The dust kicked up by the oncoming horde looked like the smoke of a great dragon snorting in rage, their ululations and screams of battle, blood lust and rage sent a shiver down his spine, even though they were only faint whispers for now.

"Make ready, everyone!"

His men were rushing to and fro; archers and crossbowmen checking their weapons, the last bundles of arrows taken to the shielded wagons and knights and men at arms pulled on their armour and readied their weapons. They stood in strong squares, ready to face down the Dothraki screamers in a fight for their very survival.

The wait was worst of all. They watched the smoke get closer and closer, like an oncoming avalanche, engulfing the pile of bodies and still coming, they would hit them in the afternoon, after a day of riding and screaming. He had to hope that they were worn out from that, he had to hope for a lot of things now.

When the whispers became shouts he took his last gulp of fresh air and pulled his helmet on over his head, slamming the visor shut. His vision became next to nothing, only a thin strip of light in the darkness. But that would be what saved his life.

His narrowed vision meant that he could hardly see the arrows, but he felt them as they rained down on him, falling like hailstones on the top of his helmet and hammering into his armour.

He grunted as he weathered the arrows that bounced off the steel plate, leaving no more than a dent in the metal. These Dothraki had clearly not faced full plate armour before, their arrows were coming in at all sorts of angles, but they needed to fly straight and true if they wanted to get through the armour of a knight. Arrows were scattered on the ground around him, some laying flat and lame, their heads completely blunted, others were stuck into the ground, part of the unceasing hail of arrows. Shaft after shaft plunged down on them from above, ringing off his armour from all sides as the enemy horse archers began to swarm around the wagon fort. One knight fell to his knees before him, one lucky shaft stuck in the gap between breastplate and greaves, but it wasn't deep and the knight yanked the arrow out quickly. Two more arrows hammered on his back, but he got to his feet once more and stood tall.

He had to hope that his archers and crossbowmen were shooting back at the Dothraki. He trusted them to do so, and right now very arrow that fell on or around him was one that wasn't shooting at them.

Eventually the hail turned to a shower, raining down on them; then it became spittle, the occasional arrow striking armour or dirt but they were beyond it being a threat to them anymore.

He looked around, through the slit in his visor he saw a few dead knights and men at arms, with more clutching at their armour, yanking arrows out that hadn't completely penetrated the plate metal. But most of his men were on their feet, standing tall and strong. He drew his sword and held it high. Now was the time to repel the coming assault. If he shouted he wouldn't be heard over the ululating screams of the Dothraki horde, so he simply charged, knowing those near him would follow and those near them would do the same.

He raced for the wagon wall, knowing that the Dothraki would come at the wall and try to breach it if they wanted to win this battle. His sword had served it's purpose in rallying the army, he sheathed it and snatched up a spear from outside the wagons, where all kinds of lengthy weapons had been stockpiled for the defence of the fort. His archers and crossbowmen were still shooting arrow and bolt into the enemy, catching horse and rider armourless and slaying them. The Dothraki were riding close, thrusting with spears and hacking at arakhs slashing on wood and trying to reach the archers ad break through the fort. He thrust out with his spear, punching into the chest of the nearest rider, dragging him from the horse.

These Dothraki were utter fools. Their archers loosed their final arrows, but they kept on charging the wagon fort, met with spear and polearm by the men at arms, driving away their horses and killing any who got too close. They could swarm over the wagon fort if they would only dismount and charge that way. But they were so devoted to their art of horse riding that they refused to do that, and all they could do was charge again and again, and be repelled again and again.

But as they did this time after time, his men grew weary and exhausted. The Dothraki could cycle their charges, but his men needed to be at the fort at all times, repelling each charge with not time to rest. Soon he would need to spring his trap. He made his way around the fort, making sure that all the defenders saw him fighting alongside them, encouraging them with his own efforts. He had to push harder than then, strike with more daring, if he was to keep them fighting.

Soon he made it around to the west side of the fort, facing the sea. Lord Seaworth had the command here. "My Prince," he panted, his halberd stained with blood and corpses of Dothraki riders and horses up against the side of the fort. "Is it time?"

He nodded. "We need to spring the trap now, if not now, we'll be worn down, and they'll take the field."

Devan nodded. "Bring the chains and horses, now!"

"I'll see to this," he told the lord. "You get everyone to the fort, make them ready."

