At the head of the horde rode the massive Khal Jago.
His bare, muscular torso gleamed in the sunlight as he swung a massive Arakh, a bloodthirsty grin twisting his face, eyes ablaze with a boundless hunger for slaughter and plunder. He had swept westward from Haystack Hall in the Stormlands, pillaging through Bronzegate, Fellwood, Blackhaven, and Nightsong before arriving here. Along the way, the morale of his Dothraki riders only grew higher—so much that even stray dogs on the road were met with a slap for daring to cross their path.
Khal Jago ignored the armies of the Reach and the Westerlands clashing before him, as if they were nothing more than ants in his way. His target was the battlefield itself—and every ounce of life and wealth that could be seized upon it.
Kill! Kill! Kill!
He raised his curved blade and pointed toward the chaos of Ashford Meadow. In the next heartbeat, more than thirty thousand Dothraki horsemen thundered forward, crashing into the raging battle between the Reach and Westerlands forces.
Addam Marbrand's face turned deathly pale. Jon Fossoway's vision went black, and he nearly fell from his horse.
The Dothraki swept across the southeastern edge of Ashford Meadow like a storm. Caught in the first wave were the Westerlands infantry locked in combat with House Ashford's defenders, along with the remnants of the fleeing Reach foot soldiers.
"Thud!"
"Snap!"
"Aaah!"
The sharp crack of scimitars cleaving bone, the dull impact of horses hurling men through the air, and the screams of the dying rose together in a deafening cacophony. The Dothraki made no distinction between friend or foe. Anything in their path was prey.
The heavy armor of the Westerlands soldiers offered no protection against the Dothraki's blades or the crushing force of their warhorses. They were cut down and torn apart in an instant. The Reach infantry fell like wheat before the scythe. Countless men were split open by scimitars, skulls crushed beneath hooves, or dragged to death by lassos tightening around their throats.
Blood splashed wildly across the emerald grass. Chaos devoured the field.
The Reach's defeat turned into a full-scale rout. Soldiers threw down their arms and armor, cursing their parents for not giving them extra legs as they screamed and fled in every direction. The Westerlands cavalry formation was shattered by the sudden, ferocious charge from the flank and rear. Terrified horses reared as knights struggled to turn and face the assault, only to be swallowed by the onrushing tide of Dothraki riders, hurled from their saddles in the chaos.
"Hold the line! Don't panic! Form up! Form ranks!"
Addam Marbrand swung his longsword, shouting until his voice broke, trying desperately to rally his men. But his cries were drowned in the roar of destruction.
He saw a brave Westerlands knight thrust his lance at a charging Dothraki, only for the rider to duck low beneath it—then, with a flash of steel, the scimitar cut man and horse clean in half. He saw Steffon Swyft lead a small band of guards in a desperate counterattack, only to be instantly engulfed by a wave of Dothraki several times their number. A few short screams, then silence.
"My Lord! We can't hold! We must retreat!"
A bloodied officer stumbled to Addam's side, shouting hoarsely.
Addam looked around at the Dothraki cavalry flooding in from every direction, his once-proud horsemen collapsing like an avalanche. His heart twisted in agony. He knew that if they didn't retreat now, none would leave this field alive.
"Break through to the southeast! Toward the Stormlands! Get out whoever you can!"
He gave the command.
Turning his horse, Addam led the few hundred elite riders still able to fight, charging hard toward the thinner section of the encirclement in the southeast. The heavy armor of the Westerlands cavalry finally proved its worth.
Forming a tight wedge, they drove forward with sheer force of will. Massive warhorses, sharp lances, and gleaming swords carved a bloody path through the disordered Dothraki ranks.
Addam led the charge, his longsword cutting down one Dothraki after another. Blood splattered across his armor and visor.
But the knights beside him fell at an alarming rate. Each flash of a scimitar came with the agonized screams of Westerlands knights and the mournful cries of warhorses.
As Addam Marbrand fought his way through the bloodbath, struggling to break southeast, another army appeared at the southern edge of the field as if rising from the earth itself.
...
Their banners flew: House Martell's sun-and-sword, flanked by the sigils of Godsgrace, Ghost Hill, Salt Shore, Hellholt, and Skyreach. The Dornish army.
Prince Quentyn Martell rode a fine sand-colored steed, clad in light scale mail, his face showing the weariness of a long journey and the tension of a first taste of battle. Beside him rode Daemon Sand, the bastard of Godsgrace, and Obara Sand, Prince Oberyn's eldest daughter.
