2 weeks later
The time had come. It has been a month since Maximus sent out the Ravens, requesting the remainder of the Lords of Westeros to submit to him or watch their houses be erased from history. And as predicted, the Houses of the North, majority of the Westerlands and a handful from the Crownlands replied to his letter. The Iron Islands on the other hand had a change in leadership during this time.
Euron Greyjoy had returned and had secretly killed his brother Balon Greyjoy. With this, he forced the Lords of the Iron Islands to declare him king and fight a new war with the Imperial Union. However, his time as King was short lived.
Approaching the islands from Lannisport, two of Nyxara's children, Nyxara II and Nyxsar, alongside several Wyverns, flew next to each other as they eyed the island below. Their assignment was the complete destruction of the island, leaving no castle, town, or village standing.
The first place they struck was Pyke, the seat of the new King of the Iron Islands. Instead of conquering the Ironborn, Maximus ordered their total elimination. There would be no hostages or switch of allegiance. The Iron Islands would be destroyed and the Greyjoys would be nothing more than a memory.
In the Crownlands, the Royal Army was prepping their defenses as the Imperial Army, numbering 90,000 had arrived at their fortification facing the Kingswoods. The army was led by Alexander and Achilles and contained several elite units which included the Griffon Knights and several of the Black wings. The army's composition were 50,000 Dawnborn, 30,0000 Mamluks, and 10,000 Archers.
(A/N: For those who may have forgotten, the Dawnborn are the reformed version of the Unsullied and form the backbone of the Imperial infantry with some being spearmen, swordsman, and few other melee types.)
In support were 30,000 men from Dorne led by Prince Doran himself alongside his brother Prince Oberyn.
Alexander had their army rest for a day before their attack on the fortifications. He wanted the men to enjoy their time before the battle. Some of the best alcoholic beverages and meat were brought out for the army to enjoy. Obviously, it was regulated on how much alcohol each person could consume as they had a battle to win the next day. The men knew this and also knew the punishment that would come from disobeying orders, so almost everybody made sure to not get too drunk.
In the central war tent flying the Imperial banner, Alexander sat beside a table which displayed a map of their battlefield. He sipped from a goblet of Dornish red as Prince Doran approached.
"You've organized this campaign well, Commander," Doran said in a warm tone. "You fight like the sun and plan like the moon."
Alexander smiled faintly. "This is what the Imperial Union does. The Emperor asked me to destroy this army, so it's only natural that I come up with the best possible plan in order to completely destroy them."
From behind, the entrance of the tent burst open as Prince Oberyn walked in. He was dressed in his Dornish silks and with scale armor beneath. He had wine in one of his hands and wicked grin on his face.
"Come now, enough strategy. Let the quills rest and the blades breathe," Oberyn declared, tossing the wine to Alexander, who caught it. "It is our last night before history is rewritten. Drink with me or you'll make the gods jealous."
Doran sighed but also smiled a little at his brother's remark. "You would seduce death if she wore perfume."
"She already does," Oberyn said with a wink, pouring himself a cup. "And she dances with me tomorrow."
Alexander stood up, cup in hand. "A toast then. For tomorrow, we fight not just for conquest… but for a new world."
The three men raised their cups. "To the future!"
Outside, the soldiers of the Imperial Army made the most of the night. Tents were drawn open and logs created fires where Imperial warriors exchanged tales with Dorne's desert fighters. Lamb sizzled on the cooking stations, and wooden mugs clinked together.
At one fire, Achilles sat among a group of young Imperial recruits, laughing as he arm-wrestled a broad-shouldered Dornish spearman.
"You think sand makes you strong?" Achilles taunted, gritting his teeth.
"It makes me patient," the Dornishman countered.
With a sudden push, Achilles slammed the man's hand into the table. Cheers erupted from the surrounding Imperial Soldiers who already knew that Achilles was going to win.
"You're strong, Achilles," one soldier marveled, passing him a drink.
"I'm not strong," he said, accepting the mug, "I'm just too stubborn to lose."
Near another fire, a group of archers shared stories with Mamluk veterans. Language barriers broke down through drink and song. One archer, missing two fingers, played a lute while the others sang along in fractured rhythm.
A bald Mamluk with inked tattoos told stories of the deserts beyond Volantis, of sandworms and whispering winds. A group of children who served as camp runners sat wide-eyed, listening, thrilled at the stories the older men were talking about.
"Tomorrow," the Mamluk said, raising a hand to the sky, "we fight for more than land. We fight for the legacy of the Imperial Union."
