Chapter 13: The Gray Battle

With the blazing sun rising in the east, the six thousand men commanded by Aemond remained hidden in the forests of Qohor. A faint mist surrounded them, making the superstitious ones nervous, for they were well aware of the rumors about the sorcerers of that city. The temperature, unlike in most parts of Essos, was cold, almost freezing, and everyone naturally associated it with how dark the city was, while Rylon insisted it was because the sun had not fully risen yet.

Aemond, however, was waiting for the signal Herrath was supposed to send once he was in position, but it never came, and it was too delayed, causing the young king to grow impatient with his friend's tardiness. It couldn't be anything good.

Nevertheless, he could not abort his plan. They had planned it too well during the last month of their journey, so with a simple nod, he signaled the cavalry to mount their horses and the elephant riders to make them trumpet, announcing their arrival.

Aemond, King Aemond, in his black armor, mounted on his coal-colored stallion, led from the front. Just by seeing him, with his imposing appearance, penetrating gaze, and the confidence with which he advanced, one could not only see a warrior but The Warrior. His silver hair billowed in the wind just like his house's banners, which bore golden skulls at their tips—the skulls of the ancient Captains-General of the company.

He was certain that Aegon was there. It was unusual for Qohor to have sentinels in every sector of the walls, so something must be happening inside. Rylon had sent a spy inside, but he had never returned; he probably got caught up with some mystical nonsense, thought the brown-haired man.

Aemond, followed by his friend, raised his fist, signaling the army to halt. They were perhaps seven hundred meters from the city gates, and he did not want his hidden archers in the vanguard to be easily seen, nor did he want his army to become an easy target for the city's arrows.

With his heart racing, the platinum-haired man kicked his horse's ribs, and it began to gallop toward the "black" city. This action was common in battles as it allowed for a final dialogue between the leaders of each side, so he hoped Aegon would come out of hiding to meet him.

It was impossible that Aegon did not know he was there. The elephants had made that clear. So, if no one appeared at those gates, it would be cowardice.

However, at the moment Aemond stopped halfway, the heavy wooden and iron gates let out a loud creak as they were opened, revealing a white figure, a horse, with a rider clad in gleaming grayish armor. It was Aegon. But he was not the most notable figure; it was that unit of three thousand Unsullied marching behind the false Targaryen.

As the Unsullied formed up in front of the city, they were followed by two different mercenary companies, which Aemond easily distinguished by their banners: the Sons of the Wind and the Second Sons, along with some others he could not easily identify.

In his mind, he quickly calculated, counting six thousand men, of which three thousand were highly lethal. However, none of these men had even half the loyalty of the men Aemond had at his back. He had won under worse conditions.

"Don't do it, idiot," the platinum-haired man murmured, watching as Aegon galloped toward him, accepting the challenge. "You won't win."

With an air of arrogance, the supposed son of Rhaegar directed his albino mare towards Blackfyre. Under his arm, he carried a helmet of the same material as his armor, waiting for the right moment to put it on, but this small meeting before the battle did not seem to be it.

"Aemond," Aegon urged, barely hinting a smile. "I'm not surprised you found me so easily."

"You're not very good at fleeing, I'm afraid," Aemond replied curtly. Even as children, he had never been able to tolerate the Targaryen's egocentric behavior. He found him foolish and would have called him a dunce if he did not know the wisdom that so many lessons had given him.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Aegon said as he placed his helmet between his legs.

"This is unnecessary, Aegon," Aemond began, ignoring the previous comment. "I have twice the troops, more experience in war, more allies. Just surrender and don't make the mistake of underestimating me."

"Aemond, you will be remembered as the last Blackfyre pretender, and don't worry, when I sit on my father's throne, I will say that your rebellion was the greatest of all," he assured, his chest puffed with pride.

"You will sacrifice all these people, who fight for gold, in a war that is not theirs."

"It is their war as well," Aegon argued, pulling from his belt a golden object resembling a whip, but with five prongs. "The Unsullied live to serve their master, and now I am that master," he showed the whip to the opponent and then put it back on his belt. "Mercenaries live for gold, which they will have by taking me to Westeros. Each of us fights for what we want."

"Aegon, the moment I turn around, there will be no turning back," Aemond began, his deep purple eyes locked on the brown ones of his adversary. "I will give the order, and my soldiers will advance. The steel will clash, and the blood will flow. It will be overwhelming hours, but you won't be able to stop it. This is my final warning. Surrender, and renounce your claim."

"You killed Jon. I saw you do it," the white dragon retorted coldly. "He was the only family I had, and you beheaded him for something I did. You showed him no mercy. You didn't even give him the right to a trial. It was the steel of your sword that judged his actions," his voice grew more intense and his eyes showed sadness. "And besides, you want to usurp the throne that rightfully belongs to me because of my blood. The bastardy of your family was always evident. You are a bastard; your whole family was. I am of the true blood of dragons, and I will do what my ancestors should have done long ago… eliminate the Blackfyres, for as long as a false dragon exists, the true ones will be disputed."