Devan nodded and raced off.

Half a dozen horses were brought up, and chains wrapped to two of the wagons before being strapped to the horses. "When I give the word!" He held up his hand, waiting, waiting for the enemy to pull back and prepare for a fresh charge. "Now!"

The horses were put to actions, pulling with all their strength until the wagons gave way and were pulled out of place, leaving a gap in the fort wall for the enemy to come in. Gods help us, he thought. This had better work. "Back to the fort, now!"

The Dothraki were quick to reach, racing for the break in the wagon fort. At first they came in in ones and twos before being cut down by arrow, bolt and polearm. But soon they came in tens and twenties, and for every one that was cut down, two or three broke into the centre of the fort. It's in your hands now, brother. Don't let me down.

He thrust up at a Dothraki rider who charged at him, spearing him in the side before his arakh could spark off his armour The rider's horse tried to halt itself, but three great spikes punched into it's chest. They kept swarming in, his knights and men at arms pushed back against the walls of the fort, but they kept fighting, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, they could only fight for their personal survival and their honour, and that meant having their back to the fort, thrusting out with spear and halberd. By now his archers had loosed their arrows and had taken up spears and swords. There was no end to them as they poured through the opened gap of his defences. Arlan had to strike soon or he was dead.

But soon the Dothraki's sheer mass of force began to work against them, they had to spend more time keeping their horses out of the way of each other than charging him and his men, but still they refused to dismount. Soon his braver men found their hearts and they would charge out, dealing damage and death before retreating back to the forts while those with less courage held the line at the back, the last thing he wanted was to lose his army amidst those hooves.

Soon he heard the warhorns. He turned and pulled himself up to the edge of the wagon fort. By now most of the Dothraki horde had been brought into the fort, but there were still many outside, but they were scattering before a force of armoured knights, charging with lance and sword in hand, his brother at the fore. The Dothraki had no archers left and their swords couldn't break through the armour of charging knights, so they sped out of the way, leaving the path to the break in the fort wide open.

Their lances took the swelling mass of Dothraki hard, slaying horses and riders and clearing a way in. This was his chance, the great strength of the Dothraki horde was trapped in his fort, unable to retreat, clustered together like wheat, ready to be cut.

"Charge!" He roared and led his men in a final assault on the trapped Dothraki screamers.

()()()

It was a catastrophic slaughter. Thousands of men had died at Meadow's Field, but tens of thousands were slain here, horses and men both. His men had no interest in prisoners of the Dothraki and neither did he. Every single screamer inside the fort was dead by nightfall, their twisted, pierced and hacked bodies staining the ground with their life blood.

He found Arlan sitting on the carcass of a Dothraki horse. "Durran!" He breathed a sigh of relief. "I was just about to come looking for you. I feared..."

"That I was dead," he finished for his brother. "Not so brother. I survived, and so did you." He pulled his brother into a tight embrace. "We won."

Arlan nodded. "We won," he whispered back."

"My Princes." They pulled apart as Lord Devan approached. Seaworth's surcoat was cut to ribbons and his armour coated in scratches from Dothraki blades, but other than that he seemed unharmed.

"Lord Devan," Arlan sounded relieved. "You survived."

"I did, my princes but..."

"But what?" Durran asked.

Lord Devan beckoned them on. "This way, my Princes."

"No," Arlan gasped when they saw what Devan was bringing them to.

The Dothraki Khal was splayed out on the ground, his chest opened with a deep cut across it. Around him lay his bloodriders who'd died to a man protecting their khal. Next to the Khal, his hand still clutching the sword of the Old Targaryen Kings, his white armour caked in blood and dust was Beric. "He killed the Khal, but the Bloodriders were too many," Devan said as Durran knelt beside his father's greatest and most loyal champion. "I tried to reach him but, I couldn't, not in time."

"Dying in service to his king. Beric could only have done more had he stood between those blades and our father," he commented. He reached out and closed the knight's eyes. "He served with honour and loyalty." He stood up. "We must preserve his body, he must be taken home. Father would never forgive us if we left him here."

"No, he wouldn't" Arlan agreed.

"I'll see to it," Devan said at once.

Durran took Beric's hands and lay them across his chest, Blackfyre clutched beneath them. "Be at peace, Ser Beric. I'll commend you to our father."