"Damn milkman… coward."
Khal Drogo rode atop his red steed, black eyes burning as he stared at the man before him. Gendry Baratheon—armored in black scale plate, warhammer in hand—stood like an immovable mountain amid the chaos.
Drogo had fought countless battles in his life. He had crushed rival Khals, broken cities, and ridden victorious across the Dothraki Sea. Yet never before had he faced an enemy like this.
This was the strongest opponent he had ever encountered.
And in the Battle of Myr, there was no retreat.
For a Khal of the Dothraki, defeat meant only one thing: death.
As expected of the Khal of Khals, Gendry thought calmly as he watched Drogo circle him. Though he lacks the sheer size of Gregor Clegane, his stamina and speed place him among the strongest warriors of this age.
Drogo was tall and powerfully built, his physique both graceful and lethal. He was the tallest among the Dothraki Screamers and the most fearsome. His strength was natural, his movements agile and precise, like a hunting beast honed by years of war.
What impressed Gendry most was Drogo's endurance.
Before their duel even began, Drogo had personally led more than a dozen cavalry charges. Any ordinary warrior would have collapsed from exhaustion, yet Drogo still fought as if he had only just entered the battlefield—his breathing steady, his movements sharp.
"Only cowards hide behind iron!" Khal Drogo roared, raising his arakh.
His braid swayed violently as he moved, black and glossy like an endless night. Scented oil coated his hair, and dozens of small bronze bells tied into the braid jingled with every motion. The braid reached past his hips, a sacred symbol among the Dothraki—proof that he had never been defeated.
The arakh flashed.
Its curved blade spun through the air like cold lightning, leaving white afterimages that made onlookers instinctively recoil. Drogo's movements were so fast it seemed as if he had grown multiple arms.
Gendry raised his spiked warhammer.
One side was a blunt hammerhead, the other a vicious, bird-beak pick designed to pierce armor. He adjusted his stance, feet planted firmly into the blood-soaked earth.
This was not merely a duel.
It was a collision of storms.
"Today, I'll kill you, Drogo," Gendry said coldly.
The warhammer swung.
Steel met steel with a thunderous crash.
The Dothraki Screamers fought without armor. To them, battle was blood, screams, and severed limbs. Death came suddenly, violently, and without mercy—a savage rhythm echoing across the open plains.
Drogo was unfamiliar with warriors clad in full plate.
The Dothraki relied on speed, mobility, and encirclement. They crushed enemies with momentum and arrows, not prolonged frontal engagements.
But now, Drogo was forced into a head-on confrontation.
Exactly as Gendry had planned.
This was momentum—the art of forcing the enemy to fight on your terms.
"Die!" Drogo bellowed.
Blood streamed from a wound on his shoulder, yet he did not slow. Fear flickered briefly in his eyes, but it was swallowed by rage and unyielding resolve.
The arakh rose and fell in a deadly rhythm.
Gendry allowed Drogo to attack, blocking only what threatened his life. Sparks erupted as curved steel struck black armor. When openings appeared, Gendry countered—each blow deliberate, crushing.
The clash of warhammer and arakh roared like thunder, steel screaming against steel. Each impact sent shockwaves through the battlefield.
Then—
Woooo—woooo—woooo.
A long, desolate bugle call echoed across the plain.
The sound pierced the chaos like a blade.
For the Dothraki locked in combat, it brought instinctive dread.
First came the horns of Gendry's main cavalry.
Then, from Myr Fortress itself, answering bugles sounded in response.
It's time, Gendry thought.
The Dothraki were trapped.
"Long live the Warhammer!"
"Long live the Commander-in-Chief!"
"Long live the Liberator!"
Black-armored cavalry bearing quartered black banners erupted in thunderous cheers. Hooves shook the earth.
The gates of Myr Fortress creaked open.
Gilo Reha, former captain of the Spear Company, led the reserve knights in a full charge—light cavalry, heavy cavalry, and even defected Dothraki riders who had sworn allegiance to Gendry.
Thump. Thump.
Shield formations surged forward once more.
Grey Wolf and Steel Fist rallied their men as the Unsullied and heavy infantry advanced in disciplined ranks, a forest of spears and shields swallowing the field.
Black-armored soldiers poured forth, longswords and longspears gleaming.
In an instant, the roles reversed.
Khal Drogo's Dothraki Screamers became the ones surrounded.
Weary from relentless fighting, their Khalasar was crushed from front and rear. The main cavalry slammed into them like a falling mountain, followed by shield walls and reserve charges. The Dothraki were swallowed by a crescent-shaped formation.
"Damn milkman…" Drogo hissed.
His gaze swept across the battlefield. Black-armored soldiers cut down exhausted Dothraki like wheat beneath a scythe.
For the first time, fear reached his heart.
The Unsullied shield wall had been bait.
The true killing blow was this encirclement.
My Khalasar… my camp…
Drogo's blood ran cold.
"Kill!"
"Kill!"
From the river, chaos erupted.
The Red Viper's surprise force landed from fast longships, crashing into the rear camp where the Dothraki's old, wounded, and plunder were kept.
Fire rose. Screams followed.
Drogo understood it then.
He had fallen into a perfect trap.
His only chance—
Was to kill the man before him.
"Now," Gendry murmured.
He adjusted his timing, letting the arakh strike harmlessly against his armor while the warhammer punished flesh and bone.
The pick scraped across Drogo's face, slicing from ear to lip. Blood sprayed as the Khal snarled like a wounded beast.
"Coward! Milkman hiding in stone and iron!"
Yet even as he cursed, Drogo felt dread.
Armor was heavy—but this man did not tire.
"Khal!"
"Khal!"
Drogo's Blood Riders fought desperately to reach him.
An arrow whistled.
Khoro fell from his horse.
Old, scarred, loyal Khoro—the man who had once saved Drogo's life—lay still.
The remaining Blood Riders were cut down moments later, pierced by longspear and blade.
Drogo's eyes burned red.
He forced himself to calm.
Joints. Gaps.
The arakh struck toward Gendry's armpit—
But the warhammer struck first.
Blood bloomed across Drogo's chest.
So this is fate, Gendry thought grimly.
Drogo staggered, then roared, raising his blade again.
"In the Dothraki Sea, you'd already be dead!"
"This is not the Dothraki Sea," Gendry replied.
"Surrender."
Drogo laughed.
Then charged.
The warhammer rose.
It fell.
Bone shattered.
Blood and gray matter sprayed as Khal Drogo collapsed, eyes wide in disbelief.
"Drogo is dead!" Gendry roared.
The battlefield froze.
Then erupted.
Longspear severed Drogo's head and raised it high.
The braid. The bells. The golden belt.
All ended here.
The Dothraki broke.
A Khalasar dissolved into fleeing shadows.
Gendry stood amid blood and ruin.
A king had fallen.
Another had risen.
The crown was not forged of gold—
But of blood.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)