The banner of the red dragon on black fluttered above the ruins of the Rhoynar village, once a den of bandits, now a smoldering graveyard. Viserys sat on a folding campaign chair, surveying the desolation before him.
Crumbling walls, blood-soaked earth, and fields stripped bare by the brigands. Carrion crows circled overhead, their harsh caws piercing the air.
Viserys had removed his winged dragon helm. His black and red cloak was heavy with blood, radiating the metallic scent of carnage.
His purple eyes swept across the scene, demanding submission and promising death.
Viserys embodied a complex duality: the unearthly beauty of the dragonlords, the fearlessness of a warrior, the lethal grace of a bravo, the soul of a poet, and the sorrowful burden of a king destined to rule. It gave him a unique, magnetic charisma.
Flanking him like twin towers stood the mountainous Aggo and the Rhoynar warrior Garin.
Though neither matched Viserys in sheer combat prowess, a King must have his guard. It was a matter of protocol and status, much as a Queen must have her ladies-in-waiting.
The soldiers had formed two long lines on either side of the ruined village. They stood like a river of steel, their bloodied armor and weapons gleaming under the sun.
The fair-haired, blue-eyed Andals bore longswords and kite shields, while the olive-skinned, dark-eyed Rhoynar carried spears, javelins, and round shields. Though they hailed from different villages and different peoples, Viserys had forged them together in blood and fire.
"Long live King Viserys!"
"Long live the King!"
"Victory! Victory!"
The soldiers raised their weapons and cheered, their voices loud enough to scatter the clouds. Only victory brings courage. Only victory brings confidence.
War itself is a process of demystification; it teaches that the enemy is not invincible.
Tyroshi slavers, Rhoynar bandits, Dothraki outcasts—when the soldiers crushed these foes under Viserys's command, they began to transform from a ragtag band into true steel. Before, their faith lay in gods and prophets; now, their faith lay in King Viserys and the earth beneath their feet.
Other Andal knights and Rhoynar soldiers silently worked the battlefield. They salvaged reusable javelins and arrows, collected the remaining Dothraki horses, and gathered the sharp arakhs.
The heads of every Rhoynar bandit and Dothraki renegade had been severed. Big heads, small heads, braided horselords, and smooth-haired salty Dornishmen—all were impaled on spears.
A row of these grisly trophies lined the road, a terrifying deterrent. The heads, caked in mud and dried blood, stared sightlessly as crows pecked at their eyes.
The headless corpses were thrown onto a pyre in the center of the ruins. The flames licked at the bodies, turning flesh to char. Corpses left to rot would only foul the water and bring pestilence. Burning them to ash to fertilize the fields was the best end they deserved. It also accorded with Dothraki belief—the earth should remain pristine.
With the dragon banner flying high and the bandits annihilated, the locals who had been hiding in the hills began to emerge.
Like flies drawn to rotting fruit, the Rhoynar villagers, who had lived under the bandits' terror, now crept forward, emboldened. Leading them were the elderly Rhoynar elders and their spear-wielding warriors.
The crowd of Rhoynar grew, forming a wall of spectators around the ruins. The once-arrogant bandits were now headless corpses, their ugly visages mounted on pikes for all to see.
These Rhoynar—slender, with olive skin and dark eyes—were a shadow of their former glory. Their clothes were roughspun, lacking texture or wealth. Few wore the silver-scaled armor or fish-helmets of their ancestors; fewer still carried the traditional turtle-shell shields.
In ancient times, the Rhoynar were famed for their wealth, their love of art, and their elegant lifestyles. But since the fall, they had become impoverished and rustic.
The elders of the Rhoynar villages moved forward to claim the weeping women—the tragic victims of this war. Had they remained captives of the bandits or Dothraki, their fate would have been grim. The Dothraki did not kill women, but they never spared the men.
Viserys did not stop them. The wise among the Rhoynar would understand who had ended their humiliation.
The elders and the warriors listened to the survivors describe the battle—King Viserys's ferocity, how he had fought like the Warrior himself, hurling bandits into the air and cutting down the Dothraki with his own hand.
Discipline, equipment, training—these were the truths of war. With commanders like Viserys and the towering Aggo, the Andal soldiers possessed a vitality the Rhoynar lacked.
The worldly elders understood that the fragmented Rhoynar were no match for the Dothraki khalasars. Now, they couldn't even match the united Andals. The Andals had organized, forming a stable army with cavalry, infantry, and longbowmen, while the Rhoynar were still stuck in petty village skirmishes, struggling against mere Dothraki castoffs.
"We thank you for your generosity, Lord Viserys," a white-haired Rhoynar elder said, leaning on his cane, his tone humble.
"You should address him as Your Grace, Elder. And you must kneel. King Viserys has been anointed with the seven oils and crowned King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men," Aggo rumbled, resting his hand on the hilt of his frighteningly large greatsword.
With his massive frame, Aggo looked like a giant boar of the forest, a man built in the mold of the Umbers or the Mountain.
"The elders are wise men. They understand why I have traveled a thousand leagues to be here," Viserys waved his hand, rising from his chair.
He signaled Aggo to stand down. Viserys's gaze remained fixed on the elder's face.
The Rhoynar were a civilized people; they required a mix of force and diplomacy. The Ironborn and the Dothraki were barely human in his eyes—only slaughter would clarify their thinking. But the Rhoynar could be reasoned with.
The elder turned to face the mass of his people. "Men of the Rhoyne! These Rhoynar scum allied themselves with the cruel Dothraki outcasts, burning our villages and stealing our women. Mother Rhoyne weeps blood and tears, yet she could not save us from our wretched fate."
"I have told myself countless times: the man who can protect our land is our true King. And now, I believe Mother Rhoyne has guided us to him." The elder pointed a trembling finger at Viserys.
"King Viserys!"
"King Viserys!"
"Mother Rhoyne, light our path!"
Led by the elder, the chant spread like wildfire through the crowd. Warriors, women, children, and the weeping captives joined in.
"We have lost too much. We cannot let our children and grandchildren live as we have lived, clinging to the edge of survival."
In Essos, the Rhoynar were like the Andals—orphans abandoned by the old world order. In the Century of Blood, they had lost most of their honor.
But this was a new chance. A chance for the oppressed to restore their past glory. The road might be rugged, but those at the bottom would grasp at any straw to climb out of the pit.
"People of the Rhoynar villages," Viserys asked solemnly. "Are you willing to fight beside me? To endure sickness, wounds, and death, for the freedom and future of your people? I cannot promise you much. I promise only that I will fight as a King should—without retreat, without fear."
"We will fight!"
"Fight!"
"Fight!"
The Rhoynar roared their answer. Men and women, young and old, raised their arms in fervent agreement. Their screams were the rawest expression of their desire to change their fate.
"We offer you our loyalty, in the name of Mother Rhoyne." The elders led their people forward. One by one, the Rhoynar warriors cast down their spears and bows before Viserys, dropping to one knee.
"I shall provide protection and justice to the Rhoynar who follow me, in the name of the Dragon and the Fire," Viserys declared, tapping his sword lightly on the elder's shoulder.
These submitting Rhoynar would provide Viserys with soldiers, taxes, and grain. In return, Viserys's legions would be their sword and shield.
Some alliances are written in ink on parchment. Others are forged in blood and tears.
This was a new covenant. A Pact of Water and Fire. A union of Andal and Rhoynar, of the Dragon and the Great River.