ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great VII

Excerpt from The Second Essosi War: Fire and Blood in the Free Cities

The early stages of the war were marked by Targaryen defeats, as the Lyzomeri Qorvose (League of Free Cities)—bolstered by its vast resources and formidable alliances with Slaver’s Bay and the Dothraki—pressed its advantage against an embattled Westerosi defense. Nowhere was this more evident than in the failed invasion of Pentos, a disaster that would haunt the Seven Kingdoms in those early days of the war.

The invasion, led by Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, consisted of 20,000 men, primarily Riverlanders and knights of the Vale, along with elite forces from the Crownlands. Rhaenys, mounted on Meleys the Red Queen, commanded the only dragon at the time capable of flight following the League’s devastating and cowardly attack on the Targaryen dragons. Confidence ran high among the Westerosi, as they believed the might of their armies, backed by dragonfire, would break Pentos.

Instead, the campaign ended in disaster. Only 5,000 men returned from the expedition. The battle turned into a bloodbath when Meleys was slain, marking the first true death of a full-grown dragon in battle in over a century. The League had unleashed its most terrifying weapon—the mysterious Harbinger—a device whose exact nature remains unknown. Every record describing its function was deliberately erased by Emperor Alyxander I Targaryen in the years following the founding of the empire, fueling endless speculation. The few surviving accounts merely name it, but its effectiveness was undeniable: it struck down Meleys in an instant.

Princess Rhaenys herself barely survived; she was found floating at sea, clutching the charred remnants of Meleys’ saddle. As the last of the shattered invasion force retreated by ship, they spotted her adrift. Later, the Pentoshi recovered the Red Queen’s body, dragging it ashore in grotesque triumph, where they held a celebration over the dragon’s remains. The failed Pentoshi invasion marked the lowest point in the war for the Targaryens—a moment when even their greatest advantage, dragons, seemed powerless.

Meanwhile, Prince Daemon Targaryen faced his own struggles as he attempted to hold the Valyrian Marches—vast territories in Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh—against both internal rebellion and external invasion. Former rulers of the Free Cities, merchant lords, and slave masters—resentful of their fall from power—incited uprisings within the conquered lands. At the same time, a 50,000-strong host from Volantis—composed of mercenaries, Unsullied regiments, and the disciplined legions of the Tiger Party—marched to restore the Free Cities.

Daemon, vastly outnumbered, was forced to fight a defensive war, moving between cities to quell revolts while avoiding a full-scale confrontation with the Volantenes. His limited forces—many still acclimating to life in the conquered lands—struggled to hold against an enemy with greater numbers and a battle-hardened army prepared for war. It was a desperate struggle, and for a time, it seemed the League would succeed in driving the Targaryens back across the Narrow Sea.

The tide would turn however. 

In the fourth month of 114, King Alyxander I Targaryen arrived in the Valyrian Marches…

.

.

.

Triarch Daevon Laenor, supreme commander of the Volantene legions, stood tall as he watched his men execute the last of the Westerosi settlers. Their cries echoed through the crumbling ruins of Oloria—once a proud city of the Freehold, now the place where the so-called “City of Alyxander” had begun to rise.

“No more,” he thought with a smile.

The unfinished city, with its half-built walls and broken streets, would serve only as a reminder of the folly of the Sunset Kingdoms that had dared plant their banner on the lands of Essos. Today, that soil would be watered with the blood of their people.

A smirk spread across Daevon’s lips as he watched his soldiers carry out their work. The men were slain first—every Westerosi-born settler was put to the sword, their corpses left to rot beneath the blackened towers of Oloria. The women and children were spared—for now. They would be sold in the slave markets of Volantis; fresh bodies were always needed for the chains. The fields needed laborers. The forges needed fuel.

Nearby, Xaerion Maegyr, his second-in-command, approached, his golden cloak fluttering in the dry wind. “A fine sight, isn’t it?” Xaerion mused, surveying the destruction.

Daevon nodded but said nothing. His thoughts were elsewhere.

They had avoided Oloria when they first marched into these lands. He had led 30,000 men straight for Myr, believing they could take the city quickly. At first, the war had gone as planned.

The first battle had been a decisive victory. The Volantene legions, supported by their mercenary allies, had crushed Daemon’s army outside Myr. The Westerosi fought well, but they were outnumbered, and the discipline of the Volantene legions overwhelmed them. Daemon was forced to retreat, leaving thousands of his men dead on the battlefield. Triarch Daevon had expected Myr to fall soon after.

But it had not.

Daemon, ever the cunning commander, fortified the city’s walls and repelled every assault. The Targaryen fleet still held control of the sea, allowing supplies to reach Myr. The city did not break. The war dragged on. For four months, the Volantene army laid siege to Myr, but every attempt to breach its defenses failed.

Then, the news came.

Alyxander Targaryen was sailing with 70,000 men. At first, Daevon did not believe it. No Westerosi army had ever mobilized so quickly, especially across the sea. The Braavosi were supposed to stop them. But soon, the reports became undeniable: the Westerosi fleet had landed. Alyxander was coming.

With no reinforcements yet arrived, Daevon had no choice but to break the siege and withdraw before Alyxander’s forces could surround him. He led his men east, retreating into the ruins of Oloria to await reinforcements from the League.

Now, after a week of waiting, they had arrived.

