Valyria Rising
This is in no way shape or form a guarantee for a finished story and is simply a concept for something I have been playing around with for some time.
Valyria Rising is a crossover with Diablo and does require some knowledge of its lore to fully understand. Though I won't follow it exactly. It was not previously tagged as a crossover, but it is now.
Things will be a lot different and canon elements might or may not have changed due to events happening in the past. We for example begin three years later. Ned is not yet Hand of the King. Robert Baratheon is only now turning fat and the events at the end of Robert's Rebellion are a lot more muddied.
The Premise
In this world the story of Diablo is ancient history with the events of Diablo 1-2 having taken place before the inception of the Valyrian Freehold, which was established to form a unified front against the Burning Hells.
Now we jump forward to four centuries later, to the end of Robert's Rebellion. Daenerys is lost at sea during a storm on the way to Essos and believed dead.
However in a Valyria that has recovered over the centuries following the Doom and been united under a single kingdom. A baby girl sharing her name appears and is trained by remnants of the Horadrim, who believe her to be the Nephalem.
A descendant of angel and demon, capable of defeating the Forces of Evil once and for all.
In order to defeat the Prime Evils, she must seek out and destroy their soulstones, scattered across the world. There is only problem though. She must conquer it first. Another question remains however, does she wish to follow the destiny bestowed upon her or will she make her own fate.
Daenerys in the Story
Valyria in this story is based ancient Macedon as well as Troy and a bit of Rome. With Daenerys in the role of a female Alexander the Great. Likewise, the Valyrian army is based on the Ancient Macedonian one under Alexander's rule.
You are free to imagine her as Emilia Clarke. I have however, probably poorly done, based her looks on Alexandra Daddario and she may or may not be the Daenerys we know.
Her companions are expies of the real generals of Alexander the Great. Some are easier to figure out than others.
The Story
The story won't begin with her childhood but in the middle of her conquest of Essos with flashbacks to her growing up among the Horadrim and the various reactions throughout the world at a Kingdom of Valyria emerging from once thought cursed earth, sweeping across the plains of Essos.
I apologise for the grammar and spelling. I have not written in a long time and my English is a little rusty. I promise though to go back and fix my mistakes, so don't be surprised if you decide to read some previous chapter and find them more coherent.
Valyria Rising
Chapter 1
Daenerys the Great
"The world is dying. I can feel it in the water. I can feel it in the earth. I can smell it in the air. For the world that once was...is lost. For none will live to remember. Our knowledge turned to dust. Replaced by false gods and prophecies.
"The Worldstone will be destroyed. Laying waste to us all. That is price for the return of magic.
"And from High Heavens. The Angiris Council looks on. As the Great Evils of the Burning Hells slowly encroach."
"A baby girl. With hair of silver and eyes of lilac. Lost at sea. Found in Valyria. Queen. Conqueror. Hero.
"Can it be true. The promised hero. The one they call. Nephalem?"
Final Words of Daenys the Dreamer.
Valyria, the high seat of power in all of Essos, carved from the very rock that once spelled its doom.
It had long been thought lost to the wrath of the gods, clouded in smoke and ash, a cursed land where the very air was poisoned and the ground sour. Its isles isolated by the Smoking Sea and guarded by men with hearts of stone and thus the eyes of the world turned away from these shattered lands. Leaving it to its own devices, a lesson of mans hubris.
However the Isles of the Smoking Sea persevered and when the ash and dust settled over the next centuries, the broken peninsula became fertile once again. Hiding behind a veil of dark rumours and a treacherous sea.
The survivors who called the broken peninsula home, reclaimed their former cities, but were never able to restore their lost glory, hampered by infighting. Each tribe vying for control of the ruins.
Thus when the storm that had kept the southern isles hidden, finally settled two centuries past Aegon's Conquest, Essos laughed at the sheepherders who fashioned themselves kings and queens.
That was till a man named Hector Valerian, chieftain of a tribe on the largest island, in a period spanning twenty-five years, united the people and began what is known as the Rise of Valyria. Retaking the upper peninsula and rebuilding the fallen capital. He was the last surviving member of the Horadrim. The Crusaders of Light and Guardians of Good against the Forces of Evil.
This new Valyrian Capital, on the largest of the three southern isles, is a vast city of marble and granite that runs across the isles. Its watchtowers tall and firm. Its temples grand and opulent. The people free and full of life as the bellows of merchants peddling their wares, echo through the streets and the harbour bells signal the arrival of visitors from far and wide, coming to take part in its magnificence.
It is the mighty beating heart of the Kingdom of Kingdoms. A fixed point, a testament to what man can become when united. A symbol of the future and the greatness that is Valyria.
In the heart of the city, the Royal Palace stands majestic above all, a sight of wondrous beauty with hanging gardens and marble walls and golden towers. The pinnacle of the palace, its central tower, that rises above all else, reaching towards the skies, with the rotunda at its summit allowing one an unobstructed view of the Valyrian Isles.
