The Breaking of the Riding Storm (Part I)

Chapter 38 – The Breaking of the Riding Storm (Part I)

POV: Aerion Targaryen

The air was thick with dust, and the earth trembled beneath the endless hooves of the Dothraki horde.

Aerion stood at the frontline, his shield strapped to his arm, spear gripped tightly. His eyes, the color of blood and fire, burned as he watched the enemy approach—a sea of riders, wild and untamed, charging with the fury of a storm.

But storms could be broken.

Behind him, his armored spearmen stood ready, their spears planted into the damp earth, forming a wall of sharpened steel. The ground had been soaked with water, turning it to mud, slowing the enemy's charge. The wooden stakes they had buried in the ground stood raised, hidden by the churned-up dirt and trampled grass, ready to impale any rider who came too fast.

The archers stood on higher ground, behind the crumbling ruins of Ar Noy, their bows drawn, waiting for the order to rain fire upon the enemy.

And yet the Dothraki came, fearless and unyielding.

Aerion exhaled, then lifted his voice—a voice like steel on stone, carrying across the battlefield.

The Speech Before the Storm

"HOLD THE LINE!" he roared, and the spearmen slammed their spears into the ground, their shields locking into place.

The hooves of the Dothraki thundered closer, but his men stood firm.

"The Dothraki fight like beasts, believing that horses make them invincible. But we are not beasts! We are not prey! We are the stormbreakers! We are the dragons! And today, we remind them why Valyria ruled the world!"

A roar erupted from his army, a drumbeat of shields and steel.

Aerion raised his spear high. "Let them come! We will turn their charge into their funeral pyre!"

Then the storm of hooves reached them.

The Charge

The Dothraki hit like a tidal wave.

They galloped at full speed, their arakhs raised, their war cries shaking the sky.

Then they hit the mud.

Their horses slowed, their momentum faltering as their hooves sank into the wet earth.

The frontline spears held fast, planted deep into the ground, waiting.

And then—impact.

The first wave of riders crashed into the spears, their horses impaling themselves on the raised wooden stakes. Screams filled the air as men and beasts alike collapsed in a bloody mess.

Those behind them tried to stop, but more horses slipped in the mud, their riders thrown from the saddles. Some managed to leap over their fallen, only to be skewered by the spear wall.

Aerion thrust his spear forward, impaling a Dothraki warrior in the chest. Blood sprayed across his armor, but he ripped the weapon free, spinning to strike another.

Beside him, Ser Clement swung his great war axe, the massive blade cleaving through flesh and bone, hacking through riders who dared break through the line. He buried his axe in the skull of a charging Dothraki, then ripped it free, his face painted with war.

Ser Barristan fought like a whirlwind of steel, his blade flashing, cutting down every enemy that came too close. He moved like a man half his age, precise and unrelenting.

The frontlines turned into a brutal, desperate melee.

The Dothraki adapted quickly. Some began leaping off their horses, using their agility to slip past the spears, slashing with arakhs. The frontline was starting to crack.

Aerion knew it was time.

The First Trap is Sprung

He raised his spear and bellowed the order:

"FALL BACK TO THE SECOND LINE! ARCHERS, FIRE!"

The spearmen stepped back in unison, leaving a gap in the line. The Dothraki, seeing this, charged forward, believing the enemy was breaking.

Then the hidden wooden stakes did their work.

Hundreds of riders plunged forward, their horses impaled on the stakes. Screams of agony filled the air as riders were flung from their saddles, crashing into the bodies of the dead.

Then, from the heights, the archers loosed their arrows.

A storm of fire fell upon the horde.

Arrows rained down, piercing exposed chests, throats, and faces. The Dothraki front ranks collapsed into chaos, their charge now a mess of impaled horses, fallen riders, and burning flesh.

Yet still, they came.

The Dothraki were fearless.

Even as their frontlines fell apart, the ones behind them kept charging, leaping over the dead, forcing their way through the fire and the blood.

Aerion's second line braced as the survivors of the charge slammed into them.

The battle was far from over.

And Aerion was still in the thick of it.