Game of Thrones: The Black Dragon King

The trembling earth and the distant flames had already alerted the archer cavalry under Reid's command, who were temporarily stationed on the trade route.

But these seasoned veterans showed no panic whatsoever. Instead, they calmly ate and drank as usual. Once they were full, they leisurely carried out their preparations: securing the saddle straps, spraying water on the arrow fletchings, straightening the feathers, and checking the chainmail buckles.

Having been fed enough feed, salt, and water, and given some rest, the Arabian horse blinked its bright, endearing eyes and pawed the ground restlessly with its hooves.

As the trade route drew near, the grass grew shorter and sparser. While the trade route, repeatedly trampled by countless hooves and wheels over thousands of years, couldn't be completely barren, it still served as a firebreak.

Driven by the dragon's flames, the Dothraki fled in panic from the dangerous, overgrown area. Hagrokao, leading the vanguard, looked grim at the mounted archers who had already formed a neat array. The enemy hadn't even mounted their horses; instead, they were leading them in orderly formations, quietly awaiting their attack.

This is not the time for Hagro to engage in battle.

He should lead nearly ten thousand Roaring Warriors, secretly moving through the tall, dense grass, getting close enough but not enough to be detected by the enemy, and then waiting for the right moment to launch a rhythmic surprise attack like a wolf pack hunting. The two flanks would spread out to encircle the enemy, while the central army would jog slowly, getting within an arrow's reach, and then charge with all their might to crush the enemy.

But at this moment, he had no other choice.

In Dothraki culture, the Khal is the most powerful warrior. A Khal's position isn't inherited by blood; it's earned through defeating the predecessor in single combat and establishing authority through battlefield invincibility. Only those who charge to the front lines and dare to fight the most dangerous battles are worthy of being called a Dothraki Khal. As the leader of the Khalasar, the Khal must embody the ultimate in "fearlessness": born on horseback, fighting on horseback, and dying on horseback.

If he avoids a powerful enemy and shirks battle, he will immediately be seen as a coward, the Karasan will split, the Ko will challenge him, and the warriors will mock him.

"Change horses!" Hagro gave the order. He stepped into the saddle first, then leaped from the back of his already exhausted horse to the back of another spare horse.

The steel-forged Yarak scimitar swiftly severed the reins binding the two horses. The spare horse, still with some strength, leaped off. Hagro raised his weapon high and let out a ferocious war roar that reverberated across the grasslands, a roar unique to the Dothraki.

His battle cry had barely struck the empty trade route when nearly eight thousand disheveled Dothraki warriors behind him roared in unison, the sound waves causing the low, withered grass to tremble.

Those warriors with spare horses deftly switched mounts amidst the galloping gallop. Those without spare horses did their best to urge on their exhausted companions.

There was no formation, no strategy, only a savage, violent force driven to the brink by flames and humiliation, crashing down on the ranks like a burst dam. Hooves pounded the ground, dust billowed into the sky, and countless Arak scimitars gleamed coldly in the dim light.

The horse archers, who had been conserving their strength, finally mounted their horses. The spurs on their boots smacked against their bellies, and after a long period of restraint, they were finally able to stride forward, the Arabian warhorses neighing joyfully as they galloped freely.

The front-line horse archers split into two groups, spreading out from both flanks to encircle the Dothraki.

These elite archer cavalrymen controlled their horses entirely with their legs, holding the bow in their left hand and controlling three arrows in their right hand. One arrow was nocked on the string, while the other two were held in their palms with their middle, ring, and little fingers gripping the arrowheads.

The moment the Dothraki striker rushed into effective shooting range,

Two thousand five hundred bows simultaneously released their taut strings, and a dense swarm of arrows, like locusts, suddenly rose into the air, converging in mid-air into a dark, oppressive rain of iron, which slammed into the charging cavalry with a piercing whistle.

The wounded warrior, struck by an arrow, fell from his horse. The injured horse reared up with a neigh, and the rider was thrown off by the immense force of the impact, trampled by even more hooves. The sounds of bones cracking and screams of agony were instantly drowned out by the roar.

Hagro, his eyes bloodshot, slashed through the air with his scimitar, roaring as he urged the howling warriors forward: "Charge! Chop them to pieces!"

The Dothraki cavalry's fighting spirit was completely ignited. They disregarded casualties, trampling over the corpses and wails of their comrades, frantically closing the distance.

Once they break through this open area and collide with that seemingly frail cavalry formation, their scimitars will be able to tear everything apart.

The horse archers remained composed. The first volley fell, the second volley was already in the air, and the third volley was already nocked. They proceeded methodically, the rain of arrows continuous, like an invisible meat grinder, constantly lashing and tearing apart the charging waves.