Daevon turned to gaze across the vast plains beyond the ruins. The dry fields stretched to the horizon, golden with tall grass, and in the distance, a great camp sprawled across the land. The largest army assembled since the fall of the Freehold had come.

One hundred thousand men.

Another 20,000 Volantenes had joined, reinforcing his depleted ranks. The forces of Norvos and Qohor had arrived in full strength—50,000 more soldiers, plus Dothraki riders and mercenaries. Among them were war elephants, their massive silhouettes stark against the setting sun. These beasts, armored and ready for war, would break any foe’s lines.

Volantis, Norvos, Qohor—all had brought everything they could spare.

The war would end here. That much was certain. Daevon smiled, watching the banners of the League ripple in the wind. His army outnumbered Alyxander’s forces three to one.

Xaerion Maegyr’s voice broke Daevon’s train of thought. “My Triarch, we should go to the command tent. The others will be there soon.”

“Very well,” Daevon answered, adjusting the golden sash on his armor as he began walking with Xaerion.

As they strode through the camp, Xaerion—ever the cautious one—spoke again.“Do you think it’s true, what the scouts are saying? That Alyxander still pursues us? Surely they must be mistaken.”

Daevon scoffed, shaking his head.“He must have seen the reinforcements arrive,” he replied. “A wise king would know he is outmatched. He should be heading back.”

Xaerion hesitated a moment before speaking again.“The scouts seemed so sure, my Triarch. Could the loss of his beloved wife have driven him mad?”

At this, Daevon let out a bitter laugh. “Ah, yes, his Rhoynar wife,” he sneered, spitting onto the dry earth. “He spat on old Valyria by marrying a beast like the Rhoynar. It’s fitting that she died, as all her kind should.”

Xaerion nodded.“The scouts reported no more than 50,000 men marching behind him, my Triarch.”

Daevon’s smile widened. “Then let us hope madness has finally taken the Targaryen scum.”

The two Volantenes approached the grand command tent, a massive pavilion of crimson and black, its silk flaps embroidered with the sigils of the Tiger party. The guards at the entrance—two heavily armed Unsullied—bowed as they stepped inside.

Within, four figures stood around a vast wooden table, its surface carved with a detailed map of the Disputed Lands. At the head of the table stood Lyxaro Phalasson, a fellow Volantene—though one of the Elephant faction. “The dying faction,” Daevon thought with amusement. The Elephants had once ruled Volantis through trade and diplomacy, but now, with the formation of the League and the focus on war, their influence had all but faded.

The other two present were Patriarch Orvyn Damaros of Qohor—a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard streaked with gray, his black armor adorned with the sigil of the Black Goat of Qohor—and Anvos Lhoran, Sword of the High Priestess of Norvos. Anvos was a lean man with piercing eyes and a shaved head, his crimson robes marking his devotion to the High Priestess Ylora.

Orvyn was the first to speak. “Ah, Triarch, we have been waiting for you.” His voice was deep and commanding.

Daevon smirked, stepping farther into the tent. “I was simply enjoying the Westerosi executions.”

Anvos laughed coldly, the sound dry and rasping. “Why waste them? You should have enslaved them,” he remarked.

Xaerion nodded in agreement. “The women and children will be taken as slaves,” he assured the Norvoshi warlord.

Daevon waved a dismissive hand. “Enough of that,” he said, stepping to the center of the table, his fingers tracing over the rough-cut wooden map. The others gathered closer, forming a tight circle around him. “Let us get to the matter at hand.”

Patriarch Orvyn Damaros of Qohor crossed his arms over his broad chest, his thick beard twitching as he scowled across the table. “We should have taken Myr by now,” he rumbled.

Anvos, the Sword of the High Priestess of Norvos, nodded sharply. “Volantis boasts of its mighty legions, yet you pulled back when the city was within your grasp?” he sneered.

Xaerion Maegyr’s lips curled in irritation as he stepped forward to defend his Triarch. “Alyxander arrived with seventy thousand men—more than we anticipated,” he countered firmly. “We had to pull back to avoid being crushed.”

Orvyn scoffed. “Excuses,” he spat.

Anvos tapped a finger against the carved image of Myr on the map. “The Free Cities did not unite for this war only to falter at the first sign of resistance,” he said.

Voices rose as they argued, shouting over one another. Then Daevon raised a hand, silencing them. “Enough,” he said sharply, his tone brooking no dissent.

The commanders fell quiet, their gazes fixed on him.

Daevon’s lips curled into a confident smile. “We have one hundred thousand men now,” he declared.

“Our supply lines are secured. The Westerosi navy is occupied elsewhere; their ships are pulling back. We have the advantage.”

He leaned forward, his fingers tracing the path of the Volantene legions across the map. “Now, we march on Myr again and end this conflict once and for all.”

Anvos exhaled through his nose. “The Braavosi navy should have stopped their crossing,” he muttered, still bitter.

Daevon snorted. “The Braavosi underestimated the Westerosi fleet,” he replied. “And the Sea Snake is still a dangerous man.”

At that moment, Lyxaro Phalasson cleared his throat and stepped forward with a smirk. “I have heard some news,” he said smoothly.

Daevon raised an eyebrow. “And what news would that be?”

Lyxaro let the anticipation linger before he answered. “Perhaps we will get official word soon,” he began, “but my sources say that Meleys, the Red Queen, has fallen.”

