Wars and Rumours of War

King's Landing, the Dragonpit

The condemned were led in chains, into the Dragonpit just after Dawn. Two men, and one woman, clad in rags. The men were Dornish, suspected of being adherents to the Martells, the woman a septa who had preached against the regime. The morning mist was just starting to lift, but still a thin drizzle was trickling down.

Lord Tyrion had been waiting here for at least two hours. As Hand to the King, he had tried these three, and pronounced them guilty. The trial had been a farce of course, but that was of no concern. It also fell to him to carry out the sentence that the King had decreed. He had planned the occasion meticulously. He had discussed the proceedings at length with the executioner, Genshed. The three had gags tied round their mouths; he wanted no last words from any of them. A large crowd had already gathered; street vendors were doing a brisk trade, selling bread and olives, sausages on skewers, roasted chestnuts, apples and oranges, and mugs of ale to the smallfolk and wine to the better off. Jugglers and mummers were performing their tricks, in the hope that the crowd would reward them. He noticed with amusement that many of the onlookers had brought their children with them, hoisting them onto their shoulders in order to gain a better view. The crowd was in a jolly mood, a brutal execution always appealing to their sense of humour. At least it would cheer them up, following the sack and burning of half the city, the constant repression, and the news that the Dragon Queen had returned to life.

In the centre of the Dragonpit lay the body of Ser Davos Seaworth, on a pyre, wrapped in the direwolf banner of the Starks. An honour guard of Raven's Claws surrounded it, swords drawn, commanded by Ser Bronn. Hundreds more Raven's Claws stood guard, ensuring a clear space in the centre of the pit. Other agents of his, and Lord Allyron's, mingled among the crowd. They would report on any who seemed disloyal or sceptical.

He took a deep breath, and stepped forward. He raised his hands and the crowd gradually fell silent. "Good people, " he cried out "We are come to pay tribute to a loyal and valiant servant of his Grace, King Brandon of House Stark, First of His Name. Ser Davos Seaworth, a man who rose from the humblest of circumstances, to the highest eminence. A man cherished by the King's Grace, but foully slain by agents of Daenerys Targaryen. Yes, the rumours are true. The Red clergy have brought the Queen of Whores back into life, by means of the dark arts. "The crowd started to shout with rage and excitement, jollity now giving way to anger and fear. "Hundreds of men, women, and children were burned alive on their altars, in Volantis, in order to revive the monster. Yet, behold, justice will be done today! We have captured the murderers of Ser Davos!", he gestured towards the condemned with a flourish. " A great howl of anger went up from the crowd. "Burn them, tear them, crucify them!" men and women shouted. "Rest assured, good people of this city, that Ser Davos will this day be avenged. " With that, a mighty roar went up from the crowd, as a group of Raven's Claws carried three crosses to the centre of the Dragonpit, where holes had been dug for them.

Genshed approached with a broad grin on his face, holding a hammer, flanked by half a dozen mates, some carrying bags of long nails. He remembered how Genshed's face lit up, as he explained to him the nature of the sentence that he would be carrying out. The executioners' mates unchained each of the criminals, dragging them over to their crosses, which had now been laid flat on the ground. One of them actually broke free, and leapt up, as if to make a run for it, but a swift blow to the head from a guard's truncheon stunned him, knocking him down again. This time, a pair of assistants dragged him down, and held his right wrist to the branch. Genshed held a nail in place, above the man's wrist, with his left hand, and raised the hammer with a flourish with his right. Then he swung the hammer down, again and again. "One, two, three, four!" shouted the crowd, in time to the blows. A second nail was swiftly hammered through the man's forearm, pinning him down. The man writhed in agony, although the gag prevented his screams from being heard. After that, it was easier to nail the rest of the man's limbs in place. Genshed then repeated the process with the others. The crosses were then raised, allowing the crowd a good view. The crowd shrieked insults at them. Some of them started to pelt them with rotten fruit, dung, and offal, which the Raven's Claws tolerated, so long as no hard objects were thrown. The crowd cheered at every direct hit, some of the more drunk raising mugs of ale. Tyrion nodded with approval, before raising his hands again. After a few minutes, the crowd gradually fell silent again.

