The morning light tore through the lingering mist above Qohor's city walls, casting its cold glow upon the trampled, muddy ground before the fortifications.
On the battlefield between the two armies, an eerie silence replaced the thunderous war cries and clash of weapons that usually filled the air.
Viserys Targaryen's army, like a lead-grey cloud, pressed heavily against the eastern horizon.
Viserys, mounted on a white horse, stood at the front of his army, his silver-gold hair fluttering in the morning breeze.
Beside him, Sunfyre's massive golden form lay prostrate, its dark golden Dragon Eyes half-closed, watching the scene as if an ancient deity observing the games of mortals.
"Ser, it is time."
Viserys Targaryen's voice was calm, yet his words carried an undeniable authority.
Jorah Mormont slowly emerged from behind him.
This old knight from Bear Island, pursued by the Lord of the North for selling slaves, had fled across the Narrow Sea to pledge his loyalty to Viserys Targaryen.
The woman for whom he had sacrificed everything now lay softly sighing in the arms of a Lysene merchant.
"Hah, a simp who licked himself into destitution!"
Seeing the former Lord of Bear Island's face already etched with the marks of time, Viserys Targaryen felt no pity for him.
Whether he was a spy sent by Robert Baratheon or genuinely pledged his allegiance, Viserys Targaryen did not care!
To a ruthless emperor, there were only two kinds of subordinates: those with utility and those without.
Jorah Mormont walked towards Viserys and knelt on one knee.
"Your Grace,"
Jorah's voice was low and hoarse, "I shall win this victory for you."
The next moment, Jorah stood up and walked with steady steps towards Qohor.
At the same time, Qohor's city gates slowly rose.
A tall figure emerged from within, his steps slow but carrying an incredibly suffocating sense of oppression.
It was Korgan, the "Bonebreaker," Qohor's three-time consecutive equestrian champion.
He hailed from an unknown land in eastern Essos, unusually tall, almost a small giant.
Without trumpets or declarations, the battle erupted instantly.
Korgan, mounted on his warhorse, let out a bestial roar, charging towards Jorah like an enraged wild bull.
His movements seemed clumsy, yet his speed was astonishing.
His massive hammer, carrying the momentum to destroy everything, swept horizontally at Jorah's waist.
Jorah Mormont did not meet the blow head-on.
He was well aware of the immense difference in strength between himself and the warhorse.
He agilely stepped back, and the giant hammer whistled past his chest, the wind from it stinging his cheek.
As the warhorse missed its target, Jorah immediately stepped forward, his two-handed greatsword striking like a venomous snake, instantly severing the horse's legs.
"Thud—!"
A deafening crash exploded on the field, raising clouds of dust.
At this moment, the heavily armored equestrian champion was pinned beneath his fallen warhorse, unable to move.
Just as he was in utter shock, Jorah Mormont calmly stepped forward and removed his helmet.
Under the gaze of all, accompanied by a desperate scream, the man who dominated Qohor's arena collapsed backward like a felled tree.
"Ah—"
Many noblewomen of Qohor painfully covered their eyes.
This crushing defeat completely silenced the warriors of Qohor!
Compared to these arena champions who vied for glory in duels, warriors like Jorah Mormont, who had experienced blood and fire, were the true strongmen!
Jorah Mormont calmly released his grip, dropping Korgan's corpse.
He picked up his greatsword, raised it high, and pointed it towards Qohor.
In an instant, the silence was broken.
A thunderous cheer erupted from the Targaryen ranks.
"Mormont! Mormont! King of the True Dragon!"
Meanwhile, the walls of Qohor were enveloped in a deathly silence.
Seeing that the enemy's morale was broken, Viserys Targaryen slowly raised his right hand.
The next moment, boom! Boom! Boom!
Dozens of heavy trebuchets roared simultaneously.
Following this, bundles of black projectiles, like a rain of death, arced over the towering walls and accurately landed high above within Qohor.
Chains and weapons scattered in the air, clattering down among the terrified and confused slaves.
