Clop, clop, clop! Drogo and his warriors charged like a thunderstorm, a murderous aura sweeping toward the Great Pyramid. Though invisible,
Clop, clop, clop!
Drogo and his warriors charged like a thunderstorm, a murderous aura sweeping toward the Great Pyramid. Though invisible, the pressure of their advance was enough to shake the souls of all who saw it.
The three major mercenary companies were nearly annihilated—few had fled, most lay dead. Even from afar, those atop the tower could clearly see the tide of battle.
Holding Daenerys hostage, Meereen's Great Master, Hizdahr zo Loraq, believed he had made the right choice in avoiding direct confrontation with the furious Khal. By doing so, he had seized the upper hand.
Hizdahr, the wealthiest merchant in Slaver's Bay, had business ties across all the Free Cities, reaching east to Vaes Dothrak and west to Westeros. His vast network had made him Meereen's public ruler and, in secret, the true leader of the Sons of the Harpy. He controlled the economic lifeline of the entire bay.
Only a man of his wealth could afford to hire the full strength of the Windblown, a company as powerful as a small kingdom.
Aware of how Great Master Kraznys mo Nakloz had fallen, Hizdahr took no chances. Even as he held a dagger to Daenerys's throat himself, he remained cautious, fearing a repeat of history.
He had posted dozens of Dothraki slave-archers on both flanks, loosing volleys that repeatedly drove away the dragons attempting to intervene.
From the tower, the Mother of Dragons beheld her husband galloping at the head of his charge. Her tears—born of fear, helplessness, and shame—finally overflowed. It was both relief and guilt.
Even with an army, she had become a burden to her husband. Dany longed to see him, yet could not bear it.
Everywhere she looked was ruin—scorched stone, shattered walls, a city once faded into dusty red now painted anew with fire and blood.
The very night Drogo left, the assassins returned. Beneath the Astapor pyramid, corpses of freedmen began appearing, each one a bloody message. The Sons of the Harpy had left their signature in blood—an unmistakable warning to the ruling Queen.
With the tiger gone, the wolves bared their teeth. On the second night, the killings escalated—nearly a hundred dead. All the freedmen lived under the shadow of fear.
Dany knew the assassins came from among the Ghiscari nobles. But masked and hidden, they left no witnesses. She had no names to punish, no faces to accuse.
She had considered purging all the Ghis nobles—better to kill a thousand than let one traitor live. But that was a Khal's justice, not a Khaleesi's.
Worse still, the Sons of the Harpy had broken into the dungeons and freed Xaro Xhoan Daxos, spiriting him out of the city.
The consequences were swift. By dawn on the third day, Dany saw a massive fleet led by Xaro himself docked at the Worm River outside the western gate.
As one of Qarth's Thirteen, Xaro's capture had not gone unnoticed. The other merchant princes, greedy for his secrets and wealth, had each sent a few warships—forming a navy no one could ignore.
Dany suspected the Ghiscari nobles had already conspired with Qarth's elite to arrange Xaro's rescue—for a price.
But when the armies of Yunkai and Meereen invaded, it became clear: the fleet wasn't just here for Xaro. They had made a pact with the Wise and Great Masters to retake Astapor.
Even if they failed, the invaders would still have an escape route. Astapor had few ships and even fewer sailors, and the Dothraki feared the sea.
Drogo's arrival was like a hammer of the gods. Every eye turned to him—but he held back. His wife was in enemy hands. He would act only after hearing the terms.
He scanned the field, expecting to feel scorn. But none came—because of Daenerys.
To the west of the pyramid, nearly twenty thousand troops from Yunkai and Meereen had encircled three sides. The overcrowded soldiers spilled into the alleys, packed shoulder to shoulder.
Bathed in the sunset, the Great and Wise Masters sat high on white elephants and prized steeds, their saddles adorned with rubies and garnets. With absurd hairstyles, ostentatious jewelry, and shimmering tokars, they lounged as though at a festival rather than a battlefield.
They flaunted their grandeur, leaving the display of strength to their officers. The commanders, cloaked in gleaming bronze disks, helmed and sworded, sat tall upon their mounts, casting cold stares at Astapor's new king.
But their real confidence came from the weapon in their grasp—Daenerys.
In the initial assault, Dany's lack of experience had squandered their advantage in numbers. Disorganized and scattered, her troops fell back in confusion. In the end, she retreated to the Great Pyramid, shielded by the Unsullied.
From atop the tower, she tried to regroup. But then the armored giant appeared, smashing through the Unsullied ranks and allowing Hizdahr's Dothraki slave-soldiers to flood the tower.
Though nearly a third of the freedmen had perished, the survivors were still numerous. Many had tear-streaked faces, but now, with the arrival of their Khaleesi's champion, they cheered in wild relief.
Following Dany's earlier orders, the defenders had formed four ranks. The Unsullied stood at the front, raising shields to block arrows from above, holding back the slave-soldiers and restraining the impatient Dothraki.
Behind them, the horsemen fidgeted and pawed the ground like their steeds—untamed and eager for blood.
The newly allied short-braided warriors recognized only Khal Drogo. To them, Daenerys was his woman—not their queen. They had fewer qualms about her captivity.
They longed to charge—but were blocked by the disciplined Unsullied.
Behind them stood the ragtag militia—freedmen turned into frightened human shields.
Drogo had once been a prized customer in Slaver's Bay. He recognized many of the slavers—and they recognized him.
He quickly spotted the man who now held Daenerys at knifepoint—Hizdahr zo Loraq, one of his former trading partners.
It all became clear. Hizdahr had ordered a ceasefire. The defenders held back for Daenerys's sake; the attackers waited to see how things played out.
As a merchant, Hizdahr valued profit above all. Even though the invaders had superior arms, the defenders had the numbers. A full-on battle risked total destruction.
And he had likely hoped the mercenaries would defeat the Khalasar. Then he could combine forces for a greater chance of victory.
But the Khalasar had won. With the Unsullied army approaching, Hizdahr's only remaining leverage was Daenerys.
Amidst cheers from his people, Drogo felt a pang of guilt. To save his wife, he might have to betray those who trusted him.
He didn't waste time. A cunning merchant would never surrender a hostage without a price.
"Hizdahr," Drogo called out, "What must I pay for you to release my wife?"
Hizdahr responded at once, as if expecting the question.
"You and all your warriors must sever one arm. Then I'll release her. But we both know you won't do that."
Drogo understood the fear behind the demand. He raised his voice, his tone resolute:
"Even if I left Slaver's Bay forever—giving you Yunkai and Astapor—you would still fear my return. But I swear to the gods: release my wife now, and my people and I will leave and never return."
Hizdahr laughed coldly.
"A vow to the gods? Perhaps. But I don't trust the Beast King of the Dothraki. If you want me to believe your restless, savage heart—prove it. Cut off your own arm."
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