"I assure you, my friends, that these villains will suffer the agonies of the damned for their vile deed. Ser Davos would approve. We have appeased his shade. And, now, we must bid him farewell. Rest assured, he will enter Heaven." One of the guards handed Tyrion a lighted torch, and he approached the pyre. Internment in a sept would have been more typical, yet half the city's septs had been destroyed in the fighting, and nor could he rely on the loyalty of the Faith, in any case. He applied the torch to the pyre, which had been drenched with oil. It went up quickly. An eagle emerged from the pyre, before soaring upwards, having been released by Ser Bronn. "Behold, Ser Davos' spirit ascends to the Heavens!" cried Tyrion, as the crowd cheered. They were too far away to notice the trail of shit the bird left in its wake, as it panicked.

Bronn approached Tyrion, nodding at the condemned on their crosses. "Were any of them actually guilty of Davos' murder?" he enquired.

"Does it matter", replied the Hand. "They are guilty of treason. Why else would they be in the camps?"

The sellsword grinned "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if our lord and master didn't have a hand in old Davos' death. I mean, we all know he didn't have the stomach to do what's needed. His loyalty was unsure."

"Some opinions are best left unsaid, Bronn, if you catch my meaning."

"Point taken. The King's Grace has no more loyal subject than I am. From sellsword to Lord of Highgarden, with highborn girls sucking me off to keep their menfolk out of prison. I'm not complaining, I can tell you."

The two partners in crime watched content, as the flames consumed the pyre, and their victims squirmed in agony on their crosses.

Caladaros, on the Demon Road

The Demon Road rose from the shallow plains of the Rhoyne up into the heights of land along the Painted Hills, before plunging through shore-descending pines back to the sea to the south, and then cutting across the neck of the Valyrian Peninsula, or what had been the Valyrian Peninsula.

In these lands, where the soil had been covered in volcanic ash a foot thick, the pine trees grew, in forests and thickets, and little else. There were acidic ponds and marshes which were marked by life, and deer had returned, but it was still a pine barren, not a great and luxuriant forest.

From camp to camp, Elaena transported Daenerys on Drogon's back. They had spent the night before, though, at the island of Isarilos off the coast, which was a colony of Volantis, resettled after the Doom in an attempt to provide food to the great city. As they flew back to the Army, both could clearly see a column of dust moving west along the Demon Road further east from them, seeking to overtake the ships from Isarilos which were drawn up in a shallow bay along the road, to meet the Army with food.

"Your Army won't make the ships before the enemy cuts them off, I fear, Your Grace," Elaena advised after an unsteady squint to the east against the late morning's light.

"There's going to be a battle," Daenerys agreed, with a hint of the distant pain of one who knew well the crushing losses to her soldiers and followers that had been inflicted in the past.

"I'll put you down with Grey Worm and the officers, Your Grace, and head toward them with Drogon. I'll clear the way."

"No. I won't have you launch an attack on Drogon totally exposed without the Army. By all means, bring us down by Grey Worm and the command staff. However, we will all confer, and develop a plan."

"...Of course, Your Grace." Elaena sighed a little.

"One should not be in too great of a lust for blood, for the world usually satisfies it, and more," Daenerys murmured.

"It's not that, it's… You, Your Grace. I want to show you I am truly your Sword. A woman dragonlord was just as quick to war as their menfolk."

"You already are. Elaena, you will learn. I am not here to judge you. I am here to teach you…"

"I'd learn anything you wanted to show me."

"These are bitter lessons," Daenerys shook her head.

Soon enough they were on the ground. Elaena helped Daenerys down from Drogon's side, and paced her toward Grey Worm's position. A tent was being set up by his attendants, when they saw the approach of the Queen. Elaena's hand was on her sword, until the moment that they were all surrounded by Unsullied Guards.

A sand-map table was already set out, and the officers were marking their positions as best as they knew. Elaena joined them, and as she had been taught, began marking out the positions she had observed from the air.

Daenerys stepped to Grey Worm's side, and Elaena could hear them speaking, faintly, behind her.

"It's a large Army, greater than Mantarys can field by itself, I think, all the remaining cities have combined against us," the Queen was saying softly, her words drawn under her silver mask. Out of the corner of her eye, Elaena could see Quaithe and Kinvara step closer as well.

"What did you mark their numbers for?"