On one of the terrace gardens that overlook the city harbour and the marvellous Lighthouse of Valyria, built on small island connected by a mole, guiding the ships towards a safe haven. There stands a man with his hands on the stone railing. His face old and hardened from the toll of many years, yet his eyes were full of wisdom and kindness from knowing that the future held the promise of peace. He was balding with grey hair and a curly white beard. His robes were of fine make, white with a gold and red sash tightened around his waist, and secured around his left ring finger was a ring decorated with a figure eight and an amber gemstone in the middle.
He gazed across the city and its ringed walls that once protected several independent towns now united under one, overlapping each other in an elaborate pattern of circles and half-circles. His lips were pulled up in a small content smile as the servants mingled behind him. Tending to the garden. Except for one, Pryapos the Royal Archivist, who was situated at fine stone table with a reed pen and two servants holding ink and papyrus close at hand.
"The world we know has long since passed, my old friend," the old man spoke as Pryapos wrote it down. "And I am the last of its kind."
"Now whether that is a blessing or a curse, only the gods would know," the old man laughed and turned around, walking along the rare plants and exotic animals that ran free on the terrace floor. "It is a price I have paid with blood and broken dreams."
Pryapos followed the man with his eyes as he dipped his pen in the ink bottle at his side.
"They say we were the greatest fighting force known to man. Greater even than Aegon the Conqueror's. How can I tell you Pryapos?" the Old Man exclaimed, diverting his attention from one of the garden's elaborate statues and towards the Archivist. "How can I describe how it is to be young and to dream big? To believe that when Daenerys looked you in the eye, even grasping the sun was possible."
"Hah. In her presence, by the grace of the gods, we were more than men. And though I've met many great men throughout my life..." the old man shook his head at his reminiscing before continuing his pace around the garden terrace. "I've only met one titan. And it is only now in my old life that I've come to truly understand who this force of nature truly was..."
"Or do I?" The old man stopped to gaze at the relief adorning the walls of the garden terrace, depicting one of the many battles fought by the Valyrian army. Daenerys leading the cavalry charge into the ranks of the Unsullied on her mighty steed Balerion at the Battle of Astapor, during the Ghiscari Campaign.
"Did such a woman as Daenerys truly exist? Of course not. We idolise her, make her better than she was...such is the nature of man. We reach towards the stars and we fall," the old man spoke with a weariness in his voice. He gave Pryapos a reassuring smile before continuing. Once again walking towards the stone railing to look upon the sea. "Across the Narrow Sea the Seven Kingdoms ruled half the known world. On Essos the once great Free Cities; Braavos, Pentos, Volantis, had fallen from pride and for centuries the rulers of Slaver's Bay had bribed our people with gold to fight as mercenaries."
The old man caressed the ring on his finger as he gazed upon the horizon where the blue skies and sea became one. "It was our king, Hector Valerian, who changed all this. Uniting tribes of sheepherders and craftsmen from the high and lowlands, and with blood and guts, built a professional army that brought the mainland to its knees."
"He then turned his eyes on the wider world and it was said that even the newly crowned Robert Baratheon himself, on his Iron Throne in King's Landing, feared Hector."
The old man took a deep breath and straightened his back. He then gestured at Pryapos and the two servants taking care of the paper and ink, to follow him inside. Into the vast palace library that ran adjacent to the garden terrace. The walls were decorated with tapestries and mosaics depicting the glory of the Valyrian Empire and several servants mingled about, carrying scrolls or writing down records.
"Hector was murdered in the year 297, much to the Seven Kingdoms' delight and perhaps sponsored by their gold..." the old man stopped running a hand through his beard as if to consider the widely believed rumour of their king's assassin being paid in Silver Stags. "And Daenerys, his only child, at seventeen became the new ruler of Valyria."
"Seeking to fulfil her fathers dream. Daenerys liberated the cities west of Valyria, all the way to the Bone Mountains, where she was declared Queen of Qarth and worshipped as a god," the old man laughed heartily with a glint in his eye as if he knew better. Pointing towards a northern part of the mosaic he resumed his tale. "In order to secure our northern borders, she provoked the Dothraki to battle, in the heart of their vast grasslands. Near Vaes Dothrak."
Pryapos dipped his pen in the ink bottle carried by one of the servants at his side as another laid a fresh piece of papyrus on his portable desk.
"It was pure madness, forty-seven thousand against hundreds of thousands of barbarian tribes unknown...gathered by the great Khal Drogo himself. The civilised world and the uncivilised had come together to decide the fate of Essos." The old man seemed to contemplate his next words as his hand ran across the smooth rock of the mosaic. "It was the day Daenerys had waited for her entire life. Culling the wild beast of Essos and proving her might to those who dared oppose her. The daughter of a god. A mere myth of course. At least it began as one...I should know. I was there after all..."
