The Ruins of Ar Noy

Chapter 36 – The Ruins of Ar Noy

296 AC - Ruins of Ar Noy

POV: Aerion Targaryen

The ruins of Ar Noy stood as a broken memory of a war long past. Once a proud Rhoynar city, it had fallen in the Valyrian conquest, its people slaughtered or sent into exile. The dragonlords had burned its towers, shattered its walls, and turned its streets to rivers of molten stone. What remained were crumbling fortifications, shattered bridges, and the bones of an empire lost to time.

Now, centuries later, Aerion Targaryen stood at its heart, preparing it for war once more.

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The Making of a Fortress

Ar Noy was ruined, but ruins could be turned into a trap. For days, Aerion's army had transformed the shattered city into a death pit for the enemy.

Trenches were dug and lined with wooden stakes, hidden beneath dirt and leaves, waiting to gut charging horses.

Mud pits were created by flooding parts of the battlefield, designed to cripple the speed of the Dothraki riders.

Narrow pathways were blocked with wooden barricades and rubble, forcing the enemy into tight kill zones where their numbers meant nothing.

Archers took position atop the ruined walls, ready to rain death upon the approaching horde.

Aerion's men were not fools. They knew the Dothraki fought like a storm, their strength in their speed, in their ability to strike and vanish before an army could react.

But storms could be broken.

The Dothraki charged blindly, believing their horses made them unstoppable. But here, among the ruins, on the softened, broken ground, they would find themselves trapped.

And when they faltered, when their charge collapsed—Aerion would strike.

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The Enemy's Intentions

Aerion stood atop the ruined walls, gazing across the vast Rhoyne, its waters reflecting the pale glow of the moon. His mind worked through every possibility.

Khal Drogo had raised the largest khalasar in living memory, yet he had done little true damage.

His riders had burned small villages, taken slaves, but this was not the way of conquest. The Dothraki did not build empires—they pillaged and disappeared into the Grass Sea.

So why was he marching west?

Aerion already knew the answer.

Viserys.

His so-called brother, the Beggar King, had spent years selling promises to merchant princes, begging for an army to take Westeros. But Viserys had no coin, no strength, no name worth following. So, like a desperate man clutching at fire, he had sold their sister to a savage.

Aerion clenched his fists.

Viserys had betrayed their house, their blood, for a Dothraki horde he did not understand. He had given Daenerys away as though she were chattel, and now he expected Khal Drogo to win back his throne for him.

But Viserys was a fool.

The Dothraki were not an army of Westerosi knights, bound by oaths and honor. They followed strength and conquest—and Drogo did not need Viserys to tell him what to do.

If Drogo won victories in the west, if his horde grew rich from conquest, what use would he have for a dragon without fire?

Aerion had no love for the usurpers sitting on the Iron Throne, but he knew one thing—Viserys Targaryen would never rule Westeros.

Not while he still lived.

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Daenerys Stormborn

Daenerys was the last true-born Targaryen princess, daughter of King Aerys II and sister to Rhaegar. She was his half-sister, yet she was closer to him than Viserys could ever be.

He had never met her, but he knew her name, her lineage, her worth.

And she was in chains.

Aerion had heard the stories. A princess sold like a common slave, married to a Dothraki savage, and now a prisoner in all but name.

Viserys had betrayed her, and now Khal Drogo marched west, likely to prove his strength before taking her with him.

Aerion would not allow it.

Daenerys was no slave, no trophy for a barbarian warlord. She was a Targaryen, blood of the dragon. If she was anything like Rhaegar, then she had fire in her veins—and she did not belong in a khalasar.

Aerion had raised his banners for his people, his cause, but now he marched for his sister as well.

She would not remain a captive.

She would be free.

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The Dothraki and Volantis

Drogo's true aim was still unclear, but one thing was certain—he would not march against Volantis.

Volantis was the strongest of the Free Cities, its Black Walls impenetrable, its legions of Unsullied unbreakable. The Dothraki had never taken a walled city, and they would not start with Volantis.

Norvos, too, was out of reach, hidden deep in forests and hills.

That left the Rhoyne.

The river crossings were scarce, and if Drogo wanted to continue west, he had to pass here.

Ar Noy.

This was his only true path. And that was why Aerion had come.

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The Dragon Against the Horse

The Dothraki were fearless, their warriors believing that death in battle would take them to the Night Lands.

They fought like the storm, like the gale winds across the Grass Sea—wild, untamed, relentless.

But Aerion's army was not the storm.

It was the dragon.

It did not charge blindly into chaos. It struck with precision—fast, deadly, and final.

The Dothraki rode like horses—Aerion's men would fight like dragons.

And when the battle came, when the enemy crashed against his walls, they would break like waves upon the rock.