Viserion's scales shimmered a milky white, while its horns, wings, and back bore a dark golden hue, like polished plates of rare metal. It s
Viserion's scales shimmered a milky white, while its horns, wings, and back bore a dark golden hue, like polished plates of rare metal. It spewed a fiery blaze of tangerine-orange destruction.
Rhaegal, hued by the summer's emerald green and the bronzed tones of the Great Grass Sea, had deep green scales that resembled thick moss deep within a forest. It unleashed a lethal breath, a fiery blend of orange and yellow.
Drogon was a fusion of midnight darkness and crimson bloodlust. Far larger than his two younger brothers, he was also far more ferocious and volatile, exhaling a spiral of interwoven black and red flames—like the legendary hellfire burning in the realm of the dead.
The three dragons, their eyes like molten gold lava pools, preferred to attack from high above. As they soared between prey and sun, they would stretch their wings taut and dive down with a piercing screech.
Once close to the ground and having locked onto their targets, they would first incinerate their prey with flames, then tear them apart. After seizing their desired morsels, they would flap their wings with hissing cries, kicking up thick clouds of dust as they ascended once again.
The wind stirred by their massive wings swept the earth with hurricane force. With such gusts defending them, even dozens of arrows shot simultaneously would be blown off course. Even those that managed to fly straight had their force diminished, and when they struck the dragons' iron-hard scales, they would slide off powerlessly to the ground, causing almost no harm to the young dragons—as harmless as a tickle.
These three sudden monstrous beasts didn't bring carnage on par with the Unsullied, but their presence could shift the tide of battle. Bhorno, who had just slashed through an Unsullied's spear and taken his life, thought to himself: "Are those three monsters the legendary dragons?"
They could breathe fire, and their appearance matched the descriptions passed down by shadow-walkers and blood sorcerers. It seemed highly probable.
The cold and cunning Bhorno, seeing his archers demoralized and abandoning their bows to flee the beasts, devised a venomous ploy to raise morale. He bellowed mockingly: "My warriors! Your moment of glory has arrived! Prove your courage! Whoever slays those three beasts and earns the title of Dragonslayer, I shall name him a Khal, to command three thousand of the Khalasar!"
Everyone fears death, but in a battlefield drowned in blood, Dothraki warriors—barely more than beasts—thought only of swinging their weapons with all their might. Fear was not an option.
"Dragons! They're dragons!"
"Hahaha! I shall be the Dragonslayer!"
"Three thousand of the Khalasar shall be mine!"
With rich rewards comes reckless bravery. Many savages were tempted by the lofty status of dragonslayer and Bhorno's promise, igniting a foolish zeal to slay dragons. Like moths drawn to flame, they charged the monstrous beasts.
But the dragons' combat tactics left them helpless. A rare few managed to press through the stormwinds and choking dust, lucky enough to avoid the searing flames. Yet, even when they finally reached the dragons, their scimitars still raised, the young beasts would leap skyward, ready to dive once more.
Dany's heart pounded with dread, terrified her children might be hurt. To her, those three dragons were still too young.
Drogo, however, felt entirely different. He was filled with pride at the dragons' dazzling performance, his blood surging with excitement.
Seeing the battle begin to tilt in their favor, Drogo decided to try something new—to reduce casualties among the valiant Unsullied and give them some breathing room. He turned to Aggo not far away and ordered, "Blood of my blood, take a hundred of the Khalasar and push the trebuchets outside the city. Wait for my command. Let's give the enemy a rain of meteors."
"Yes, blood of my blood."
Aggo, long eager to kill, received the order and hurried to carry it out.
The Khal looked to his remaining two trusted warriors and gave another command. "Jogo, Rakharo, split the Free Army into two groups. Go out through the north and south gates to cut off Bhorno's retreat. Remember—stay clear of the falling firestones."
"Yes, blood of my blood."
The two bloodriders, boiling with battle spirit, promptly took their leave.
The Free Army was made up of former slaves. Many had joined to fill their bellies and earn some coin. Though they far outnumbered the Unsullied, Dany worried—they were newly recruited and untrained.
She hesitated and said with concern, "Husband, the Free Army has never trained nor seen battle. Isn't it too risky to send them against the strongest cavalry?"
Drogo replied solemnly, "Once Astapor stabilizes, I will take the Unsullied and the Khalasar and leave. The Red-Brick City will be left in their care. Without trial by blood and fire, how can they grow strong quickly? Remember—real battle is always the best training."
Their long-term goal had always been the rich lands of Westeros. His words left Dany without rebuttal. "You truly do see further ahead."
