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Dusk settled with a sharp chill.
The bleeding star still hung high overhead, casting that strange blood-red glow across the sky.
The sun itself looked wrapped in a crimson halo, like a witness to the day's slaughter.
Tyroshi banners of the Three-Headed God snapped in the wind—one head spitting new life, the other spitting death.
The Tyroshi had set up their slave-soldier barracks beside a big pear orchard near the Narrow Sea coast, docks only a short ride away.
But the once-loud, arrogant Tyroshi governors had gone quiet.
They had seen death's shadow: an endless forest of cavalry and, worse, the dragon circling above.
The Tyroshi had seen that creature of blood and fire—the proud golden dragon.
Tens of thousands of Dothraki screamers roared, painted vests flapping, curved arakhs gleaming cold.
"What the hell? The enemy's already here? Don't their armies need rest?" the lead governor wailed.
Viserys had moved too damn fast, like he hadn't stopped once.
"Hold the line! The Great King will save us!" the governors shouted to each other. They had nowhere left to run.
These three governors wore purple, blue, or red hair—dyed, of course.
They spoke for the estate owners and slave masters, so they had no choice but to stand here as the second front against Viserys.
The Tyroshi soldiers were jittery. Only the stone-faced Unsullied stayed calm. Everyone else was already shifting.
The mercenaries were pissed. They came to make fast coin and bolt, not die in some forgotten field. Nobody warned them the Andals and the Dragon King would hit this hard.
Tens of thousands of cavalry. Even the Golden Company and the Windblown wouldn't touch them. The Company of the Cat had already been wiped out.
The slaves—every skin color and expression—looked lost. One minute they were farming and making wine. The next they were handed weapons and told to fight.
Viserys circled high on Sunblaze, the entire Tyroshi camp spread out below like a map.
The Tyroshi had formed up in a classic sandwich: core regulars in the middle, thick layers of auxiliaries on the sides—very Westerosi.
The real prize was the Unsullied guards the governors had bought at top price, plus the citizen-soldiers—noble sons in gilded helmets and fancy gold-and-silver armor, helmets shaped like birds and beasts.
These boys ate well and could swing a sword, but their will to fight was another story.
On the wings stood the hastily hired free swords, mercenaries, and estate slaves from the Disputed Lands.
The Tyroshi had no choice. The big sellsword companies were gone, so they were stuck with slave troops.
Viserys already saw the holes in their formation. A dragonrider in the sky makes one hell of a scout.
"The art of war: fight if you can win, run if you can't."
The Tyroshi were still dithering between abandoning their lands or dying in place. Now they were trapped in the middle.
The dragon roared—the battle horn.
"Kill the governors! Kill the slave masters!" Viserys ordered.
Agos and Garin blew their horns—real war horns, not the giant Dragonbinder.
"True Dragon Khal!"
"True Dragon!"
The high, clear call rolled across the sky, answered by cheers from Andal cavalry, Golden Company riders, and Dothraki screamers.
"Kill them all!" Agos swung his Valyrian steel arakh. He led the Andal and Golden Company cavalry straight down the middle while the screamers spread wide, completely boxing in the Tyroshi camp.
It was like an extra circle had closed around them.
"Scorpions!" The iron bolts flashed black death and screamed forward.
"Ballistae!"
The governors shouted themselves hoarse, as if this was their last card.
"Forward!"
"Forward!" The Unsullied in bronze spiked helmets held the center. Behind them came the citizen-soldiers. On the wings, mercenaries and slave legions.
The governors cracked their whips, each commanding a unit, lashing mercenaries who didn't move fast enough.
"Dragonfire!" Viserys sent Sunblaze climbing like a hunting falcon, then folded the wings and dove.
Watchtowers and camp scorpions opened up, hunting for the dragon and rider.
Viserys slipped Sunblaze past several roaring foot-long iron bolts—the gift the Tyroshi had saved for him.
"Dragonfire!" Turnabout's fair play.