The only thing Aegon could see was Aemond's calm face, as if he had not heard a word of what was said. Instead, he shook the reins of his powerful steed and turned it around, kicking its ribs to speed up the gallop back to where Rylon waited at the front of the army.

"It's a pity it ended like this," the platinum-haired man said, guiding his horse to stay beside Rylon. "He has potential."

"That's why he has lasted so long in the company," the brown-haired man added, but his hazel eyes instantly turned to the sky. "Look."

High in the twilight, almost unnoticed by the rays of the sun peeking through, a fire arrow blazed above the city. It was Herrath signaling that he was in position.

Edavro appeared running toward Aemond with a hound following him. The young Dothraki handed the king his blackened iron helmet and murmured some words of good luck that the platinum-haired man barely heard before the boy and his dog disappeared into the forest.

With his helmet in hand, Aemond kept his eyes on Aegon, who had returned to the gates of Qohor where the army of mercenaries and Unsullied awaited him. His mare was trotting back and forth, as if she were telling them something. He was ecstatic, unable to stay calm. Unlike Aemond, who had not moved a millimeter. He was studying the enemy's formation, the spaces, the terrain.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

In front of them was a vast expanse stretching to the city walls themselves. The ground was dry and rocky, but occasionally there were annoying patches of sand that could make the horses stumble if they weren't careful.

"Prepare the signal," Aemond ordered Rylon calmly, his violet eyes gleaming before he covered his head with the helmet and drew his sword, raising it before him, pointing at the enemy.

To his left, an archer stopped with a flaming arrow pointed forward, waiting for him to tell him when to start, but the platinum-haired man simply wanted to wait fifteen more seconds. He was not only thinking about the battle, about what would happen in the coming hours, but also about what it would mean to clash steel at that moment. He was about to change history, about to start a new Blackfyre rebellion, while in other parts of the world similar wars occurred, all for the same damn throne.

"Majesty," Rylon called him, worried about the delay.

"I want mercy. A man who surrenders will be pardoned," Aemond decreed, not taking his eyes off the front. "I want honor, justice, but I also want blood and fire."

"And you will have it," assured the brown-haired man, who always preferred to fight without a helmet.

"So" Aemond took his dagger from his belt, and without scruples or complaints made a crosswise cut in the palm of his hand, letting crimson drops drip onto the copper sand. The archer on his left raised his arrow to the height of his hand, and he let his hand be held above the flame, with some drops fusing with the fire, without feeling any kind of pain, in fact, quite the opposite, he felt as if the discomfort of the cut had passed... blood and fire

"Blood and fire!" the cavalry shouted behind him, but his helmet, and also his thoughts, barely allowed him to hear.

In the distance, he saw how the opposing soldiers also rushed towards them at great speed. The mercenaries had taken the lead, eager to be the first to attack, while the Unsullied followed on foot, clearly unable to match the speed of the horses.

Those minutes seemed eternal, as if they would never meet. The terrain felt endless, and the enemy seemed to be moving further away. However, the strange sensation disappeared when they finally faced each other. When the first blow was struck by one of Aemond's soldiers, who with just a spear managed to unseat a mercenary.

After that, the battle became a blur. Soldiers fell from side to side, and loud cries echoed even more than each piece of steel. With so many corpses on the ground that it was easy to trip, especially as everyone pushed against each other, regardless of whether they were allies or enemies, simply no one wanted another soldier nearby.

It took two men from the Black Dragon to kill one Unsullied, but they managed to gain an advantage when the archers from the vanguard interfered in the attack. Although they made a difference for a while, both the enemy mercenaries and the Unsullied began to raise their shields above their heads. That was when another fiery arrow appeared in the sky, and minutes later, through the gates of Qohor, Herrath appeared with the rest of the Company behind him, along with the crossbowmen from Myr on the black city walls.

They had entered through the rear gates of the city and waited for the second arrow to attack the enemy's rear, taking them by surprise, of course.

Aemond, for his part, had already dismounted from his horse. His sword pierced every man who crossed his path, blinded by the adrenaline of the battle. He did not want to stop; his inner self demanded more, and who was he to refuse?

He dodged blows like no one else, and delivered them like no one else. Facing him, it was easy to forget the thousands of men backing him, as it seemed like it was him alone against the world, and that was how he wanted it.

With every part of his body covered in blood and entrails, he seized a moment of peace to remove his helmet, needing more air than his armor provided. However, he had no time to put it back on, as a group of three mercenaries approached him at great speed. He decided to throw it aside and wait for them to come closer.

