Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 373: The Dragons and the Knights

Maidenpool, late at night.

Jaime Lannister had received the finest education in warfare, but this was the first time he commanded a battle on his own. In his younger years, before he earned the title "Kingslayer" by driving his sword into Aerys's chest, his goal had been to match the legendary Sword of the Morning in combat. Now, as a novice in the art of war, he found himself thrust into a nightmare of a start.

For the past two days, the soldiers in his camp couldn’t stop talking about the Unsullied and the dragons. At night, Jaime stood over the map, repeatedly running through calculations in his mind. No matter how he approached it, without a significant numerical advantage, this battle seemed unwinnable.

The dragons made everything worse. With Viserys commanding them from the skies, Jaime’s formations were laid bare. Every movement, every tactic—there was no way to hide it from the eyes of a rider soaring high above. Jaime bitterly thought, They could probably even see what color underwear we’re wearing from up there.

“Has the army from the Vale arrived yet?” Jaime asked, his voice tense as he turned to Lancel, who stood at attention nearby.

“No, my lord,” Lancel replied. “We’ve sent three waves of ravens, but still no response from the Vale.”

Jaime scowled, cursing under his breath. “What in the seven hells is that Lysa playing at?”

The pressure was mounting. Without reinforcements from the Vale, the two armies were evenly matched—something that would normally not concern him. But Viserys had seven dragons. Panic had already begun to spread through the camp.

Aegon’s attack on Harrenhal with just three dragons was legendary, and tales of the infamous Dragonfire had left Jaime’s men anxious and fearful. In the past two days, even the camp prostitutes had fled, and skirmishes among the soldiers were becoming more frequent. Discipline was slipping away.

And there was still the memory of Viserys’s brutal destruction of Robert’s fleet, witnessed by many of Jaime’s own men. The stories only fueled the growing sense of dread. History had shown that when the Targaryens commanded dragons, no ordinary army—no matter how skilled—had ever won against them.

What's that noise? A dragon!

A deafening roar echoed through the night as Jaime rushed outside. He looked up, scanning the sky, but saw nothing at first. Against the flickering firelight, he could just make out massive shadows swooping through the darkness.

There was no doubt—those shadows were dragons.

But the flames pouring from their mouths were different from what he had seen over a year ago. When Viserys had attacked Robert’s fleet, the dragons’ fire had burned bright orange. Now, the flames were pitch black, blending almost seamlessly with the night sky. This made it nearly impossible for the soldiers manning the ballistae to find their targets.

The seven dragons descended from high altitudes, diving low to release their black flames, then pulling up to repeat the attack. Though they weren’t as massive as the legendary Balerion the Black Dread, the destruction they wrought was devastating. Horses and soldiers alike were engulfed in the flames, and the effect on morale was shattering.

“My lord, look out!” Lancel screamed as dark fire rained from above.

Jaime felt the searing heat wash over him, the gust from a dragon’s wings knocking him off balance. As he stumbled, he saw Lancel burst into flames, his agonized screams filling the air. Dazed, Jaime struggled to regain his footing, but when he turned back to Lancel, it was too late. His young cousin had already crumbled to the ground, consumed by the fire. Jaime could do nothing but watch as Lancel’s body turned to ash and molten steel.

The fire in the camp grew larger, consuming tents and supplies, the inferno lighting up the night like a second sun. The acrid smell of burning flesh and blood filled the air. Above, Jaime could see the dragons dancing through the red glow of the flames, their wings spread wide. He could even make out the figure of a rider atop one of the beasts.

In that moment, Jaime didn’t feel anger—only a deep, overwhelming sense of powerlessness. He had fought many battles, but against dragons, there was no victory. The Mountain, patrolling at a distance, had been fortunate enough to miss the worst of the attack. From his vantage point, he saw the Maidenpool barracks engulfed in flames and hurried back, sensing disaster.

High above, Viserys and Daenerys surveyed the chaos below. The barracks were ablaze, and by their estimation, at least a thousand men were dead. Many of the ballistae had been destroyed, leaving Jaime’s forces unable to pose a significant threat in the coming battle. Though the dragons’ flames were nearly spent, Viserys had one more tactic in mind: a psychological assault.

“Soldiers of the usurper!” Viserys’s voice boomed, amplified by a horn. “I am Viserys Targaryen, son of Aerys Targaryen. Do not die for a false king! Robert Baratheon, the man you follow, burned the statues of the Seven Gods with his own hands and was declared godless by the High Septon! Lay down your arms and march to Rook’s Rest, and I will spare your lives.”

Then Daenerys, her voice clear and commanding, called out, “Those who swear allegiance to House Targaryen will keep their titles and lands. Soldiers, you may join our army or receive three golden dragons to return home. The Targaryens will never stop anyone who wishes to go home! Think of your wives, your children, your families—go home, and live!”

Her words carried through the camp, and the terrified soldiers, who had been fleeing in every direction, began to slow. Some paused, listening. The images of their wives and children came to mind, and the fear of dying in a futile battle grew stronger.