A stunned silence followed. Orvyn’s brows shot up. Anvos visibly tensed. Xaerion, after a moment of shock, let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“It worked,” Xaerion said, shaking his head in disbelief. “That witch’s weapon worked!”

His laughter grew, echoing off the thick walls of the tent. “We have won the war already!” he declared.

The tension in the tent shifted to one of relief.

Anvos exhaled, his previous anger giving way to satisfaction. “Then the Targaryens are finished,” he murmured.

Daevon, caught off guard but smiling grimly, said, “We will wait for the official word,” though his tone held little doubt.

Suddenly, the tent flap pulled open. A figure stumbled in, breathless. Daevon recognized the kneeling man—his personal messenger.

 “Come,” Daevon ordered, straightening.

The man bowed deeply, still gasping from his hurried arrival.

 “Speak,” Daevon commanded.

The messenger raised his head, sweat beading along his forehead despite the cool air.

 “The scouts’ reports are true, my Triarch,” he managed breathlessly.

All fell silent.

“The Targaryen king is coming with fifty thousand men. He marches toward us.”

Anvos blinked, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. Orvyn frowned. Xaerion’s amusement vanished, replaced by confusion.

Lyxaro was the first to break the hush. “Their scouts should have seen ours by now,” he muttered. “He must have seen our numbers… and still…”

Daevon threw his head back and laughed—a laugh that was anything but joyful. It was deep and unsettling, echoing through the tent. When he finally exhaled, he shook his head.

“Mad indeed,” he murmured, his fingers drumming against the map.

 His smile widened.

 “Mad indeed.”

======

The Targaryen army arrived just as the scouts had reported: fifty thousand men.

Triarch Daevon sat atop his black Tolosi destrier, his golden cloak draped over his blood-red armor. His sharp purple eyes narrowed as he studied the enemy formation across the vast, dusty plain.

Was he truly looking for battle?

Daevon’s fingers tightened around the reins.

 Was this a trick? Or worse—were reinforcements coming?

He exhaled slowly, turning his gaze toward the landscape. To his left, the Red Serpent River flowed steadily toward the great Lake Lysara. It had always been called that—since the days of the Rhoynar, before even the Freehold’s conquests. But now, the Targaryen king—this polluted mongrel, this false heir of Valyria—had dared to rename them.

Lake Lysara was now Lake Jocelyn.

The Red Serpent was now River Aemon.

The gall. The insult.

The Freehold’s legacy lived on in Volantis, in the blood of the Tigers, in men like Daevon—not in this Westerosi pretender. His jaw clenched. By nightfall, these lands would be cleansed of the Targaryen’s false rule.

The sound of approaching hooves snapped him out of his thoughts. Xaerion Maegyr rode up beside him, his golden-brown hair tied back, his armor glinting in the sun.

“They’ve placed their best troops in the center,” Xaerion reported.

Daevon’s gaze remained fixed on the enemy. “Are you sure?”

Xaerion nodded. “Their knights and the troops they call the Silver Shields are in the center—along with their famed cataphracts, the same ones he used in Dorne.”

Daevon narrowed his eyes. Across the field, the Westerosi formation stretched out like a great iron wall. And yet… something was wrong. The center was too strong, and the flanks were too weak. Why?

He could see their banners fluttering, their shields gleaming, their knights standing resolute in the midday heat. The Targaryen king himself would be somewhere behind that line.

Perhaps he truly had gone mad in his grief.

Perhaps he thought brute force alone could carry the day.

Or perhaps he had another plan.

Daevon’s instincts screamed it was the latter. But it did not matter.

“Match their formation,” Daevon ordered.

Xaerion frowned. “The day will end by the time we fully shift formations.”

Daevon nodded, his voice calm. “Then it will be easier to do it again tomorrow.”

Xaerion hesitated, then gave a sharp nod, turning his horse and riding off to relay the order. Daevon remained still, watching—trying to see through the Targaryen king’s eyes, trying to decipher what Alyxander Targaryen was planning.

====

The sun rose blood-red over the Red Fields, bathing the battlefield in an eerie glow. Daevon stood at the edge of his command tent, gazing over the endless expanse of dust and death.

Inside, his officers had gathered, murmuring among themselves.

“The enemy formation has not changed, my Triarch,” one of the scouts reported. “And the Westerosi king himself has been spotted leading the center.”

Daevon turned slowly. “He rides with his men?”

“Yes, my Triarch.”

The room tensed. Xaerion Maegyr stepped forward, his face twisted with anticipation.

“Then we should attack!” he urged. “They have marched for days. Their men must be exhausted. We should crush this worm and end the war here and now!”

Before Daevon could respond, a low, firm voice cut through the tent.

“No.” Patriarch Orvyn Damaros, the commander of the Qohorik forces, stepped forward. “Today is the Black Sabbath,” he said, his voice zealous. “We cannot attack. The gods will not favor us.”

Xaerion snorted in disgust. “Damn you and your Black Goat,” he spat. “While you sit and pray to your corpse-eating god, the Targaryen scum still live. We should slaughter them now!”

The room fell still.

Orvyn’s face darkened like a storm. “How dare you?” he growled. “How dare you speak such blasphemous words of the Great Black Goat?”

