Chapter 127: Baptism of Blood and Fire

Looking around, the ground was stained crimson with blood. Tents burned fiercely, and thick smoke billowed from the collapsed wooden barricades. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of scorched flesh and fire, mingled with the ragged, fearful breaths of the yellow-cloaked guards.

In the distance, soldiers lay sprawled across the upturned, muddy grass, awaiting the final release of death. Occasionally, groans echoed—haunting cries trapped between the realms of the living and the damned.

Nearby, mutilated remains lay scattered, crushed into an unrecognizable, bloody pulp beneath trampling hooves—human or horse, it was impossible to tell.

The short, stout master shivered violently. This is hell. How did I end up here? He should have been lounging in the garden atop his pyramid, feeling the soft curves of a maid's chest beneath his feet, sipping dark beer and Myrish firewine, feasting on roasted lark with black truffles and caviar from the Sea of Sighs.

Yesterday's army of a hundred thousand had been reduced to wreckage by morning. One battle truly decided it all.

Too cruel.

Yet, as the commander of the coalition forces, he wasn't without his merits. Shaking off his dazed thoughts, his bloodshot eyes flared with defiance as he roared, "The sons of the Harpy will never surrender!"

Daenerys didn't waste words. She pulled back a few steps, and with the metallic clash of armor, a hundred armored cavalry dismounted. They retrieved bronze shields the size of kettle lids from their saddles, swiftly forming a solid shield wall before the small wooden fort.

The massed cavalry parted, revealing a small white dragon crouched low to the ground.

Daenerys, astride her silver mare, gently stroked the white dragon's head. "Give them something to remember."

"Hisss-gaaa!"

The white dragon braced itself on its forelimbs, powerful hind legs digging into the earth as it stomped forward, stopping just behind the shield wall.

"Dracarys!" Daenerys shouted in Valyrian.

With a sharp clang, the shield wall split open, creating a window the size of a basin. In a flash, the white dragon thrust its slender neck through the gap.

WHOOM!

Just as the master was lost in bewilderment, a blinding red light erupted before him. A searing torrent of crimson dragonfire, nearly eight meters long, blasted through the wooden barricades, setting the archers standing beyond ablaze.

"AHH—FIRE! I'm burning, help me!"

"My eyes! My face! Mother, save me—"

"A dragon! Gods above, she truly is the Mother of Dragons! No one can stand against a real dragon!"

Though the dragonfire didn't hit many directly, the soldiers in yellow cloaks were already broken. They dropped their bows and crossbows, fleeing in terror, desperate to escape the flames.

"Advance!" Daenerys commanded, raising her sword.

"Hoo-ah! Hoo-ah! Hoo-ah!" The hundred shield-bearers marched forward in unison, their chants echoing like thunder.

CRASH—BOOM!

The towering barricades collapsed amidst the roaring flames. Iron-shod boots crushed smoldering wood and seared earth as the shield wall advanced steadily into the enemy camp.

Daenerys led her white dragon behind them. Every few seconds, once the dragon had caught its breath, she'd shout, "Dracarys!"

The shield wall would open, and the dragon's maw would unleash another torrent of fire.

Flanking Daenerys on both sides and to the rear, a hundred armored cavalry rode in tight formation, guarding her fiercely.

Screams filled the camp, now a blazing inferno stretching over a hundred meters. Flames licked at tents and bodies alike, turning the once formidable fortifications into deathtraps. The towering wooden stakes that had once provided security now sealed the soldiers' doom. Ghis soldiers hacked desperately at the thick posts with curved blades, but it was futile.

Then came the final blow to their morale—someone wasn't quick enough to escape and took a blast of dragonfire straight to the face. Under the horrified gaze of his comrades, his eyes, face, and head melted like wax under a scorching flame, dripping into a dark red pool.

"I surrender! I surrender!" the master cried, collapsing at the entrance of his lavish tent, his face smeared with tears and snot.

But amidst the chaos—the screams, the clash of steel, and the roaring flames—Daenerys couldn't hear him.

Not that she intended to burn the slaver alive anyway. If she had, his gold-embroidered tent would've been ash long ago.

Finally, seeing the enemy formation completely shattered, Daenerys called off her dragon and shouted, "Surrender, and you'll be spared!"

Her soldiers roared in unison, "Surrender, and you'll be spared! Surrender, and you'll be spared!"

CLANG—THUD.

Weapons clattered to the ground as the once-proud soldiers in yellow cloaks dropped their arms, heads bowed in silent defeat, and knelt without a word.

"Aggo, bind them," Daenerys ordered her bloodriders, then turned with her iron-shielded cavalry, marching toward the next stubborn stronghold.

The camp stretched for three kilometers. With Ser Barristan and her armored cavalry—and her dragon—Daenerys cut a bloody path from north to south, east to west, then back again.

Though often shielded by hundreds of cavalry, Daenerys's own sword tasted blood more than once, and her armor rang with the impacts of enemy arrows.

No one was foolish enough to hold out after witnessing the devastation wrought by her dragon. Instead of waiting to be roasted alive, defenders mounted desperate charges—some on horseback, others on foot with spears and swords—launching suicidal assaults against her forces.

While not all 2,600 of her cavalry were fully armored, the five hundred elite guards at Daenerys's side were clad in heavy plate, the finest of her troops.

And she had a dragon.