"Seventy thousand, about fifty foot, twenty horse; eighty elephants," Elaena answered to Grey Worm, looking up. "They're weighted to their right, to the north. Probably to try and turn our flank and pin us against the sea. They have about ten thousand thrown forward as skirmishers, I'd say, most of them with sword and shield but some with slings and bows; and ten thousand heavy archers and arbalastiers they're deploying behind, but the plain bulk of the foot are phalangites, in good order. I think only half the cavalry are kataphractoi, the other half are a scrabbly lot of outriders."

She was given a glass of watered wine—only one, of course.

The Queen looked coolly around her advisors, her General.

Grey Worm bowed. "I have given the order to deploy the Army, Your Grace. The enemy's strength is on our left, they intend to turn us and drive us against the shore."

"Allow me to attack," Elaena turned toward them, and glanced toward her own attendants, who were present. "Bring me my full suit of dragon armour," she instructed; it was almost impossible to walk in, it was so heavy, and not normally worn, even when a-flight. "I'll take every precaution, Your Grace, but I'll start with the enemy's right flank, so the pike in our centre can overwhelm them, strength to strength along the road."

"Pikemen will be broken in the pine thickets, will they not, Grey Worm?" Daenerys' eyes expressed a trace of concern.

"The Unsullied will reform around every obstacle. So it will hurt the enemy worse than it does us, but yes, the Volantene volunteers, the religious troops—they could suffer. Of course, if Lady Elaena begins the attack with the front rank, then the rear could break and run. It would be very hard to reorganise them in the pines, and many of the rank and file, hearing of defeat, will slip away. I don't think it's a risk of many reaching Mantarys, they either kept enough troops to defend the city or they didn't, Your Grace."

"Attacking from the direction of the wind?"

"Your Grace," Elaena offered urgently, "It will keep their arrows from him, and their ballista bolts from Drogon. It will impact their range, and carry Drogon's flames further, too."

"All right. Grey Worm, make the deployments, and muster the reserves here." Daenerys stamped her boot, such a small gesture from a small woman, but as clear as a clarion bell in the hot and still air of a sharp late spring, for the lands of the Long Summer, after the end of a hard winter. "And Elaena, get your armour, get your help to Drogon, and take to the air. Burn the enemy's left, break them from the front, so that they flee to the rear, and then burn to the south, until you reach those troops who have made contact with our army. Then return to this position."

"Your Grace," they chorused. It left Kinvara and Quaithe around Daenerys, talking to her, as Grey Worm and Elaena went their separate ways. Elaena was quickly dressed in her armour, and then dragged herself the rest of the way to her dragon.

She returned to Drogon, stroking his wing as she approached, metal on dragonscale. Then she reached his side and lunged up into the saddle. From the mass of rags stuffed into her smallclothes to the rock-fibre woven into silk under her armour to defend against the heat of the enemy—the thick steel plates, the crystal eye-pieces on the outer of the two visors, she was protected. She was ready. Drogon snorted and raised his head, at the trumpets and drums of troops deploying, but other than their own banners disappearing into position, nothing could be seen through the pine trees.

One of the serving girls who had supported her until she had gotten too close to Drogon for safety—ignoring a warning chuff from the great dragon, but retreating the moment she could nonetheless—extended an extremely long flexible double-ended lance, a kontos, that she took and fixed to iron bands hanging from the side of the saddle, and then a second for the other side. These were recommended, in the books of the Old Freehold, to defend a grounded dragon that had wing damage, though Drogon was so massive that Elaena doubted they were really necessary.

Then she buckled in the final chains, drew herself tight in the saddle, and placed her hand tight on the hilt of her sword for a moment. "The Lord of Light keep fast my soul, and protect me only so that I may do His work on this day," she murmured a quick prayer. Then she took up her whip, and snapped it once. Drogon lunged forward, awkwardly, and then, with great wing beats, taking into the air, and rising hard to clear the pines ahead. Turning to the right, he began to climb by sweeping out toward the sea, and then Elaena guided him back toward the battlefield from behind, gaining altitude to try and get a good field of view and mark the position of the enemy, now well into their deployments.

She angled toward the north, where from gaps in the trees, she could see banners, and the glint of iron in the sun, now high enough in the air that her armour was uncomfortable, even at altitude. It was about to get worse. Elaena drained her canteen, the last water she would get this until this was over, and slapped down the inner face shield, the one that had full slits in the visor. Shifting through the foothills of the painted mountains, she selected her course, guided Drogon in with the whip, and let him descend.