Before anyone could react, the Qohorik Patriarch lunged at Xaerion.

The tent erupted into chaos as the two men clashed, knocking over the wooden war table and sending maps and figures tumbling to the ground.

Xaerion caught Orvyn by the throat, shoving him back, but the Qohorik was a brute of a man, and with a roar of fury, he drove his fist into Xaerion’s jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

Swords were drawn. Men rushed forward, grabbing the two commanders before blood could be spilled.

Daevon rose from his seat, his patience wearing thin. “Enough.”

His voice cut through the madness like a blade. Everyone froze.

Xaerion wiped the blood from his split lip, glaring at Orvyn. Orvyn, breathing heavily, still radiated fury.

Daevon looked at them both with cold disdain. “I did not plan to attack today either,” he admitted.

Silence.

Xaerion blinked. “What?”

Daevon turned toward the tent entrance, gesturing toward the battlefield. “Did no one notice the wind?” he asked dryly.

They followed his gaze. Outside, a storm of dust had risen, carried by the fierce winds sweeping across the Red Fields. The air was thick with sand and grit, obscuring vision, making it impossible to see beyond a few hundred yards.

A battle in these conditions would be madness.

“The Targaryen will not attack in this weather,” Daevon said calmly. “And neither will we.”

Xaerion ground his teeth but nodded reluctantly.

Outside, both armies stood in formation, staring at each other through the dusty haze. The sun climbed high. No one moved. The day stretched long and slow—men shifting in their armor, gripping their weapons tightly, waiting for a battle that never came.

====

The next day. The air was still; the sky was a brilliant blue, the dust storms having finally settled.

Today, there was blood.

The Dothraki, eager for battle, charged the enemy flanks, screaming their war cries and thundering across the field. But they were not facing frightened peasants. The Westerosi cavalry—especially Alyxander’s cataphracts—met them head-on. The Dothraki suffered heavy losses; for every knight that fell, five Dothraki were cut down.

From the hills, Daevon watched. And yet, he still did not give the order to attack. He remained calm, waiting, watching.

More troubling than the skirmishes were the whispers spreading through the camp. Spies had been visiting the mercenary tents—rumors of gold, of treachery, of promises made in secret. If the Targaryens bought enough captains, the League’s flanks would crumble before the battle even began.

“What have you learned?” Daevon demanded.

Xaerion stood before him, looking frustrated. “Some of the captains were insulted when we questioned their loyalties,” he admitted. “It will take at least a day to be sure.”

Daevon’s expression darkened. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. They needed to attack. They needed to end this now.

Xaerion hesitated, then spoke. “We should attack anyway.”

Daevon looked at him. “Why?”

“Because of yesterday’s report: the scouts have spotted another Westerosi army marching this way. If we don’t crush Alyxander now, we’ll be fighting two armies instead of one.”

Daevon closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “No.”

Xaerion’s jaw tightened. “Triarch—”

Daevon cut him off. “Make sure those mercenary fucks are loyal first.” His purple eyes flashed with irritation. “Then we give battle.”

Xaerion’s fists clenched, but he nodded.

And so, another day was lost.

=====

His eyes snapped open, heart hammering, as he instinctively reached for the dagger beneath his pillow. Outside his tent, chaos reigned—shouts, screams, the clash of metal against metal.

Suddenly, Xaerion burst in. “My Triarch!” he shouted, breathless, his face slick with sweat. “The Targaryens—they attacked the camp!”

Daevon bolted upright, the haze of sleep vanishing in an instant. “What?!” he roared.

“Alyxander himself led his cavalry here,” Xaerion said, his voice filled with panic. “They struck fast, burned many of the men’s tents, then pulled back before we could begin the counterattack.”

For the first time in the war, Daevon Laenor saw red. His entire body trembled—not with fear, but with rage. 

“No more waiting,” he growled, his voice low and seething.

He grabbed his armor and began fastening it with brutal speed. “Prepare the men. I will end this today.”

Xaerion grinned, exhilarated. “At last,” he murmured, before turning and striding out of the tent, barking orders.

Daevon took a deep breath, forcing down his fury, then stepped outside. The first light of dawn crept over the Red Fields, casting long, golden streaks across the battlefield.

A flurry of activity filled the vast League encampment as thousands of soldiers assembled. It took hours for the entire army to form up—lines of disciplined Volantene legions, brutal Qohorik Guardians, zealous Norvoshi warriors, and restless mercenaries, some of whom looked uncertain.

Massive war elephants, adorned in shining gold armor, stood in their ranks, snorting impatiently while their handlers murmured calming words. The Dothraki horsemen rode in wild circles at the far flank, braided hair whipping in the wind, eager to unleash their fury.

As Daevon rode through the lines, his golden cloak billowed behind him, his gilded armor gleaming under the rising sun. His sharp ears caught murmurs from the ranks.

“We didn’t even have breakfast,” one soldier grumbled.

“I’m fucking hungry—didn’t even get a chance to take a shit!” another muttered.

Satisfied with the formation, Daevon, Xaerion, Orvyn, and Anvos rode to the rear, positioning themselves where they could survey the battlefield.

Then, in the distance—

The enemy moved.

Alyxander’s banners fluttered in the wind, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen a bold, defiant red stain against the pale morning sky.

Daevon narrowed his eyes. He turned to his officers. “ We meet them head-on.”

