Your comments, reviews, and votes really help me out so much and they make me super motivated to keep working on this story!Pat*eon : CaveLeather
The battlefield plains in front of Viserysfort had turned into one giant circle of Andal soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder.
At the very center roared a massive bonfire, flames licking hungrily at the piled bodies of dead men and horses.
The prisoners—mostly surrendered screamers—were the ones doing the dirty work, hauling corpse after corpse into the blaze. Every race was there: Dothraki, Tyroshi, even a few Ib men who'd signed on with the sellsword companies.
Viserys had posted overseers to keep them in line—the earliest screamers who'd switched sides were now in charge, making sure no one got any bright ideas.
The Dothraki had already lost their horses and weapons; every last one of them had sliced off his own braid as a sign of submission.
The Tyroshi coalition had it even worse. Fewer horses meant their armored foot soldiers tired fast, and in the meat grinder of that final battle they'd been ground into paste.
War is always hell, but the taste of victory right now was sweet as summer wine.
Khal Drogo!
Khal Jhaqo!
The Tyroshi commander-in-chief—the Archon's poor, unlucky brother!
Bloodbeard of the Company of the Cat!
A couple of the Stormcrows captains!
A row of long spears stood like grisly banners, each topped with a severed head. The highest-ranking ones—Bloodbeard, Drogo and Jhaqo's kos, plus the leaders of the Cat, the Brave Companions, and the Stormcrows—were all on proud display.
Power sits at the top. Power sits at the peak. Only the winner gets to drink it in.
Across the Andalos plains the flames crackled and danced, bodies tumbling onto the wood pyres. The fire twisted like living snakes, chasing itself through the night sky in brilliant reds and golds.
Viserys Targaryen planted True Dragon in the earth. The purple Valyrian steel blade caught the firelight, throwing a glow across his handsome, almost unearthly face—strong jaw, violet eyes, the look of a man who had just become legend.
From this day forward, on both sides of the Narrow Sea, Viserys's name would burn brighter than ever: the True Dragon, the King-Slayer.
The night wind snapped his black cloak, the three-headed red dragon on it looking alive in the fireglow. He'd traded his silver armor for a half-black, half-red velvet tunic, finally able to breathe.
Sunblaze lounged beside the main pyre, ripping into dead warhorses with huge bites, occasionally blasting a jet of flame to carve the meat easier. The dragon was having the feast of his life.
In the worst of times, dragons will eat men. Horses and men probably taste about the same to them.
Everyone else stood motionless behind the king like silent statues: the Andal lords, the envoys from Norvos and Qohor, the captains of the Golden Company and the Windblown.
After crushing Drogo and the entire Tyroshi coalition, Viserys's power was at its absolute zenith. No one dared meet his eye.
He had no wildfire left or he would've turned the whole field into one giant funeral pyre.
But he did have one special little bonfire set aside. On it lay the bodies of Khal Drogo, Khal Jhaqo, Jhaqo's pregnant wife, and the witch woman.
"Why did you kill them?" Viserys asked quietly.
A Dothraki prisoner bowed low. "Jhaqo tried to convince Drogo to retreat. Drogo killed him. Then he killed Jhaqo's wife too. The witch—she told the khal we'd win a great victory. When the Stallion never came, the screamers cut her down in rage."
Viserys stared at the corpses. Brutal, even for horse lords.
The Norvos and Qohor envoys held their breath, faces pale. They could smell the thick reek of death and fire rolling off the field like layers of hell itself.
Norvos had sent two hundred axemen; Qohor had sent a thousand Unsullied. Both groups had arrived late on purpose, ready to slip away the moment the battle turned bad.
Nobody had told them Viserys had a dragon. If they'd known, they would've come running.
Now they just stood there sweating.
"Your Grace," the Qohor governor stammered, wiping his face, "we meant to aid Andalos, but the road was so long—"
"You're cowards and nothing more," Ser Agos sneered.