With five swift movements, he dispatched them, and with a single pass of his Valyrian steel, he decapitated them. His next opponent, however, would not be so easy, as he managed several hits with his spear on certain points of his armor, not without a second attacker lunging at him, hitting him in the middle of his face with his fist, probably breaking his nose.

After that impact, his world went dark. Dizzy, Aemond dropped his sword, struggling to regain his balance, but found none, especially when a blurry figure charged at him. He fell heavily to the ground, with the mercenary who pushed him clinging to his waist as if he didn't want him to get up. A few seconds later, Aemond understood why: the other man he had been fighting was approaching violently with his spear raised.

Desperate, the platinum-haired man dragged his arm across his sides but could not prevent the standing men from stepping on him, causing him severe pain as the threatening man approached with the intent to drive that dirty spear into him.

His nose still ached, and the blood flowing from it trickled down his face, mixing with the mud and blood that had adhered to him since he fell. He could not retrieve his right arm, as an idiot still had his foot on it, so he only had his left arm to do everything. With a loud cry, he tried to reach the helmet of a corpse that was a few centimeters away.

He flailed his arms repeatedly, praying to all the gods that it was not fastened to the dead man's head, and he was lucky: as soon as he reached it, he pulled it off and drove the spear he had over the head of the soldier clinging to him, causing him to release his grip. Aemond did not wait long and grabbed the corpse by the clothing to use it as a shield when the second attacker's thrust came.

The spear pierced the dying man completely, and the blood pouring from his mouth fell onto the king's face, but he did not even care; on the contrary, he took the helmet again and this time charged at the second aggressor, hitting him repeatedly until he could no longer recognize his face.

With no sign of silver hair left, Aemond knelt for two seconds to catch his breath. But suddenly, a white steed surprised him by galloping towards him. He dodged as best he could and turned to see where it was going, noticing it starting to turn to attack again. At this, Aemond looked down at the ground, searching for his sword or any weapon to help him, finding, under a pool of blood, a spear from a fallen Unsullied.

Still on the ground, the Black Dragon raised his gaze to meet the opponent's, even though he still wore his helmet. At that moment, it was as if the battle was only between the two of them. The agonizing soldiers around them vanished, focusing the confrontation solely on them.

Without hesitation, Aegon ordered his horse to advance regardless of everything, so blinded by rage that he failed to see the spear Aemond used to pierce the horse's neck as soon as they were at a considerable distance, stepping out of the way as both the steed and rider fell heavily.

That event was enough to make the rest of the soldiers, who had been fighting moments before, pay more attention to what was happening between the two contenders. Some even stopped fighting, while others continued, especially those fighting the Unsullied, but not with the same intensity.

While Aegon sought a way to stand up without slipping in the blood, Aemond staggered to his sword, which lay atop a dead Unsullied. He managed to pick it up, and with his head held high and his eyes as dark as night, the Black Dragon began to walk towards his opponent, regardless of the difficulty the latter had in picking up any weapon from the ground.

Without stopping for a second, Aemond drove his sword through the throat of an approaching Unsullied, continuing on his path towards Aegon with a penetrating look of hatred. He saw the opponent desperately remove his helmet and pick up a sword from the ground, but it was too late; Blackfyre kicked him so hard in the stomach that he felt as though he had no armor. He had time to stand when two of his soldiers charged at Aemond, and although he noticed them in time, he did not see when Aegon lunged at him with his sword raised.

The Dragon barely had time to react, except for his hearing, to the shout the opponent let out, using his sword to block the blow.

Again and again, Aegon attacked, but the more he did, the more it seemed that the opponent took the lead, dodging each attack, covering himself, turning, spinning. His superiority in combat was evident, as it took no more than three moves for the Targaryen to end up on the ground again, crawling away from the silver-haired warrior, who was getting closer and closer to him, with a bloodied face, hair falling over his forehead, covered in mud and blood. It was terrifying.

He wielded that sword like no one else, but to his surprise, the opponent quickly got back on his feet with another sword in hand. Again, the blows were exchanged, with both dragons covering themselves with the blades of their swords, which flashed in the air before clashing.

The white and the black danced across the battlefield in an endless skirmish. Aemond spun around, jumped for more power, attacked with all the speed he had left, and yet Aegon was able to block each thrust. Until, as expected, covering himself was not enough for the cloth dragon, as he did not notice the Black Dragon's foot heading freely towards the wound on his leg, making him cry out in pain. And it was a punch to the cheek that finally left him on his knees at Aemond's mercy, who, with a look of fury, raised Blackfyre high enough for the sun to reflect off the Valyrian steel, aiming at his opponent's neck.

"I'm not a Targaryen!" Aegon screamed, terrified, seeing Aemond remain still in place, his gaze fixed on him. "It was a lie!"