Even as Bhorno's forces saw themselves being surrounded, they were too occupied fighting the relentless Unsullied to notice the ragtag militia forming a noose around them.
With the trebuchets in place and firestones coated in pitch ready, Drogo led the remaining warriors on the city wall and shouted the order.
"Unsullied! Break off the fight! Gather at the trench! Form the shield wall!"
To live was to obey. The surviving Unsullied followed the king's command. Disengaging from the braid-wearing warriors, they retreated while fighting, converging at the trench. There they crouched behind round shields, spears bristling through the gaps like a porcupine's quills. In less than ten minutes, the shield wall was complete.
So swift and disciplined was their formation that Drogo couldn't help but swell with pride as their leader.
Bhorno was baffled when the Unsullied, who clearly held the advantage, suddenly pulled back into defensive formation. He thought Drogo's battlefield command was utter folly.
No matter how strong their shield wall was, placing it near a trench and then facing a cavalry charge? Half of them would die—he could already see victory within reach.
"Khalasar riders up front! Warriors without horses behind! Let Drogo pay for his stupidity!"
"Yes, Khal!"
Save for those obsessed with slaying dragons, the rest of the braid-wearers surged forward, adjusting their lines as they rushed toward the barely visible shield wall.
"Blind fools… who's truly stupid here?"
Drogo scoffed and signaled toward the city base. Holding a torch, he barked, "Release! Let the firestones fall with our enemies!"
Aggo and his crew lit the tar-coated stones and released the winches—launching the flaming projectiles skyward.
BOOM! WHOOSH!
Each trebuchet fired one stone at a time, but with ten machines working in tandem, a flaming meteor storm rained down on Bhorno's tightly packed forces.
BANG! CRACK!
With how dense the Dothraki formation was, the shots barely missed. Some were smashed into pulp, others grazed and set ablaze. The carnage was horrifying.
Screams, curses, frantic cries for escape—all echoed across ten miles. But trapped in a steel ring, Bhorno's men could do nothing but endure the relentless firestone assault. More and more fell.
Once the barrage ended, Drogo, his bloodlust boiling over, personally led the charge into the terrified enemy ranks.
This time, with many Dothraki broken in spirit, the charge was entirely one-sided. Even the freedmen, wielding little more than farm tools, were emboldened and surged into the fray.
Riding his red warhorse, Drogo cut through the battlefield like a god of war. His focus was singular: the traitor Bhorno—the one who'd tried to take his life.
"Cut off the snake's head," as the saying went. Bhorno knew this well. He dodged relentlessly, his rage focused entirely on the man who had always overshadowed him—Drogo.
"Bhorno!"
"Drogo!"
In the chaos, they finally met. The two Khals charged at each other with a thunderous roar.
Bhorno had long studied Drogo's weaknesses. But fantasy and reality were worlds apart. He knew Drogo was strong, so he tried to avoid direct confrontation—but Drogo was also more agile than expected. Forced into defense, Bhorno had no choice but to endure, desperately looking for an opening to strike back.
"Your attacks are weak and slow! You've always been weak! In strength, in leadership—you'll always be beneath me!"
Drogo sneered and said nothing, delivering relentless blows that drove Bhorno into disarray.
CLANG!
At last, Bhorno's chipped scimitar flew from his hand. He screamed in defiance, "I won't accept this!"
Without mercy, Drogo slashed his throat. As a fountain of blood soared into the sky, he muttered coldly, "This is what happens to those who betray a true King."
With the traitor slain, Drogo's excitement faded.
As he scanned the battlefield for threats, his heart nearly stopped—his wife, weeping and stumbling, was rushing toward Drogon, who had several warriors pinning him down, a scimitar buried in his spine.
"No... Drogon! Drogon!"
The dragon howled in pain, crushed beneath the weight of men far heavier than himself. He struggled but couldn't break free.
Viserion and Rhaegal screeched furiously, breathing fire to rescue him—but were met with a storm of arrows and fearless enemies.
Dany rushed through steel and fire, guarded by the bloodied Ser Jorah.
Reaching range, Drogo grabbed his greatbow and loosed several arrows in quick succession, shooting down the men on Drogon's back and freeing the black dragon.
But this only enraged the dragon-hunters, who turned and closed in on Drogo with suicidal determination.
Surrounded and unable to break free, Drogo shouted, "Unsullied! Protect the queen!"
Before the Unsullied could arrive, Jorah stood alone in defense of Daenerys, blood pouring from his wounds.
