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The tiger-mouth-shaped shield wall of Andalos stood firm; the knights in full heavy armor moved forward, raising Viserys's banners—a red dragon on a black field.
Armor gleamed under the sunlight, with the most heavily armored warriors at the front, followed by the slightly less armored second-line troops.
The spears of the Andalusian soldiers were like roses sprouting steel thorns, the men standing behind tall oak shields painted with the red dragon on a black field.
"Hold the formation!"
"Hold the formation!"
Donal Stone and Bloodworm commanded, directing the entire heavy infantry shield wall.
The Andalusian shield wall differed from the Unsullied; after all, the Unsullied grew up on drugs and had a pain tolerance far exceeding normal men, whereas the knights' shield wall emphasized the coordination and confrontation of heavy armor and large shields.
On the right, longbowmen and javelineers plucked bowstrings or hurled spears from the other side, shooting down the horses of the Screamers in swaths, making it difficult for them to reach the shield wall intact.
On the left, the Golden Company also drew their weapons, engaging in a bloody melee with the surging enemies.
"Harry, Harry," Mace called for his deputy, Harry.
"What is it, Commander-in-Chief?" Harry asked.
"If I... if something happens to me, you are to take over my position. Remember, do not let our brothers be dragged down because of me."
Harry felt completely lost. Was the Commander-in-Chief talking nonsense? But it didn't seem like it.
Harry suddenly looked at Mace in horror; surely Mace didn't have other ideas? Perhaps he wasn't truly sincere about leading the brothers to defect.
Harry's palms were drenched in sweat. How could the Commander-in-Chief take such a risk?
The dragon's earlier attack had already caused heavy casualties, but the two massive armies now slammed into each other head-on.
The warriors fought at a frantic pace; stones flew overhead and arrows rained down mercilessly, plunging into steel and flesh.
Some frenzied warhorses did not stop their charge until the very last moment, only being skewered by spears; the horses even crashed into the shield wall, causing a moment of chaos.
But the shield wall remained incredibly solid, with reserves providing support in any direction needed.
"Kill those tyroshi!" Khal Drogo roared in fury, his long blade moving at a frightening speed.
Drogo keenly found the joints in the Andalusian warriors' armor and struck with savage force.
The places where plates of armor joined were often the weakest points; the arakh flashed with a cold light as Drogo's blade bit deep.
Then Drogo parried the armored warrior's arm and followed through by slashing his throat.
"Ah!!!" The roaring Drogo held a dead man's head in his hand, howling as he continued forward.
Relying on his skill and strength, Khal Drogo had already killed several warriors.
But the Andalusian warriors were also surging with rage and bloodlust, and more soldiers surrounded him with a spear formation.
"Kill! Kill them for me!" Bloodbeard bellowed. Previously he fought for victory and gold, but now he fought for his life.
On the fluid battlefield, arrows blotted out the sun, and dust rose everywhere.
Looking up, the silhouette of the dragon could no longer be seen, nor could the silver-plated knight.
Khal Drogo and Bloodbeard led their men forward, while Daario, slightly further back, commanded the dragon-slaying effort.
The blue-haired Daario felt his palms sweating; he had already seen the shadow of death.
If that golden dragon had performed one more wild dance just now, he would have been engulfed by Dragonflame.
Daario looked again at the Scorpions, crossbowmen, and longbowmen around him who had dropped their disguises; some had already died in the fires of war, and those remaining were still shaken.
"He's dead, right?" Daario asked, grabbing the collar of a nearby archer.
"Yes, my lord. With so many arrows, no one could survive," the archer answered frantically. "We won! We shot down the dragon!"
"He is certainly dead," Khal Drogo's bloodrider Khosro answered arrogantly. "The Dragonbone Bow is peerless under heaven."
"The dragon is dead?" Daario was somewhat doubtful and unable to confirm.
He hadn't seen a falling dragon, nor a man falling to be crushed. Was this war truly over?
Everyone had only seen the arrows focus their fire on Viserys, and in the next instant, the dragon had carried Viserys charging into the high heavens, vanishing from sight.
The sky was filled with the dragon's roars, but now it was difficult to see the specific figures of Sunfyre and Viserys against the bright sun.
"Forget it," Daario gritted his teeth and continued to push forward.
"The dragon is dead!"
"The dragon is dead!" The mercenaries let out frenzied shouts, causing the expressions of the Andalusian army and the Golden Company to change drastically.
