"Look at that! Our proud horse-lord beggars are here! Dreaming they're the only ones who can win, clutching a few curved blades, they've come to kill us. Now let's show them some color!"
On the walls of Pentos, legion commander Bevos stood bare-chested, raising his spear to rally the soldiers beside him as the Dothraki cavalry approached.
The soldiers answered with loud cheers.
Outside the city, two hundred Dothraki in the vanguard split into two lines. Their bows began probing for weak spots in the defenses.
Sparse arrows fell harmlessly on the battlements, a few caught by shields. Two quick volleys caused almost no casualties.
Those two hundred Dothraki were led by Haggo, one of Khal Drogo's bloodriders—a massive warrior who looked like he was riding a donkey instead of a horse.
The two centuries gathered together, staring up at the walls.
"Closer! Another hundred paces. Let's see if these iron men have shit themselves in fear!"
Seeing no movement on the walls, the usually silent Haggo barked a rare full sentence. With a wave of his hand, two hundred warriors roared and charged.
At a hundred paces the formation split again. Skilled horsemen twisted and fired from every angle—backward, overhead, from cover—turning the charge into a wild hunting game.
Bevos had no patience for games. As the Dothraki closed to a hundred paces, he roared for the archers to loose.
Bows creaked. High ground beats low ground—every shot a kill. One volley and Dothraki began tumbling from their saddles.
"Again!"
Before the second volley could fly, the Dothraki realized their mistake. No orders needed—they wheeled and fled in panic.
Dothraki were brave, not stupid. They had come to probe for weak points, not play a fool's game of mounted archery versus foot archers.
Half-naked or wearing nothing but greasy painted leather vests, the Dothraki paid dearly. Two hundred arrogant warriors left more than thirty corpses behind and rode off in disgrace.
Soldiers on the walls hurled every filthy insult they knew at the horse-brained savages.
"Easier than I expected," said the legion's deputy commander, the brown-skinned man, lowering his bow and glancing at Bevos with a relaxed grin.
"Commander, Admiral Panbeier has personally brought the supply ships into harbor. Our men are waiting to unload!"
Before Bevos could shout a victory speech, a runner from below interrupted.
Armies march on their stomachs. Before Viserys's "hundred thousand heavenly troops" reached the field, Admiral Panbeier had sailed with thirty warships escorting grain ships and over a thousand players for rapid reinforcement.
Bread and fresh blood arrived together. Morale in the Pentos Legion soared. Undefeated since its founding, the men who had followed the True Dragon across a continent carried themselves with the confidence of veterans.
Amid the laughter on the walls, a line of black dots appeared on the horizon.
Every veteran knew what that meant.
A deep horn sounded.
Tens of thousands of cavalry crested the rise. Dothraki roared, waving arakhs overhead, showing their savagery in the most barbaric way possible.
Forty thousand warriors. Khal Drogo's entire khalasar. The Unbeatable had brought every man, woman, child, and animal with him.
The roars, the press of bodies like a black storm, the screams of cattle, sheep, horses, and dogs wiped every smile from the soldiers' faces. Only grim readiness remained.
"They're not here to play nice," a player muttered as he reached the top.
"Holy shit, looks like a hundred thousand!" his new-player companion said, palms suddenly sweaty.
"Don't be scared. Just a bunch of savages dragging their whole families to steal food. Half of them don't even have armor. They're bluffing. If they actually storm the walls, Pentos turns into a meat grinder. Not one hoof gets back home."
Another veteran in expensive plate armor leaned on a long spear and spat with utter contempt.
"I lost thirty warriors."
Haggo rode up to Khal Drogo, leaning slightly in the saddle, voice low.
"My blood of my blood!"
Drogo's deep voice rumbled. He didn't comment on the dead. He simply gestured for the man to return to the ranks.
Bronze skin, black eyes, braids oiled so heavily they hung to his thighs. This was the Khal who had never lost, who had swallowed countless khalasars whole.
Today he would take this stone fortress, slaughter the iron men who had dared provoke him, and prove his valor once more.
He wheeled his horse and ordered camp. His warriors needed rest—and release—before the attack.
The stone fortress sat right there, his for the taking.
A hundred-man escort protected the wise women. Another bloodrider, Cohollo, rode out with them to recover the fallen and their horses.
On the walls Bevos gave no order to interfere. He had no intention of letting corpses rot and breed plague outside his city. The Dothraki could ride away. Pentos could not.
Inside the Dothraki camp the dead were burned. Recovered warhorses had their throats slit so their masters could ride them in the afterlife.
In the raised tents the bloodriders feasted on horse heads. Khal Drogo stood apart, scrubbing his body with sand, cold eyes fixed on Pentos.
He could already see it: his warriors riding down, arakhs flashing, slaughtering the iron men like sheep.
At the same time, inside the city, everything moved at double speed. Admiral Panbeier ordered sailors ashore. Old catapults meant for ships were hauled onto the walls.
New scorpions—player-designed and freshly mounted on warships—were carried up beside them.
When the Dothraki came, these would be the gifts the "iron men" sent back.