When Drogo mocked the giant as Mero's "father," Mero flew into a rage, feeling deeply insulted. Years ago, in the trading port of Braavos, M
When Drogo mocked the giant as Mero's "father," Mero flew into a rage, feeling deeply insulted.
Years ago, in the trading port of Braavos, Mero had taken this giant from a red-haired wildling woman who claimed he was "kissed by fire." The red-haired infant had caught his eye, so he had his mercenaries slaughter the fierce woman and abducted the child, raising him as a war slave.
The giant was his trump card—one he rarely revealed. But fearing Drogo and the dragons, he had brought this extinct marvel to the battlefield, hoping to cleanse the Second Sons' reputation for cowardice and betrayal by showing strength in the largest battle in the history of Slaver's Bay.
To Mero, "Titan's Bastard" was just a flashy nickname—a must in Braavos, where the mythic Titan was revered. But this brute beside him, barely articulate and only good at swinging a hammer, had nothing to do with the legends.
With a scowl, Mero raised his axe and shouted, "You savage! Who are you calling my father? That mutt baring its teeth for its master?"
"Heh," Drogo sneered. "A notorious mercenary slave-lord like you… Aren't your Braavosi proud of calling giants your fathers? What glory—fighting alongside your sire! Yet you deny him. Disgraceful. You ungrateful beast."
He continued without pause, "So, bastard—will you and your 'father' accept my two-on-two challenge, or are you cowards?"
Mero snapped, "Savage fit only to herd goats! You'll pay for your insolence. That little lizard of yours—my war hound fears it not!"
He turned to the giant. "Roman, kill that foul-mouthed bastard!"
The giant tilted his head, bent forward, and mumbled, "Didn't hear."
Laughter erupted from the mercenaries—undisciplined rogues who found the brute's slowness amusing.
"Damn you!" Mero, gagging on the giant's foul breath, shouted, "I told you—kill him!"
This time, Roman seemed to understand. In rough Valyrian, he muttered, "Understood."
As the giant raised his hammer, Drogo called out, "Captain Mero has accepted the challenge. Then let's respect the rules—no sneak attacks!"
Daario Naharis of the Stormcrows chuckled, "This is war, not a game. Still, a duel between the Titan's Bastard and the Khal of the Great Grass Sea—with a dragon and a giant? Too good to miss."
He glanced at his companions. "A fight like this deserves an audience."
The Ragged Prince gave a subtle nod. Prendahl na Ghezn smirked. "Pointless battle—but we'll enjoy the result either way."
Daario winked at him—enough.
Drogo prepared to charge the giant, but Rakharo stepped forward. "My blood of my blood, let me fight. The Khaleesi needs you."
Drogo glanced at Viserion above, circling restlessly, then shook his head. "She's safe for now. Let's deal with this threat first."
Rakharo frowned, glancing at the central pyramid. "Khal, I saw something—the Dothraki up there—"
Before he could finish, Drogo had already spurred his horse forward, fixing his eyes on the Ragged Prince. Let's see if that legendary blade is as sharp as they say.
Rakharo hesitated. Those so-called Dothraki up there—long braids, too long for any recent turncoats. Something's wrong…
Viserion beat his wings. Snowball, snarling, followed Drogo closely. The giant had taken only a dozen steps when Drogo reached him.
The hammer came down—but Drogo saw openings everywhere. If not for the heavy armor, a few strikes would've ended it already.
He slashed symbolically across the belly plate—only a shallow scratch—and wheeled his horse aside, narrowly dodging the blow.
Boom! The ground exploded as the hammer hit. Bricks flew.
"If that savage hadn't dodged, he'd be paste."
"Giant's unbeatable—too bad he's so slow. That's why Mero kept him hidden."
"If not for the armor—he'd be dead already."
"He's built for chaos and sieges—not duels."
The mercenaries and Dothraki alike saw the giant's flaws.
This would be a war of attrition. The spectators wanted dragonfire.
Though Rhaegal and Drogon had shown off before, Viserion was here—close enough to feel.
Hissss!
Smoke coiled from Viserion's jaws. Still, Drogo gave no order.
Clang! Clang!
Drogo struck twice more at the giant's flank while his hammer was mid-swing.
Cheers erupted from the Dothraki. Their Khal had landed hits—that was enough.
The giant grumbled, "Cowardly monkey. Stop running."
"I'd be a fool to fight you head-on," Drogo retorted, feigning fear as he maneuvered closer to the mercenaries.
Some eager mercs twitched—wanting to strike—but their captains gave no order.
The battlefield widened. Mercs backed away to avoid the giant's swings.
"Hah! Drogo, the feared Khal of ten thousand? He looks terrified!"
Only Daario watched with a serious face. The other Stormcrows mocked.
Mero, still wary of dragonfire, had hesitated. But now, seeing no flames, he charged, hoping to end Drogo.
"Snowball—stop him!"
The direwolf responded instantly, attacking Mero's horse. Mero swung wildly, trying to hit the beast.
Watching this chaos, the Ragged Prince snapped. "Mero! Get that damn mutt out of here—or I'll deal with it!"
But Mero, tangled up, shouted, "Kill it yourself!"
The Ragged Prince snarled. "Fine. Let's see how invincible your tin giant really is!"
He drew his obsidian-dark Valyrian steel arakh and charged at the giant's exposed wrist.
"Captain, didn't expect you to hate the mutt too. Let's kill it together!" Mero called.
"You're on my list too," the Prince snapped. "I'll kill you both."
From the rear, the bloodriders tensed.
"Karasars, with me!" one shouted.
"No! Hold!" Drogo barked.
They froze. So did the mercs.
The giant sensed the attack coming. He shifted his bracer to guard his wrist.
Drogo saw the move. "Captain, I'll help you draw blood!"
As the giant raised his hand, Drogo struck—not at Roman, but at the Prince.
He feinted slowly, then suddenly shifted angle and speed.
"No!" the Ragged Prince screamed.
Shhkk!
Blood sprayed. A hand fell—not Roman's, but the Ragged Prince's.
"You damned savage! You tricked me!"
"All's fair," Drogo replied coldly. He leapt from his horse, snatched the fallen blade—
"Dracarys!"
Viserion unleashed white-hot flame. Fire engulfed the giant.
Drogo galloped away, admiring the flawless, gleaming blade in his hand. "Good blade."
Valyrian steel—an ancient magical alloy, forged with spells and dragonfire. Light. Strong. Unbreakable. Never dull.
As a traveler from another world, Drogo knew its greatest secret:
It could break the magic that shielded the White Walkers.
It could destroy the dead.
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