The Black Dragon

In the two days that Doran stayed at Ghost Hill, the prince ate more food than in the last month. The food was delicious but Doran couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief as he walked out the castle gates.

`If ​​I had stayed longer I would have had to hire a seamstress to widen my pants`

During the last two days, aside from eating, Doran caught up with his friends and family. He spent his mornings training on the training grounds with Michael and Theodan, his afternoons chatting with Willem and Steffon or entertaining the ten year old girl.

Doran had already met Tanselle a couple of times but he hadn't seen her for almost a year, unlike her older brothers, the younger Toland is quite petite.

`And shy, Michael and Theodan are not the most outgoing but they were never shy, or at least that I remember`

"Ready for five days on the road, my prince?"

"Yes, Ser Lothar!"

"You sound pretty excited."

"I almost never get a chance to camp in the wilderness, so I'm pretty excited about it."

"That emotion disappears when you have to clean the sand even from your ears." Lothar lets out a laugh.

"Maybe."

***

3 Moon of 259AC

Essos, Disputed Lands

A tall warrior clad in golden armor leaps to the side avoiding the enemy's spear. The warrior wasted no time, drawing his short sword from his hilt and severing his enemy's head from his body.

He could not enjoy even the briefest respite after his victory as another enemy took the place of the previous one. While they were locked in a deadly dance of steel and blood, an enemy sneaks up behind him and pummels him with a club. Luckily for him, the enemy did not have enough strength in his arms and the blow did not break any bones, although it did unbalance him.

The warrior cued to the ground with a thud.

"Shit!" He growls through clenched teeth.

The warrior is aided by an ally who distracts one of the enemies but the one with the club continues focused on him. He quickly rolls to the side and grabs one of the fallen soldiers' many weapons. He stands unsteadily and adjusts his golden helmet to see his enemy.

A man a head shorter than him, rather skinny, and whose weapon is obviously too heavy for him to use it lethally.

`If ​​it was someone stronger who had hit me it would be more than just a few bruises, I have to be more careful.`

The warrior launches himself towards his enemy, crouching with a step to the right dodges the blow of the club and with a quick blow he plunges the ax into the enemy's chest.

Not bothering to pull the ax out the dying foe, the warrior grabs another weapon from the ground and lunges at another enemy.

After killing another five enemies the battle comes to an end and the warrior takes off his golden helmet. Silver curls fall to his neck framing his sweat-covered face. He has a aquiline nose, slightly arched eyebrows, and a scar across his face from the middle of his right cheek to above his right eyebrow.

The scar by some miracle didn't damage his eyes and two pairs of lilac eyes glow brightly.

"Well fought, Commander." One of his captains approaches him with his helmet still on.

"Captain Marcel," The Commander of the Golden Company, Daemon Blackfyre greets his subordinate. "Make sure captured enemies are treated with honor, and send two scouting teams to scout the surrounding area, I don't want what happened in Norvos to repit."

"Yes, your grace!"

"Don't call me that captain, I haven't earned that title. Not yet."

"My apologies, Lord Commander." With a nod, Marcel leaves.

Daemon sighs and looks at the battlefield.

The Golden Company was hired by Myr to defend against a sellsword company, the company was called the Black Spears and they had 12,000 members. The Golden Company only deployed a third of their forces to deal with them, and they still annihilated them.

"The difference between a well-trained professional army and a group of warriors who don't even know how to form a proper shield-wall is brutal. But my 34,000, however well-trained they may be, can't handle an army ten times their size... I need allies."

Daemon leaves the battlefield and walks to the temporary camp of his army. The sight of the sea of ​​corpses gives him a slight regret, for although he has been trained for war since he could hold a weapon, Daemon never approved of senseless killing. And it is that an army of 12,000 without training facing the Golden Company was a losing battle to begin with.

On the way he greets every soldier he meets with a slight nod.

His mentor used to tell him "It's important to keep a good relationship with your soldiers, little dragon". Daemon imprinted each of the late Aegor Bittersteel's teachings on his head.

Arriving at his tent, he walked directly towards a bowl full of water and submerged his head, wiping off the sweat and blood that was already half dry, the blood of his enemies covers him from head to toe and he knows well that he will not be able to take a proper bath until he rejoins the main army. Daemon strives to remove as much dirt from his body as possible.

`Although it's not like I can do much with just a bowl of water...`

The black dragon takes off his top armor and wipes his bare chest with a wet rag.

"Lord Commander!"

Daemon picks up a sword and walks towards the entrance of his tent. Another of Bittersteel's lessons is: Never be unarmed, not even in bed, let alone on the battlefield.

"Yes?"

"We have finished counting the dead and captured, my lord!" The soldier greets him with respect and reverence.

"Go on."

"The Black Spears have lost 7,000 men, 3,200 have been captured and the rest fled!"

"And on our side, How many soldiers have we lost?"

"873 killed, 791 incapacitated, 1,020 semi-incapacitated, and the rest suffered only minor injuries."

The Golden Company has a method for classifying those wounded in battle:

-Incapacitated: Those who take more than 1 moon to recover.

-Semi-incapacitated: Those who will take more than 15 days to recover but less than a moon.

"Summon the Captains to my tent." After giving that order, Daemon goes back into his tent and puts on his clothes and armor.

After a few minutes the two captains who accompanied him on this campaign arrive.

Marcel is a man descended from the first knights who swore allegiance to Daemon I Blackfyre. After several generations in Essos, his Andal lineage mixed with various ethnic groups. He has dark ebony skin and curly hair that he always keeps very short.

Davos on the other hand was born and raised in Westeros, the wandering knight joined the Golden Company more than two decades ago, before the War of 236AC.

"Lord Commander! We have achieved a great victory against those savages! I'm sure songs will be written about your skill as a commander and a warrior!" Davos wastes no time praising his superior.

Daemon just laughs at his statement.

"If bards wrote songs about every battle fought between sellswords..." He shakes his head. "There would be thousands of songs about Bittersteel."

"There are many songs about our founder, my lord!" Davos stutters.

"Yes, but how many of them speak of his skill as a warrior and commander, of his loyalty and dedication? No, those songs tell of a vile villain, not the Aegor who raised me."

"A while ago I heard a saying while drinking in a tavern in Qohor: History is written by winners."

"Wise words, Captain Marcel." David nods.

"I agree. History is never impartial, it always favors the victors because they are the ones who write it. Bittersteel is remembered as a cruel and treacherous bastard, my ancestor is the bastard that all septons and septas refer to when they speak of how treacherous and evil bastards are. No one remembers the brave and noble prince or the loyal warrior. That is why it is so vital that we win this war, there can be no missteps. Not for me or my children, for all the Blackfyre of old, so that their deaths were not in vain, for their legacies."

Marcel and Davos look at their Commander with admiration and respect, they feel inclined to kneel right there and swear allegiance to their king but they know that Daemon does not want to be called king until he earns that title.

"That said,'' Daemon clears his throat. "Davos you will be in charge of treating the wounded and leading these legions back to the main army. Marcel, you will go accompanied by 200 soldiers to Myr to collect the rest of the payment."

"And you, if I may ask?"

"I have a meeting."

Daemon dismisses his captains and orders some soldiers to pack up his tent.

`I wonder how Edarion fared in Westeros, and where Maelys is. In Ed I know I can trust but in Maelys...`

***

NOTE: Funny thing, I "published" this chapter yesterday. I saved the chapt and then I forgot to press PUBLISH...