Eleonora's job was simple: make the kos believe victory was already theirs, make them think they were chasing a lamb to the slaughter.
The three hundred Black Knights under her command had to sell the rout perfectly, drawing the Dothraki step by step into the killing ground Viserys had prepared.
Two miles away rose a high tableland where Allyn Wood's archers already lay hidden among the rocks. Natural stone and the twisting course of the Rhoyne formed a long, narrow canyon. At the far end, Ser Jorah Mormont waited with the infantry to seal the exit. Viserys himself and the rest of the Black Knights crouched on both rims of the canyon, ready to close the jaws and finish the kill.
The Dothraki raiding band would see a small company of sellsword cavalry sent by Volantis—few in number, looking easy prey.
The kos would smell easy meat, spur their entire force forward, and charge to wipe them out and claim rich spoils.
Even if the kos leader was cautious by nature, his blood-mad riders would not be. Young hotheads desperate to prove their courage, old veterans terrified of being outshone—once one man broke ranks and charged, a hundred would follow like an avalanche. The whole band would plunge into a frenzy of pursuit.
No one willingly gives up a fat sheep once it's in his teeth. A single kos's authority could never hold back a mob drunk on greed, especially when the true master—Khal Drogo himself—was still hundreds of miles away in the main camp.
Besides, no one could swear the kos wasn't a proud fool. Such men exist in every army, even among the Dothraki.
The trap had been laid by Valysar's veteran sellswords. They knew the horse-lords' ways better than anyone. That was why the bait was perfect: the tall red dragon banner snapping in the wind, armor flashing in the morning sun, blooded warhorses pawing the grass.
To hook Dothraki you use the promise of loot and a glorious fight.
Everything here was perfect bait—well-armed but few in number, armor and horses screaming wealth, no stone walls in sight. No Dothraki alive could resist.
The entire plan hinged on whether Eleonora's company could pull off the retreat. If they botched the act, she and every Black Knight would become the raiders' prize.
She never doubted the men behind her. Not one was filler. The title of Black Knight had been granted by Viserys himself after ruthless selection. The riders with her today were the prince's hand-picked elite—only the finest horsemen who could master the fiercest mounts rode at the Sword Saintess's side.
Still, on the battlefield caution costs nothing. Better to repeat the orders ten times than regret them once.
Eleonora turned to face the three hundred Black Knights. Her voice rang clear and strong, carrying on the morning wind to every ear.
"Fall behind at your own risk.
If I fall behind, leave me.
Remember the prince's plan. Obey every order. Only then do we win."
The answer came in a single roar, voices thick with every accent from Westeros to the Free Cities, yet all of them steady.
"Understood!"
"We will!"
"We hear you, my lady!"
"As you command!"
"Every man to his duty!"
Only the standard-bearer, the big Tyroshi with the green beard—Lavaros—leaned close and muttered, "Good luck, Sword Saintess. May your blade stay sharp… and may you die a virgin."
He was an old comrade. The teasing was familiar.
Eleonora answered with the faintest smile. "Good luck to you too, Rainbow Beard. That blessing I won't be passing on."
"Oh, too late for that," Lavaros laughed. "You're eighteen years too late."
"Your blessing is even older. Now shut up and hold that banner high!"
At the nickname Sword Saintess, Eleonora's mouth curved the tiniest fraction. Old memories surged up.
The name had been coined by the cocky young recruits she led in her early days. They called themselves the Valyrian Orphans—afraid of neither fire god nor ice dragon—wandering the small towns, taking jobs clearing bandits, living free.
Lavaros, the grinning Tyroshi she called Rainbow Beard, had been the first to shout it. He'd laughed when she refused his bed.
Back then none of them had taken her vow seriously.
She had sworn to give herself only to the man who could beat her in fair combat. At the time, no one could.
They brawled and laughed their way across the Disputed Lands until they reached a village that needed bandits cleared. That was where she first saw Viserys Targaryen. He was counting loot left by the same outlaws, the Dragon Claw Company still small and green behind him.
Her men claimed a share of the spoils. Negotiation collapsed. Blades came out. A bloodbath was seconds away.
Then the Mummers appeared on the horizon and attacked both sides without a word. The two companies had no choice but to fight back-to-back.
After the battle her band was gutted. Viserys offered the survivors a share of the loot if they swore to the red dragon banner.
Cornered, Eleonora led what was left of her men in the oath—spitting every word through clenched teeth.
The Targaryen prince probably hoped she would die in the fighting and save him the headache.
Their friction lasted months.
She mocked the exile at every turn, laughed at his impossible dream of reclaiming the throne, invented cruel rumors about his past just to swallow the shame of bending the knee.
He repaid her in kind—assigning her the most humiliating duties, stripping her of command, cutting her share of the loot again and again.
He had every right. Her force was broken, living on his charity. She had to swallow it.
Finally she could stand it no longer. She marched up and demanded single combat—winner takes command of the entire company.
To her shock and savage delight, the self-styled prince accepted.
He knew her reputation and had seen her skill. He was an exceptional swordsman himself. The duel should have been glorious.
Instead he put her on the ground in under a minute.
Eleonora had never been one to yield. Even flat on her back she clawed, bit, kicked, fought with everything she had.
He didn't play gentle. In the tangle their clothes were torn away. When it ended she lay naked on the grass of the Disputed Lands, and he stood over her the same way.
The fight for leadership somehow became a night of raw, furious coupling.
She had never felt so alive.
From that night on, a strange, fierce bond formed between them—hot, unbreakable, and theirs alone.
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