"If war were arithmetic, the mathematicians would rule the world."
— Petyr Baelish
…
Year 289 AC. The Disputed Lands. Five Years Later.
"Accursed heat. I would not be surprised if the sinners in the Seven Hells felt cooler," the aging man hissed venomously, checking the straps on his armor.
"Captain, the signal has been given. We march in ten minutes," a winded youth ran up to the trio of men.
The heavily breathing young man, clad only in a quilted doublet riddled with patches, looked patently pale next to the three grizzled dogs of war, who were encased head-to-toe in leather and iron.
"Alaric, go ready the lads. Rig and I will join you shortly," the bearded brunette rumbled, inspecting his shield for unexpected flaws.
"Understood, Captain." Nodding, one of the three men headed towards the two hundred or so warriors standing at the base of the hill, where the leaders of the sellsword company were positioned.
"And what about me?" the boy asked with a hint of confusion, nervously gripping the axe hanging from his belt, glancing from side to side at the formation of the two armies.
"You? Get to your place in the ranks, soldier! Those bastards won't kill themselves!" the Captain snarled, waving a hand toward the enemy force, over which scarlet banners already flew.
"U-understood, Captain!" the youth squeaked, stumbling over the word, and hurried towards his decurion's squad.
"A shame about the pup. He'll likely be dead before nightfall," the hitherto silent sellsword muttered without a drop of sympathy, scrutinizing the enemy's crimson banners.
"Aye, let's just hope all of us don't fall here," the Captain spat, annoyed, starting his descent from the makeshift vantage point toward his company.
"Enough with the gloom, Rodrik. These bastards are nearly outnumbered two-to-one. We'll crush that Lysene scum and feast until dawn," his old comrade clapped him on the shoulder.
"Aye. Three years ago, Tyrosh fielded more men than Lys, too. Six thousand against two. And that Burning Legion broke the Tyroshi, sending them running. Now these bastards have fifteen thousand here against our twenty. We were fools to involve ourselves in this war of Myr and Tyrosh against Lys," the Captain complained bitterly.
"Who could have known those merchants of wine and whores had so many forces?! The Burning Legion's detachments were scattered from Lorath to Volantis! No one anticipated they would gather back in Lys so quickly," the sellsword waved his hand in indignation.
"Who knew, who knew. Now it doesn't bloody matter! I'm more interested in how our commander plans to defeat warriors whose training and gear surpass even the Golden Company's! Over half our army are common slaves with spears and shoddy shields. And we barely muster three thousand good horsemen. I heard that because of Lys's strength after its victory over Tyrosh, many Free Cities secretly gave coin to Myr for a new war. What good is that if these slaves are slaughtered like dogs, even if there were fifty thousand of them?"
"But we outnumber them! The slaves will wear down those legoniers, and we'll finish them off," the officer countered.
"Legionnaires, not 'legoniers,' you simpleton. You were a blockhead when you were young, and you're still a stump of wood. Well, these arguments are useless now. Tell the decurions that as soon as the wind changes, they are to retreat immediately. My men mean more to me than the interests of these bloated merchants," Rodrik murmured quietly, leaning toward his centurion.
"You wound me, friend. We'll handle it perfectly. I also have no desire to be a centurion with only a few cripples and a lame mare left from his hundred," the sellsword chuckled, and they parted to prepare their men for the coming battle.
…
The Same Time. The Disputed Lands. The Burning Legion Camp.
"Are you nervous?" Ser Willem Darry asked the trio of young men standing beside him.
"Not as much as at Tyrosh three years ago," one of them smiled wryly, adjusting a helmet crested with a horsehair plume dyed a deep crimson.
"After that fight, I drank for ten days straight. If I survive this one, I'll continue that glorious tradition," the largest of the three men laughed. His helm bore a red crest, indicating he held one of the key positions in the army.
"I was right there with my brother. That boar simply drank so much he forgot the wonderful time we shared," the last of the men smirked, examining the blade of his backsword.
"Maegor and Daeron. This battle is your final test. There will be no advisors or nurses beside you now. Win a glorious victory and you will each receive the rank of Legate. Yes, we currently only have two fully-staffed legions. But considering how much gold we've earned and the wealth gained from selling the Tyroshi sellswords' gear, we can raise another two or three legions in the coming years," Ser Willem Darry said, his brow furrowed, the smile gone from his face.
"We will succeed," Maegor replied firmly for both of them.
"I have no doubt," Darry snorted. "Now, it's time for work." Seeing movement in the enemy army, Willem turned and strode toward his horse.
The remaining trio mirrored his move.
Maegor, commanding all the cavalry of the two combined legions, galloped toward the armored centuriae of horsemen. His second-in-command, the Dothraki Dhabro, would lead the light cavalry, composed of other nomads like himself.
