The harpy banners of the Red Brick City had long been torn down, replaced by new ones embroidered with a dragon-headed horse, winged and wil
The harpy banners of the Red Brick City had long been torn down, replaced by new ones embroidered with a dragon-headed horse, winged and wild, fluttering high in the wind—declaring to the world that Astapor had changed rulers.
Few in Astapor were skilled archers, so nearly all those manning the battlements were members of Drogo's khalasar. Grim-faced and silent, they stood with bows in hand, waiting only for their khal's signal to rain down a storm of blood-soaked arrows.
Pono's army of over ten thousand mounted warriors surged forward, each man bouncing on horseback like spawning salmon leaping at the Worm River delta. Their black-and-white armor shimmered, and the sand kicked up by their hooves clouded the air in a spectacle of dust and thunder.
As Drogo's former ko, and once the commander of tens of thousands, Khal Pono had both strategic brilliance and battlefield experience. He quickly spotted the archers on the wall and signaled his men to halt before they entered firing range.
The Dothraki were never a people known for patience. Even standing still, they swayed restlessly, waving their gleaming arakhs and letting out sharp war cries that stirred a suffocating pressure in the air.
Everyone watching held their breath. Warriors braced themselves. The others, nervous and untrained, sweated from their palms and brows.
Only two stood utterly calm—one was Grey Worm, who knew no fear. The other was the man who had once been these braid-wearing warriors' king.
Drogo.
Though not yet thirty, Drogo had fought through years of war and bathed in honor. Today, to welcome his former khalasar, he had his shoulder-length black hair braided with Missandei's help and slicked with fragrant oil. Dozens of tiny metal bells were woven into the strands, jingling with every movement.
He carried a great bow carved from dragonbone across his back and held a dazzling golden arakh in hand. A belt of medals circled his waist. Standing a head taller than anyone present, with a physique rivaling his dragons, he seemed less man than living legend. A human dragon—silent and still, yet ready to erupt like a volcano.
His natural aura, paired with his icy eyes and severe expression, made his kingly presence overwhelming and divine.
"Don't be afraid," Drogo said coolly. "I beat Pono so badly in the past, he forgot who his own father was. Back then, he was only my ko."
With their mighty khal standing before them, the dread pressed upon his followers lessened—as if they had just swallowed a dose of courage.
Facing the horde, Daenerys shed her queenly silks and donned a Dothraki painted leather vest. She returned to her original attire—partly to match her husband, and partly to show strength to the people who had once followed her.
Jorah Mormont, now over forty, had thinning hair but a body still hardened by years of combat. He wore a suit of iron mail with a pale green cloak embroidered with a rearing black bear.
Once anointed with the Seven Oils by the High Septon himself, he had been a knight in truth. Though stripped of title for trading in slaves, his knightly bearing remained.
Of course, Drogo didn't think much of him. Since Jorah liked to stand out in front of Daenerys, Drogo had already decided—he'd send him as the vanguard. If he died, so be it.
Even if Drogo were reduced to ashes, Pono would still recognize him—his features were too unforgettable.
Those who had once fought beside Drogo, shared blood and wine with him, recognized him too. Seeing the man who had once defied death sent ripples through their hearts.
From below, Pono spotted the familiar braided warriors atop the walls, and the strange flag—a hybrid of dragon and horse—waving defiantly. Suspicion furrowed his brow.
Kraznys mo Nakloz didn't lie... Drogo really broke the blood magic. But even if that's true, he only has a few hundred in his khalasar. So how is it he now seems to rule Astapor? Have the Great Masters lost their minds?
Too far from the wall to hear, and with the city gate towering above, Pono commanded his warriors to shout as one:
"Masters of Astapor! You have one hour to surrender Drogo and his khalasar—or face the consequences!"
The Dothraki worship strength. While they respected Drogo's personal prowess, Pono's overwhelming numbers gave them confidence. Killing their former king would be an honor—one they burned for.
Their voices boomed like thunder, heard across the city. The freefolk now had no doubt—Pono had come. Fear spread quickly. The former nobles, hiding inside the pyramids, were both terrified and secretly elated.
To the so-called Sons of the Harpy, Pono was a wildcard. But if Drogo were to be crushed beneath a thousand hooves, it would be a sight to celebrate.
That fantasy, however, would never come true.
In Punishment Square, nine thousand Unsullied stood in perfect formation. All had earned their spiked helms. Their faces were stone, their presence like a wall of blades ready to draw blood.
As the mightiest Khal once among them, Drogo knew their hearts. This battle was inevitable. But he spoke first—if only to assert dominance.
"Pono! You won't get an answer from the masters," he shouted from the wall. "You were once my ko. Now, before your king, you dare speak such disrespect? Dismount and kneel!"
Pono, his face scarred and grim, sneered with disdain. Not fully grasping the implication, he barked back:
"Always arrogant! You're just a little khal with no power, squeezed between me and the masters—and still you talk like a king? Get out here and kneel, Drogo. For the sake of old times, I'll make your death quick. If not, I'll treat you like the livestock you are."
Their relationship had always been volatile—two storms clashing. Drogo's patience ended here.
"Pono! Have you forgotten the story of the three thousand who defended Qohor?"
The name struck a nerve. Pono scowled.
"I'm no Temo, that shame of our people. Your eunuchs don't scare me. They belong to the Great Masters, not you!"
It was clear Pono hadn't realized what had happened in Astapor. He still thought Kraznys mo Nakloz ruled the Unsullied.
Time to show him the truth.
Drogo turned to Grey Worm. "Open the gate. Take the nine thousand. Form ranks. Await my signal."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Grey Worm bowed, descended the tower, and ordered the gates opened.
Creeeaaak...
The massive doors groaned as they parted.
Pono's eyes lit up. Finally, he thought. The masters had come to their senses. Surely, they were bringing Drogo out in chains.
But no one came bearing gifts. Drogo still stood atop the wall, proud and unmoved. Only the Unsullied emerged—orderly, silent, deadly.
Their eyes were sharp and merciless. Their formation unbreakable.
Pono's expression soured. In broken Valyrian, he shouted, "Where are your masters? Where did those Ghiscar pigs run off to!?"
At the front of the formation, Grey Worm raised his voice with pride:
"Our master... is the man who was once your king—His Grace Drogo, protector of the freefolk of Astapor! The slave masters are ash!"
Pono stood stunned.
"D-Drogo… is king of the Red Brick City!? What freefolk? What the hell is going on!?"
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