[Chapter Size: 3200 Words.]

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Third Person POV

North, 281 AC.

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The sound of horses roaring in pain echoed across the battlefield as they crashed directly against enormous eldenmetal shields, three meters tall. The giants, firm in their positions, held the line against the Dothraki charge, preventing their advance while their feet seemed to bury even deeper into the ground.

The wall of magical steel and flesh withstood the brutal impact as the enemy riders tumbled over each other, losing balance before the impenetrable defense, unable to break through.

The Artican defense system was extremely powerful, and with the giants clad in heavy armor, they stood even more firmly, making it impossible to push them back. But that wasn’t all.

Behind them, a second group of giants remained in position, placing their weight on the front row to reinforce the line whenever necessary against the impact of the horses. The Dothraki steeds kept colliding with the shields, many stumbling and falling onto the already wounded bodies piling up on the ground, while others were sent flying.

The sound of breaking bones and cries of agony echoed across the battlefield as everyone watched the enemies being thrown above the giants, continuing to collapse one on top of another, piling into a mass of flesh along the defensive line of two thousand giants.

“Hold your positions!”

One of the giants, the leader of the five thousand-strong giant army, shouted in his ancestral tongue just behind the second row, instructing his comrades to hold the line until the pile of bodies and horses grew large enough.

That was when the giant saw the exact moment to change strategy. After observing that the enemy realized their advance had become ineffective, only creating a heap of dead Dothraki and their horses, he knew the time had come.

“Stabbing formation!” the giant bellowed.

Immediately, the front row of giant shields pulled back slightly, creating space between them and the enemy. At that moment, all two thousand giants in the front, along with the two thousand behind them, acted in unison—opening up before spinning their spears forward.

The giants took a step to the side, allowing the second row of giants to advance into the same position as the first, doubling the numbers without colliding into each other. It was a synchronized movement they had trained tens of thousands of times over the past years in Artica. Now, the defense would turn into a counterattack against the already weakened enemy trapped in a mound of flesh.

Then, as the spears lunged toward the enemy, the counterattack was brutal. Before the Dothraki could retreat or react—stunned and trapped where they stood—the giants’ massive spears pierced everything in their path. Horses and Dothraki alike were impaled within reach. Blood gushed across the battlefield in a spectacle of horror and efficiency, leaving only the screams of agony and lamentation from both men and beasts.

Four thousand giants were tearing through the enemy forces with lethal precision.

“Do not stop! Keep killing them!” the giant leader roared as the Dothraki were mercilessly slaughtered.

The Artican king had wished for the animals to be spared, but there was no way to attempt such a thing in the middle of a war. No one could afford such a luxury while so many horses, trapped in the chaos, became victims alongside their masters.

The battlefield quickly turned into a sea of blood and corpses. The giants were relentless, their spears skewering enemies as if they were mere morsels in a macabre feast.

The Artican king observed everything from behind, analyzing the battlefield not only with his own eyes but also through the eagles soaring in the skies. He saw every enemy movement, every weak point, and every desperate attempt to reverse their failed first assault against his giants.

This was the battle against Khal Moro, the one who dared challenge him. It was now fully underway, just days after he had conquered the last Dothraki city that had fought back.

Jon knew he needed to advance against him by any means necessary to reach his objective. So far, he had not yet used his ability to control the enemy’s horses, choosing instead to engage in direct combat so his men could learn from a real battle.

The entire Artican army was mounted at that moment, and Jon was not only leading an army of 39,000 men, but he also had 20,000 Dothraki who had surrendered and now served him in his march toward Vaes Dothraki.

It was strange for many to see the Dothraki following a foreigner, but Jon had been clear: if they wanted to fight by his side, they had to follow his rules. He knew he could use these warriors to deal with the other khalaazaris, minimizing losses among his own soldiers.

At first, this helped him balance the numerical disadvantage he would have against Khal Moro’s 60,000 men. But now, the battle was quickly tilting in his favor as the giants were massacring the enemy.

