Jorah fought at the center of the line, roaring encouragement to his men with every breath.
Courage and sheer bloody-minded resolve mattered more in this fight than anything else.
But the Dothraki kept slamming into the formation like madmen, utterly indifferent to their own dead.
Horses screamed and fell. Arrows kept raining down. Still the nomads pressed forward—either hoping the infantry would break first, or simply too far gone to think at all.
Under the crushing weight the spear wall began to crack. Jorah's men did not run, but they were only human.
"Rogar, take a hundred and shore up the left!" Eleonora barked, chopping her hand in the signal.
The Lysene understood at once and led his knights thundering into the breach.
The cavalry arrived in time, driving the breakthrough back. Their job was simple: snuff out every spark before it became a blaze, while using their superior armor to full advantage.
In the press the nomads could barely dodge spear, arrow, or blade. Their thin leathers offered no protection at all.
Soon the right wing was in trouble too. Rogar himself was hard-pressed, so Eleonora had no choice but to commit her last hundred riders personally.
Wave after wave of Dothraki poured in, their numbers never seeming to shrink. Spears and swords reaped a harvest, yet it felt like they would never run out.
Eleonora charged straight into the middle of the line, anchoring the center.
The first nomad who reached her swung an arakh at Rageflame's head. She sliced his arm off at the elbow, and the man died a heartbeat later on a spearman's point.
The second she ran clean through the chest. He toppled from the saddle and Rageflame—true to his name—stomped him into the dirt.
A familiar sellsword slaughter began.
There was no elegant duel of skill here, only the brutal business of staying alive one heartbeat longer than the man trying to kill you.
You didn't see how your enemy fell—you kept your eyes on the next threat and trusted your brothers to watch your back.
Dothraki tangled with spearmen, knights crashed into dying horses, arrows hissed past arakhs. Everything dissolved into blood and noise.
An enemy blade scraped across Eleonora's breastplate. She backhanded the wrist, severing it. She clubbed a fallen nomad unconscious with the flat of her sword. All that remained was the animal instinct to kill or be killed.
The canyon rang with dying screams, wounded moans, guttural curses in the strange steppe tongue mixed with Valyrian oaths, scattered orders, and the constant metallic clang of steel on steel.
And Eleonora moved through it like she had been born for it.
They didn't need to win alone. They only had to hold the line, bleed the enemy, and ruin their formation.
Then it would be time to call Viserys.
An arakh whistled past Rageflame's skull. Eleonora parried it just in time and found herself staring into a pair of eyes burning with pure hatred.
The nomad grinned savagely and lunged—only to have a spear punch through his thigh.
He missed his moment. Eleonora's blade found his throat and ended him.
But celebration was premature. One fell and another took his place. The killing went on and on.
Only after a long while did Eleonora feel the pressure finally easing.
In front of the spearmen and knights rose a small hill of corpses and dead horses. For the first time the Dothraki ranks showed the first flicker of doubt.
From above the canyon came the deep thunder of a war horn.
Eleonora's lips curved in a grim smile. The last surprise had arrived.
Allyn Wood's archers could probably loose one or two more volleys. She and Jorah only needed to hold a few minutes longer.
"Home!" The shout came from behind the Dothraki line.
Eleonora couldn't see Viserys's wedge charge, but the rising chorus of terrified screams told her everything.
The nomads had never imagined fresh heavy cavalry would slam into their backs.
"For the true dragon!" A new voice rang out from the spear line.
Eleonora didn't know who it was, but she approved. The man had perfect timing.
"For the red dragon!" she roared, spurring Rageflame forward. "Advance!"
An anvil had to meet the hammer if it wanted to shatter the blow.
Eleonora and Jorah's men were exhausted, their casualties heavy, but the nomads across from them were in no better shape.
The fresh charge was the final straw.
The Valyrian woman cut left and right, driving spearmen and knights forward in one unstoppable push.
From the corner of her eye she caught Jorah—his breastplate dented and scarred, yet his sword arm still steady. This Westerosi knight was a priceless comrade; she refused to lose him.
The arrow storm had stopped. Allyn Wood would not risk hitting his own.
Viserys's charge did more than close the trap—it shattered the enemy's will completely.
Caught between hammer and anvil, the Dothraki fell into total chaos.
Without leaders, confusion turned to panic in moments.
Some tried to break out the rear and died on Black Knight steel. Others were dragged from their saddles and speared. The few who slipped past the prince's blade were picked off one by one by Allyn Wood's archers.
Eleonora knew the battle was won. What remained was the simple, ugly work of hunting down the remnants.
The sellswords moved with brutal efficiency. Fresh cavalry slammed into the enemy's back, giving no one room to run.
Everything in this world ends—even slaughter.
A handful of lucky Dothraki escaped, cursing every god they knew as they galloped away.
A dozen or so bolder souls actually swam the Rhoyne and lived to tell the tale.
Some prisoners were kept alive to be paraded before the maesters and people of Valysar. The rest of the bronze-skinned nomads stayed forever in the stone canyon, feeding the grass.
Eleonora sat atop Rageflame, the faithful warhorse who had saved her life once again.
She fought the urge to simply slide off and sleep where she fell. Exhaustion and battle-fever warred inside her.
But as captain of the Dragon Claw she still had duties: count the dead, check equipment, hand out the first shares of loot.
A sellsword only rests when he's dead. She could still feel every ache in her bones and muscles. That was good. It meant she was still alive.
Viserys rode up beside her. His armor still gleamed, but his long sword dripped crimson from tip to crossguard—once again proving his reputation as one of the finest blades in Essos.
The Targaryen looked her up and down, a faint smile touching his lips.
"Seen the old bear?"
"Finishing off a pair of horse bastards. Armor's caved in, but he's breathing."
"Poetic," Viserys said, the slightest trace of breathlessness hidden behind perfect control.
Not far away a young Westerosi lad caught their eye.
He had something of Jorah's look about him. Helmet long gone, he gripped a plain spear and was eyeing a huge Dothraki corpse bristling with five arrows, clearly hoping for easy loot.
When he recognized the two commanders he froze.
"Is… is this Drogo?" the youth asked, voice oddly familiar. Eleonora was too tired to place it. "If it is, the spoils should go to you, Your Grace."
"No," Viserys answered. "This is only one of his kos—captain, by their custom. The big chief himself will take more work. But as long as we keep the strength we showed today, let that khal run while he still can—back to his grass sea!"
Eleonora looked at her prince, her commander, her lover, and felt a sudden spark of real hope. Maybe this time they really could pull it off.
"He can run, but he'll leave everything he stole behind," she said, wiping blood and dirt from her face. "Right now I'd drink the entire Rhoyne like Arbor red. As for that filthy braid of his—anyone who wants it can have it. I'm not interested."
Viserys, the youth, and the surrounding warriors all nodded. Victory cheers rolled through the canyon, every Valyrian accent blending together into one roaring chorus.
Eleonora closed her eyes and let herself sink into the promise of celebration.
The grateful people of Valysar would pay for the feast. And the Dragon Claw would mourn their dead and celebrate the living.
The gods themselves were witness: their trade had taught them to cherish every single day they were still breathing.