For a warg, entering the mind of a creature with which one shared a deep emotional bond made the process far easier. After more than half a
For a warg, entering the mind of a creature with which one shared a deep emotional bond made the process far easier. After more than half a year together, Drogo and Snowball had forged such a bond. When the Khal pushed his will into Snowball's consciousness, there was no resistance—it was smooth, fluid, a perfect blend of two minds.
To Drogo, sending Snowball to scout while warging into him was more reliable than any flesh-and-blood spy. He saw everything with his own eyes—through Snowball's.
It was a power few could dream of. If he made it known, he'd surely earn another legendary title. But Drogo had no intention of revealing it. This was his secret weapon.
Snowball's eerie eye movements had already confirmed some of the suspicions held by the physician and the scholar—but they exchanged glances and chose not to press the matter.
And Drogo certainly wasn't going to tell them what he'd seen.
After thinking it through, the Khal dismissed everyone who had stayed up with him, allowing them to rest. Only Ang Kratzny remained—Ghiscari-born, and familiar with the region. After lunch, they would march on Yunkai.
Thanks to his warging, Drogo had confirmed the enemy's strength at the Khyzai Pass. Judging by the tents, Yunkai's slave army numbered around six thousand. The mercenary companies—the Second Sons and the Stormcrows—each had around five hundred.
Mercenaries were dangerous, but not in large numbers. And Yunkai was better known for training bed slaves than warriors. How formidable could their troops really be?
Drogo didn't fear them. His plan was to strike their stronghold first—cut off the snake's head, and the rest would flail and fall.
But one thing gnawed at him.
In the Second Sons' encampment, he'd spotted something—at least four meters tall, resembling a giant ape. But armored. And holding a hammer that easily weighed over a thousand pounds.
Based on what he knew from Game of Thrones lore, it could be a giant—a sentient one.
But giants were supposed to exist only beyond the Wall, in Westeros.
To be sure, Drogo had kept the local-born Ang Kratzny with him.
"Ang," he began, "as a Ghiscari, you must know these mercenary companies well. Tell me everything you know about the Second Sons."
Ang bowed. "Yes, Your Grace. The Second Sons were once a proud and storied company, founded in Braavos, one of the Nine Free Cities. They fought alongside Qohor's Unsullied and the Bright Banners outside the gates of Qohor. But under their current commander, their reputation has collapsed. They now struggle to find work in any Free City."
Drogo raised an eyebrow. "In a world of blood and fire, not even mercenaries want them? That's tragic. Now I'm curious about their poor commander."
Ang nodded gravely. "He's a large Braavosi named Mero. Calls himself the Titan's Bastard. He's violent, treacherous, and has been known to betray his employers if offered a better price. When faced with real danger, he retreats—taking his payment without lifting a sword. That's why their reputation has grown so foul."
Drogo's eyes lit up. "Tall, and calls himself the Titan's Bastard? Wait—are you saying Braavos actually had a Titan? Could Mero be a real giant's son?"
Ang shook his head, amused. "No, Your Grace. There are no true giants in Braavos—nor anywhere else. Giants are extinct. Many Braavosi call themselves the Titan's Bastard out of pride. Their city is built in a marshy region, ringed by mountainous islands. At the entrance to the only navigable strait stands a massive statue of a man—the Titan of Braavos. It serves as lighthouse, landmark, and fortress. The Braavosi venerate it as a symbol of strength and call themselves its children."
Drogo didn't look satisfied. In fact, his brow furrowed deeper.
"What if I told you giants are not extinct? That they still walk this world?"
Though Ang hadn't served Drogo long, he already knew the Khal wasn't one for empty boasts. His voice trembled. "Your Grace… that would be a miracle."
Drogo nodded solemnly. "Yes. And soon, you will witness one. Go rest. When the battle begins, you'll have much to do."
Though burning with curiosity, Ang bowed and left.
Drogo then turned his gaze to Viserion, who lay curled at his feet, breathing smoke in his sleep. The white dragon seemed oblivious to the tension around him.
"Grow quickly, little one," Drogo murmured. "This world is full of hidden terrors. Your father needs you."
Snowball, sensing the emotion, leapt up and placed a paw on Drogo's knee, letting out a series of soft, determined growls—almost like a promise.
Drogo stroked the blood-marked fur on his forehead. "You've done more than enough already. You were the first mystery I found on my path to conquest."
After lunch, the army resumed its march toward Yunkai—at a faster pace.
The sighting of the giant had shaken Drogo. Doubt crept in. Was this route the right one?
In Game of Thrones, giants had held up the gates of the Wall. Even setting fiction aside, a creature of that size could easily smash through stone walls with a few swings of that hammer.
Killing a giant was, in Drogo's mind, easier than slaying a dragon. With enough men, even the strongest fell. The question was: how many men was he willing to lose?
After two days of forced marching, Yunkai came into view.
The city, built of yellow bricks, resembled Astapor with its towering step pyramids and ancient, crumbling walls. Above the battered gates sat the infamous harpy statue—a symbol of the Ghiscari people.
The towers were packed with crossbowmen and stone-hurlers. Drogo ordered a halt beyond their range.
Scanning the walls, his sharp eyes caught sight of someone familiar—bandaged, limping, supported by two guards.
It was Grazdan mo Eraz, face wrapped in cloth to cover his branded wounds.
Drogo frowned. Is this really their commander?
Has Yunkai no one better than a disgraced, half-burned emissary to lead them?
Do they not see the size of the force at their gates?
Faced with such feeble defense, Drogo didn't even need a formal challenge.
Still, he motioned to his loudest bloodrider.
"Men on the wall! Open your gates and kneel, or we'll break through—and kill you all!"
The response was quick and defiant.
"Our walls are strong! Our arrows endless! Come closer, and we'll turn you into pincushions! You filthy savages will never defile this sacred city!"
Drogo snorted. He never planned to use battering rams—the birch-lined roads made transport impossible. Nor was there time to carve new roads.
Fine. If soft words failed, hard ones would follow.
He bellowed in High Valyrian, "Ghis pig! You and your twisted gods love your so-called glory? Then come outside and fight! Or are your slaves too weak to stand?"
The insult hit its mark.
Grazdan mo Eraz shouted back, "We won't lower ourselves to battle savages! We have food for half a year. Can you say the same?"
Aggo sneered. "The harpy's got a monster's heart, but chicken legs. No wonder her bastard children cower behind walls."
Drogo wasn't here for words.
"They want to hide in their shells?" he growled. "Then I'll crack those shells wide open."
Jogo, seasoned in siege warfare, offered a plan. "Let's cut down the tallest birch trees and build siege ladders. We'll scale their walls and throw them down like the cowards they are!"
But Drogo only smirked. "Your lives are worth more than theirs. Using ladders will cost too many of our brothers. I have a better way—one that won't cost us more than ten men. Maybe not even one."
The commanders blinked. What kind of siege had no ladders or rams?
Grey Worm, curious, asked, "May I ask, Your Grace, what method you intend?"
Drogo grinned. "Look down. What do you see?"
They glanced at the dry desert ground.
"Sand," they answered in unison.
He nodded. "Good. At dawn tomorrow, bring burlap sacks. You'll be climbing those walls—with sand under your feet."
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