Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 380: Final Decision

Viserys and Dany looked down at Robert's camp, which had once been lifeless but was now stirring with movement.

"Storm's End has fallen, and the armies of The Reach have entered the Westerlands! Leave, soldiers, and think of your families—of your children yet to be born, of your wives waiting at home!" Viserys called out to the troops below.

Dany joined in, echoing his words. "Your families and homes await you!"

The mention of family and home seemed to break the last of many soldiers’ resolve. Even during the worst times for the Targaryens in the usurper’s war, they had Riverrun and Dorne as allies—faint glimmers of hope, however ineffective. But now, the Baratheons stood truly isolated, without any support.

In Robert’s camp, Stannis stood in his tent, his face as expressionless as ever, but his lips were pursed, and his teeth ground together in frustration. During the Siege of Storm’s End, he had held out because Robert was still fighting elsewhere, giving him hope. As long as Robert won, the siege would end on its own.

This time was different. Viserys didn’t even need to fight them—he could break them through sheer psychological warfare.

Despair, Stannis thought. The feeling of hopelessness began to spread through the army like a sickness.

At that moment, a scout rushed in. "Your Grace, it’s bad—dozens of knights from the Riverlands have deserted!"

The news was a devastating blow. Defection in the face of battle shattered what little morale remained. It was clear to everyone now—they could no longer afford to delay. They had to attack.

"To hell with the rain! Order the army to attack! Prepare to attack!" Stannis barked.

Meanwhile, Viserys and Dany, still shouting over Robert’s camp, saw at least four or five waves of soldiers fleeing in groups, ranging from dozens to hundreds. Behind them, death squads chased after the deserters, ready to execute them.

Viserys exchanged a glance with Dany, and they instantly understood each other. Together, they led their dragons to intervene, intending to protect the defectors.

Among those fleeing was Calor Mallister, a cousin of Jason Mallister—the same Jason who had threatened Ser Raymun and had him executed.

In theory, Calor should have been a loyalist on Robert’s side, but he had become deeply pessimistic about the war. Though bound to Robert’s cause by family duty, he longed for a way out.

When Viserys promised pardon to those who defected, Calor seized the opportunity. Under the pretense of inspecting the camp, he and several knights and horsemen stole horses and charged out, hoping to escape.

Chasing after him with deadly intent was none other than Jason Mallister himself.

"Calor! Come back! You traitor!" Jason shouted, his voice filled with rage.

But Calor didn’t look back. He kept riding, pushing his horse to its limits. He knew Jason was the better rider and archer, and the realization that he was being targeted made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Suddenly, the air was pierced by the deafening roar of a dragon. Both Calor’s group and Jason’s men turned in horror. A yellow dragon descended from the sky, its massive wings casting a dark shadow over them.

With a terrifying screech, the dragon unleashed a torrent of black flames. The fire engulfed Jason and his guards, reducing them—and their horses—to ash in an instant.

Calor, glancing back, saw nothing but a scorched patch of earth where his cousin had been moments before. Jason had vanished, as if wiped from existence.

Calor turned his gaze upward. Viserys rode upon the dragon’s back, his silver hair whipping in the wind. The sight made Calor’s heart race in fear, but he forced himself to shout, "Long live Your Grace, Viserys!"

His voice trembled, but the soldiers around him quickly echoed his cry, "Long live Viserys!" With newfound confidence, they rode towards the army camp, ready to defect.

Back in Robert’s camp, the desertions had taken their toll. Robert watched in grim silence as at least a thousand men had abandoned him, lured away by Viserys’s promises. If this continues through the night, he thought bitterly, even more will turn.

Determined to act, Robert quickly reorganized his forces and gave the command to attack.

The yellow banners of House Baratheon spread like a violent wave as Robert led the core of his remaining army—around a thousand men—toward the front line. He even brought the last five Kingsguard with him, ready for a desperate push.

On the other side, Viserys remained calm, riding high on his dragon. His mere presence on the battlefield was enough to boost the morale of his troops far more than if he had been on horseback.

His army, primarily composed of Unsullied, held their ground with the calm, disciplined precision of veteran warriors. If Robert’s attack was a wave crashing forward, Viserys’s troops were like an immovable black dam, holding firm against the onslaught.

"Attack! Attack!" Robert’s commands rang out, but the differences in numbers, equipment, and skill were too great. The Unsullied, their bodies fully armored, advanced like a relentless tide. The two armies clashed, but Viserys’s forces pushed forward steadily, leaving behind a trail of dark red blood and mangled bodies. Their casualties were minimal in comparison.

High above the battlefield, Conwyra, one of Viserys’s trusted commanders, directed the Unsullied with precision. Understanding the terrain and their advantage in equipment, he had arranged them in a wedge formation, the thickest concentration of soldiers at the center, designed to pierce through Robert’s lines.

From time to time, Conwyra glanced up at the dragons circling overhead. They weren’t just terrifying symbols of power—they were guiding the army’s movements. The dragons flew in specific formations, signaling optimal points of attack. Their presence even aided the archers, making their shots more accurate and deadly than dragon fire itself.

Robert, having been trained in military strategy by Jon Arryn, recognized the formation at once. He quickly ordered his men to deploy the bed arrows—massive, dragon-slaying bolts designed to bring down the beasts. If they could break the formation, it might turn the tide of the battle.