But the Andalusian army had no time to look at the high sky; they continued to push forward, as they were already locked in white-hot combat.
Viserys had arranged things very properly beforehand; the soldiers could not afford to withdraw from the battlefield and instead performed their respective duties.
Sunfyre and Viserys circled in the extremely high sky, the dragon letting out roars, appearing like a tiny black dot the size of a fly.
"Damn it!" Viserys spat out a mouthful of bloody phlegm in the sky; his internal organs felt slightly uncomfortable from the impact, and he only needed a short moment to rest.
Viserys recalled the scene of ten thousand arrows firing at once just now; it was indeed extremely dangerous.
Following the blue-haired mercenary's call, the dothraki and tyroshi mercenaries' projectile weapons had all aimed at Viserys.
Arrows whistled toward him like raindrops; the most dangerous were the Scorpions and the Dragonbone Bows, as their kinetic energy was immense.
The effective range of a standard longbow was two hundred and fifty yards, but the Dragonbone Bow exceeded this range.
For the power of dragon fire, any Dragon Rider must spray from a low altitude at times, even for old dragons like Meraxes or Balerion.
However, an old dragon's scales were thicker and their fire more powerful, whereas low-altitude hunting for a young dragon was much more dangerous.
Even though Viserys's Dragon Rider skills were already perfect and he had mental spells, in the face of such a sudden volley of ten thousand arrows, caution was paramount.
Viserys had prepared the Fire Element energy in advance, using it to neutralize the crisis.
Currently, Viserys was armed head-to-toe in rhoynar Mithril armor, combined with the Water Dancer's Way of Insight and an affinity for Water and Fire Elements.
Viserys could almost perfectly resist arrow attacks, his defensive power greatly enhanced.
He was mainly protecting Sunfyre from injury; Sunfyre's critical areas were his eyes, and although wing membranes healed quickly, they were still susceptible to large tears.
Viserys used Fire Magic to consume the arrowheads that were about to hit the dragon's body; the dense, rain-like arrows cost him a lot of energy, especially the long bolts from the Scorpions and the Dragonbone Bows.
Viserys himself was subjected to a storm of arrows; the arrows couldn't breach his armor, but the impact of the force was still unpleasant.
Sunfyre's wing membranes were occasionally hit by some blunt arrows; though they didn't pierce through, they brought a jolting pain.
While Sunfyre was indeed exceptionally gifted and growing rapidly, his scales were nowhere near as hard as an old dragon's.
Now, the dragon's rage had reached an extreme level.
"It seems the Tyroshi Alliance Army isn't entirely composed of idiots," Viserys thought. This saturation tactic of arrow rain was a huge threat to young dragons and Dragon Riders.
These tyroshi and dothraki had seemingly learned some lessons from the past.
Unfortunately, they had met Viserys, and Viserys was far beyond them.
"Then, I shall burn them all to a crisp." Viserys stroked the Ring of Fire on his hand, feeling the flow of Fire and Water elements around him, slowly returning to his peak state.
Before the Red Comet, the Fire Element on ordinary land was still relatively thin, far from being comparable to the Valyrian Ruins.
Viserys believed that after the Red Comet, magic would once again reach a very high threshold.
The dragon circled in the sky, casting down a small golden dot; no one could clearly see the state of the Dragon Rider atop it.
Viserys even heard frenzied shouting; the tyroshi were actually starting to celebrate early.
Viserys did not descend rapidly, but continued to wait.
...
In the Andalusian camp on the ground, only a few soldiers were currently holding their ground—a large number from the Golden Company and a small number of Andalusian soldiers.
To show trust, the Golden Company soldiers also had this task, albeit as the rearguard.
These soldiers also seemed to have become outsiders, anxiously waiting for the battle occurring elsewhere.
At the entrance of Viserys's tent, the thin but now healthy-looking Dick Crabb paced back and forth anxiously.
He heard those sounds from the front; the war was in full swing.
"No, I must go and aid the battlefield ahead," Krell said, then prepared to draw his sword and leave.
The Golden Company soldiers next to the tent were shocked. "My lord, you are King Viserys's Squire; you should wait here."
"No, the best place for a Squire is the battlefield. If something happens to the King, it is treason for the Squire. You watch the tent for me; no one is allowed inside."
With that, Krell hurriedly led his own soldiers, carrying weapons through the camp's passage.