A bright gold-red fireball exploded. The tall watchtower in the Tyroshi camp lifted off and shattered into burning fragments.
"Mommy!"
"Fire! I'm on fire!"
"Three-Headed God save me!" Tyroshi soldiers danced in the flames—burned alive or fell screaming.
The roaring cavalry used the chaos to reach the camp. Knights dropped sacks of earth to fill the deep ditches while others shoved aside sharpened stakes.
Then the whole wave poured through.
"No!" the governors wailed. The camp's defenses collapsed like rotten wood, flames everywhere.
"Swish! Swish! Swish!"
Dothraki arrows fell like a storm. Mercenaries raised shields, but plenty still dropped, bristling with shafts.
This was how you used screamers—hit and move, hit and move.
Andal cavalry followed, smashing in like an iron fist.
"Dragonfire!" Viserys ignored the burning camp. His new target was the governors themselves.
Easy to spot—the bastards all dyed their hair.
The governors scattered like birds, each trying to hold their own troops together. The camp kept shrinking, their army pushed back to the hill foot.
No time left to scream. The cavalry was closing fast.
"Spare me!" one governor wailed as purple dragonfire swallowed him. He danced in the flames until only ash remained.
Even the most loyal Unsullied couldn't save them. They burned too.
The citizen-soldiers tried to stand, but more fury came—gold-red dragonfire sweeping the ground.
These pampered Tyroshi boys screamed and burned.
"Shoot the runners!" the blue-haired governor shouted. His guards worked crossbows, dropping slaves trying to flee the fire.
The slaves fell silent, blood soaking the dirt.
"Block them! Block them, you idiots!" the blue-haired governor lashed his whip across a tall slave's face.
Blood welled. The slave howled.
"You pigs—kill!" the governor snarled. He turned—and the slave he'd just whipped stared back with pure hate. Another lash.
"Die!" The slave went mad, yanked a short sword, and stabbed the governor again and again.
"Traitor!" Citizen-soldiers rushed in and hacked the slave's head off.
But the battlefield had already turned into pure chaos.
"Revolt! Revolt!" The slave legions roared. This wasn't their war. They couldn't change it.
Enraged slaves turned their spears and drove straight into the Tyroshi. In the shadow of slave revolt, the Tyroshi were swallowed whole.
"We…" A plain-looking mercenary gave his partner a look. The mercenaries turned their blades too, short swords opening Tyroshi throats.
"What are you doing?" the Tyroshi gasped.
"Simple, my lord. We want to live." The mercenaries joined the slaughter.
"Spare me!" The last governor tried to run, but blood and fire left no escape.
"Die!"
A pillar of gold-red dragonfire crashed down. The final governor burned in the middle of the madness.
His body stank of charred meat, drifting on the wind.
The Tyroshi citizen-soldiers stood frozen in nightmare—enemies from every side, old allies turning on them.
The Tyroshi slave coalition shattered like glass. Only surrendering slaves, mercenaries, and the confused Unsullied remained.
Viserys looked at the mercenaries—mostly the slaves.
Some were Westerosi, some wildlings from the far north, even Summer Islanders. Wherever they came from, they had been slaves.
Frequent wars in the Disputed Lands and rich Free Cities meant these strong estate slaves had at least some training.
Viserys slid from the dragon's back and stepped onto Tyroshi land—now his.
The cub selling the grandfather's field feels no pain. Viserys didn't need to save coin for slave masters.
Since the Tyroshi wanted to fight to the end, he'd arm their slaves and give the masters a proper gift.
Viserys picked up one of the golden whips the governors had used—symbol of power, control, and the chains they forced on others.
He waved his hand. The whip vanished in the flames.
Viserys looked at the slaves and raised his voice.
"Burn the whips. Break every chain. From this moment, you are free."
"R'hllor!"
The slaves dropped to their knees as one, smiling, waving, shouting.
Their words might have been different, but every voice said the same thing: Savior. Father.
"Father!"
"Father!"
The freed slaves knelt before Viserys, calling his name, kissing his legs and feet.