The air hung heavy over the plains of Casterly Rock, a grey, persistent mist blanketing the battlefield as the sun barely peeked out from behind the clouds, unable to pierce the haze, and the entire field lay in silence.
Kevan Lannister adjusted his cloak over his shoulders and watched the horizon from one of the forward towers, with Willem, his eldest son, and Ser Forley Prester at his side, along with other trusted nobles.
The Lannister army, disciplined and orderly, was fully deployed in a defensive line stretching across the hill, every step in front of the camp having been dug, reinforced, or seeded with traps.
His brother's preparations, as always, had been meticulous, and Kevan himself had spent the previous week inspecting every line, every trench, every position of the scorpions mounted on the walls, making sure everything was in perfect condition, whether an attack came or not.
Unfortunately, his paranoia was rewarded when, only a few days later, the enemy arrived, but at least he took comfort in knowing everything was ready to break them the moment they charged.
—He underestimates us —Ser Forley remarked with a smile— That monster from Essos thinks his horse-riding savages can defeat our armored soldiers. We'll teach him a lesson he won't forget.
Kevan did not answer. Deep down, he wanted to believe the same, but anyone with sense knew that facing the Dothraki in open field was madness. Still, what choice did he have? If his first move were to wait out a siege, the men's morale would collapse.
He could not allow that; his only option was to fight, inflict enough losses on the enemy, and then fall back into the fortress.
War horns sounded in the distance, unmistakable proof that the attack had begun. Kevan even allowed himself a smile; the enemy was charging straight toward its own death.
The Dothraki formed up in tight blocks, hurling war cries, yet they were neither scattered nor disordered. They rode powerful horses, each animal clad in black armor bearing the sigil of House Drakul on its flanks. Kevan was surprised by the organization of the charges, but he kept faith in the defenses.
As he watched through his spyglass, especially the skies, he felt relief at seeing no flying figures. Whether the stories about Vlad were lies or the dragons were elsewhere hardly mattered. What mattered was that they were not there, not then.
Suddenly, in the distance, through the mist covering the plains, he spotted a lone rider galloping toward the enemy's rear. When the rider halted beside Vlad, Kevan, watching through the spyglass, opened his eyes wide in recognition.
—Is that…? —Willem began, passing the spyglass to the others.
It was Ser Barristan Selmy, mounted and upright, sword at his side.
Kevan had met him on several occasions and had always held him in deep respect, though he had also been certain that Barristan was in the twilight of his life. After all, he was an old man.
Yet the man riding now bore a face stripped of wrinkles, fatigue lines, and sagging skin; his head showed shoulder-length dark hair streaked with silver. He no longer looked elderly, but like a man in his prime, perhaps in his forties.
As the Dothraki advanced, Kevan turned his gaze back to their leader. Vlad had not moved, remaining to the rear with his riders, his infantry, and Ser Barristan.
Calm, proud, and impassive.
Kevan watched him closely, from more than half a league away, and still felt his legs tremble when Vlad returned his gaze, their eyes meeting as if no distance existed at all. The Impaler Lord's enigmatic smile froze Kevan's blood.
The first group of riders entered the trap zone.
Pits opened, trenches swallowed men and horses, spikes tore through flesh; some steeds reared up screaming, others rolled across the ground with shattered legs.
Dozens fell, hundreds even, bodies and horses broken among pits and hidden stakes, yet it was not enough.
The traps were not close enough together, not designed to stop an army advancing with such precision, and because of that far fewer died than should have. At once the enemy formations spread out, bypassing and flanking the obstacles with ease.
—Fire! —the general shouted from the field.
Lannister archers took position in the rear and loosed a rain of arrows; several struck true and men and horses fell. But instead of breaking, the Dothraki raised wooden shields, ready to absorb the volley.
And with each man that fell, the rest gained another meter, never stopping, never faltering, and so the charge continued as if the riders feared no death. Soon they were upon the Lannister cavalry, which waited with leveled lances, still believing they could halt the tide.
The riders clad in golden armor bearing the lion's crest spurred their mounts forward, lances aimed straight at the enemy, the thunder of hooves against the earth rising alongside the Dothraki war cries.