Dothraki Sea
299AC, Decades Earlier
I will use some Greek and Latin words for armour pieces and weapons. I hope you can bear with me on that and just consider it a translation convention. If my description of the Valyrian soldiers is not up to par, then know that they are just copies of the Macedonian soldiers under Alexander's reign.
There were many a thing the disgraced Jorah Mormont could say when it came to the Valyrians. One thing was the value they put on personal hygiene. Another was their food which he had come to enjoy quite a lot or their colourful clothes and beautiful women. However it was their military that intrigued him the most. Disciplined and adaptable.
They wore white armour made of laminated, stiffened and hardened linen. Strips of linen or leather, protected the upper arms and hips of the wearer and it was often reinforced further by steel plate or scale and chainmaille, with greaves protecting their legs. Tunics, colour of the shoulder guards and parts of the cuirass varied from each company, and it was not unusual for the individual soldier to decorate their armour. Linothorax they called it and Jorah could attest to their effectiveness as he had seen men survive blows from maces and slashes and pierces from a myriad of blades while wearing the armour.
On their heads they wore helmets tinted bronze and with no true uniform standard. Though Jorah noted that the most common was similar to those worn by the Unsullied. However the Valyrian version, which they called a Phrygian helmet in their native tongue, allowed for greater vision and mobility.
Footwear were predominantly heavy-soled and hobnailed sandals called caligae, with their open design allowing free passage of air to the feet, designed specifically to reduce the likelihood of blisters during forced marches as well as other disabling foot conditions. Additionally the iron hobnails, keeping the thick leather sole and laces together, provided both a stronger boot and traction as well as an effective weapon against a downed opponent. In cold climates the men seemed to either don thick wool socks or enclosed boots of skin. Trousers were growing in popularity Jorah had noted, but had not taken a foothold in the Empire's heart.
Jorah could have gone on forever about the armour and weaponry of these strange people who had risen to prominence during the second decade of the Mad King's reign and had only grown stronger following Robert's Rebellion. They laughed in King's Landing at this Kingdom of Valyria, believing it a nuisance for Essos to deal with, and perished the thought that mere farmers could possibly have risen above their status. When King Hector was assassinated they believed it was the end of it and they laughed even louder when reports came that his daughter was crowned his successor.
All laughed except for a few, and one of those few was none other than King Robert Baratheon himself, who upon hearing the name of this new queen had gone livid and it was due to this outburst that Jorah found himself in Essos. Deep in the heart of the Dothraki Sea. Waiting before the Valyrian Queen's rather elaborate tent at the centre of camp, its canvas red with golden frills at the corners of its roof. The roof protruded outwards, held up by the tent poles to shield its occupants taking refuge from the baking sun.
Jorah stood at the large fire before the entrance, which was closed off, waiting for his audience with the Queen. Two soldiers stood with him at the fire, though not to await an audience but to keep an eye on the goat they were roasting. The sound of men moving about a constant echo through the camp.
He had been sent to infiltrate the Valyrian army on orders by none other than the Master of Whisperers, Varys the Spider. His mission; to find out more on this Queen of theirs who King Robert was adamant was none other than Daenerys Targaryen, the child who was lost at sea.
The Eunuch was not as easily convinced. Daenerys was after all a common name in Essos and hair of silver was only proof of Valyrian ancestry. Not Targaryen. However the Spymaster was intrigued and did not object to sending spies into the heart of Valyria to unravel its secrets.
Jorah's first task at hand was to infiltrate Daenerys' inner circle and from there report back with details of her character and future plans of conquest. If all went according to plan, he could expect a royal pardon signed by the King himself and a safe return to Westeros. That however relied on him gaining the Queen's trust and being accepted as one of her knights would be a good start.
"Hey fresh meat!" one of the soldiers directed at Jorah. The man stood tall at six feet with a lean build and messy raven hair that went to his jaw. His features were sharp and matched his handsome face. His eyes were dark and green and his voice was slightly baritone. He had a moustache and a stubbly beard as if he only shaved once every week.
"Pardon me?" Jorah looked up as he was pulled from his thoughts.
The other soldier laughed. He was almost a copy of the man who had spoken up, except his features were softer and he sported a full well trimmed beard. Both were clad in white and red linothorax and matching tunics.
"Excuse my brothers brash nature. He's simply asking what your business with our Queen entails?"
"Is it customary among your people to answer questions without knowing the others name?" Jorah retorted as he studied the two brothers. They were both carrying falcatas, the forward curved sword so popular among the Valyrians. The power of an axe combined with the control and cutting edge of a sword. That was what he had been told. The two brothers' swords though were much more ornate with handles of ivory, inlaid with gold and their hook-shaped hilts taking the form of serpents.
"Forgive us," the man smiled and looked to the sky. "I am Balian Alaire and the uncivilised lout to my left is my younger brother Tristan."