War horns bellowed. The League’s massive army began to advance, an unstoppable tide of steel and flesh.

From his vantage point, Daevon watched with grim satisfaction. He would grind these Westerosi—and their half-breed Valyrian king—into the dirt.

.

.

.

Daemon POV

“Rhaenys lives,” Alyxander’s voice was steady—almost too calm—as he turned his head away from the parchment in his hand.

Daemon exhaled sharply, a rare wave of relief washing over him. “Thank the gods,” he muttered, running a hand through his silver hair.

He paused. The relief was fleeting. “And Meleys?”

Alyxander’s tired, haunted eyes met his. The silence was answer enough.

Daemon felt his hands clench into fists—then came red-hot rage.

“Damn it!” He roared as he hurled his goblet against the rich crimson cloth of the tent. The red wine splattered across it but refused to stain the fabric.

Alyxander set the parchment aside. “It seems we must be very cautious with our dragons from now on.”

Daemon’s blood boiled. “How?! How did they do it?! I don’t understand! Dragons can’t be killed! They are fire made flesh!”

He began pacing, his hands gesturing wildly. “It was never supposed to be like this!”

His voice rose, nearly shaking the tent. “That bloody whore in Braavos must have something to do with this! That vile alchemist—wretched sorcery!”

His anger spiraled, his mind racing through every possibility, every way this could have happened. Dragons were untouchable. They were power. They were eternal. And yet one had died—nearly a hundred years after the last one was killed by a lucky scorpion bolt.

Alyxander’s voice cut through Daemon’s fury like a blade.

“Cousin.”

“Daemon.” Firmer this time.

Daemon froze. He looked at Alyxander. The king sat there, his face impassive, but Daemon saw it now: the rage beneath the surface—controlled, sharpened, ready to be unleashed.

Daemon exhaled, forcing himself to calm.

Alyxander continued, his tone steady, “From what we know, the weapon was a massive scorpion, larger than any we’ve seen. And its bolt was… guided.”

Daemon frowned. “Guided?”

Alyxander nodded. “By water.”

Daemon’s breath hitched. “Rhoynar magic.” The words tasted vile.

Alyxander gave a slight nod. “So it would seem.”

Daemon felt his rage boiling again.

Alyxander leaned back, watching him with calculating eyes. “It will not happen again.”

Daemon breathed heavily, nostrils flaring. Then—he let out a rough, humorless laugh. 

“Enough.” He shook his head. “Let’s talk about something else. All this talk of dragon-killing is souring my mood.”

Daemon smirked and added, “How are the parasites in the capital?”

Alyxander let out a dry chuckle. “Afraid.”

Daemon grinned. “Afraid? The great lords of Westeros? What a sight that must be.”

Alyxander leaned back slightly, amusement flickering across his tired features. “Some of them might even be looking for that poison the League used on our dragons.”

Daemon’s grin faltered, his expression darkening. “Those fucks.” He exhaled sharply. “Why do we need them again?”

Alyxander sighed, rubbing his temple. “To run the kingdoms, Daemon.”

Daemon scoffed.

Alyxander studied him for a moment before shaking his head. Then, after a brief pause, he spoke again, voice lower. “You were right about Otto.”

Daemon’s brows shot up in amusement. “Well, well, well…” He smirked. “What did that bottom-feeder do to get on your bad side?”

Alyxander rolled his eyes.

Daemon carried on with exaggerated mockery. “Aren’t you the one who told me, ‘Otto is a smart man, Daemon. I need him working for me, Daemon. Fuck off, Daemon. You’re paranoid, Daemon’?”

Alyxander gave him a look, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “Enough, enough,” he waved a dismissive hand before exhaling. “Remember Otto’s daughter, Alicent?”

Daemon leaned back, interest piqued. “Ah, the one who looks like us? Beautiful, yes, but not Valyrian-beautiful.” He smirked. “Like… well, our niece.”

Alyxander’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he let it slide. “She spent the past month trying to get close to me.”

Daemon groaned, rolling his eyes. “That fuck.”

Alyxander continued, “A week before I sailed for Dragonstone, I found her in my chambers, naked as the day she was born.”

Daemon burst into laughter.

Alyxander remained impassive. “Myriah has been dead for only four months.”

Daemon’s laughter died abruptly.

Alyxander’s jaw tightened. “And that grasper… that scheming wretch…” His voice trailed off, edged with anger.

Daemon watched him closely, letting the silence stretch. Then, with an utterly shameless grin, he asked, “So… did you fuck her?”

Alyxander shot him a glare.

Daemon raised his hands in mock surrender. “Cousin, you almost fucked half the whores in Dorne on our way there after Gael died.”

Alyxander’s glare didn’t soften. “It’s not like that, Daemon. Myriah—”

He was interrupted by a sudden entrance: Ser Lymond Vaith, one of the Kingsguard.

“Your Grace, urgent news.”

Alyxander immediately straightened, his amusement vanishing. “What is it?”

Ser Lymond bowed slightly. “The scouts have returned. The Volantene army has received reinforcements. According to their reports—” He hesitated. “Fifty thousand more men.”

Daemon’s smirk vanished.

“Fuck.”

=====

Daemon looked across the battlefield toward the vast League encampment, sprawled across the ruins of Oloria—and now, from the looks of things, the ruins of the budding city of Alyxandria.

