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The stars above were a river of cold silver, beautiful and indifferent, until a sudden, jagged horn blast shattered the silence of the Velvet Hills.
Viserys snapped awake. He didn't hesitate; he moved with the practiced economy of a man who had slept with his boots on for weeks. He buckled Mull's to his waist and threw back the curtain of his tent.
His scale armor, forged by the Tyroshi smith, gleamed like black smoke in the torchlight. He donned his dragon-wing helmet—a ferocious piece of craft with red-painted wings that seemed to sprout from his temples. In the flickering fire, he looked less like a boy and more like a shadow-demon of old Valyria.
"Rhaenys! What are you doing out here?" Viserys hissed as the dark-haired girl ran toward him through the bustling camp.
"I came to fight at your side," she said, her chin set in a stubborn line.
Viserys reached out, softening for a brief second to stroke her hair. "Don't be foolish. Go to Daenerys. Stay with Syrio and guard the inner keep. If I see you on the wall, I'll be the one you should fear, not the bandits. Go!"
She nodded and fled back toward the stone barracks. "Victory, Viserys!" she called over her shoulder.
"Victory," he whispered, then turned to the courtyard. "PREPARE FOR BATTLE! TO THE WALLS!"
The hundred men he had gathered in Braavos scrambled into position. They were flustered—this was their first real taste of blood—but the weeks of Syrio's drills and Roland's discipline held them together. Their movements were jerky with adrenaline, but they were forming lines. Discipline, Viserys knew, was a muscle that had to be torn before it could grow strong.
Under the hazy moonlight, the Westerosi exiles touched their iron pendants or traced the seven-pointed star on their chests.
"WARRIOR PROTECT US!" Ser Roland roared, his voice a gravelly anchor for the men.
"WARRIOR PROTECT US!" the soldiers echoed.
Viserys's "fishing" had worked. The local Andal bandits, greedy for the supplies they thought were poorly guarded, had taken the bait. Seeing the garrison awake, the bandits abandoned stealth. The woods erupted with savage cries and the rhythmic thumping of feet.
"Kill them all!" a voice screamed from the darkness. "Take the food! Take the women! Burn the rest!"
Viserys climbed the wooden watchtower. Below, the hills were crawling with dark shapes. Judging by the noise, they were outnumbered three or four to one. These weren't soldiers; they were mountain wolves—men who lived in caves and avoided the Dothraki, now desperate enough to strike at a new hive.
"They have numbers, but no walls," Viserys said calmly as he descended. His composure acted like a cooling balm on the panicked infantry. "A man behind stone is worth ten in the field. Hold your breath and wait for the mark."
"Logs! Rolling stones! RELEASE!" Ser Roland's command cut through the air.
BOOM.
The heavy timber and jagged rocks Viserys had ordered piled on the ramparts rumbled down the hillside. In the narrow approach, the bandits had nowhere to go. The sound of splintering bone and the wet thud of impact drowned out the war cries, replaced by a symphony of screams.
"Longbows! Fire!"
Arrows hissed into the dark. On the watchtowers, Viserys's few trained archers picked off those trying to carry ladders. Below, the main gate groaned under the impact of a crude battering ram.
"The side gate is ready, Your Majesty," Roland whispered, leaning close.
"Good. Shields up at the main gate! Form the crescent!"
Viserys mounted his black Dothraki steed. Behind him, forty of his best men—those who could handle a horse—quietly gathered at the concealed side postern. Their horses were muzzled, their armor muffled with rags.
At the main gate, the wood finally splintered. The bandits let out a cheer, thinking the "Beggar King's" shell had cracked. They surged forward, only to be met by a "hedgehog" of long spears held by the Tyroshi blacksmith and his sturdiest men. The doorway became a slaughterhouse, a bottleneck where numbers meant nothing against a wall of pointed steel.
"Now," Viserys breathed.
The side gate swung open. Viserys lowered his spear and dug his spurs in.
The thunder of hooves erupted from the flank. Dashing out of the shadows, the black-armored cavalry hit the bandit line like a thunderbolt. Viserys led the wedge, his dragon-wing helmet catching the moonlight. It was a sensation he had only ever imagined—the raw, terrifying power of a mounted charge.
His spear impaled the first man through the chest, the impact nearly unseating him before the shaft snapped. He drew Mull's in a blur of silver.
Left, right, a backhand cut—he was the wave stacking upon the wave. In the darkness, with his red-winged helmet and his lethal speed, the bandits didn't see a boy. They saw a demon.
"THE DRAGON!" someone screamed in terror. "THE GHOSTS ARE ATTACKING!"
The bandit line buckled. Caught between the spear-wall at the gate and the steel-storm of the cavalry, the "wolves of the hills" realized too late that they weren't the predators tonight.
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