Jorah nodded at the two soldiers as Tristan began to talk. "So my good man. What brings you to our humble army? You wear the clothes of a man from Westeros." Pointing at Jorah's dark clothes and cloak.
Tristan patted his more decorative linothorax, reinforced with leather and scale armour and red contoured shoulder plates, each adorned with a golden Star of Valyria, the symbol of the Companion Cavalry, the elite arm of the Valyrian war machine. The star itself, varying from sixteen to twelve or eight rays, was the symbol of the Kingdom.
"I have come to pledge my service to you Queen," Jorah replied.
"Pledge your service? Then why haven't you enlisted yet..." Balian mused, folding his arms to study the former knight. "Unless..." He extended his right index finger to point at Jorah.
"You seek something more..." Balian let the words roll off his lips that slowly formed a cheeky grin. "How do I say it...intimate?"
"I must warn you though, many a man have tried and all have failed," Tristan finished with a chuckle and carved off a large piece of goat meat with his sword, taking a large bite as he continued. "Besides, I'm not quite sure...she rides in that direction..."
This however earned him a smack to the back of the head by Balian who was just about to berate him before they were interrupted by the strong feminine voice of a woman who had appeared from inside the royal tent.
"Tristan and Balian. Daenerys is ready to receive the guest, you may bring him inside."
The woman wore a light blue chiton with a himation of white hue. She was very beautiful, delicate even, and small of stature with dark bronzed skin and a wild curly mane of brown hair.
"But our lunch is just about ready!" Tristan cried out.
"You can eat later, your queen awaits, or do you wish to be pulled from the front lines tomorrow?" the woman retorted, keeping up the banter.
Tristan threw up his hands in mock frustration. "Of course, Missandei, of course..."
"You heard the lady, off we go." Balian gestured for Jorah to follow them.
Missandei closed the tent flaps as Jorah was lead inside, flanked by the Alaire brothers. He was placed on his knees in the central chamber of the tent. Thick beautifully patterned carpets adorned the floor with racks of weapons and armour placed along the canvas walls. To his right hung a cowhide map of Essos on a wooden rack and at the end of the room, in front of him, stood a dark hardwood table and a beautiful mahogany bed covered in sheets of silk and velvet.
It was however the woman at the table, with her back towards the four of them, that caught the former knight's attention. She was wearing far less than any noble lady in Westeros would dare, except maybe the ones hailing from Dorne, though Jorah would wager they would never be caught dead in what this woman wore.
Queen Daenerys of Valyria was dressed in a simple long-sleeved tunic of the same rough cotton and white colour so many of her men wore. She was bent slightly over a bronze bowl filled with water, cleaning herself of sweat and grime following the forced march to Vaes Dothrak. She was barefoot and to Jorah's surprise relatively free of battle scars with the exception of a wedge shaped one on her left calf and a vertically angled one on her right arm, most likely from an arakh. Her long silver hair was pulled into a braided crown to act as additional padding for any helmet she chose to wear.
It was when she straightened herself and turned around to acknowledge Jorah, that his breath was taken away. He had expected a soft, pampered woman of demure stature, whose tales of conquest were the achievements of her generals and attributed to her. A puppet for some noble who hid in the shadows. This assumption had been shattered as the woman before him was every bit the warrior queen he had imagined from the glimpses he had seen of her from afar.
A few errand locks of hair had escaped her braid as she dried her face with a towel, which she discarded on the bed as she came closer to the kneeling knight.
She was around five foot six, tall for the women of Essos but a little below average of the men, and had a lightly tanned complexion. She had the body of an athlete with appealing curves met by taut muscle. Her face though soft had a certain toughness to it with a straight nose and full red lips, with a small scar on the right of her lower lip, showing that it had once been split. Her eyebrows were darker than her hair and her eyelashes were thick, which only made her eyes stand out more.
Her eyes though, Jorah noted as Missandei placed a stool before her Queen, together with a pair of sandals. Her eyes were the most striking purple he had ever seen, Tyrian purple they called it and her dark limbal rings made it seem as if she was looking right into your soul.
Daenerys of House Valerian was stunning with a radiant beauty that commanded attention and to Jorah it was no wonder people would follow and fight for her to the end of the world and back again.
"So you are the Westerosi who requested an audience," Daenerys spoke, her lips pulled slightly to one side as if she found amusement in the ordeal. She raised her left foot and placed it inside one of the sandals, almost allowing the kneeling Jorah a glimpse of her undergarments, though he dared not look and tried to keep eye contact.
"You are a long way from home," Daenerys continued, fastening the laces of her sandal that reached just below her knee. "What brings you here and what do you wish of me?"
"It means, speak." Tristan patted Jorah lightly on his right shoulder as Daenerys put on her other sandal.
Jorah composed himself and placed his hands in his lap. "Your Grace, I am Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, I've..."
"Come to pledge your allegiance to me," Daenerys finished for him, taking her feet off the stool which Missandei was quick to take away. "I gathered that much, but why would I of all, require your service?"