It's best for an enemy Army to be distracted by opposition on the ground when a Dragon attacks. Particularly one which knew how to fight dragons, at least in the abstract. But Elaena wanted to hit them, hard, before they had closed to contact, following the Queen's objective for her to break the enemy's right flank from the front to the back.

The rushing wind now howled with arrows and a few bolts rising from polyboli, the old Valyrian repeating ballistae which Volantis and Mantarys still knew how to make, quickly brought into action from permanent mounts on four-wheeled carts. Elaena snapped down her outer visor, reducing her vision to the wavering world through the crystal. "Scare them, Drogon," she whispered, and was met with a terrible fierce roar of a dragon ripping across the battlefield. Then, through the pines, she saw the first clear formation.

"Dracarys."

A solid wall of flame, as bright as the glowing white-hot metal of a forge, and mostly the same colour, shot through with a dark blue, trending to black, which promised even hotter temperatures, and reflected the size, power, and scale colouration of Drogon, tore outwards, tore downwards… It was expelled so quickly, from a dragon flying sixty miles on the hour, off to the right side, per the direction of the whip and the plan which had been agreed.

The flames themselves spread with the fury and swiftness of the dragon. The gust front of the wall of flame seemed to go at least four or five times faster than Drogon Himself. Trees disappeared in a flash, and files of men through the pines flashed into white blazing columns of bright flame as the last of their movements continued even as they were now torches.

With your blood up for battle, so that you didn't pause to think of the lives being snuffed out, and all that mattered was winning and executing your duty, it felt for a moment very much like being a God. Elaena, at last, felt the knowledge that she was a Dragonlord course through her hot and bright blood.

The right flank of the enemy army felt the pressure instantly. The pine trees flamed up like torches, burning bright and fast as their resin fuelled the fires like oil. The forest … Was like it was caught in a fire-storm, and indeed, the wind blowing from the north off the mountains, quickly whipped the flames high and fast, tearing through formations which Elaena had not yet attacked.

Attack, attack, attack: Thousands of men were being killed or broken and running. The attack was superficially a success. But though Elaena was not aware of it, not yet, the flames were spreading and being driven south. With them, burning hot through the resinous soft-wood, was smoke. Smoke and ash, spreading across the battlefield. The hideous trumpeting of burning elephants was particularly pitiful.

The men of Mantarys, Tolos, and Elyria knew what that was. It was a chance to win, despite the fact that they faced the greatest threat they had known in centuries. Their officers forced them on through the smoke.

When Elaena swung to the south after she had burned her way through the enemy's right wing, she was confronted with a vast expanse of rising smoke from the huge forest fire that she had created burning through the enemy forces. The wind from the north kept driving both smoke and flame to the south, and with it, the whole battlefield was choked with the fiery remains of what she had wrought.

"Oh God." The smoke choked at her helmet, choked at her nose, her lungs. It obscured the crystals in the outer visor of her helmet, until, regardless of the risk, she snapped it up, and tried to look through the slits, just for the sharp, stingy, acrid heat to drive her back. Drogon could certainly advance through it, and attack through it, but she could see nothing, and she could not guide him, and with the whole of the Army now engaged around them, if she descended to attack, she was certain to wipe out numbers of their own troops.

Elaena tried to think of what Daenerys would want her to do. The conclusion was inescapable. The Queen loved her loyal subjects. She should not, and ought not, burn them down of her own volition, without permission or orders, in the midst of the destruction, the smoke, the uncertainty.

Grimly feeling like, for all the destruction she had just wrought on the battlefield, she had failed, and failed comprehensively, Elaena circled, looking for an opening to renew the attack. She wasn't finding one.

As many cruel men were, the commander of the Mantaryan centre was quite intelligent. He read the situation, and saw that the smoke could still bring him victory. So he rushed his troops forward and flung them into the attack under the cover created by the destruction of the Army's right wing.

Grey Worm realised what had happened, standing with the Queen and her advisors as the sounds of battle drew closer to them. The men of Volantis and her colonies were being driven back, as the enemy advanced toward them with confidence that their desperation, and a trick of fortune, might have granted them a true chance at victory against a Dragon.

