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POV: 3rd person
Location: Essos, the Disputed Lands
The Storm King sat alone beneath the canvas of his command tent, the weight of war pressing heavily upon his broad shoulders.
Maps lay strewn before him, their edges curled from constant handling, covered in inked notations of marches, skirmishes, and supply routes. Letters, some stained with mud or blood, told of victories too small and losses too costly.
King Argilac Durrandon—the Old Storm to some, the Arrogant to others—rested his weathered hands upon the table and stared at the Disputed Lands marked in faded ink.
This war had not been meant to drag so long, nor bleed him so deeply. In the council halls of Storm's End, it had seemed simple enough: sail east, check the ambition of Volantis, gain new trade agreements, strengthen the Stormlands as never before, and make rival kings fear the wealth and power of his people.
But standing now in this endless, barren frontier, he knew why this land had been fought over, cursed and claimed since the fall of the Valyrian Freehold.
The Disputed Lands were empty, and had no true rulership. An endless, windswept plain stretched to the horizon, broken only by scattered forests and low, rolling hills. A place where borders shifted with each new drawing of maps, where the Free Cities clawed at one another like dogs over scraps. And into this mire, Argilac had thrown his banners, only to find his claws stuck in the muck.
He leaned over the map, tracing a finger along the jagged ink lines that marked the Lyseni vanguard. Once, Lys had been famous for its beauty and decadence, never easy prey for raiders and mercenaries thanks to its high walls of white stone. But now the daughter bared its teeth as a vassal of the New Valyrian Empire, its soldiers stiffened by foreign coin and fire.
Argilac ground his teeth. The word Empire alone was bitter enough. Valyria had burned, its doom scattered across Essos like ash in the wind. But now, a century later, Volantis had risen bold enough to take the name for itself. Lys had bent the knee, Volantis had thrown its weight behind the so-called rebirth, and Argilac's campaign had become something far greater than he had bargained for.
For the first time in years, the Storm King felt the whisper of doubt. But his pride raged against it, like a storm breaking any ship that dared to hold its ground.
The flap of the king's tent stirred, letting in a brief breath of the cold steppe wind. One by one, his commanders filed inside. Each bowed before taking their seats at the great table, while servants either slipped out into the camp or stood so still they seemed carved of wood, awaiting the king's word.
Argilac Durrandon did not sit.
The Storm King stood tall before them, broad of shoulder and still thick with the muscle of a warrior, a crown of black antlers tipped in gold upon his head. It marked him king beyond all doubt, though the grey now streaking his once-dark mane and beard whispered a different truth: time was catching him.
And time, unlike an enemy, could not be cowed by sword or storm.
His voice rolled out, deep and bitter, like thunder over a restless sea.
"Report."
The commanders glanced at one another, uneasy under the weight of his glare. They all knew the truth: Argilac had no trueborn son, only a single daughter from his late queen. And every man at this table knew that to prove his loyalty, his valor, his worth in this war was to stake a claim for her hand—and for the Stormlands' throne.
The first to rise was Durren Bolling.
He was tall but uneasy, a shadow of Argilac in bearing if not in strength. His house—Bolling of Storm Drum—had sprung from a Durrandon bastard generations past, their castle gifted by blood. Of all those gathered, his was the most obvious claim should the Old Storm fall. Yet his house was small, their influence weak. Still, ambition burned beneath his nervousness as he spread the map before them.
"Our scouts report the Lyseni and Volantene hosts have split," Durren announced, his voice steadier than his eyes. He marked the positions with carved tokens, showing the jaws of a trap. "We believe their aim is to fix us in place—then strike from all sides."
The tent was silent save for the crackle of the brazier. Argilac loomed above the map, still as stone, like the sea in the moment before a storm breaks.
Then another voice cut the silence.
"But we do not stand alone," declared Lord Lester Connington as he rose.
Older, bald of head but straight-backed, he wore his years with the confidence of a man who had seen too many campaigns to fear this one. Loved by his smallfolk, respected as a just ruler, Lester Connington's name carried weight—and many thought it might be his son, not Bolling, who would one day wed the Storm King's daughter.
He reached across the table and set a dragon piece upon the map.
"Word has reached us that the dragonlord Aegon has broken the siege of Tyrosh. Soon he will fly to our aid."
The carved dragon gleamed in the firelight, its wings stretched wide as if about to take flight.
"We all heard the message from Tyrosh," Lord Steffon Swann said at last, his voice cutting through the heavy air like a drawn blade. "Yet it has been two days, and still no dragon darkens our skies."
A murmur rippled through the gathered lords.
Swann was a man of ambition, sharp in command but hard in hand—known for driving back Dornish raiders with ruthless efficiency, though it earned him little love from his smallfolk. His words now carried the weight of both authority and doubt.
Some in the tent whispered of retreat, voices low, eyes darting to the maps and the encroaching tokens that marked enemy hosts. Others scoffed at the thought, reminding all of the blood already spent, the ground already taken. Yet another pointed bitterly to the map, to the meager swath of grassland and rolling hills they clung to. "Fields no man can truly hold," he muttered.
But the debate withered at the sound.
Faint at first, carried on the morning wind—then clearer, sharper. The cry of a horn. The alarm of scouts.
The tent froze in silence, every ear straining.
And then came the bellow.
"TO POSITIONS!"
