Hooves thundered like a storm as the Dothraki charged straight at Pentos's walls, torches blazing, no holding back on their horses.
"Archers, ready!"
The shout ripped along the battlements from one end to the other.
"For the Targaryens!"
Pentos legion soldiers and players swarmed the walls together, packed shoulder to shoulder, bows and crossbows trained on the screaming horsemen below. A few scattered arrows flew up from the Dothraki ranks and found flesh—here and there a soldier or player grunted and dropped.
"Shields! Get those shields up!"
"Load the scorpions—now!"
The big weapons started moving.
"Come on, you filthy savages," one player muttered, eyes gleaming. "Time to show you some real toys."
"Eat this, horse-fuckers!"
A few players who'd just logged in grabbed the scorpion crews, laughing like kids on Christmas. They'd been dying to fire these things at actual people since the day they were built.
"What the hell are these bastards doing?" another player asked, peering over the parapet. "Looks like they're carrying sandbags… are they trying to build a ramp?"
"Shit—Bevos, they're stacking dirt to climb the walls!" someone yelled.
Bevos leaned over the battlements, face hard. "Scorpions—target that group right now!"
The first giant bolt screamed out, punching clean through three Dothraki riders before it finally buried itself in a fourth man's shoulder. Eighteen scorpions lined the walls. The next volley ripped through the charging mass like a meat grinder.
On the inner wall the catapults roared to life. Stone shot first, calibrating range, then the crews switched to jars of wildfire. The green pots arced high and smashed into the Dothraki ranks, exploding into screaming walls of emerald flame.
Dothraki warriors who'd been laughing moments earlier now howled as the fire clung to them, turning men and horses into living torches. The green light lit up the whole battlefield like some hellish parade.
"Fuck yeah!" players cheered from the walls. "Burn, you sons of bitches!"
Admiral Panbeier came stumbling up on horseback, face flushed, eyes glassy, a thousand sailors straggling behind him in loose formation.
"Open the gates!" he slurred, waving his sword. "I'm riding out after their leader! Gonna take that bastard's head and gift it to the King myself!"
The brown-skinned deputy appeared at his side, calm as ever. "The savages are running like whipped dogs. Open the gates—let our glorious admiral finish them."
The guards on the gate looked at each other, then obeyed. The huge iron doors groaned open and the drawbridge dropped with a teeth-grinding creak.
"For the Targaryens!" Panbeier roared and spurred his horse straight out into the night, sailors charging after him on foot.
Bevos watched from the wall, face darkening. "That drunken idiot… Eight hundred men, follow them out! And tell the catapults to drop another round of wildfire twenty paces ahead of our lines!"
The deputy's eight hundred soldiers poured out after the sailors.
A cluster of Dothraki—less than a hundred—found themselves cut off behind a fresh wall of green fire. Haggo sat in the middle of them, face twisted with rage.
"What do we do, Haggo?" one warrior shouted, eyes wild.
Haggo's jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. He looked at his men, then at the flames boxing them in.
"We charge back the way we came," he snarled. "Even if we die, we die fighting!"
Panbeier came thundering up on his horse, sailors still lagging far behind. He reined in hard, sword out, and pointed it straight at Haggo.
"Come on then, savage! Duel me like a real knight!"