He stepped forward and tapped out the positions on the map, his composure marred by an almost trembling intensity of every muscle coiled, for in this moment, he had the faith of his Queen to win back. The reports were clear that the rate of advance was different, the enemy's left flank was moving faster, as they were less impacted by the dense clouds of smoke from the north, which were intense enough to not just hinder Drogon, silent in the skies above, glaringly so, but also their own advance as foot through the pine woods. "Your Grace, I will wheel the Unsullied reserves to the right and cut between the enemy centre and the right. Then we can send the Dothraki for their headquarters through the gap that I create. We can still win the battle, we still can still stay on the offensive. They've opened a gap between their left and centre, and for what it is worth, their right is gone, their strongest formation. We will be able to punch through, advancing en echelon."

There was one serious negative with the plan, of course.

Daenerys could hear it in his voice. "What is the risk?" She asked, stepping forward to look down across the map table.

"Our centre cannot hold. We will be committing almost all of our reserves. They may be able to reach the position of this headquarters."

"If my guard must be committed, I have no objection. Go over on the advance, and win the battle, Grey Worm."

"It may be very hot here, Your Grace."

"Let it be. Go. I am content with your plan. See it through." Violet eyes met dark ones and the mask couldn't hide the fact there was, at some level, the soul of Daenerys Targaryen in that unnaturally revived figure. The soul of a woman who was not and never would be a soldier herself, but certainly, also, was forever unaccustomed to fear.

He came to attention and saluted. "I will lead the counterattack in person, Your Grace! Long Live the Breaker of Chains!"

It might be as he turned away, that he saw just for a moment, a trace of tears in those violet eyes.

Through the wind-whipped smoke and flame, the broken troops of Daenerys' Kingdom of Volantis were retreating, streaming past her headquarters. Some wept. Some ran. Some had their weapons, some did not. Some had their armour, some did not. None blamed her. She was too beloved for that. But the centre, exactly as Grey Worm had warned, had broken.

They had brought a white mare for Daenerys. Her personal guards were formed, with the Temple Guards on the right, the Unsullied contingent on the left. They stood calm and composed in line, none of them would think of joining the panic. Their charge was still behind them, Daenerys the Undying.

With a nod to Kinvara, she let the Red Priestess take the reins of her horse, and lead her out into the mass of fleeing men. The Priestess held her knife high, which flickered with unnatural flames, as a symbol of her faith in her right hand, as her left held the reins of the Queen's horse, clutched together with a book of the Flames. "Men of Volantis! Faithful! They will want to burn her but she cannot be burned up! They will want to break her but she cannot be broken! They will want to kill her but death itself cannot conquer her! On the third day of her death, when it was believed all hope was lost, she screamed: FREEDOM! over the land must return. And death cannot conquer her!"

"DEATH CANNOT CONQUER HER!"

She began to advance, in the direction that the rhythmic stamping boots of the Mantaryans were coming from, the deceptively soft sound of the flutes which timed their advance. The now-ritual declaration of Daenerys triumph over Death resounded.

The Priestess standing forward with Holy Text, Holy Dagger, with the Queen's reins in her hands—with Daenerys, silent, impassive, as she had been so much more since her rebirth. But a gleaming figure in silver on a white horse, showing no sign of fear…

Men stopped, and men wept in shame.

Then the Queen drew the sword at her belt. She had never used one; it was strictly for show. "This Army is a Strong Army!" Daenerys cried. "I have faith in you my children! It is not this moment I will judge you for, but the moment when the battle is done! Rally, my children, rally!"

It was then that the ranks of the Mantaryan phalangites emerged from the smoke, their serried pikes levelled. Their formations were discomfited and broken up by the terrain and the conditions and hard fighting, but they still advanced in an ominous array. Still, the display of the Queen, now directly hazarding herself to danger, and led by a Red Priestess, shamed many men. They stopped. Their officers regained their courage and rallied them. Around banners and other symbols that they still held, knots began to form, stopping, as men whose courage rallied fell in around them, not in a true formation, but in tight little bands where courage and resolution began to grow, with the same strange spread as the despair which had, only thirty minutes before, started to put them to flight.

Those serried ranks slammed into the men who were rallying around them. They slammed into the two companies of guards, fixed in the centre to stand and die like stones. And stand and die, they began to do.

