The sudden turn of events shocked the entire battlefield—friend and foe alike. The Great Master's trembling finger pointed at the assassin,
The sudden turn of events shocked the entire battlefield—friend and foe alike.
The Great Master's trembling finger pointed at the assassin, trying to summon all his hatred into a single, faltering word:
"You… you…"
Bang!
His vision blurred. Hizdahr collapsed, blood pouring from his lips as his body convulsed violently.
Reality hit hard, and the slavers snapped out of their daze, erupting into a frenzy of screams signaling a full assault.
"Lord Hizdahr!"
"Kill him!"
"Guards! Tear that damned murderer to pieces!"
"Fight! Fight! Slaughter the filthy savages and every slave who dares defy their masters!"
But shouting was easier than doing—because Drogo's fury burned hotter than all their hate.
"My warriors! My people! Kill the Great Masters! Kill the Wise, the Good, the Just! Kill everyone who supports the slavers! Send them all to hell!"
"ROAR!"
The Unsullied, mounted warriors, freed soldiers, and even the freedmen themselves responded as one. Determination filled their faces as they stormed the enemy, roaring with fury.
Those with weapons used them. Those without still thirsted for blood—leaping onto enemies to claw and bite at exposed flesh, tackling them to the ground, striking with fists, or slamming their heads in mad desperation. All fought to protect their hard-won freedom.
Chaos took over—shouts, curses, clashing blades, neighing horses, and ever louder cries of pain filled the air.
Drogo vaulted onto his horse, instincts blazing. He charged toward Daenerys, determined to cut down any enemy near her.
But he wasn't the only one who cared.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The three dragons had already reached their limit. They let loose gouts of flame like a reversed flood from the Worm River, incinerating everything within thirty feet of their mother.
Within that ring of death, only the bloodied man stood unharmed. Perhaps the dragons had once sniffed him when they were small—and liked his scent.
The bloodied man ignored the dying Hizdahr, ignored the danger, and stared at Daenerys, lips twitching with unspoken words. But just like Hizdahr before him, all he managed was:
"You… you…"
Daenerys, still dazed from surviving, asked hesitantly, her voice trembling:
"Are you… the exile?"
The bloodied man flushed with shame. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet the doll-faced queen's eyes.
Drogo bellowed above the chaos, desperate for her to hear:
"Daenerys! Moon of my life!"
Her head snapped toward the voice. In that instant, nothing else mattered.
"My sun and stars! Drogo!"
"…Ah."
The bloodied man sighed and answered her question quietly:
"I am not."
Then he gave her one last look—she was already fidgeting excitedly, waiting for her husband—and turned away. Ignoring the threat of dragonfire, he strode toward his startled black horse.
Mounting quickly, he slapped the flat of his blade against the horse's flank, carving a bloody path through the chaos as he galloped toward Astapor's main gate.
Drogo pulled Daenerys onto his saddle. Together, they trampled Hizdahr's corpse into the dirt. Through the flames, they watched the bloodied man vanish.
Drogo muttered for no reason:
"He's not a bad man."
Wrapped in a sense of safety, Daenerys nodded.
"He's like a good father… or an older brother."
Drogo kissed her forehead and said darkly:
"I'll take you to kill. Every last one who tried to hurt you."
Daenerys answered firmly:
"I am Khaleesi. I will ride with my Khal and conquer the world."
She was a conqueror's woman. Drogo believed she would soon come to love the thrill of war. He turned his horse toward the west, where enemies surged like waves.
Outside the western gate, Qarth's fleet was docked. Drogo intended to cut off their escape. Even if he couldn't stop them all, he would kill every enemy his arakh could reach.
As for why he brought his newly rescued wife into such danger—he'd seen clearly: the dragons only breathed fire to protect their mother. No one else was granted that.
If the Dragon Queen was in danger, the dragons would never sit idly by.
But that was only part of it. The real reason: Drogo couldn't let Daenerys out of his sight. Not here. Not in blood-soaked Astapor, where nowhere was safe.
And just as he expected, when he charged into the densest cluster of enemies, the dragons followed—wings thundering—unleashing destruction that made even his might pale in comparison.
Watching their devastation, Drogo's ambition ignited:
"Three dragons need three dragonriders. Once they're big enough to carry me, the world will be mine."
Though not as close to them as Daenerys, Drogo was certain—he would be one of those riders. After all, he was their second choice.
In his mind, he might be an even better rider than Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, who should have been guarding the Wall in the far north.
The dragons' wrath opened up vast swaths of the battlefield, allowing their father to close in on the western gate he aimed to seal.
As the fight reached a fever pitch, nearly half the slave soldiers had fallen. But Drogo's side suffered more—it was victory paid for in blood.
But then the tide shifted—dramatically.
The true main force arrived at last.
Grey Worm led the Unsullied in full formation, calling out to Drogo:
"Your Grace! The Unsullied await your command!"
These damn eunuchs were too disciplined for their own good. Did they really need permission right now?
Overwhelmed and furious, Drogo cursed under his breath:
"Fucking hell…"
But he had to give the order. With a roar, he shouted:
"All Unsullied—kill every last invader!"
The disciplined soldiers responded in unison:
"Yes, Your Grace!"
The slavers, no longer able to withstand the onslaught, panicked and screamed:
"Sound the horns! Retreat! Retreat! Fall back! Abandon Astapor!"
Just earlier, they had mocked the mercenaries for fleeing. Now they were the ones being humiliated.
Not that they felt any shame. Their faces were thicker than castle walls.
As always, a retreating force gets hunted. And so, even though a few thousand of the slavers remained, their lines broke entirely.
Despite Drogo and the dragons guarding the western gate, most of the enemy still escaped—boarding the Qartheen fleet that had waited all along.
Drogo roared to his Khalasar:
"Archers! Shoot them down!"
The braid-bound warriors drew and loosed, their arrows raining on the fleeing ships.
They were all mad for battle, and under Xaro Xhoan Daxos's command, the Qartheen returned fire with even greater fury.
Drogo stood among the carnage, glaring bitterly at the ships shrinking on the horizon. His mind was clear.
Next, he would march on the Glorious City of Qarth.
To begin the final battle—in the name of freedom.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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