Missandei returned, carrying Daenerys' linothorax which she helped her put on. It was more ornate than others Jorah had seen. The upper part of the cuirass was decorated with the bronze relief of a serpent eating its own tail, the lower part reinforced with silver tinted scale armour and her shoulder plates were contoured red, inlaid with silver and bearing the many rayed Valyrian Sun, sewn with copper threads.
"Convince me, Jorah from Bear Island," she smiled as a sand coloured cloak was pulled over her head.
Clearing his throat, Jorah spoke calm and steady. "You seek to venture westwards. I have travelled far and wide and seen more than enough for a lifetime. I can grant you advise and knowledge on the Free Cities and its people. I have served in the Golden Company and fought many wars."
"So have all in this army," Balian commented, narrowing his eyes at Jorah as his fingers drummed against the hilt of his sword. "We have made satrapies of every nation all the way to Qarth, you need to do better, my friend."
"Peace Balian, you're speaking to a guest." Daenerys scolded lightly before returning her gaze to Jorah. "However what my esteemed friend says is true, you need a better bargain, Jorah of Bear Island."
They were interrupted by Missandei who came back from the other side of the tent, now carrying a falcata sheathed in a red scabbard and attached to a matching leather baldric, which she took and placed across her right shoulder. The sword's hook shaped handle was of ivory with the end made of bronze and stylised in the shape of a horse head.
"Besides, there has never been a battle I haven't won," Daenerys grinned, resting her left hand on the hilt of her sword.
"Your Highness, I can relay to you the tales of Westeros..."
"Westeros." Daenerys held up a hand, interrupting the former knight as she slowly paced before him. Left hand on her sword and right hand in the armhole of her cuirass.
Jorah knew that her pondering would ultimately decide his future and any chance he had of ever seeing home. He was still flanked by the two Alaire brothers with Missandei looking on from afar. They all appeared to be on a first name basis with Daenerys, in fact most of the senior soldiers he had met, mainly referred to her by name instead of title.
Daenerys finally came to a standstill and turned to face the kneeling man. "I guess you wish to join my Somatophylakes?"
"If that is your wish." Bowing his head, he awaited Daenerys' decision and hoped for the best.
"Know that each man who rides at my side has proven himself..." Daenerys took a deep breath as she studied the man before her.
He could be of use. None of her advisors knew much of Westeros other than what was relayed by traders and the books in the royal library. No, she had need of someone with knowledge of those western lands. Silver Stags were in the pockets of her father's assassin and she would bring those responsible to justice. Jorah Mormont of Bear Island would be of use to her, within reason of course, he had to prove his worth and loyalty.
Clapping her hands together she exclaimed, "Very well, Jorah Mormont, you will ride with the Companion Cavalry tomorrow and should you survive...I will accept your offer of servitude and let you join my bodyguard. Now get up before you wear a hole in my carpet."
"Thank you, Your Grace, I won't let you down," Jorah uttered gratefully as he stood up on shaky legs, earning a nod from Daenerys.
"Tristan, Balian. Escort Ser Mormont to the barracks and give him some proper articles, lest heatstroke take him!"
As their Queen waved them off. Jorah was escorted out of the tent and through the main street of the camp by the Alaire brothers, dodging marching men and servants carrying weapons and armour, all the while Tristan kept informing him on what he could expect in the foreseeable future.
"...Remember, armour, spears and blades are provided by the state," the younger brother blabbered on as they snaked their way between tents, earning some words of protest from the men in the campsites they walked through. "But clothes and additional equipment is paid out of your own pocket."
"Since when did you join us, Ser Mormont?" Balian cut in as they slowed down. "Must have been before we marched into the Dothraki Sea."
"Yes, I was there when you took Qarth and the Moraq Isles."
"And what made you decide to ride with us against the horde?"
"I could ask the same of you, Ser Alaire," Jorah retorted, looking the dark haired valyrian in the eye as they walked side by side.
"Because the men love Daenerys and would follow her to the encircling sea and beyond. Because she has brought strength and glory to Valyria," Balian replied with some considerable pride in his voice.
"And coin, don't forget the coin, dear brother," Tristan interjected.
"Aye, the coin helps too," Balian chuckled.
"And what about you." Jorah stopped at an intersection as an entire company marched past them in full regalia, carrying their pikes and round shields. "Do you love her?"
Both the brothers laughed, giving each other a look before settling on the Westerosi. "How can you not, I mean have you looked at her?" Tristan snorted, making an hourglass figure with his hands.
"To answer your question, Ser Mormont, then yes and no," Balian answered, having composed himself. "We watched her grow up, trained and studied with her, she's like a sister to us."
"There is not a hardship or part of her without a scar or broken bone that she has not shared with us," Balian went on as they resumed their walk. "That is why the men love her. Not because she is some deviant fantasy of their dreams."
