Grey Worm's words were perfectly clear: the masters were all dead, reduced to ashes by fire. Had they been mere slavers, perhaps there could
Grey Worm's words were perfectly clear: the masters were all dead, reduced to ashes by fire.
Had they been mere slavers, perhaps there could have been room for negotiation. But now that Drogo held the reins of power, there was nothing to hesitate over. The answer was blood.
Bono had come to eliminate the threat once and for all. As Drogo's former ko, he understood better than anyone how terrifying that man's potential truly was.
They were about the same age, but Bono had followed Drogo in campaigns since before reaching adulthood, witnessing with his own eyes how the man rose step by step to conquer all the khalasars across the Dothraki Sea. He had achieved unmatched glory, becoming the most powerful Khal with over a hundred thousand subjects.
Drogo despised betrayal above all else. Therefore, that man had to die. Only then could Bono sleep peacefully. He let out a war cry and roared his command:
"My brave warriors! Drive your horses forward! Swing your sharp arakhs and shatter the eunuchs' round shields! Break their spears and cut them down! Let us cleanse the shame of our ancestors and restore the invincible glory of the Dothraki!"
"Hrah! Hrah!"
The braid-wearing warriors shouted in response, driving their horses like crashing waves toward the Unsullied army.
Despite the thunderous charge, Grey Worm and the Unsullied stood their ground, shields steady at their sides and spears planted firmly into the earth. To them, it was as if locusts were charging—not ferocious, bloodthirsty warriors.
Their indifference made Drogo smirk, though he grumbled to himself: "Even if you're confident, at least put on a show—raise your shields, lower your spears, something!"
The Dothraki hadn't clashed with a disciplined Unsullied army in centuries. Bono, though meticulous, assumed this was just the eunuchs' odd way of fighting and didn't give it much thought.
"Charge! Kill them all! Storm the city! Tear Drogo to pieces and capture that wretched Daenerys! Let the former Khaleesi entertain us at our feast!"
Bono bellowed with a twisted grin, pacing and commanding, trying to boost morale.
Seeing the traitor unwilling to lead the charge himself, Drogo felt a twinge of disappointment.
But as the warriors approached within a hundred paces of the outer wall, Drogo's excitement drowned out all regret. He began counting under his breath.
"One hundred thirty... one hundred twenty-nine... one hundred and one... Now, fall!"
The frontmost riders suddenly found the ground collapsing beneath them. Horses and men plunged forward in chaos.
The sand beneath their hooves had been a facade—an outer crust covering rotting planks and woven mats, with only a thin layer of sand to conceal the trap.
These traps couldn't bear the weight of horse and rider. They all fell into deep pits dug by the Unsullied.
And at the bottom waited rows of sharpened wooden spikes.
Screams rang out as horses and warriors alike were impaled. Blood sprayed, panic erupted. The riders behind tried to stop, but it was too late. Either they were pulled in by their own momentum, or pushed in by those behind them.
The spikes were so densely packed that many didn't even have time to cry out before their lives ended.
Hundreds were killed in moments. Bono finally realized what was happening and screamed furiously, "Stop! STOP!"
Watching his former khalasar fall one after another, Drogo's excitement faded into a calm, emotionless gaze.
Conflicts between Dothraki tribes were nothing new. Drogo had seen—and led—his fair share of fratricide. If he had been the one to fall into the pit, none of them would have mourned. They would have cheered.
Though the momentum was fading, some were still falling into the pits. Drogo turned and gave a sharp command:
"Ser Jorah, prepare for battle. When I give the order, lead the Unsullied and drive the invaders back."
Jorah accepted with visible reluctance. "As you command, Khal."
He looked to Daenerys, and to his joy, she was watching him with concern.
"My Queen," he said proudly, "I will fight with the sword you gave me."
With that, he marched forward, deliberately leaving behind what he imagined was a noble silhouette.
Drogo sneered, "Tch. All flash, no substance."
As soon as Jorah reached the front line, Drogo shouted:
"Unsullied! Lay the bridge planks! Charge!"
Then, with a wicked grin: "Jorah Mormont leads the way!"
Jorah flinched slightly. He knew that was deliberate.
The Unsullied knelt, dug into the sand, and retrieved wooden planks built from shipboards. With great effort, they raised them high and let them fall, bridging the trench.
The Dothraki on the far side barely had time to react. The falling planks slammed into them, sending riders and horses tumbling.
Jorah gritted his teeth, drew the steel sword Daenerys had gifted him, and charged forward. Grey Worm and his men followed.
Bono, still underestimating the eunuchs, refused to retreat. He ordered his men to engage.
Had the Dothraki been able to charge freely, they might've overwhelmed the Unsullied. But now, crammed into a tight space, the advantage turned.
Arakhs clashed with shields. Spear thrusts pierced torsos. Even if a warrior dodged the point, his horse usually could not.
Dismounted, the Dothraki found themselves at a disadvantage. The Unsullied moved with lethal precision, their short swords and spears slicing through gaps in armor and chaos alike.
It was a bloody, brutal melee. Both sides suffered.
Then, the sky changed.
"SKREEEEEE!"
Three young dragons, having lingered near the pyramid, caught the scent of blood and descended upon the battlefield.
Chaos erupted. Bono's men, unaware dragons even existed, were stricken with terror.
Though no larger than pigs in body, the dragons had massive wingspans. Their shadows swept across the sand.
They soared and dove like hawks. Spotting the wounded, they swooped low, weaving between men to tear and scorch them apart.
Bono had hesitated to order archers to fire before, afraid of friendly fire. But now—he screamed,
"Shoot them! Shoot those monsters!"
The arrows only enraged the dragons. Their playfulness vanished. They began unleashing full torrents of flame, turning the battlefield into a blazing inferno.
It was exactly what Drogo wanted.
Despite their wildness, the dragons astonishingly distinguished friend from foe.
Now, he was starting to believe it:
Perhaps dragons truly were as intelligent as men.
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