At dawn, dew still clung to the grass and wildflowers on the ground.
A thin mist drifted along the eastern bank of the river.
From the direction of the Dothraki camp came faint sounds of shouting and crying.
The Targaryen army assembled quickly.
The iron wall of soldiers, bristling like black thorns, formed once more before the line.
More than ten thousand civilians—mixed with hidden Dothraki riders—were being driven forward like cattle, forced to crash against the Targaryen formation.
Behind them rode over twenty thousand Dothraki cavalry.
The distance between the two groups was less than a hundred paces.
From afar, they looked like two flowing lakes—one gray, one yellow—rolling toward the steel wall.
Normally, Gorys commanded only a company of about three hundred men.
But Rhaella and Jon Connington had entrusted him with two thousand heavy cavalry.
His mission was to slip between the civilians and the Dothraki riders, separating them.
At the same time, he had to act like a sieve—blocking the men while allowing women and children to pass through.
Gorys hid his cavalry behind a small hill nearby.
His eyes never left the battlefield.
The burden on the shoulders of this young man barely in his twenties was far more than a simple attack.
Over ten thousand lives depended on him.
And behind him waited two thousand elite riders.
If he attacked too early, the civilians and the Dothraki would become hopelessly mixed together, ruining the objective.
If he waited too long, the civilians—who already had no morale—would descend into chaos.
They would trample one another in panic, perhaps even rush desperately into the Targaryen lines in search of survival.
Five hundred paces.
Gorys bit down on his lip, forcing himself to breathe steadily.
Four hundred paces.
Blood began to seep from his lips, though he did not notice.
Three hundred paces.
His eyes widened as if they might burst from their sockets. With a sharp click, he lowered his visor and shouted to the soldiers behind him.
"Charge! Cut them off!"
A torrent of black steel poured into the battlefield from the flank.
Ogo, who was leading the charge for the Dothraki, noticed him almost immediately.
The other khals quickly realized his intention as well.
Mosso, the somewhat mystical khal, led a group of Dothraki riders to intercept him.
But Gorys had chosen his moment perfectly.
By the time Mosso's riders reached him, the front of the heavy cavalry had already driven a wedge between the civilians and the Dothraki.
Mosso urged his horse forward.
Curved blades struck against the heavy armor of the cavalry, sending sparks flying.
The Targaryen riders responded by angling their long lances defensively.
Dothraki horsemanship was unmatched in the world. But the raw momentum of charging heavy cavalry was just as unstoppable.
Mosso's riders smashed into them like men colliding with speeding war chariots.
They achieved almost nothing.
Even when they managed to kill a few soldiers, the rest ignored the loss entirely and continued charging forward.
The civilians who had been driven forward saw the cavalry coming to rescue them.
Hope suddenly surged among them.
The old village chief saw the scene and pulled his son and daughter forward with renewed desperation.
Now at the center of the battlefield, Gorys glanced through the crowd.
For a moment, he searched instinctively. But he soon shook his head.
The thought was foolish.
He signaled to one of his officers.
The man nodded and led several hundred riders toward the civilians.
"Men stay where you are, or you will be killed on the spot! Women and children move forward!"
"Men stay where you are, or you will be killed on the spot! Women and children move forward!"
The soldiers' command threw many into confusion.
But soon they made their choices.
"Go! Keep running! Don't look back!" The old village chief pushed his son and daughter forward with all his strength.
"Father!"
His daughter looked at him in shock. But the old man's face was filled with urgency.
"Go! Don't turn around! Hurry!"
Many men who still had their families with them made the same decision.
They pushed their wives and children forward desperately, hoping they might live.
Of course, some men refused.
"Why?! I want to live too! I want to live!"
The cavalryman gave no answer. He simply thrust out his lance and shouted to those around him.
"If you are a man, then fight with us!"
"Win, and you live! Let the women and children go first!"
After shouting, the rider looked toward the Dothraki lines.
By now, Gorys and his cavalry were fully engaged with the Dothraki host.
The horse lords fought like fleas leaping across saddles. Gorys's attacks struggled to deal decisive damage.
But the heavy armor protected the Targaryen cavalry. The Dothraki blows did little in return.
For a moment, Gorys felt grateful for the weight of the armor covering him.
Then suddenly, some Dothraki riders leapt straight from their own horses onto the backs of Targaryen mounts.
The unexpected tactic stunned the cavalry.
In the chaos, some soldiers were shoved from their saddles. Others fell together with their attackers.
Once a heavily armored knight was knocked to the ground, rising again was no easy task.
And because the armor had been redesigned to reduce cost—replacing traditional plate with layered skirt armor—their legs were more exposed.
Dothraki riders slashed at their legs with curved blades, crippling them.
Normally this weakness would not matter. But against opponents as terrifyingly skilled as Dothraki horsemen, it became deadly.
Still, Gorys and the surrounding cavalry reacted quickly.
Ignoring the enemies attacking them from their own saddles, they fought in pairs and groups, helping one another.
Meanwhile, the Dothraki who had been hidden among the civilians finally understood what was happening.
They could not understand the Common Tongue or Valyrian.
But the situation was clear enough.
They had three choices.
First, continue charging forward—certain death.
Second, slaughter the civilians around them—which accomplished nothing.
Third, strike from within and join their comrades in crushing the cavalry.
Almost every one of them chose the third option.
One Dothraki warrior reversed his grip on his blade and crept toward a Targaryen rider.
When the rider was distracted, he leapt onto the horse, shoved him to the ground, and charged toward Gorys's defensive line.
Soon more and more hidden Dothraki joined the fight.
They ran against the flow of fleeing civilians, rushing toward the cavalry.
"My lord! They're behind us!"
Gorys was fighting two Dothraki warriors when a soldier shouted the warning.
A chill ran down his spine.
So many Dothraki had hidden among the civilians. It was fortunate they had not allowed them to pass.
Even now, Gorys never once considered his own safety.
Behind him, Rhaella and Connington watched the battlefield with growing anxiety.
Without reinforcements, the two thousand cavalry under Gorys might not even see half their number survive.
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