The distance was too great for Drogo to make out Grazdan mo Eraz's expression, but the slaver's face showed the grim resolve of someone who
The distance was too great for Drogo to make out Grazdan mo Eraz's expression, but the slaver's face showed the grim resolve of someone who had nothing left to fear.
Likewise, Grazdan didn't understand the Khal's intentions—he assumed an attack was imminent.
Although the enemy hadn't brought siege equipment—no catapults, ladders, towers, testudo shields, or battering rams—Grazdan remained uneasy.
Yunkai's gates were thick, but old and decayed. If Drogo ordered the Unsullied and his barbarian warriors to hack at them with axes, the city might fall within an hour.
Everyone could see the city's fate was sealed. Bravado wouldn't change that.
Still, Grazdan hoped to delay the inevitable. He ordered the soldiers stationed inside the harpy statue to give the barbarians a warning—if they wanted to breach Yunkai, they'd have to pay dearly for it.
As the Yunkish made their move, Drogo noticed that the harpy statue atop the gate wasn't just symbolic—it was a cleverly designed war bunker. Meereenese soldiers poured boiling oil from its mouth, sizzling loudly as it hit the sand below.
"Human ingenuity is vast," Drogo murmured. "But these Ghis piglets, resting on old glories, aren't half as clever as me."
He was confident the Unsullied, trained to obey and unafraid of pain, would charge and die at his command.
But he didn't want that.
Their blood shouldn't be spilled here in Slaver's Bay, where it meant little. They were meant to die in the lands of the setting sun.
He turned to Aggo. "My blood of my blood, take your khalasar and secure all four gates of Yunkai. If the sons of the harpy dare step outside, kill them to the last."
Aggo, full of fighting spirit, responded with pride. "Yes, my blood of my blood."
Drogo believed in letting hot-blooded men handle chaotic tasks. That was how he used his commanders.
"Two thousand braid-warriors are enough. Those turtle cowards won't risk coming out. My loyal eunuchs will stand firm and silent like stone, but they're not the ones to shout slogans."
Drogo then added, "Aggo, once we leave, have your riders shout at the top of their lungs: 'The Breaker of Chains has come to free the slaves of Meereen!' Give them the hope of freedom."
Then he turned to the other officers. "Everyone else, we return the way we came."
Grey Worm frowned. "Your Grace, we clearly have the advantage. Why retreat?"
Jogo quickly spoke up. "Everyone knows that when cowards hide behind walls, the great Khal seeks brave enemies. Dothraki do not waste time on cowards!"
Rakharo nodded. "True warriors don't fight cowards."
Drogo smiled, said nothing, and turned his horse. The others followed suit, and the Unsullied turned in perfect unison to march behind him.
The army stretched out like a giant serpent, with thousands of horses kicking up clouds of dust.
Inside Yunkai, prodded by Grazdan, the defenders began to cheer and shout, as if they had just won a great battle.
But their cries were soon drowned out by Aggo and his two thousand riders, who roared their message:
"Slaves tormented by the sons of the harpy, the great Breaker of Chains, Khal Drogo, has come to free you! Shout for your freedom!"
Drogo, hearing this propaganda—reshaped by Aggo—felt pleased. He led his forces far from the city until they were out of sight. Then he ordered a halt.
Old Marpoxy approached and bowed. "Your Grace, the sky is darkening. Should we make camp here?"
The sky was indeed gray and dim, but Drogo shook his head. "No camps. When we finish our task, comfortable beds will be waiting for us."
The Unsullied remained in formation. The Dothraki dismounted and began preparing to rest.
Drogo raised his voice. "Not yet! We still have work to do. Gather every sack and fill them with sand. Tie them tight."
He paused, then added, "Use every scrap of cloth to make more bags. Strip off all clothes except for loincloths and armor. Tie the pants legs, sleeves, collars—fill them with sand and seal them with rope."
These were not men known for modesty. Few objected.
Marpoxy hesitated, then asked, "Your Grace, isn't this... primitive and pointless? May I ask why?"
Drogo chuckled. "We're building a slope. One that men and horses can climb. Do you understand now?"
Finally grasping the plan, Marpoxy was stunned. He no longer questioned it. He quickly stripped and joined the work.
Drogo sat cross-legged atop a sand mound, with Viserion and Snowball resting beside him. He listened closely to the distant noises coming from Yunkai.
