Maracho had hired mercenaries from other Free Cities to pose as wanderers roaming outside the city, concealing their presence from the Elephant Party's spies.
When Drogo led two-thirds of his army into the city, these men, under their paymaster's command, donned the armor and weapons they had hidden away in the sewers.
The combined force of mercenaries and Tiger soldiers numbered over twenty thousand, arrayed against eight thousand Unsullied at the docks.
Clad in their spiked helms, each Unsullied was impeccably equipped and carried the reputation of defeating far greater numbers. Thus, even in the face of Maracho's overwhelming host, the eunuch army, with Grey Worm at its head, stood tall upon the decks, utterly unafraid.
Grey Worm had long since discerned the Tiger Party's intentions, yet he made no move to strike. The Unsullied's primary duty was to guard the ships and protect the Mother of Dragons.
Their creed — their unyielding maxim — was to uphold military discipline and obey their king's orders without question.
Before setting out, Drogo had quietly shared his plan with the eunuch commander, ordering Grey Worm to hold position unless necessary, awaiting the khalasar's emergence from the great city, so that together they might strike Maracho's army from two sides.
When Grey Worm had heard his Majesty's decision to abandon the Golden Company, he had been both shocked and elated — shocked at the sheer audacity of the choice, elated because it meant the demise of the claws of Cerys, those who had darkened Missandei's world once more.
With the liquor of courage — that drugging firewater — stripped from their veins, the Unsullied had begun to become more like ordinary men. And those with feelings, like Grey Worm, could not help but rejoice at the fall of the Golden Company's commander.
The Unsullied did not move, and neither did the Tiger Party. Both sides waited for the signal — the green blaze rising from the city, their cue to launch the assault.
Yet the Tiger Party did not know that wildfire engulfing the city would also serve as the Unsullied's own signal to attack.
The Elephant Party's strength lay in trade, not war, and so Maracho's true concern was Drogo's power. If two-thirds of the foreign host could be consumed in the fire, then he could deal with the Elephants at his leisure, eradicating both internal and external threats.
Maracho knew well the fearsome reputation of the Unsullied, but with forces that outnumbered them many times over, he believed that without Drogo's support, he could grind down these ultimate killing machines and win renown across all the Free Cities.
As for the Elephant Party's loyalists, they would be tied down by the Red Temple's guards. All Maracho needed to do was destroy the eunuchs, free the captive Daenerys, and hand her over to Benerro.
The Tiger Party leader lounged in the palanquin strapped to the back of a white elephant, sipping wine, awaiting the wildfire's disregard for life to burn the city clean.
Maracho was in no hurry. He felt everything was under his control.
Suddenly — "BOOM!" — a thunderous roar split the heavens. The world changed color as a mushroom cloud of flame tore into the sky, ripping the very vault of it apart.
The white dwarf-elephant panicked, trumpeting as it reared and bolted. Taken off guard, Maracho was hurled from his palanquin, smashing hard into the ground.
Unluckily for him, his face struck a stone the size of a palm. His lips split, teeth cracked, and blood gushed forth.
The pain twisted his features, but shock quickly overtook it. Even though he had overestimated wildfire's destructive power and evacuated his people to the sea, the truth was worse than he had imagined.
The surging green demon now covered nearly half of Volantis. Could the Red Temple's guards, tasked with holding back the Elephant Party's army, have possibly survived?
Yet Maracho quickly consoled himself: Dofas and Nessiso had surely perished in the flames, leaving the Elephant Party leaderless and no longer a threat.
Those at the top always think differently from their subordinates, forever weighing the larger picture — but in battle, there was no time to think at leisure.
"Moo! MOO!"
Had Maracho not moved in time, he would have been trampled into paste by his maddened mount. An elephant's foot could crush a man into a pit with one step — and this was no jest.
But that was only the prelude. As he clutched his mouth and staggered upright, the whistle of arrows, the thud of pitch barrels, and the hiss of flaming stones filled the air — all hurled from enemy warships with the force of destruction itself.
"Boom! Boom!"
"Thud! Thud!"
"Whoosh! Whoosh!"
Arrows arced down in parabolas, stones spun overhead before slamming blindly into ground and flesh alike, shattering steel and bone.
On this chaotic battlefield, life was fragile. Many mercenaries and Tiger soldiers who were not felled by the rain of missiles were instead smashed or trampled to death by the very elephants charging through their ranks.
From the docks, the Unsullied, using the cover of the arrows and stones, poured down the gangways. Maracho dodged wildly, surviving by luck alone, and shouted through bloodied lips:
"Hold the line! Crossbowmen, fire! Catapults, light the pitch barrels! The flaming stones — hurl them back at once!"
The Tigers had their Iron Tiger Guard, just as the Elephants had their Iron Elephant Guard. Nori, captain of the Iron Guard, hurried to his side, surrounding their master with the devotion of men ready to die in his defense.
Grey Worm called out, "Hero! Protect the Queen! Row the ship ten leagues out!"
The legion's deputy commander shouted back, "Yes, Commander!" and passed the order along to the captain and crew.
Grey Worm's men poured from the assault hatch.
"Wedge formation," he ordered.
The assault force formed a spearpoint, with Grey Worm himself at its tip.
On his right marched Strongshield, the captain of the elite Unsullied spearmen — a face of stone, eyes blazing with killing intent. Shield strapped to his left arm, spear in his right, he charged forward beside his commander.
"Kill!"
The Unsullied roared in High Valyrian, their Ghiscarli accents adding a harsh edge to the cry, magnifying its power as they clashed with the mercenaries sent forward as fodder.
These hired blades lived by licking blood from the edge of a knife, their fighting wild and without discipline, but their deadliness could not be underestimated.
Yet trained soldiers are the bane of such rabble. The Unsullied's wings locked their shields in nearly impenetrable lines, effortlessly deflecting wild slashes and thrusts, while Grey Worm's spearpoint smashed into the densest knots of men like a battering ram, tearing open their defenses.
Once the point broke the enemy before it, the defensive Unsullied became predators, breaking the shield wall and driving their spears into mercenaries who could no longer hold.
Mercenaries were no match for regulars. They were the paymaster's cannon fodder — the first to charge, the first to fall back. If the bloodlust was upon them, they fought on; if they met a stronger foe, they ran.
Seeing the hired men from Lys and Myr faltering, Maracho's blood ran as freely as from his split lips. He had spent so much coin, only to buy a band of worthless curs.
Mercenaries were the Tiger's hide — and if it was torn, blood would flow.
Had Drogo still been ruling the Dothraki Sea, he would never have hired unknown sellsword companies to face him. But this was the greatest Khal, who had ridden forth from the wilds, shattering the Black Ravens, the Windblown, the Second Sons, and even bending the famed Golden Company into his service. What other choice had Maracho?
If he had had the gold, he would gladly have trained his own Unsullied host, as the Good Masters of Astapor had done.
Their fame did not lie — the Unsullied were even deadlier in the flesh than in the tales. But Maracho felt no envy now, only hatred, for the eunuchs were his enemies, the ones who sought his death.
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