"What are you talking about?" Aemond asked, his voice as rough as a dragon's roar, probably due to the blood in his nostrils.

"I'm not a Targaryen," he repeated, raising his hands in front of him as if to plead his surrender. "It was a lie."

"I don't believe a word of it," the platinum-haired man said disdainfully, placing the tip of his sword against the opponent's neck, making a small cut with the inertia.

"I swear by the gods! I swear by all the gods! I'm not Aegon Targaryen!" he repeated, looking him in the eyes. It was curious to see how all the confidence and vanity he had had hours ago had evaporated to reveal a scared boy's face.

Furious, Aemond lunged at him, hitting him repeatedly with his bare fist. He needed to vent. If it was true, if he really wasn't Aegon Targaryen, then it had all been in vain: the deaths of his soldiers, the death of Corazónegro, this battle. There was no other Targaryen in the world but Daenerys, and he was here, playing war with a theater actor. He had wasted time for nothing when he could have used it to remove the usurpers from their throne.

And even though Aegon kicked and tried to free himself in any way possible, it was not so easy to escape the dragon's grasp, especially when his fury had been unleashed.

"Idiot!" Blackfyre exclaimed after delivering his last blow. His knuckles burned unbearably, and they were probably broken, but his hatred was greater. "Who are you?" He grabbed him by the hair, now knowing it could be dyed, and yanked it with force.

"I am... the son of Illyrio Mopatis," he replied with difficulty, choking on his own blood, his face bruised. "I'm not Aegon Targaryen, I swear. I don't want to die."

"Oh, really?" Aemond turned the wounded man's head so he could see all the soldiers present. The Unsullied did not stop, while the mercenaries occasionally looked back to see which of the two leaders had fallen. "They have all died or will die because of you, and you don't want to die?" He stood up with a dark look. "Get up and fight," he ordered, nudging a sword towards him with his foot.

For some reason, the false Targaryen obeyed the order and stood up with the help of the sword. However, he did something Aemond had never imagined he would do. He knelt before him.

"Is this how you plan to fight?"

"This is how I beg for mercy, before my gods and yours."

"You have no right to mercy," he approached threateningly, placing Blackfyre's blade on his opponent's throat. "You broke a rule of the Golden Company. Your punishment is death."

"This is no longer about the Golden Company, Aemond," Griff, or Aegon, or no one, now there was not even a name for him, said. "Now, this is a story of hundreds of years, about dragons, blood, fire, death, and destruction. Red dragons and black dragons, madness and fear. You may hate them, but in a part of you, deep inside, you are a Targaryen."

"Shut up!" Aemond declared. He wanted to kill him, he desperately wanted to drive Blackfyre through him, but at the same time, a voice in his head told him not to. It was not honorable; he was disarmed, kneeling, and had begged for mercy. But he did not deserve to live. He had caused the deaths of hundreds of people, the death of Corazónegro, the supposed death of Jon Connington, and if he was even capable of continuing to fight until the end. "End all this," he ordered bitterly, keeping the blade of his sword at the platinum-haired young man's neck.

"Thank you on behalf of the Seven, Aemond…"

"Do it."

Ashamed, Aegon removed his white cloak, which barely maintained its color due to the blood and mud, and raised it in the air, thus declaring his surrender to the eyes of all the combatants.

Those on the "Targaryen" side looked at him confused, but threw their weapons to the ground, while the Unsullied simply halted their movements and reformed as if nothing had happened.

With the battle over, the platinum-haired man began a quick count of the troops. As expected, both the Sons of the Wind and the Second Sons had fled when they saw the second part of the Golden Company intervening from within Qohor. For his part, the Black Dragon had lost about three thousand men. Three thousand men dead for nothing.

Exhausted, irritated, and bloodied, Aemond was forced to stand on a mound of corpses to address his army. His shoulders were slumped, and his sword swung at his side like an extension of his arm. He did not seem eager to speak, but he had to.

Some of his soldiers waited for his speech, lying among the dead, others sitting on top of them, and others continued in formation, guarding the enemy soldiers.

"This was the first battle of many," he began. "We made mistakes, and those mistakes were paid for with the steel of our swords. However, we were victors, not only for our skills but for our bravery." He looked at each of his men, but his gaze lingered on the false Aegon, who had been captured by two soldiers under Aemond's orders. "We do not flee, we do not fear, we face our enemy until the end, and we will do so from here to every corner of Westeros." He sheathed his sword gently, taking a deep breath to continue speaking. "No lord will stop us, much less a theater dragon. Blood and fire will be all that remains of our enemies."

All the soldiers cheered in their king's name, and minutes later began gathering the bodies of the fallen, while the others were left aside for the vultures.

"Take him to the prisoner," Aemond ordered sternly to the two men holding Aegon. "Tell him the whole truth."