He could identify three groups:
Aggo's riders shouting in Dothraki.
The Ghis shouting in High Valyrian.
And a third group—the loudest of all—shouting in many languages.
From those Drogo understood, he heard a single word repeated again and again: Freedom.
Time passed slowly. Five massive sandbag mounds rose steadily, the ground around them sinking inch by inch.
His warriors weren't precise, but they were strong and quick. By midnight, they had built five pyramid-shaped ramparts.
"Khalasar, go eat and rest. Unsullied—stay."
The Unsullied, now wearing only armor, silently picked up their spears. Even after the exhausting labor, they stood as straight and still as spears themselves.
Grey Worm placed a clenched fist over his chest. "We obey Your Grace. The Unsullied will follow your orders, even unto death!"
Drogo nodded slightly and replied with respect. Then he raised his voice.
"My brave and loyal warriors, I admire your courage, but I do not wish for you to die. This time, your task is to form a shield wall—so dense, so tight—that it can withstand enemy arrows and create a passage for the braid-warriors carrying sandbags."
He paused deliberately to let the weight of the task settle.
"This mission will test your willpower. You'll need to hold your shields for a long time. Do this for your enslaved brothers behind the walls. Do this for your fellow warriors. Now tell me—can you do it?"
The Unsullied didn't need speeches to stir their resolve. They had already committed.
"Yes!" they roared in unison.
A single word, but it carried more weight than a thousand slogans.
"Good. Dismissed. Grey Worm, stay."
As the other Unsullied marched off, Grey Worm remained, stiff and formal. Drogo noted it with some regret—his mindset was still too rooted in slavery.
After conquering Astapor, Drogo had abolished the Unsullied's cruel naming tradition. They could now choose their own names.
Some reclaimed the ones given to them at birth. Others chose names based on cities, tribes, gods, or heroes. Drogo found many of them tacky.
Only Grey Worm had kept his name. Daenerys had once asked him why.
"Because 'Grey Worm' is the name I had on the day the Mother and Father of Dragons set me free. It brought me luck," he had said.
Drogo patted his shoulder. "Remember—you are not just a free man now. You're a commander. Don't act like a slave. Follow the rules, yes—but live as yourself."
Grey Worm's expression softened. "I understand, Your Grace. I will live for myself."
"Good. Now let's talk strategy."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"You Unsullied are experts in shield formations. I won't ask you to rehearse. Just remember this—wherever the braid-warriors pile sandbags, cover them. But always begin from the rear. If those in front withdraw too early, lives will be lost."
"I will remember."
At dawn, as the darkness lifted, Drogo led a massive charge toward Yunkai—his warriors carrying heavy sandbags.
Under the protection of the Unsullied shield wall, the braid-warriors tossed the bags at the base of the city walls. The defenders finally understood Drogo's plan—and panic took hold.
Arrows rained down, but the Unsullied held firm. It was the falling stones that caused real damage.
But even that couldn't stop them. Drogo's incredible strength allowed him to fire a dragonbone bow from well outside the enemy's range, striking stone-throwers with lethal precision. Where others couldn't reach, he could.
Two hours passed. The sandbag slope reached the top of the wall.
The support warriors, previously only carrying and defending, now engaged the panicked Yunkish soldiers in battle atop the ramp.
Amid the clamor of swords and screams, Drogo heard something else—angry, passionate shouts in many tongues.
The slaves were rising.
The gates burst open—not from force, but from within. For the first time, slaves poured out, not driven by whips, but by the will to be free.
Marpoxy murmured, "A great victory."
As they passed, the Unsullied and the Dothraki proudly declared the name of the one who had made it all possible:
Khal Drogo—Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, Lord of Astapor, Father of Dragons.
The freed slaves rushed toward him. Some reached out to touch him. Some knelt. Others wept with joy and shouted one word in many different tongues:
"Father!"
Drogo didn't shy away. This was his glory. He accepted it.
But when he finally sat on the Great Master's throne and heard the reports from his warriors, his mood darkened.
There wasn't a single slaver left in the city.
A terrible realization struck him.
"Did the masters leave behind a token force just to delay me? Did they plan this—while I was tied up in Yunkai, their army from the Khyzai Pass could be marching on Astapor?"
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