Daeron hastened to the heavy infantry. Daemon, meanwhile, rode toward the cohorts of the Second Legion; it was now under his direct command, while Darry commanded the First and formulated the overall strategy.
Narvos, wounded after the Battle of Tyrosh three years prior, had traveled to the camp near Volon Therys by galley. After recovering somewhat and walking the decks, feeling the rocking beneath his feet and speaking with the sailors... it had been love at first sight.
Consequently, by this day, the Burning Legion had its own fleet, which was occupied with guarding wealthy merchant caravans and supplying food for the army.
…
The Same Time. The Disputed Lands. Command Post of the First Legion.
Very contradictory emotions seized me. From anticipation and excitement to fear and slight shock. No, I had already managed to take part in several skirmishes and even killed about seven enemies. But this was completely different.
Dozens of banners bearing the image of a golden dragon's face on a red field flew over the Burning Legion. Thousands of men had gathered this day for one purpose only—to spill the enemy's blood.
And looking at those faces, often young but already stern. The lorica segmentata, here and there marked with small scratches. The painted and polished shields, and the hundreds of spears pointing skyward, created the impression that Vhagar himself had blessed this army.
And I, an adult man inhabiting the body of a fourteen-year-old boy. Seated upon a black warhorse, I gaze into the distance.
The enemy will soon complete its formation. Slaves, poorly armed with shields and spears, occupy the front ranks. Cavalry is lined up on the flanks, and in the depth of the formation, one can see the well-armed sellsword infantry. The only purpose of the slaves is to absorb the volley of pilums and wear down our warriors.
The Legion's formation was different. The neat squares of legionaries, eight ranks deep with spears and shields, looked ideal compared to the disorder in the enemy army. Most of the heavy cavalry occupied the flanks, save for a small reserve in the rear. The armored infantry, armed with greatswords and backswords, held the first ranks, ready to cleave breaches in the lines of the Myrish-Tyroshi forces.
"You look older in that armor, my Prince. And more warlike," Lorik, my faithful sworn shield, broke the silence.
Over time, he had gained a dozen scars but somehow managed not to lose anything vital. Except, perhaps, the knight's left ear, which was now half-missing, a fact he cleverly hid by letting his long hair grow out.
Lorik was clad in boots, sturdy canvas breeches, and a tunic. For the battle, he wore a gambeson with plate armor over it. His helmet differed from the infantry's, possessing a visor and a red horsehair plume instead of the foot soldiers' crest.
"Any man who dons armor and takes up a sword will look more warlike," I replied with a wry smile.
My gear differed little from Lorik's. Plate armor, a sword, a kite shield—borrowed from my past life and issued to all heavy cavalry—and a spear. All that distinguished me from the other legionary horsemen was my higher-quality armor, a larger horse, and more gold embossing on my plate than even the Legates possessed.
"They're sounding the advance!" my sworn shield bellowed, listening to the roar of horns.
"Cohort, to battle!" I commanded, a shout the signaler immediately heard and duplicated for the entire sub-unit.
Yes, in this battle, a cohort of regular infantry would be under my command. More precisely, the Third Cohort of the First Legion. And even then, I was only allowed to lead it after a year of practice as a decurion, and then a centurion. After all, wiping out valuable legionaries just because I wanted to feel like Caesar was not part of my, or my mentor's, plans, so I began my "career" as a decurion.
Since it had been decided to start the battle defensively, not a single warrior from the Burning Legion moved forward. We, like all the other cohorts, waited for the enemy to approach. And soon, the wave of half-naked slaves rolled up to the required distance, and a new command rang out.
"Pilums!" As soon as the command left my lips, the battlefield was flooded by the sound of the legion's horns, signifying that the order had been given by all commanders.
The air was sliced by the buzzing of thousands of javelins. Soon, the cries of those whom the pilums had struck, but not instantly killed, joined the din.
"Wait! Second rank, prepare!"
As soon as the enemy officers managed to restore some order to the slave ranks, the hostile army moved forward, though not with the same confidence as before.
"Strike!"
The roar of the horn, the rushing air, and the screams surged across the battlefield with renewed force. The scent of blood was palpable twenty yards from the corpses themselves. It was already possible to distinguish the slaves' faces contorted with fear; having lost about half their numbers, they began to simply flee in the opposite direction, colliding with one another and crashing into the ranks of the sellswords behind them.
The command post saw this too. A horn sounded from the rear, its melody picked up by dozens of others. The command to advance.
The Dothraki light horsemen charged first. Their black braids streamed in the wind, and their battle cry competed in volume with the desperate screams from the enemy army. Soon, arrows rained down on the enemy ranks as the horselords galloped along the entire length of the Myrish and Tyroshi force.
"Charge!" I commanded, pointing my spear toward the enemy. The Cohort, like all the neighboring ones, sprang into motion and began to march at a measured pace in the designated direction. Daeron's armored footmen moved in the vanguard, preparing to smash into the opponents' ranks that were still, in places, holding their formation.
