and the remnants fled in total disarray. Those traitors have little choice: either become the ones who please their new ruler and rise, or sit in their manses, shaking with fear and praying to every god to turn dragonfire away from their estates."

"The head of their delegation seemed a reasonable man to me when we spoke at the feast of House Lorkhaz," Darry remarked.

"Well, I hope he isn't just playing at it. I'd rather not burn the city gates. I suspect installing new ones would be quite expensive." I shrugged.

For a time, we rode in silence. Both I and my mentor were exhausted by recent events; we were in heaven simply being able to escape the endless cycle of business and ride across the open field.

The battle on land had dragged on for a good five hours. However much the Ghiscari and their sellswords lacked the training and equipment of our men, there were simply so many of them. By the end of the engagement, Avero had more or less regained his strength, but by the time I took to the sky again, it was effectively over. I was left only to take overall command, organize aid for the wounded, and oversee the collection of spoils and the burial of the fallen. The latter was especially vital—no one wanted an outbreak of some foul plague—and to speed up the process, I pressed the surrendered enemy into service.

The battle of the fleets had ended sooner, but the freed sailors were physically unable to come to the Legions' aid. The battle at sea had been bloodier; though victory was ours, the losses were horrific. A third of the personnel were lost forever; another third were wounded and would be incapacitated for the foreseeable future. Narvos had caught three crossbow bolts—two striking his left arm and one entering his chest. Though the bolts only damaged skin and muscle, having lost most of their momentum upon piercing his armor, one of my admirals was out of the game for an indefinite period. According to the Maester, Narvos will be back on his feet in six months, gods willing. Fortunately, prisoners were plenty, and by performing a few rituals, I was able to improve my comrade's condition, removing the risk of blood poisoning and boosting his regeneration.

Zirarro also failed to emerge from the fight without wounds, losing his left eye and gaining a scar that crossed his brow and ended only at his cheekbone. The energetic Ghiscari refused to even hear of bed rest or other "nonsense," sufficing with only my help in stopping the bleeding and accelerating the scarring of the wound. Now, the young admiral was driving his sailors with all his heart, repairing the surviving war galleys and mastering the captured ones, parading on the deck of his flagship with a satisfied grin and a black pirate’s eyepatch, which I’d had to fashion in a hurry with the help of a few tailors and a lot of cursing.

"We march in three days at dawn," my voice broke the silence. Willem merely nodded, pensively stroking his magnificent beard.

******

Year 291 AC.

Essos. Slaver’s Bay.

"Greetings, Your Majesty," a tall knight bowed to me, revealing a crown of hair cropped into a short, salt-and-pepper buzz cut. "You were in no hurry for our talk," the warrior said as he straightened.

"Be seated, Lord Toyne," I gestured.

With a silent nod, the Captain-General of the Golden Company sat on a felled log by the campfire. Opposite him, on a similar makeshift bench, sat I.

The army had stopped for the night; the legionaries were already active with axes and saws in the nearby woods, preparing timber for the castrum. I had ordered my pavilion pitched right by a small stream that carried melted mountain snow directly into the bay.

"I agree, our talk should have happened back on the field, five days ago. But I felt it could wait until order was restored in the army. Now we are here, alone, and can perfectly well discuss the future of the Golden Company, as well as a certain Young Griff." I took another spoonful of porridge and meat from a deep wooden bowl.

"I would not wish to see the company disbanded." Accepting an identical bowl from a servant, Myles Toyne peered searchingly into my eyes.

Toyne was clearly nervous, and it was obvious why. The Captain of the Golden Company undoubtedly wished to return to the Seven Kingdoms, regain his ancestral lands and titles, and so on, but he also had no desire to lose the power that commanding the company provided.

From my perspective as a liege, giving a single vassal control over roughly one-fifth of the state’s total armed forces... would be foolish. Toyne, meanwhile, had no doubt that if I so desired, the entire Golden Company would cease to exist. After the battle at the Horns of Hazzat, the experienced captain knew exactly where the power lay, especially if I set my dragon to the task of incinerating the former mercenaries.

"And I would very much wish to," I replied calmly, looking directly into his eyes. "Why would I keep such a center of tension? Ten thousand fine blades under the command of a single man whose loyalty has yet to be proven in deed."

"We helped you win the battle," Myles frowned, making his already plain face look truly grim.

"By betraying your employers," I smirked venomously. Toyne started as if stung, ready to argue, but I silenced him with a wave of my hand. "Peace, my lord! I do not deny your help was timely and useful, but it does not negate the rest. We have known each other less than a week; I know you only by reputation. And you ask me to trust the command of ten thousand soldiers to a man who previously supported my enemies and a Blackfyre pretender?"

"So, you intend to name Aegon a Blackfyre?" the captain asked after a minute of silence.