The Dothraki fought with ferocity, but they could not compete against the Artican metal defenses. Their curved blades shattered against the eldenmetal armor, and even when they tried to push the giants, they only threw themselves to their own deaths.

At that moment, desperation took hold of the enemy. Every movement from the giants sent two spears piercing into their bodies, like skewers piercing soft flesh. Blood and entrails spilled onto the ground, turning the area into a true hellscape.

Jon and his other 55,000 men stood still, listening to the desperate cries of those falling onto the giants’ spears.

“How many have we taken down already, my king?” one of the royal guards asked, approaching Jon with a satisfied smile.

“Twenty thousand enemies have already fallen.”

After all, each giant had killed an average of five men with their spears, and Jon could already see the enemy trying to change their strategy on the other side. He continued speaking to the royal guard.

“But inform the commanders of the twenty Articarians on each side to protect the flanks. They are trying to surround us now since they cannot get through the wall of bodies our giants have created,” Jon replied, analyzing the battlefield.

He observed the Dothraki horses running frantically, trying to go around the pile of corpses, but this battle was already lost for the enemy. Khal Moro was about to discover the true meaning of fear.

There were several birds and animals near the command post, while the eagles aiding the commanders swiftly passed information to the king upon hearing him. Even though the commanders were Wargs, it was a prerequisite for them to have an assistant. The commanders needed to focus on their own strategy while also monitoring the enemy, and the assistants relayed the king’s instructions.

Quickly, the commands were passed down, and a new defensive formation began to take shape on each side, with twenty Articarians—ten thousand men in total. They moved forward to reinforce the flanks and ensure the battle would not be lost on the sides.

“Also, send the Dothraki to advance from the sides, and the dwarves will hold the flanks since they are stronger,” Jon ordered, watching the defensive formation being established on both sides.

Alongside them, the local Articans would also advance beside the Dothraki. This way, the enemy would be blocked on all sides.

“Pass the message to the giant leader!” Jon continued, referring to the mountain of bodies that had already formed in front of the army, as the enemies were no longer advancing there and could not simply pass through it.

“I want them to switch to archers and massacre the enemy!”

A man rushed off to deliver instructions to the leader, and the giants quickly grabbed their enormous bows, spacing out for better positioning before firing their massive arrows. Articans ensured they had everything they needed, pulling huge barrels on carts filled with hundreds of arrows for each giant. The giants began firing, exterminating the Dothraki from a distance as the arrows soared over the wall of flesh.

The battle quickly escalated to the flanks. The dwarves, being physically stronger, aided the human Articans in reinforcing those sides, creating a strong defensive line.

With no way to escape through the sides, Khal Moro and his khalasar began to be surrounded on all fronts—except the rear.

The Dothraki, realizing the movement, tried to push further along the flanks, searching for a way to catch their enemies by surprise. But nothing could be done against the foreign forces holding back the Dothraki.

Jon was satisfied as ten thousand Dothraki fought on each flank alongside the Articans. The Artican king had no love for the Dothraki way of life, but he knew how to use them to his advantage. Those who chose to follow him saw this battle as a chance to become part of a legend. After all, defeating a powerful khalasar in battle meant glory for any Dothraki warrior.

However, Jon made it clear that they could only fight under his rules.

Otherwise, they would meet their end.

And he demonstrated this. Jon did not hesitate to execute those who attempted to betray his orders, sending a clear warning to the rest. Now, those who chose to follow his rules fought fiercely alongside the Articans, massacring their former allies.

Khal Moro watched as the wall of bodies grew before his eyes. Arrows continued to fall from the sky, passing through the corpses in the initial pile of flesh and piercing the Dothraki atop their horses on both flanks, not loosing the arrows too forcefully.

As the arrows flew over the pile of flesh, some Dothraki and horses were still alive, struggling to free themselves from the sea of bodies they had been buried under. But it was impossible with so much weight on top of them, suffocating to death as they begged for someone to save them.

