His prized blade taken and his hand severed, the Ragged Prince shrieked like a madman, his face twisted with pain: "Windblown! Slaughter eve
His prized blade taken and his hand severed, the Ragged Prince shrieked like a madman, his face twisted with pain:
"Windblown! Slaughter every last one of those savages! Cut the savage king into minced meat! Avenge the humiliation of my severed hand!"
But he hardly needed to fuel their rage with personal vengeance—his men, long used to his ruthless balance of discipline and reward, had already charged at the braid-wearing warriors.
Drogo likewise raised his blade and roared:
"Kill! Send these damned invaders straight to hell!"
The numbers were even, but the advantage was not. The enemy had only two thousand mounted mercenaries. Drogo, having led the Dothraki for years across the Great Grass Sea, knew how devastating cavalry could be against infantry—especially without the discipline of the Unsullied to hold the line. Victory seemed certain.
The situation spiraled out of control. Even if the leaders of the Stormcrows and Second Sons had hoped to sit this one out, the bloodlust had overtaken Proud Square. Their mercenaries were swept into the chaos, forcing them to join the fight or be left behind.
The clash was deafening. Gone were thoughts of honor or reward. Now, only survival mattered, only the favor of the gods and the thrill of slaughter.
The braid-wearing Dothraki surged like a flood from both flanks. Drogo handed his longtime arakh—a golden blade gifted by his father Bhaalbo—to his fiercest bloodrider.
"Aggo. This blade has ridden with me for years. I give it to you. Do not dishonor the name of my father."
Aggo trembled with pride, his heart swelling. He accepted the blade with reverence.
"My blood of my blood, I will use this gift to cut down every enemy in your path!"
A worthy blade for a worthy warrior—Drogo didn't hesitate. He nodded, satisfied.
"Good. Now go win your glory."
"Yes! I hunger for blood!"
Aggo charged ahead like a maddened bull, shoving past his own allies to reach the front lines.
In moments, Drogo found himself at the rear. Scanning the battlefield, his gaze settled on the center—the scorched ring where no one dared tread.
Viserion's fire roasted Roman's heavy armor, clouding the giant's sight. He swung wildly with his hammer, but always at a distance from the white dragon.
As his armor began to glow red, Roman screamed a single word—"Hot!"—a cry of despair.
Though the armor encased him, the stench of burning flesh and singed hair filled the air. His thick body hair caught fire beneath the plates.
Drogo sneered with contempt and satisfaction. In his eyes, Roman was little more than an overgrown fool—a hormone-addled simpleton whose brains had been boiled by heat and stupidity.
When the smell of scorched flesh grew unbearable, Roman finally shed his armor. Once unburdened, his massive strides let him flee across the battlefield—straight through friend and foe alike.
People and horses alike were thrown aside as the flaming giant fled. He looked like a wounded beast, mad with pain and unaware of whom he crushed. Both sides cursed him as he trampled bodies beneath his feet.
But Viserion didn't chase him. The dragon took to the skies, gliding toward the central pyramid, leaving a trail of flame behind.
Despite the dragon's seeming irresponsibility, Drogo felt no anger. The dragons weren't his slaves—they acted by their own will. That he could even command them to breathe fire came from long exposure to the word "Dracarys," which they had come to associate with action. But he was always their second choice. They were Daenerys's children first. He could only watch and sigh.
With the dragon gone, Drogo chose to fill the void himself. He charged into the fray, eager to test the legendary sharpness of his new Valyrian steel blade.
Clang! Slash! Shatter!
The blade tore through everything—men, horses, even well-forged steel. Either heads flew, or weapons snapped.
With a weapon that cut through iron like butter, Drogo's strength reached new heights.
He was certain—had he possessed this blade earlier, he could have slain Roman in a one-on-one duel, despite the giant's armor and bulk.
Of course, the blade alone didn't grant such power. It was Drogo's strength that gave it bite. In another's hands, it might merely dent a sword or crack a helmet.
But mercenary leaders fought for coin, not glory. Seeing their men overwhelmed by savage riders, they began to retreat.
The first to flee was the smallest company—the Second Sons, fewer than five hundred strong. Already blacklisted by many employers, their leader Mero abandoned his bloodied horse and even his giant. With Snowball mauling his mount, he bolted for the western gate, protected by the Worm River.
Next came a third of the Stormcrows—Daario Naharis's finely dressed soldiers—also fleeing west.
The direction of the retreat made Drogo suspect: was there a fleet waiting at the western gate?
The two remaining Stormcrow captains, whether bound by honor or mad with bloodlust, refused to yield. With their command structure broken, they led their mostly infantry troops against the Khalasar—and paid the price. Their entire force was wiped out.
Prendahl na Ghezn fell under Drogo's blade; Sallor was cut down by the frenzied Aggo.
Among the Dothraki, strength was everything. A Khal led by example. If Drogo were to fall, his bloodriders would take over.
But they would find it hard to surpass him—he was evolving constantly.
Two mercenary companies were gone. Only the Windblown remained. They had the largest numbers—mostly cavalry, plus a thousand infantry—and were the greatest threat.
But they were now leaderless. The Ragged Prince had bled out and been trampled in the chaos.
The braid-wearing Dothraki, like wild beasts, fought without pause. Surrounded and without reinforcements, the Windblown were slowly picked apart.
Stepping over corpses, Drogo surveyed the field. Only Roman remained—still swinging his hammer in futility.
But Drogo's greatest skill wasn't swordplay. It was archery. On the Great Grass Sea, if he was second-best, none dared claim first.
A few precise shots, and Roman's limbs went limp. As the Khalasar moved in to finish him off, Drogo stopped them.
The giant might still be useful. Giants were rare—and in the right hands, decisive.
Roman was hard of hearing. Mero always had to shout to give him orders. Drogo had noticed this flaw—and sensed the giant's deep longing. He believed he could win him over.
Drogo wasn't one to cling to the past. Roman may have helped sack Astapor, but in war, there was death and survival. As long as Daenerys was safe, all else could be forgiven.
He ordered Roman bound tightly with spare reins, then led his forces toward the central pyramid.
By now, the Unsullied were surely nearing the city. A two-pronged attack would break the Yunkai-Meereen alliance.
Their path was clear—but as they approached the pyramid, Drogo's calm turned to unease.
Rakharo had sharp eyes and had spotted something earlier. Now, closer, Drogo saw it too.
The archers firing from the tower were Dothraki in appearance—but their long braids betrayed them. No recently surrendered khalasar could have grown them back so soon.
Hsssshh!
Drogon and Rhaegal circled the pyramid, screeching.
And now, Drogo saw why Viserion had abandoned his prey.
At the top of the tower, Daenerys—silver-haired, delicate—was held at knifepoint. A man in lavish Harpy robes pressed a blade to her pale, slender throat.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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