Daenerys, tears streaming, threw herself onto Drogon's body, grabbing the scimitar embedded in her child and pulling with all her might—oblivious to the approaching death behind her.
One of the warriors Drogo had shot, still alive, crawled toward her, blade raised.
Seeing his wife about to die, Drogo's eyes turned red with rage. He hacked wildly through the crowd. But even as he broke through, he was too far. Powerless, he roared to the sky.
Just then, Jorah turned away from an incoming blade, abandoning his defense to throw himself at Daenerys.
SLASH!
Though armored, the scimitar pierced him deeply.
He endured the pain, sprinted, and shielded Dany with his body—just as another blade struck his back.
Feeling the weight atop her, Dany turned and saw the most harrowing sight of her life.
Danger still loomed. With the scimitar still in his back, the old bear stabbed his sword into the attacker's heart. Then he fell to his knees, bracing himself with his blade, panting heavily.
"Ahh!"
Dany summoned all her strength to pull the blade from Drogon's back, her heart aching as she rushed toward Jorah.
"Gaaah!"
Freed of the weapon, Drogon rose again, propping himself up with his wings and unleashing a storm of flame to protect his mother.
With his wife safe, Drogo breathed a deep sigh of relief and bellowed, "Anyone who values their life—kneel, or die where you stand!"
Surrounded and with their leader dead, most of the Dothraki dropped their weapons, knelt, and severed their braids.
Though they had fought mainly the Unsullied, these warriors didn't feel humiliated like their ancestors from four centuries ago. They knelt not to the eunuchs, but to the cunning and courageous Drogo—their former Khal.
Those who resisted were quickly eliminated by the Unsullied.
Looking at Jorah's bleeding back and pale face, Daenerys whimpered, "My loyal knight... you must not die!"
Jorah clenched his jaw and managed a pained smile. "Heh... this wound won't kill me, Your Grace."
With the battle won, Drogo dismounted and slowly approached his wife. Staring at the weakened knight, he hesitated, then said coldly, "You dishonored exiled knight. Today should have been your death. But you took a fatal blow for my wife. For that, you've earned your life."
Jorah had given everything to save her, only to be dismissed. Dany, moved to tears and fury, snapped, "Drogo, he saved me! You can't insult the honor of a true knight!"
Knowing words wouldn't calm her, Drogo pulled a small scroll from his belt and handed it to her.
Jorah's face turned pale.
Dany took it, confused. "Why are you giving me this?"
Drogo answered, "You'll understand. I left the west gate near the Worm River open, since the Dothraki fear ships. I got this scroll from a greedy ship captain. He said a bald Westerosi man paid him a bag of gold to send this to King's Landing—addressed to someone called the Spider."
At the mention of King's Landing, Dany opened the scroll. Seeing the Mormont sigil, her body trembled violently. After reading it, she stepped away from Jorah like she'd been struck by lightning.
"Tell me this wasn't you... Tell me you didn't write this... When Drogo was cursed... when I needed help most, you were the only one who stayed... you saved my life again and again... Jorah... tell me you're not a spy... that you weren't working for the usurpers... tell me!"
She collapsed into sobs.
Jorah, dizzy and weak, stammered, "Your Grace... at first, yes... but when I fell in love with you... I swore I'd never let harm come to you again..."
Dany hurled the scroll at him. "You betrayed us! You betrayed me! You liar! Pawn of the usurpers! You've been lying to me all this time!"
He had no defense. Looking to the sky, he muttered, "If only I had loved you from the beginning... taken you away... spared you from that marriage... but now it's too late. You're no longer just a princess—you're Khaleesi... and a queen. I wanted to win you back... to make Drogo leave... to have you love me... I'd escort you home... like a true knight would escort a proud princess home."
Dany broke his dream with fury: "So that's it? You wanted to use the usurpers to erase my sun and stars!? Jorah, give it up. I'll never love you. I do want to go home—I dream of Westeros every night—but it will be Drogo, not you, who takes me there!"
Seeing the murderous glint in Drogo's eyes, Dany kicked Jorah. "Go! Or I'll have the dragons roast you alive! Get out of my sight! Never show your face again!"
She turned her back to him, unwilling to look at the face she now hated—but still knew so well.
"Let me call you Princess one last time. I've always liked that. Princess."
Trembling, the exiled knight stood, threw away the token of her Queensguard he no longer deserved, and wandered off. Lost and broken, he didn't know where to go.
But he dared not look back—for behind him waited hell.
Sobs echoed.
Led by the priest Enor Adelaide, a mournful dirge played on the flutes, sending the dead to rest—and breaking the hearts of those still living.
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