The slaves stared at the tools that once bound them on the ground, and the gleaming weapons that had rolled out from them, utterly bewildered.
Then, Viserys Targaryen's voice, amplified by magic, resonated like rolling thunder throughout Qohor: "Slaves of Qohor, the weapons are at your feet. Will you choose to remain slaves, or fight for yourselves? Pick up your weapons, break your chains, and you shall be free!"
Harry Strickland's eyes widened, and he stood rooted to the spot.
He had expected Viserys Targaryen to order the projection of a heap of wildfire or heavy stones and logs.
He never imagined that Viserys Targaryen would actually be sending them equipment.
"Hahaha, hoping for slaves to rebel against their masters, he truly is a great genius."
A Great Master from Qohor burst into laughter, clutching his stomach: "Since ancient times, which of these commoners has ever dared to defy the ruling class!"
However, the next moment,
"For freedom!"
A slave with a slave brand on his face shouted loudly.
He bent down, picked up a battle-axe beside him, and struck at the Great Masters around him.
The resentment of the slaves, suppressed for decades, was completely ignited with the support of Viserys Targaryen's army.
At this moment, that single shout was like a spark thrown into boiling oil, completely igniting the uprising.
"For freedom!"
"Targaryen!"
Roars erupted like wildfire, spreading from every corner of the slave quarters.
Thousands of slaves picked up weapons from the ground or used found axes to hack open the shackles of their companions.
The riot had begun.
They had no clear tactics, only endless hatred and a burning desire for freedom.
They surged from all directions within, towards the city walls, attacking the defenders from behind, using their makeshift weapons to strike down the masters who had once whipped them.
The defenders on the city walls were instantly thrown into chaos.
Many defenders were forced to divert their attention to deal with the rebellion behind them.
The Golden Company's lines were also completely disrupted by this fatal blow from behind.
Harry Strickland watched from the city wall, his eyes bloodshot with fury; he tried to rally the reserves to suppress the slaves, but it was too late.
The Dothraki surged towards the city walls like a tide, arrows flying over their heads and raining down into the city.
"Dragonflame."
Viserys Targaryen commanded.
Sunfyre swooped down, opening his massive maw, and golden-red flames spewed forth, sweeping along the city walls.
Wherever the flames reached, defenders turned into screaming torches, and trebuchets and scorpions were reduced to charcoal in the inferno.
The Dothraki seized the opportunity to set up ladders and began to climb.
The Unsullied steadily advanced their battering rams, pounding against the city gates.
Seeing that the tide had turned, Brown Ben Plumm led the remnants of the Second Sons in a retreat towards another city gate, attempting to break out.
At the city gate, the pressure suddenly lessened. Viserys Targaryen keenly seized this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
The Unsullied let out a unified war cry, launching their final and most powerful assault on that city gate.
"Boom!"
Under the pincer attack, Qohor's massive city gate, along with the defenders attempting to barricade it from behind, was completely breached.
The silver torrent of Unsullied merged with the furious torrent of slaves within the city, completely overwhelming the Golden Company's final resistance.
Master of Whisperers Varys stood atop a distant tower, watching the reversing tide, and let out a long sigh of relief.
"This is the true power of a king, not Dragonflame, but the hearts of men."
Varys murmured to himself, "If His Grace Aerys had understood this, his dynasty would never have been overthrown!"
Below, the tall slave who had first picked up the battle-axe was now tearing a Golden Company banner to shreds and trampling it underfoot.
At this moment, Sunfyre let out a deafening roar, the sound wave traversing the battlefield, making even the stones on the city walls tremble.
The slaves raised their heads, holding their blood-stained battle-axes high, and let out a triumphant cheer: "Mhysa! Viserys! Mhysa! Lord of the True Dragon!"
Soon, these shouts merged into one, echoing throughout Qohor.
Dragonflame had incinerated the city walls, and the thrown shackles and weapons had incinerated the foundations of Qohor's old order.