"Some might do both," Tristan joked, though he was quick to raise his hands before himself as Balian glared at him. "Not giving any names, of course."
"Some day I will smack you."
"You'll try and you'll fail as always."
"It all sounds..." Jorah interrupted, going over his words as they neared the large tents that made up the mobile barracks. "Forgive my words...too good to be true."
"Well, you'll know tomorrow, when the ground flows with Dothraki blood." The brothers looked slightly miffed at his accusation as they lead him into one of the tents.
BBBBBB
"Tomorrow, in the crack of the Dothraki line, we go for the head," Daenerys explained to the gathering of her generals in the Commanding Tent. A large raised platform was at its centre, making out the field before Vaes Dothrak, with white figurines and red blocks placed in formation. Red depicting the barbarian horde and white, the Valyrian regiments. Daenerys stood atop the platform, at its centre, holding a long rod.
"And kill the Khal?" Theodotus, a gruff and bearded man with black hair asked. He was a commander of the phalangites and had served under King Hector during the Valyrian Unification.
Daenerys pointing at the taller red block that represented the Khal, acknowledged her General. "If I die, it is one Valyrian, but the Dothraki...they take their orders from the strongest and cannot move without his command." Pointing at the Valyrian right, placing the point of her rod down, she continued with her plan. "Here. Right here, we remove the head of the Dothraki horde."
"This is madness, Daenerys. You'll never get within a hundred paces of him," another general spoke up. The man was well past his fiftieth year, but he was of able body and strong mind with dark hair and a greying beard. His name was Armenion, a descendant of the Lion King who lead the failed invasion of the Valyrian Isles many centuries ago. He fought side by side with Daenerys' father and counted among her most experienced advisors. "Have you seen the sheer size of his force?"
"Not if you hold them on the left, my brave Armenion. With your son Ilotas for one, two hours tomorrow," Daenerys replied, pointing at the General's son who reclined in a klismos and looked every bit a Lannister of old with locks of golden curls and a slim handsome face that was always pulled into a slightly arrogant expression.
Armenion continued to look unconvinced but held his tongue as Daenerys resumed informing the gathered officers of the battle plans. "And you, unbreakable Theodotus, the centre phalanx with Vaelereon, Reins, Neandros and Lyssander."
Pointing at each of her phalangite commanders. Vincent Vaelereon was a young tall man with short sandy hair, prominent cheekbones and bold eyes the colour of a stormy sea. Cyrus Reins was a man of average height, in his early prime with hazel eyes, a defined jawline and light stubble.
Neandros was an imposing man in his forties of a sturdy built, with a meaty face and two scars that ran down his right temple and along his left cheekbone. He was among the veteran officers who served under Daenerys' father.
The last man, Amon Lyssander, was around the same age as Armenion, though his beard had long since turned grey and his head was bald. He was an honourable man of few words, but when he did speak, it was with a gravelly voice.
"If you pin their infantry to the walls of your sarissas, here in the centre! Their cavalry will follow me to the right." Daenerys clarified, drawing lines in the sand of the map. "And when fearless Rhys Blackfyre breaks, stretching their left, a hole will open."
Rhys Blackfyre, a Companion Cavalry officer, was an attractive young man with a smooth meticulously clean-shaven face, long brown hair that went past his shoulders and whose ancestors once hailed from the Free Cities.
"Then I and my cavalry with our revered Tristan and Balian," Daenerys turned, pointing at the two brothers, the former leaning against a tent pole and the latter sitting in a chair. "Will strike through that opening and deal the death blow to Khal Drogo himself."
"Since when in the name of the gods, Daenerys, has cavalry ever been used to break an infantry line?" Armenion spoke up in protest.
"And what did we not do at Ghiscar, Armenion?"
"Daenerys even with luck and the favour of the gods, they are at least five to our one which means we must rout them tomorrow and destroy their army completely!" the Old General lectured. "Or do you wish to see us picked apart by bandit tribes on the long journey home?"
The room remained silent as Daenerys looked upon her closest of friends. The honourable Amon gave her a slight nod as her eyes met his.
Resting her rod behind her shoulders she bit her lip and addressed her wisest of advisors. "You speak of home and retreat, but do you understand, Armenion? Westeros will be my new home."
This earned her a few laughs from the others though some looked at her with sceptical eyes. Unsure if she was serious or not.
"Daenerys, If we must fight, do so with stealth." Blackfyre was the next to speak, stepping up to stand by her side. "By using our numbers wisely, we should attack at night when they least expect us."
Looking at the others to gauge their opinion she was met with silence, Armenion seemed offended by the suggestion and old Amon shook his head with a disapproving frown.
Placing a hand on her friend's shoulder Daenerys spoke amiably. "Rhys, I did not cross the Dothraki Sea to steal this victory."
"Of course not, you are too honourable for that, no doubt influenced from sleeping with tales of Queen Nymeria under your pillow." Rhys' words brought forth chuckles from the younger generals as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "But your father was no lover of Rhoynar."