Back in the command tent, Alexander stood outside in the relatively cool evening, alone now as the Martell princes departed to check on their men.
He watched the flickering lights of the camp and the darkened silhouette of the men having fun.
Footsteps approached behind him, and he turned to see Achilles walking up, his face sober for once.
"Enjoying the peace?" Achilles asked.
"As much as I can. You?"
Achilles nodded. "These men… they believe in this. In Maximus. In you. They've been trained well."
"They trained themselves," Alexander replied. "I just reminded them what they were capable of. What any person is capable of if their willing."
There was a short silence between the two before Achilles.
"How many do you think will dies tomorrow?" Achilles asked, "Thousands before the Royal Army give up or perhaps, we just kill them all."
Alexander clapped him on the shoulder. "I estimate that after the initial charge, the Royal Army will quickly lose its morale. Already, the Shadowhand agents tell me of rising discontent within the army since they have been only losing since we stepped foot on the continent." Achilles nodded. It was a reasonable prediction and considering the circumstances, he didn't blame them.
Elsewhere, in the Dornish section of the camp, Oberyn leaned against a pole as he watched his men dance in a circle. A rhythmic clapping filled the air, joined by the sharp beat of a drum. Laughter echoed across the tents, and the wine flowed like water.
Oberyn was approached by a younger knight, one of the newly appointed officers under the Imperial banner.
"My prince, the men asked me to sing the Song of Sunspear," the knight said hesitantly. "Would you—"
Oberyn held up a hand. "I will. But only if you promise to fight like devils tomorrow."
The knight laughed. "I will."
As Oberyn began to sing, his voice was low and smooth. The soldiers quieted, turning to listen as the tale of the Martells and their unbowed legacy filled the air.
Even men not of Dorne paused to hear the song, some standing in solemn silence, others wiping away a tear or two.
As the morning came, those who drunk too much were punished while the rest lined up in their formations. The respective captains of each formation waited for all of their soldiers to line up before the battle could begin.
As they were doing this, on the other side of river where the Royal Army was waiting, they didn't have the same mood as the Imperials did. Half the men looked worn and tired, pacing back and forth, eating hard bread and dried fish while talking about the size of the force across from them. Others were spirited, with green and yellow banners of House Baratheon flying behind them.
They believed that the Scorpions would be able to stop the Dragons while they themselves fought off the Imperial infantry. Months ago, they were ready to die fighting to restore power to the Royal family, but as more and more reports came of Imperial victories, doubt began to rise in the ranks of the Royal Army.
A few of the soldiers who fought under Robert began to grumble about deserters and traitors before the arrows had even started to fly. "We can't hold this line!" shouted one of them. "Didn't you hear about what they did to Tywin's army? Completely destroyed in a matter of minutes."
"The jails here will be fuller than the graveyards," said a younger one, chewing a piece of meat.
In the distance, the Imperial Army readied its attack. Watching all of this happen, the commander of the Royal Army narrowed his eyes, examining the opposing force and shuffling through messages from his scouts. Each message was the same: the enemy numbered at least ninety thousand, and they had a large array of monsters, flying beasts, and infernal machines.
"My Lord Commander?" whispered his aide.
"Yes?"
"Should I inform the Left and Right that we will—"
"Wait," he said, holding up a hand. He watched as the Imperial banners shifted, and a line of Wyverns rose up from behind them. He looked to the nearest anti-dragon scorpion: the thing was massive, but the men working it looked terrified, eyes fixed on the monsters circling overhead.
He grimaced. "You will inform them to brace for immediate assault."
"But Sir, shouldn't we wait for—"
"Do it," the Commander barked. The aide quickly left to relay his orders.
He took a moment, then donned his helmet. Today, most of them would die, but at least they would do it fighting and they could go to the afterlife proud that they went against such a force.
From the Imperial side, Alexander on top of his horse, gave a single signal. The Dawnborn infantry began their march across the open field towards the fortifications. Placed strategically to cover every inch of their march were witches who would create a barrier to protect them from incoming arrows.
He then motioned for the Cannons and Mortars to take aim as the Wyverns hovered high in the sky overhead. While the Scorpions were not much of a threat to the Wyverns, he still didn't want to use them yet. He wanted to play around a little before he brought out the Wyverns.
As soon as the formations marched a few feet away from their camp, he had the Cannons and Mortars open fire. The battle against the Southern army had begun with Alexander and Achilles taking the lead.