Chapter 228 — The Unsullied
A low war horn tore through the dawn over Dorne.
Outside Sunspear, the allied camp lurched awake like a slumbering beast suddenly stirred to life.
In the span of a heartbeat, the lifeless encampment transformed into a roaring engine of war. Tent flaps were ripped open, soldiers dragged from sleep by barking orders and pounding boots. Dust and sand were kicked high into the air, mixing with the harsh clang of steel into a suffocating tide of sound.
This was no small host—it was a vast, chaotic coalition. To bring it into order required sheer force of will.
Hooves thundered against the ground, making the red Dornish earth tremble.
Banners of countless houses surged through the haze as soldiers gathered into formations, their shouts blending into a rising storm.
Delonne Allyrion stepped out of her tent, her expression twisted with fury, as cold and sharp as a Dornish winter frost.
The morning wind did nothing to cool her anger.
"You should've spoken up yesterday, Anders."
She strode toward Anders Yronwood, glaring at the tall, iron-faced lord clad in polished armor.
"What are you still hesitating for?"
"We've gambled everything—our families, our futures—for this moment!"
"Victory is right in front of us! The Dornish throne is within reach!"
Her voice rose, nearly drowning out the surrounding chaos.
"If you don't take that throne, Anders Yronwood, then everything we've sacrificed will become a joke!"
"Enough, Lady Allyrion."
At last, Anders turned.
There was no excitement in his face—only something deeper, steadier.
His gaze didn't linger on her. Instead, it drifted past her shoulder, toward the center of the camp—toward the young figure in a golden cloak issuing final commands with calm precision.
Jynessa Blackmont.
A flicker of admiration passed through his eyes.
"The Lady of Blackmont is right."
After a pause, he looked back at Delonne, voice low and resolute.
"In Dorne, no crown is ever given freely."
"The only way to claim it… is to carve it out with steel and blood."
"Not by arguing over an empty throne while the enemy still stands!"
Before she could respond, Anders mounted his horse in one smooth motion and signaled his men.
Moments later, the knights of Yronwood rode out, merging into the surging tide of soldiers.
"Damn your knightly honor…!"
"Fool! Stubborn fool!"
Left behind, Delonne trembled with rage, teeth grinding.
What kind of idiot was he?
Power was never won through honor—it was seized through schemes and calculation.
She spun toward her captain.
"Go! Give the order!"
"Our forces will charge first—no matter the cost!"
"If Anders Yronwood won't be king… then House Allyrion will be!"
After a long mobilization, the red sun climbed high above Dorne.
At the head of the assembled host, Jynessa Blackmont sat astride her horse, eyes locked on Sunspear's triple-curved gates.
Behind her, young knights shifted restlessly, hungry for glory and blood.
"Doran Martell!"
Her voice rang out, carrying across the battlefield.
"Your throne is surrounded by spears and steel! Your walls cannot keep out the blade!"
"The rule of House Martell is destined to crumble like dew beneath the blazing sun!"
She paused deliberately, letting her words sink into the defenders above.
"If you surrender now, needless bloodshed can be avoided."
"Look at your soldiers!"
"They should not bleed for a dying sun!"
"And your wife and son in King's Landing—their fate rests on your choice!"
"Open the gates, Doran Martell!"
"I swear by the old gods and the new—lay down your arms, and I will grant you the black, a chance to take the Wall!"
"I will even plead for mercy, that your family may return safely to Dorne!"
Silence followed.
Then, atop the walls, a figure was slowly brought forward.
Doran Martell.
Pale, frail, seated in a wheeled chair—yet his expression was calm. Too calm.
His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest.
And in his dark eyes… there was something unsettling.
Not fear.
Not desperation.
But… amusement.
Jynessa's heart tightened.
Something was wrong.
But there was no turning back now.
Her hand rose.
"Advance!"
The allied army surged forward.
"For Allyrion!"
"For the Golden Hand!"
Delonne's forces charged first, a roaring tide of steel and shields crashing toward the gates.
And yet—
Nothing.
No arrows.
No stones.
No warning horns.
Only silence.
Uneasy murmurs spread among the attackers.
"Did they run?"
"Did Martell surrender?"
Then—
From the shadowed tunnels beyond the gates came a sound.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Perfectly synchronized.
A rhythm like death itself.
"Shields up!!!" a commander roared.
And then they emerged.
Not the gold of Martell.
Black.
A flood of black armor poured from the gates like a breached dam.
No war cries.
No chaos.