Kinvara raised her voice up and began to sing, unnaturally amplified by her magic:

"Fear not, little flock, the foe

Who madly seeks your overthrow;

Dread not his rage and power:

What though your courage sometimes faints.

His seeming triumph o'er our Lord's Martyrs

Lasts but a little hour!

Be of good cheer; your cause belongs

To Him who can avenge your wrongs;

Leave it to Him, our Lord.

Though hidden yet from mortal eyes,

Triumph yet shall for you arise:

He girdeth on His sword!"

More and more of the broken men rallied. They fought and they struggled, but the Mantaryans came on to their flutes. They loomed so close to the quiet Queen on her horse that they could almost touch her.

Then Kinvara, standing closer still to them, but with no fear in her heart, saw Quaithe. She stood patiently behind the lines, and nocked an arrow. It was a great bow, and it looked to be wrought of bone. Standing fast in her place, she aimed toward one of the Mantaryan officers, with a perfect vision under her wooden mask, and loosed it. He dropped with the arrow placed sharply across his face, in a hideous wound through his visor.

She nocked another, and sent it down-range to drop one of the file-closers. Then again, and again, as fast as she could, and she had claimed twelve men in a minute if she had claimed any at all! It was a stunningly brilliant performance, by any measure. Within the range of her sight, she claimed man after man, killing them without hesitation, pause, or fail. It seemed impossible for her to miss.

It was downright unnatural, the Priestess well knew.

But she did the Lord's work, nonetheless.

And like a miracle shining a ray from hope in the heavens, Quaithe's work had kept the enemy off Daenerys just enough. A shout of despair went up from the Mantaryan lines, spreading like the plague, the plague of fear that had routed Daenerys' centre, less than an hour before:

"The Dothraki! The Dothraki! The Dothraki are in the rear! We are lost! WE ARE LOST!"

Overhead, Elaena could see, through the gusts of smoke, at times obscuring and at times revealing the battlefield, a surge of men falling to the rear. They made haste down the black rock of the Demon Road. They made haste through the thickets, and through the clearings where they could be made out.

Gradually, she took heart, as she realised that she was witnessing the rout of an Army to the east. The rout of the enemy. With them, the enemy's left, cut off and flanked by the Unsullied, were falling back along the sea-beaches.

One of the lessons drilled into her by the books of war of the old Freehold was that a Dragonlord in battle should show no mercy to a fleeing enemy. They could rally and trouble the legions again. They could reach the safety of walls, and garrison a city against assault, forcing it to be burned, or stormed at great cost in free men, for the Valyrians of old had not used slaves as soldiers.

The pursuit was when you transformed a tactical victory into a strategic one.

She dove on the men of the enemy's left as they retreated down the beach. "Dracarys!"

The sand melted and ran and turned into black glass, with the fragments of burnt bone and the drippings of melted steel fused into it. The waves ran to steam. A thousand yards of beach turned into a permanent, hellish memorial to the triumph.

The slaving Lords of the three cities were broken, for-ever.

It remained to liberate their people.

Elaena, with Drogon, may have done most of the killing, but she landed, humbled with respect at the fact that it was Grey Worm with his men and steel, who had won the day.

The Rapids of the Antarim River

In the days of Old Valyria, it was said that a flight of locks had commanded these rapids. The grain of Northern Valyrian was collected from Mantarys south all along the shore, and then the boats, heavy with this bounty, floated through the locks and out to sea, to sail down to Valyria and supply the cities of the Freehold with enough food so that there was never hunger, so that even the poorest free citizen, no matter how mean their birth, could eat as much as they wanted to.

The massive tides of volcanic mud and ash, which had churned through the locks, had buried them. The ground had broken and cracked and reared up, where the land further to the south had collapsed and sunk. There were no fumeroles here, or other signs of the hellish conditions to the south. But there were buildings choked with ash and mud, and while cleaning the way for a roller track, they had found bones and bodies preserved in them. Men whispered and muttered prayers, and carried them away, for in that stillness of death, not even decay had touched those buried, nothing lived in what had been packed down upon them.

The Fourteen Fires had killed them all with a tremendous, horrible vengeance upon the land, and the people who had reigned over them like Gods.