The Golden Company soldiers felt this was all happening too fast; they didn't even have time to persuade Krell.
The camp became quiet for a moment, and then some new figures appeared near the King's tent.
They appeared as if they had come out of the ground, but the soldiers guarding the tent chose to obey Ser Mace's orders; Mace had told these men to obey the Griffin.
Jon Clinton once again wore his red and white surcoat, emblazoned with a pair of griffins; he looked more mature and steady than he had back when he was Prince Rhaegar's close friend and companion.
The boy was equipped with a longsword and dagger, shiny black leather boots, and a black coat with blood-red trim. His hair had been carefully washed and now appeared silver, and his eyes were pale violet.
Around his throat, a black iron chain held three large square rubies, a gift from Magister Illyrio.
Black and red—the colors of the dragon.
"You look very regal today," he told the child. "Your father would be proud of you."
Young Griffin placed his fingers on the gems. "I don't want to keep dyeing my hair."
."
"You will have your wish soon," Jon said. "You will have your own dragon and army."
"My dragon and army? I like the army," Aegon said doubtfully. "But are they really my army?
They are all my uncle's mules. People will say I stole Viserys's victory."
"A king is a combination of good and bad, a mix of lion and fox. Everyone standing at the crest of the wave has their own ghosts in their heart. As a prince, you have every reason to be cautious—but on the other hand, those who achieve great things do not sweat the small stuff, nor can they be timid or jump at shadows. It is all for our cause," Jon Clinton whispered. "To achieve great things, one must compromise."
The boy nodded. "I will remember."
"If you leave now, we still have a way to escape, child," Jon said after a thought. "Or wait for King Viserys to return from the war; whether he lives or dies, you will be forgiven."
"No." The boy shook his head. "Viserys is but Prince Rhaegar's younger brother, while I am Rhaegar's legitimate eldest son. The world only needs one True Dragon like me."
"I've had enough," the boy said. "I want my honor, my crown. The world praises Viserys's story, but I've thought it through—I am a True Dragon, not a bug hiding in the gutter."
The Griffin didn't know how to judge; the stories told by the Lion had immersed this child in tales of restoration since he was young, and now he was unable to extricate himself.
Jon placed his hand on Prince Aegon's shoulder. "Well said," he commented, "but think twice before you speak."
"I've thought seven or eight times," the boy insisted. "Why should I go before my uncle like a beggar and wag my tail for pity? My line of succession is above his. I am also a dragon. If I get the dragon, no one will dare question anything ever again."
"Good!"
Jon pushed aside the curtain; the ferocious Dragon Horn in the King's tent glinted with a black light, as if they were entering the throat of a dragon.
The King's tent was very simple, with only that massive horn hanging in the back emitting a peculiar glow.
The curved horn shimmered with a cold light; it was very tall.
The Lion and the boy strode toward the horn, ignoring everything else.
It was going suspiciously smoothly; the Lion could only say the gods were protecting them.
"This is it, the Dragon Horn Illyrio spoke of. It can control dragons."
"Then what are we waiting for?" the boy said.
"Don't rush," the Griffin said, then looked at the inscriptions on it. "There is writing on this. 'I am the Dragon Horn, no mortal can blow me.'"
As lords of Westeros, they both knew some letters.
'To blow this horn, death is the path.'
"No, this horn reeks of magic; life is the sacrifice for the horn," the Griffin said hurriedly.
"Then what do we do?" the boy said anxiously. "We've already come this far."
"The dragon is dead!"
"The dragon is dead!"
"Nonsense," the Andalusians cursed back.
From the front came the boiling sound of a mountain-shaking tsunami.
"My lord, there is a big commotion ahead. The dothraki and tyroshi fired ten thousand arrows at once, ambushing King Viserys. Now the dragon refuses to come down from the sky. The King's life or death is unknown."
"I understand."
The Griffin's palms were drenched in sweat; there was no more time, and he had had enough.
If the Prince did not make his debut in this battle, he would forever be his uncle's servant in the future.
"I'll do it!" the Griffin said. "If I truly sacrifice my life and it's to no avail, you can still beg King Viserys for forgiveness. Pin everything on me..."
""
"No." Aegon was suddenly a bit afraid; his father was a distant concept, the glory of Rhaegar.
But the Lion—the Lion was his true protector.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
The Griffin felt the horn was taller than an average man, so he had to hold it with both hands to blow it.