It was a shame, he thought. The city had been shaping up to be something grand. Alyxander had envisioned it as the heart of the Valyrian Marches, a jewel to rival Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh—a place where Daemon himself was meant to rule. Instead, it now lay in ashes, trampled by the Volantenes.

Daemon exhaled sharply, gripping the reins of his horse. His cousin was a genius. He had known that since childhood—through their rivalry in their wild teenage years, and in his swift conquest of Dorne. But what he was planning now?

Utter madness.

Before them stood an army of a hundred thousand men—the greatest assembled force in the Free Cities since the days of Valyria itself. They had only half that number.

Daemon had fully expected Alyxander to call a retreat. The sensible course would be to fall back and regroup with reinforcements. They had left twenty thousand men in Myr and the coastal strongholds. The Martells were coming, the Reachmen too. All they had to do was hold out a little longer on the defensive.

But Alyxander? For some gods-damned reason, he wanted to stay and fight.

Daemon spurred his horse forward, riding back through the lines of assembled men. He passed lords and knights fastening their armor, men sharpening their blades, and commanders shouting orders. All were assembling on the field exactly as Alyxander had commanded.

He took in the sight of the center, where Alyxander had positioned his most elite warriors. The Silver Shields stood at attention, a gleaming wall of steel. Their long pikes rose high above them. These were no ordinary levies—these were trained soldiers, disciplined and drilled like the Ghiscari legions of old. Beside them stood the Cataphracts, Alyxander’s heavy cavalry, each man encased in full plate armor, his warhorse just as heavily armored. Each knight was like a moving fortress.

To their sides, ten thousand knights from the Stormlands, the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Riverlands. These were not fresh recruits; they were seasoned warriors, men who had fought in Dorne, in the Stepstones, in conquest after conquest.

Then Daemon’s gaze shifted to the flanks. Here, thirty thousand levies were deployed, split evenly between left and right. Daemon frowned. The weakest portion of their army was on the flanks.

Riding up to Alyxander—who sat atop Bucephalus, his great black destrier—Daemon saw the King of Westeros sitting tall in the saddle, expression unreadable, eyes locked on the horizon where the League’s army was forming.

Daemon’s horse came to a stop beside him.  “Are we to give battle?” he asked, hoping—praying—his cousin would finally see reason and call for a retreat.

Alyxander did not answer at first. His gaze remained fixed on the distant enemy, where a hundred thousand men assembled. Finally, he spoke.

 “No.”

Daemon exhaled slightly in relief.

Alyxander continued, his voice calm yet edged with amusement. “Let’s see what they will do.”

Frowning, Daemon followed his cousin’s gaze. The League’s army was forming up. Daemon watched for a while, then turned back to Alyxander, noticing the small smile on his face. He studied his cousin carefully—the slight curve of his lips, the way his piercing violet eyes flickered with amusement. Daemon knew Alyxander too well. That was not the smile of a man leading his army to certain death. His cousin had a plan, and Daemon was a bit embarrassed he hadn’t figured it out yet. Too proud to ask, he said nothing.

Alyxander finally turned toward him. “There will be no battle today.”

Daemon’s grip on his reins tightened. “We will do the same tomorrow. The same formation.”

Daemon simply nodded.

The next day, both armies assembled once more. Alyxander led his fifty thousand men onto the battlefield, arranging them in the exact same formation. Once again, the League’s forces did the same.

Hours passed. Neither side moved.

The wind carried the tension between both armies, accompanied by the distant clinking of armor and the restless neighing of horses. Yet no order was given. Alyxander simply watched—studying, waiting. By midday, it was clear there would be no battle. Both armies withdrew, returning to their camps.

The same thing happened again. And again.

Each morning, Alyxander marched his forces out, arranged them in perfect formation, and stood across the field from the League’s massive army. Each morning, Triarch Daevon Laenor and his commanders mirrored these actions. And each time, nothing happened.

Neither side committed. Neither side advanced. It was a war of nerves—a battle of willpower before any steel was drawn.

Daemon watched his cousin closely. Alyxander was waiting. Waiting for what, Daemon did not know. He had even swallowed his pride and asked, but all Alyxander would say was to call a war council in the utmost secrecy that night.

=====

The flickering candlelight illuminated the faces of the gathered lords, their expressions a mix of curiosity, skepticism, and anticipation. Daemon noted that many were afraid, even those most loyal to Alyxander.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching his cousin intently. Alyxander stood at the head of the table. Before him, on the large wooden surface, lay a detailed map of the battlefield. Small carved pieces represented their fifty thousand men against the League’s one hundred thousand.

Daemon smirked, breaking the silence. “So, the same thing tomorrow, then?”

A ripple of laughter spread through the tent—nervous, uncertain. The lords chuckled, but their eyes flickered with worry. How long could they sustain this war of patience?

Lord Tarth, broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, leaned forward, placing his large hands on the table.

“Your Grace,” he said, his deep voice cautious, “are we waiting for reinforcements?”

Alyxander’s gaze snapped to him, his expression impassive. 

“No,” he answered. “There will be no reinforcements.”

Silence fell.

The laughter died instantly.

The lords stiffened, exchanging uneasy glances. Daemon straightened, intrigued.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Lord Connington asked.