"Best to expect only death out of life, you will not be surprised," Yara muttered to herself, looking at the track they had cleared, the rock thrown down, the wood over it, greased. Bronze-geared capstans at the top worked heavy hawsers, and ship after ship ascended. The proper Iron Fleet, the ships which were the strength of the Navy, remained behind to guard the portage. It would be the lighter, handier raiding ships of her loyal men and Captains, which were being dragged up. They did not need the Iron Fleet for this, and it made the portage go faster, and on a short journey up the Sea of Sighs, they would manage to carry all the troops they needed for the assault on the City of Monsters.

To the south, the ruins of the city of Aquos Dhaen were nearby. They were as far as anyone dared go. A line of high mountains separated them from the Smoking Sea beyond; Aquos Dhaen had been picked over thoroughly, and if you crossed the mountains, you descended into what was Valyria proper. Oros was the last city on the mainland, and it was said that the ruins were still inhabited, though no outsiders came to trade, and it had a much more fearsome reputation than even Mantarys; men did not travel willingly to Oros, and what its civilisation had, if it was even a place worthy of civilisation anymore. Few knew, though rumours of dark cults and cannibalism abounded, and tales of monsters even more horrible than those said to make up the bulk of the population of Mantarys.

Aye, it was a fearsome place to leave men and lead armies, a fearsome place to make themselves vulnerable in a portage. But they were Ironborn, and they dared greatly. If there was water to float a boat, they could raid on it, and it had been long since the days before the Targaryens, when portaging for raids had been common. When they returned home, it would be another tale for the bards.

"And I'm doing it for you, Dany," Yara murmured, and wished, dearly, that the Dragonqueen was more of herself.

She didn't deserve this, but that Dany had rallied and was nonetheless making the best of it, told everything of her true worthiness. There was no finer cause for war than the one for which they now marched.

Notes:

1. The hymn that Kinvara sings is the Swan Song of Gustavus Adolphus, suitably modified; the hymn that was said to be sung by the Swedish Army, the day of the Battle of Lützen.

2. Kinvara's behaviour is likewise somewhat inspired by the actions of Jakob Fabricius, the preacher of Gustavus Adolphus, who after the King's death and the routing of the Yellow and Blue Regiments in the centre at the same terrible battle of Lützen, rallied the broken remnants thereof by riding into the fray, holding a bible in the air, with a few officers around him, singing Psalms.

3. Another inspiration is the Battle of Eylau, where Napoleon's position was nearly overrun in fierce fighting before the Russians were finally driven back, in part by a massed cavalry charge...

4. Though some elements of the battle also reflect the Battle of Raphia between the Seleukids and Ptolemies.

5. I once wargamed a similar battle with some of my friends in a campaign in which Tywin is alive to try and defend the Westerlands from Dany with one dragon old enough to fight. This Battle of Crakehall took advantage of intentionally positioning the Army in a forest, so that when Drogon began to burn the forest, the forest fire made it impossible for Dany to continue to attack the Lannister Army; she still won thanks to the Unsullied, but it was a savagely bloody affair.

6. It was common for the Vikings to take advantage of using light ships to raid deep inland or traverse great river systems with the advantage of portaging. Perhaps the furthest, most infamous and tragic of these was the epic raid of Ingvar the Far-Travelled, who raided the Caspian Sea coast of Persia.

7. The funeral of Davos is inspired by the funeral of Kirov, the Soviet party boss "mysteriously" "murdered", whose death justified much of the excesses of the purges, and was probably in fact an arranged murder by Stalin.

8. A Polybolos is a real weapon. It was essentially a crank-operated, chain-drive Hellenistic repeating ballistae. The Valyrian version uses heavy steel gears and cranks and steel bows, and possibly cables for firing. Operated by a relatively large team using all known methods of providing mechanical force in ancient times, it would be a fearsome weapon. Each bolt could run through a fully armoured knight and casually leave him pinned to the tree behind him; strike down an elephant, and, of course, threaten a dragon, though a dragon's fiercesome hide would turn one almost all of the time. I envision a similar technology being a feature of Rhoynish and later Dornish defences against dragons, but not widespread due to enormous cost and secrets in design; thus not available for Tywin and the other rulers of Westeros. If the mount was fully trainable it would be ... A little-bit effective. If plentiful bolts and men to feed it were available, the sustained rate of fire was about three times that of a typical bolt thrower.

9. Genshed is a loathsome villain from Shardik, by Richard Adams