More than 100,000 troops had been deployed over 30 miles from Gods Eye Lake. The flags and armor of both armies were dominated by black and yellow, stretching from their positions to the horizon. The oppressive tension weighed heavily under the gloomy sky, made even worse by the dark clouds that loomed overhead, so thick it seemed they might crush everything below. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the fading light made it feel as though dusk had already fallen. A storm was clearly imminent.
Normally, before a battle, the air would be filled with the ominous cawing of crows. But today, with the dragon hovering and hissing above the battlefield, not even a crow dared appear. The mice underground were desperately burrowing deeper, trying to escape the beast's presence.
It is often said that arrogance in soldiers leads to defeat, but there was little reason for Viserys's army not to feel proud. Their forces numbered 60,000 to the enemy's 50,000, giving them a distinct advantage. Our equipment and morale are superior, he thought, and of course, we have the dragons. Even just circling overhead, they would put unimaginable pressure on the usurper's forces. Viserys could even use the dragons' sight to relay real-time updates of the battle to the command center's sand table.
"In my opinion, we don't even need the dragons," Eustace remarked. "Just let Your Grace and the Princess watch from the sky while we capture Robert alive!"
Eustace had long since realized this would likely be the only battle of this scale—100,000 men—that he would ever see. This clash would be more massive than even Aegon the Conqueror's Burning of the Fields. Back then, Aegon's three dragons were each 150 to 160 meters long, while Viserys's dragons were merely one-eighth the size. This gave ordinary soldiers like us a chance to claim some glory.
Otherwise, if Viserys had dragons the size of Aegon's, he wouldn't need 60,000 troops—or even 6,000. He would've gone straight to attack Harrenhal by now.
Meanwhile, Viserys's camp seemed untouched by the brewing storm. The men were talking excitedly, with many, like Brune, already planning how they would spend their spoils after the war. Earlier, while inspecting the barracks, I overheard one soldier discussing where he might settle his new land once victory was assured.
It's understandable for common soldiers to think that way. The brutal, face-to-face fighting on the battlefield forces them to forget everything else. But it's dangerous for the nobles in command to indulge in such thoughts. That kind of overconfidence could lead to mistakes. Viserys must remind them of the seriousness of this battle.
"Ser Brune, do you remember what I said? That even a dragon will fight with all its strength, even against a lion?" Viserys asked, his eyes scanning the room. He then addressed the others, his tone growing more forceful.
"This battle must annihilate the usurper's army. Winter is coming. Don't give me a lousy fight. If anyone causes losses by underestimating the enemy, they can forget about their fiefdoms and titles. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Your Grace!" came the unanimous reply, though everyone was shocked. Viserys rarely spoke with such intensity. No one dared to underestimate the "Restorer," the man who had risen from nothing.
The gravity of the moment was interrupted by a sudden commotion.
"Your Grace, Your Grace!" A scout hurried in, holding up an envelope. "Your Grace, Storm's End has been captured by Prince Doran!"
Viserys glanced at the nobles and officers in the tent, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small smile. The mood in the room shifted as his words sank in.
Just as he was about to speak again, another scout entered. "Your Grace, the Lord Mace has captured Silverhill and Cornfield. The armies of The Reach have marched into the Westerlands in force! Also, it may rain later—and rain hard. That will be to our advantage. It would be best to delay..."
...
In Robert's camp, Stannis was methodically giving out orders for the battle. Almost everyone had a task to complete. Yet Robert, as commander-in-chief, seemed lost in thought.
The words of the 'Lord Father' echoed in his mind. After all these years, the memory still lingered, but Robert had trained himself to ignore such thoughts. The Targaryens owed him for Lyanna, he told himself bitterly. When did a man ever have to take orders from a ghost?
No, Robert would never allow anyone to speak of him in such a way. In his mind, he might die in the next battle—anywhere—but definitely not at Ruby Ford.
"...Your Grace! Your Grace!" Stannis's voice broke through Robert's reverie.
Robert looked up at him, saying nothing but indicating he was listening.
"Viserys says he wants to see you."
"See me?"
"Yes, he says this is a matter between him and you. He invites you to a duel between our armies, with the loser leaving Westeros forever."
Robert glanced around the tent at the faces of those present. They were all watching him intently, their eyes filled with expectation.
They want me dead in a duel, he thought grimly. It would save them the trouble.
But Robert was no fool. If even the Red Witch couldn't destroy Viserys, how could he possibly do it himself?
"Who doesn't know that Viserys is the best at using witchcraft? I won't fall for it. Tell him we will meet on the battlefield," Robert said firmly.
Stannis nodded in agreement. This was the right decision.
His hand rested on the hilt of the sword at his waist—the so-called Lightbringer's Sword, a gift from Melisandre.
Despite its somewhat magical appearance, the blade seemed to possess no extraordinary power. Stannis knew their only hope was to defeat Viserys in open battle and free the Westerlands from his grip. Now was not the time for risks.
Pycelle, however, had different thoughts. He believed that the best outcome for House Baratheon would be a peace treaty with Viserys. The Lord's seat and Storm's End are certainly lost, Pycelle reflected. Being named a mere knight would be the best outcome for us.
But he wasn't ready to give up his current life. Moreover, Viserys was convinced that Pycelle had deliberately allowed Tywin's forces in. Unlike Baelish, who could bargain with crowns, lands, and Storm's End to save his skin, Pycelle had nothing. If the war is lost, I'll be lucky if parading naked through the streets is the worst of my punishments. He shuddered at the thought. No, I'll surely meet a far more gruesome end.
That fear is why Pycelle remained a staunch supporter of the war.
As the commanders mulled over their private thoughts, Viserys's voice suddenly rang out from above, booming like thunder.
"Soldiers! I am Viserys Targaryen..."
His words sent a chill through the camp.
Normally, when generals roused their men before a battle, they embellished or outright lied, especially when facing unfavorable odds, all to convince soldiers to fight and die for them. But Viserys's "shouting offensive" felt different—it was like a wave of troops charging forward, striking a blow to their morale before the battle even began.
In the command tent, faces darkened as they heard Viserys's voice. Everyone knew what this meant, but there was no way to block the soldiers' ears. They could only watch helplessly as the Targaryen's words echoed over the camp.
All across Robert's camp, men stopped what they were doing. Horses went unfed, weapons lay unpolished, conversations fell silent. Even those praying in solitude, hoping not to face death by dragonfire, ceased their prayers and stood, looking to the sky. Above them, a massive dragon hovered under the darkening clouds.
"Stop fighting for the usurper!" Viserys called from above. "I only want the usurper's head! If you withdraw from the battlefield now, I will consider it a renewed allegiance to the Targaryens, and you will not be held responsible for anything!"
The soldiers stood frozen, their eyes fixed on the dragon, and their hearts heavy with uncertainty.