Its mere presence crushed enemy morale, its terrifying roars and blazing fire reducing warhorses to quivering wrecks—some even collapsing under their riders.

Wave after wave of enemy forces broke against her like surf on stone. With her dragon and elite cavalry, Daenerys smashed through every charge with overwhelming force.

From dawn until noon, Daenerys was drenched in blood, so exhausted she nearly fell from her silver mare.

Several arrows were lodged in the gaps of the blood-stained, dark gray armor, with deep gashes etched into the arm guards and breastplate—evidence that she had fought with everything she had.

Hmm, this also proves just how important good equipment is!

As the cavalry regrouped with the Unsullied forces ahead, the battle came to a temporary halt.

Daenerys sat on a charred, broken stump, gently running her fingers over the seven or eight chipped notches the size of white beans along her bloodied longsword. She couldn't help but recall the short, fierce mercenary whose curved blade she had cleaved in two with a single strike.

That brief clash had been the most perilous encounter she faced in today's battle.

At the time, both sides' cavalry were about to collide when Little White roared from behind. The enemy horses, unaccustomed to "dragon's essence," buckled under fear. One of the enemy riders lost his footing in the stirrups, and propelled by momentum, flew seven or eight meters, landing right in front of Daenerys' silver mare.

Unfortunately, her mare stumbled as its forelegs gave out, sending Daenerys crashing uncontrollably to the ground.

Though nearby cavalrymen immediately halted to protect her, Daenerys rolled straight into the chaos, face-to-face with the dismounted enemy rider.

No words were exchanged. Both raised their weapons simultaneously. Daenerys wielded her two-handed sword; her opponent, a slender arakh.

The scene mirrored Jorah's battles with the Dothraki. Daenerys couldn't match her opponent's speed. Sparks flew as her arms, thighs, and chest endured relentless slashes.

Thankfully, she had once sought advice from the old knight Barristan on handling such situations.

Hmm, she'd also asked Jorah Mormont.

Jorah had told her not to waste time trying to track an enemy's blade—it was futile. Instead, she should fearlessly aim for vital spots, regardless of incoming strikes.

Barristan, however, had cautioned her. While Jorah's brute-force approach wasn't wrong, it wasn't suited for her. She was a woman, clad in thinner armor, and lacked Jorah's raw strength.

Less strength meant the enemy could block her attacks. Lighter armor meant she couldn't withstand as many blows.

Yes, even plate armor could be compromised.

Another thing: arakhs were much lighter than greatswords—typically around four or five pounds. Daenerys' hybrid sword weighed over ten, and Barristan's even reached twenty. While Jorah's strength could still overpower an arakh's defense, Daenerys lacked the same force. If her blow was blocked, it would truly be stopped.

For Daenerys, the best strategy wasn't targeting vital points outright. Instead, she should first disrupt the enemy's rhythm, then seek an opening for a fatal strike.

How to disrupt an enemy's rhythm?

Watch the hand holding the weapon, judge the swing range based on shoulder movements. Precisely predicting blade positions in this "low-skill" world was nearly impossible. Then, aim for the part of the enemy's body furthest from the blade's range. Without armor, a hit would certainly injure them.

If the enemy ignored the attack, trade blow for blow—Daenerys had full armor and would hold the advantage. If the enemy blocked, the large movement would create an opening.

The nature of that opening varied from foe to foe.

Just as Barristan said, when Daenerys applied this tactic, she discovered a critical flaw: the mercenary's arakh was far inferior in material to her steel sword!

Her sword sustained only a grain-sized nick, while the enemy's blade showed a deep notch the size of a pinky joint.

She couldn't help recalling Barristan's words: high-quality steel is rare. In Westeros, only the smiths of King's Landing could craft fine weapons. Most mercenaries, even nobles, wielded poorly made iron swords. This was why bronze weapons hadn't been phased out in Qarth and Slaver's Bay.

Indeed, Qarth's camel cavalry used bronze arakhs and spears not because they were poor. On the contrary, no other city-state could claim greater wealth.

They used bronze simply because it sufficed against their current enemies.

But back to the matter at hand.

Once Daenerys realized her foe was one of those "poor mercenaries with shoddy weapons," she struck his arakh with full force.

The hapless man sensed her intent, but he couldn't avoid blocking. Without his blade, he'd have to use his body. Finally, with a sharp "clang," his battered sword snapped in two. Daenerys didn't pause—her blade continued its arc, cleaving his skull in half.

Reflecting on this, she silently vowed to herself, "No matter what, I must acquire a full set of Valyrian steel armor... and a Valyrian steel sword."

Grey Worm navigated through the scent of blood and fire, stepping over smoking, fallen barricades. He entered the ruined camp and found Daenerys sitting silently on a charred wooden beam.

Her white dragon lay beside her, gnawing on the charred carcass of a warhorse.

Sensing someone's approach, the dragon lifted its fierce head, nostrils flaring with small flames. Upon recognizing Grey Worm, it lowered its head and resumed sucking on a blood-soaked thigh bone.

"Your Grace, how should we deal with the surrounded mercenary companies?" Grey Worm asked respectfully.

He had noticed the blood and sword marks on her armor, his respect for her deepening even further.

The Mother of Dragons could not only command great beasts but also fight like a warrior. How could one not be in awe?

Indeed, though Daenerys faced peril in today's battle, the trial of blood and steel had more than doubled her prestige among her soldiers.

(End of Chapter)

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