"Hold on! Hold on! Release!" Robert roared, his voice booming across the battlefield. Hundreds of arrows, large and deadly, shot forward like spears, slicing through the air and tearing past the Unsullied formation.

The bolts were powerful, unstoppable by ordinary shields. Even the Unsullied, as well-armored as they were, couldn’t escape unscathed. Some fell under the barrage, the sheer force of the arrows too much to withstand. For a brief moment, Robert felt a glimmer of hope as he watched the Unsullied falter, their steady march slowing. The dark cloud pressing down on his chest seemed to lift, if only slightly.

But his hope was short-lived.

In seconds, the Unsullied behind the fallen soldiers stepped forward, filling the gaps with precision. Their formation, seemingly molded from iron, surged forward again, their pace unbroken. The synchronized march of their armored feet seemed to echo in Robert’s ears, each step like a hammer pounding on his heart.

Robert had never seen anything like it. Every step, he thought grimly, feels like it’s crushing me.

On the right flank, Stannis finally unsheathed his sword—Lightbringer.

The blade emitted a faint orange and red glow, flickering like embers. It gave off a strange feeling of warmth, but that warmth was an illusion. There was no real heat. Stannis hadn’t even had the chance to announce to those around him that he held the legendary blade. To the other soldiers, it looked like any ordinary sword made of some unknown material.

As for its power, there was no sign of it.

Amidst the chaos, Lightbringer’s light was no more noticeable than that of a smoldering torch in a storm. It did little to lift the spirits of those around him.

From the back of his dragon, Viserys noticed the glowing sword in Stannis’s hand. Whether it was the fabled Lightbringer or not, Viserys knew one thing—he wanted it for himself.

As the cavalrymen raised their swords below, Viserys began reciting a spell. He chanted from atop his dragon, the incantation flowing smoothly from his lips.

Suddenly, flames erupted along the edges of the cavalry’s steel blades, casting an eerie glow over the battlefield.

The Dothraki, who now wielded long-handled sabers redesigned by Viserys himself, roared in unison. Their old curved blades had been shorter, due to a lack of pig iron. But now, with these longer, flame-lit weapons, the Dothraki warriors were unstoppable.

Below, the battlefield transformed into a jungle of burning steel.

"Long live Your Grace Viserys!" the Dothraki cried as they charged, their three-foot-long flaming sabers slicing through the air. The fire illuminated their wild, determined faces as they chanted Viserys’s name with reverence.

The sudden charge, the surge of flaming sabers, and the cries of the Dothraki shattered the fragile morale of Stannis’s troops. The sight of the fire-wielding cavalry bearing down on them was more than they could bear. Faced with superior riders and better equipment, Stannis’s army began to crumble almost immediately.

Stannis, leading the royal guard, tried to brace for the Dothraki assault, but the flames surrounding him grew hotter and darker. He found himself engulfed in black fire as the cavalry charged head-on.

"For Your Grace!" Eustace bellowed as he led 300 Black Knights, charging like a dark blade straight at Robert’s heavily-guarded anti-air defenses.

These knights had been meant to ride with Viserys and defeat the Kingslayer during their last campaign. But when the Kingslayer had shockingly defected to Robert’s side, it left a bitter taste in Eustace’s mouth. After returning, they hadn’t slept for two days, spending hours polishing their armor—armor that now felt undeserving of knights who had failed their mission.

This time, they were determined. Their armor, gleaming black, would taste blood today.

As the Dragonwing Knights bore down on them, Edmure Tully, commanding Robert’s archers, held his ground. "Steady! Steady! Let them come closer!" he called out. Though Edmure was no great warrior in personal combat, he had a keen sense for strategy. His sharp instincts had saved his forces during the Battle of Stone Mill, where he had fended off the army of the Mountain. Now, he watched as the Black Knights rode into the perfect range.

"Release!" Edmure shouted, and a hail of arrows flew through the air, clanging against the Black Knights’ armor. The arrows left only faint white scratches, barely slowing their charge.

The Black Knights crashed into Edmure's defensive line without hesitation, their momentum unbroken.

"Kill! Smash this rubbish!" Eustace roared, his voice brimming with excitement. To him, these defenses—the only threat to Viserys’s dragon—were nothing but an obstacle to be destroyed. In his mind, swords were the true weapons of war, and he would’ve gladly seen bows and arrows wiped from existence altogether.

High above, Viserys, perched on his yellow dragon, seethed with anger. What is this fool doing? he thought, barely able to contain his frustration. These precious Scorpions should be saved for the White Walkers, not wasted here!

His dragon hovered over Eustace, flapping its wings in agitation, as if trying to snap the knight out of his reckless charge. Eustace, oblivious to his mistake, pushed on until a young soldier shouted up at him, finally making him pause.

Meanwhile, Edmure, realizing the danger from above, had turned to flee, but Viserys wasn’t about to let him go. The yellow dragon swooped down, cutting off Edmure’s escape. The Tully lord froze, his blood turning cold as he found himself face-to-face with the beast. The dragon’s unblinking gaze locked on him, and it felt like a vat of ice water had been poured into his chest.