The first Dothraki hurled themselves headlong into the clash, curved sabers raised, meeting the impact with near-suicidal ferocity.
And then they collided.
The Lannisters impaled several enemy riders with their long lances, bursting ribs and armor with a single blow.
The screams of the wounded Dothraki filled the air, mingling with the hysterical whinnying of dying horses, yet the charge did not slow.
The riders from Essos, more agile and experienced, slipped between shattered lances, dodged incoming blows and, before the Lannisters could react, were already behind their lines, cutting down knights from the rear.
Kevan watched through the spyglass as the golden ranks began to break apart. The Lannister cavalry, heavier and unable to turn with the speed of the Dothraki, was being slaughtered along with the knights trapped in the center.
A Dothraki hurled himself from his mount in the middle of the charge, both blades raised, and split a knight's helm in two before he could even scream.
The line broke, and then the Dothraki executed a maneuver.
Something unheard of to anyone familiar with their culture, yet there they were, organized and in formation.
The lateral blocks of their cavalry opened like pincers and galloped in two wings, closing in on the Lannister infantry.
The infantrymen raised their defensive spears as the riders approached, but the Dothraki moved in wide arcs, loosing volleys of arrows from horseback, shattering their ranks and, within minutes, cutting the left flank off from the center.
A new horn sounded through the mist, and a third wave emerged from behind the enemy line, more riders, this time armed with axes and maces, who crashed into the exposed flanks of the soldiers struggling to regroup.
The Lannister formation cracked like an egg.
Men shouted orders and tried to restore order, but it was already too late: the center of the army was isolated, the left flank surrounded, and the right began to fall back under the pressure of the attacks.
From atop the tower, Kevan could scarcely believe what he was seeing, as each new charge opened further gaps in his lines, breaking his men into ever smaller and more vulnerable groups, too scattered to hold any coherent formation.
The Lannister banners still flew above the hill, but what remained of the left flank was retreating toward a line of wagons, the center fought encircled, and the right struggled to regroup as the Dothraki charged again with fury.
And Vlad, from his hill, had still not moved.
—To the fortress! —Kevan shouted, his voice heavy with frustration— Fall back inside the walls! Sound the retreat!
Lannister trumpets blared and the banners began to withdraw uphill as the remnants of the army fell back in disorder: wounded knights, infantry without shields, entire squads running beneath the blare of horns, while archers on the towers covered the retreat by firing at the flanks and the iron gates began to open to receive their own.
Kevan clenched his teeth, his knuckles white against the parapet; being defeated in his first battle was not a good omen. He watched as, little by little, his men reached safety and, even so, he frowned, having expected to see the Dothraki at their heels, hunting down stragglers and finishing off the wounded.
But that did not happen.
All the Essosi cavalry halted at once, as if stopped by a silent command, and then, with unsettling discipline, dozens of rider lines regrouped swiftly, turned about, and returned to their positions alongside the main body of the army.
They pursued no one.
Kevan's men descended the slope covered in blood and mud, unable to understand why they were being allowed to escape; some looked back in disbelief, others wept with sheer relief as they crossed the gates, which closed behind them with a dull thud.
—Why aren't they following us? —Willem asked— Why are they stopping?
Ser Forley Prester, still at his side, answered with evident uncertainty:
—Perhaps… Vlad intends to begin a siege. Starve us out.
He did not finish the sentence.
At that very moment, Vlad Drakul dismounted from his horse and, with a calm gesture, handed the reins to one of his riders before beginning to walk alone across the field, carrying only his sheathed sword, without helm or shield.
He walked as if strolling through a garden, while the mist swirled around him as though avoiding him and his cloak trailed behind, red as the blood staining the fields.
Kevan did not move, not even blinking, watching in paralysis as that man crossed the ground with steady steps and a stony expression, indifferent to the chaos around him.
Even the soldiers posted along the battlements remained motionless, petrified by the sight, as Vlad advanced, step by step.
The silence shattered abruptly when Kevan finally reacted and shouted at the top of his lungs:
—What in the Seven Hells are you waiting for!? He's in range! Shoot! Fire!
He did not understand what was happening or why Vlad exposed himself so brazenly, but he could not waste the opportunity.
The first arrows cut through the air.