As Rhys returned to his place at the entrance of the tent, Armenion spoke up again. "The lands east of the Rhoyne to the Bone Mountains! Since when has Valyria ever been this strong, Daenerys?"
"And with our northern borders secure we can cross those waters, Armenion!" Daenerys interrupted. "Or do you forget. The man who murdered my father slouches on his throne across the Narrow Sea?"
"Come now Daenerys, we are not truly sure if Baratheon gold was behind the assassination," Armenion raised his voice amidst protests from some of the others. "But that is of no matter!"
Daenerys rubbed her temple with the top of her rod as she listened to what Armenion had to say, with a stoic expression. "Your father taught you never to surrender your reason to your passion. And I urge you, with all my experience, regroup! Fall back to Meereen and gather a larger force."
Pursing her lips she regarded her peers, most seemed to agree with the old general. "I would...if I were Armenion. But I am Daenerys. And no sooner will Earth bear two suns, will Essos bear the horde. Those are my terms."
The old general let out a sigh as he stepped down, recognising when his advise would go unheeded. "And if Drogo is not a coward who hides behind his men...then we'll meet on the battlefield tomorrow."
Looking everyone in the eye, receiving a smirk from Balian, she spoke firmly, "And when he kneels before Valyria...then Daenerys be merciful."
That was the end of it as Daenerys threw her pointing rod to a servant who barely managed to catch it and walked out of the tent. Leaving her generals to stand and digest her words in silence.
"By the gods Armenion, she's got some balls, you must give her that," Tristan remarked as he walked up to take Daenerys' place on the platform, looking at each of the other men. "Let the lads feast tonight, for come tomorrow...we will surely dine in hell."
BBBBBB
The full moon shone brightly upon the sea of grass as Daenerys looked down upon the lowlands from the hills south of Vaes Dothrak in the distance. She could see spots of light coming from the fires of city and the looming presence of the Mother of Mountains. Several smaller lights could be seen on the horizon, snaking their way around the mountain to set up camp around the lake they called the Womb of the World.
They had marched fast and hard, taking the Dothraki by surprise and forcing their hand. Provoking them to battle as her army conquered Lhazar, cutting off a vital source of slaves for them to trade. Adding insult to injury she had robbed the Khals defeated in battle of a glorious death and sent them riding across the savanna. Stripped, shaved and bound to their saddles. Ensuring that at least the majority would be blinded in their lust for revenge.
Dothraki were feared on horseback, but like any reasonable fighting force, they would combine their men and fight on foot and horseback when faced with an opponent of considerable size, who was not cowed by their reputation alone.
Tomorrow's battle would be one to echo for eternity. Daenerys was sure of it. They would clash on the vast plain ahead of Vaes Dothrak. Her forty-seven thousand against the Dothraki's hundred thousand and when the Great Stallion of Essos was thoroughly gelded, the world would quake at the might of Valyria.
Most importantly however. There was at the top of the Mother of Mountains, on its plateau. Something that had whispered her name in dreams of old. She would not rest until she found out what it was.
Closing her eyes, Daenerys folded her hands, interlocking her fingers. She was not a religious person per se, but she found prayers before a battle to have a calming effect and if the gods were truly listening, then what harm would it do.
"Mithras, Lord of Light. Father of our fathers. Grant me strength. Help me lead my men well. Do not let me dishonour my family. Please, help me regain Valyria's honour."
"To whom are you praying?" Missandei asked, coming up from behind. Her cloak pulled tightly around her body.
"Mithras," Daenerys replied, turning to look at Missandei.
"The Lord of Light?"
"No, the God of the Sun," Daenerys' corrected, extending her hand for the Naathi to take. "Do you believe we'll be victorious tomorrow?"
"The men believe in you, My Queen," Missandei replied, taking her Queen's hand.
"It's just Daenerys," Daenerys corrected as she pulled Missandei close. "And you didn't answer the question."
With the corners of her lips pulled up in a warm smile she looked into her eyes and spoke. "I believe in you...Daenerys."
From a distance at the large campfire burning in the open square before the royal tent and surrounded by a dozen other soldiers on the wooden benches around it, Jorah Mormont observed the two women who were standing much closer than what he was used to see. Then again, it might be one of those strange customs these Valyrians had.
He had willingly agreed to wear the linothorax as well as bracers and greaves. Nevertheless the Alaire brothers took amusement with him resisting the idea of wearing a tunic and instead opted for a cotton shirt to go with his dark trousers.
"So, Ser Mormont," Tristan Alaire spoke up, sitting adjacent to him in a simple chair, his legs crossed as he was filling his mouth with the rest of the goat they had eaten for lunch, a flagon of beverage on the ground by his side. "You never told us why you came to Essos?"
"I lost everything in the Rebellion and fought for the wrong side," Jorah told the assembled soldiers partaking in their small feast. "I saw no other way than fleeing the continent."