They had only recently emerged from the Prince's Pass, following the trail of Dothraki raiders who had plundered Nightsong. They had not expected to find so vast and chaotic a battlefield.
"It is Prince Viserys's army! They are attacking the Westerlands and the Reach!"
Obara Sand cried, pointing at the black banner with the red dragon, her eyes burning with vengeance.
"Prince, this is our chance! Dornish and The Reach have a blood feud, and the Lannisters are our sworn enemies. Let us seize this moment, join forces with His Grace Viserys, and crush them once and for all!"
She drew the spear at her waist, eager.
Daemon Sand frowned, doubt crossing his handsome face.
"Obara, calm yourself. The field is too chaotic. And look at those Dothraki — they seem utterly undisciplined."
Quentyn's heart pounded. Prince Doran's words echoed in his mind: If Viserys gains the upper hand, join him, but remain independent.
Before him the Targaryen dragon banner raged across the field. The Westerlands and the Reach were suffering heavy losses. Was this not an advantage?
Quentyn stared at the black dragon banner dancing in the brown tide of chaos, then at the disordered Westerlands and Reach forces. Resolve hardened his gaze.
"Warriors of Dorne! For Dorne! Charge those Lannister and Reach scum! Join our allies! Slaughter them all!"
He drew his sword and pointed toward the fray.
"For Dorne!"
The Dornish soldiers, already fired up by the battlefield's fury, roared with thunderous rage. Forming agile spear formations, they charged swiftly and fiercely toward the densest concentrations of the Westerlands and The Reach's retreating forces. Their spear tips glinted in the sunlight, coated with a specially concocted poison.
The Dornish army's arrival plunged the battlefield into utter chaos.
At the very heart of the carnage, two emaciated packhorses stood tethered beneath a solitary weirwood tree. Viserys and Tyrion were bound tightly to the saddles with coarse leather straps. Their mouths were stuffed with foul, ragged cloth, leaving them to utter only terrified whimpers.
The translator from Lys fared worse. An arrow, its origin unknown, pierced clean through his eye socket. Blood and brain matter smeared half his face; he had been dead for some time.
Viserys surveyed the hellish scene around him—flesh torn, men and horses screaming, the savage Dothraki swinging their scimitars with frenzied abandon. Knights of the Westerlands fell, Riverlands infantry were trampled. Fear overwhelmed him.
He felt a sudden warmth between his legs as a warm liquid seeped uncontrollably through his silk breeches, trickling down the saddle. He had lost control.
His entire body shook like a sieve, his violet eyes brimming with tears. All that remained was endless terror and despair—where was the majesty of the "True Dragon"?
Tyrion, too, turned pale at the gruesome sight and the acrid stench of blood, his stomach churning violently. But he forced himself to calm down.
His heart sank when he spotted the banners of the Dornish army. He twisted his body desperately, straining toward a Dothraki warrior beside him who was brandishing a scimitar and bellowing. With every ounce of strength, he roared in the broken Dothraki he'd learned from the translator:
"Release us! We are warriors! We can help you fight! Otherwise, we'll be shot down by stray arrows like him!"
He pointed desperately with his bound hands toward the horribly mutilated corpse of the translator beside him.
The Dothraki warrior paused, glancing suspiciously at Tyrion, then at the dead translator, then at Viserys, who was shitting himself in terror. A look of contempt crossed his face.
But he seemed to think Tyrion had a point. If they were killed by stray arrows, the khal might blame him.
Grumbling, he drew the dagger from his belt and with two swift snips severed the leather thongs binding Tyrion and Viserys. He then picked up two blood-stained Arakh scimitars from the ground, tossed them to the two men, and turned his attention back to the battle with renewed excitement.
The moment Tyrion was free, he scrambled off his horse, grabbed the heavy scimitar, and shouted to Viserys, still shivering on his mount with soaked trousers:
"Your Grace! We must find cover. It's too dangerous here!"
But just as Tyrion tried to drag the petrified Viserys from his horse, the battle's momentum shifted again.
Quentyn's Dornish spearmen plunged savagely into the retreating forces of the Reach and the Westerlands. Drilled to precision, they worked in perfect coordination, their sharp spears seeking out the gaps in enemy armor and the vulnerable bellies of warhorses.
Even more terrifying was the deadly poison coating their spearheads. Even a shallow cut would swiftly induce paralysis, dizziness, and bleeding from the mouth and nose, ultimately leading to an agonizing death.
The Dornishmen's arrival turned the already chaotic battlefield into a bloodbath, instantly capturing the Dothraki's attention.
...
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