The plains beyond the Zamoyos had been chosen with care. The third war between Ghiscar and Sarnor assisted by the Valyrian freehold, with conflict spread across the continent.

The Sarnori had called for aid, and Valyria, still testing its strength beyond the Fourteen Flames—had answered, but cautiously. Three dragonlords had been sent, while others fought on all fronts of the freehold.

Zarghara had studied the old histories of the two prior wars. She had read about how the dragons fought.

Her legions formed in perfect bronze ranks beneath the open sky, shields locked, banners high, bait for the dragons. Behind low ridges and concealed trenches, scorpions lay hidden, crews waiting in silence for the moment fire would fall.

The first pass shattered a cohort. The second turned men to ash. The Sarnori surged, thinking the day already theirs... until bolts began to hail towards the dragons with piercing speed.*

A bolt tore through the first dragon’s chest. It crashed screaming into the earth, its rider crushed beneath it. A second took a shaft through the wing and fled in cowardice. The third fell harder, struck clean through the skull, spiraling down as the Sarnori line broke at the sight of their powerful allies falling from the sky.

Victory came swiftly after that.

Now the field was quiet, save for the crackle of dying fires and the low, dying breaths of a fallen beast.

Zarghara rode forward at a measured pace, her mount stepping over scorched earth and shattered bodies, until she reached the carcass of the dragon, vast, broken, still twitching. It felt strange how something so powerful could appear so weak.

Her soldiers dragged the surviving rider from the saddle where he had been pinned, throwing him down before her in the dirt.

She looked down at him for a long moment, unreadable.

"Is this what Valyria sends against me?"

Her gaze flicked briefly to the corpse of the beast behind him.