The Myrish and Tyroshi cavalry advanced, attempting to buy time for the infantry to subdue the slaves and straighten their formation. In response, the heavy horsemen under Maegor's command galloped to meet them, intercepting them halfway to the legionary ranks.
The crack of spears, the screams of men, and the neighing of horses rang out. A third of the enemy riders were unhorsed by the powerful charge of the Burning Legion's cavalry. Soon, swords left their scabbards, and the clanging of iron announced the start of a vicious mêlée.
At the same time, the legionary formations reached the slave ranks, which had been roughly forced back into order by whips and spear shafts, but had lost all semblance of discipline.
"Cohort, form the Tortoise!" I roared, glancing at an arrow stuck in my shield. It seemed those bastards had archers.
A couple of moments later, my soldiers resembled a red cube of shields bristling with spears. A second later, arrows drummed against the scutums. But the archers were not numerous enough to halt the Burning Legion's advance with arrows alone. Soon, Daeron and his men plunged into the enemy ranks, sowing death and terror among the slaves and sellswords. When the cohort finally reached the first enemies, the slaves could not hold and fled once more.
No amount of screaming, whipping, or clubbing could stop them. For all the wretches saw was an inexorable wall of red shields, drawing closer with every step. The legionaries had not even engaged when the slave ranks lost over half their men, which naturally ended in a rout.
An hour later, it was all over. With very modest losses of only a couple of hundred men, the Burning Legion had utterly routed an army numbering twenty thousand. About three thousand enemy warriors were taken prisoner. Approximately five thousand managed to escape. All the rest remained on the battlefield as lifeless corpses.
…
Evening of the Same Day. The Disputed Lands. The Burning Legion's Castrum.
My tent was quiet, unlike the rest of the camp. The warriors had won a glorious victory today and were celebrating. Bursts of laughter and various bawdy songs drifted from the fires burning near the decurions' tents. Tonight, one could drink and relax while watchmen chosen by lot guarded the castrum's peace.
The temporary dwelling lacked excessive luxury but was comfortable and convenient. Having washed and donned a soft white tunic, I cleaned my armor. Then, I set about sharpening my sword. This always calmed me more than wine or women. It was a task requiring no special mental effort, allowing me to sink into my thoughts.
Six years had passed since I found myself in the body of Viserys Targaryen. The most vivid and eventful time of my life. Instead of gossip among colleagues at work, there were the intrigues of politicians. Trips to the gym and rare brawls were replaced by daily exhausting sword training and battles between medieval companies and armies. And the desire to climb the career ladder had been supplanted by the goal of conquering the Iron Throne. A drastic change for an ordinary historian, wouldn't you say? Just as various coaches advised: I stepped outside my comfort zone.
A colossal amount of work had been done over these six years. Not just by me. Ser Willem Darry, the former Master-at-Arms of the Red Keep and my mentor, had invested heavily both in the overall endeavor and in my development, mentally and physically. Maester Aemon, who had aged considerably of late, had taught me a vast body of knowledge and even now served my new House faithfully, teaching the six-year-old Daenerys languages and letters.
Maegor, Daemon, and Daeron, who joined me at the start solely for their own interests, had now become good friends who had campaigned alongside me through several wars. Narvos, with whom I did not speak as often, had also become a comrade. A straightforward man with a miserable childhood and youth, yet he had preserved his humanity. At least, as much as is possible in the Middle Ages.
Even Veela, always dissatisfied, seething with venom and irony, had contributed much to my spy network—for instance, by creating it in the first place. I don't trust the poisonous little snake much, but I don't think she would betray me. At least, not unless Maegor, with whom she is hopelessly in love, asks her to. It's amusing that such a talented leader and capable commander completely fails to notice her hints and special regard for him.
All these people had become something more to me than mere subordinates. I wouldn't call it family. More like the inner circle that all great leaders, ancient and modern, have possessed. The main thing is not to give your close allies too much power over you. History has precedents for that. And though I trust them, I don't think a little extra caution is unnecessary. After all, we aren't playing a game here; we are building an empire.
"Viserys, how do you feel after the fight?" The tent flap was thrown open, and Ser Willem entered with a measured stride, glancing around the interior with interest.
"Not bad, mentor. Though there was a bit too much blood, guts, and shit," I replied honestly, rising from my stool.
"Wine, brandy?" I offered, walking toward the table where jugs and food had been left by the servants.
"I think I'll have wine," Darry followed me and sat in the opposite chair. Taking up the jug, my teacher poured the red Dornish wine into our goblets, and then diluted it with water.
"I like your method," he answered the unasked question, pulling a plate of ham closer to him. "It keeps the taste but makes it harder to get drunk, which is important for a commander."