Only the cold scrape of armor… and the relentless, unified march.
Unsullied.
In flawless unison, the first rank stepped forward—spears thrusting out as one.
Behind them, the second and third ranks advanced seamlessly.
No gaps. No hesitation.
No fear.
Within moments, they collided with the charging Allyrion forces.
Hundreds of spears struck at once.
Wet, brutal sounds tore through the air.
Soldiers dropped instantly—pierced through shield gaps, through flesh, through bone.
Blood sprayed across bronze shields and black armor.
"Rear ranks forward!" an officer screamed.
The Allyrion men fought back, thrusting wildly.
But against the Unsullied—
It meant nothing.
One soldier's spear pierced an Unsullied's arm.
The man didn't even flinch.
With a single motion, he twisted—dragging both spear and attacker down before the next rank stepped forward and finished the kill.
Another was stabbed in the leg.
No scream.
No hesitation.
He adjusted his stance and struck—precise, lethal.
When one faltered, another replaced him instantly.
No disorder.
No fear.
No humanity.
They were not an army.
They were machines of death.
From the rear, Jynessa Blackmont watched.
And for the first time—
Her blood ran cold.
House Allyrion… was finished.
The perfectly synchronized march… the silent, efficient slaughter… sent a chill down Jynessa's spine, dragging up a story whispered from across the Narrow Sea.
"Unsullied!"
The name tore from her throat, raw with disbelief.
The slave-soldiers of Astapor—boys chosen young for their size and strength, cut, broken, remade. Trained from the age of five, from dawn until dusk. Not merely taught to fight, but stripped of emotion, of individuality… of self.
Legends said that at the Battle of Qohor, three thousand Unsullied had held against a Dothraki khalasar of fifty thousand. They had slain twelve thousand before falling—leaving only six hundred survivors who still did not retreat.
But this—
How had Doran Martell acquired so many?
There were already more than three thousand on the field—and more were still pouring out from the shadowed gates!
Did House Martell truly have that kind of gold?
"Retreat!"
Jynessa's mind rang like a struck bell as she barked the order.
Everything had changed.
Against thousands of Unsullied, her strategy—mass pressure, overwhelming force—meant nothing.
This battle was unwinnable.
But the worst had yet to come.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
From both flanks, beyond the battlefield's edge, came the same heavy, synchronized march.
Black.
More black.
A tide of black iron closed in from both sides, swallowing the horizon.
A trap.
A perfect encirclement.
Only now did Jynessa understand—they had walked straight into Doran Martell's design.
At the front, the soldiers of Delonne Allyrion were being ground down, their resistance meaningless against the relentless advance.
Delonne's face twisted in despair as her proud warriors fell like wheat before a scythe.
Even if they won—her house would be ruined.
"DORAN!!!"
Jynessa's bloodshot eyes locked onto the high walls of Sunspear, as if she could see the mocking curve of his lips.
There was no time for regret.
Her grip tightened around her spear.
"With me! Break through!"
The command came out through clenched teeth.
She drove her heels into her horse's flanks and shot forward like an arrow, charging straight into the black formation crushing her allies.
Behind her, battle-hardened knights roared and followed.
A knightly charge.
"—!"
The first rider slammed into the wall of spears—horse and man skewered instantly.
Jynessa struck true, her spear punching clean through an Unsullied's throat. A knight behind her seized the opening, cutting deep into another's neck—
But the dying soldier did not fall.
Ignoring the mortal wound, he took one final step forward and drove his spear through the knight's abdomen.
Both collapsed together, locked in death.
No time to mourn.
Jynessa wrenched her spear free and pressed on.
But these black-clad soldiers—
They were monsters.
Arrows jutted from their bodies. Some were missing ears, hands—one dragged his own intestines behind him.
And still, as long as breath remained, they advanced.
Every inch Jynessa gained cost blood.
Her captain of the guard was thrown from his horse by angled spears—before he could stand, two Unsullied impaled him from either side.
One by one, her companions fell.
Fear crept in, cold and suffocating.
Anger meant nothing here.
Her strength was fading. Her mount heaved beneath her, breath ragged.
"We have to break out… take whoever's left…"
That was all that remained in her mind.
With effort, she wheeled her horse.
After felling another enemy, she reined in hard—her mount reared high as she shouted with everything she had:
"Rally to me! Break through!"
And then—
At that razor-thin edge between life and annihilation—
A roar split the battlefield.
A primal, savage sound that drowned out everything.
"ROOOOOOOAAAAARRRR—!"