"Can't fault you for leaving," a soldier named Duncan Krateros joined in, as he threw new logs on the fire. "Soldiers should not be punished for fighting on the losing side."
He was an infantry officer and possibly one of the largest men Jorah had ever seen. At least a head and a half taller than himself. Broad shouldered and muscular with short wild hair and a clean shaven face that was hard as rock. The man was not in armour but he wore a simple white sleeveless tunic as was customary, complimented by a short grey cloak, a chlamys the Valyrians called it.
"Aye, but that is my story, as simple as it is," Jorah finished, accepting a wineskin offered by Balian.
"Well, here's to a better life." Jorah could only nod at the older Alaire as he took a swill.
"Mighty Duncan!" Daenerys greeted as she joined the gathered soldiers at the fire together with Missandei, causing most of them to begin standing before waving a hand for them to keep seated.
"Your Majesty." Duncan bowed his head with the others as the warrior queen and her handmaiden joined them at the fire.
"Are you ready for the coming battle?" Daenerys questioned, her eyes going over the other soldiers, resting a few seconds longer on the Alaire brothers and Jorah.
"Aye, it's been too long coming if you ask me," Duncan answered as he poked the flames with a large branch. "The men are skittish and the new recruits won't shut their damn mouths."
"Good, fear makes us fight better," Daenerys commented, as she warmed her hands against the fire. "Post your sentries alertly but rest them well, I want every man battle ready come dawn."
"Don't you worry, Daenerys. I'm known to sleep with my eyes open like a Lyseni whore's arse," Duncan informed, earning laughs from those gathered with the exception of Jorah.
"Only because some might steal his loot, Milady," a young soldier with curly black hair spoke up, earning a snigger from his Queen and causing Tristan to choke on his wine.
"You're right about that, Aeneas," Tristan smirked. "There isn't a Valyrian who values cheapness more than Duncan Krateros. Who buys neither clothes nor blankets to warm himself."
"Well, who needs warmth when you come from grace, or clothes when you can fight naked?" Daenerys said, patting Aeneas on the shoulder as the others agreed with mirth.
"After tomorrow, even the thrifty among you shall be kings," Daenerys continued as she walked around the fire, all eyes upon her. "You are free to any treasure buried in Vaes Dothrak, but the women you pay for. We fight for Valyrian glory not cruelty."
"You're on the first row tomorrow boy," Duncan said with a stern voice, pointing a finger at Aeneas who responded with an exasperated expression.
"The gods are with us, Your Majesty," Balian spoke up, raising his cup in toast. "Tomorrow we'll stain the ground with barbarian blood."
Jorah looked on as the men cheered for their queen before she returned to her tent with Missandei. His eyes following them until they disappeared from view and the men broke out in songs of their homeland. He could have sworn the two women held hands just before they went inside.
They were a strange people these Valyrians. So different from the ones regaled by bards back home. Then again, these were not the same people who had sailed with Aegon to conquer Westeros, but descendants from all across the Freehold, who had lived for centuries without the influence of the old world.
They worshipped strange new gods, Jorah had never heard of. They were a kingdom unlike the great city-states dominating the lands around them, and had risen to prominence over a short amount of time through ingenuity, unwavering courage in the face of adversity and an innovative army unlike any Essos had ever seen.
His time with these people would be most interesting indeed. Granted he lived through tomorrows battle of course. Where he would participate in the largest cavalry charge of his life and strike with seven thousand mounted men into the heart of the Dothraki lines. Only a fool would not be scared and he hoped that his armour and sword would protect him.
That's what I've written as of yet and don't worry, the Diablo elements will come into play later. If you've read this before and wondering why it is now put under crossovers instead of being under Game of Thrones, then it's because I've moved it.
To get a better understanding of the Valyrian army I suggest reading up on the Ancient Macedonian army on wikipedia. Or don't and just enjoy the story as it goes.
Daenerys is based in this story on Alexandra Daddario, just imagine her with silver/white hair, though you are free to make up your own mind. One of the reasons is that she didn't grow up under her brothers thumb. Another is that she might not be the Daenerys we know of.
Balian and Tristan are based on Orlando Bloom from Kingdom of Heaven and Luke Evans as he looks in Dracula Untold. However you are free to make up your own mind as always.
The Valyrian Sun/Star of Valyria is the Vergina Sun.
The story will be told chronologically from now on, but there will be flashbacks to different events, such as street skirmishes with the Sons of the Harpies, the Siege of Astapor, how Daenerys met Missandei and some scenes taking place in Westeros.
Valyrian racism against the so called "barbarian races" e.g. basically everyone else. Will play a larger role as this Valyria mirrors the Hellenistic period and its dominance of the known world.
However bear in mind that this is simply an idea of mine and elements are subject to change, especially the prologue. This story might might not even come to fruition.
Anyway, thank you for reading and please review. :-)