"Yes. I have not yet spoken with the youth, but every fact known to me screams it. I shall recognize him as the head of a cadet branch; he will swear fealty to House Targaryen and receive a good tract of land with a title. They say Young Griff is quite intelligent, masters his lessons well, and is diligent in learning the arts of knighthood. Such vassals will be useful to me."

Taking a sip of wine diluted with water, I continued:

"As for you, Lord Myles... I am prepared to grant you the rank of Legate of the Fourth Legion and the lands not only of the Toynes, but a small town near Meereen with its surrounding villages and fields." Seeing the spark of satisfaction in his eyes, I hastened to add the sting. "The Legion will be formed from rural recruits and veterans of the Golden Company. Your company will be divided equally between the Third Legion being formed in Astapor, the Fourth, which will fall under your command, and the Fifth, which will be formed from those apologies for legions currently held by New Ghis."

The man did not deliberate long. He understood he was unlikely to be allowed to keep power over such a potent force as the Golden Company; what had been offered was more than enough.

"I accept, my Emperor."

That same day, after supper, all the troops were drawn up around a hollow square of earth. I stood at the center, with Willem Darry, Daeron and Daemon Reraxes, Zirarro na Zakloz, and Grazdan mo Lorkhaz behind me. A detachment of Pretorians stood a short distance away, and before me stood all the officers of the Golden Company, led by Myles Toyne.

"Before the faces of the Seven, I, Myles Toyne, do homage of eternal service to Viserys Targaryen and all his House..." The captain was the first to drop to one knee.

"...I pledge to come at his first call..." the officers echoed, also kneeling.

"...this I solemnly swear!" the warriors breathed.

"I, Viserys Targaryen..." I began my part of the rite. Thus, my army grew substantially in number, and my headaches increased accordingly. Many of the officers were descendants of knights and lords; they needed to be titled, granted lands, and assigned sergeants, centurions, and tribunes so they could begin to learn the science of the Legion... in short, my workload doubled.

******

Year 291 AC.

Essos. Slaver’s Bay.

"How do you find your new status?" Grabbing a pitcher of tart Dornish wine, Toyne poured the fragrant ruby liquid into two silver cups.

"I am still at a loss, my old friend." Jon Connington took a couple of slices of salt beef from a plate.

"Yes, you’ve grown quite attached to the lad." The former captain of the Golden Company smiled crookedly and leaned back in his velvet-upholstered chair.

The old acquaintances had met in Myles's pavilion. Having dismissed all servants, they sat at a small oak table in the corner, relaxing in chairs taken as trophies a few years prior. The table held modest fare: a couple of pitchers of wine, three plates of sliced fruit, meat, and cheese, and a loaf of fresh bread. Toyne, having spent most of his life on endless campaigns, never indulged in excessive gluttony; the old soldier often ate from the same pot as his officers and men, which was quite strange for a man of his high status... especially in the eyes of Connington, who had been one of Crown Prince Rhaegar’s closest companions. Jon was more accustomed to luxury, dozen-course feasts, and other extravagances. However, habits had to change abruptly after he found himself with nothing on a foreign continent.

"For so many years, I was certain Aegon was Rhaegar’s miraculously saved son. So many years of toil and effort..." Jon shook his head with bitterness and drained his cup in several deep gulps.

"Don't take it so hard," Toyne said, clapping his comrade on the shoulder. "Aegon has become like a son to you. What does it matter now who his father was?" Myles smirked, pouring his friend another portion of wine. "We are lords again and will soon receive the lands due us. You will be the right hand of the Legate of the Fourth Legion and continue the education of the young Blackfyre. Life is looking up."

"You don't understand," Jon looked gloomily at his friend. "That fat ox Illyrio deceived me! And I fell for it like... like some barefoot peasant listening to the tales of a cunning tradesman!"

"Enough!" Myles barked hoarsely, then added in a calmer tone, "Enough grieving over your mistake, Jon. Yes, Aegon turned out not to be who they claimed, but wake up, you stubborn mule! You’ve gained a son in all but name. Young Griff loves and honors you like the father you replaced, and you look at him with such pride and approval as if he were your firstborn. Stop digging into your own soul and walking around gloomier than a thunderhead. Get drunk with a friend, sleep it off, and get to work. We’ll be at the city soon, and we have the worst discipline in the whole army after those arse-ends from New Ghis. My company having bad discipline—can you imagine?!" Toyne waved his hand in exasperation.

Exchanging a glance, they both burst into laughter. The Golden Company had always been famous for its iron discipline, but in the company of Viserys’s drilled legionaries, who nearly went to the privies by the manual, the former mercenaries looked pale by comparison. Toyne, along with his officers and tribunes, immediately set about correcting this misunderstanding, causing every soldier of fortune, from the rank-and-file to the paymasters and cooks, to howl in protest.

And the army slowly moved further north, drawing closer each day to the walls of the Ancient City of Yunkai...