Just when the Dothraki thought they could finally engage in hand-to-hand combat, those despicable Ironclad Cowards actually turned around and retreated!

Hagro whipped his panting warhorse with all his might, but he could never catch up with the iron-clad cowards who turned and fled.

"Coward! Face me!" Hagro swung his sword and cleaved two arrows that were shot at him, roaring angrily, but all he got in response was a rain of arrows fired back by the horse archers.

The horse archers no longer sought to fire in unison, but instead began to fire freely. They took out broad-bladed arrows, more suitable for volleys and bloodletting, from the quiver on the other side, aimed at the puffed-out chests of the pursuing Dothraki roaring warriors, calmly feeling the rhythm of their horses' rise and fall, and released their sharp arrows the instant their horses reared up.

During the chase, roaring warriors kept falling from their horses, or injured and out-of-control warhorses struggled violently and were knocked down by warhorses charging from behind.

Some of the Roaring Warriors, equipped with bows and arrows, attempted to retaliate, but with little success. Compared to the Dothraki archers' arrows ramming head-on into the Dothraki, the Dothraki arrows chasing from behind consumed more kinetic energy. Furthermore, the bronze and bone arrows had limited lethality and would get stuck in the chainmail of the archers, making it difficult for them to penetrate deep into the flesh.

As the chase continued, the centaur column grew longer and longer, while the Blood Oath Guard's howling warriors behind Hagro became increasingly sparse. Some were struck by arrows and fell from their horses; some collapsed from exhaustion; and others scrambled for supplies, livestock, and valuables that the horse archers had deliberately left behind at the makeshift encampment.

"Hiss!"

The Night Fury swept low through the air, and a pillar of eerie blue fire descended from the sky, cutting the long line of Dothraki cavalry in half.

This task was originally intended to be done by heavy cavalry, but Dragonfire was more effective than heavy cavalry.

A hundred horse archers seized the opportunity, immediately turning their horses around, drawing their bows and arrows, and following the scorched earth plowed by dragonfire, they began to charge at the loosely packed Dothraki cavalry, squeezing into the gaps between them and cutting off their forces.

The Night Fury, having leisurely ascended and carved a wall of fire as it swooped down from mid-air, turned around, and then swooped down again, using its dragonfire to further divide the chaotic Dothraki cavalry.

The horse archers on both flanks stopped their circular maneuvers of hurling light arrows and instead launched surprise attacks in units of a hundred, following the scorched tracks left by the dragon's flames, dividing and dividing the Dothraki forces.

Hagro reined in his raging warhorse and looked around. Flames burned behind him, and arrows whistled in front of him. His prized Karasa was being dismembered and slaughtered bit by bit on the open trade route, just like a herd of bison being toyed with by wolves.

The Dothrakis' proud charge had now become a suicidal sprint.

They couldn't catch up with the powerful Arabian warhorses, couldn't pierce the fine chainmail, and couldn't stop the dragon flames descending from the sky. Their once invincible charging tactics were now being crushed inch by inch by the enemy's mobility, arrow rain, and dragons.

Hagro's eyes were bloodshot, and a low growl like that of a trapped beast rolled from his throat.

He was Khao, the fiercest warrior on the grasslands, but at this moment, he couldn't even touch the hem of his enemy's clothes.

"Gather together! Follow me!"

He roared, trying to rally his remaining forces, but his voice was swallowed by chaotic screams, cries, and the clatter of bowstrings. Blood Guards fell one after another, and the Roaring Warriors were overwhelmed with their own problems. Some turned and fled, while others charged madly toward the baggage train. The once-unbreakable Karasa had completely crumbled into a pile of quicksand.

After Dragon Flame had divided the battlefield countless times, the horse archers stopped fleeing, and the harvest began.

On the flanks of Hagro's Dothraki cavalry, which had been separated from their main force, several hundred-man squads, having rallied and formed a local numerical advantage, tightened their grip simultaneously, pressing forward diagonally from both sides like a tightening noose. They no longer relied solely on bows and arrows to inflict casualties, but instead drew their gracefully curved Arabian scimitars from their waists, the gleaming blades flashing like butterfly wings in the ranks of the horse archers.

Looking at Reid, who sat atop the dragon's back in mid-air and never personally entered the fray, and at the black dragon circling in the sky like the Grim Reaper, Hagro finally understood a cruel truth—the Dothraki's bravery was nothing more than a savage frenzy in the face of a true war machine.

But he could not retreat, could not avoid, could not back down; Khal's glory only allowed him to die on horseback.

Hagro yanked the reins hard, and the Blood Guards and elite Roaring Warriors followed closely behind, launching a final charge.