Alyxander’s lips curled into a small smirk. He reached forward, his hand brushing against the carved pieces, adjusting them with deliberate care.

“Tomorrow, we will end it.”

Unease in the tent shifted to curiosity. Every man leaned closer. Daemon watched his cousin with sharp interest.

Alyxander gestured to the map, where the League’s massive center formation stood strong. 

“Before dawn,” he began, “we will attack their camp. I myself will lead the cataphracts.”

He moved one of the wooden markers. “This will rouse them for battle. And as they scramble to form their lines, we’ll already be in formation—but not the one they’ve come to expect these past three days.”

His fingers traced the flanks, shifting the Silver Shields, the knights, and the cataphracts.

“The levies will be in the center.”

The tent fell silent. Daemon raised an eyebrow and sat up straight. A ripple of shock passed through the gathered lords. The levies? Their weakest forces, at the center?

Lord Rosby scoffed. “Your Grace, the League’s center is composed of their strongest: the Volantene legions, the Qohorik knights, Unsullied, Norvoshi axemen—”

“I know what they have,” Alyxander cut in sharply, pressing his fingers against the Silver Shields.

“The flanks will be our strongest forces—our Silver Shields, our knights, and our cataphracts.”

Daemon felt a slow grin spread across his lips.

Oh, you clever bastard.

Alyxander continued, his voice firm. “I will personally lead the left flank—alongside the Dragonknights.”

These five hundred knights formed the king’s elite personal guard. They were the finest warriors in Westeros, each handpicked from every realm. Among them, the seven greatest bore the white cloaks of the Kingsguard. Alyxander would be surrounded by the deadliest fighters on the field, ensuring he was as safe as any man could be in battle.

“The Silver Shields will be instructed to stretch out their line as much as possible as they advance. They must hold. We need to hit the enemy flanks hard—our strongest forces against their weakest.”

Lord Tarth scratched his beard, his expression doubtful. “That will be difficult.”

Another lord, Lord Strong, shifted uneasily. “What about our center? If their best troops are concentrated there, they could move to support their flanks before we break them.”

Alyxander smiled. “I understand Triarch Daevon. I know what he will do.”

All eyes turned to him expectantly. Alyxander pointed to the levies in the center. “They will not fight. They will advance—slowly.”

Daemon’s eyes widened. “You mean to paralyze their center?”

Alyxander nodded. “Yes. They still believe we’ll fight with the formation they’ve seen for days. They expect our strongest in the center. If we keep the levies moving forward—advancing but not truly engaging—the League’s center will be forced to hold its position, unable to commit anywhere else.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the council.

Daemon let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “This might work. Or it might get us all killed.” 

He grinned. “But what the fuck—it sounds fun.”

A few lords managed uneasy chuckles, though the tension remained palpable.

Daemon leaned forward, eyeing the board. “And how do we finish this?”

Alyxander’s smirk deepened.

=====

The battlefield lay still, save for the distant thunder of drums and the glimmer of steel beneath the rising sun. The Targaryen army stood ready for battle.

Daemon Targaryen found himself on the right flank, commanding half of the Silver Shields, a contingent of seasoned Westerosi knights, and a small number of cataphracts. Most of the cataphracts were on the left flank with Alyxander.

He smirked, watching the League’s army arrange itself in the same formation as before—their strongest forces in the center, with mercenaries, Dothraki, and auxiliaries on the flanks.

His grin widened. Alyxander had led the raid on the enemy camp himself and returned unharmed; Daemon could still see the smoke rising from the League’s tents.

A horn sounded—the time had come.

In the Targaryen center, thirty thousand levies advanced slowly, shields raised in a cautious march. On either side of them, Daemon’s right flank and Alyxander’s left surged forward—much faster than the center.

As the armies drew nearer, Daemon gripped Dark Sister tightly and spurred his horse. The Silver Shields lowered their pikes, and the knights unsheathed their blades.

With a thunderous clash, the two flanks met.

Daemon struck first. A Dothraki scream rang out as a rider lunged toward him, arakh flashing in the morning light. Daemon twisted, Dark Sister slicing clean through the man’s chest. Blood sprayed as the rider tumbled from his horse.

A Tyroshi mercenary with an axe came at him next. Daemon leaned low, letting the blade whistle over his head before driving Dark Sister into the man’s throat. Blood poured down the knight’s fine-plated armor as Daemon let out a cold laugh.

All around him, the Silver Shields pressed forward with their long pikes, cutting through the mercenary ranks like a scythe through wheat. The knights from the Stormlands crashed into the enemy line, swords flashing, lances shattering on impact. Men screamed, horses reared, and steel clashed on steel. Daemon reveled in it.

Alyxander’s gambit was working.

He saw it clearly: the League’s center—their strongest contingent—stood waiting, paralyzed, unable to turn and aid their flanks. The Volantene legions, Qohorik Guardians, and Norvosi axemen remained idle, expecting a fierce clash in the center. Meanwhile, the slow advance of the levies kept them in place.

Daemon continued his bloody work, cutting down foes as he rode across the battlefield. Then he heard it—a thunderous bellow.

The war elephants.

He turned his head to see them: massive beasts lumbering in the distance, their immense silhouettes blurred by dust and smoke. Instead of launching a coordinated charge, the elephants were in chaos. Some were turning away; others were panicking and rampaging through their own ranks.

