The sky remained overcast, yet no rain fell.
Still, the ground had turned into a mire, soaked through with blood and flesh.
By the end, the battlefield looked like shattered glass—broken and scattered into countless fragments.
Some Dothraki still managed to escape.
Whether by luck or because some of the longbowmen lacked experience, a few scattered survivors slipped away.
The main battle had lasted only three or four hours, but scattered fighting continued until dusk.
Clement was still leading men to tally casualties and results.
But on Viserys's side, the numbers were already clear.
[Participation rate: Ninety-five percent]
[Essence gained: Roaring Warriors × 43,208.]
More than eighty percent of the enemy had been annihilated.
There was no doubt.
This was a complete victory.
Compared to the Dothraki losses, Viserys's forces had suffered fewer than seven hundred casualties in total, including the dead and wounded.
It was a battle worthy of being remembered and sung about for five hundred years.
When Willem heard the numbers, he was so shocked he could not speak.
"Your Grace, the battle on the Golden Plains is not yet over. Allow me to lead reinforcements to Her Majesty."
Willem stepped forward to request permission.
"Do not rush," Viserys said, looking toward the upper reaches of the Rhoyne, where the Braavosi forces were stationed.
"Cut off all the heads from those bodies...Build me a forest of heads along the upstream."
....
Upstream, where the Braavosi held their position, Dothraki survivors were fleeing in chaos.
They did not speak.
They did not stop.
They fled like a gray tributary rushing to merge into the Rhoyne.
"Could it be... the Dothraki have been defeated?"
When Tormo saw more than ten thousand fleeing riders scrambling to cross the river—and neither Drogo nor Zekko among them—he understood the truth.
He tried to stop a few riders and ask what had happened.
But the Dothraki were like wounded beasts. They snarled and drove off anyone who approached with drawn blades.
There was only one thought left in their minds.
Run.
Run back to the great grass sea.
Never return to this cursed place again.
Seeing this, Tormo had no choice but to send scouts to the battlefield.
He chose Koren, the nephew of Freygo.
Escorted by Quairo, Koren reached the battlefield at dawn the next day.
Even from a distance, the stench hit them.
A thick, rotting smell of blood and death.
After only a few steps, many of them could barely endure it. They covered their mouths and noses with their sleeves.
Quairo's expression turned grave.
He had never felt such a presence of death in his life.
As a former first sword of Freygo and a water dancer, his eyesight was sharp. From afar, he thought he saw a vast field of black grass.
It swayed unevenly, impossible to make out clearly.
Because the stench ahead was unbearable, Koren sent a group of veterans forward to investigate.
These were men who had seen battlefields before....But when they saw what lay ahead, they froze.
It would haunt them for the rest of their lives.
As they approached, a flock of crows burst into the air.
Thousands upon thousands of severed heads hung suspended, swaying in the wind.
The Dothraki wore their hair long.
Now those strands drifted like the tentacles of jellyfish.
The crows, unwilling to abandon such a feast, descended again. With their sharp beaks, they tore at lips and eyes.
Some heads, stripped of their lips, seemed to grin grotesquely. Others had both lips and eyes devoured—empty sockets staring out with hollow, frozen smiles.
To look upon it was like having ice shoved down the back of one's neck.
"Hell... it's hell! That place is hell!"
The scout stumbled back, crawling and scrambling as he reported to Koren.
Quairo did not believe him and went to see for himself. When he returned, his face was pale.
He could barely speak.
There was only one conclusion.
Viserys had won.
A crushing victory.
Gohor had become something far more terrifying.
They could not understand how Viserys had slaughtered so many Dothraki in a single day.
What kind of weapon could do such a thing?
And it was obvious. This forest of heads was meant as a warning.
A warning to Braavos.
Not long after, Tormo received confirmation.
He had men count the heads. There were more than forty thousand.
The numbers matched the survivors.
"Drogo is finished... or perhaps the Dothraki are finished." Tormo slumped into his chair, staring helplessly toward Gohor.
There would be no redemption for him.
Only silence.
But if they did not understand how Viserys had achieved this victory, all of Braavos would lose sleep.
If he could destroy the Dothraki...
Would he turn his gaze toward Braavos next? A man with a hammer sees every problem as a nail.
Tormo quickly wrote a report and sent it to Freygo.
.....
On the other side, Viserys left only three thousand men behind to guard the battlefield.
The rest he withdrew.
Aside from collecting heads, the greatest prize of the battle was the horses.
The sixty thousand Dothraki had brought at least two hundred thousand horses.
Viserys captured one hundred fifty thousand of them.
Enough to form a powerful cavalry force.
This new army would combine the precision of longbowmen, the unmatched horsemanship of the Roaring Warriors, and the armor he would provide.
The only problem was that most of his men did not know how to ride.
For now, he could only select those who could and begin transferring the essence to them.
It would take time.
As for himself, Viserys decided to absorb a portion first.
More than forty thousand Roaring Warrior essences glowed crimson before him.
As he merged them, consuming over two thousand, a new essence formed.
It shone like a blood-red sun. Yet it was still named Roaring Warrior.
When Viserys absorbed it, his body changed.
His once slender frame grew strong and solid.
When he picked up a curved blade, it felt like an extension of his body. On horseback, it felt as though he and the mount were one.
Drogo would not be his match now.
Feeling the surge of power within him, Viserys allowed himself a rare moment of confidence.
There was only one regret. Drogo had escaped.
But it did not matter.
Next, Viserys would take the offensive. He would lead his army straight to the Dothraki sacred city—Vaes Dothrak.
Before that, he would transform his mounted longbowmen into an unstoppable force.
A cavalry that could harass, strike at range, and fight up close.
Once the southern Dothraki were destroyed… Once Drogo was dead…
Then it would be time.
Time to march west and reclaim the Iron Throne.
With this victory, the future of House Targaryen had opened wide.
___________
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