Eleonora had kept her vow—body and soul surrendered to the only man who had ever defeated her in fair combat. And he had never disappointed her once.
Under her gaze, often fighting right beside her, the Dragon Claw Company had grown step by step into a mercenary force that made all of Essos tremble. Their reputation had become so fearsome that even the proud old-blood nobles of Volantis had set aside their arrogance to actively hire them—and offered concessions never granted before.
As for danger, they had long grown used to it.
The Dragon Claw had taken on countless high-risk contracts. Hadn't they survived the slaughter at the Emperor's Tree?
This time would be no different.
Finally, on the horizon where the endless grass met the open sky, the first rider appeared. Then the second, the third—more and more, like a black tide surging forward at terrifying speed.
They spotted Eleonora's company at once. Without the slightest hesitation or discussion, they kicked their swift, hardy steppe horses into a charge.
With every passing second the number of riders swelled. The thunder of hooves rolled across the plain like deep thunder, growing louder, shaking the ground itself.
The last shred of doubt in Eleonora's heart vanished. These were exactly the Dothraki kos-band that had crossed the Rhoyne. Seeing this lone cavalry troop, they had decided to swallow it whole with sheer numbers.
Even if their leader had hesitated at first, he was powerless now to restrain his warriors' frenzy.
Judging by how fast these killers were closing in, their commander clearly lusted for an easy slaughter and rich spoils.
The critical moment had arrived.
"Withdraw!" Eleonora barked.
The hornblower beside her instantly sounded the long, wailing note—the prearranged signal for retreat.
The Black Knights, forged through Viserys's brutal training, moved with flawless coordination. They fell back in good order, covering one another, ready to rescue any who faltered.
Viserys had often said that before Valyria rose, the Old Ghiscari Empire had dominated through iron discipline. It was there that lone warriors first learned to fight shoulder-to-shoulder and become true brothers-in-arms.
The harpy's empire had eventually burned beneath dragonflame, but the dragonlords who once wielded that fire had long since fallen. The invincible flames were gone forever. Only by recreating Ghiscar's discipline could they forge a truly powerful army.
Had this been any other sellsword company—or the loose, individualistic knights of Westeros—Eleonora would never have dared attempt such a maneuver. A retreat would have collapsed into panicked rout, and experienced Dothraki hunters would have butchered them with ease.
She slammed her spurs into Rageflame's flanks and led the withdrawal herself, charging at the front.
These warhorses had been carefully selected. Not every mount in the company could match the speed of a Dothraki steppe horse.
Much of the nomads' fearsome reputation came from their mounts—their astonishing endurance and speed allowed them to cross a thousand miles of wasteland, shatter solid infantry lines, and relentlessly run down fleeing prey.
The waiting was over. The real action had begun.
Eleonora glanced back along the column, confirming her men were maintaining the perfect withdrawal rhythm—no one lagging, no one falling behind. Every rider stayed glued to the red dragon banner, fleeing exactly as planned.
Wild shouts and piercing screams rose behind them from the Dothraki. The Black Knights remained almost deathly silent—a trick the veterans had suggested.
In the eyes of the nomads, only a noisy charge showed courage. Silence in battle meant only cowards.
The canyon was nearly upon them.
The knights needed no extra signals. Any unnecessary movement might be noticed by the enemy pressing close behind.
Every order had been seared into their hearts.
Turning this ragtag collection of sellswords—street beggars from Pentos, fallen lords who once ruled in Westeros, butchers who had been slaughtering animals in Meereen only yesterday—into men who obeyed instantly was no small feat.
But Viserys's relentless drills had not been in vain. Granting them the internal title of knight had not been an empty gesture.
That hollow honor had somehow birthed genuine brotherhood—and that was the true key to fighting as one.
Eleonora looked back again. The Dothraki surged forward like a black flood. They had taken the bait completely.
From a distance the canyon looked short and wide. They only needed to hold a little longer.
The nomads' triumphant roars were right at their backs now. They smelled easy slaughter and rich loot. Rear ranks shoved the front forward, and those in front, seeing the Black Knights' fine armor and warhorses, kicked their mounts savagely, charging at full gallop. Any trace of formation vanished.
Why bother with formation when chasing fleeing prey?
But this prey would not run much longer.
"Faster!" Eleonora roared the instant she saw the canyon's far mouth.
The knights understood instantly. They spurred their horses forward, racing at full speed into the killing ground they had prepared.
They successfully pulled ahead of the lead pursuers and burst out the far side of the canyon.
Below the tableland, Ser Jorah Mormont's infantry was already in position—spears like a forest, great shields like a wall, ready and waiting.
The harsh joint training paid dividends. The old bear and his men knew at a glance that the trap had sprung. Three hundred cavalry alone could never have created such noise.
"Forward! Form the wall!" Jorah's roar cut clean through the battlefield clamor.
The spearmen responded at once.
The moment the last Black Knight crossed the line, a solid spear wall slammed shut across the narrow neck of the canyon.
The leading Dothraki had been ready to feast on their quarry. They hauled back on their reins in shock, faces twisted with disbelief.
The cowardly backs they had expected to see had vanished. In their place stood an immovable forest of spearpoints aimed straight at their chests.
The Dothraki charge was unstoppable on open grassland, but here in the narrow canyon against disciplined heavy infantry, it failed utterly.
Like a tavern singer forced to perform a royal epic—the words were similar, but the melody was unbearable.
"Sound the signal!" Eleonora ordered the hornblower.
The young man did not disappoint. The horn blast was deafening, as though roared from the throat of an ancient giant.
The rocks did not move, but the storm of arrows arrived right on cue, pouring down from the tableland above.
Allyn Wood had chosen only his most accurate archers. The former poacher never missed—proof came in the curses and screams rising from below.
But Eleonora had no time to admire the sight.
"Fill any gap the moment it opens!" she shouted. "Support the infantry—don't let these horse bastards break through!"
"We'll be going home!" Lavaros Rainbow Beard's cheerful voice rang out.
He wasn't talking about Tyrosh, where a death sentence waited for him, but of Westeros—a land he had never set foot on.
"Going home!" the sellswords roared back as one. Some truly believed it. Some said it only to steel themselves. Most simply wanted to drown out the terror clawing at their guts.
Curses, war cries, and groans quickly merged into one chaotic roar as the Dothraki launched their charge.
They trampled over the bodies of their own dead and dying, over fallen horses, without the slightest hesitation.
Trapped between the canyon and the Rhoyne were ten thousand blood-mad giant rats. Even cornered, they would fight back with savage fury.
The narrow terrain prevented them from building full speed. Their first charge failed to shatter the spear wall.
Worse, the packed ranks and the constant rain of arrows from above left the trapped nomads unable to fall back and regain momentum, or maneuver freely.
They were forced into brutal close-quarters combat without their greatest advantages, while the spearmen finally saw the truth clearly: these famed grassland warriors were only flesh and blood after all.
Spears could punch through their chests. Shields could turn aside arakhs. Their crude armor was still far better than bare skin and leather vests.
Once the enemy's aura of invincibility shattered, the hesitant regained their courage, and even the cowards' hands stopped shaking.