On the flanks, they were being held back and slaughtered simultaneously, as more and more of their men fell. The morale among the Dothraki who followed Khal Moro was plummeting. At least half of his army had already been wiped out in the last twenty minutes.

However, the khal had yet to see the white wolf he had heard so much about.

Khal Moro longed to kill Jon Artica because he knew that if he fled this battle without his head, he would be utterly humiliated for the rest of his life, forced to live in shame. He already accepted that the battle was lost at this point, but he at least wanted to rid himself of the enemy leader before he fell.

And Jon, at this moment, seemed to foresee his thoughts. While the flanks continued to fight, he organized a force of over twenty thousand men to follow him, leaving only a few thousand behind in case reinforcements were needed elsewhere.

“We go through the flank!” he ordered.

His objective was clear: reach the enemy leader by passing through one flank and advancing against their center from behind, completely encircling them.

This group was composed exclusively of Artican human warriors. They rode both Artican horses and Dothraki horses captured throughout the campaign as they advanced through the desert.

Jon was preparing his final attack against Khal Moro, determined to end the battle once and for all.

“Come on, men! With me! Advance!” Jon shouted, gripping Ghost’s armor tightly as the wolf ran along the left side of the battlefield.

His twenty thousand men followed closely behind, passing the giants who continued firing arrows and effortlessly exterminating the enemy. Some Dothraki tried to climb the mountain of corpses to escape but were met by giants wielding enormous swords. With a single strike, they cut down anyone who came near.

The enemy archers tried to fire arrows, but they were hindered by the near-impenetrable armor of the giants. A few shots managed to find small openings, and some even struck two giants in the eyes by sheer luck. After all, no warrior was immune to injury, even with the best equipment.

Quickly, the healers accompanying the Artican army, already on standby, rushed forward to provide first aid, preventing deaths from excessive bleeding and ensuring the wounded could return to battle soon after treatment.

Jon pressed forward, cutting down any who dared stand in his way, massacring the Dothraki in his path. With precise strikes, he slashed through enemies on either side, carving a path until he finally broke through the enemy line on the flank and maneuvered to advance into the center amid the chaos.

In the rear, the Dothraki were already preparing to receive the charge. They tried to reorganize quickly, but Jon and his men had the advantage of speed and the strength of their cavalry. They pressed forward without hesitation, cutting down the enemy as they pushed toward their final objective—Khal Moro.

“Quick! Defend yourselves! The enemy is coming!” one of the Dothraki commanders shouted, trying to rally the remaining warriors.

But it was already too late.

The clash between the forces was brutal. Ghost was the first to hurl himself at the Dothraki who tried to block the path. One of them attempted to defend himself but was crushed by the giant wolf’s fangs, which bit through both the warrior and his horse with the ease of dealing with a mere rat.

The wolf’s attack sent panic through the enemy horses, causing many to lose control.

Behind him, the Artican warriors followed Jon with fury, trampling over the enemy lines already weakened by the sheer chaos.

“For Artica!!!” Jon roared as he raised his sword, Blackfyre, and was the first to charge into the enemy ranks, with twenty thousand Articans following behind him.

Khal Moro, seeing that he had no other choice, accepted the challenge. If he had to die, he would at least take Jon with him.

He pulled the reins of his horse and charged at full speed toward the giant wolf, even as fear was visible on his face.

Jon saw this too and advanced, his eyes locked on the enemy leader.

Khal Moro then leaped onto the back of his horse, balancing himself with nothing but his own skill, and drew his bow. Still riding, he began firing arrows toward Jon.

Jon dodged the first arrow with an agile movement, twisting his body over Ghost.

Another arrow followed immediately. The Dothraki were masters of mounted archery and could launch one projectile after another with deadly precision. But Khal Moro was one of the best the Dothraki desert had ever seen.