The knights burst out laughing. The Qohor and Norvos men didn't dare answer.
The old powers had fallen. Khal Drogo was now just charred bones. The real power belonged to the Dragon King of Andalos.
"Bring the Brave Companions prisoners forward, Your Grace," Count Donnel said.
The last few surviving scum of the Brave Companions were dragged up in chains—exactly the ones Viserys had asked for.
Vargo Hoat the Goat, the boy-loving septon Utt, the lunatic dwarf Shagwell, and the rest.
Viserys looked them over. The Brave Companions really were a garbage dump of humanity—not a single normal man among them.
The Goat and his crew had already spotted the heads on the spears—many of them old drinking buddies.
Death waited with its mouth wide open.
"Sp-spare us, Your Grace," Vargo begged, lisping worse than usual. "It was all the blue-hair's idea!"
He still wore that stupid black-iron goat helmet even while running for his life.
Blue-hair meant Daario Naharis—already roasted to ash.
"You tortured prisoners," Viserys said coldly. "I hear you especially loved turning men into cripples."
That was the part that truly pissed him off. The Brave Companions had caught isolated Andal soldiers and done unspeakable things.
"Mercy! I—I can still serve you!" Vargo wailed.
"Got any maesters or doctors in your company?" Viserys asked.
"Maesters? Doctors? We only got septons…" Vargo shook his head, drooling.
Viserys studied the Goat. Looks like Qyburn hadn't joined this crew yet in this timeline.
No point keeping trash alive.
"Well then," Viserys said, raising a hand. Two burly Andal warriors forced Vargo's head down onto a big wooden block.
"By my name—Viserys Targaryen the Third, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, King of Andalos—I sentence you to death."
True Dragon flashed. The purple blade was sharper than anything in the world.
Blood sprayed across the trampled grass, red as summer wine.
"Next!"
The boy-loving monster Septor Utt was dragged forward next. The man always cried and begged forgiveness after he killed the boys, and he loved getting whipped by his own men. They usually obliged, though they thought it was insane.
"I am a weak reed," he sobbed. "I prayed to the Warrior for strength, but the gods left my heart soft. Have mercy on this weak creature! Those boys—sweet boys—I never wanted to hurt them—"
Viserys's sword fell. The head rolled like a ball across the dirt.
He worked fast. These monsters were just appetizers.
Groups like the Brave Companions were rare. Viserys felt his attributes rising slowly with every execution.
"Clean up the mess," he ordered.
"As you command." Count Donnel bowed. The bodies would burn with the rest; the heads would get tar and go on spears as victory trophies.
The Qohor governor wiped sweat again. The battlefield smelled like every circle of hell at once—blood, fire, and roasting meat.
Bloodthirsty warriors, a terrifying dragon.
What kind of world was this?
After the Century of Blood, it looked like another one was starting.
Khal Drogo was dead, but the Viserys who had won this brutal war was far more dangerous than before.
The few surviving Tyroshi commanders were dragged up next, faces the color of ash as they watched the Brave Companions lose their heads one by one.
"Demon!"
"Demon!" one broken Tyroshi screamed. "The Three-Headed God will punish you!"
An Andal guard slammed the flat of his sword into the man's ribs. The Tyroshi coughed blood and shut up.
"Take them away," Viserys said. These ones were still worth something—he needed ships.
"Your Grace!" Dick Crabb arrived, two stretchers behind him.
Viserys lifted the red cloth. One older face, one young.
Red hair and beard—Jon Connington the Griffin, aged by years of exile.
The handsome silver-haired boy beside him was Young Griff… the boy who called himself Aegon.
The Red Viper glanced at the boy's indigo eyes and silver hair. Another dragon? He kept the thought to himself.
Viserys had known the Griffin back in the day—one of Rhaegar's proudest, most brilliant young lords.
Looks like he was really dead now.
They had tried to steal the Dragon Horn.
"Put them on the fire too," Viserys ordered.
Crabb tossed both bodies onto the pyre beside the khals.
