Viserys Targaryen's grand plan rested on one brutally simple calculation.
The Dothraki had bled far worse than the allied army. They had lost the only man who could hold their entire horde together with iron and terror.
Khal Drogo's death was the spark that would rip this once-terrifying nomadic host apart.
Unified command shattered. The massive khalasar splintered into dozens of rival khas, each kos fighting his neighbors for horses, slaves, and gold.
Drogo had left no clear heir. The grass-men had no one left to obey, and no will left to fight.
Facing them stood the iron fist Viserys had forged with his own hands.
Mercenaries, city militia, veterans, green recruits—all hammered into one weapon by a single day of blood and fire, then set alight by promises of riches and glory.
Viserys had also bet that once the Volantene garrison saw Drogo's head on a spear and the allied army rolling forward in triumph, they would finally pour out of the Black Wall to wash away their earlier shame.
That gamble paid off in full.
The Dothraki never managed a single coordinated defense.
Scattered bands of nomads broke the moment the allied charge hit them. Young warriors with no stomach for a last stand turned and fled, abandoning their comrades to the steel.
Black Knights, Sons of Valyria, and every other mounted company thundered straight through the fleeing slave infantry Drogo had never committed. Those poor wretches scattered like panicked sheep.
The allied cavalry rode the rout all the way into the open ground in front of the main camp, then straight into the heart of the Dothraki tents.
The narrow lanes between felt tents and wagons should have been perfect for ambushes, but Viserys's infantry was right behind the horsemen, and the city garrison finally burst from the gates to join the slaughter.
Caught in a three-sided trap, the barbarian defenders had neither the strength to resist nor any path to escape.
Kos screamed contradictory, frantic orders. The entire horde had no single voice left.
Drogo's severed head rode high on a spear at the front of the column. Every Dothraki who saw that grisly trophy felt his will to fight die on the spot.
On the other side, sellswords, militiamen, Northerners, Volantenes—every last man—fought in a frenzy of blood-mad joy.
Varyon's death, their dead comrades, every wound and every ache were forgotten.
They drowned themselves in the pure ecstasy of crushing a hated enemy and taking revenge.
And Viserys rode at the center of that storm, guiding the violence exactly where he wanted it.
This was total victory.
A clean, undeniable, crushing triumph.
And as the man every soldier now recognized as their true commander, the victory belonged to him by right.
...
Ser Jorah Mormont slammed his dented shield against his knee for the third time and gave up. The thing was ruined. He tossed the broken steel into the bloody mud.
Every breath sent a dull spike of pain through his chest. The armor had stopped the mace, but his ribs had still taken the blow. Nothing fatal, just enough to make every movement hurt like hell. He should have been lying on a healer's table or at least face-down in a haystack, unconscious.
Instead he was still on his feet.
A sellsword captain's privileges came with endless duties, and right now the biggest duty of all was keeping the conspiracy alive. One frayed thread and the whole thing could unravel.
He had to find Viserys and talk about what came next.
The fighting had ended hours ago. The Volantene alliance had won completely.
Jorah was certain the bards would be singing about this day from the Rhoyne to the Bone Mountains.
But what happened after the victory would only be dry lines in a maester's chronicle.
The victors' slaughter was monstrous even by Essosi sellsword standards.
Men who had been human an hour earlier turned into beasts. Blood-maddened soldiers butchered the unarmed without distinction—old men, boys, wounded, women—rape, murder, looting, the full horror of the end times.
Wherever Jorah looked he saw dismembered bodies, throats cut on the dying, women left broken in the dirt.
The few who still breathed were stripped naked and herded into the same pens the Dothraki had used for their own slaves only that morning.
No one bothered freeing the old captives. They only released the Volantene prisoners. Everyone else simply changed owners.
Overseers and city guards who had finally marched out watched with cold eyes. In their world slaves were goods. The more the better—never let the market price drop.
But the thing that would stay burned into Jorah Mormont's memory forever wasn't just the cruelty.
It was the shouting.
His countrymen, Andal exiles, Free City gutter-rats, bandits, poachers, murderers—men who had belonged to different companies and answered to different captains—were now roaring the same two names at the top of their lungs.
"Red Dragon Prince!"
"Silver Stallion!"
In a single hour more than a hundred men had already come looking for Jorah, begging to join the Dragon Claw.
Veterans, fresh blood, Volantenes, Westerosi exiles—every one of them wanted to follow the man who made the right decisions, who led from the front, who had cut down Khal Drogo himself.
There was an older law in the sellsword trade than even the Wall: any man had the right to join the stronger company.
That rule stood above every contract. It was the iron foundation of the free life.
Viserys clearly understood it perfectly. That was why he had never bothered clearing the plan with the other captains beforehand.
Jorah told every recruit to report at first light. Some would change their minds. Some would be talked out of it. But after a victory this big, refusing fresh bodies would be suicide.
And the example would keep drawing more.
The wound in his ribs flared again. At least the pain reminded him he was still alive.
He had to find Septa Nellya before he collapsed and get the ribs bound. This gods-damned day had been long enough to choke on.
Jorah forced the exhaustion and pain off his face and walked toward the center of the captured camp.
The Dragon Claw's prince had already taken off his helmet. He sat in front of the enormous tent that had once belonged to Drogo himself, the greatest of all khals.
Spearmen and Black Knights stood in a protective ring, giving the victor his peace.
Viserys was examining his newest prize: a massive golden cup set with gems in the shape of a harpy holding a whip and manacles.
A year ago the cup had been in the hands of a great slaver lord in Meereen, drinking imported Arbor red. Now it had passed from a dead khal to a Targaryen.
It was a cup fit for a king.
Jorah approached, lowered his balding head in respect, and spoke with quiet solemnity.
"My prince."
"Congratulations on your victory."