More than a hundred projectiles were loosed at once, all aimed at the same target, but Vlad, without even attempting to move aside, placed a hand on the pommel of his sword, its blade beginning to glow with a deep red hue, and with impossible speed deflected, one after another, the arrows that might have struck him.
The rest embedded themselves in the surrounding ground, forming a perfect circle without a single one touching him.
That was enough for Kevan to order a second volley, more out of instinct than courage or strategy.
Another rain of arrows rose from the fortress walls and, this time, Vlad did not even pause; he kept walking, deflecting projectile after projectile with quick, almost casual movements, not one grazing him or drawing the slightest sign of effort.
Step by step, he closed the distance until he stood only a few meters from the Rock's gate.
Kevan no longer knew what to think; he could not understand how Vlad was doing it, or why, and that inability to comprehend only made the cold spread through his blood.
Fear of the unknown, fear of the Impaler Lord.
It was then that Vlad stopped, as if he were simply strolling through a forest, and with a gesture… a single gesture, he condemned Casterly Rock.
He raised his hand.
The main gate began to tremble, metal shrieking with a guttural sound as the iron plates bowed outward and the wood splintered with a dry crack.
But the worst came after, with the heat.
A searing heat seeped through the cracks in the walls, as if a dragon were breathing from the other side, the metal roared and turned red, then orange.
The stone itself seemed to ignite and, from the gate, a black smoke poured out, thick as tar and so hot that the men close enough to breathe it fell dead on the spot, their faces twisted in agony.
The hinges burst and, with them, the solid oak split from the center of the iron-bound door.
Little by little, the metal, now red as fire, began to turn white, so bright it was like staring at the sun, and to the horror of all who witnessed that grotesque spectacle, the gate began to warp, to sag under its own weight, turning liquid as if it were candle wax.
Inch by inch, unmistakable, inevitable.
Kevan could only stare, his throat dry, as the last defense of Casterly Rock became a pool of molten metal at Vlad's feet, while the white-hot iron spread across the stone, burning everything and everyone in its path.
Then they all heard it.
Calm footsteps, with the wet sound of someone walking through a puddle, though beneath his feet there was no water, only molten iron.
The steps drew closer and closer until Vlad Drakul crossed the threshold of what had once been the gate of Casterly Rock. He walked over the blazing metal and his clothes remained immaculate, his posture upright, without the slightest sign of effort.
That supernatural perfection made terror become tangible, as if time itself had stopped to watch him cross the gates the Lannisters had considered unassailable for centuries.
Willem Lannister took a step back, his face white as marble.
—By the Seven… —he whispered, his voice breaking.
Kevan clenched his fists; he wanted to give an order, any order, but no words came.
And then everything fell apart.
Like dominoes toppling one after another, a soldier dropped his sword and fled with a scream of pure terror; in the lower courtyards dozens began throwing down their weapons, some ran toward the tunnels and others fell to their knees, eyes lowered.
The Unsullied crossed the melted gate seconds later, following a simple gesture from Vlad that seemed to cool the iron, as if the world itself obeyed his command.
They marched in silent ranks, then came the soldiers in black armor, the blood riders, and beyond them the Dothraki, who dismounted to take the fortress without firing a single arrow more.
In the highest tower, the lion banner was torn down and, in its place, a red flag rose, bearing a black dragon and a sun pierced through its center by a sword.
The Impaler Lord had arrived in Westeros.
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Hey guys. First of all, sorry for posting so late. I've been sick for the past couple of days, and combined with work, that's been leaving me completely wiped out as soon as I get home. I've been writing and editing when I could, but I honestly haven't been at my best.
As for the chapter, I really hope the entire battle sequence didn't feel tedious to read. Large-scale battles are, without a doubt, some of the most annoying and difficult things to write: lots of action, multiple fronts, and a constant risk of things becoming confusing or exhausting.
I'd also ask you to take the strategy and formations with a grain of salt. I'm just a casual fan of medieval battles and don't have deep knowledge of them, so I prioritized making the scene work narratively over absolute historical accuracy.
That said, this is probably the chapter that went through the most editing. I made sure every single paragraph sounded natural and had absolutely no AI in it. It was a long process, but a necessary one.
As always, thanks for reading and for your patience. See you next week!