"Kneel!" the Andal soldiers barked at the bound Golden Company men. The sellswords stared at the rivers of blood on the ground and lowered their heads.
The entire Golden Company was caught in a vise. No escape.
These men had been the king's rearguard—yet they'd let the Griffin and the boy into the royal pavilion.
"You know these two, Ser Myles," Viserys said calmly.
"I do." Myles Toyne stepped forward. "Since Jon and Young Griff are dead… I see no reason to keep breathing."
The Golden Company officers looked at one another in shock. Most had known nothing about the secret pact—only that the Griffin had gone off to get drunk and never came back.
"You insisted on entering that tent?" Viserys asked.
"It was our last chance," Myles answered steadily. "Jon and the boy were done waiting. As for me… I chose my friend in the end. Besides, I don't have many years left."
"You knew the real truth, didn't you?" Viserys's pale violet eyes locked on him. "You, the fat man, and the Spider."
Myles's face stayed calm. "The pact was between me, Varys, and Illyrio long before Jon arrived. From beginning to end, only the Griffin was deceived. He believed the boy was Aegon. In truth… the boy was the last hope of House Blackfyre."
Viserys's eyes narrowed.
So it was a layered lie. Illyrio and Varys on the first level, the Griffin on the second.
Myles Toyne had truly been the Griffin's friend… but he had been the Spider and the fat man's friend even longer. And he had always been a Blackfyre man.
"Why?" Viserys asked the question at the heart of it. "You could have lived."
Myles's mouth twitched. "I suppose I must tell the old story again. House Toyne was nearly wiped out after my ancestor's affair with King Aegon the Unworthy's mistress. Bittersteel saved us in secret. I swore then that I would fight only for the Blackfyre cause."
The boy's true identity?"
"Illyrio's own son. The fat man's wife was a descendant of Brightflame and Blackfyre. Varys and that daughter are brother and sister." Myles shrugged. "That's why I helped them. Giving Jon a little hope for his prince… I saw no harm in it."
Viserys exhaled. Even Brightflame and Blackfyre blood had mixed together on the edges of the world.
"Well," he said, "the last Blackfyre hope is gone. Your choice?"
"Traitors die," Myles said, face twitching. "But no one else in the company knows the full secret. My officers are innocent."
"Spare Myles!"
"Please, Your Grace!"
The Golden Company officers dropped to their knees, begging. Myles himself wanted to die.
"Light the fire," Viserys ordered. Oil was poured; the bodies caught.
Flames roared up, swallowing flesh and wood with a crackling heat. The smell of roasted meat filled the air.
"May the gods protect you, King Viserys. You are the one blessed by fortune. Perhaps you truly are the master of this age, not us. With Jon and our Blackfyre hope gone, I have no reason to live. Lead these boys, these homeless exiles, Your Grace."
"I'm sorry, brothers," Myles said wearily. "Don't beg for me anymore. The future is yours now. My selfishness dragged you into this mess one last time."
"What will you do?" Viserys asked the stunned Golden Company officers.
"Dragon is dragon," Harry Strickland blurted, dropping to his knees, legs shaking. "King Viserys is the one true Dragon King!"
"Will you swear loyalty to me here and now?" Viserys asked.
"We will! Your Grace!"
The officers sprawled on the ground in a chaotic kneel.
"You may go," Viserys told Myles. "Leave the army. Live."
Myles Toyne gave a bitter laugh, staring at the roaring flames. He could almost see the Griffin's face again.
"Jon… since I lied to you, let me repay it with my life."
He broke into a run and hurled himself straight into the pyre, vanishing among the burning bodies of Young Griff and the Griffin.
They would be together forever.
Viserys watched the flames swallow them all like a roaring beast.
Drogo. Jhaqo. Jhaqo's pregnant wife. The witch. The Griffin. Young Griff. Blackheart Toyne.
On the low eastern horizon a red comet blazed into view—like a burning sword across the sky, a star weeping blood.