99 AC / 54 HA
Daemon Targaryen
I looked up at the pale morning sky.
Vultures. They circled in lazy, sweeping arcs, waiting in eager anticipation of the feast promised to them.
My horse neighed, pulling my gaze back down to the blood-soaked earth. I was dressed in a sturdy shirt of chainmail, with heavy steel plates strapped over my chest and shoulders. Sadly, I had not fled Westeros with my full suit of plate, and I would not make the fatal mistake of wearing ill-fitting armor forged for another man into a melee. Thus my current state. Thankfully, Ana had granted me enough steel to protect my vitals, if not my extremities.
I gazed out at the trench lines. Cavalry could easily leap them, for they were a mere three feet wide and just as deep. Yet, they would prove disastrous for advancing infantry to cross, unless archers provided heavy covering fire to clear the Roman defenders from the opposite lip.
I sat upon my mount on the western flank beside Ana, while Marc commanded the infantry units holding the center. The sun had risen just enough to bathe the battlefield in a cold, grey light. We were part of the cavalry vanguard, the bait tasked with drawing out the Imperial horses.
"Remember to stay close to me," Ana warned, her voice tight with tension. "Once the charge begins, we will collide hard with the Roman lines. The sheer impact of the skirmish may easily unhorse you. If that happens, you must fight your way out of the cavalry crush and fall back toward our infantry. This will not be like your tourneys or your polite Westerosi melees. This is war. Use anything and everything at your disposal to survive. Do not—and I mean do not—seek glory. Glory gets you killed. I would much rather not lose a friend to his own foolish pursuits, Daemon."
"Do not mother me, Ana. I know what war is," I scoffed, rebuking her softly. "It is ugly and brutal. I shall keep my head, and I shall see you when the butchery is done. We shall drink to our victory."
She truly thought I would be foolish enough to die here as a nameless Lysene bastard.
"Be careful, Daemon," she said, staring hauntingly, deadly serious into my own.
"I will," I promised, matching her absolute sincerity.
"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come," she murmured, before turning her gaze back to the horizon.
The red sea began to churn.
Scores upon scores of Imperial Legions marched forward, locking into perfect rank and file. Their massive, curved red shields and heavy chainmail glinted fiercely in the morning sunlight. Their heavy spears and short swords were perfectly pristine, raised in preparation for this grand ritual of blood. I watched as their cavalry positioned itself at the extreme flanks, holding just behind their infantry line. I could immediately see that their infantry center was dangerously thinned to accommodate this wide stance.
"The crescent formation," Ana surmised grimly. "They mean to lure us into the center, just as we intend to lure them."
That was a concerning revelation. When two opposing armies aim to achieve the exact same tactical trap, one of them inevitably breaks. The odds were not in our favor, for the Imperial Legions were undeniably the more disciplined force.
Suddenly, a deep, brassy horn blared from the Roman lines. As the dreadful, vibrating sound simmered down, the red sea began its relentless advance. It seemed the long hours of waiting were over; they were choosing to engage.
Horns began blazing from our end as well. The Qohorik Cavalry Commander raised his sword high and dropped it forward. That was the signal. Our own horns blared twice in rapid succession, confirming the command.
Ana stood in her stirrups and raised her curved blade high. "MEN, CHARGE! GIVE NO QUARTER!"
The thunder of thousands of hooves consumed the world. We crashed toward the western flank, a tidal wave of flesh and steel intent on breaking the Empire.
The Imperial Legions moved with terrifying, mechanical precision. As our vanguard closed the distance, a wall of massive red shields slammed together, interlocking edge-to-edge. From the gaps in the crimson wall, a dense forest of long, iron-tipped pikes suddenly jutted forward.
We hit the bristling wall at a full gallop.
The carnage was instantaneous. Frontline horses shrieked in agony as thick wooden shafts impaled their chests. Riders were launched violently from their saddles, crashing against the locked shields. From beneath the rim of the red wall, Roman short swords darted out like viper strikes, ruthlessly butchering the fallen sellswords where they lay stunned in the mud.
It was a slaughterhouse. Realizing the center was a meat grinder, the surviving cavalry violently veered away from the impenetrable infantry line, desperately attempting to circumvent the formation to reach the Roman cavalry waiting in the wings. I yanked my reins hard, forcing my horse to follow the frantic pivot.
Then the sky turned black.
A massive hail of arrows launched from both sides. The Roman infantry simply raised their rectangular shields, forming an impenetrable iron roof that swallowed our volley harmlessly. We had no such luxury. Caught in the open and dangerously close to the Roman lines, our cavalry was shredded. Men and beasts shrieked, tumbling into the mud in a tangle of broken limbs as steel-tipped shafts rained down upon us. Many like myself used the small shield to block the volley but the closeness of our cavalry worked to our detriment.
I kept my head down, spurring my horse until we finally cleared the edge of the infantry formation. The Imperial cavalry burst from the shadow of their lines to meet us in the open field.
I ripped the heavy lance from its leather sling at my saddle. A Roman cavalryman locked his eyes on me, lowering his own lance as he charged. We collided with earth-shattering force. My aim was truer; the iron tip of my lance caught him squarely in the chest, lifting him violently from his saddle. My lance shattered into jagged splinters from the impact. I tossed the useless wood aside, knowing the thundering hooves of the sellswords behind me would trample the fallen Roman into pulp.