“Dax, let’s get out of here,” one soldier, his face smeared with soot, whispered to another nearby. “No one can beat the Targaryens. Not with dragons.”

The other man nodded quickly. In truth, they didn’t know each other—they had only met in their desperate flight from the flames—but that didn’t matter. They shared the same instinct to survive.

“Good idea. Let’s go,” he agreed.

...

All across Jaime’s camp, the same scene played out. Soldiers, either bonded by shared hometowns or brotherhood forged in battle, felt the overwhelming urge to flee. Taking advantage of the chaos and the fact that no one was watching, they escaped in small groups, heading east toward Rook’s Rest.

"Dany, our army is almost here," Viserys called out. "Let’s take Maidenpool in one swift strike!"

"Good!" Daenerys responded.

Viserys glanced down at the burning camp below. If only the dragons had a larger “fuel reserve,” they could have taken Maidenpool with just the seven of them. The thought crossed his mind—he could land directly in the city with his dragons and unleash havoc. But that was far too risky. Being invincible was a tempting thought, but if they were ambushed while grounded, the losses would be catastrophic.

Since the day the dragons hatched, Viserys and Daenerys had agreed on one key principle: never land for hand-to-hand combat if you can just rain fire from the skies. He knew his ultimate goal was the Night King, not merely Robert. The dragons must not be lost in his own "war of restoration."

Jaime watched as Viserys and his dragons departed, their silhouettes fading into the night sky. Suppressing his grief for Lancel and the chaos in the camp, he steeled himself to rally his remaining forces. But just then, a scout rushed up breathlessly.

"My Lord, Viserys’s army is only sixty li away. They’ll be here by morning at the latest!"

Jaime glanced at the darkening sky. Two hours, maybe less. He had no choice but to prepare for battle. Above him, the stars were fading as dawn approached.

On the road to Maidenpool, the Unsullied advanced like fast-moving black serpents, their disciplined ranks unbroken. On their march, they encountered nobles and soldiers eager to surrender. As commander, Dick called out, "We don’t have time for prisoners. Stand on the right side of the road. Leave your weapons on the left. Anyone thinking of trying something will be executed on the spot!"

At first, some of the knights and nobles bristled at the harsh order. But their resentment quickly faded when they saw the Unsullied—silent, immovable, and armed like steel statues.

"Father, look at their equipment," Raynald Westerling murmured, wide-eyed. "It’s far superior to ours."

The Westerlings, long oppressed by the Lannisters, had little desire to remain loyal to them. When Viserys had called from the skies, the Westerlings took their cavalry and slipped away from the Maidenpool camp, even hiding their families among the troops.

"Yes," Gawen Westerling replied, his gaze fixed on the Unsullied. "These are elite soldiers, and we wouldn’t stand a chance fighting them. And that’s without the dragons."

Gawen shuddered at the thought of the dragons that had flown overhead. He knew that had Viserys targeted them directly with dragonfire, their family wouldn’t have survived the night. Fortunately, it seemed Viserys had focused his attack on the supplies and weapons, sparing them from destruction.

Just as they believed the worst was over, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble. The rumbling grew stronger, more intense. Father and son looked to the horizon, and their eyes widened in disbelief. Two long lines of giants mounted on mammoths were marching toward them, a fearsome sight that shook them to their core.

"Are those... giants? They've been gone for hundreds of years!" Raynald pushed back the hair from his forehead, his eyes wide as he strained to get a better look.

The giants were mounted on mammoths, just as ordinary men rode horses. Clad in black armor, both the giants and their war mammoths looked like something out of legend. The mammoths, also armored, moved with immense power, their presence on the battlefield akin to an unstoppable force—an ice-and-fire version of an armored war machine. No soldier could stand against such overwhelming strength.

Jaime had once hoped to break through Viserys’s forces with the Mountain, but now, he doubted even Gregor Clegane could hold his ground against these towering behemoths. The Mountain would be lucky to avoid crashing headlong into this impenetrable fortress of flesh and steel.

The noise made by Viserys and Daenerys had carried for miles, alerting Jaime to their movements long before he could see them. Even now, the flames from Maidenpool hadn’t yet died down, flickering against the dark sky.

As the stars began to fade, Conwyra, leading the Unsullied toward Maidenpool, spotted the returning dragons in the distance. He quickly gathered his commanders and went to where Viserys had landed.

Conwyra noticed the dragons’ attention fixed on the horses, their eyes gleaming hungrily. They must be starving, he thought, especially the black dragon, whose mouth was dripping with saliva.

After calming his own horse, Conwyra approached Viserys.

"Congratulations to Your Grace and the Princess for your victory over the enemy!"

"Ser Conwyra, it’s too early to claim victory," Viserys replied. "Pass the word: the army is to advance at full speed. We’ll take Maidenpool before the first ray of sunlight!"

"As you command, Your Grace!"

Conwyra knew the night attack had been a success, but time was still of the essence. Arriving even a moment earlier could make all the difference in sealing their victory. For the Unsullied, with their remarkable stamina, covering long distances at a rapid pace was second nature.