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The stars twinkled in the night sky, cold and indifferent to the blood soaking the grass of the Velvet Hills.
Viserys's forces numbered barely a hundred, while the Andal bandits had swarmed the hillside with four or five times that number. But numerical superiority is a fragile thing when faced with stone walls and a disciplined hammer. The brutality of the failed siege, followed by the shock of the cavalry charge, had shattered the bandits' momentum.
"KILL!" Viserys roared, his voice muffled by his dragon-wing helm.
Dozens of cavalrymen charged out of the darkness like a pack of shadow-wolves. Viserys leaned into the stride of his black Dothraki steed, the long ashwood spear tucked firmly under his arm. This was not the delicate, surgical waltz of a Water Dancer; this was the crushing, mechanical lethality of a knight.
The black scale armor felt like a second skin, providing the weight and momentum needed to turn a man and horse into a living projectile. Viserys's spear took the first bandit in the throat, the impact nearly lifting the man off his feet before the point punched through and found the man behind him.
Viserys had expected the "homeland of the Andals" to produce formidable warriors, but he quickly realized he had overestimated these remnants. Centuries of migration had drained the hills of their best blood. Those who remained were shadows of the conquerors who had once crossed the Narrow Sea—poorly armored, wielding rusty axes, and mounted on shaggy hill-nags.
"THE WARRIOR HAS ARRIVED!" an Andal cried, a Seven-Pointed Star painted in white clay across his face. A second later, Viserys's spear silenced the prayer, piercing through the man's leather jerkin and into his lungs.
The bandits were caught in the classic "Hammer and Anvil" trap. They were exhausted from the uphill climb and the rain of logs from the fort (the anvil), and now they were being pulverized by the iron fist of the cavalry (the hammer).
"Devils! War-devils!" the Andals screamed, scattering as the red-winged helmet of Viserys cut through the mist.
"Follow me!" Viserys brandished his spear, driving it through the chest of a bandit chieftain who tried to rally his men with a heavy battle-axe. The spear-tip crunched through bone and muscle, ending the man's life in a heartbeat.
Nearby, Ser Roland Lake was a whirlwind of silver and red. He swung a heavy meteor hammer, the whistling iron ball smashing into an enemy's forehead with a wet, sickening crunch. For Roland, this was more than a skirmish; it was a resurrection. After the failure at the Trident, he had thought his life as a warrior was over. Now, he fought for a new Dragon.
"FIGHT FOR KING VISERYS!" the infantry inside the fort cheered. The main gates swung wide, and the "hedgehog" of spears, pitchforks, and flails surged forward to join the slaughter.
"King Viserys? Who is that?" the bewildered bandits cried, but the answer was written in steel.
Viserys ignored the desperate blows that glanced off his plate armor. In the chaos of a melee, a knight in full harness is a tank of iron; only a lucky strike at the joints or a specialized armor-piercing weapon can bring him down. These bandits had neither.
A one-eyed chieftain, wearing a coat of relatively fresh chainmail, gritted his teeth and spurred his horse toward Viserys. He held his own spear level, a snarl on his face. Viserys reined his horse in and shifted his weight at the last second, the bandit's point sliding harmlessly off his curved breastplate.
Viserys didn't miss. He thrust his ashwood spear into the one-eyed man's chest. The wood groaned under the impact, the tip snagging in the rings of the mail. The spear became stuck, but Viserys didn't hesitate. He released the shaft and drew Mull's.
The silver blade flashed in a crescent moon. Crunch. The one-eyed chieftain clutched his throat as blood sprayed into the night air. He tumbled from his saddle, his body bouncing once before settling into the mud.
"THE ONE-EYED IS DEAD!"
The cry spread like a contagion of terror. With their leader fallen, the night-raid turned into a total rout.
"Surrender! We surrender!"
One by one, the bandits dropped their notched axes and broken spears. The war horn of Viserysgrad sounded—a long, triumphant blast that signaled the end of the killing. Viserys sat atop his horse, surrounded by his knights, the black-and-red dragon banner fluttering over a field of kneeling enemies.
Viserys looked down at a middle-aged man kneeling in the front rank. He didn't have the hard eyes of a killer; he wore a simple robe, and a silver Seven-Pointed Star hung from his neck.
"Are you a Septon?" Viserys asked, his voice echoing from behind his visor.
"Yes, my lord," the man whispered, trembling. "You were like the Warrior himself tonight. Spare us, and we shall tell you who sent us."
Viserys removed his dragon-wing helm, his silver hair spilling out, illuminated by the dying embers of the watchtowers.
"I am not the Warrior," Viserys said coldly. "I am your King. And I want the name of the man who paid for this blood."
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