Yarak raised his scimitar high, the wind whistling past his ears.

Throughout his life, he annexed countless small Kass and Karas, killed countless challengers, and led tens of thousands of Roaring Warriors across the Grass Sea.

And today marks the end of his journey on horseback.

"Come on! You cowards!" Hagro pounded his chest, urging his trembling horse with all his might.

The most intense collision began.

The last of the Dothraki warriors roared and swung their Arak scimitars at the nearby horse archers. Their unarmored, burly bodies were fearless, seeking only to take an enemy down with them before they fell.

But what comes towards them are professional warriors clad in chainmail, skilled in horsemanship, and adept at swordsmanship and archery.

The Arabian scimitar, propelled by the momentum of the charging warhorse, slashed down with tremendous force and a sharp arc. While the Arabian scimitar was indeed fierce, it was no match for the opponent's thick armor, fast horse, and tight coordination.

A roaring warrior, having just missed his target with a slash, was slashed open on his side and fell from his horse with a scream. Another, about to thrust, had his wrist severed at the root by a gleaming blade, and the next instant, his throat was cut open by another flash of light. Still other roaring warriors, adopting a suicidal fighting style, leaped into the air, clinging tightly to a mounted archer, both tumbling from their horses and disappearing beneath the trampling hooves.

Hagro charged alone into the ranks of the horse archers, his face covered in blood, his eyes bloodshot like those of a demon.

He felled a mounted archer, deflected two arrows, and the horse, covered in blood and foaming at the mouth and nose, was at its last gasp. Enemies surrounded him from all sides, their hooves circling him, their blades always locked on his vitals.

He could no longer issue commands; all that remained was the desperate struggle of a cornered beast.

As he passed another mounted archer, Hagro severed the archer's arm, but his own thigh was grazed by the blade. He staggered, nearly falling from his horse. In that instant of vulnerability, three sabers came slashing at him simultaneously.

A dull crack of bone breaking echoed. Kao's right arm was severed at the shoulder, and the Arak scimitar flew from his hand, tumbling through the air before falling into the dust.

The excruciating pain nearly made him faint, but the Dothraki's fighting spirit still burned within him.

He raised his head and let out a roar that sounded inhuman, trying to grab his weapon with his left hand, but having lost an arm and his weapon, every charging horse archer who passed him left a deep wound on his body with his scimitar.

The warhorse could no longer support itself; its forelegs buckled, and it collapsed to its knees with a thud. Hagro fell heavily onto the scorched earth, unable to move.

The Dothraki, having lost their leader, were utterly devastated.

This is no longer a battle; it is an orderly massacre.

The horse archers, who began to be eliminated in stages, kept charging into the Dothraki cavalry with their speed, slashing, thrusting, and cutting with clean and crisp movements, without any unnecessary frills.

They split into flexible squads of a hundred and fifty men, providing cover for each other and deliberately choosing the weakest gaps to break through. They first shot down the leading resisters, then wielded their swords to harvest the panicked, fleeing soldiers. There were no shouts, no hesitation, only the rhythm of horses' hooves, the slight trembling of bowstrings, and the muffled thud of blades piercing flesh.

The Dothraki's pride in their ferocity had long been crushed by the dragon's flames and rain of arrows; now, only instinctive struggle remained.

Someone finally snapped their last thread of courage.

The surviving Dothraki Roaring Warriors, knowing there was no hope of escape, trembled as they raised their hands, grasped their braids—symbols of war and glory—and cut them off cruelly, tossing them into the dust. The bells adorning the ends of the braids rolled to the ground, making a crisp, humiliating sound.

They dropped their araks and bows, sat cross-legged on the spot, and bowed their heads in submission and surrender.

Many still refused to accept their fate, roaring as they turned their horses around and scattered into the grass and open fields, trying to find a glimmer of hope amidst the tall, dense grass and chaos.

The horse archers gave them no chance.

The entire team immediately broke into smaller groups, spreading out in all directions like a hunting net.

They no longer maintained a disciplined formation, but instead, relying on their superb horsemanship and tacit understanding, pursued and killed the fleeing enemy. Hooves pounded the scorched earth and weeds, bowstrings twanged softly, and arrows accurately struck the backs of every fleeing figure.

Some ran a short distance before falling off their horses; others, in their panic, stumbled into the still-warm fire-scarred area, their horses burned and thrown to the ground, where they were captured; still others tried to hide in the bushes, only to be outmaneuvered and surrounded by the squad, their horses and men pinned to the spot by arrows.

Inside and outside the business world, pursuits and cries of agony rose and fell.

The once invincible Karasa now faces only two fates: to cut off his queue and kneel in surrender, or to flee to his death.