Ghost, however, leaped at the exact moment, and the arrow struck against his armor. The impact was strong, but it did not penetrate the protective plating covering the wolf, keeping Jon unharmed.

Khal Moro realized that his attack would be useless and stopped firing. Now, he would have to face the beast directly.

But as he looked ahead, he saw that Ghost was already too close.

He swallowed hard as he saw the monstrosity approaching, feeling the panic take hold of his horse. The animal went into a frenzy, but it was already too late.

The giant wolf made a small leap and, with a single snap of its jaws, clamped down on the neck of Khal Moro’s horse. The stallion collapsed immediately, dragging the Khal to the ground along with it.

The world seemed to spin for Khal Moro as he was thrown off the horse and slammed onto the ground. He struggled to regain the air in his lungs. The impact of the fall had left him unable to breathe for a few seconds, but surprisingly, none of his bones were broken.

He tried to get up, still dazed, and saw the giant wolf devouring his stallion. That horse had accompanied him for years, always faithful, but now it was powerless against the immense and voracious beast.

“Khal! Khal!” his men shouted around him, rushing in his direction.

Before they could reach him, they found themselves under attack. Artican riders struck them down with precise blows, while the royal guards advanced mercilessly. One of the Dothraki was hit violently by a hammer wielded by a woman in armor. The impact was so brutal that his head was crushed instantly, his skull shattering as the hammer pressed into it. The force of the strike was so immense that his head exploded from his neck, leaving only a lifeless corpse that staggered forward a few steps before collapsing, while his horse fled.

His bloodriders—all of them—were dead. He was the only one left.

“Khal Moro.”

The sound of his name made him turn his head. When he looked to the side, he saw the man in Valyrian armor, wielding Blackfyre, approaching.

The giant wolf had stopped devouring the horse but made no further movements. It merely watched in silence as its master approached the enemy leader for a grounded fight.

Jon walked slowly toward Moro. The Khal saw that, all around him, the battle was still raging, while the Dothraki were being slaughtered. The battle had already been decided. His warriors were being massacred by the foreign soldiers clad in metal armor.

Khal Moro understood the challenge.

He quickly grabbed his fallen arakh nearby and took a combat stance.

“Die!” he shouted in Dothraki, charging forward with a vertical slash toward his enemy.

With a simple and precise motion, Jon Artica severed his hand before the blade could reach him.

Moro didn’t even have time to feel the pain of losing his hand. In the next instant, his head was severed with a single clean stroke from the Valyrian steel sword. His body collapsed to the ground, dead before he could even comprehend what had happened.

After the death of their leader, the Dothraki’s morale was shattered. What remained of the khalasar panicked. Many tried to flee, but there was nowhere to run.

The massacre continued, and in the end, more than 40,000 Dothraki lay dead on the battlefield.

The fighting went on for a while longer, and more were cut down. In the end, the survivors—just over 10,000—fled desperately into the desert.

Jon surveyed the battlefield and ordered his men to rest a little further away from the sea of corpses.

“Just organize the bodies and capture the horses.”

It was a great harvest to take back to Artica, and Jon would not waste this opportunity to secure tens of thousands of horses for his army, which still lacked mounts.

Though these horses were inferior to the ones being bred in Artica, they would be essential for the battles to come in the next few years.

He sent a raven to request more ships to transport the spoils of war from this desert.

By the end of the day, the army had set up camp. The bodies of the enemies were burned at a distance, their flames illuminating the cold desert night.

Jon finished organizing everything before returning to his tent, where his wife awaited him.

Now, they were closer to their true objective.

“We are finally near Vaes Dothrak.”

He could not help but murmur with satisfaction.

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Raccoon Here: Is the battle being written? Do you think it can be improved?

————-Nexts Chapters —————-

Chapter 244 – The Mountain Trial.

Chapter 249 – Discussion at Mance’s camp.

Chapter 259 – Negotiating with the Night’s Watch.

Chapter 268 – I am Arya Stark… of Arctic.

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