I shrugged noncommittally at the praise for the ancient Roman custom of drinking wine and also started eating.
"Do you still want to sail to that place the Seven forgot?" Willem began the old refrain.
Yes. When we're alone, Darry addresses me informally, without honorifics. To me, this man has become, if not a second father, then definitely a Teacher with a capital T. Just like a sensei among the Asians. So when we speak one-on-one, we drop all unnecessary formality. This knight has given me a great deal, and I sincerely respect him.
"Now is the most opportune time. This entire mess with Tyrosh and Myr allows me to temporarily hide from the spies of various schemers. To everyone, I will be with the Burning Legion, fighting and gaining experience."
"That truly wouldn't hurt you. Though 'hiding' is a strong word. Once the conflict subsides and the legionaries return to rest near Volon Therys, every dog will know you vanished after the first battle," my mentor countered, taking a drink of wine and wiping his mustache with his sleeve.
"There will be enough wars for my lifetime," I smiled bitterly, remembering the number of claimants to the Iron Throne and the Others. "And consider this: dragons will be necessary regardless. The Legion is a power, yes. But Westeros also has many talented commanders, not to mention the armies the Great Lords can field by calling their banners."
"Why take that risk? It would be better to resurrect the dragons when one of the Free Cities is under our control. Or even several. Newborn dragons are too vulnerable. I've heard they are small at birth, the size of a cat. Behind strong walls, they could grow formidable enough," Darry countered, showing off his knowledge while cutting a piece of meat.
"Then the plan would have to be postponed while we wait for the dragons to grow. This way, by the time the planned invasion of the Seven Kingdoms begins, they will already be five or six years old," I persisted.
"Fine. Suppose we do it your way. But then, by the time you return to Essos, I must already be in the Bay. Will our people have enough time to execute that mad plan?"
"Not mad, but perfectly achievable," I winced, knowing the idea truly was quite risky. "But in case of failure, we have already developed a couple of contingency plans."
"Oh, really? Since when is a frontal assault on a city an excellent contingency plan?" Darry sneered. "But very well, I won't be able to change your mind on this matter anyway. Not after five long years of trying. You will have about a year. I simply won't be able to fool everyone for any longer."
"That's already a great deal of time; I'll manage. The main thing is that Oberyn Martell doesn't turn up on your doorstep at the most unexpected moment."
"Yes, he might," Willem grimaced, recalling the volatile Dornishman.
True, the Martells know about me. I don't know how those sand snakes, who mistakenly took the sun and spear for their sigil, found me, but a fact is a fact. Two years ago, a messenger arrived at the gates of the estate in Lys, delivering an interesting letter. Ten days later, Darry met with the brother of the Prince of Dorne in one of the brothels owned by Veela.
I was not at the meeting, as all the powerful men of the world consider Viserys Targaryen too young and believe that Ser Willem Darry is the 'regent' for the exiled Prince. Of course, we are in no hurry to disabuse them of this notion.
The negotiations concluded without any major agreements being reached. The rulers of Dorne, just as in the canon, desired a secret betrothal between me and Arianne, the daughter of Prince Doran Martell. And Oberyn very broadly hinted that his brother also had an elder son, Quentyn, and the Targaryens had my younger sister, Daenerys. But our situation was drastically different from that of the last Targaryens in canon. Therefore, the offer was declined.
Truly, why should my sister or I ally ourselves with the House of the Princes of Dorne in this situation? They have almost the smallest army in Westeros and not much wealth compared to the Lannisters. Given these circumstances, a marriage alliance with the Tyrells looks far more appealing. A hundred thousand warriors is a very significant number in any calculation. And Margaery must be very beautiful, considering that Oberyn Martell strongly resembled the show's actor, only younger.
But one cannot approach the Queen of Thorns on a lame nag. That old woman, who directs the entire Tyrell house, will require guarantees and prospects. Still, I think a few captured cities and dragons would be argument enough for her.
"The Red Viper is currently reveling with his recently formed sellsword company somewhere in the outskirts of Lorath, so he won't be able to turn up unexpectedly. But when the plan is put into action..." I mused, taking a sip from my goblet.
"That Dornishman will be the first to rush to our doorstep. I think he'll be very indignant that he wasn't invited to the 'party'," Willem chuckled.
"He'll manage. And he won't be missing much. We have plenty of such 'parties' ahead of us in the coming decade. He'll get so much fighting that he'll grow sick of it," I sighed, leaning back in my chair and staring, unblinking, at the tent ceiling.
"That's true... When do you depart?" Willem asked with a hint of sadness, draining the last of his wine in a single gulp.
"Tomorrow at dawn," I replied with a similar pang of melancholy at the impending parting. "A long and dangerous road awaits me. But it will be worth it. Soon, very soon, my foot will step upon the shore of that island from my dream."
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