Chapter 215: Dragon's Wrath
A few Dothraki Screamers rode out to provoke a fight before the black walls of Ghoyan Drohe.
The Dothraki brandished their arakhs in front of the townspeople, spitting, urinating, and shouting curses loudly.
Not far behind them, several thousand warriors led by Khal Drogo waited near the Upper Rhoyne River.
The Dothraki despised everything tied to civilization—towns, iron armor, and ordered life—seeing them all as weak and filthy.
"These three look like Khal Drogo's better fighters—upper-middle tier among the Dothraki."
Rhaegar observed them from the walls of Ghoyan Drohe.
All three men had bronze skin, black hair, and dark eyes. They were tall and physically well-built.
However, their braids only reached above their waists, meaning they were not elite Screamers.
The strongest warriors—like Khal Drogo himself—would have braids reaching their thighs, symbols of never having been defeated.
Suddenly, the gates of Ghoyan Drohe opened.
To the surprise of the Dothraki Screamers, three Westerosi knights rode out to meet the three Dothraki warriors head-on.
The Dothraki riders wore painted leather vests and horsehair-bound leggings.
"You pathetic monkeys who hide inside stones, you finally came out!"
The Dothraki raised their arakhs and charged together.
"Kill them."
Rhaegar gave the order.
His black longsword slid free, its blade shining with a cold, nightlike darkness.
Rhaegar raised his sword toward a Dothraki warrior.
There were countless fine blades in the world, but a Valyrian steel longsword remained unmatched in sharpness.
In Rhaegar's hands, the weapon moved with overwhelming force—his strength itself was monstrous.
It felt like cheating.
The blade was light, precise, and effortless.
The Dothraki warrior froze for a moment.
His arakh shattered instantly.
The next instant, Rhaegar's blade flashed—his throat was slit, blood spraying like rain in a hot wind.
"You come out to fight without armor? Do you think you die too slowly?"
Rhaegar cursed as he sheathed Oathkeeper.
"Cowards! Milk men! Iron-clad eunuchs!"
The remaining Dothraki roared in fury as they saw their comrade fall.
Ser Barristan Selmy moved first.
His sword struck once, severing a Screamer's arm, and then again, splitting through the warrior's face.
Prince Oberyn Martell used his spear, tracing a strange arc before piercing another Screamer through the heart.
The remaining two fights ended just as quickly.
Though the victory was one-sided, effectiveness mattered.
Oberyn and Barristan both wore armor, gloves, and reinforced protection on their limbs.
Even without full helmets or gorgets, they were far better protected than the Dothraki.
More importantly, they were elite warriors—experienced and disciplined.
The three men cut the braids from the fallen Dothraki Screamers and held them up toward the riverbank.
Across the water, Khal Drogo stood watching.
A young and powerful Dothraki Khal, broad-shouldered and riding a magnificent red warhorse.
"After we win, we should cut off all their braids. Send them to Pentos—they'll be grateful for the warning."
Rhaegar spoke casually to Barristan and Oberyn.
"If we're going to fight, we should at least collect the spoils."
Seeing this, Khal Drogo's fury ignited.
He raised his arakh high.
"Dothraki riders! Cross the river!"
Rhaegar saw the bait had taken hold.
The three of them turned their horses and retreated toward the city.
"Wait for the dragon's roar. Then charge."
Rhaegar gave the order.
"Only Drogo's few thousand riders are engaging now. His main khalasar is still across the river. We strike fast—kill him and break his force before it can regroup."
The population must not be spared.
They were valuable resources.
Oberyn and Barristan nodded.
Nearly six hundred armored knights prepared for the coming charge.
The Dothraki Screamers howled as they began crossing the river.
A dark mass of riders surged forward, water splashing as horses pushed through the Upper Rhoyne.
Their glossy black braids—their pride—swung wildly as they advanced.
They charged toward Ghoyan Drohe like a living tide.
Hooves thundered like war drums.
Arakhs glinted coldly in their hands.
Then, just as their momentum peaked, a sound like thunder tore through the sky.
Dark shapes appeared above them.
At first only dots—then growing rapidly larger.
Dragons.
Their wings beat like storms breaking open the heavens.
They circled once high above, then folded into a diving formation.
Three dragons descended together like a falling spear.
A formation like a pointed strike, tearing toward the earth.
Below them stretched the greatest wealth of the Dothraki—their horses.
Thousands of them.
So many that the grasslands seemed to breathe with movement.
"Dragons!"
The Dothraki voices cracked with panic.
The horses saw them first.
They reared, screaming in terror.
They had seen dragons before—the monstrous jaws, the horns, the vast wings, the scales that caught the light like metal.
A dragon's roar could make lions flee.
Horses were even weaker.
In the middle of the river crossing, panic exploded.
Riders tried to turn back.
Horses collided, slipping in water and mud.
The formation collapsed instantly.
Those behind crashed into those ahead, turning order into chaos.
"Dragonflame!"
Rhaegar's command echoed.
The Dothraki Khals had only ever brought destruction to others—or demanded tribute from Free Cities.
Now it was their turn to understand fear.
Khal Drogo had been foolish enough to provoke him.
Silver flame, violet flame, and red flame erupted from the sky.
The dragons unleashed their breath.
Fire rained down like judgment itself.
Heat swallowed the battlefield.
Dothraki riders and horses were engulfed instantly, burning like torches.
They wore no iron armor.
Their leather offered almost no protection against dragonfire.
Screams rose in every direction.
Arrows shot upward in desperation.
Some of the boldest Dothraki tried to retaliate, loosing volleys into the sky.
But the arrows were useless.
The dragons barely needed to dodge.
They simply beat their wings, scattering the shots.
The fire only grew stronger.
Heat waves rolled across the Upper Rhoyne like a living storm.
The dragons circled again, gathering breath, and unleashed another wave of destruction.
Fire was all they returned to the world.
"No—!"
The Dothraki had no time left to even curse their fate.
Burning bodies fell into the river, hissing and floating like charred wood.
The sky itself seemed stained red by flame.
"Charge!"
Oberyn Martell and Ser Barristan Selmy led the six hundred armored knights forward.
Behind them came the native fighters and freed slaves.
They crashed into the rear of the collapsing Dothraki force like a hammer.
The battlefield turned into slaughter.
Khal Drogo's face had gone pale.
The impulsive Khal was not truly foolish—but he was utterly unprepared for this.
He watched his warriors burn.
His strength.
His pride.
His future conquest.
All reduced to ash before his eyes.
Even if he survived, he would never recover.
Other Khals would hunt him down.
Drogo stood waist-deep in the river, struggling to control his panicked red warhorse.
He raised his spear and threw it toward the Silver Dragon in the sky.
It was a desperate strike—no different from a drowning man grasping at wind.
"Dragonflame."
Rhaegar saw the spear rise.
The dragon easily avoided it.
Fire descended instantly.
Drogo was engulfed before he could even react.
"Khal!"
Several of his Bloodriders rushed to his side.
They were consumed together in the inferno.
Flames swallowed them whole until nothing remained recognizable.
The roar of dragons filled the battlefield.
Hot winds rolled across the riverbanks like a furnace opening.
Behind Rhaegar, Westerosi knights cut down fleeing Dothraki Screamers like grass.
The Dothraki were already broken—terror had replaced courage.
This was the Dragon's Wrath.
Unmatched.
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