When refugees have enough time before fleeing, they always bring their most valuable belongings. Mercenaries—who know this as well as any ba
When refugees have enough time before fleeing, they always bring their most valuable belongings. Mercenaries—who know this as well as any bandit—roamed Astapor after its fall, committing all manner of atrocities in the least defended areas.
Others chose to chase after the fleeing refugees, hoping to profit from war. But some mercenary squads were not so lucky—they ran straight into the braid-wearing Dothraki horde.
Without exception, they were crushed beneath the hooves of over five thousand mounted warriors. When the dust settled, only mangled corpses remained.
During the march, Drogo spared a few captives for interrogation. From them he learned that Astapor had been breached less than a day ago, and that Daenerys was still holding out inside the city as a commander. Only then did he execute them.
Knowing that his wife was alive—for now—brought him some relief.
By his estimation, the combined forces of Astapor and the freedmen numbered nearly a hundred thousand. No matter how fierce the armies of Meereen and Yunkai were, it was unlikely they could slaughter them all in a single day. Especially not the Unsullied, the elite soldiers in their spiked helms.
Drogo clung to hope that the eunuchs were still standing, guarding Daenerys with their lives.
Half a day later, the red-brick city came into view again—but this time, it looked like the very gateway to hell. The time-worn red walls framed a city crumbling under fire. Blazing flames danced across the brick pyramids, and thick smoke rose skyward in towering columns, like roaring black beasts.
The southern winds carried ash through the air like gray snowflakes of death. Even from outside the city, one could smell the thick stench of alcohol. The stone pyramids were hard to ignite—only the rioters setting fire to the wine cellars beneath could have caused such a blaze.
According to refugees and mercenaries, Daenerys had withdrawn to the central pyramid, holding her ground there in a final standoff against the slave soldiers.
Drogo looked toward that towering edifice—it was untouched by flame. Arrows poured like rain from every level. His two dragons circled above, shrieking in distress. At the very top, he spotted glints of silver and gold.
He finally allowed himself a breath. She was still alive.
"Skreeeeee!"
Above him, Viserion let out a piercing cry, smoke curling from his throat. The raging fires in the city thrilled him.
In the distance, Dothraki riders surged forward like crashing waves, blades flashing in the dusk. Ghiscar soldiers in tall helms and mercenaries in battered armor fled toward the city, screaming as they ran.
"The braid-wearers are here! Drogo's army is back!"
Khal Drogo led his men through the shattered gates, broken earlier by the giant's hammer, ready to paint this hellscape in even brighter colors.
The streets were slick with blood and littered with corpses—freedmen, enemy soldiers, mercenaries—swarmed by glinting green flies. Hungry stray dogs gnawed at the dead.
Drogo spared no sympathy. He charged forward, straight toward the central pyramid, slashing down anything that got in his way.
Even if someone escaped his blade, the next rider would finish them off—or the warhorses would trample them into the cobbles.
But the unstoppable momentum of the khalasar came to a halt at Proud Square, where an enemy force just as fierce blocked their path.
Drogo scanned the ranks ahead: at least two thousand cavalry, plus three thousand infantry. The numbers were close. He pulled his reins and halted.
Judging from their gear and banners, the enemy was a coalition of three mercenary companies. The flanks bore the symbols of a thunderbolt crow and a short sword—Ravens and Second Sons, no doubt.
At the center was the famed Windblown company, identifiable by their blue-and-white forked-tail banners. Mounted troops led the formation, followed by infantry.
"So the Windblown were hired by the Great Masters of Meereen," Drogo thought. "That complicates things."
He would not have hesitated if it were just the mercenaries—but the giant standing at the front of the Second Sons gave him pause.
The Second Sons had only one captain—Mero, the Braavosi known as "The Titan's Bastard." Pale green eyes, a thick red-gold beard hanging to his waist, and a massive battle-axe in hand—he was unmistakable.
Mero, small next to the towering figure beside him, cajoled the giant: "Hey, big guy. Help me crush that army, and I'll take you home. Back to the land of the giants."
"I'm not a monster. I want to go home," the giant murmured in a strange, muffled voice. He lifted his foot—crack!—and the paving stones shattered beneath his weight.
A true giant, standing over four meters tall, radiating raw power. Just looking at him stirred awe and dread.
Drogo himself was considered a giant among men, but beside this creature, he felt like a child.
As the heavily armored colossus tensed, Drogo prepared to shout the command: "Dracarys."
Steel and arrows would do nothing. That thick armor was impenetrable. His only hope was Viserion.
The young white dragon's flame might not melt steel—but it could heat armor red-hot.
But there was a problem: from a distance, the fire wouldn't be strong enough. And up close, Viserion would be vulnerable—turned into a pincushion by those powerful crossbows.
The fact that mercenaries had managed to defeat Astapor's elite, while backed by the better-equipped armies of Yunkai and Meereen, made Drogo reconsider. Perhaps the defenders had fallen with honor after all.
Just as Drogo feared the giant, the mercenary leaders feared the dragons. Both were miracles—and both sides hesitated, waiting for someone to make the first move.
One of Drogo's riders, familiar with the mercenary companies, pointed out the leaders beside the giant.
The commander of the Windblown, known as the "Ragged Prince," was once a noble of Pentos. His hair and breastplate were silver-gray, and his tattered cloak was stitched from multicolored fabric and hemp cord.
His temper was as cruel as the curved blade he wielded—a rare Valyrian steel arakh. The blade had once belonged to his top lieutenant, Kago the Corpse-Killer. But with danger this great, the Prince had taken the weapon for himself.
The arakh gleamed like a mirror, radiating cold, and its edge looked sharp enough to split stone. Drogo's eyes were fixed on it.
The three commanders of the Stormcrows wore polished helms adorned with black feathers. Prendahl na Ghezn was a burly Ghiscar with a wide face and gray hair. Sallor was bald, with a deep, hideous scar on his pale Qartheen cheek. Both gripped steel longswords.
Daario Naharis, a flamboyant Tyroshi, wore resplendent white-gold armor. His beard was braided into three prongs and dyed blue to match his eyes and long curls. His pointed mustache was gilded, and his high leather boots were trimmed in gold. Dainty goatskin gloves hung from a gold-linked belt. His fingernails were painted blue. He carried a curved arakh and a sheathed shortsword. Every inch of him was outrageous.
This man—whom Daenerys had once taken to bed in both the books and the show—was already marked for death in Drogo's mind.
If Daenerys had died or was dying, Drogo would have ordered an immediate assault. But for now, he preferred to strike surgically.
He spurred his horse forward, raised his arakh, and bellowed:
"Mero! No one else interferes. You and your 'father'—dare to face me and my white dragon in single combat?!"
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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