Argilac's voice was thunder, breaking the paralysis, and when his sword flashed from its sheath it was as if lightning had split the canvas of the tent.
The commanders surged to their feet, rushing for the lines.
Outside, the Storm King strode into the camp and the army moved as if a hurricane bore down upon them. Footmen tightened their ranks. Archers and crossbowmen strung their bows. Knights buckled helms and checked saddles.
Argilac was the storm's eye at the center of it all, his steps spurring men to haste, his voice stripping the fear from their hearts. Where doubt had lingered moments before, only iron resolve remained.
There would be no retreat. Not while Argilac Durrandon drew breath.
The storm would meet the heirs of Valyria.
---
The banners of House Durrandon rose high, crowned stags rippling against the noon sun as men formed ranks. Footmen closed shield to shield, spears bristling outward like a forest of iron.
Behind them, crossbowmen readied their weapons, bolts locked in place. Beyond, archers stood in disciplined lines, arrows nocked and quivers heavy at their belts.
Men waited side by side—some whispering prayers to the Seven, others to the old gods, and many in silence.
Then the ground trembled beneath their boots. The sound began as a murmur in the earth, then swelled, louder with each passing breath. Thunder, but not from the skies.
From the crest of the hills came the enemy vanguard—a wall of horsemen, light cavalry sweeping forward, spears lowered and armor flashing.
"SPEARS OUT!"
The command rang out, taken up by officers down the line. Rows of Stormlander spears angled forward, their iron tips gleaming in the sun.
Still the cavalry did not slow. The thunder of hooves became a roaring wave, charging downhill with death in their lances.
"HOLD!"
A commander bellowed, the crowned black stag of House Durrandon whipping in the wind above his head. The enemy closed the gap, no more than a few hundred yards.
"HOLD!"
The cry repeated, steady and fierce, keeping the line unbroken. Men tightened grips on their shields, their spears quivering not from fear, but from the pounding hooves shaking the earth.
Now the riders were so close their faces could be seen beneath their helms, the sunlight flashing off polished spearheads.
"NOW!"
The roar came like a storm breaking.
From between the ranks of Stormlander footmen, men hauled on thick ropes. With a grinding snap, hidden stakes ripped up from the grass, slick with mud and dung.
The trap was sprung.
The front ranks of horses shrieked in terror. Some tried to pull up, others veered, but it was too late. The charge broke against the wall of spikes.
Mounts impaled, riders thrown screaming into the muck, bones snapping on impact. Those who staggered up found themselves transfixed by spears, their blood staining the earth.
The vanguard's momentum halted in chaos.
"CROSSBOWS!"
The order carried down the line.
Stormlander crossbowmen raised their weapons and loosed, volleys of bolts hissing overhead to slam into the tangled cavalry.
They didn't even need to aim—the enemy was packed too tightly, trapped in their own ruin.
A storm of iron rained upon them. Horses reared and fell screaming, men toppled into the churned mud, pierced through with bolts and cries.
The vanguard was broken but the battle has only just begun.
As the vanguard was cut down with bolts from the hill the real enemy army marches down the hill banners flapping.
A wall of steel and iron marched in formation towards the Durrandon line.
Commanders were about to shout out orders when a horn blew from the far right side of the line.
A the right far side watched as another army like the center marched forward.
Then another horn blast from the far left flank.
The Durrandon army was now faced with the New Valyrian Empires legion
ARCHERS... KNOCK... DRAW... LOOSE!!!
The hiss of arrows filled the sky, a storm that blackened the sun for a heartbeat, only to splinter uselessly against a wall of bronze and steel. The New Valyrian Empire's soldiers did not break stride.
Their advance was terrifying in its precision—rows upon rows of men clad in matching cuirasses, their crested helms gleaming, shields locked tight, spears angled forward like the spines of some monstrous beast. Each step was measured, each horn call echoed by flawless maneuver.
The Stormlanders bristled. Men gritted their teeth, some whispering prayers, others cursing under their breath as they watched the unshaken advance.
"Seven damn their eyes…" one captain muttered, lowering his sword slightly as he saw the gaps their arrows had made filled instantly, like water pouring back into a cracked vessel.
Another horn sounded, this one deeper, from the Valyrian center.
The legion halted. For a moment, the battlefield grew eerily quiet, only the distant neighing of dying horses breaking the silence. Then came the sound—clash! clash! clash!—as spears slammed rhythmically against shields, a wave of noise that rolled across the field like thunder.
The Stormlander ranks shifted uneasily, men glancing to their commanders.
"Hold the line!" roared Ser Harwyn, standard-bearer to Argilac himself. His voice cracked, but the crowned stag banner he lifted high did not waver.
From behind the Valyrian ranks came movement—gleaming riders emerging from the flanks, armored cavalry with their own standards raised: the silver trident of Lys, newly bound in vassalage, streaming beside the dragon banner of Valyria's heirs.
The Storm King's army was being pressed on three sides.
The Durrandon commanders barked orders, drums began to pound, and the shield wall tightened.
The legion surged forward, spears leveled, shields pushing as one unstoppable tide.
The Durrandon front line stood firm, spears clutched in white-knuckle grips, every heartbeat louder than the last.
The mud and blood between the armies was about to close.
When a shadow swept across the field, vast and terrible.
Then the air split open.
RROOOAAARRR!