Alyxander’s trap was succeeding.

Daemon grinned savagely, realizing exactly what was happening. The men Alyxander had assigned to disrupt the elephants had done their job. The clamor of war horns, clashing shields, and terrified screams was driving the elephants mad. Handlers lost control, the huge beasts rearing up and trampling their own troops in blind panic.

One gigantic elephant, its armor gleaming with Volantene sigils, swung its head wildly, the tusks impaling a Norvosi axeman and sending him flying. Another elephant turned completely around, its handler screaming as he was thrown from its back, landing with a sickening thud among the corpses below.

“Look at the beasts go!” one of the knights shouted.

Daemon laughed. “That’s what happens when you bring cattle to war.”

Some elephants tried to flee, stampeding away from the carnage. Others were not so lucky. A group of archers and javelin throwers waited for the perfect moment. As the elephants ran in confusion, the order was given.

A storm of javelins and arrows filled the sky, finding the soft spots behind their ears and under their thick hides. One elephant gave a piercing shriek, stumbling forward before crashing onto a group of Volantene soldiers, crushing them instantly.

Others thundered blindly into the League’s center, slamming into the elite troops—impaling soldiers on their tusks and sending bodies flying like rag dolls.

The battle raged for hours, the sun climbing high and turning the Red Fields into a furnace of blood, steel, and dust. Daemon slammed Dark Sister through another mercenary’s chest, the blade puncturing chainmail as the man gave a gurgling scream before collapsing into the dirt.

All around him, the League’s mercenaries and auxiliaries were dying by the hundreds—their ranks buckling, wavering, and breaking.

Then, through the haze of battle, Daemon spotted something that quickened his pulse with excitement. The left flank of the League—where Alyxander led the charge—was collapsing. Daemon could clearly make out the black banners of the Dragon Knights, the Silver Shields gleaming like a moving wall of steel, and the cataphracts crushing their foes beneath iron hooves.

Alyxander was at the front, his knights and elite soldiers carving through the enemy with ruthless efficiency. The League’s left flank shattered like glass struck by a hammer—and Alyxander did not stop.

Daemon recognized the maneuver they had planned. He gritted his teeth and roared at his men, “Push forward! Break them!”

The Silver Shields with him surged ahead, pikes stabbing with deadly precision, cutting down any mercenaries still foolish enough to stand and fight. The knights rode harder, their swords and lances ripping through the panicked Dothraki and sellsword ranks as they fled.

Daemon spurred his horse forward, swinging Dark Sister in a wide arc and cutting down two men with a single blow. The right flank did not hold out for long. Within the hour, Daemon and his forces had fully encircled the League’s center.

The Volantene legions, Qohorik Guardians, Unsullied, and Norvosi Axemen—the elite core of the League’s army—were now completely trapped.

“We’ve won!” Daemon roared, though his voice was nearly drowned out by the din of battle.

He scanned the field for his king and cousin. It did not take long to find him. At the very heart of the battlefield, Alyxander was locked in single combat with Triarch Daevon Laenor, the supreme commander of the League. Daevon, a towering figure clad in crimson armor, wielded a golden scimitar and fought atop his warhorse with desperate ferocity.

Alyxander, astride Bucephalus, was a whirlwind of steel. His sword flashed as he parried every strike with effortless precision. Daemon watched in awe as his cousin twisted in the saddle, evading a deadly slash before countering with a brutal cut to Daevon’s arm. The Volantene triarch roared in pain, blood spilling down his armor.

He lunged, scimitar aimed for Alyxander’s head—

But Alyxander ducked. In one swift motion, he drove his blade through Daevon’s throat. Blood gushed from the wound as Daevon managed only a strangled gasp. Alyxander tore his sword free and, with a single powerful swing, Triarch Daevon Laenor’s head tumbled from his shoulders.

Daemon had just reached them when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye—a Volantene officer, spear leveled at Alyxander’s back. The man was poised to thrust, aiming for the King’s spine.

Daemon spurred his horse forward, raising Dark Sister high. As the spear lunged toward Alyxander, Daemon brought Dark Sister down. The officer’s head flew from his shoulders, his body collapsing from the saddle before he even realized he was dead.

Alyxander turned just in time to see Daemon smirking at him. “You’re welcome, cousin.”

Alyxander snorted, flicking blood from his sword. Then, he lifted his gaze, sweeping it across the trapped remnants of the League’s force—once a 100,000-strong army, now a doomed mass of panicked men.

Alyxander raised his sword high. “No quarter. Kill them all.”

Daemon grinned wickedly, spurring his horse into a charge and joining the massacre. The trapped League soldiers screamed in terror as they were cut down without mercy. The Silver Shields advanced relentlessly, their pikes impaling hundreds. The cataphracts and knights rode through the chaos, their lances skewering men by the dozens.

The Unsullied held their ground the longest, but with enemies striking them from all sides, even they eventually collapsed into disarray. It was annihilation—a complete and utter defeat for the League.

The Red Fields ran with rivers of blood, bodies of Volantenes, Qohorik soldiers, and Norvosi axemen piled atop one another. Daemon rode through the carnage, Dark Sister dripping with gore, laughing as he cut down any who dared raise a weapon against him.

This was victory.

This was vengeance.

This was the wrath of House Targaryen.

.

.