After Viserys set out, a squad of Dothraki riders broke away from the Khalasar and galloped ahead toward Meereen.
The next day, the Dothraki horsemen reached the walls of Meereen. Their leader raised a tribal banner and shouted for parley—a rare display of "civility" among the Dothraki.
When word reached Duke Arthur, he rode out with a few dozen guards to learn what they wanted.
The two sides faced off outside the walls. Leading the Dothraki was a scarred, powerfully built man whose braid hung to his waist, marking him as a warrior of some renown.
In halting Ghiscari he shouted, "Khal Ogo is coming. Open your gates, bring gifts and women and wine. We bring many slaves; you will trade us more gold for them."
Arthur sat motionless on his horse, his Valyrian steel armor glinting coldly in the sun. "Meereen no longer trades in slaves. Turn around and ride back where you came from. As for gifts—" his voice turned icy "—the New Valyrian Empire pays no tribute to raiders."
When the translator repeated every word, the dothraki's faces darkened.
"What did you say? Do you know who you address? I am Rob, bloodrider to Khal Ogo. We will raze every place that refuses us and drink from the skulls of those who resist."
"Then you should leave now." Arthur's hand closed around his sword hilt. "Tell your Khal: Meereen stands under the protection of the Valyrian Dragon King. Any who provoke us will find only death."
Rob spat, yanked out a Dothraki arakh, and charged, reins taut, blade whirling.
Arthur lifted a hand, stopping the knights beside him from drawing steel. "I'll handle this," he said quietly.
Before the words faded he spurred his horse forward. Dawn flashed from its sheath, the blade carving a cold arc through the sunlight.
The two horses met.
Rob's arakh slashed down; Arthur did not dodge. A slight twist of the wrist sent Dawn upward in a perfect, precise cut.
Clang.
Steel rang like a bell; Rob's arm went numb, his arakh nearly flying from his grip.
Before he could recover, Arthur wheeled his mount and struck again—faster, heavier, unstoppable.
A blur of steel.
Rob's charge froze. He stared down at the torn leather and flesh across his chest, bewildered, then toppled from the saddle.
Arthur reined in and angled Dawn toward the stunned Dothraki.
"Take the corpse. It is Meereen's gift to Khal Ogo."
The Dothraki, after a stunned heartbeat, loaded the body and galloped frantically back to their camp.
Watching them go, Arthur sheathed Dawn and turned his horse.
"Back to the city."
"Now we prepare for war."
As Arthur expected, Khal Ogo flew into a rage when the riders reported. Shouting for vengeance for his "blood of my blood," he galloped before his lines, arakh whirling, rousing his warriors. The dothraki howled and beat their blades against their chests.
By the time Viserys reached Meereen…
…the battle had already raged two hours. The dothraki assaults were fierce and had cost the Free Folk heavy losses, yet they had gained nothing.
Between the Unsullied's strength and the Free Folk growing used to battle, Arthur's defense grew almost easy. He even began sending elite sallies through side gates to raid the dothraki rear, burn their grain, and free captured slaves.
Khal Ogo's patience snapped. He could not accept that his mighty Khalasar was stalled by a "city of sheep."
In fury he resolved to lead his finest ko's in the largest assault yet, aimed at a freshly repaired stretch of wall.
As he formed his men and prepared to charge…
…the sky darkened.
Not from clouds—from a vast shadow and a draconic roar that panicked horses and stopped even the bravest hearts.
Ogo and countless dothraki looked up.
They saw a sight seared forever into memory: a golden dragon of legend spreading wings that blotted the sun, three majestic heads gazing down. On its back, silver hair streamed like a banner.
"The three-headed dragon king! The Father of Dragons!" the defenders roared, morale soaring.
Among the Dothraki, silence turned to terror. The tales of the breaker of chains and her monster had come to life.
Khal Ogo's charge died stillborn. He stared at the sky-blotching beast, shock and rage on his face, yet pride staved off total fear, sparking a cornered-animal frenzy.
"Only a big lizard," he bellowed, waving his arakh. "Dothraki warriors fear nothing! Riders of the Great Grass—"
His words were cut short.
Ghidorah had begun her attack. Ignoring scattered horse-archers and tents, Viserys aimed at the head: break the army's will by killing its leader.
Ghidorah stooped. The right head spat Dragonfire, a whip of flame that tore through the forming cavalry. Men and horses burned, screams lost in the inferno.
The left head exhaled freezing breath, freezing riders into statues of ice.
Khal Ogo himself, saved by luck and skilled horsemanship, tumbled clear as his horse bolted. Blackened and singed, he rose with wild eyes.
"Kill it! Arrows! Spears!" He hurled a spear; it arched harmlessly short.
The gesture—brave, hopeless—looked pitiful against such power.
Ghidorah's center head turned, molten eyes fixing on the tiny figure. A deadly golden glow gathered in her throat.
Sensing doom, Ogo roared a challenge, arakh raised, as if he could duel the monster alone.
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