Sever an arm! Drogo had expected the Great Master to make an outrageous demand. For Daenerys, he was ready to face anything. But now, at the
Sever an arm!
Drogo had expected the Great Master to make an outrageous demand. For Daenerys, he was ready to face anything.
But now, at the moment of truth, even the bravest of Khals felt a surge of fear.
Only now did he realize—he was just a man. He feared agony. He feared what would follow the loss of an arm.
He couldn't help but wonder—was it worth crippling himself for a woman whose body he already knew in full?
Yet even as he hesitated, he slowly raised the hand holding his blade, extended his left arm—the arm that gave him strength—and turned his eyes away.
With the dagger still pressed to her throat, Daenerys trembled more violently than he did. Her voice cracked into a wail.
"No! Don't do it, my sun and stars! You mustn't!"
She couldn't bring herself to say "forget me." Deep down, she still hoped her husband's sacrifice might win her life. Such is human nature.
The heartbreaking scene placed the bloodriders in a painful dilemma. On one side was the Khal who had conquered them. On the other, the Khaleesi who had once bestowed honor upon them. They could only say:
"Blood of my blood, you must not do this!"
Even the normally emotionless Unsullied wore expressions of rare fury. They stamped their spears rhythmically against the ground, conveying anger—and their respect for Drogo.
The freedmen, dependent on him for survival, shouted in panic.
"Your Grace! No! You can't listen to that devil! If you lose an arm—what will become of us?"
But the most brutally honest were the mounted warriors:
"Khal, you are the pride of the Dothraki! You can't do this for a woman! That woman had you cursed by a witch—now she'll cost you an arm? It's not worth it!"
Their voices only deepened Drogo's hesitation. His sword-wielding hand lifted, then lowered again. Frustration boiled over. He shouted:
"Shut the fuck up! All of you!"
The force of his voice silenced them instantly.
"Cut it already, you damn savage! That filthy beggar queen of yours is waiting!"
"You could've stayed on the Great Grass Sea, grazing goats. But no—you had to defy the Great Masters, the Good Masters, and the Wise Masters! This is your punishment!"
"You turned a proud and noble city into a pile of shit, you filthy whore! Go die!"
"If you can't do it, savage, I'll do it for you! Hahaha!"
"Look at those pathetic slaves—back to their miserable selves. I love the look of despair in their eyes!"
The nobles of Yunkai, Meereen, and the resurgent aristocrats of Astapor let loose a storm of hatred, hurling insults at Drogo and his people alike.
Overhead, the dragons roared in unison, and Snowball at Drogo's feet snarled as well.
"HISSSSSSS-KRAAAAA!"
"AWOOOOOO!"
Their drawn-out cries echoed through the air, piercing and chilling. The jeers faded, replaced by a heavy silence.
With just a few cries, the young dragons had cowed them all. And Drogo, struck by realization, thought:
A king does not always need to lead by example or sacrifice himself. Even if I lose an arm, I still have three dragons… and the blood-marked lion cub. Once they grow, the world will be ours.
With grim determination, he raised the Valyrian steel arakh high—then swung it down.
The moment was too brutal to watch. Dany and the others turned away.
The slavers and their lackeys grinned, already imagining the blood spray and the severed limb—
But then a gravelly voice cut through the air, loud and sharp:
"Great Master! Emergency! Grave news!"
Clop-clop-clop!
All heads turned. Even Drogo was distracted, halting the blade just short of his skin.
A breeze passed. The blade had shaved off his arm hair, and the tiny strands floated down like snowflakes.
A man rode up on a black horse, wearing a Slaver's Bay officer's uniform. A bare short sword hung at his waist. His body was drenched in blood—his face looked painted red.
He shouted as he galloped:
"Clear the way! I bring an urgent message for Great Master Hizdahr zo Loraq!"
Taking him for a battlefield courier, the slave-soldiers quickly stepped aside, clearing a path.
Hizdahr narrowed his eyes in suspicion. What was this about?
But the man looked like one of their own, someone who had survived a brutal fight. Whatever news he bore couldn't be ignored.
Hizdahr allowed him to approach, though he kept his grip tight on Daenerys. With dragons circling above, he couldn't afford to slip up.
Sensing something off, Hizdahr barked:
"Stop there! Where are you from? Why are you covered in blood? What is this message?"
The bloodied man bowed.
"My lord, I am an envoy sent by Wise Master Grazdan Tollozo to Qarth. On my return, I encountered an Unsullied patrol. I barely escaped with my life. As for the message—I do not know its contents."
He pulled a scroll from his armor, sealed with the royal crest of Qarth, to prove his words.
Dany caught a glimpse of thick chest hair through his open collar. The man's frame and posture stirred her memory. Could it be… him?
It made sense. Grazdan Tollozo had fled the Yunkish war and was now in Meereen. The Unsullied army, advancing from the Yellow Brick City, must be near Astapor—Drogo had arrived long ago. Hizdahr reasoned that the man may have clashed with a scouting unit.
Everything lined up. Hizdahr hesitated, then said:
"Bring me the letter."
"Yes, my lord."
The man strode forward and handed it to him.
Still holding Daenerys, Hizdahr snapped:
"Open it. Are you blind?"
"Yes, yes—my apologies, my lord."
Feigning clumsiness, the man broke the seal and opened the scroll, holding it up before Hizdahr's eyes.
Hizdahr stared.
"What the hell is this? I can't read a single word!"
The man's expression turned icy. His voice dropped:
"It's written in the language of death."
Hizdahr flinched. A cold pain spread through his gut—then agony overtook him.
His hand went limp. The dagger fell with a clatter. He looked down instinctively—
A short sword was buried in his belly.
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