Through Snowball's eyes, Drogo spotted several golden tents pitched along the central route of the Khyzai Pass. Typically, only high-ranking
Through Snowball's eyes, Drogo spotted several golden tents pitched along the central route of the Khyzai Pass. Typically, only high-ranking warlords or nobles dared to use golden tents.
"Too careless... far too careless!"
Drogo was filled with regret. He had assumed that the pampered slavers wouldn't show their faces on the battlefield. But now he realized—the golden tents were set up for the Wise Masters themselves.
The news that Blackfyre had nearly been slain by Bono's army must have spread across all of Slaver's Bay. With a giant said to have the strength to split mountains backing Yunkai's forces, why would they fear three still-young dragons?
In Drogo's view, what the slavers truly feared weren't the dragons—but the Dothraki riders and the Unsullied who followed him into battle.
Perhaps those leading Ghiscar lords had already decided to take the gamble: if he attacked Yunkai, they would seize the chance to strike Astapor. And if he moved through the pass, they'd fight him head-on.
Worried for his wife's safety, Drogo could no longer sit still. He shouted urgently, "Pass down the order—leave five hundred men to hold Yunkai. Everyone else is to march to Astapor at full speed!"
There was no time to savor the victory. Another grueling march lay ahead. Aside from the Unsullied and the Dothraki who relished battle, most others grumbled. But Drogo didn't care—he was their king, and kings made the decisions.
The newly freed slaves of Yunkai had only just shaken off their chains. Still fearful of returning to bondage, most of them chose to follow their "Father."
To Drogo, they were just a mass of mouths with legs—but he couldn't bring himself to refuse them. He allowed them to follow. As a result, the army's pace slowed.
Frustrated, Drogo assigned the Unsullied to guard the freedmen, while he led the Dothraki ahead at maximum speed.
Drogo rode at the front, the bells in his braid jingling. When his warhorse entered a birch forest thirsty for rain, the stars had already begun to show—and they were still not even halfway to the red-brick city.
Crows cawed overhead. Once, Drogo had thought their cries beautiful. Now they sounded like the triumphant laughter of slavers, and he found them revolting.
"Viserion—dracarys!"
With a single command, Drogo ordered his dragon to burn the crows' innocent forest to ash.
His long-buried cruelty erupted, and the khalasar was thrilled—this was the Khal they worshipped.
When they reached the crossroads where they had camped before, a scout Drogo had sent ahead returned with news: "Khal, the trade route is deserted. As you ordered, I tracked their trail. They're moving along the Worm River to Astapor!"
His fear had come true. Drogo's anxiety deepened.
"Go! Go! GO! The first khalasar to reach Astapor will be rewarded with ten thousand gold dragons!"
He pushed his red horse relentlessly, flaying its haunches raw. Even so, no one could outpace him—his speed was unmatched.
Sleepless, tireless, Drogo led the charge. Most of his riders didn't complain—many had loved ones in Astapor.
As for the Unsullied, Drogo didn't worry about their endurance. If he didn't stop them, they would march until they died.
Though he commanded two elite forces, Drogo valued the trained discipline of the Unsullied even more. Unfortunately, they couldn't ride, and so they trailed far behind alongside the freedmen.
Night faded, and morning arrived. Along the road, they saw no trace of merchants.
Drogo muttered, "Merchants are like ants—washed away by a single storm."
But merchants or not, as they neared Astapor, the road was no longer empty.
They saw a tide of terrified people running toward them, their screams echoing. Many fell, struck down by a pursuing army flying a banner with a broken sword.
The insignia was unmistakable—it was the Second Sons!
As the distance between them and the khalasar narrowed, the Second Sons stopped chasing.
A wise decision. One hundred mercenaries were no match for thousands of mounted warriors.
Among the fleeing crowd were men wearing painted leather vests, others in tattered rags. Drogo guessed most of them were escaped slaves from Astapor.
He didn't know them, but they knew him. They ran toward him, shouting, "Your Grace! Khal Drogo! Please save us!"
As they approached, many collapsed, weeping. Drogo asked, "You're from Astapor? What happened?"
Trembling with fear, they shouted over one another: "Yes, Your Grace! We are your people! Meereen and Yunkai sent a combined army—they've taken Astapor! They slaughter everyone! We fled in the chaos, but the Wise Masters hired mercenaries to hunt us down!"
Drogo had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed struck him like a hammer. "Your queen—your khaleesi—what of her!?"
They were too panicked to know for sure. One Dothraki finally spoke up: "Khal, I saw her from afar—our khaleesi was taken into the central pyramid under guard from Unsullied and braid-warriors. I don't know more."
"You damn pigs of Meereen! I never even touched you, and you dared to strike first! Fine! Very well!"
Drogo burned with fury and roared, "Useless! Every last one of them—useless! I left four thousand elite soldiers there! Over ten thousand freedmen! And still they lost Astapor!?"
Someone stammered, "Your Grace... the enemy's vanguard was a giant—taller than the city gate. He carried an iron warhammer larger than an elephant's head, and a massive oak shield. With three swings, he smashed the gates and led the Yunkish and Meereenese armies inside!"
To Drogo, it sounded like a poor excuse. He shouted again, "A giant is still just flesh and blood! Didn't anyone shoot arrows or throw stones!?"
The crowd fell silent, terrified.
After a few moments, Drogo's killing intent surged. "What—cat got your tongues? You cowards can run but not speak!?"
A braidless Dothraki summoned his courage: "Khal, that giant wore the heaviest armor I've ever seen—underneath it, chainmail and boiled leather. He had no weak points. Even his helmet had only slits to breathe and see. Arrows and rocks didn't harm him at all!"
Drogo felt no fear. Instead, his blood burned hotter. His battle-lust was now driven by fury.
And that fury could devour all of Slaver's Bay.
Drogo swore, "If my moon loses her light—if she fades into shadow—I will bury every last Ghiscar with her!"
He saw the Second Sons turning to flee. Snarling at the refugees, he barked, "You cowards! No courage to defend your homes? Get out of my sight!"
The refugees fled, avoiding the hooves of his fire-colored stallion.
Then Drogo drew his arakh and shouted, "Khalasars—let those Ghiscar dogs paint the yellow sands with their blood!"
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